by Fortune Kent
The path to the stable curved close to the porch so she turned to walk across the grass. She breathed the scents of the night and the woods and listened to the pulsing chirrups of the cicadas. A small light blinked beside her. She stopped. Another. This one farther away.
Kathleen smiled. Another blinked nearby and she tried to catch it but found her hand empty. A moment later the light showed again nearer the house. She followed and at last felt the tiny insect flutter within the chamber of her palms. She separated her fingers to watch the light shine, go out, and shine again.
“Here, put him inside.” She spun around and looked into the unsmiling face of Charles Worthington.
“Wh-where?” she stammered. He held a glass jar to her and she put her hand over its mouth but the bug clung to her palm so she tapped her hand against the jar until the insect fell inside. Charles placed a glass lid on top.
“Let me help you,” he said, walking onto the lawn where now a myriad of lights winked on and off. “I’ve never seen so many fireflies,” he said.
“Fireflies? We always called them lightning bugs or glowworms. I think I like your name better.”
He smiled and held the jar before him and soon two more were inside. Kathleen followed and captured another and still another. She was a child again, felt as she had then, free, savoring the endless summer days, finding wonder in a flower or a bird. A time of joy and expectation when all things were possible. As she ran through the grass the fireflies swarmed into the air behind her so she seemed to be followed by a wake of soft intermittent lights.
She skipped to Charles, laughing, and he laid the jar on the grass and held his arms to her, caught her about the waist and swung her in a circle with skirt whirling, her legs high off the ground. He slowed, then stopped, gently returned her to her feet and looked down into her flushed face. His hands moved up to grip her by the shoulders. All she could hear was the beating of her heart.
She became aware of a movement behind him. She stepped back and he released her. His arms still reached toward her. A dark figure approached them from the direction of the house.
Alice Lewis. She glanced from Charles to Kathleen and back to Charles. “Your guests are waiting,” she told him.
Charles straightened his cravat and smoothed his hair. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, “tell them I’m coming.” He smiled at Kathleen. “Thank you,” he said and strode to the house, followed by Mrs. Lewis.
Kathleen knelt on the grass and removed the lid from the jar. The fireflies crawled to the rim and launched themselves hesitantly into the air. All except one which crawled deep into the jar where Kathleen could see him darting this way and that. “You’re as lost as I am,” she said.
The plaintive song of a mandolin rose above the voices from the porch. The talk and laughter died down, then stifled, and she heard a man singing, the words slow and melancholy—
“Tenting tonight,
Tenting tonight,
Tenting on the old campground.”
Kathleen felt a nostalgia, a longing for all days gone by. She stood alone on the dark lawn listening, the jar in her hands, surrounded by the fireflies flickering like a thousand stars.
Chapter Eight
Trees arched over the barns and stables. Kathleen passed into their shadow, leaving behind the fireflies as, when she was young, she closed a book of fairy tales to return to the reality of her upstairs room where she would watch the branches writhing in the wind outside her window.
She walked by the barn with its neighing, stamping horses. A rumble came from far behind the mountains, causing her to look for lightning in the sky, but she saw none. The dark outline of the servants’ quarters rose before her. Was this Edward Allen’s door? She knocked, wishing she had remembered to bring a light. A hush followed in which even the night noises quieted. No sound came from within, and she could see no lights.
She turned from the door to grope her way to the side of the building. Gravel crunched beneath her feet and she realized she was on the path to the stable where she had strolled earlier in the day. A light from a window above her head threw a pale rectangle on the ground, the soft glow reminding her of the night of her arrival at the Worthington Estate. She tried without success to erase the image of the empty coffin from her mind.
What was that? She stopped, listening. Was someone following her? She held her breath, pulse racing, a tremor coursing up her legs. The moon had not yet risen and the night was dark. She heard nothing, could see nothing. Why am I so foolish? she wondered. What have I to fear?
She searched for another door but found none, so she left the graveled path and walked with one hand touching the side of the building. Another corner. Kathleen paused, hesitating to go to the back of the building, the side farthest from the main house. She sensed a presence near her yet could not be sure. Should I go back for a candle? she asked herself. Should I wait until tomorrow?
“Who are you?”
A scream rose in her throat. She hid the cry with her hand, cringing away from the figure barring her path.
“I-I-I’m—” she began. The rough siding of the building pressed sharply into her back. She heard a scratching, a light flared, and for a moment all she could see was the flame and the hand holding the long match. The light dimmed to reveal an unshaven face, dark clothes, a rifle held in one hand. She sighed in relief, recognizing the man who had stepped aside on the trail during her walk with Charles. The guard.
“So it’s you,” he said. His face was expressionless. Weighing? Deciding? “I’ve followed you for the last five minutes. What brings you here?”
“Our coachman. Edward Allen.” The words tumbled one over the other. “I must find him.”
The guard did not speak, but she noticed a smile touch the corners of his mouth.
“Ach!” The match fell from his fingers. He ground the stub into the dirt with his boot.
The impulse to justify her presence was almost overwhelming. No, she thought, I don’t need to, I have a right to be here. “Do you know where his room is?” she asked.
The man grunted, whether he meant a yes or a no she could not tell. “A young lady like yourself shouldn’t be abroad this time of night,” he said. I was right, she thought, I’ve satisfied him. “They’re watching,” he went on, “watching all the time. Waiting for their chance. Not in the daytime so much, I don’t feel them lurking about during the day. In the night, though, it’s different. I can tell they’re hiding out there in the night.” She looked at the enclosing woods and shivered.
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I wish I knew who they are and what they want, but I don’t.”
The guard lit another match. “Come with me,” he told her. “Look, you go through this doorway and up the stairs and to the right. You’ll find your coachman’s room there.”
She thanked him, pushed open the door, and climbed the steep steps. A slit of light shone from beneath a door a few feet along the hall. She knocked. “Who’s there?” asked a muffled voice.
“Kathleen,” she answered. When there was no reply she raised her voice. “Kathleen, Kathleen Stuart.” The door inched open wide enough for her to see the side of his bearded face.
“Come in,” Edward Allen said. He showed neither surprise nor pleasure nor irritation. She had expected one of these reactions, and was annoyed at his seeming indifference. Behind Edward the room, lit by a lone kerosene lamp on the table, was gloomy.
“Sit you down,” he said. Again he surprised her. She thought he would sprawl in his chair as he had at the inn. Instead he held a chair for her, waited until she was seated, then sat with his hands clasped on the table. He had been writing. Or drinking. Or both. Arrayed before him was a glass, an unlabelled bottle holding an inch of golden-brown liquor, an ink well, a quill pen, and scattered papers covered with writing in a neat, precise hand.
“Brandy?” he asked. “A liquor lauded by eminent physicians for its medicinal qualities. No?” He poured more into his own glass. Kathleen was puzzled by both his speech and manner. He did not seem the Edward Allen of a few days before.
“Your humble servant,” he said, raising his glass to her. His hazel eyes roved from her face to the square neckline of her dress, then followed the curve of her body downward. She shifted uncomfortably and her eyes left his to glance about the room.
She saw more papers bundled in an open trunk on the plank floor, a rumpled bed along the wall, a scarred chest of drawers with pitcher and basin on top, a wardrobe closet, and trunks and boxes piled in the far corner. Through the window came the chirrup of the cicadas. Only one decoration interrupted the sameness of the brown walls—a set of two bronze-colored masks. She recognized the ancient Greek symbols of comedy and tragedy.
Her gaze returned to Edward Allen sipping from his glass, while he continued to observe her over the rim. She felt a sense of unease, of foreboding. The masks. She looked at them again, more closely than before, and grimaced. The faces leered dark and bulbous, the noses small, the lips thick, the eyes staring blankly. Grotesque.
“Don’t you like my friends?” She shook her head.
“At first I felt the same,” he said, “but I’ve become accustomed to them. Repulsion changes to acceptance, which in turn gives way to affection of a sort. Which, if you think on it, is not unlike the plot of many of our romantic dramas.”
“I know nothing of the stage.”
“‘All the world’s a stage,’” he quoted.
“And I know very little of the world,” she added.
“If ever you desire instruction, I await your pleasure.”
“I have need of something more immediate.”
He raised his eyes.
“My gun,” she said.
“So, the purpose of your visit is revealed. I’m disappointed. I thought you’d come to ask about the ball. You are going, aren’t you? To the masquerade?”
“Probably.” She was cautious. “At first I thought not, then Clarissa said a gown had come for me from New York. Such a bother and expense for Josiah. I should go, if only to please him. Yes, I think I’ll go.”
“Good, I enjoy masquerades. ‘What shall I wear?’ the ladies ask, while the men shrug and pretend an unconcern. Don’t be deceived. They care, oh, how they care, and choose their disguises every bit as carefully as do their ladies. At times it seems to me the costume is the truer man, the man who might have been or should have been. His day-to-day face is in actuality the mask.”
Kathleen was about to reply when she realized he had led her far from her purpose. “The gun,” she said. “Please give me my gun.”
He stood, pressing down on the table with his fingers to steady himself, and walked with exaggerated precision to the far corner of the room where he pushed aside a trunk and a black satchel. He brought back a small metal box. “Here, I’ve unloaded and cleaned your revolver.”
“Please,” she said. “Load the gun.” She looked more closely at the satchel.
Edward Allen sat on the floor and opened the breach and inserted the percussion caps and bullets. He laid the gun on the table.
“What’s that?” Kathleen got up and moved past him to stare down at the black bag.
“Go ahead, look inside. It’s not locked.”
She undid the clasp and pulled the top apart so the bag yawned open. A stethoscope curled within. Like a snake, Kathleen thought.
“Dr. Gunn’s bag,” she said. “What are you doing with…” Still kneeling, she turned to stare at him. He smiled. “There is no Dr. Gunn,” she said accusingly. “You’re Dr. Gunn.”
“You’re right and you’re wrong. Wrong to say Dr. Gunn doesn’t exist. There is a Dr. Gunn somewhere. But you’re right about my being the doctor. At least I was yesterday.”
“You must think me a simpleton not to have known.” She closed the bag and stood facing him.
“Not at all. My performance would have convinced the most doubting of Thomases. Why, I suspect, no, I’ll wager you, the next time Mrs. Lewis requires a physician she’ll wish the learned Dr. Gunn was available.”
He pushed a four-inch-thick book across the table and she sat so she could read the title: New Domestic Physician or Home Book of Health. The title page promised “many valuable rules for avoiding disease and prolonging life”.
“My source,” he said, “for Dr. Gunn’s theories. You’ll notice he’s the author. I borrowed the book from the Worthington library.” He touched his whiskers. “If you were wondering about the beard, it’s detachable.”
She handed back the book. I will not underestimate Edward Allen again, she told herself. Or Josiah, who had chosen him. She watched Edward place the New Domestic Physician beside his own manuscript. Without thinking she tried to read the words upside down.
“No,” he said, gathering the papers into a pile. “Tm sorry, the world isn’t ready yet. Soon, but not yet.” He didn’t smile. “I’m putting everything down. This is the true story, my justification you might say. Josiah would use a different term. My expiation, he would probably label it.”
Again she heard the rumble from afar. “Listen,” she said, “thunder.”
“I heard nothing.” He stood and paced back and forth, glancing at the papers in his hand, lips moving as he murmured the words to himself.
“Are you writing a history?”
“No, a piece for the theater. A tragedy.” He stopped beside the table to sip more of the liquor. “Wait.” He shuffled through the pages and selected one “A few lines I composed tonight. Here, tell me what you think.” He leaned forward to hand her the page. “First, before you read, I’ll set the scene. The hero, his cause lost, lies dead by his own hand and his principal antagonist, after pursuing him through storm and fire, stands over the martyred body and bids him farewell.”
She read while Edward Allen walked to the window and stood looking into the night.
This was the noblest of them all.
All the conspirators, save only he,
Did what they did in envy or for greed.
He only, thinking of the good of all,
His people sore oppressed, became one with them.
His life was gentle, and the elements
So mixed in him that we now can stand
And say to all the world, “This was a man.”
Kathleen tingled. Not from the words themselves. Something else, some fleeting disquiet, some glimpse into the unknown.
“Well,” he said, “tell me the truth. How do you judge my rough draft? Don’t be afraid to say what you think. I believe I’m man enough to hear.”
“I like the rhythm,” she said. “On the other hand, I find a strange familiarity.”
He took the passage from her and began to pace up and down as he scanned the lines, frowning, declaiming to himself. “Often,” he told her, “strong writing wakens echoes in our minds.”
Kathleen closed her eyes. She was tired. Her head whirled and black dots spun before her. The sound of Edward’s pacing on the bare floor made her forehead ache. The masks, the doctor’s bag, Edward Allen’s tragedy. What did they mean? For an instant she believed the answer was in her grasp, but it eluded her and was gone. She sensed…there was no other word—evil. A sensing of evil.
“I must go,” she said, taking the revolver from the table. His eyes followed her to the door and when she ran along the gravel path she looked up and saw him outlined in the window, still watching her.
The great house was quiet. No longer did fireflies flicker over the lawn. She saw no one as she hurried through the hall and climbed the winding stair. She went directly to bed. She longed for someone to comfort her, to cherish her. This Estate is my castle, she thought. If I go to the window, I will see a horseman riding along t
he drive like a prince in a fairy story, a prince to love me forevermore. As she slid toward sleep she thought she saw a vague shape in the corner of her room. Thick lips upturned in mock laughter. Thick lips turned down in an exaggerated grief. The two masks stared at her from the shadows.
Kathleen shook her head. There is no prince, she told herself. There will never be a prince. She lived not in a castle but in a house of masques. She knew she should leave while the masks remained in place, for she suspected the false, artificial faces were far preferable to the reality beneath.
She woke in the dark of night. What had she heard? The sound came once more. A long, low moan, a keening, followed by a scream of pain.
Chapter Nine
Kathleen stood alone in the shade of a large maple near the driveway at the front of the house. From the side yard she heard the click of croquet mallets striking wooden balls, the shrill of women’s laughter, and an occasional man’s shout of “Oh, good shot, well done!”
Where was Edward Allen? At least fifteen minutes ago he had disappeared around the house to get the coach. Kathleen unfastened and then retied the bow of her sunbonnet. Clarissa, she thought, how is Clarissa? She paced to the rose garden and back. Clarissa will be all right, she told herself, worried despite the doctor’s assurances.
Ah, at last, Edward driving a small buggy, not the coach. She stepped to the top of the horseblock and waited while he brought the rig alongside. After she had pulled herself up to the seat beside him, Edward flicked the whip and the horse trotted along the curved drive.
“A damn fool errand,” he muttered as he wiped his sweating face on his sleeve. She neither replied nor looked toward him but stared straight ahead at the branches interlacing over the road. When Edward turned to the right at the Estate gatehouse, beginning the drive down the mountain, a late-morning breeze cooled her face and teased the dark curls on her neck and shoulders.
As they rode down the mountain, she related Mrs. Ehrman’s story of her lost son, the grandson killed in the War, the journey to Washington climaxed by her meeting with the President. Edward sat silent, and when she finished he stared at their horse and at the road as though not wanting to meet her eyes.