And yet it went off easily enough. “Ah, Mrs. Croston.” Arabella hardly looked up from the book of fashion plates she was studying. “I believe I am to congratulate you on an improvement in Sarah. Does she speak?”
“I’m afraid not. Not yet.”
“Not yet! I admire your optimism. In what, then, does this ‘improvement’ consist?”
“She’s”—how difficult it was to put a finger on it—“I don’t know, easier, more friendly...”
“Friendly! I take it you like having bread and milk thrown at you. I’m sorry, Mrs. Croston, but I looked into the morning room just now. The scene there hardly suggests improvement to me.”
“It’s true; she was a little difficult tonight, but I hope it’s just a temporary setback.”
“You hope! Well, of course, so do I.” She bent once more over her book, and Kate moved across the room to settle herself uncomfortably on the edge of a straight chair, feeling both angry and unwelcome.
Mrs. Peters had excelled herself, and dinner was a very much more formal meal than Kate and Jonathan were used to sitting down to, but Arabella, picking a morsel here and there, contrived to suggest that it was hardly worth eating. She addressed such remarks as she made exclusively to her husband and ignored his efforts to bring Kate into the conversation, so that it was with a sigh of relief that Kate escaped to her own room as soon as the meal was over. If this was what life with Arabella was going to be like, she could only hope that she would return to Boston at once. Or—she settled by the lamp with the dress she was making for Sarah—persuade Jonathan that she would prefer to dine by herself? But then—if his wife did go back to Boston—it would be almost impossibly difficult to rejoin Jonathan. And—face it—the evenings with him were an important part of her day! Without those easy discussions that ranged from Sarah’s behavior to his labor troubles at the factory and so—inevitably—to the news of the war, she would be hard put to it to keep any sense of proportion after the exhausting days spent with Sarah.
The trouble was, there was no one else to talk to in Penrose. Jonathan Penrose had at once explained and apologized for this before they had even got there. “It’s a tiny village—a hamlet really. I’m afraid you won’t find much society.”
It had been, she had found, a massive understatement.
The factory workers lived in a huddle of cottages below the factory, where one shop, owned and run by an elderly, gossiping spinster, provided for their simple needs. Kate’s greatest disappointment had been that there was no church. She had counted, more than she knew, on the society of a minister and his family. But the faithful of Penrose had to row themselves across the Charles River to church on Sunday. Jonathan had apologized for this, too. “My grandfather planned to build a church,” he explained. “He even had the plans drawn—and then came the Revolution. Well, there it is ... It was all my father could do to keep a roof over his own head...”
“And you?”
He had laughed. “I had quite forgotten you are a parson’s daughter, Mrs. Croston. Well—when this War is over, perhaps I will spend some of my profits on a village church. It might be a good investment at that.” And then, quick to see the change in her expression, “I’m sorry. That offends you.”
“It’s not that” (but, of course, to an extent, it had been) ... “It’s just ... it seems so horrible to make a profit out of this war.”
“Not so horrible as to make a loss.” It had been characteristic—and unanswerable. Thinking of it now, as she sewed fine tucks in the muslin dress she had copied from Sarah’s shabby old favorite, Kate thought she would never understand the New England character, with its mixture of shrewdness and ideals, its factories and its Unitarianism. It was just like Jonathan Penrose to plan a church out of his wartime profits—and think of it as a good investment.
What was that? The sewing dropped from her hands and she ran to throw open the window and lean out. Sarah’s room was on the same side of the house as hers, and now she could hear the screams clearly. It was more than a month since Sarah had had one of these fits of endless, senseless screaming and Kate had hoped they were a thing of the past.
Pausing in the doorway of Sarah’s room, she saw that Jonathan was there already, bending over the screaming child.
“Good.” He looked up and saw Kate as she hesitated there, wondering whether to leave him to it, since he was often the best medicine for Sarah. “I hoped you’d come. This is a bad one, I’m afraid.”
It was indeed. Sarah was rigid on her back, a mindless, screaming thing, more animal than child. And yet she had seen Kate, her eyes flickered a little wider open, almost, it might be, in an attempt at a greeting, a recognition. But all the time the screams continued, piercing, mechanical, horrible.
“You try.” Jonathan had seen that flicker of recognition and got up to make way for Kate on the chair by the bed.
Kate sat down and gathered the rigid child in her arms. “It’s all right, Sarah, my pet; it’s all right, my honey.” She crooned it over and over again, rocking the child to the rhythm of the words. She knew, by now, that in one of these fits, Sarah was beyond reasonable appeal. She would go on screaming until exhaustion plunged her into sleep; the soothing movement and rhythmic chant might just possibly speed up the process.
Jonathan was looking a question. For a moment, she stopped her chant to answer it. “I’ll manage,” she said. No doubt he wanted to join his wife downstairs.
Sarah’s eyes had flown open. The screaming intensified. At least it meant that the singing was doing some good. Still rhythmically rocking the child, she had a question of her own. “What started it?”
“God knows”
But downstairs, he crossed the drawing room to stand over Arabella. “What did you do to her?”
“Do? I? Nothing at all.”
“But you were in there.”
“Nothing of the kind.”
Should he believe her? She was always most convincing when she lied. “At all events,” he said, “I think you had best go back to Boston tomorrow, Arabella.”
“And if I say no?”
“I shall stop your allowance. But why should you? You always say you are bored to distraction here. As for your talk of rumors about Mrs. Croston and me— surely the worst thing we can do is to seem to take them seriously. You’d much best go back to Boston and the parties you enjoy.”
“But that’s just it. Everyone who is anyone has been out of town for ages now. Those who aren’t at Saratoga are at Ballston Springs. There’s hardly a soul I care for left.”
“Why don’t you go too?”
“Because I’ve no money, Jonathan. I don’t know where it’s gone to this quarter. If you could see your way to advancing me my October allowance?”
“So that’s it. You’ve outrun the constable again, have you? How much are you in debt, Arabella?”
“Oh nothing! The merest trifles. You know I promised you...”
“And I know what to think of your promises. No, Arabella, I will not advance you your next quarter’s allowance. That way lies bankruptcy for us both. You must learn to live within your means—God knows, they’re lavish enough.”
“Lavish ... Don’t make me laugh! Do you know what one has to pay for French gloves these days? And as for their silks ... why, it’s almost prohibitive.”
“But not quite? Blood money always comes high, you’ll find.”
“Blood money? What do you mean?”
“Has it really not occurred to you that goods from France must run the blockade, at God knows what cost in life and dollars? Of course they come high. I can only suggest that you try the effect of American gloves—and as for silk—when you next need a new dress, come to me, and you shall have the choice of what my factories can produce.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nothing of the kind. As a patriotic American you should be ashamed to be pouring your money into Napoleon Bonaparte’s pockets.”
“Oh, Jonathan.” She despaired of him.
“What has patriotism to do with what I wear?”
“Everything.” But he knew he had no hope of convincing her. “How much in debt are you?”
“It’s nothing—a couple of hundred dollars at the most of it.”
“By which I reckon I had better understand five hundred. Very well, let me have a note of the amounts in the morning, and I will pay them for you. Debt, as you know, is one thing that I will not tolerate. But as for an advance on your allowance, that is out of the question.”
“What a pity. Then I shall have to stay here and scrimp, shall I not? It’s a shame I have such an upsetting effect on that poor mad child upstairs. I merely opened the door of her room and looked in to say good night, and she set up that caterwauling that’s gone on ever since. A fine way for a child to greet her own mother.”
“I knew it.” His hands were clenched at his sides. “I knew you were at the bottom of it.” And then, with an effort. “Very well, you win. You shall have your advance—or rather, I will pay your board, either at Ballston Springs or Saratoga, whichever you prefer, so long as I have your promise that you will keep away from here.”
“Thank you, dear.” She smiled her sleepy cat’s smile. “I knew we should understand each other in the end.”
SEVEN
Sarah refused to get up next morning, but lay huddled deep in her bed, the quilt drawn up around her face, so that all Kate could see was a tangle of brown hair. She seemed perfectly well. Her forehead was cool under Kate’s anxious hand. She just would not get up. This was something that had never happened before, since the problem was usually to keep her in bed. But then, she had been awake late the night before: a rest would do her no harm.
“All right, honey, I’ll bring you your breakfast in bed—we can have a picnic here in your room.” When Kate got downstairs at last, she found the house quiet.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Peters was picking over the huckleberries they had brought. “Had quite a night of it last night, didn’t you? Made herself ill, has she, poor lamb?”
“I don’t really think so. She just won’t get up. I don’t quite know what to do.” It was a relief to confess this to Mrs. Peters, who could be relied on for a quiet and practical sympathy in any problem of Sarah’s.
“Not much you can do, I reckon,” she said now. “But give way to her. Not when she’s got something fixed in her mind. Breakfast in bed won’t hurt her, once in a while. She’ll get tired of it soon enough, if I know her.”
She stopped work on the huckleberries and moved over to survey her well-stocked larder. “I wonder what would go down best—she must be famished, mark you, after all that crying last night. We could hear it clear up in our quarters. A good thing the house stands by itself.” She came back into the room with her hands full of dishes.
“I thought you’d want to take her out today, Miss Kate, after all that carry-on, so I made a couple of meat pies, very first thing, and some of those spice cookies she likes. Why not give her those? They won’t make half so much mess.”
“You’re an angel, Mrs. Peters. And I’ll have the same. She always eats better that way.”
“I reckon she’s right down fond of you, Miss Kate, so don’t you go worrying about a thing. It’ll all come out right, I guess ... Oh—” on a carefully casual note: “Mrs. Penrose goes back to Boston today.”
“So soon?” Their eyes met in an unspoken question and answer.
“Yes. Job’s to have the carriage out front at eleven sharp. First to Boston and then on to Saratoga, as I understand it. I reckon she just came home for her country clothes.”
“I see.” This was the nearest they would ever get to discussing Arabella.
But, carrying their odd breakfast upstairs, Kate could not help wondering about the brief visit; about Arabella: and her husband: and, inevitably, about the possible connection between her arrival and Sarah’s screaming fit.
At least, Sarah was prepared to eat. A meat pie and half a dozen cookies later, Kate said casually, “You’d best get up soon if you want to say good-by to your mother. She’s off to Saratoga this morning.”
Of course, she did not expect the child to answer, but neither did she expect her to plunge out of bed, scattering cookies broadside over the floor. Usually it was something of a struggle to get her dressed, but today she dived into her clothes as if her life depended on it.
When she was ready, she took Kate’s hand and pulled her toward the door. Then she stopped and looked up at her, the big eyes holding an incomprehensible plea.
“What is it, lamby?” It was on these occasions that Kate most hoped Sarah might suddenly burst, almost despite herself, into speech. “What do you want?”
But Sarah’s mouth had turned straight and obstinate. Still holding Kate’s hand, she opened the door very quietly and peered out into the hall. Everything was quiet. Arabella’s bedroom door was still shut. Then, from the driveway below Sarah’s window they heard the crunch of carriage wheels, and Job’s voice talking to his horses. And, simultaneously, from Arabella’s room, the jangle of the handbell she used to summon Prue. Sarah pulled loose from Kate and rushed helter-skelter down the stairs. Kate heard the screen door of the porch slam, but when she reached the porch herself there was no sign of Sarah in the garden. Remembering their first meeting, and how she had hidden in the temple, Kate hurried across rough cut grass still wet with autumn dew to peer in.
This time there was no crouching figure behind the altar, and she had to fight down a moment’s panic that would have driven her to the edge of the river, set her calling wildly for Sarah. She would not do it. There had been times like this before in the early days, not many of them, but enough to convince her that the excitement of hearing herself shouted after was the worst possible thing for Sarah. Very likely she was watching now from some secret hiding place, liable to be panicked into further flight. So, with a great effort, Kate made herself shrug her shoulders and drift casually back to the house.
She found Arabella standing in the hall, shaking out a silk parasol and looking cross. “Where in the world is everyone?” She looped the parasol over a slim wrist and picked up reticule and gloves. “I can’t keep the horses standing much longer. Where’s Sarah, Mrs. Croston? Surely intends to say good-by to her mama?”
“I’m very sorry.” Kate was amazed to hear herself lie. “I didn’t know you were going. She’s run out into the garden somewhere—it’s such a beautiful day.”
“Beautiful! Hot you mean. If I delay much longer, I’ll die of it. A pity you ‘didn’t know,’ Mrs. Croston. I only hope you know what you are doing with Sarah.” She picked up crisp muslin skirts and turned toward the front door. “If no one’s here to say good-by, I may as well be going.” And then, just as Kate was beginning to feel a pang of sympathy for her: “I hesitate to teach you your business, since you seem so sure of yourself, but do you really think it wise to let Sarah loose in the garden as you do? There is a river, you know...”
“Sarah has a great deal of sense, Mrs. Penrose.” How she hoped she was right. “She’ll come back when she is ready. At times, I think, we all need to be alone—even children.”
“A very convenient belief. I hope you are right.” She turned and swept gracefully down the shallow steps to where Job awaited her at his horses’ heads.
Kate, too, turned sharply away into the shadows of the further hall, fighting a fierce anger that only half masked her anxiety. Was it this kind of barbed remark that had caused Sarah’s terror of her mother, or was there more to it? What had really happened that day at Saratoga? Was it mere coincidence that Sarah had run away this morning after her own mention of that unlucky place? She sighed and ran upstairs to fight anxiety by a rigorous tidying of Sarah’s room. Time passed. The last cookie crumb was swept up from the brightly colored rag rug, the ruffled bedspread neatly adjusted, the whole room was shining, and fresh, and ready.
Ready for what? At last anxiety boiled up in her. She had a vision of Jonathan Penrose, his drowned child limp in his
arms, bringing her up to lay on the tidy bed. Absurd. But her fingernails were biting deep into the palms of her hands. It was almost intolerably hard not to rush out and raise the hue and cry. Right now, this very minute, Sarah might be over the wall, looking down into the swift water, half-hypnotized, ready for the plunge. And if she was, would not the sounds of a search be the worst possible thing?
Deliberately, she made her hands go limp, made herself go casually downstairs, pick up her sewing, and drift out into the garden, to settle conspicuously on a wooden bench by the river wall. Sarah would come back when she was ready. She must believe this, believe it so hard as to make it true.
She could make herself sit, but she could not make her shaking hands sew. She willed them to lie idly in her lap, then started at the sight of Jonathan emerging from the wooded path that led down the river to the factory.
“Where’s Sarah?” That his question was inevitable made it no easier to answer.
But he, at least, must have the truth. “I don’t know.” She faced him with it squarely. “She’s hiding somewhere. Has been all morning.”
“And you’re not looking for her? Not anxious at all? Just taking the morning off and sitting in the sun?” She had not imagined him capable of this cold anger.
At least it touched a warming spurt of answering rage in her. “Just so. I think it the worst possible thing for her; to be shouted after, panicked over. I am making myself sit here like this.”
“No doubt a mighty effort.”
“I find it so. After all, I am responsible for her.”
“And I’m her father.”
“Yes. And she’s running away from her mother. She was afraid, I think, that Mrs. Penrose would take her to Saratoga with her.” There; it was out. If she had not been so angry, no doubt she would not have said it.
He took it well. “You think so?”
Here Comes a Candle Page 9