Cupids, page 11
Suddenly the music ceases, except for the drum, upon which the bird now thumps at long, ominous intervals. The mummers all gather in a semicircle around my brother-in-law.
The devil raises his pitchfork.
“Worthy, Mr. Egret,” he calls in the clear and perfect diction of a stage performer addressing a packed auditorium. “You have sent the light of exploration into darkness unknown. The flame of knowledge is yours!”
A monk steps forward and timorously hands Mr. Egret the candle with bobbing flame. My brother-in-law takes it willingly enough and lays it to the side of his bowl. The monk retreats into the circle again.
“Gracious, Mr. Egret,” the devil announces, raising his pitchfork once more, “you have sought wealth for your fellows and yourself through good enterprise in foreign parts. The flame of prosperity is yours!”
A second monk shuffles forward; the wobbling candle drips onto the cloth of a trembling black glove. Mr. Egret takes this candle also and lays it beside the other. Each flame gains strength from its fellow once the candle base is upon a flat surface. The two burn high and strong together.
“Honest, Mr. Egret,” the devil says with a flourish. “You have launched adventures from our fine city, and have stood by the valiant both in failure and success. The wine of their mixed fortunes is yours!”
A third monk approaches softly with the chalice, nods at Mr. Egret and offers it. My brother-in-law nods in return and comes as close to a genuine smile as I have ever seen. Is it possible, I wonder, that from his low vantage point he can make out the features of the monk through the dark opening allowed by the hood? He even raises the chalice in a salute first to this monk, and then to all the mummers as the monk shuffles back into line. Then he tips back his head and drinks, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down before he lowers the goblet and leans back in his chair in happy reverie.
The whole troupe yells and claps in unison, except, it seems, for the three monks who stand unmoving, dark hoods crumpling lower than before. Then quickly, and as though on military order, all the mummers join hands and skip — banging, fluting, and trumpeting — in a circle around the table and then in a curving train toward the door.
Bertha, eyes shining and delighted at the effect they have had upon her master, opens the door to their progress. She claps at the final few blasts as bird, then harlequin, then two monks together, then imp, then monk again, then devil, and then imps again disappear, tumbling into the night. Bertha takes her time about closing the door, and I hear the music cease and a rumble of voices rise.
“I should get more than an eighth of the fee,” complains the devil in his unmistakable clipped tones. “I had all the lines.”
“What about this costume?” is the reply, I presume from either the bird or the donkey.
“Being uncomfortable isn’t the same as acting . . .”
The argument fades into the darkness. Bertha turns with a happy sigh and leans back, closing the door at last.
She looks to Mr. Egret, as do I.
“Mummers!” he says, staring into some unseen distance, the moisture of fresh sentiment in his eyes. The goblet, still clasped in his hand, sinks farther into his chest and tips sideways. Bertha moves toward him instinctively, ready to save any spill. Then she stops a little way from him.
“Mr. Egret, sir.”
The glaze has appeared to settle on my brother-in-law’s eyes. His face, still a smile, has stiffened oddly in the corners of his mouth, and the goblet tips a little farther in the grip of unfeeling hands.
“Mr. Egret,” she repeats, this time a frantic note creeping into her voice. Strange, and rather selfish of me really, not to consider how Bertha might grieve him. I’d like to save her the next few minutes and pass on the plain fact that she will discover eventually through mirrors, feathers, and close listening to his chest, all the while experiencing the torments of uncertainty and hope. But I can’t do that, I realize, without giving myself away.
“What appears to be the matter, Bertha dear?” I ask her. She turns to me like a lost child, her eyes large and terrified. Her lips begin to move, but nothing but the softest of murmurs reaches my ears.
“Bertha, dear,” I say in a comforting a tone, “perhaps you should fetch a doctor.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Guy
THREE DAYS, THREE DAYS, three days — the sound accompanies each crunch and lift of my footsteps upon the Egret path. The last thin mist of morning rises around me like the living breath of a new creation. Is it too soon? I wonder, gazing up at the shuttered windows as they loom above me, drawing closer. Or is it perhaps too late?
Rarely in my life have I felt so near to losing control as I did when watching Richard, that young dandy cousin of Eliza’s, minister to her at the funeral — a kerchief here, a courtly offer of his hand there, and the coldest of stares for me. He no doubt resented the unexpected power I have gained over the Egret money. But the last laugh will surely be mine.
The silt and pebbles gathering under my soles add skittering words to my chant: Three days since the funeral; three more since his death. Now I have come to collect.
Eliza will understand. She well knows that the lives of colonists cannot wait; the ways of commerce and travel, swift and obeying their own urgent tides, surely flow in her veins. I lift the cold iron knocker and let it drop, and try as I do so to chase away my remaining fear with arguments of necessity. I must act now. Our ship is ready, supplies purchased. The womenfolk are mustered and waiting. At present they are merely mouths, feeding upon the enterprise to which they will later contribute labour and comfort. The last and most unsavoury remnants of the business have been settled away, clearing my course. After a brief and silent panic over questions of cause, the death certificate was signed and duty paid, and the lifeless husk of the deceased interred. The rogue Bartholomew has received the stock I promised. He can either sell it for gold or barter it for supplies should he wish to begin his own venture in the new world as he implied he might.
The thought of Bartholomew coils inside me like a knot as I wait for the sound of footsteps within. Was it my imagination or did he suggest he might return to Cupers Cove? The idea is unendurable and possesses the carrion reek of blackmail. The danger he represents haunts me like a shadow. The man and his betrothed are still in my house and I wonder if I will ever shake him free. I feel the stubborn prick of the thorniest of regrets. I could in the earliest planning stages have made it a condition of the deal that he must remain in England.
The door creaks open slowly and Bertha appears still white-faced and red-eyed. A chilly feeling wafts over me and drains me for the moment of my composure.
“I have business to discuss with Miss Eliza,” I say, unnecessarily, it seems. Bertha, good soul, has already stepped aside to let me in.
As I enter the main room the image of Mrs. Egret, hunched more than usual over her knitting, skims against my eye. I cannot look at her directly. My gaze settles upon Eliza. Dressed in black with black lace, her face ghostly pale even in the strong golden light of the fire by which she sits. In her white quivering fingers she holds a book of psalms.
I wait for a moment to see if she will look up at me but, except for the verses before her, she seems quite unconscious of her surroundings. I cough and give a short bow.
“My Lady, I come to pay my respects.”
“Oh! Mr. Guy.” The book flutters in her hand and drops to her lap. Her exclamation, sudden as it is, holds a tingle of pleasure for me. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
Her lips curl into a sweet, sad smile and in the blueness of her eyes I cannot help but sense a longing.
“My dear Eliza,” the words spill without my foreknowledge. The tremble in my thighs makes me wonder if they mean to collapse me into kneeling. For the moment at least they hold me upright.
Eliza’s face remains kindly and inviting. The hint of puzzlement softens rather than mars the genial perfection of her beauty.
“Thank you for that, Mr. Guy,” she says in a manner far more formal than I might have wished, her lips down-turning with the sourness of distaste. She is in deep mourning, after all, I tell myself, and must retain full decorum. She continues in measured tones. “I have received many of the most courteous and attentive gestures from those who share our great loss. I’m sure I will count your kindnesses among them.”
That damn shield again! My legs no longer ache to drop me to the floor. Instead I am held rigid against my will as though a steel pole were lodged along my spine.
“My dear Miss Eliza,” I begin once more, stiff yet determined to break through. “I come to tell you my ship is almost ready, and our new voyage to Cupers Cove will soon begin.”
“Ah.” She smiles brightly and I am momentarily lost in confusion. “And is your excellent young friend Master Bartholomew to sail with you or will he remain and entertain us?”
My lips tighten. “I’m afraid,” I murmur quickly, “at this moment I cannot say.”
“I hear he might take our maid on his adventures.” Her eyes narrow, and wistfully she adds, “There’s part of me that envies her now.”
“Who knows about Bartholomew?” I say rather too boldly. Then, in tones more calm but no less emphatic, I continue, “It is of matters regarding myself that I have come to speak.”
I hear Mrs. Egret’s needles clanking together in the silence. The remnants of Eliza’s smile disappear altogether but she blinks and she seems to ready herself for listening. “I am sorry, Mr. Guy. I had forgotten for the moment that my aunt thought it best to give you the reins of her estate until I am twenty. You must have a hundred matters of business to discuss.”
“Only one,” I tell her. The blood rushing in my ears feels like a river about to burst its banks. “And I wonder if I may crave your aunt’s indulgence for a moment and ask for a brief private interview with you.”
For the first time I turn to Mrs. Egret. The kiss of hot shame upon my face tells me it is more out of fear of looking directly at Eliza than in courtesy to the old woman that I have switched my gaze. Mrs. Egret does not look up, nor does her posture alter save for a slight bending of the shoulders and rising of the needles and wool as though in extra attention to the task.
“You may not crave my aunt’s indulgence,” says Eliza with entrail-withering decisiveness. Do I see a slight frown come into and then pass from Mrs. Egret’s expression?
I turn to Eliza. A faint yellow star appears and disappears in the line of my eyes. My vision of Eliza tilts and then corrects. “My aunt, dear sir, is now my closest legal confidant and counsel. I cannot discuss matters of great importance without her wise advice.”
I steady myself quickly, rooting my feet upon the floor. Great importance, she said. Her gaze in my direction is earnest, direct and intelligent. Is this not the very manner in which a sensible woman would wish to receive a proposal of marriage — especially one she means to seriously entertain? Would she also not need the company of the one who would be first from whom the couple must seek consent — particularly if the answer is yes?
The urge to kneel returns and this time I find my legs obeying. Eliza’s eyes widen as I descend and draw closer. Widen, I note; the very word signifies an opening and an acceptance.
“Dearest Eliza,” I begin, thankful of the clearness and the confidence in my voice. Mrs. Egret’s needles beat a steady and somewhat comforting rhythm, and I wonder if it’s possible that the old lady has spoken to her niece in my favour already. “For ‘dearest Eliza’ is how I intend to address you for evermore if you should look favourably upon my most humble and sincere of suits.” I meet the unmoving clearness of her gaze with my own. The blue in her eyes contracts and expands in wave-like motions at the expense of the black within, and there is something fine and delicious in her inscrutability, something delightful in the maturity that does not giggle or run in triumph to a gaggle of friends but listens as one adult to another. “I ask you, dear Eliza, to do me the very great honour of becoming my wife.”
The words are swallowed by silence, save for the clink of Mrs. Egret’s knitting. Eliza’s bottom lip twitches slightly. I wonder if my speech was perhaps rather too short, but gathering the strands and finding a way back in after such an obvious climax seems beyond me, at least for the moment. Then something takes me by surprise, something so swift, so unaccountable that at first I imagine a dove has scooped in through the window and flown wing-first into my left ear and cheek. It is only when I notice that the blow was undeniably connected to a movement of Eliza’s right arm, when my ear sings in a manner that recalls punishment in the schoolroom, and when I look to see that no dove lies stricken at my knees, that I realize the true explanation. No sooner has my brain begun to absorb this than the same thing occurs a second time, this time slowly enough to appreciate and follow the event as it unfolds. Her arm is raised. Her hand sweeps through the air and smacks hard against the left side of my head. My ear sings another, slightly higher note, and the two remain in harmony as one rises and another fades.
One hope stirs, feeble at first like a dying leaf in winter, but gaining strength already from the rich nutrients of my imagination. I have heard it said that in women anger and love are close in kinship, and that violence cannot exist in the bosom of woman without the presence of other passions. For the moment, though, silence reigns. One of my knees scrapes against the floor in preparation for rising. Words once more begin to tumble before I can stop and weigh them.
“I feel I must crave your forgiveness, my Lady. I had no intention of offending.” My body rises like some dead thing animated by an unnatural far-off force, shoulders sloping, hands like numb claws.
“How could you do anything but offend?” Her voice, though quiet enough, carries the strength of venom. “You, who try to make love when the whole city is in mourning, you, with hands soiled with the grime of work, you who presume so far above your station merely because you have the good fortune to administer the funds of your superiors. How could you be so deceived to think the daughter of the gentleman who has supped with the traders of Venice and Tuscany could even look upon one who commands only a few dozen men and toils with pigs and goats?”
The final word is spat out with more contempt than I would have thought possible for such an innocent and nondescript animal. The burgeoning hope about anger and passion which had begun to twitch into new life is suddenly limp and dead. As I turn to leave, one ear still singing, Mrs. Egret’s needles still clicking quietly in the other, I realize that I myself now drag a mountain of thwarted passion and there is nowhere in the world where I may place it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Bartholomew
SPRING IS PALPABLE NOW. Ghostly fingers of mist rise on the road beyond Guy’s home. I’m not sure why I should feel so responsible, but deep inside me is some fretting parent awaiting the return of a foolish child.
Helen draws to the window beside me.
“We should get ready to leave,” I tell her. My breath fogs the pane.
“We’re almost packed,” she replies, and I can sense a question hovering in the air between us like a cloud of mosquitoes. It is the question, perhaps, the one I have somehow managed to evade for six days. “I wanted to thank you,” she says, and momentarily I’m wrong-footed.
“Thank me?” I whisper. She draws closer to my shoulder and I feel my body half turn in response. “What for?”
“I’ve been afraid to talk about it before, afraid of giving any voice to the deed.”
“You are right to leave the deed in silence.”
“Then I will talk only of its prelude: the slates — your method of drawing lots.”
I was right. It is the question. I am fastened to the spot and the dust of my evasion swirls in vain searching for an escape.
“I remember your trick with the pendant, and with the sovereign.”
“Yes?”
“You could easily have dictated who received the slate marked ‘M.’”
I pause, reluctant to give voice to the admission.
“I want to thank you for not choosing me.”
A small, involuntary laugh of reprieve bounces from me. This is not quite the question I was dreading, but it’s close enough. “You are more than welcome, Helen,” I say, hoping to distract her with the ardour in my voice. “I would hardly foist such a task upon my own future wife.”
“I knew it was deliberate, of course,” she says, “and this is what makes it so puzzling.” I see her breath also mist the glass as she draws even closer and looks upon the road. Guy is making his way along the street, a small, wounded bull with uncertain gait and startled eyes. His shoulders dip menacingly at those who pass by him. He appears to ignore acquaintances who touch their hats in salute.
“Puzzling?” I ask, but I know she needs no encouragement. Even with the distraction of Guy, she will not be shaken from this quest.
“That Mr. Guy’s slate was also clean.”
Now she turns to me and I feel her warm breath upon my cheek. My eyes remain on Guy who turns, blundering, into the pathway toward the house.
“I can’t explain.” My voice — thin and curiously detached from the mouth that hosts it — gives me the odd notion that it is not only Helen who is owed this missing explanation, but also myself.
The first wisp of an answer comes not in words but in a sensation: a man’s hot gasp on my neck, the bristling of my own hairs. Then I hear that voice — you think you’re better than us? — and the weight of a trembling hand upon my arm. The queasy memory tumbles into the glitter of ambition in Guy’s face at the Crossroads Tavern, and his question posed with equal parts timidity and excitement: If you yourself were in my position, how would you proceed?
“I knew Guy couldn’t handle it.”
