Here Comes a Candle

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Sarah! Stay where you are!” Had the child heard the carriage over the sound of the sea? Absurd, of course, to be frightened—with miles of golden sand spread out before it, why should one chaise be a danger to Sarah?

  But she did not like the way the driver was handling his horses. There was something at once ruthless and flamboyant about his use of the whip. Ah—Sarah had seen the carriage and was standing quite still, watching it. That was all right then.

  Or—was it? Another crack of the long whip, and Kate saw that the chaise had changed direction and was heading straight for their castle, and—Sarah had seen too. Suddenly she darted forward, with the speed of a mad thing, to stand, a tiny dauntless figure, directly between chaise and castle.

  Kate, much further off, was running forward, was screaming at once to Sarah and to the unknown driver. Had he even seen Sarah? Would he stop? Could he stop? Was he even trying to? For an endless, horrible few moments it seemed that he would drive right over the motionless child, then, at the last instant, he swerved his horses sideways, pulled them to a stop, and shouted furiously at Sarah.

  Kate could not hear the words, but their purport was obvious enough: he was in a blind rage at the risk he had run. His companion, a woman, leaned forward apparently to intervene, and then stopped, gazing in amazement at Sarah.

  “Sarah!” As she approached at a breathless run, it was the first thing Kate heard, in Arabella’s unmistakable voice.

  Then she stopped, to stare, in a kind of tranced horror at the driver. “Nearly killed the lot of us,” he was saying, his fury emphasizing an English accent. “Blithering little fool.” And then, becoming aware of Kate: “Why don’t you keep your idiot child in some kind of control, my good woman?”

  It was odd to feel oneself tremble, to know one was white as a sheet. Never, in all her nightmares had she imagined a meeting like this. He had not recognized her yet. Was there any hope, any chance that he might not? Her name, after all, was different. But ... Arabella?

  “Well, have you nothing to say for yourself? You might have ruined as good a pair of bays as you’ll find this side of the Atlantic; you and that cretin of yours.”

  “Not mine.” What an absurd thing to say. “Mrs. Penrose’s.” And then, with stiff despair, “How do you do, ma’am?”

  “I’ve never had such a fright in my life!” Arabella, too, was furious. “What in creation’s name are you doing here, Mrs. Croston? It’s not your fault that the child wasn’t killed!”

  And are you sorry she was not? The thought went through Kate’s mind like angry lightning. But she managed to speak coolly, enough. “Mr. Penrose is to pick us up here; he has business in Lynn.” What else was there to say? Not for anything would she apologize, when she knew as well as Arabella must that it was only her companion’s obstinacy that had endangered the child. “Sarah and I built that castle,” she went on with a calm she was very far from feeling. “I think she loves it a little.”

  “Loves it!”

  But Arabella’s scornful outburst was interrupted by her companion. “You’re English,” he said. “You’re—Good God—” At least he was as appalled as she. “Miss Ffynch.”

  “No, Captain Manningham, Mrs. Croston.” Surely, for his own sake, he would say nothing. So—to Arabella: “Captain Manningham and I were very slightly acquainted in England.”

  “Very slightly!” His sneer was familiar as despair. But—he must have been thinking fast. Now, at all events, he took his cue. “Yes,” he turned to Arabella. “I knew Mrs. Croston’s father—a little.” His tone dismissed Kate as beneath his interest, and he turned to look at Sarah, who appeared to have forgotten all about them and was busy arranging her collection of shells along the castle’s battlements. “So this is the poor child?” Contempt mingled with curiosity in his tone. But more significant to Kate than either was the familiarity with which he spoke to Arabella.

  “What are you doing here?” Kate’s question to him came out with a bluntness that surprised herself.

  “What business is it of yours?” This was Arabella, her color becomingly high, her eyes flashing.

  But Charles Manningham merely laughed and freed one hand from the reins to put it over hers in an oddly intimate gesture. “No need to fly into a pet, Mrs. Penrose. Your estimable nursemaid doubtless thinks she has caught me red-handed, a spy unmasked. Though it raises, does it not, a rather interesting question of your own allegiance, Mrs. Croston? I might well return your question. If I were interested, which, frankly, I am not. Your affairs are—your affairs.” His bright eye, fixed on here, seemed to make of this at once a threat and a promise. “As to me: you see me before you that miserable creature a prisoner of war. I was taken, by pure bad luck, at Fort Niagara.”

  “Niagara! You were there!” Anger in Kate’s voice reflected her memory of Mrs. Mason, who was still gravely ill from shock and exposure.

  “Yes, for my sins.” He laughed his boyish laugh. “My dear Miss Ffynch—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Crosway—don’t tell me you have turned Yankee since last we met.” How could he refer to that night? Angrily aware of a sudden rush of color and of Arabella’s eyes on her, she said merely, “I cannot imagine that my ideas are of the slightest interest to you, Captain Manningham.”

  “No. Why should they be?” Arabella leaned forward, her eyes bright with anger under the plumed hat that matched her riding habit. “And now, Mrs. Croston, if you have quite satisfied yourself that I am not helping a prisoner to escape, or whatever melodramatic notion you have been entertaining, perhaps you will be so good as to pay a little attention to the child so that we may be on our way in safety. The horses will take cold, standing so long.” And then, a casual afterthought: “Best, perhaps, that we say nothing of this affair. Sarah seems to mind you—God knows why—and I do not particularly want to get you dismissed, which must be the outcome if I tell Mr. Penrose how careless you are with her.”

  Was this a threat, or a bribe, or a bit of both? Kate gave her look for look. “I shall tell Mr. Penrose myself,” she said. “He must do what he thinks best for Sarah.”

  “Of course.” And then, with malicious carelessness: “But if you’ll be advised by me, Mrs. Croston, you’ll at least comb your hair—and the child’s—before Jonathan joins you.” And as an afterthought, “How are you, Sarah?”

  Kate’s nails bit deep into the palms of her hands. Even through the shock of this meeting she had been aware of a deep undercurrent of delight because Sarah had borne it so well. Now, would her mother’s direct address spoil everything? But Sarah merely lifted her eyes from her busy hands to look past Arabella for a moment with that strange, unfocused stare of hers that seemed always to see something on the far horizon, then bent again to her work of decoration.

  Arabella shrugged. “You see what I mean,” she said to Manningham. “Quite hopeless.”

  “Poor little thing.” He said it entirely without interest. Then, with the nod that dismisses a servant: “Good-by, Mrs. Crossley. I doubt if we will meet again.” He whipped up his horses without giving her a chance to reply and drove off at the old furious speed across the beach.

  Kate’s first thought, even now, was for Sarah. But—miraculous sign of the extent of her recovery—the meeting seemed to have made little or no impression on her. She was already hard at work smoothing out the horses’ tracks, which crossed the patch of sand she had designed for her castle’s garden. Helping her, with hands that trembled, Kate’s thoughts whirled chaotically through the implications of this horrible meeting. Charles Manningham, the devil of her nightmares, here. Even if he said nothing of what had passed between them, was not she in honor bound to do so? Of course she was. She heard her own voice, clear and satisfyingly steady: “I shall tell Mr. Penrose myself.” But—what would she tell him? She put gritty hands to her hot cheeks. If she could not bring herself, except in those nightmares, to think of what had happened, how imagine telling Jonathan? And yet, face it, somehow, she must make him see that Manningham was no companion f
or Arabella.

  Memory, flashing from scene to scene, brought up now the picture of Manningham’s hand set firmly, possessively, on Arabella’s. He was sure of her. Well there had never been any doubt about Manningham’s charm—or his looks, for the matter of that. She remembered— she would rather not remember how she had felt about him, once, herself. But no doubt about it, he and Arabella had made a striking pair and had been, it was subtly evident, pleasantly aware of this themselves.

  Well then, was it not already too late to warn Jonathan? Was not the kindest thing to say nothing, to spare him the knowledge of betrayal? Here was a temptation worthy of Bunyan’s devil. Let it go: do nothing: stay quiet: least said soonest mended. Might that not really be best? But no, here her own honesty brought her up against a crucial point: Manningham might have charmed Arabella, but that, at present, was as far as it went. The hand on hers, the little liberties he had taken with her were those of a hopeful, not of a successful lover.

  So: there it was. It was still possible to save something for Jonathan. For Jonathan, who despite the calls of the factory and his affection for Sarah, had gone so faithfully all winter through snow and storm to see his wife in Boston. Jonathan whose very silence about Arabella must spell adoration. And why not? Another of those devilish little pictures sprang into Kate’s mind: Arabella in Manningham’s chaise, her dark green riding habit setting off her golden hair, the. plume of her hat throwing up the clear color of her cheek. No wonder if Jonathan adored her without reason. And no doubt either: no doubt, at least, worth allowing oneself, of where her duty lay.

  She would tell him, of course; but not all. Surely that she might spare herself? And, in the meanwhile, she remembered Arabella’s parting words and called Sarah: “Come here, love. It’s time we tidied ourselves a little. Your father should be here directly. Won’t he be pleased with our splendid castle?”

  For once, Sarah submitted patiently to the combing of her tangled, wiry curls, and let Kate brush the worst of the sand off her muslin. But: “We’re a pretty pair of ragamuffins, I’m afraid,” said Kate ruefully, surveying her own reflection in the tiny glass she carried in her pocket. “Never mind, love; I don’t suppose your father will notice.”

  Although she had taken the whole incident so calmly, it had had its effect, and Sarah clung close to Kate from then on, her bright spirits dimmed. The carriage arrived at last—very late, as Job had predicted, with Jonathan cheerfully apologetic. “I had a good notion, though,” he told Kate. “Job has procured us the makings of a picnic luncheon which we can eat here on the beach, or on the way home if you’d rather. I thought you ladies might prefer it to the Lynn Hotel?”

  “What a splendid plan.” Among her other worries had been the idea of Sarah confronted with the noisy dining room of a small hotel. Besides, they might even meet Arabella and Manningham there before she had a chance to speak to Jonathan.

  Instead, they found a secluded spot on the edge of a blossoming apple orchard and ate cold ham and rolls and spicy apple turnovers among the whirr of insects new-awake for spring. To Kate’s relief, the morning’s air and exercise had given Sarah such an appetite that she fell to with a will. But her father had noticed the change in her, the almost apathetic way she received his congratulations on that magnificent castle. When lunch was over, he sent her and Job—a great friend of hers—to pack the remnants back into the carriage, then turned to Kate. “Is she just tired?” he asked. “Or is there more to it?”

  “More, I’m afraid.” How uncomfortably quick he was. “She was nearly run down on the beach by a carriage.” This was extraordinarily difficult. And, after an angry exclamation, he was looking at her as if he knew there was more to come. “Mrs. Penrose was in it,” she went on painfully, “and a friend of hers, an Englishman, Captain Manningham. A prisoner of war.”

  “And they nearly ran Sarah down?” She knew that quiet rage of his.

  “Of course they had no idea who she was.” This must, horribly, be said as soon as possible. “The trouble was—Captain Manningham saw our castle—thought it would be entertaining, I suppose, to drive through it. And Sarah stopped him.”

  “Stopped him?”

  “She stood in front of it. I’ve never been so frightened in my life. I thought ... I was too far away to do anything. It was inexcusable of me.”

  “No—why? A perfectly safe beach.” He threw it off carelessly, to return to the main point. “And she stopped him?”

  “She just stood there. He came on, expecting her to run: it was—terrifying. She didn’t move; just stood and looked at him. At the last moment, he swerved, missed her, missed the castle. Thank God.”

  “Yes. Do you think she doesn’t know how to be afraid?”

  “Perhaps. There was that time I found her asleep over the river ... But—one good thing’s come of this—of course she was upset—who wouldn’t be? But not, I think—” how impossibly difficult it was...

  “Not by her mother, you’re trying to say?”

  “Yes. She hardly seemed to notice her—went straight back to work on the castle. It was only afterward that she seemed ... well, subdued. And, of course, it’s been a tiring day. I expect she will fall fast asleep on the drive home.” She was talking on about Sarah because she could not find words for the other thing she had to say.

  He laughed, his face nearly normal again. “Well, let us devoutly hope she does, poor lamb. Sometimes, Kate, I despair of her ever speaking. She did not shout, or cry out at the carriage?”

  “Nothing. Not a word. Just stood there, looking at them come. But—there’s something else! Something I ought to tell you. I don’t want to.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. It’s, this.” She bolted into it. “I knew Captain Manningham, a little, in England. I don’t want to talk about it, but—I wonder if he’s a safe friend for Mrs. Penrose.”

  “Safe? For Arabella? My dear Kate, surely you must realize that my wife is very well able to look after herself.”

  “I’m sorry.” Furiously now, she wished she had not spoken. “I thought it my duty to speak. He was a friend of my father’s ... I ... I don’t think he’s to be trusted.” What could she say to put him on his guard, without saying too much? “I always thought he helped ruin my father—encouraged him to drink more than he should. He was at home, you see, wounded, with nothing to do...”

  “I’m sorry.” He had seen how hard this was for her to say. “And—thank you for the warning.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand to help her up. “I’ll—look into Captain Manningham.” And then, as Sarah and Job came laughing back from the carriage, “All ready? Good then, let’s go.”

  Bending to pick up the carriage rug they had sat on, Kate could only hope that the hot rush of blood to her face was less obvious than it felt. Horrible that his casual touch could do this to her; shaming that he so obviously felt nothing of the kind.

  Nonsense, she told herself; that’s the only reason you can stay with him.

  TEN

  They made good time on the way home, returning to Penrose just as the shadows were lengthening and the day’s sounds dying toward dusk. Sarah had fallen asleep with her head in Kate’s lap, and Jonathan picked her up gently so as not to wake her. “Put the carriage away, Job,” he said, “and have the boy get out my horse. I’m riding to Boston tonight.”

  “Yassuh, Mr. Jonathan, but I’ll gladly drive you if you’d liever.”

  “No, thanks. The ride will do me good after sitting in the carriage all day.”

  “You’ll take something to eat before you go?” Kate asked, and then wished she had not.

  “No, thank you. I’ve no doubt there will be a supper for me in Boston. Arabella keeps open house these days.” And indeed, when he rode into the Tontine Crescent soon after eight o’clock, it was to see flares burning at the door of his house and a carriage in the act of setting down guests.

  Arabella greeted him with her usual cool aplomb, almost as if he had been another guest. “Jonathan! I har
dly expected you so late.”

  “And not dressed for a party either. You must forgive me.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing; just a few friends and a little music.” But the house was decorated throughout with flowers from the Botanical Gardens and the “few friends” kept on coming until there must have been thirty or forty of them in the two big rooms that could be thrown together on the main floor.

  Downstairs, Jonathan found the usual lavish spread of buffet food for the gentlemen, and found too an old Harvard friend of his already sampling the lobster and pink champagne.

  “Josiah, you’re the very man I hoped to see.” Jonathan refilled his friend’s glass and helped himself more modestly to porter.

  “Delighted to hear it, Jon. What can I do for you?” He was in that happy state when sobriety is just ebbing away, and nothing much matters.

  “You know everyone in town, Josh: tell me about an Englishman—a prisoner of war called Manningham.”

  “Charles Manningham?” Josiah swept the now crowded room with his wide half-focused stare. “Must be upstairs still-—devil of a ladies’ man! Handsome, I reckon, if you like them long-haired and stinking of scent. Well—you know the English. Good family, to hear him talk, but short on the dollars—you know the kind of thing—take a lift in your hackney—take just about anything, if you ask me, and not much giving. Not much sign of getting his exchange, either, and going back to the fighting. Well, can’t say I blame him for that: nothing elegant about what’s going on up there at Niagara: I reckon he’s had enough. Besides—he’s got ... interests here. Plenty of them. No need for you to worry, Jon—” This was the formidable frankness of the near-drunk. “It’s marriage he’s after, and the more dollars the better.”

  “I see. And will he succeed, do you think?”

  “Bound to, if he can just hang on here long enough. Far as I can see, the girls are all mad for him: ‘Such an air,’ you know, ‘such manners.’ He kisses their hands.” Josiah found this so exquisitely funny that he had to have recourse to his champagne glass to recover himself. “There he is, just come in at the doorway. Pretty, ain’t he? Shall I make you known to him?”