A Prologue to Love

by Taylor Caldwell

  Beth sat down and looked with a frown at the kettle, which was refusing to come to a boil on the low and smoldering logs. “No. I charged it. Down at the village yesterday. Thirty cents a pound; not very good, but better than usual.”

  “Mr. Ames did buy us some China tea last time he was in the old country,” said Kate. “Now, I’m not defending him, but you have to give a man justice sometimes.”

  Beth snorted. She glanced at the window; she could just see the blurred and silent figure of little Caroline Ames; now, in this twilight, it seemed to be one with the gray sky and the sea, as if carved from the substance of the boulder itself. “I often wonder,” said Beth. “He hates that poor little girl; you can see that with half an eye. But she loves him to death, the poor mite. Worships him. She’s looking for the ship that’s supposed to bring him tonight or tomorrow. It’s a funny thing about love: you don’t need to have it returned to love somebody. Loving’s enough.”

  Kate said, “There you are again! Romantic. You and your Charles Dickens and his books you’re always reading. Don’t be romantic, girl; no romance in real life.”

  “I don’t know about that!” said Beth with spirit. “I was married; I loved Harry with all my heart.”

  “And he ran off with a trollop, taking your savings, too, five years ago,” said Kate cynically. “That’s what you told me. Romance!”

  “I loved him. That was enough, even if he didn’t love me.” She sighed, thinking of the house, the very little house, which had been hers in Lyndon, near Boston. She had had to sell it, for she had no money to maintain it. Well, there was no use thinking of the past; she, Beth, was forty-five years old, and women that age were still too young to sink themselves in useless memories. She turned her thoughts determinedly to the mystery which was John Ames and his little daughter Caroline. She had been with the family for five years and knew almost as little now as she had known on the evening of her arrival. She received eight dollars a month as an assistant to old Kate, who no longer could do much as a housekeeper. Beth had a very healthy and human curiosity. As she filled the tin teapot with hot water and took the can of tea from the mantelpiece, she became determined to learn something more from the taciturn Kate. Her blue eyes sharpened, but she was careful to use guile, for Kate was very cunning and any information was taken from her unawares and only when she was in a good temper. Beth made very strong, rich tea, not sparing the leaves this time. She poured it into two big thick cups. She reached to the mantelpiece and brought down a box of plain cookies. “There, we’ll have a feast,” she said.

  Kate held the hot cup greedily in her worn hands and accepted three cookies. She placed them beside the bag of peppermints on her knee. She regarded Beth with kindness and gratitude. “You’re a good soul, Beth,” she said. “And being a good soul is very good, though stupid.”

  The wind shrieked against the house; the small fire trembled and fell low. The flame in the lamp bent, almost expired. The women drew closer to the hearth.

  “Carrie will take cold out there,” said Beth. “I think I’ll call her in soon. It’s silly for her to sit there, watching. All the ships dock down near Marblehead or in the port of Boston, not here.”

  “But she can see them come in,” said Kate, smacking her lips over the tea. “Leave her be. She don’t have much amusement besides watching for her daddy’s ship.”

  Beth sipped her tea delicately, watching the old woman under her red eyelashes. She said casually, “You took care of Carrie until I came four years ago. That’s six years you had of her, isn’t it? You said you stayed because of her mother.”

  “True,” said Kate, sucking loudly at her cup. “I promised her mother. Ann Esmond, that was.”

  “When the poor young thing was dying, after the baby’s birth?” suggested Beth.

  Kate grinned. “Wrong again, you and your romance! You’re thinking of Dombey and Son. Nothing like that. Caroline was three years old, and healthy as a colt. My Ann caught cold.” She stopped grinning, and a dark and vengeful look crept over her face, and she stared at the fire. “I brought Ann up; I was her nanny, fresh from England; she was my own child, in my heart. Ann and her twin sister Cynthia. Pretty as pictures. Both of ‘em. Never married, never had a child of my own. They was my children. There’s a portrait of them in Cynthia’s house now. You should see it sometime. Well. Ann caught lung fever in that damned cold house in Lyndon, and he was too near to call a doctor in time, and so she died. I said to myself, said I: ‘If that girl dies, I’ll leave this house tomorrow, and be damned to him and his brat!’ Then Ann asked me, right on her deathbed. Loved that kid, she did. Never had any real feeling for her, myself.”

  “Ah,” murmured Beth pitifully.

  “ ‘Tisn’t that I despise her, as her dad does,” said Kate. “But she’s so ugly, and not like my Ann at all. Not even like him. Wonder, sometimes, who she does look like; somebody barmy, no doubt. Maybe that’s why he avoids her. Maybe she reminds him of somebody.”

  “Perhaps,” insinuated Beth eagerly, “he doesn’t like Caroline because she’s a disappointment. He wanted a son?”

  Kate grinned all over her wrinkled face. “Wrong again. You better stop reading Dickens. They wanted a daughter, especially him. ‘Give me a daughter, Ann,’ I used to hear him say. ‘Not a son. I don’t want a son’.”

  “Why?”

  Kate pulled her afghans tighter on her withered knees. “I don’t know. So, he got a daughter, and he hates her. No telling what people are like.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t like Caroline because she isn’t pretty like her mother.”

  “Never heard him say anything about her looks. I’ve just got a feeling she reminds him of somebody he hates.”

  “It’s a mystery,” said Beth, delighting in it.

  “Nothing’s a mystery,” said Kate crossly. “Everything’s got an explanation, if you can find it. How you go on about mysteries! But lonely people love ‘em.” Her voice was thin and had a tone of crackling to it, tinged with malice.

  A heavy gust of wind, massive as an avalanche of stone, fell against the house, and the gloomy light darkened at the windows. The walls trembled, and the ancient floor vibrated. Beth shuddered. “I’ve had five summers of this,” she said. “People who come to Lyme leave September first. But not us, dear me, no! We stay until the first snow flies. The house in Lyndon’s worse than this for cold, but at least I can go in on the train to Boston in twenty minutes and look at the shops and see somebody besides us. By the way” — and Beth poured another cup of tea for Kate — “why don’t we ever see the neighbors? Nearest one’s a mile away, but that isn’t too far. People by the name of Sheldon, I heard in the village, and they live here. They’ve got a boy, Tom, about twelve; could be a playmate for Carrie.”

  “He don’t like neighbors; never did,” said Kate cryptically. “He hasn’t any friends; never had. How my Ann could put up with him I’ll never know. But he doted on her. And kept her locked up like a prisoner. Not that she ever minded; he was enough for her, poor child. Sometimes he’d take her to London and Paris and Berlin; it was a gala occasion for her, as if she’d never seen them places before with her father.”

  “Well, he’s a dandy,” said Beth. “And dresses like a prince. Sometimes I could speak my mind to him and tell him about Carrie’s old worn clothing! Like a beggar.” She brightened. “I suppose he never got over his wife’s death. Mourned for her.”

  “Not he,” said Kate. “There’s some made for mourning and some not. He’s not.” She rubbed her papery palms together and meditated. “It’s all business with him. Importing or something.” She looked slyly at Beth, as if amused at the younger woman’s unsatiated curiosity.

  “Where did he meet your Ann?” asked Beth. “If you don’t mind me,” she added, bridling.

  “Oh, I don’t mind telling,” said Kate indulgently. “In her father’s house; she had just come out; it was one of the grand parties. No mystery about it. Mr. Esmond had some business with him; don�
�t know what. But Ann looked at him, and he looked at her, as if he was a nob, and he wasn’t.”

  “A nob?”

  “Oh, that’s English for aristocrat; gentry. And he isn’t gentry. But never heard, even from Ann, where he came from, except that once she said Boston. He was an orphan, she said, since he was a little chap. That was all. No family.”

  “And her father let her marry him!”

  “Ann had a mind of her own, for all she looked so soft. And Mr. Esmond didn’t seem displeased. I heard him say once that he had a future. Anyway, Ann inherited two hundred thousand dollars when Mr. Esmond died, and Cynthia got the same. Two hundred thousand dollars. That’s a fortune. She turned it over to him.”

  “So he’s rich, in spite of him living like a beggar and making us live like beggars too,” said Beth resentfully.

  “Um. I didn’t say he was rich, now. Investments went down during the war; haven’t come back yet. Maybe he lost it all.” The old woman smiled under her long nose. “Well, you get eight dollars a month. That’s not a fine sum. You could get more elsewhere. With a warm room and a fire of your own, and better money, and a cheerful house around you.”

  “I know,” muttered Beth. “But it’s Carrie. Somehow, I can’t go away and leave her.”

  “Never be sorry for anyone to your disadvantage,” said Kate. “That’s a fool’s way, and a weakling’s.”

  “It could also be Christian,” replied Beth angrily. “And having some pity!”

  Kate lifted her old head abruptly and stared without blinking at Beth. Her mouth grimaced after a few moments. “You mean that,” she said flatly, and shook her head. “God help you, girl, you mean that. You’re a mystery if there ever was one.”

  “Not me,” said Beth. But she was a little pleased. “I never told you, but I have a little pension. Fifteen dollars a month. A government pension. After Harry — went away — and I never knew it! — he enlisted in the army. He was killed in Virginia, just before the war ended. I didn’t even know he was in the army. But he must’ve loved me after all, for the government notified me of his being killed, and about the pension.”

  “More likely he used you for an excuse not to marry his strumpet,” said Kate. “Now, don’t come over all wounded, Beth. So you have fifteen dollars a month. You can afford to stay here and look after Carrie after all.”

  She lifted her bony finger and shook it at Beth. “Now, let me tell you something. When he comes home, you ask him for more money. Two dollars a month more. Tell him you’ll leave unless he gives it to you. He’ll not get another woman to dance attendance on his brat for eight dollars a month! And he’ll not dare put her on me again.”

  The wind became more violent; the old windows rattled fiercely. The light was crepuscular, and the fire sank even lower. Puffs of icy air blew through the room.

  “Oh, you’re very independent,” said Beth, tossing her head.

  “That I am,” replied Kate with a satisfied snicker. “And I did it for myself. I’d not have left Ann when she was alive, but after she died I went right up to him and said, ‘I’m off, sir. I’ve got a little money saved, and there’s my old sister in England, with a sweets shop, and Ann left me two thousand dollars’.”

  She paused, smiling with pleasure at the memory.

  “Well,” resumed Kate. “He was in a quandary. He was paying me twelve dollars a month. No other servants. Where would he get a woman, even an old one, to work for him, in two houses, with a brat, and putting up with everything as I do, for that bit of money? Not that he didn’t try! He did. So one night he comes to me and says he’ll pay me fourteen dollars a month and looked at me like he was the brother of Queen Victoria, herself. All pleased with himself for being so generous. And I said no. Not Kate Snope. I was off to England. He couldn’t buy me with any wages.”

  She popped another peppermint into her mouth and sucked it voluptuously. “I let him think that over for a bit. And then he comes to me with his stony face. He’d pay me fourteen dollars a month, yes. And he’d make a bargain with me. For every year I’d stay with him, taking care of his houses and his brat, supervising things, he’d put five hundred dollars to my name in the bank! Now, what do you think of that?”

  “Five hundred dollars a year!” exclaimed Beth, awed. “Why, you must have thousands from him by now!”

  “Yes,” said Kate happily. “I made him pay me back from Carrie’s birth. That’s five thousand dollars. No go, otherwise. ‘And moreover’, I says to him, ‘I want help’. And so you came.”

  “So he must be rich, after all,” said Beth. “Five thousand dollars, and five hundred extra every year!” She was incredulous. Then her eyes narrowed. “But didn’t you tell me that your Ann had asked you to stay with her child and that you’d promised never to leave Carrie? Didn’t Mr. Ames remind you of that?”

  “He didn’t know,” said Kate. “And I’m trusting you to say nothing to him. But if you can’t hold your tongue and you tell him, that promise or not, I’ll leave. I’m that hard.”

  “I’m not a tattler,” said Beth proudly. “But goodness! You must hate him.”

  “Always did,” said Kate, placidly chewing a small cake.

  Though it was growing much colder and the light was very dull now, Beth Knowles forgot the child watching the sea outside. She was absorbed in the strange story she had been hearing. She said, “How old was Miss Esmond when she married him?”

  Kate’s face changed, became tight, almost evil. “She was only twenty. And he was thirty-four, almost old enough to be her father. He’s forty-five now; he never changes. Those that are wicked never change; the devil’s with them, taking care of his own.”

  A thin long plume of smoke, far out on the ocean, divided the sky and sea like the stroke of a pencil. Caroline sat higher on her boulder. “Oh,” she murmured aloud, “let that be Papa’s ship! Please, good Jesus.” She clasped her small broad hands tightly on her knees and watched the smoke. For a few moments it dwindled, then became larger. But she could not as yet see the ship.

  No one but Beth had ever taught her any religion or had taken her to any church. She did not remember her young mother well, nor if that mother had taught her any prayers. The name of God was not spoken in the houses of John Ames, except in a whisper at night, beside Caroline’s bed. As Beth’s theology was simple and her knowledge little, Caroline knew only that the Christ had died on a cross in some far country which she mingled in her mind with the fairy tales she read hungrily. He, too, was somewhat mythological in the child’s thoughts. When she thought of Him, which was seldom except at bedtime and on such occasions as this, she visualized Him as a knight in armor, with a pennanted spear and an iron shield.

  “Good Jesus,” repeated Caroline again, straining her eyes across the plain of furious water. Then she hugged herself with joy. The dim shadow of a ship could now be seen. Was her father on that ship? He had been gone a long time, ever since she had been brought here in June after school was closed. (Only Kate had heard from him, a single curt letter. “A shame!” Beth had cried to the old woman indignantly. “Never a word about his child, either, you said!” “Don’t be sentimental,” Kate had chuckled.)

  The silent shadow of the ship streamed toward Boston Harbor. Now it disappeared around the side of the great rocks on the beach. If it could be docked that night, John Ames would arrive home in the morning. Still, Caroline sat on her boulder, watching the gulls now. The blur of silver which was the sun moved far down to the west. Suddenly one long colorless ray pierced the gaseous clouds and shot down like a long sword onto the sea. Where it pierced it turned the water to an arctic turquoise, like a brilliant pool in the midst of a gray and turbulent plain. The gulls screamed louder. The wind tore at the girl’s shawl, whipped her face savagely, almost blew her from her seat.

  “Hello!” said a strange voice at her shoulder. She started violently, then caught at the sides of the boulder to prevent herself from falling. She turned her head, for she abjectly feared strangers. A boy
of about twelve was standing beside her, laughing, a big boy with a face bright red from cold and wind, a handsome boy whose bare head was covered with a thick cap of strong black hair.

  Caroline did not reply. She stared at him anxiously. He kicked a wet stone. He was poorly dressed, even more poorly than herself; his wrists extended far below his short sleeves, and the trousers he wore were stretched hard to meet his knees, so that he had a long, lithe look, somewhat wild and unkempt. The wind blew his hair from his ears, and they had a faunlike shape, pointed and pale, contrasting with the color on his wide cheekbones and on his full, smiling lips. He had eyes as blue as a winter sky, and his nose was short and virile, his chin deeply dimpled.

  “I’m Tom Sheldon,” he said. His voice was strong, almost manly, and full of warmth and gaiety. “You’re not scared of me, are you? Why, I’m your neighbor. We live only about a mile from you. You’re Caroline Ames, aren’t you, old Ames’ girl? Heard about you in the village.”