Cupids, page 5
“But I am here now,” he says, his smile widening, “thanks to the two young rogues who brought me. What do you think of them, my dear? The pretty boy bribed me to come to Bristol again, can you believe that? Four sovereigns to see my old comrade’s honoured wife and my own dear friend?”
His smile is infectious and I find myself excusing what is surely inexcusable. “He paid you?”
He nods again, chuckling. “Does it not remind you of Nick and me? Remember the way we used to bribe your father’s servants to gain entrance into your household? Once, do you recall, we mistook your rich uncle as a servant and passed him a coin, which, I remember he took with a smile.”
I make to swat him away in jest. “You two were young fools!”
“And yet was not this same spirit that put wind into our sails, that prized open the world and its riches?” As though to illustrate his words, a gust finds its way unexpectedly into the room and I find the passageways to my lungs filling with freshness. I see Philip and Nick as young men with packs and donkeys making their way through yellow sands, to the land of spices and adventure. For a moment I’m too full to answer him.
“Now,” he continues, “merchants grow rich with fleets under sail, a thousand scribes and accountants at their bidding, and the banner of the East India Company to give bluster to their canvas. But it was young fools such as Nick and I who paved the way.”
I look into his face again, his eyes the pure blue crystal of understanding, framed by the deep granite of hardship, travel, and time.
“Why did those young men bring you to me, Philip?”
“To plead their case, I imagine, my dear.”
“How would they know I possess anything worth pleading for?” I ask. I feel suddenly like a fresh fallen carcass in a meadow; I sense the circling shadows of birds overhead.
“Matilda, the true adventurer can smell gold from a thousand miles, so you should know they are genuine when they converge upon you rather than your brother-in-law. In any case, I hardly needed persuading to see you. In bringing me here they have taken me back to my youth!”
He holds my hand again and I feel layered years of boredom, heartache, and frustration peeling away, exposing me to the harsh glare of the sun and to a terrible pain as urgent and fresh as the day it was first felt.
“And you will leave me neither as I was, nor as I am, dear Philip, but a spirit stretched and tortured between those two opposite poles.” I want to add that part of myself died upon that eastern mountain slope along with my Nick all those years ago, and that when Philip himself brought me the news months later, then disappeared once more into his seemingly eternal voyage, that the rest of me disappeared with him, that the dry husk that remained seemed worthless. But what can adventurers know of the women who are left behind? What can they know of love if safety is their concern for us? No one’s mind and body is really designed to await news of others in danger, except perhaps poor Eliza, the butterfly under glass. Eliza, whose energies have long been warped into a sabre of spite, particularly to those who threaten to claim her father’s attention; she is perhaps the kind of creature imagined by Philip and Nick. But she was raised by her father and knows no other life. Though young, Eliza is already my counterpart in futility and lifelessness.
Like a good maid, Helen has sensed her presence might be needed and has presented herself before us. “Tell the two young men outside I will see them now.”
As I watch Helen curtsy, back away, then move swiftly to the front door, I have the strange impression that Philip and I are like ancient gods viewing from a distance the shadows of the people we once were. I sensed butterfly hints of flirtation last night between Helen and the good-looking boy, and feel that the magic of Nicholas, Philip, and I must have risen like vapour during our youth to hang in the air until this moment and then fall afresh, enriching these young people, causing them to sprout fresh shoots of love and adventure.
The two men return on the heels of the blushing Helen, Guy first, then the younger one, lighter of step than his chief, almost dancing in eagerness as he steals glimpses of Philip and me over Guy’s shoulder. My incongruous sense of power as they halt before me and survey my expression for clues makes me feel as a small dog might if suddenly presented with sceptre, crown, and bowing courtiers. What shall I decide? I have no idea. Indignation rises at the thought of my brother-in-law, gatekeeper against my will. But the gratitude of the sheltered and tired clings upon the shards of my anger like moulded lead upon the edges of stained glass.
“So, young men,” I begin, “what is it that you would ask of me?”
The older looks to the younger for a moment as if for guidance. Then he coughs and straightens his shoulders. He holds his hat before himself rather in the manner of a penitent before a shrine.
“Gracious Lady, you may have heard of our travels and our labours already.”
“In great detail, sir. I was in this very room last night when you described them.”
He seems to colour for a moment. I have perhaps reminded him of his doomed attempt to make love to my niece. Then he stands even more erect, comically formal. “Our great efforts to make our dear colony successful rely upon the faith and support of those who reside at home.”
The younger man frowns and casts his eyes to the floor.
“The backing that we have, the financial backing, is limited . . .” he falters, his wary eyes skipping along the tapestry above my head, to the Egret coat of arms, a scrawny carrion bird in whose talons resides a sword. “The original stock is curtailed to such a degree that profit may be stifled . . .” The younger man steps forward suddenly, startling Guy though his voice was already beginning to trail into silence.
“My Lady, if I may,” says the handsome youth. He gestures to his companion as though about to prove this rather dull creature an example of particular fineness of character. “You must understand this great man has a burden upon his shoulders as heavy as the greatest explorers known to history. Great Julius himself, travelling from Rome, could scarcely have felt the eyes of future generations as keenly as Mr. Guy does today. He seeks to bring the glory of civilization, godliness, and culture to the astounding but desolate beauty of Newfoundland. As Rome was to England then, England is to this new territory now. It is a satellite of ourselves, my Lady, and a legacy we dare not neglect. We are bringing all that is brave and steadfast into the dark and untamed wilderness. It is nothing less than a holy mission.”
His words dance in the air like flames of pure mischief. I look into his intelligent eyes. The unrestrained, mellifluous tone of his voice brings him as close to my ideal of man as anything I have heard since the time of my dear Nicholas.
“Young man,” I say, smiling, “it seems you imagine the old to be lured by that which is holy, just as the young are to be tempted by mermaids and pearls.”
He takes a step closer, a smile — knowing and flirtatious — upon his face now. “It is the wildness of adventure that makes it holy. When the spring comes we will throw ourselves upon the fierce crosswinds of fate once more. We will seek danger and glory afresh, and we trust, dear Lady, you will give us your blessing and encouragement.”
“Only my blessing and encouragement? Well, young man, you have those already.”
His smile remains on mine and he doesn’t blink. His companion is as red as a fresh-scrubbed radish, and his feet shuffle in a distracting manner.
“I see it is something rather more that you seek,” I say, returning his smile. “You have reunited me with a dear friend, it is true, and, in courtesy at least, I must promise you something in return.” I pause, realizing that the conviction of my words belies an infinite uncertainty. I wonder if this youth has actually shamed me into the valour of decisiveness. It feels that this is so, but how? As the room turns slowly and I try to root my senses, I realize he has so successfully evoked the spirit of my late husband that in refusing him I would be dishonouring Nicholas. I look to the elder of the two men. It is he to whom any pledge must be made. “I cannot, in conscience, disinherit my brother-in-law while he lives,” I continue, rather shocked at myself for putting such an idea into words, “nor can I punish my niece. But if he should die before Eliza turns twenty in a year and a half hence, she will need a male protector. My brother-in-law should have dealt with this possibility a long time ago, but he is a man who clings to life and will not think of the possibility of the long and dreamless sleep that naturally awaits us all.” The acrid sting of disloyalty dries my tongue, but I press on.
“Should Mr. Egret die in the next eighteen months, he will leave one woman old and declining, another under the age of legal inheritance. The avaricious neighbour and the witchfinder both will prick their ears to the possibilities.” I pause for a moment.
Mr. Guy stares at me, his lips silently mouthing the words I have just spoken as though in an attempt to understand their meaning. I look from him to his companion. The younger man’s face is alive with calculation.
“I will bestow upon you, Mr. Guy, the honour of being Eliza’s protector in his place should Mr. Egret’s life not span that eighteen-month bridge to Eliza’s safe inheritance. There is no other family upon which I may rely. You will, until that time, have at your disposal all my wealth and all the interest which you may use at your discretion. You will, no doubt, continue in your bid to win her. And if you do, my fortune will be yours in perpetuity.”
“We will need a notary, my Lady,” says Mr. Guy’s companion quietly.
“You may call on the judge next door,” I answer. “You have perhaps fifteen minutes left before my brother-in-law returns.”
The younger man bows and takes a backward step. Guy follows suit, confusion still twisting his expression. They leave. As Helen has slipped from the room also, Philip and I now sit in silence. The room is perfectly still. It must be fancy, the tiredness of my vision, but a soft blue smoke lifts around our shoulders and a burning has entered my nose. A moment more and the illusion passes.
When they were young, Philip and Nick used to practice hitting targets with their pistols. I remember the smell of gunpowder, and the way that the smoke moved like a cloud. I thought then how easy it would be, too easy perhaps, to take aim and lay one’s finger upon a trigger, how death might follow the merest twitch of thought.
The words of my pledge run through my mind once more, and I see again the earnest understanding in the younger man’s eyes. I know I will not rescind the promise; it is my repayment to love and valour and is as sacred as a vow to the dead. Yet, dimly, the knowledge grows that something beyond my control has been set into motion.
CHAPTER NINE
Guy
“SHE MEANT WHAT SHE said and nothing more,” I insist again. “There is no call for reading into events more than exists, my lad.”
Time and time again during the last few days, since the strange meeting between Mr. Whip and Mrs. Egret, since the lady’s proposal that followed and the amendment of her will, Bartholomew has returned like a pesky wasp to the same dead point — what does she really intend us to do?
The tavern door opens again and a rush of freezing air scatters some of the sawdust from the table between us. “Only a fool would find encouragement in anything she said.”
Bartholomew catches my eye, says nothing, and takes another gulp.
“What?” I demand.
“Sir?” he says, mock-innocent.
“What do you mean by that silence?”
“Silence, Mr. Guy, usually signifies an absence of meaning.”
“Not with you.”
“If you want my opinion, sir, I am more than willing to give it.”
He raises his tankard. His clear blue eyes fix upon mine over its rim.
“Then give it.”
Bartholomew lays down his drink.
“The old lady has issued a challenge,” he says, eyes lowered, one finger tracing a pattern in the table’s sawdust.
“So you keep implying.”
“She has told us of the obstacle her conscience forbids her from removing. At the same time she has cleared a path for us to profit by the removal of that same obstacle.”
“It sounds like a riddle, boy.”
His finger, which has created a full circle in the sawdust, stops. “Rather an easy one to solve, wouldn’t you say? She cannot remove the obstacle. She is asking us to do it for her.”
“What would you have me do?” In spite of the bitterness of the ale and the sourness gathering in my mouth, I take another swift gulp. My stomach jumps.
“Sir, I would merely have you do all that your ambition and desire deems necessary.”
Ambition and desire — the words glow hot in my belly and I have a queasy sensation that Bartholomew is merely giving voice to my own thoughts which, too timid to form themselves into words, have remained in a dusty swirl of confusion. Within hours of our meeting with Mrs. Egret, I did recognize such a challenge. Even as she spoke those words “if he should die,” the vision of a bloody knife circled in my brain. Only when we had dealt with the notary and emerged from the dimness of the house into the clear winter’s day, did the idea of violence firmly consign itself to the world of nightmares. And there has been some comfort in resignation.
Ambition and desire are terrible things, much more punishing than defeat. Ambition and desire respond to hopes whether they are godly white or criminal black. They never rest.
Before Mrs. Egret’s “help,” I was just becoming used to the idea of failure. The early promise of the colony — the noble effort it represented — was already beginning to replace ambitions for success and expansion. My near-miss was already becoming my gleaming city upon a hill, a dream always receding, always out of reach. It had, if truth be told, already become the “almost” of my career, the country of my founding that never quite was. A laudable effort which is thwarted possesses a comfort, and a pristine, unsullied quality that no victory in the world can ever match.
And then there is Eliza. Eliza is the name whispered in my blood as it courses through the channels of my veins. Eliza is the word mumbled by my heart as it thumps its way through the dreamless night. How glorious it was beginning to seem to live a whole life under the golden shadow of unrequited love! How delicious indeed when I now consider the alternative of the stark, dangerous action that may result in the acquiring of all ambition, and the end of dreaming. Eliza, the dream, is worth any risk, but can the same be true of Eliza the woman? It is a paradox. The risk I am considering is the one thing that might win her as a prize and turn her from Eliza the dream to Eliza the woman. Would such a victory merely break the spell?
As I begin to answer Bartholomew, I feel like a man with outstretched fingertips reaching timorously into a dark and unknown space. “My ambition and desire,” I say quietly, “do not require the breaking of the sacred, moral codes passed down to us all and learned by rote in the schoolroom.” I wonder at the weakness of the statement, the placing of myself in the position of a child. Am I begging him to persuade me? Or am I pleading for a way to excuse myself from the obvious course of action?
Something like a smile, but more subtle, calculated, and intelligent than any I have seen on his or any other face, takes possession of his features. “Moral codes are themselves subject to perpetual change. In times of stability and opulence, compassion and charity reign supreme. In times of danger, the sword of valour is sharpened. Qualities rise. Qualities fall. My dear sir,” he says, lowering his voice to a whisper and edging across the table. “Until fate dispossessed me, I too learned by rote the lessons of history and morals. Humble though I am, I did learn this much: When the scribes and scholars come to review the history of the world, they will find there is only one consistent virtue. That virtue is success.”
I move back in my seat, a mannerism designed to magnify my distaste. My ale is almost drained and a new thirst has already begun. The barman is filling a jug, I notice, and will be at our bench before long. “You sound like the worst kind of skeptic, young man,” I tell him. “One who denies the existence of human good must surely deny God also.”
“Whose god?” he asks in a whisper. “We are colonizers, Mr. Guy. Our God cannot afford to be faint-hearted.”
I feel like the traveller who, having stumbled upon the wrong path, sees no alternative but to keep going. If only I had handed Bartholomew over to the authorities as I had originally planned before leaving the colony. If only I had not unchained him on the ship, or at least confined him where he could not roam. If only Bartholomew had not persuaded me to bring the old adventurer, Whip, to Mrs. Egret. These and so many more are missed chances for a safe return to modest ambition, or no ambition at all. Now it is too late. Night is drawing in. Our destination can only be arrived at through the most deadly of perils, physical and moral. I have given this young jester the power to influence others as well as myself. I have allowed myself to be tempted, and the temptation is such that only the most self-defeating cowardice could induce me not to yield. If I falter now, my whole life will be rendered void of meaning. To others I might become the man who almost colonized the eastern portion of Newfoundland. To myself I would become the man who saw a chance and closed his eyes until it was over. I would have chosen failure over success and would thoroughly deserve the lack of attention given to me by Eliza, her mean-spirited father, and even Mrs. Egret and the old man. How right the young man before me is to invoke the heretics’ argument about the changeability of virtue. All I really know about Bartholomew is that he is a liar and a thief. Yet everybody looks upon him with favour. His charm is undoubtedly his wildness, the fact he is quite unfettered by morality.
The barman arrives and I nod. His foul beer comes in a torrent, sloshing and foaming to the top of my tankard. He fills my companion’s mug also and leaves. The Crossroads Tavern has always been a place of hard business. Despite the extra security of hushed voices, the people here know not to listen in.
