CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

In spite of the improved feelings between them, Murdoch didn’t stay at Enid’s much past midnight. A rug on the floor was hardly conducive to a good night’s sleep. He slipped away into the quiet streets. The lamps had been extinguished, but the snow reflected light enough to see by. He trudged past the darkened houses, where an occasional lamp revealed a late bedtime.

When he entered his house, he paused as he always did to listen to sounds coming from Mr. and Mrs. Kitchen’s quarters. All was quiet, and Murdoch hoped Arthur was having a rare peaceful night. The first shock of their announcement had subsided, and Murdoch wished fervently the move to the fresh country air of Muskoka would bring Arthur health.

Once in his room, he undressed quickly. The fire Mrs. Kitchen always built for him had died to glowing embers and the chill of the winter night had seeped in. Shivering, he jumped into bed, wishing not for the first time there was a warm body waiting for him to lie next to. And again, he cursed himself for not insisting on marrying Liza sooner. He had never experienced her undressed body pressed against his and the regret of that tormented him. He thumped his pillow, rolled on his side, and deliberately tried to wrench his thoughts away from the past and back to Enid and her generous embrace.

He closed his eyes and immediately felt sleep slip away. Damn. He knew what that signified. He tried to lie still but he couldn’t, and the tossing and turning began. He sat up to check the alarm clock on his dresser. It was already two o’clock. He thumped the feathers in his pillow and buried his face in it. Arthur Kitchen had once told him that the best cure of insomnia was loving conjugal connections but clearly that wasn’t proving true. He’d just had loving connections and he was still wide awake. Arthur may have advised love for insomnia, but Father Fair, the priest at St. Paul’s, on the other hand, said the best cause of a good night’s sleep was a pure conscience. Murdoch decided that what was keeping him awake was guilt. He sat up again, trying to decide if it was worth it to light a pipe. It was. He reached for his Powhatan, stuffed it with tobacco, lit it, and drew deeply on the stem. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d never describe himself as a randy tomcat, but he did seem to be having divided feelings yet again among three women; one was deceased to be sure but the other two weren’t. And to one of those, he had made promises of the flesh that he didn’t think he could keep. The shadow of Liza was present at the best of times when he was with Enid, but now someone else had come into the picture. He couldn’t get thoughts of Amy Slade out of his mind.

“And it’s not just the pantaloons,” he said aloud, punctuating his words with a puff of his pipe. What then? She was pretty enough, but he’d encountered women who were as attractive and he had hardly given them a second thought. Well, to be honest, maybe a second or even a third thought, but nothing like this. He’d just come from intimacy with Enid and like a sly fox his fantasies had slipped away to Miss Slade and the notion of kissing that full mouth. No, that wasn’t accurate either. Yes, he would like to hold and kiss her, he wouldn’t deny that, but there was something else netting his thoughts. He wanted her good opinion. He wanted her to smile that bright smile at him. He wanted those cool grey eyes to look into his with admiration. Murdoch groaned and puffed away some more. What was he, a green boy mooning over the first girl he’d met? He couldn’t remember ever feeling like this about Liza. Their love had been immediate and reciprocal and he’d never doubted that she was his only and complete love. But was he deluding himself? What if she’d lived and they married and then he found himself hankering after somebody else? Was that the kind of man he was? Wanting what he couldn’t have, then losing interest when it was his? Why didn’t he want to marry Enid Jones, a woman he had been pining after for months?

He realized he was biting so hard on the stem of his pipe he was in danger of snapping it off. His and Enid’s difference in religion was a big obstacle but not insurmountable, and he was aware that she had been engaging him less and less in doctrinal discussions lately. If she converted to Catholicism, any priest would agree to the union. Mixed marriages were not unheard of. No, he couldn’t make that an excuse. There were other reasons floating at the back of his mind as to why he couldn’t marry her. What the hell were they? Was he a man incapable of monogamy? He had become engaged to Liza only a few months after they had met and until she died of the typhoid seven months later, he could honestly say he had not been concerned about any other woman he’d encountered no matter how attractive she had been. But that faithfulness had not been put to the test of time. Would it have lasted? There was no answer to that of course except self-knowledge and at this moment he felt a stranger to himself, doubting everything.

Damn, damn. He put his pipe down and swung his legs out of bed. Above the headboard hung a brass crucifix, so familiar he hardly noticed it any more. Now in the dim light, he thought Christ was looking down on him in disappointment. He padded over to his dresser and for the first time in a long while, he took out his rosary. He threaded the beads through his fingers. The wooden beads were smooth and cool to his touch. His mother had given him the rosary when he was six years old on the occasion of his first communion. The crucifix and chain were of silver, the beads olive wood and he knew she had scrimped for months to save enough money to pay for it. He smiled to himself. He had secretly hoped to receive a bag of marbles even though he knew a rosary was the typical gift. Poor Mamma. He never thought about her without pity and the old stirring of anger that she had died so miserably.

He went to the foot of the bed and dropped to his knees. His inclination was to say the Sorrowful Mysteries, but he thought he’d be better served tonight by acclaiming the Glorious Mysteries. He held the silver crucifix and murmured, “I believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven…”

He continued, the rosary a path of prayer that he followed. At the end of the second decade, he stopped. What was the point of repeating prayers that seemed empty to him? He was not connecting with God’s presence. Unbidden, memories jumped into his mind: of saying the rosary in the evenings with his mother and Susanna, Bertie joining in with shouts of Happy Christmas, no matter what the season. Harry, his father, was never a part of these sessions, and so the telling of the beads was a moment of happiness, more like a game really, especially when he was younger and he was learning to recite the prayers perfectly. His mother had always been so pleased when he got it right. Susanna soon overtook him though and nothing could match her fervency and accuracy. Poor Cissie. All his family had gone now except for Harry, and Murdoch doubted he would ever in his lifetime have fond feelings for his father.

He fingered the small medallion on the rosary, a depiction of Christ holding out his arms to a child. Murdoch thought about Agnes. The priest had told Murdoch at one of his infrequent confessions that he was becoming too worldly and not contemplating the workings of heaven, but he felt powerless to stop the drift away from his faith. Faced daily with Arthur Kitchen’s slow and painful death Murdoch had asked, Where is God’s will in this? Priests didn’t like questions like that and he’d been sent packing with a heavy penance to perform.

He got to his feet, stiff from the cold hard floor, and returned the rosary to its velvet bag in the drawer. He heard Arthur cough downstairs and the murmur of Mrs. Kitchen’s voice as she ministered to him. So much for Arthur’s peaceful night.

Murdoch climbed back into bed, rubbing his feet together to warm then. Perhaps it was a blessing that Enid was called back to Wales. He knew he could never be with a woman if he had any doubts at all. It was a dishonourable thing to do. But then what? Would he start to court Miss Slade? He grinned in the darkness. He didn’t know what her religious beliefs were, but they weren’t likely to be anything conventional. And that thought was quite reassuring.