Isle of the Seventh Sentry

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Isle of the Seventh Sentry Page 5

by Fortune Kent


  The horse’s hooves clip-clopped, clip-clopped past the gatehouse, through the stone gates, and down the winding mountain road. The young driver pointed to the farms belonging to the Worthingtons, and Beth saw that the crops had been harvested. Nothing remained except here and there among the corn shocks a tangle of vines half-covering orange pumpkins awaiting their time.

  The tolling of bells beckoned them to the left, and they followed a stream for about a mile to the outskirts of the village. The church was imposing for the size of the village, Beth thought, a new red brick building, steps leading to peaked wooden doors with a bell tower rising above. Horses pawed restlessly in the churchyard, some hitched to wagons, a few paddled and tethered to a long rail. As Beth climbed the stone steps, she looked up and saw two bells swinging ponderously, being rung by an unseen bell ringer in the tower.

  The church was in the form of a Christian cross, as was the custom, with the arms of the cross extending from either side of the altar. From the rear of the church Beth saw thirty or forty parishioners sitting on wooden benches with plain wooden backs. She felt a tremor of apprehension. Did any of them remember the Beth of fifteen years ago, a servant, perhaps, or a townsman?

  Beth knelt in the rear pew. She soon discovered her mistake. Neighbor nudged neighbor and soon all of her fellow worshippers had turned to look and to comment behind cupped hands. Beth tried to appear unperturbed by their inspection and returned their stares. She saw they were dressed plainly in blacks and browns, many of the men in britches, the women proud in heavy, cumbersome hats which made Beth conscious of her small bonnet selected with care from a New York milliner’s shop.

  Her eyes widened. Kneeling by the aisle on the far side of the church was Dr. Smith. He was alone and, Beth noticed, even on Sunday he was as rumpled as when she met him.

  The service began and Beth relaxed. All over the world, she thought, men and women are worshipping their God in exactly the same way as I am, using the same words in the same rhythmic Latin cadence. She closed her eyes and dismissed from her mind the Worthingtons and their suspicions, Charles Fremont and his tricks, the thought of Mrs. Jamison shifting uncomfortably in her bed. One face, sardonic and amused, would not be banished, but she refused even to name him to herself.

  After the service she lingered in the buggy, but Dr. Smith went directly to his horse, nodding to right and left in response to greetings, yet never stopping to talk. He ignored Beth. I can do the same, she told herself. A few minutes later she leaned forward. “Where is the doctor’s house?” she asked.

  “Alongside the creek just before we turn onto the mountain road,” Andrew said.

  “Please leave me there. I want to ask about Mrs. Jamison’s condition.”

  She expected a question or at least a questioning look, but the boy seemed to accept the vagaries of the Worthingtons in stride and did not react. The doctor’s white house was one story, clapboarded, sprawled among the trees with a large black walnut beside the porch, which was long and narrow, its roof supported by thin wooden posts. The doctor’s horse was already unsaddled and trotting about a small stable area to the side of the house.

  “You came,” was all the doctor said when he opened the door. His voice was low and warm, and Beth felt as though, at the moment, she were the only person in his world. She glanced with curiosity at the small front hall crowded with walking sticks in racks, hats scattered on a bench and table, and winter coats hanging on pegs along one wall.

  The physician led her to the sitting room which would have been spacious were it not for the clutter of chairs, tables, lamps, tapestries, and sofas, seemingly scattered about without purpose or plan. He removed a pile of books from a chair and placed them on the floor.

  “May I…?” Beth motioned to the back of the house. The doctor stared blankly, at her. “The convenience?” she asked.

  “Oh, pardon me, of course, through there.” Beth went to the first of two doors and had her thumb on the latch when a cry from the doctor stopped her.

  “No, no,” he called, his voice sharp and insistent. “The other door.”

  Beth, startled, stepped back and looked at the doctor. “I’m sorry if I was rude,” he said. He removed his glasses and wiped them on a handkerchief. “The first room is…well…private. Please try to understand.”

  Beth smiled uncertainly and pushed down the latch on the other door and went out. When she returned she found the doctor on the settee. She sat on the chair he had cleared for her, and they looked at one another, then looked away.

  “I hope you liked our church,” the doctor said at last.

  “Yes, and I think Father Moran is probably very pleasant underneath his gruffness. The church was very like the one I went to in Ashtabula.”

  “I forgot you came from Ohio,” he said. Beth realized he was making conversation.

  “I was surprised to see you there,” she told him. “I expected the family doctor would be Presbyterian, too.”

  “It helps being the only doctor,” he said. “I don’t know what would happen if there were two of us. Now I can go my way, and the families on the mountain go theirs. I’m not one to much care about what the crowd is doing or saying.”

  “I feel the same way,” Beth said. She realized she was drawn to the doctor—his learning, his earnestness, his obvious interest in her. She was flattered by the attention of this older man, a man who had been a husband and a father. He was someone, she thought, who could be warm and kind and who would know how to treat a woman with all the small yet all-important courtesies.

  “Take this anti-rent campaign,” the doctor went on. “You’ve probably been told how ungrateful the tenant farmers are to demand to own the land, but I’m among them day after day and I can see there are two sides.” He looked at her, and there was a question in his eyes.

  “I’m certain there are,” she said. “I’m not really interested in politics though I suppose I’ll have to be now. I just don’t know enough to have an opinion. There is one thing, though, I’d like to know.”

  “And that is?”

  “Your first name.”

  “Oh. I'm sorry. Matthew. Call me Matthew, please.”

  Beth nodded. “And I’d like to know more about the anti-renters and their antics.”

  “Don’t jest. They’re serious.”

  “And are you serious, doctor…Matthew?”

  “I’m disappointed. I didn’t think you were a coquette.”

  “What an unpleasant word. I don’t think of myself as one. I meant serious about the rent trouble.”

  “May I help you understand the farmers? Are you willing to learn more?”

  “Of course. How?”

  “I’ve heard there’s a meeting next week, and I believe I can make arrangements for you to attend. I’ll let you know in a few days. All right?” Beth nodded. “You won’t change your mind?”

  “I’ll come,” she said.

  “And say nothing to anyone?”

  “My lips are sealed,” she smiled.

  “This isn’t a ladies’ croquet match. It’s a matter of life and death to these people.”

  “Forgive me, please.” He nodded. “And is this why you wanted to see me today?”

  “No,” he said. “You know my wife is dead?” She murmured assent. “You remind me of her,” he went on. “Not your face or your coloring, but the way you hold your head, your directness, your quick smile.”

  So that’s the reason for his interest, Beth thought. She said nothing.

  “I don’t want to interfere in someone else’s business,” Matthew said. “I must tell you, though. Yesterday you were wearing a green dress. Remember? And you know Mrs. Jamison also had on a green dress when she was hurt.”

  “A coincidence,” Beth said.

  “Was it a coincidence,” the doctor asked, “that the tree limb, the one that could have killed Mrs. Jamison, was sawed almost all the way through?”

  Chapter Eight

  The fear came flooding back and b
rought to the surface all of the questions Beth had managed to keep submerged. Who had tried to attack her the first night in the house? Someone who wanted to frighten her away and, having failed, now sought to kill her? Was Jeffrey involved? John Price? What role, if any, had Charles Fremont cast for himself? There was no one she could trust.

  Beth puzzled over the contradictory feelings within her. Never before had she thought it possible to be as attracted to a man as she was to Jeffrey while at the same time distrusting and fearing him. Even Dr. Smith—was he what he seemed to be? Was she completely entangled in a web that knew no unraveling?

  “Are you sure someone cut the limb?” she asked.

  “Yes, absolutely. While the men carried Mrs. Jamison to the house, I walked past the tree because I was surprised, couldn’t understand why a limb broke off such a healthy elm, and I could see the saw marks. When I went outside later, the branch was gone—sawed up and stacked away, John Price told me.”

  “Surely it must have been an accident,” she said. “John had been trimming the tree for hours, and he said he was working both in the tree and on the ground clearing away the brush. He probably forgot he started to cut the branch.”

  Matthew raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “And I’m sure there’s a great deal I don’t know about what’s going on, and I don’t expect you to tell me unless and until you’re ready. But if I can ever help, do anything at all, let me know, day or night.”

  “Thank you,” Beth said. “I will. Above all else I need a friend I can count on.”

  He reached over and laid his hand gently on hers. “I’ll do my very best,” he said. She looked into his eyes and noticed for the first time they were large and hazel.

  “And is there a way I can help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, there is,” he said. He didn’t meet her eyes but instead rose and stared out the window, following the flight of a sparrow from vine to vine in the arbor and out of sight beyond the creek. She waited for him to speak while he paced back and forth, nervously fingering the buttons on his black vest, picking up and laying down a pipe on the table.

  “Let me talk to you,” he said at last. “Let me tell you about her, about Mary, my wife. I’ve never told anyone before.”

  “I’m flattered,” she said, “and proud.”

  He sat on the edge of the settee and clumsily filled and lit the pipe. He spoke slowly and cautiously at first and then faster and with warmth as the many memories, released at last, competed for his attention.

  Beth allowed her head to rest on the back of the chair and, eyes closed, let her imagination fill in the details which Matthew delicately omitted. As she listened she saw Matthew and his wife Mary in the coach on the long climb to the Catskill Mountain House where they stood hand in hand on the cliff looking out over the farmlands with the river a twisting ribbon in the distance. After dinner they climbed back into the coach and journeyed on to arrive at the lakeside lodge late at night, fell asleep almost at once, awakened in the morning quiet of the house…

  Mary sat at the vanity brushing her blonde hair with slow, steady strokes. She was fair and had blue eyes and a small, pert nose. Watching her, Matthew felt again the ache within himself which, long ago, first told him she was different from all the other girls he knew.

  My God, he thought, she’s so beautiful.

  Mary was humming a song she had often played for him during their courtship. She looked at him in the mirror. “Remember?” she asked.

  He walked over to the chair and stood beside her, putting his hand on her shoulder so she looked up, smiling. “I remember,” he said, bending down to kiss her on the lips.

  “I love you,” he said. She looked steadily at him. “Matt, I love you, too.” She reached up and caressed his hand. “What’s the weather like today?” she asked.

  He drew aside the curtains and looked down from the second-story window. Below him the lawn fell away to the narrow dirt road, beyond which were the dock and the mist-shrouded lake. He could see a few of the trees along the shore, but the hills and the mountains were veiled in white. The sky was gray, but here and there through the drifting fog he saw a patch of blue.

  “It’s nice now,” he said, “but I think it will be hot later.”

  “We’re lucky not to be in the valley,” she said, buttoning her dress up the front. “August is so hot in the valley.” She joined him at the open window and breathed deeply. “I love it here,” she said. “Smell the pines.” They stood side by side feeling the coolness of the mist rising from the lake.

  “Breakfast must be ready,” she said. He remained standing beside her, their bodies touching, prolonging, if only for a few minutes, their time together before they must enter the world of others.

  “Let’s go down,” Matthew said at last. They left the bedroom and walked through the upper hall to the stairs.

  Later in the morning she packed a lunch and they walked along the lakeshore. The sun, above the trees now, had burned away all of the mist so they were able to watch the boats on the lake—two sailboats putting out from the dock, a fisherman casting from a rowboat near the inlet on the far side.

  They crossed the road to a gap in the fence and on into the woods. The path wound through the trees, and the trail began to climb, slowly at first, then more rapidly as it neared the summit. They perspired from the heat and he heard the breath rasp in her throat, but she wanted to go on and they reached the top without resting.

  They climbed onto a large rock formation and sat, feet dangling over the side, with the lake and the forest spread out below.

  “We’ll go this way,” he said after they climbed down, and he led her away from the trail. “We’ll stop whenever we find a good place to sit down and eat.”

  The walking was slower now that they had left the path. The ground was rocky and often they had to force their way through underbrush that pulled at their clothes. They came to a creek and followed it down into a ravine with sheer cliffs on either side. As they descended, the incline steepened and the rock walls closed in until the sky was a narrow band of blue. Beside them the water swirled between two boulders, arched out in a waterfall, and then re-gathered to flow quietly beneath a screen of trees and shrubs.

  Matthew pushed aside the branches, and they were in a lush green field, the grass rippling in the light breeze. The stream wound across the middle of the meadow. Long ago trees had grown on its banks, but now nothing remained except two rows of jutting stumps. Beyond the stumps the stream broadened and became a marsh with the water eddying among the weeds and the grass.

  “Over here,” she suggested, going to sit in the shade of an oak. He opened the basket while Mary spread a cloth on the ground, and they ate and drank sitting on the grass.

  After they finished they lay side by side, the only sound the whispering of the water. He felt her hand on his arm, drawing him to her, and they made love there on the grass in the heat of the early afternoon.

  Later they looked up through the branches of the oak and watched the white clouds drift across the sky. The sun was low in the west when they rose and brushed each other off and made their way back to the lodge.

  After supper they strolled, sometimes hand in hand, sometimes apart, along the road beside the lake. The sun was down and in the darkening west thunderheads arched gracefully across the sky. A few sailboats skimmed across the water, hastening to return home before dark. In the distance a boy’s voice called out, and the sound of laughter came faintly from the other side of the lake.

  “This is my favorite time of day,” she said. “It’s so quiet you can hear everything.”

  They turned back. The wind was rising, making the trees sigh above their heads. Here and there a light shone from a cabin window. When they were again in front of the lodge, they stopped and faced the cool wind coming off the lake. On the far side lights were glowing, and their reflections shimmered on the water. As they crossed the road Matthew pulled Mary to him and kissed her
.

  Inside the lodge they sat before the fire while outside the lightning flashed and the thunder reverberated from mountain to mountain. Two by two the other guests went to their rooms, and they were left alone with the fire throwing their shadows onto the walls and into the far corners of the room.

  “Tired?” Matthew asked her.

  “Yes,” Mary said. “But let’s sit out on the porch and watch the storm.” She put on her shawl, and they went out the front door. There was a sudden boom of thunder, and they heard a hissing coming toward them from the lake.

  “Here it is,” he said.

  A few large drops fell, then more, then a steady rush of water drummed on the roof, gurgled down the drains, spewed out over the roadway.

  They watched the rain and the lightning, talking quietly of other days and other storms, of her mother and father and her childhood on the farm, and finally, of the home they would build and the children they hoped to have.

  When the storm diminished and the thunder was faint in the east behind the mountains, they went, hand in hand, up the stairs to their bedroom.

  They lay together listening to the sounds of the night returning with the end of the rain. Matthew raised himself on his elbow and looked at Mary. She lay on her back, eyes closed, hands folded on top of the blanket.

  “All in all,” she said sheepishly, “it was a very lovely day.”

  Her breathing deepened and in a few minutes he knew she was asleep.

  Matthew tapped the ashes from his pipe. “May I get you anything?” he asked Beth. “A glass of cider?” She shook her head. “I’m almost to the end,” he said. “You don’t mind if I go on?”

  “No,” she told him. She watched him relight the pipe. He spoke matter-of-factly, almost monotonously. And she imagined herself standing beside him watching Father Moran walk between the grave markers toward them. In one band the priest held a prayer book while with the other he tried to keep his black robe from billowing in the wind.

 

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