56
It was chill on the parapet. . .
IT seemed to Venetia Kennet, now Lady Berry-bender, that she had never played the cello so well. With no trekking to do, she was free to practice; though her technique was undoubtedly rusty, her tone seemed to her to have deepened. In the evenings particularly she liked to sit on the parapet and play the somber sounds of the cello mingling with the other sounds that came at dusk: the bleating of sheep, the neighing of horses, the calls of night birds. It was chill on the parapet, and yet Vicky warmed as she played. Sometimes, coming in late from a hunt, Lord Berrybender would hear the strains before he was even within the gates.
“Fine girl, my Vic, fine girl,” he often said—sometimes he even wept.
“Don’t know what I’d do without her,” he mumbled.
“You don’t have to do without her,” Signor Claricia pointed out, with a wink at Amboise d’Avigdor. “She’s your wife.”
“By God, you’re right—keep forgetting she’s no longer a mistress,” Lord B. said. “Threatened to tear my throat out at one point, but now she’s docile as a kitten, on the whole.”
Signor Aldo Claricia did not think the cellist was docile as a kitten, or ever would be, but when he heard her stroking her cello he too was sometimes moved to tears. The music made him long for olive trees and little yellow songbirds and carriage wheels rolling over cobblestones. Would he ever see an olive tree again? Aldo Claricia was far from sure. But when he heard the cello he could not but remember the many beauties of his home.
Another listener who invariably wept when Vicky played the cello was Maria Jaramillo; if the concert was a long one she would usually be sobbing uncontrollably by the end of it, to the puzzlement of her little sister, Josefina, herself happy as a lark, mainly because in only a few days she would be marrying her Kit.
“Why, Maria? How can you be so sad when it’s almost time for the wedding?” Josefina asked.
“I don’t know—leave me alone—what if I made a mistake?” Maria sobbed. It was not lost on her that the one person in the post who was wholly unmoved by the rich, sad sounds of the cello was her husband-to-be, Charles Bent, who generally did his accounts just before dinner—Charlie let nothing interfere with the vital work of his accounts. It seemed to Maria that he might have let the accounts wait, for once. He might have come to their little room by the stable and asked her to dance, or tried to kiss her, or at least held her hand.
“What if I’m not happy when we marry?” Maria asked, grabbing a mirror to assure herself that her beauty, which had brought her nothing but compliments her whole life, was not lost. The mirror did reassure her—though, at the moment, she was rather puffy from crying. It irked her that her plain little sister was so radiant with happiness at the prospect of marrying her Kit. Maria wanted to box Josefina. She wanted to feel what Josefina felt, and yet she didn’t.
“The governor is coming in three days,” Josefina reminded her. “You better not cry like this when the governor is here—Papa will be angry.”
“Go away” Maria ordered. But she knew that Josefina’s warning was accurate: the wedding was approaching. She had allowed herself to be put in the path of an august event and would now have to play her part in it as best she could. And yet, when Josefina left, Maria lay on her narrow bed and sobbed, troubled by the great uncertainty she felt. She had said yes to Charles Bent, but would she like him, once the deed was done? Why had she bargained away her freedom? Why couldn’t she be happy, as her sister was? None of the questions really had answers—hearing the Englishwoman’s music only made her sadder and more perplexed.
“I do believe that’s Handel she’s playing,” Father Geoff remarked to Tasmin. They stood on the balcony, not far from Vicky. The goats and sheep were being brought into the courtyard for safety—several of the goats wore little bells, which tinkled in melancholy accompaniment to the notes of the cello.
“What’s the longest spell of happiness you can remember enjoying, Geoff?” Tasmin inquired. “Think hard before you answer.”
“If you really want hard thinking, I fear I’m not the man for you,” the priest warned her. “But I imagine about twenty minutes is as long as we mortals can stay in a state of pure happiness. Can you copulate for twenty minutes, Tasmin?”
Tasmin shrugged. “Possibly, if I am indulged—but I’m not indulged,” Tasmin allowed. “My husband’s an honest rambler, he can rarely be persuaded to tarry for twenty minutes, but Pomp is something worse—he’s so elusive that I’m not sure why I’m still bothering to try.”
’Ah me, the slippery fellow’s eluded you again— gone off with St. Vrain to attempt to recover the Bents’ lost silver—and just when your husband’s gone off too,” the priest said. “I suspect you thought that at last you’d have Pomp to yourself.”
That was exactly what Tasmin had expected—it was one reason she had immediately acquiesced to Jim’s departure, only to have Pomp hurry off almost at the same time as Jim. It had made her so angry that she had kicked a footstool, and now had a swollen big toe to show for it. Why would Pomp leave, just when they might have enjoyed a bit of privacy?
“I’ve sometimes felt that your young Monsieur Charbonneau would make a better priest than I make,” Father Geoffrin told her. “What’s certain is that I’d make a better libertine than him. You wouldn’t find me running off to look for a cartful of ugly silver if I had white loveliness available to me.”
Tasmin shrugged again.
“I’m no longer very white, thanks to the sun,” Tasmin reminded him. ‘And I’m pregnant. Perhaps that puts him off.”
Below them the two little boys were playing with their tiny lamb. Signor Claricia had become fond of the two little toddlers and had made them whistles, which they blew piercingly and incessantly. Pomp himself had made the lamb a collar and a lead, so the boys could lead him. The lamb’s only escape was to collapse from exhaustion, which it did often, bleating weakly. Yet when the little boys proposed to let it alone for a bit the lamb followed them, just as the bear cubs once had.
“Look, Tasmin—I believe I see an amitié forming,” Father Geoff said. He was referring to the bond which seemed to have lately formed between Signor Claricia and Little Onion. The two could often be seen sitting together in the evening, listening to Vicky Kennet play the cello. Tasmin had noticed this bond herself. Signor Claricia, who had been very gloomy since the death of his friend Seftor Yanez, had perked up a little of late, partly because Little Onion had taken it upon herself to assist the quiet gentleman in small ways—mending his moccasins when they frayed, or finding him a better pipe. In return Signor Claricia had given the modest young Indian woman a tortoiseshell comb. It was mainly a silent bond—Little Onion had acquired a few words of English; Signor Claricia had not many more. And yet it was clear that the two derived a certain comfort from merely sitting together, quietly observing the life of the post.
“I don’t think I know a better person than our Onion,” Tasmin said—and she meant it. “She has been given very little choice in her life, and yet her behavior meets the highest standards. Those two little boys would vex a saint, and yet she is rarely cross with them—and she’s never cross with us Berrybenders, though we’re certainly capable of vexing a great many saints. She’s neither a troublemaker like me nor a cynic like yourself.”
“Goodness in human beings seems to be where you find it,” Geoff said. “I too have the greatest admiration for Little Onion. I had that boil on my foot and she made a salve to cure it.”
“Perhaps she’s so good because she’s never read a novel,” Tasmin suggested. “You and I, of course, have read far too many and they’ve done much damage to our characters, I suspect. I have no particular right to Little Onion’s loyalty, and yet she’s given it.”
The two of them looked down at the quiet couple.
“Selfishness in human beings is where you find it, too,” Tasmin said. “It’s when I think of our Onion that I feel worst about myself. I ought to be modest, like she is
, and yet I’m not. And I ought not to care where Pomp Charbonneau goes, or what he does—and yet I care intensely.”
“I wonder if Jim would let Little Onion go?” the priest asked. “She and our lonely Italian might make a promising couple, if Little Onion were free.”
Tasmin had begun to wonder the same thing.
“Of course Jimmy would let her go,” Tasmin said. “I’m all the wife he wants and maybe more wife than he wants. But there’s Monty to consider. He loves Little Onion absolutely. He’d be stricken if she left.”
“Well, it seems we’ll be here all winter,” the priest remarked. “I guess we’ll see what we see.”
Impulsively, since he was standing so near, he tried to give Tasmin a kiss, but she anticipated the move and drew her head back just slightly.
“None of that, you disgusting wretch,” Tasmin warned. “I’m in a bad mood already and even if I were in a better one I wouldn’t want to kiss you. If you want kisses, why don’t you try Eliza—I’ve suggested it before.”
“It’s those great bosoms—the thought of them frightens me,” Father Geoff admitted.
At that Tasmin walked off. Discussing carnal matters with Father Geoff was not an activity likely to raise her spirits or lessen her self-annoyance. She knew she ought to give up on Pomp Charbonneau, and yet she could not bring herself to.
As she was passing the room where Mary stayed she happened to see her sister sitting on a low chair, silent, perhaps even dejected; tears shone on her cheeks.
“Hey! What’s wrong with you?” Tasmin asked. Behind her she could hear the two little boys, excited by their ability to mount the stairs one by one. They were being followed by Kate Berrybender, who sometimes condescended to play with them.
“My virginity is taken—Piet has gone to ask Papa for my hand,” Mary said glumly.
“Then why are you sad?”
Mary gulped a little before replying.
“Piet got dreadfully out of breath while he was about it,” Mary told her. “His face turned quite purple—for a moment I was afraid he might die. I rather think the brambles might be a better method, on the whole. I should wish to die at once if I lose my Piet.”
Kate and the boys made a noisy arrival.
“Why’s this person crying?” Kate at once wanted to know. Monty clamored to be picked up, while Talley ran to his mother, who was at once forced to stop playing her cello. Tasmin, thinking it was not a good time to explain to Kate why Mary was sad, said nothing.
“I don’t wish to speak to this brat right now—you tell her, Tassie,” Mary said.
“The flesh is heir to many sorrows,” Tasmin said to Kate. “Why don’t you go put these little boys to bed, so their mothers can enjoy a moment of peace?”
“You haven’t been looking after them anyway,” Kate pointed out. “/ have been looking after them, along with Little Onion and Signor Claricia.”
“Need you brag?” Tasmin asked. Mary’s eyes were still leaking tears. Tasmin thought she might offer a few words of comfort, if only the tiresome Kate would move along.
“It’s unfortunate that Mr. James Snow is not here,” Kate remarked. “I don’t like it that he’s gone. If you were a better wife you’d know how to keep him close.”
“Unfortunately I’m not a better wife,” Tasmin informed her. “I’m a thoroughly troublesome person, though hardly more troublesome than yourself, you impertinent midge. Get out of here and let your sister have her cry. A good cry now and then is something we all need, as I believe I explained to you before.”
With a frown Kate grabbed Monty and, though he wailed in protest, carried him inside.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about Piet,” Tasmin told Mary. “The conjugal process will soon grow easier, once you’ve had a little practice.”
“It was rather a jerky business—somewhat like hiccups. I stopped but Piet couldn’t.”
Below her in the thickening dusk Tasmin could just see Little Onion standing with Signor Claricia. The blacksmith had just pumped his bellows; the forge flared brightly for a moment. Two billy goats from the large herd, annoyed with one another, were butting heads, as the young Ute woman and the old Italian stood watching, not speaking, not touching, and yet at ease in their comfortable proximity. When the billy goats tired of jousting, Little Onion and Signor Claricia walked off toward the big kitchen—no doubt Little Onion would soon fill her friend a plate of whatever Cook had made. Tasmin felt a stab of envy, followed by remorse. Wasn’t that what she wanted herself, a friend to stand close to her, serenely watching whatever there was to watch? And couldn’t she have had that very thing with Pomp, if she hadn’t insisted on forcing passion on a man who didn’t want it? But she had done what she’d done—would she now ever have a friend to stand with her at dusk, watching two goats butt their heads?
57
Outside they could hear the music . . .
“I MERELY hoped you’d treat me like a woman,” Tasmin said, weeping.
Outside they could hear the music and sounds of the wedding feast. Musicians had been hauled all the way from Santa Fe, costing Charles Bent money he was reluctant to spend; but with the governor there, for once he dared not economize. In the end he had ignored Maria’s objections and invited the English to the wedding. Lord Berrybender was a nobleman, after all—he and his family could not be simply ignored. Wine and champagne were flowing—even before the nuptials began Hugh Glass got so drunk that he rolled off the parapet and broke three ribs—though even that didn’t keep him from dancing. Lord Berrybender was no soberer—soon he was hopping around on one foot, attempting to dance.
Tasmin cared for none of it. She was correct with the governor and the various dignitaries and only a little cool with Kit Carson, whom she considered to be something of a traitor for having married without her permission. His bride, Josefina, was such a friendly, winning little person that Tasmin unbent and kissed her. Maria, the haughty sister, looked rather chalky— she had cried all night and had had to powder heavily.
Horse races were to follow the dancing; the handsome Monsieur St. Vrain was expected to win them all, but Tasmin didn’t stay for the races. Once she had drunk the proper number of toasts she went at once to Pomp and persuaded him to follow her upstairs, into her bedroom, where a good fire had been laid. With her door firmly locked behind them, well above the clamor of the festivities, Tasmin was determined to have a long, slow, amorous joust of the sort she had been wanting ever since she had fallen in love with Pomp. At last, she thought, I’ll have you—and Pomp followed without reluctance—at first he looked rather amused, which was not exactly what she wanted. Tasmin was determined, now that she really had Pomp alone, to break through the amusement and the politeness and arouse a passionate Pomp. She was ready to do anything—hit him, bite him, fondle him, probe, kiss—anything to break down his pleasant, accommodating reserve. She had had enough of merely being tolerated, obliged. She meant to be wanted, as much as this man could want.
And yet their fiesta was ill timed; just when Tasmin wanted them to be slow, they were quick. But Tasmin refused to quit. She wouldn’t let Pomp up. She meant to keep him in the stained and tangled bedsheets all day and all night, if she could. She bit and she caressed—she insisted on long kisses, for it was when they kissed that she was able to feel that she had at last found him. With her mouth on his she whispered that she loved him and he began to kiss back. He was a young man, easily rearoused after a short interval. Tasmin urged and they enjoyed a longer rut; she was beginning to feel that she knew how to please him— and yet finally she jumped out of bed so abruptly that a long spill of seed came trickling down her thigh; she stomped around the room naked, furious, hurt, sobbing in confusion. She stood in front of the fireplace for a moment and then slumped back on the bed and dried her tears with one of the too coarse sheets. Instead of being filled with feeling, as she had hoped to be, she felt drained of it—she felt blank, felt it was all impossible, couldn’t understand why she always had to be the o
ne to start the fiesta with this man— why must she do everything? If she wanted to be touched in a certain way she had to take his hand and move it, much as she had taken Monty’s hand when she wanted him to wave at his father. Pomp was a grown man—why must she direct things as if they were actors on a stage?
“I guess I’m not learning very fast,” Pomp said, wrapping her in his arms. Tasmin, angry, tried to shrug him off but he tightened his arms around her and held her. Too tired to go on the attack, she rested in his arms.
“I want you—it’s not something I learned,” Tasmin said, though listlessly. “It’s something that is. I have no one to blame but myself. You told me that night on the Yellowstone that you were not really troubled by desire. I’ve merely been forcing myself upon you. Why should you want me? I’m married to Jim—and I’m pregnant, probably by you. I’ve made a thoroughgoing mess, married to a man who constantly leaves me and in love with you, another man, who refuses to arrive. Thank God for Little Onion—she has been more help to me than you and Jimmy put together.”
Pomp didn’t say anything, but he continued to hold her.
“I wasn’t seeking expertise from you, though I wouldn’t scorn it,” Tasmin said. She had begun to feel comfortable in his arms, though, and when he kissed her lightly she didn’t object. It showed that he was fond of her, at least—she had always known he was fond of her. Why had she been unable to leave it at that? But she hadn’t, and now they were lovers, although only one of them was in love. If pressed, Pomp might claim otherwise, but that was loyalty, not love. Fond he was, loyal he was, attracted he could be, in love he was not. Now that she had touched and considered every part of his body she could not allow herself to believe that Pomp was going to fall in love with her.
“It’s very discouraging to a woman to have to force these things,” Tasmin told him, trying not to sound reproachful—it was just something she wanted him to know.
The Berrybender Narratives Page 85