In Memories We Fear

by Barb Hendee

  Maxim nearly gasped. They were talking about the vicar and him. He didn’t sleep much that night.

  The next day, Mama took him aside. “Vicar Brandon’s made an offer to be your teacher. He says he needs help there at the rectory, and if you’ll run errands for him and do some of the gardening, he’ll pay you a small wage and give you lessons for a few hours a day.”

  A few hours a day? Every day?

  Lessons and a small wage? Maxim’s twelfth birthday was rushing toward him, and it seemed he was being given a reprieve from becoming a fisherman. He could hardly believe it. At first, he thought his brothers would be green with envy—and they might even make him suffer for his good luck. But instead, they appeared relieved that he would not be joining them on the boat. Perhaps his presence made them as uncomfortable as theirs made him.

  While Papa still expressed silent displeasure at the situation, the only one to openly object was Edith, Maxim’s sister. Stunned by the news, she cried, “No! He already thinks he’s so much better than us.”

  He looked with disdain at her lank hair, doughy face, and stout figure. Then he forgot about her. Nothing was going to stop him from taking Vicar Brandon’s offer.

  In the following years, a new world opened up for Maxim. Under the vicar’s tutelage, he studied history, literature, philosophy, and theology, literature being his favorite. He learned that Vicar Brandon was the third son of a family “of name,” and that he had studied at a grand university called Oxford. Maxim never tired of hearing stories about the university and the professors there.

  Such men must command great respect.

  But he also loved the quiet of the rectory. He loved its cleanliness and its order—so different from his filthy home bursting at the seams with people. Whenever possible, he arrived early enough to share oatmeal and apples with Vicar Brandon for breakfast, marveling at the taste of fresh milk laced with honey. In the afternoons, the vicar always put out a lunch of ham or cheese and fresh bread. The two of them planted a strawberry patch in the garden.

  About the time Maxim turned eighteen, he heard rumblings at home and could sense his father gearing up to insist that he finally take his place among the fishermen. The small wage he earned at the rectory could hardly make up for the additional help of one more man on the boat—even if that man was Maxim.

  “Papa’s going to take me away,” he told Vicar Brandon, unable to keep the fear from his voice. “He’s going to force me onto the boat.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  And a second miracle occurred. To Maxim’s astonishment, a number of families in Hastings suddenly began offering him part-time work tutoring their young sons. Within a few weeks, he was earning good money, most of which he handed over to Papa, and any talk of the fishing boat ceased.

  But the families he worked for were . . . better than his own, and although he took great care with his personal hygiene, his clothes were still those of a fisherman—or at least those of someone from a fisherman’s family—and the shame was surprisingly sharp. He felt caught between two worlds.

  Without Maxim saying a word, Brandon gave him enough money to buy his first tailored suit—dark gray with a black shirt. The colors suited him, contrasting with his pale skin. Looking in the mirror at the tailor’s shop, he finally saw himself as a tutor, a teacher, who belonged among the better families of Hastings.

  He looked different. He was different.

  In addition, although he would never be tall, he’d gained some height and felt comfortable in his slender body. He wore his hair a bit longer than was fashionable, with thick bangs hanging over one eye, and while the vast majority of men disliked other men who were “pretty,” Maxim found that women had no such objections.

  When he walked down the street near his home, the girls would follow him with their eyes. He enjoyed their admiration, but they were just fishermen’s girls—like his sisters—so he never spoke to them.

  The following year, he met Opal Radisson when her parents engaged him to tutor her younger brother. The Radissons lived in a fine house a good distance from the docks, and the first time he saw her, she was standing near the bottom of a staircase with a large vase of roses behind her. Nearly as tall as he and quite slender, she was wearing a peach muslin dress. Her chestnut hair hung in curls to the small of her back with her bangs pulled up at the crown. She was beautiful.

  As they looked at each other, he could see she found him beautiful, too, but this was the first time he’d returned any girl’s admiration. It was an uncomfortable feeling. He wasn’t certain what to do.

  She solved the problem for him.

  When he’d finished tutoring her younger brother that morning, he was forced to walk through the parlor to reach the front door. He heard music before even entering the parlor, and he tensed upon seeing Opal behind the piano.

  Without stopping her playing, she looked up. The lightest shadow of freckles covered her milky skin. “Do you like Mozart?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. It never bothered Maxim to admit ignorance on a topic. Such admissions usually led to further education. “Vicar Brandon was never a student of music.”

  “Then come and listen. I’ll play some Bach for you, and you can decide what you like.”

  He walked over to stand behind her, and he was still standing there when Mrs. Radisson walked in a half hour later and froze at the sight of them. Maxim looked at her calmly, as if he belonged there, and she smiled slightly, taking a closer look at the cut of his suit. After all, Vicar Brandon had recommended him. Surely he must be a respectable young man.

  Two days later, he was invited to tea.

  He had no idea how to behave “at tea,” but Opal and her mother managed everything, and all he had to do was sit and eat and discuss the Christian merits of Daniel Defoe’s novel Robinson Crusoe—a book Maxim had always found rather dry, but which Opal seemed to find fascinating.

  Right in the middle of things, Mrs. Radisson suddenly asked, “Mr. Carey, what does your father do?”

  The question caught him so off guard that he answered, “He owns a number of fishing vessels.”

  This seemed a good answer, somewhere between the truth and a lie. His father owned one, small decaying boat from which he barely carved a living . . . but he did own it. Mrs. Radisson nodded in approval.

  After tea was finished, he felt he’d conducted himself well, but in truth, he was beginning to fantasize about what Opal’s slender body looked like beneath her dress . . . what her skin would feel like against his hands.

  Their friendship continued in this vein of his visiting with her at home (in the company of her mother) for several months. As of yet, he’d spoken to her father only once—and briefly at that. Mr. Radisson was one of the wealthiest merchants in Hastings. He owned six trading ships and spent much of his time either at his office or at the Mistletoe Coffeehouse near the south docks, where he made many a deal.

  Maxim did not understand merchants any more than he understood fishermen.

  Then, one day, just as he was about to leave the Radissons’ house, Opal picked up a basket of jam jars by the front door.

  “Mother,” she called, “may I walk to the rectory with Maxim? I know you wanted to send the vicar some of your new jam.”

  Families like the Radissons did not attend the same church as families like the Careys, but the upper-class families sometimes sent gifts to various members of the local clergy.

  Mrs. Radisson walked quickly into the foyer, her forehead wrinkling. “Oh . . . I was going to send Nancy with those later.”

  Nancy was one of their servants.

  “I’d rather take them myself, if it’s all right,” Opal said. Her voice sounded like music to Maxim, and he watched the delicate hollow of her throat as she breathed.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Radisson answered, somewhat nervously. “Mr. Carey, would you invite your mother to tea next Thursday afternoon? I have been remiss in not asking her before.”
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  His mother?

  The ground felt as if it were slipping beneath his feet. He could just imagine the result of Mama’s coming here for tea. Not only would he lose his friendship with Opal, he’d probably also lose his position.

  “I would be honored,” he answered. “I’ll give her the invitation this evening.”

  Mrs. Radisson smiled at him openly and handed him her card. “Please give her this.”

  He slipped it into his pocket and opened the door for Opal. Then, for the first time, they found themselves alone, walking down the open street. The sensation was quite liberating. He wondered what it would be like to be her husband, taking walks together on summer afternoons, listening to her play the piano in the evenings, drinking tea in their own tastefully decorated parlor. . . .

  “Oh, Maxim, look at these climbing roses.”

  She stepped ahead of him to touch a mass of yellow roses clinging to a wrought-iron fence, and as she moved, his eyes dropped to her hips. A rush of desire hit him so hard, he stopped walking. He couldn’t stop picturing himself running his hands down her bare sides.

  “They’re lovely,” he managed to say.

  Upon arriving at the rectory, he opened the main doors to let her in.

  “Brandon?” he called. In recent years, he and his mentor had grown more informal, but he found the vicar preferred to be called by his surname.

  This place felt like home, and Maxim often wished it were his home. He was proud of his deep connection to the scholarly vicar and this peaceful place.

  No one answered.

  “Is he not here?” Opal asked.

  And then, Maxim realized that he and Opal were truly alone now, behind closed doors.

  “You can put the jam in the kitchen,” he said.

  She followed him to Brandon’s small kitchen in the back of the rectory. Maxim watched her set the basket on the table. Then she turned toward him slowly.

  Without thinking, he crossed the short distance between them and took her by the waist, pressing his lips against hers. She responded, kissing him back, but when he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, she gasped and drew away, staring at him with wide eyes.

  He was shaking slightly, fighting himself not to grab her and kiss her again.

  “I . . . I should go home,” she said.

  “I’ll walk you,” he said hoarsely.

  A few days later, Brandon was not behaving like himself. Maxim had no idea what was wrong, but his mentor seemed unable to focus on anything that afternoon. Then finally, Brandon put away the copy of Voltaire’s Candide they’d been trying to discuss, and he took out a volume of Shakespeare’s plays. Maxim hoped they might pursue a discussion of Macbeth. It was a favorite of them both, and they often debated that play when nothing else could pique their interest.

  “Maxim . . . ,” Brandon began, then trailed off. He did not appear to be thinking of Macbeth at all.

  “What’s wrong?” Maxim asked.

  “I want you to read Henry V by Thursday evening. I know we’ve never studied that play, but there’s a reason.”

  Maxim nearly winced at the mention of Thursday. As of yet, he’d not decided how to make excuses for his mother’s not coming to tea at the Radissons’. Of course, he hadn’t even mentioned the invitation to Mama, but now he had to think of some plausible excuse to give Opal’s mother.

  “Did you hear me?” Brandon asked.

  “Hear you? Yes, Henry V. I’ll read it.”

  “Don’t discuss it with anyone. Just read it and then meet me at Carp’s Pub for a drink at eight o’clock.”

  “The pub?”

  To the best of his knowledge, Brandon had never stepped inside a pub.

  “Yes!” Brandon answered sharply. Then he closed his eyes. “There is someone I want you to meet, one of my teachers from Oxford. He’s German, but he speaks a number of languages. When he questions you, don’t try to agree with him to be polite, and don’t argue just to impress him. Tell him exactly what you think.” He opened his eyes again. “It’s important, Maxim. Read the play.”

  Wordlessly, Maxim took the book from his hand.

  By the time eight o’clock on Thursday night had arrived, Maxim had grown more curious about this impending meeting. He’d managed to plead that his mother was “indisposed” and gracefully avoid the afternoon tea. Mrs. Radisson had been disappointed—perhaps even mildly distressed—by his excuse, and he knew it was just a stopgap, but for today, he’d avoided disaster.

  So when he walked through the door of Carp’s Pub that evening, his thoughts turned to the prospect of a scholarly discussion with one of Brandon’s old teachers.

  Perhaps his expectations were colored by some preconceived idea of an Oxford professor, but unconsciously, he expected to find a short, rotund, balding man wearing a black robe and thick spectacles.

  “Maxim,” Brandon called from a table near the bar. “Over here.”

  Maxim walked slowly, with his eyes locked on Brandon’s companion, and for the second time in his life, he felt a jolt.

  “This is Adalrik,” Brandon said, standing.

  Even while still seated, Adalrik appeared unusually tall. He was somewhere between fifty-five and sixty years old, with a narrow, handsome face, and long steel gray hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He wore a finely tailored suit.

  Maxim could not help noting that Brandon did not include any kind of title in Adalrik’s name—nor did he specify whether Adalrik was the man’s Christian or surname.

  Adalrik intently studied Maxim’s face before saying, “My God.”

  “I tried to tell you,” Brandon answered.

  Maxim shifted uncomfortably, as they spoke of him as though he weren’t there. Then he sat down.

  “What will you drink?” Adalrik asked.

  Maxim had never heard a German accent before, and he rather liked the sound.

  “What are you having?” he asked.

  “Red wine.”

  “That will be fine.”

  Brandon sat quietly with a mug of dark ale, and once the pleasantries were over and more drinks were ordered, Adalrik leaned forward and asked, “Did you read the play?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly, Maxim felt eleven years old again and that this was the same crucial moment when he’d asked Brandon about Achilles.

  Adalrik sat back again, sipping his wine. His eyes were an unusual shade of very light brown. “The accepted interpretation of King Henry V in Shakespeare’s play is steeped in awe. He’s viewed as the finest and most virtuous of English kings. He defeated the French in the face of great odds and was hailed by the English as a hero.” He paused. “Do you agree?”

  For a few seconds, Maxim said nothing, thinking on Brandon’s instructions not to try to impress Adalrik, but simply to express his own opinion.

  “No,” he answered.

  Adalrik raised his brows. “Why not?”

  “Because he had no justification for invading France, and he goes to the bishops only so they can provide him with some propped-up justification. He invades France because . . . because he wants to. I don’t find that heroic.” Maxim placed both hands on the table. “Then he executes his friends Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey for treason without giving them any chance to explain themselves . . . and I think he must have once loved Scroop, because he said, ‘Thou knewst the very bottom of my soul.’ So they must have been close. A hero doesn’t murder a beloved friend without at least giving him a chance to explain himself.”

  Maxim let his thoughts roll through the play, which he could still see clearly in his mind. He remembered almost everything he read.

  “Henry tells his soldiers they can’t raid any farms or villages for food during the invasion out of compassion for the French,” he went on, “but then he doesn’t find any way to feed the soldiers himself, and he hangs Bardolph for stealing a plate from a church to buy food.” His mind’s eye was moving faster, but this time backward through the play. “At the gates of Harfleur, he tells
the townspeople that if they don’t surrender to him, he’ll send his men in to rape their daughters and bash their old men’s heads against the walls and—”

  “Stop,” Adalrik ordered.

  Maxim froze midsentence, worried he had committed some breach. But Adalrik turned to Brandon. “Is this him speaking or is it you?”

  “It’s all him.”

  Adalrik stood up. The pub was becoming crowded by this time, with a dull buzz of voices all around them. “It’s been a pleasure, Maxim, and at my age, I don’t say that often.”

  He turned abruptly and walked out the front door, leaving Maxim sitting in confusion.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No,” Brandon answered quietly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “He’s not really one of your professors from Oxford, is he?”

  Brandon’s eyes grew sad. “Not exactly. He’s the one who got me admitted to Oxford, prepped me for the oral exams. I wasn’t sure how to explain him to you.” He leaned forward, gripping his ale mug tightly. “He made me an offer once . . . that I could not accept. He was disappointed, and it’s weighed on me ever since.”

  “What offer?”

  “For a much different life than I wished.” His mouth formed the hint of a smile. “When I was young, I longed for education, but after that, I decided I wanted a quiet life in a place like this . . . with perhaps a few students to keep my mind sharp.”

  “Why did I have to tell him what I thought of the play?”

  Brandon shook his head and would say no more.

  Maxim was alone at the rectory in the early afternoon, trying to get a fire restarted in the kitchen. Old Mrs. Tillard was dying, and Brandon had gone to comfort the family. Maxim had accidentally let the fire go out, and now the blackened logs smoldered before him. An autumn chill had set in upon Hastings, and the room was cold.

  A knock sounded.

  He stood quickly, heading to the door to tell the visitor that Brandon was not in. But he opened it to see Opal standing on the other side. She wore a dress of cream silk that made her hair look even more vibrant, and he drew in a sharp breath. Since he’d kissed her, she’d been a little uneasy around him.