He made it a question and her reaction was instantaneous. “Oh, I wish you would! It all seems such a muddle. But—what would you do, what would you say?”
“Not ‘Peace at any price.’ Be sure of that. Do you remember how we argued, last spring, on the way back from York? Well, I can see it now: you were right and I was wrong. War’s a monster, a juggernaut. Once it’s started, everything’s different. We can’t—whatever they say in the Massachusetts Assembly—we simply cannot afford to submit now. We just wouldn’t be a country any more. We may not, be anyway. Do you know the Federalist papers in Boston are urging that the New England states secede from the Union and make their own peace? How can they, after all that’s happened? And in Boston, particularly, after seeing the Shannon destroy our Chesapeake last summer? Do you remember how the crowds rushed out to the beaches to watch poor Lawrence’s glorious victory? And what they saw?”
“Yes. It was just after we got here. But remember, just the same, how people were stirred, even here, by Lawrence’s last words.” It was merely part of her fantastic position that she should be encouraging him about the course of a war against her own country.
“ ‘Don’t give up the ship’? Yes, it makes a good slogan, I admit, but I’d rather have Perry’s any day: ‘We have met the enemy and they are ours.’ A few more victories like his, and we would be, in a position to negotiate from strength. Particularly if Napoleon keeps you British busy in Europe.” And then, on a different note, remembering how the news of Napoleon’s victory at Dresden had hit her. “Forgive me. It’s so hard to remember...”
“I know. It doesn’t matter. It’s all horrible, whichever way you look at it. I don’t believe I even know what I want any more. Except the piano tuned for Sarah.”
“And that you shall certainly have.”
December was a lonely month. Snow deepened around the house, and Jonathan spent more and more time in Boston, no doubt busy with arrangements for the party. Even out at Penrose, they felt the stir of the preparations for it. Mrs. Peters was making puddings and mincemeat and sorting out jars of preserves for Job to take into Boston. Prue was hard at work making ornamental garlands on instructions sent out by Arabella. The whole house smelled deliciously of spices, and Sarah was happily occupied helping them. It left Kate with more time on her hands than she wanted, time to wonder if she had not been a fool to take so firm a line about this party.
Restless and miserable, she wandered about the house, wondering what it would be like filled with a gay Christmas crowd of guests. Arabella had sent out for the bronze slippers that matched her most spectacular evening gown of tawny velvet. Job was busy brushing imaginary specks of fluff from Jonathan’s black broadcloth evening coat. “He won’t wear knee-breeches, won’t Mr. Jonathan,” he told Kate. “Not even Miz’ Penrose could make him do that.”
Jonathan had not been home for seven days now, and it was surprising how the time dragged without him. Inevitably, on Christmas Eve, Kate found herself thinking about the party as she tiptoed into Sarah’s bedroom to fill her stocking with candy and nuts, the gingerbread man Mrs. Peters had baked, and her own exquisitely sewn rag doll. That safely done, she moved over to the window to gaze out at moonlit snow and think about poor Arabella, who could not be with her child at Christmas.
Poor Arabella? Nonsense. This very minute she was doubtless standing to receive her guests, magnificent in golden velvet, with Jonathan at her side. Poor Arabella? For a moment, she nearly thought, poor Kate, shook herself instead, and went to bed.
Jonathan returned, as he had promised, in good time on the evening of Sarah’s seventh birthday. She had rushed downstairs at the sound of the sleigh bells and now watched with eager eyes as Job followed his master into the house, almost invisible behind a huge package carefully wrapped in sacking.
Jonathan laughed, and kissed her, and shook snow off his hat and overcoat. “It’s your Christmas present, honey,” he said, “and your birthday present too. What do you think, Kate? Shall she open it now?”
“I don’t see why not.” Kate bent down to help Sarah remove the wrappings and reveal a magnificent scarlet toboggan.
“Oh!” The child drew in a great breath of excitement, and for a moment Kate thought she would speak, but instead she ran over to hug her father.
He felt in his overcoat pocket and produced another parcel. “And this is from your mother, honey.”
The glow faded from Sarah’s face and she watched listlessly as Kate opened the parcel for her and revealed a doll, splendid in tawny golden evening dress.
“How beautiful!” For a moment, Kate imagined Arabella sewing those tiny seams, but Jonathan’s next words dispelled the illusion.
“She had her dressed by her own dressmaker,” he explained. “Out of the pieces from her ball gown. Isn’t she a beauty, Sarah?”
But Sarah’s only answer was to drop the doll and run headlong from the room. Kate followed far enough to make sure that she had gone upstairs and not, as, for a cold moment, she had feared, straight out into the snow.
When she returned, Jonathan greeted her ruefully. “I thought she was so much better. Besides—what else could I do?”
“Nothing. Don’t look so anxious. She’ll get over it. And she is much better. Six months ago it would have meant a screaming fit. Now—”
The sentence was finished for her by Sarah, who reappeared carrying the rag doll Kate had made her, sat down on the floor and began to dress her in the new doll’s elegant, unsuitable apparel.
Jonathan had still another tiny parcel. “And this is for you,” he told Kate. “From Sarah.”
“Oh—” Kate breathed her delight as she undid the wrappings to reveal a beautifully plain gold lady’s watch. “You shouldn’t have—”
“Not I. Sarah.”
Kate bent to hug the child. “Look what you’ve given me, Sarah. Isn’t it beautiful?” Her hand shook a little as she pinned the watch to her dress, and thought, oddly, of the lines her father had had carved on their sundial. “I only tell the sunny hours.” Sunny? Memory of her last Christmas rose to choke her.
Did Jonathan see that she was near to tears? He changed the subject: “You’ve not asked me for the news.”
“Is there any?” She bent down to help, Sarah with the fastenings of the velvet dress.
“Yes. From Europe at last. Good news for you. But not for us. Napoleon’s beaten. The Allies crushed him at Leipsic last fall. Now, by what I hear, it’s only a matter of time. Fantastic, isn’t it, that it should be bad news. The end of one of the greatest tyrants the world has known—and the beginning of the end for us.”
“You’re so sure it is the end? Napoleon’s got himself out of tight places before now.”
“I doubt if he can this time. There’s trouble—even in France, by all reports. No, we must face it: we’ll have Wellington and his Peninsula veterans here by summer. And then what hope is there for our bungling generals?”
“Wellington?” said Kate thoughtfully. “I wonder if he would come?”
“Mr. Madison seems to think so. He’s had letters from Castlereagh, offering direct negotiations. Our Peace Commissioners will have something to do at last.”
“He’ll accept?”
“He’ll have to. And take what terms he can, and be grateful if it’s in time to save the Union.”
“You mean, ‘Peace at any price’ after all?”
“What else can we do? With the full strength of the British Army against us? And their Navy? You know what the blockade’s like already. Remember how they sailed up the Potomac last summer without a shot fired against them? And those were just the ships they could spare from blockading the whole of Europe! No, this defeat of Napoleon has altered everything. I just pray God Adams and Gallatin lose no time. But it may be spring before their instructions even reach them. And God knows what may not have happened here in the meantime. You’ve heard about Newark?”
“Yes.” She had wondered when he would bring himself to speak of this
wanton act of violence, when the American general, McClure, forced to retreat from Fort George, had burned the helpless village of Newark before he went.
“You don’t say you told me so?”
“What’s the use?”
He turned to make sure that Sarah was still busy dressing Kate’s doll. Then back to her. “I don’t like to tell you, but there’s worse.”
“Worse?”
“Yes. The English have stormed Fort Niagara. It’s—vengeance, I suppose. They’re burning and harrying from Lewiston to Buffalo.”
“Oh my God! And the Masons?”
“I’ve heard nothing. Well, there’s hardly been time. One can only hope—and pray. Their house is secluded—a little way from Fort Niagara. But—it’s the Indians. The English have let them loose. You were right, Kate, about this war.”
“I wish I hadn’t been.” Horrible to remember Janet Mason’s kindness, her simple pride in the comforts of her home. Where was she now? “And in this weather too.” She shuddered, looking out at steadily falling snow.
“I know. And—Kate—I expect you would want to know.” She had known somehow that there was still more to come. “The 98th were there.”
“The 98th!” He might as well have hit her. “Oh—thank you.” Absurd, but what else was there to say?
Once again—aware of her distress—he changed the subject. “How are the piano lessons going?”
“Do you know”—she seized on it—“I hardly dare begin to tell you. It’s—I feel almost superstitious about it. She takes to it like an angel. I think she’d spend all day at the piano if I’d let her. And I’m sure, the other day, I heard her trying to sight-read from that book of carols you sent us. I’ve certainly never played her The Holly and The Ivy.”
“Reading music, you mean, when she can’t read words? But how in the world?”
“I simply can’t imagine. Of course, she’s watched me, but I’ve never tried to teach her.”
“Perhaps that’s the answer,” he said. “Well, God bless you, Kate, at least there’s something hopeful, one bit of good news in a black winter. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“There’s no need. You know how happy it makes me.” But there was a glow of pleasure, just the same, for his praise.
“And when I think I had my doubts about bringing you!” he went on. “I don’t know what I’d do without you now.” And then, quickly, as if to get it over with: “I have to go back to Boston at the end of the week. There’s a meeting I must attend. You’ll be all right, you and Sarah?”
It was only just a question.
“Of course.” She swallowed something bitter. The glow of pleasure had turned, all of a sudden, to one of rage.
A meeting, indeed! Why could he not be honest and say he was going back to his wife? “No need to trouble yourself about Sarah and me,” she said. “We wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your politics.” And then, aware that she had not managed quite the casual tone she had intended, she made a business of looking at her new watch. “Goodness! It’s late. Sarah! Time we were changing for dinner.”
As a great treat, Sarah was to dine with them that night, and Kate was glad of it. With Sarah there, sitting bright-eyed between them, following everything they said, their conversation must inevitably keep in the shallows, and that was where she wanted it. While she talked, and laughed, and told Jonathan about the snow castle she and Sarah had built down by the river, she was wrestling with an emotion at once familiar, horrible and strange. She was jealous. Jealous of Arabella.
She would not think about it. Jonathan had been over to the factory before dinner and was retailing a long story of his overseer, Mr. Mackintosh, and his battles with the independent, outspoken factory girls. “But he’s a good man, Mackintosh. I’m lucky to have him.”
“Yes.” And lucky to have me, so you can spend your time in Boston, dangling after Arabella. Stop it, she thought, and plunged into a story of her own about Prue and her brothers. But Sarah was too observant. Sarah had recognized the strain in her voice, and was looking at her with big, puzzled eyes. Sarah’s mouth was beginning to quiver.
Kate took a last bite of huckleberry pie. “You’re tired, honey, aren’t you? It’s been such an exciting day. You’ll excuse us?” To Jonathan.
“Of course. But you’ll join me for coffee when Sarah’s in bed.”
“I don’t believe so. Not tonight. If you’ll forgive me? I’m a little tired myself.” And he would never know what it cost her to say that.
Luckily, Sarah went to bed without a murmur, and at last, safely tucked in, with her rag doll beside her, she held up demanding little arms and pulled Kate’s face down for a touching, unpracticed kiss, her first.
Hugging her warmly in return, Kate swallowed tears with an effort. Sarah knew something was wrong and was offering her comfort. “Good night, honey,” she said, “it’s all right, bless you.”
And, alone at last in her room, faced just what she had said. In effect, she had promised Sarah that nothing should change. She had promised to stay. And how could she, now she knew that she loved Jonathan? She ought to go, anywhere, anyhow. She made up the fire with a shaking hand. She could not go. That quick kiss of Sarah’s had settled it. Sarah needed her. Nothing else mattered but that.
Or was she deceiving herself, snatching at excuses to stay in Jonathan’s house? Impatiently, she moved over to gaze into the glass that hung over her dressing table. Huge eyes, pale face, softly curling hair ... a perfectly good face ... one to be forgotten, to be taken for granted, as Jonathan Penrose took her for granted. There it was. She made herself conjure up the imagined face of Arabella behind her own. Golden Arabella with the honey-colored hair and amber eyes. Arabella, whose spell drew her husband back to Boston even from the daughter he adored.
Well then, what she, Kate, did was surely her own affair. If she chose to stand by Sarah; to fight this feeling that had grown in her without her knowing it, there was nothing to stop her. In fact, there was nothing else she could do. It was not only that she had, quite simply, nowhere to go; there was another problem; how could she explain her going? She imagined it and blushed with rage. “Mr. Penrose, I’ve fallen in love with you. I must leave.” Impossible ... intolerable even to think of it. But what other explanation would satisfy him?
So: fight it, conquer it. Of course she could. And oddly, comfortingly, an early memory of her father came back to her. It must have been a long, long time ago. Mother had been alive, had been sitting in her low armchair, pouring tea, while Father paced to and fro across the little room and talked about the sermon he was writing. “Man decides for himself,” he had said. “That’s what distinguishes him from the other animals.”
Strange to remember so clearly. Mother had put down the teapot and looked up with that wistful smile of hers. “Decides right?” she had asked.
He had stopped his long-legged pacing to look down at her with the smile he kept for her alone. “Ah, if we could be sure of that,” he had said, “we’d be angels, wouldn’t we, love?”
And Kate had thought this curse, this jealousy a new thing. Now, remembering that smile of her father’s, she knew it for old—as old as childhood. Her father had never looked at her like that. And she had tried so hard after her mother had died, tried to have everything as he liked it; tried, with a child’s passion and a girl’s diffidence to keep things the same in a household where everything was horribly changed.
Of course she had failed. “Man decides for himself.” Poor Father. Had he seen himself deciding to forget his sorrow in drink, to let it all go ... Sermons botched up anyhow, parish duties neglected, his daughter ... Stop there. And yet, looking back, she thought that probably she had done her best. A child’s best, where a woman’s was needed. And it had all led gradually, horribly downhill to Charles Manningham.
She turned back to the glass, fighting thoughts that shamed her. He found me attractive, she had caught herself thinking. Odious ... disgusting ... Attractive? The haggard fa
ce mocked her from the glass. Nonsense. So: man decides for himself. And I decide to stay with Sarah. After all—but it seemed a long time ago now—she had decided, once, to be dead. In a sense, everything, since that night, was unreal, post-mortem. I’m a ghost, she told herself, what I do now, concerns me alone.
But her sleep that windy January night was haunted by the old nightmare. Whose hands were they this time? Charles Manningham’s, or—unspeakable—Jonathan’s?
The Penrose House in Boston was in Mr. Bulfinch’s Adamstyle Tontine Crescent, where so many of Boston’s leading Federalists lived. Jonathan had bought it for Arabella from Mr. Bulfinch’s creditors early in their married life, when nothing was too good for her. Now, facing her across her Chippendale dining table, he found it hard to remember himself as that infatuated young man. “I’m sorry I was late again,” he said patiently, “the meeting ran longer than I expected.”
“They always do.” Arabella’s mouth had taken a sulky turn this winter, and there were new lines around her eyes. “Politics ... politics ... politics! Can you think of nothing else? You’re even neglecting the business for them, and I never thought I’d see that day. And your precious Sarah, for the matter of that.”
“Sarah’s all right; Mrs. Croston sees to that. She’s improved beyond recognition this winter.”
“Certainly beyond mine.” There was a new bite to Arabella’s voice. “Since I am not permitted to see her. My own child!”
“Do you wish to?” He asked it quietly enough, but his eyes held a challenge.
“Well ... of course ... a mother...”
“A mother who thinks her child would be best in an asylum? I don’t care what tales you tell your friends, Arabella, but don’t waste them on me. It’s not to see Sarah that you want to go out to Penrose. Nor yet for the pleasure of my company. So—why? Except, of course, as a means to blackmail.”
“Blackmail! That’s not a pretty word.”
“It’s not a pretty thing.” He poured her a glass of madeira. “Come, Arabella, we’re beyond quarreling, you and I. We made an agreement last fall. Your allowance increased if you stayed away from Penrose till I gave you leave to return. And, to prevent talk that troubles you so, I would come into Boston at least once a week. Admit, I’ve kept to my side of it.”
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