“Of course you have, since there have been these dreary political meetings for you to go to.”
“These dreary political meetings, Arabella, may decide whether these United States are to remain united or not.”
“Oh, I know that.” Impatiently. “It’s the common talk. Mrs. Quincy was saying only the other day—”
“I’m sure she was. Do you think, if it was secret, that I would mention it to you? But the fact that the likelihood of the New England states’ seceding from the Union is public knowledge makes it more important, not less. I know you care nothing for politics, Bella, but had you thought of the practical aspects of secession?”
“Practical? What do you mean?” She did not sound much interested.
“Why: just this. You like money, don’t you? Then think for a moment where it comes from. My entire production at the manufactury is turned over to government stuff now—to uniform cloth and blankets. If we secede and make a separate peace, who’s going to buy them? And where will the money for your French silks come from then?”
“You could sell to the British.”
“Never! Oh yes, I know about the brisk trade in corn and cattle that goes on across the northern borders, but don’t delude yourself I’ll ever join in anything of the kind. Just because our farmers feed the English troops, don’t think I’m going to clothe them. I’d rather go bankrupt. And you wouldn’t like that, would you? Where would your blackmail money come from then?”
“I wish you wouldn’t use that word!”
He cracked two walnuts against each other in the way that had always annoyed her. “Do you know, Bella, you’re getting a terrible trick of frowning. It will mar your looks if you don’t take care. Where do you drink tea tonight?”
“Nowhere.” She flounced to her feet. “Who invites a woman whose husband never accompanies her!”
“Good gracious.” He was a man of mild expletives. “Times are changed indeed. I can remember the day—and not long past, either—when you positively urged me to stay at home and rest after my day’s work. What’s the matter, Bella? Are your devoted swains turning coy? I can’t believe they’ve gone off to the wars.”
“Well—have you?”
He laughed and rose to his feet. “You win, as always. So—since it seems to be all I’m good for—if you will excuse me, I will return to my politics.”
NINE
“The spring’s on its way at last.” Jonathan had just returned from Boston and was stamping snow from his boots under the front portico.
“Yes, that’s what Job says,” Kate followed Sarah, who had run headlong downstairs to throw open the front door and jump into his arms. “We found a green plant where it’s thawing by the river,” she went on. “Job says it’s called skunk cabbage. Of all the unromantic names for the first green sign of spring!”
Jonathan laughed. “You ought to know by now, Kate, that we’re an unromantic lot, we Americans. And none the worse for that. I remember one time when I was in England, I happened on a book of poetry called Lyrical Ballads, and a fine lot of nonsense it was, too. Though come to think of it, there was one about a sailor that had something to it. What was it called?”
“The Ancient Mariner, I expect. It’s one of my favorites. But what’s the news in town?”
“Bad—for us.” He hung his heavy overcoat in the closet beside the front door. “And good for you. The last word is that the Allies crossed the French border in January. God knows what has happened since then, but it can only be a matter of time till Napoleon’s beaten, and then: God help as Americans.”
“As bad as that?” And then, aware of the listening child: “Sarah, honey, run upstairs and fetch your father’s slippers.”
“I think so. Well: you’re English. You must know. So far, they’ve been fighting us with their hands tied behind their backs. Once the whole British Navy is free to turn its attention this way, we’re finished. Anything may happen. I even wonder whether I should not send you and Sarah away. Inland somewhere.”
“No!” It came out louder than she intended. “No—” more calmly now. “Don’t do that. Surely they’ll not attack Boston, of all places?”
“Probably not. God knows it would be a gamble. To read the Boston Patriot, or listen to the talk in town, you would think that our citizens would welcome them with open arms. And a fine reversal of our Boston Tea Party that would be! But it might so easily work the other way. An English landing on American territory might unite the country against them as nothing else could. Even here, I doubt if Pickering and his friends would sit quietly by and watch the redcoats take over the town. Certainly, if you saw the fortifications going up, and the militia at their drill on the Common, you’d think we meant to strike a blow for ourselves. But when you read the papers!”
“You’ve told me often enough not to take them too seriously. Anyway, even if the worst should happen, Sarah and I should be safe enough out here.” She was angry with herself as she said it. Here was her chance to get away, and what was she doing? “I’m sure it would be bad for Sarah to move her,” she went on. “She’s coming along so well. Do you know, I think she can read?”
“Read when she can’t talk? Are you serious?”
“Not can’t talk: won’t. I’m sure she could if she wanted to. And as to reading: it began with the piano, of course. She doesn’t even pretend now that she can’t, read music. Why, that book of songs from the opera you brought back from Boston last month—she was playing them through two days later. Before I’d learned them myself. Most of our music is songs; I can’t think that while she’s learned the notes she’s taken no notice of the words. And, another thing. You know I always read aloud to her when she’s in bed? I’ve never known how much of it she takes in, but it seems to soothe her, to help her get off to sleep.”
“Yes. We’ve not had a screaming fit for ages.”
“No, thank God. Yesterday, just when I’d sat down with The Pilgrim’s Progress, Prue called me away. There was a traveling peddler at the door and Mrs. Peters was having trouble getting rid of him. It took me a little while, and I expected trouble when I got back, tears at least. But there was Sarah curled up as snug as you please in bed, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. And two pages had been turned in the book. It was an exciting bit we were at: the Hill Difficulty. I think she just read on. Of course, I pretended to have noticed nothing, and picked up where I had left off. And, do you know, just for a moment I thought she was going to say something, to tell me she had got further than that. But of course she didn’t—she just wriggled a bit while I read it all over again. I’m sure she can read. And I’m sure we should do nothing to set her back. Just think of taking her away from her piano...”
“I know. I’ve thought of that. Well, for the moment, we’ll chance it. But have things packed for the two of you, so that if there should be a landing, I can get you away at once. I’ve a cottage near Northampton you could go to. And—just think what the sight and sound of fighting might do to her—quite apart from the risk. I don’t need to tell you...”
“No.” Her hands clenched at the memory of old Mac lying on the cold ground; at all the memories.
“I’m sorry: I’m a wretch to remind you. Whatever happens, you and Sarah shall be spared that.”
“Thank you.” Suddenly, his consideration was more than she could bear. “Sarah!” She turned away to hide a quick start of tears. “Where are those slippers?”
Only much later, lying sleepless while the wild March wind blew sleet against her window, had she time to be angry with herself. Here had been the perfect chance to get away, and she had dodged it. And don’t pretend it was for Sarah’s sake, she told herself, because I won’t believe you.
The anniversary of the taking of York came and went. Soon, Kate would have been a whole year at Penrose. “The best year of Sarah’s life,” said Jonathan, commenting on this over dinner one mild night early in May. “But it’s fantastic that you have never even seen Boston in all th
is time. Now the snow has gone we really must arrange it. Sarah used to love driving into town with me. Do you think, now—”
“I don’t know.” She was certainly not going to mention Arabella before he did. “It’s going so well: why chance spoiling it? And, truly, I don’t in the least mind staying quietly here. It suits me.”
“It certainly does.”
“Oh—I didn’t mean.” Blushing angrily, she wondered if he really thought she had been fishing for the compliment. But, of course, it was true; her glass told her that she was a different creature from the haggard, anxious-eyed young woman who had arrived here a year ago. “It suits us both,” she said now. “I’d as soon not make any changes till Sarah begins to speak.”
She thought that had settled it, but a few weeks later he came home from the mill with a different suggestion. “What would you two think of an outing in the carriage tomorrow? Not Boston—” What had he seen in Sarah’s face? “I’m driving up to Lynn to look at a shoe manufactory that’s for sale there. If you ladies cared for a look at the sea we could drive on across the beach to Nahant, dine at the hotel in Lynn, and still be home not much after bedtime. It will mean an early start, of course, but I know early rising is nothing to you two. My business at Lynn won’t take me more than an hour or so, and, if you liked, the carriage could take you on for a run on the sand. You always loved that, didn’t you, pet?”
For a moment, Kate really thought Sarah would answer him with words as well as with the glowing smile that lit up her face.
Jonathan, too, waited for a moment before he went on: “That’s settled then.” If he was disappointed, he took care not to show it. “We’ll start at six and have a second breakfast at Lynn. You’ll like that, won’t you, Sarah?” Silence again, and the beaming smile. “The trouble is,” he said later to Kate, “she manages so well without speaking. Do you sometimes think that we make it too easy for her? Should we drive her into a position where she must speak?”
No.” Violently. “I think it might be disastrous. Leave it to time, Mr. Penrose, I beg of you.”
“I thought you were to call me Jonathan.”
“I’m sorry: I quite forgot.” And that was a lie, if ever there was one. She had hoped to slip back, without comment, into a more formal relationship. Sour consolation to tell herself that he would never have remarked on it if he had had the slightest idea of how she felt about him Luckily, he had found a batch of newspapers awaiting him, and it was an accepted thing that on these occasions he would read his way through dinner, pausing from time to time to give her the more striking bits of news. So tonight, she was free to be angry with herself, as she had all day, because instead of trying to avoid tomorrow’s expedition, she was looking forward to it. She ought to plead headache, illness, anything to avoid the insidious pleasure of a whole day with him. But—Sarah. Impossible to deny her the treat to which she, too, was obviously looking forward. And unlikely that Jonathan would take her alone. So, once more, there it was, an impossible situation which might just as well be enjoyed. After all, there would be the rest of her life to be miserable.
In fact, there was delicious excitement in the breach of a year’s routine. She and Sarah were up in the half-light, and Sarah, usually a dawdling, dresser, was like quick-silver, managing buttons and bootlaces with an easy assurance that would have amazed Mrs. Peters. They found Jonathan already in the dining room, drinking coffee by candlelight, and Kate was soon smiling at the sight of Sarah feeding herself fried ham and buckwheat cakes as if it was the most natural thing in the’ world. She caught Jonathan’s eye. “We must do this more often,” he said.
“Yes...” A shade doubtfully. “Maybe. If all goes well.”
“Pessimist! Of course all will go well. We’re going to have a splendid day, aren’t we, Sarah?”
It was delicious to drive off into a morning still glistening with dew, and wreathed, here and there, in early mist. Women and children were pouring into the factory when they passed it, and Kate was aware of curious glances, and of Sarah, equally curious, staring back. “Goodness me, some of them are no bigger than you, Sarah!” And then, to Jonathan, “Poor things, do they work all day?”
“Most places, yes, but not here. My friends think I’m crazy, but I have a schoolmaster for the little ones. They have two hours off a day for lessons, and I reckon it pays me one hundred per cent. We have fewer accidents than any factory in the district, and fewer absentees too. A little learning works like a charm, I find, and pays dividends.” The carriage was rattling downhill now, along beside the Penrose River, and already they were beyond the limit of Kate’s and Sarah’s walks. Sarah, sitting on her father’s knee so as to see out better, was singing quietly to herself, a sure sign of excitement and happiness, but Kate could not help a pang, as they passed an orchard in full blossom, to think of the excited exclamations that should be bursting from her.
Perhaps today ... She deliberately suppressed the thought. Even to think about it seemed, somehow, to be putting pressure on the child, and pressure, she was sure, was the worst possible thing for her.
“We’ll be in Cambridge soon.” Jonathan settled Sarah more comfortably on his knee. “I wish we could stop to show you Harvard College, Kate, but that will have to wait for another time. The sooner we get to Lynn, the sooner you’ll be on the shore, eh, Sarah?”
But he called to Job to slow down the carriage as they drove through Harvard Square, so that Kate could have a glimpse of the college yard, with boys’ figures hurrying this way and that among the trees. “Late for prayers, I expect,” said Jonathan. “And there’s the Charles River—named for your King Charles, Kate. It makes our Penrose look a mere stream, doesn’t it? And if you keep watching you’ll soon see Trimountain Hill, the one that gave Boston its old name. We keep to this side of the river for Lynn, though. You’ll be glad of your second breakfast when we get there, won’t you, puss?” He tweaked Sarah’s ear and she giggled up at him delightedly.
It was high morning when Job set Kate and Sarah down on the edge of the golden, sandy beach. “The spouting horn’s down that way, Miss Kate,” he said. “Over the rocks. Or if you don’t want to bother with that, I’ll just look for you here when I’ve fetched Mr. Jonathan.”
“Yes, do, Job. We’ll have plenty to do here, I’m sure.” Sarah had already darted off across the smooth, hard sand. “Is it safe, Job?”
“As houses. The tide’s falling, I reckon, and you’ve not a thing in the world to fret over. Now, later in the season, it would be quite another matter. This is a great summer jaunt for the nobs: they even talk of building a big hotel out there on Nahant point. But this time of year you’ll have the place to yourselves. And no need to be looking for us for a couple of hours or more: I know Mr. Jonathan said he’d only be half an hour, but he’s always longer than he says, is the master.”
“Thank you, Job. We’ll be happy as larks, won’t we, Sarah?” She had darted back with a handful of shells. “Good-by, Job, don’t hurry back on our account.”
The sun was high overhead now and already it was as hot as the best kind of English summer day, the fierceness of the sun tempered by a fresh breeze off the sea. “Look, Sarah, there’s a ship, a big one. I wonder what she is?” Strange to think she was probably English, waiting to pounce, as the Shannon had on the Chesapeake. But Sarah was not interested in anything so distant as the graceful, white-winged ship. She had discovered that a kind of cradle-shaped shell was plentiful on the beach and was busy collecting them to lay out in one of her long, purposeless lines. Then, suddenly tiring of this, she came tugging at Kate’s hand to persuade her down to the very edge of the sea, where big Atlantic breakers came creaming in and she had to run away, with squeals of joy, to escape getting her feet wet.
It seemed a hazardous pastime to Kate, so she found them a couple of flat pieces of driftwood with which to dig. This was an immediate success, and they were soon both absorbedly at work building a castle: “Like Doubting Castle, Sarah, in your picture book.�
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A flash of Sarah’s big gray eyes showed that she had understood the reference to the picture in her Pilgrim’s Progress and she began molding turrets on the solid base Kate had helped her build. She was exquisitely happy, absorbed ... She needs to make things, Kate thought ... I must think of something like this for her to do at home.
They were both of them extremely sandy by the time the castle was finished; Sarah’s hair was a mass of tangled curls and Kate did not think her own could be much tidier. “Now, shall we find some shells and seaweed to decorate it with, Sarah?” Her own back was aching with the unaccustomed stooping, and even active little Sarah was obviously glad to straighten up and move away toward the sea, picking up here a bright green strand of seaweed and there a delicately whorling shell.
It was wonderfully peaceful on the beach. They had not seen a soul all morning and Kate felt the winter’s tensions easing in her as she drifted here and there, further now from Sarah, making a pleasant pretense of hunting for shells. With the sun hot on her back and the sea for music, it was easy to forget everything in a delicious, unreasoning surge of happiness. Vaguely, contentedly, she began to sing one of the nursery rhymes Sarah loved so, Oranges and Lemons.
“Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
Here comes—”
She stopped. What was that other noise, mixed up in the roar of the breakers? A horse—horses—driven fast. Surely it was early still for Jonathan? Much more likely that someone else had had the same idea as they. She began to move back toward Sarah, who was some way off on the far side of their castle, when a chaise emerged onto the beach, driven tandem and at breakneck speed.
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