by Fortune Kent
The men clapped and cheered for him, and his voice gained strength from these signs of their support. His words rang across the field—“Coerced,” “enslaved,” and “famished to the death.” He cried out against the landlords’ “wealth, vice, and vile corruption.”
“I have more respect,” Big Thunder said, “for the least sentence falling from the pen of Thomas Jefferson than for all the tobacco-stained parchments of the big-breeched patroons of olden Amsterdam.”
The words rolled forth strong and sure and found their mark both in her head and in her heart. They drummed about her with the cadence of marching men, and Beth knew for the first time why men throw aside their plowshares and take up swords. She wanted more than once to add her cheers to theirs and spur him on but did not for she feared discovery.
Something is amiss. The thought pricked at the edges of her consciousness. Not with the speaker, no, nor with the listening throng. What then? Where?
“We must not pay the rents,” Big Thunder cried.
“We’ll lose our farms,” the first voice of opposition came from close before the speaker’s stand.
“We must take the risk,” Big Thunder called back. Beth’s mind made a sudden pounce. There were two men who had stayed apart so only she could see them in the shadows of the forest to her right.
“We’ll end in jail,” came the voice once more.
“We must accept the risk,” Big Thunder said again. Beth watched the two intently, all the while listening to the dialogue. The one, the taller, leaned on a large limb projecting from a fallen tree, and his arrogant stance called back to her mind a night not long ago when she first entered the great house and found Jeffrey beside the fireplace.
“The choice is yours,” Big Thunder said. “Shall we be slaves or men? It’s true we risk our farms, but the land was never ours to own. True, we risk a brief incarceration, but what is jail compared to lives of slavery for you and all your sons?”
Could the tall man be Jeffrey, the other Charles? Beth moved slowly in the direction of the two men. Stop, she told herself, I’ll alert them to my presence. A bolder plan is needed. She retreated into the shelter of the woods and crept stealthily among the trees and bushes until she was behind them, then abandoned concealment and strode forward as man-like as she could. They looked quickly over their shoulders, expressions hidden by the hoods they wore and, as she hoped, seemed to assume her to be a late arrival, and both of them turned to face the speaker in attitudes of rapt attention.
During the few moments when she passed them, Beth scrutinized the pair. Hoods and dress of calico. The flames leaped and she saw their shoes—not the rough cowhide of the local farmer but, beneath a thin film of dust, boots of polished leather. Near the toe of the tall man’s boot two scratches formed a distinct, imperfect X.
She was past them and continued on to join the rear ranks of the men beside the fire, all the while wanting to run from two imagined pairs of eyes upon her back. She was grateful for the fire’s warmth, for she shivered, in part from fear of challenge, in part because now the night was cool and the single layer of calico gave her little warmth.
“What shall we do?” Big Thunder asked. “Shall we pay or not?”
Cries of “No, no” rose from the men.
“We’ll put the question to the test,” Big Thunder said. “All those among you who on Rent Day propose to pay, say aye.” A few scattered ayes came back.
“All those who refuse to bow to tyranny, say nay.” A resounding roar of “Nay!”
“We are decided.” Big Thunder did not try to hide his satisfaction.
“And if they send the sheriff?”
“We’ll come together as tonight and confront Sheriff Williams and see if he can then collect the rents.”
“He could surprise us. We must signal if he comes.”
Big Thunder reached beneath his robe and held a metallic object to his mouth. He blew a short sharp blast. Beth recognized the sound of the tin dinner horn found on every farm throughout the valley. “This will be our warning,” he said. “Use the horn when threatened, but at no other time.”
A heavyset man raised his arm. “I’ll lose my farm willingly,” he called out, “or go to jail if I must, but do I have to sacrifice my lunch?”
The men laughed and the meeting ended amid a babble of talk, much backslapping, and, Beth thought, an undertone of worry and concern as if the farmers had surprised themselves with their audacity. Several of the leaders leaped from the wagon to the ground and held sticks in one of the fires until they burned, then hurled them on the tower of wood. The fire caught and leaped crackling up the pile.
Beth hurried toward the oak, but three men overtook her and she cringed away from arms flung about her shoulders. She was pinned between them as they stumbled, singing in high good humor, past her rendezvous and on into the woods.
“Josh, I tell you we’re too late,” the first man said. His voice was slurred.
“Damn. I need a woman. Come along, Kate must still be about.”
Beth trembled. How could she speak, or leave, without revealing who she was, and if she did reveal herself what would be the consequences not only to herself but to the doctor who had brought her here?
“Me for bed,” the first man said. He held aloft a jug and tilted back his head and drank. “Produce a naked girl, here,” he said lewdly, “and I’ll be ready. Else it’s home I go.” He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and held out the liquor The other two removed their masks and drank, Josh erect, the other man slumping down to sit upon a protruding root.
“If I could give you what you ask, I would and gladly,” Josh snorted.
They were in a slight hollow which, while only paces from the field, seemed miles removed because of the screening undergrowth.
The jug came round to Beth. She raised it awkwardly, inserted the mouth through her hood, pretended to drink and in fact did swallow some.
“Who have we here,” Josh asked as he reached for her hood, “who drinks so like a girl?” Beth, to ward him off, thrust the jug into his hand. He drank, finished the liquor, and dropped the empty container to the ground. He approached her once more.
She shook her head and held the hood tight about her neck with both hands, all the while desperately searching for a way to escape. To no avail, for Josh faced her, one man was between her and the field, and the third man had staggered to his feet behind her.
The man in back of her stooped down, and for a second she could not tell what he meant to do and then she felt his hands upon her, grasping the robe. She blanched, grew weak, her head awhirl. He was, she knew, about to remove her dress.
Chapter Twelve
Beth heard a crashing in the undergrowth, a cry and a curse, and the man released her. She fell to her knees, crawled to one side of the hollow, felt a branch sharp on her back, yanked away, the robe tearing.
The men thrashed about, and she could hear one of them whimpering in pain. Beth struggled to her feet and pushed through the restraining brush, the branches scratching her hands and pulling at her clothes as if they too sought to hold her there.
She stumbled onto the field, free of the clinging branches, only to cringe back from the sudden heat of the bonfire. Her body trembled uncontrollably. She looked desperately about and saw the oak looming white against the sky. A lone figure waited beneath the tree.
“Matthew, Matthew,” she called. The man ran to her, snatching off his hood. Matthew. She threw herself sobbing into his arms, and he held her, hands strong on her back. She was enclosed, warm, secure.
“What happened? Where were you?” he asked. His hand moved up to stroke her hair.
“Those men, those horrible, drunken men.”
He looked over her head. “No one’s there; they must have gone,” he comforted her. “Look for yourself. Only a dog.”
She twisted to see behind her while remaining in his arms. He was right. No one paid them any heed; in fact, only a few stragglers lingered in the field watc
hing the blaze. A few feet away Thunder stood panting, dirty, a dark smear of what she feared was blood on his shoulder.
Matthew released her and Beth knelt. The dog whined and licked her palm. She patted his head, fondled his ears, parted the hair around the wound.
“Oh, Matthew,” she said, “he’s hurt.”
He stooped beside her to examine the dog. “The bleeding has stopped,” he said. “I’ll clean the wound when we get to my house. He’ll be all right.” He helped her up and turned from the fire to stand beside her with his arms circling her shoulder. “Can you walk?”
She nodded, looking at him closely, concerned. He slumped with exhaustion as though the emotion of the meeting had drained away his strength. He reached inside his robe and retrieved his glasses and put them on. The hair on the back of his head was grayer than she had remembered.
He helped her back to the path, Thunder following. As they walked, Matthew hunching forward and Beth holding the rip in her robe, she told him of the two men she suspected of spying. She didn’t mention the tall man’s resemblance to Jeffrey or tell Matthew of the mark on the boot.
She walked a way in silence, perplexed, confused. Where are my loyalties? she wondered. On the one hand she sympathized with the farmers, the underdogs. On the other, her credibility and her future depended on supporting the Worthingtons. Fortunately, she thought, I can stand aside. I can observe. I don’t have to decide whether to let the farmers buy their land.
She set aside her doubts and went on to relate the encounter with Josh and his companions.
“You were fortunate the dog followed us,” was Matthew’s only comment.
How could he be so calm? She resented Matthew bringing her to the meeting and leaving her unprotected. Who knew what might have happened to her if Thunder hadn’t intervened? Where had Matthew been when she was in danger? Trying to incite this motley collection of malcontents to defy the Worthingtons?
Anger seethed within her as they stumbled down the trail. “Are all your anti-renters like Josh?” Her voice reproached him.
He let the challenge pass. “You know they’re not,” he answered with infuriating patience. “Some are idealists like your father, your foster father; a few are professional men; most are hard-working farmers. And, of course, the ragtag group of troublemakers drawn to any movement. The kind who like nothing better than to give vent to their hate while protected by the anonymity of the crowd.” He thought for a few minutes. “An idea,” he said, “isn’t responsible for the men who hold it.”
They finished the trek in silence, and, although they walked side by side, for the first time there was a void between them. When they arrived at the doctor’s house, he bent down beside the outdoor pump to wash off Thunder’s wound, and she felt unexpected compassion for him—she saw a man buffeted, tired, and alone, whose thick and heavily veined hands were still gentle on the injured dog. A man who, no matter what, would persevere.
He left her in the main room where she retrieved her clothes. The undergarments and the petticoats were dry, the dress nearly so. She wearily put them on and sat on the divan. She stared into the dying fire, mesmerized by the flames spurting from the charred and smoking logs. She refused to think. Her eyes closed and she slept.
She woke knowing her sleep had been neither deep nor long. Matthew faced her, and his look was the same intent, speculative stare she had noticed when they first met. Somewhere a clock chimed twice, and for a moment Beth was in another time, another place. But where? She searched her memory. Yes, of course, the dream of a few nights before, the clock striking two and Matthew handing her the bouquet of withered lilacs.
She rose to her feet and Matthew stood also. When she saw his eyes still upon her face, the old uneasy feeling returned. “My hair,” she said. “I must go and I cannot find my comb.”
“I’ll show you to a comb and a mirror. Here, take my arm.” She held him lightly, and he escorted her from the room. She felt as though she were participating in a ritual, an almost dream-like ceremony.
He stopped. They stood before the forbidden room. Without hesitating he swung the door open, and she peered within but could see nothing except vague dark outlines. Matthew preceded her inside and lit two candies on a white-topped mantel, another on a shaving stand, two more on a dressing table.
Beth looked about her. Why had the doctor kept her from this perfectly ordinary bedroom? She examined the large and pleasant chamber.
A cheerful picture of bluebirds and flowers hung directly opposite the door over a bulky wardrobe with shelves above and drawers below. The double bed, covered with a patchwork quilt, was elaborately carved both head and foot. There was a commode on one side of the bed and a chest of drawers on the other. The chairs were covered in identical light blue. Along the wall, next to the dressing table with its high wooden-framed mirror, was the washstand holding a basin and pitcher with towels hanging from rungs on either side.
Matthew led her across the room and pulled the backless chair from the dressing table. She sat and in the mirror saw her tangled black hair, her eyes half-closed from sleep, saw Matthew tall behind, eyes hidden by his glasses, his hand upon her shoulder.
“Your hair,” he whispered. “Use the brush.”
She smiled at him, then looked down at the tabletop, yellow in the candlelight, and reached for the brush. Her eyes opened wide and she withdrew her hand. Yes, they were all, there, the silver-backed brush, the comb, the tiered jewelry box, the bottles labeled with flowery decalcomanias—Lustrate Water, Frangipane, Bergamot, and Honey Amber.
And on the table, on the brush, the comb, the bottles, covering them with an accumulation not of weeks but of years, lay a thick coating of dust.
Beth’s hands clenched, and goose pimples tingled on her arms and the back of her neck. She rose, the chair falling back onto the floor, and the taste of bile was in her mouth as she brushed past Matthew and ran into the hall. She leaned her head on the carved frame of the pier glass, both hands before her face.
“I hope I didn’t frighten you,” his voice plead.
“No, you didn’t,” Beth said. She was tired, wanted nothing more than to return home and go to bed. She realized that never before had she called the Worthington estate home.
“I’ll drive you up the mountain,” Matthew said.
“Thank you.”
They returned to the living room. “Do you want to take the calico robe and hood?” he asked.
“No,” she said. Beth seemed unable to speak to him in other than short, curt. sentences.
He folded the two garments together and laid them on the table. He was facing away from her, running his fingers over the cloth as though to smooth away the wrinkles.
“No one,” he told her, “has been in our bedroom for over four years except me. I’ve left everything just the way she had it on the last day. Tonight, I don’t know why, I wanted to see a woman…no, I wanted to see you, Beth, sitting at the mirror. I thought perhaps you…” He let the words fade away to silence.
She fought the desire to touch him, to comfort him. At the same time she was disappointed, empty, knew a deep engulfing sadness, for she didn’t know what to do nor if she or anyone else could do anything to help him, ever. She had been mistaken earlier when she thought Matthew accepted her for herself. Now she saw his feelings were more complex. He was trying to cast her in a role. A. role she did not want to play.
“Matthew,” she said quietly, “we’re both very tired. We’ll talk another time.”
“Will we?” he asked.
“Yes, we will,” she promised him.
He turned to her. His face was pale, and the lines around his mouth and eyes were more pronounced than she had ever seen them. He hadn’t cleaned his smudged glasses, hadn’t bothered to comb his rumpled hair.
“Are you Big Thunder?” she asked.
She saw him flinch as if she had struck him unawares. Beth regretted her impulsive question.
“You know I mustn’t speak of Big Thu
nder or the identity of any of the anti-renters,” he said. “We all are sworn to secrecy. I’ve risked too much already with you, Beth. No one, especially you, must ever know.”
“Why me?” Beth asked. “What can I do? How can you hope to influence the Worthingtons through me? My brother doesn’t ask my advice, nor for that matter, does my grandmother. Certainly not in affairs of business.”
He looked surprised. “Didn’t you know?” he asked. “Haven’t you read the will?”
She mutely shook her head, waking for him to continue while dreading to hear his words.
“Your father left the business, the factory, to Jeffrey,” he told her, “but the house, the farmlands, the estate, he willed to you. They’re yours. Whatever is done about the rents, the decision is yours to make.”
Chapter Thirteen
Beth slept. late on Sunday morning, and when she awakened she piled the three pillows one atop the other, sat up, and saw herself reflected in the mirror, pale face framed by black hair, seeming small and lost in the white expanse of the bedclothes. She was more alone than she had ever been before.
Strange, Matthew alone and reaching to her, she alone and waiting; he unable to forego the hurtful pleasure of looking back to an irretrievable past, she unwilling to abandon her search for a future she could but dimly envision; their hands seeking one another, never touching, never finding, leaving them apart from one another and forlorn.
She pulled the covers to her chin, trying to soothe herself with their warmth. She didn’t want to get up. She felt deserted, lost in an unfamiliar world with nowhere a friend who knew and understood.
Matthew had been diffident the night before during their ride home across the bridge, up the mountain road, along the winding driveway to the house. He didn’t speak when he helped her from the carriage. Thunder leaped past her and loped off toward the barn while she and Matthew stood beside the carriage, each waiting for the other to break the silence.