Chapter Seventeen

 

Midnight. The sky was so black there was no discerning where it ended and the sea began, where the sea ended and land began. It didn't matter.

Bartholomew left the lighthouse, secure in Seamus's good care, and started up the stairway to the upper level of the bluff. The wind tore at his slicker, slapping the heavy, oiled fabric against his legs. Like a trickster, a gust swirled to lift off his hood. He felt the cold rain dribble onto his face and kept going.

Nothing seemed to matter, not the rain, not the wind, and, most especially, not him. He was nothing, less than nothing. He no longer wished that he could be reborn, but that he could cease to exist entirely.

His boot slipped on a slick wooden step and he began to fall. Only instinct and his hands on the rails kept him upright, though one knee banged painfully into the stair. He welcomed the pain. It helped hold back the images haunting his brain.

Images of Ariah and Pritchard, together.

The wind was so fierce that to keep from being swept away he had to cling to the cable strung along the board path to the houses. He blinked water from his eyes and swiped a hand down his streaming face. Far ahead, a thousand miles at least, a pinprick of light beckoned. His house? Ariah's? Was it her bedroom window still alight? Hers and Pritchard's?

A keening gust knocked him to his knees. He shoved himself back up and danced sideways before his grip on the cable reined him in. Old Seamus had warned him it was bad out. T'would be easy, the old seadog had said, to be blown clean off the bluff and drowned in the swirling black brine below. The edge of the bluff wasn't more than twenty-five feet away from where he stood. How tempting to simply let go, to let the storm end his pain.

Somehow he made it to the compound. The gate squeaked as it swung open. The light that had guided him home came from his own porch. The assistant keepers' house next door was dark. He walked around to the north side where he could see the windows of the master bedroom. They too were dark. He stood there a long time, staring up at the windows and wishing with all his heart that the wind tonight had been stronger.

Hours later, Hester flung open the office door and stared at Bartholomew where he sat behind his desk. His dark hair, always curly from the dampness but usually neatly combed, looked to her like one of his dratted birds had nested in it. A tracery of red colored the whites of his eyes and fatigue deepened the lines in his face. His slicker lay in a puddle on the floor. On the desk stood an empty bottle of whiskey.

"What do you want, Hester?"

Weariness and dejection weighted his voice.

"You been up all night, haven't you?" she said. "Frettin' over that . . . that—"

The rich brown of his eyes turned to ice, promising retribution as lethal as a shark's bite if she used her favorite foul name for Ariah Scott. No, it was Ariah Monteer now. A smile as sweet as three day old fish guts curved Hester's lips. Seeing Bartholomew tie his insides into knots over Pritchard getting under that girl's skirts instead of him was almost worth having the slut as part of their family.

"She belongs to Pritchard now," Hester taunted, "and I aim to make blame sure you don't never get your hands on her."

Tense moments passed as he studied his wife. Her drab, overly-beribboned dress hung on her like an ill-fitted sail. "You should see Doctor Wills, Hester. You've lost weight. Makes you look like an old hag."

"Ain't nothing wrong with me that getting away from this gawdawful bluff won’t cure."

He smiled. It felt good to goad her into a temper. Maybe a good fight would make him feel better. "Are you sure? I can tell by the way you hobble around here that your feet are hurting you more."

Her eyes widened at that.

Bartholomew's smile spread into a self-satisfied grin. "You didn't think I was aware that you were having trouble with your feet, did you? Or is it your legs now too? And you've been drinking enough water to sink a steamship. Not to mention that demon moonshine you call a tonic. You spend half the night on that thunder mug of yours, and three-quarters of the day in the water closet. What's wrong with you, Hester? What sins are you atoning for with your health?"

Rigid with anger, she sneered back at him. "You're the one been sinnin'. Lusting after that girl like a ruttin' bull. That's always been your albatross, hasn't it? Lust. It eats away at you like the rot of dead flesh. You married me so you could pant and rut in my body night after night, but I put a stop to that, didn't I?" Her laugh was shrill, with an edge of dementia. "And you ain't never forgiven me ’cause lust is what you live for."

In a dramatic gesture, she flung her arm into the air, her other hand on her padded breast. "They which lusteth after flesh shall not inherit the kingdom of God."

"'But the fruit of the Spirit is love'," he answered in a voice as calm as hers was shrill. "That's something you've never known, isn't it, Hester? Love. I might have come to love you, if you hadn't tricked me into marrying you and locked the door on me. But your spirit has been consumed by bitterness. All that's left of you is a shell, like the ones that wash up on the sand, still slimy from the snail that abandoned it. Your own shame made you afraid to let anyone love you, and now, no one ever will. You can be sure of that."

"Damn you, Bartholomew Noon. Damn your—" she searched for a word foul enough for her intent, big enough for her pride "—execrable hide. I hope that lousy piece of flesh hanging between your legs shrivels up and falls off for lack of use."

He broke into rich peals of laughter. Hester's gaunt face flushed and she fled the room, leaving the door open behind her. Bartholomew's laughter ended as abruptly as it began. He sank back in his chair, drained by more than the unpleasant encounter. Hester as right; he'd slept little during the long, lonely night. Every time he'd closed his eyes, scenes of Ariah with Pritchard flashed onto his inner eyelids in three dimensional colors like the double-imaged cards in the stereoptic viewer Hester had bought in Tillamook. There was no denying it. He loved Ariah, and it was eating him up to think of her being bedded by that awkward cub, Pritchard. Only it was worse even than Hester had described.

With a sigh he dragged himself to his feet. For a time, he gazed out the window toward the lighthouse. It was a fine day. The storm had passed on, leaving clear skies. Far out over the sea a cormorant soared on the wind, a graceful black arc against the azure sky. Closer lay the spot where, only two nights ago, he had worshipped Ariah's sweet body, with his mouth, with his hands. Would she forget what they had shared, now that she was married?

Restless with his troubled thoughts, he wandered into the living room to stare out at the house that now sheltered her. She had skipped her usual chores this morning. Was she all right? Had Pritchard misused her?

He didn't hear Hester come to the doorway.

"If it pains you so much to see that girl wed to my poor nephew, why don't you resign your post here?" she asked. "We could move back to town and you could run for mayor. Old Duncan's already said he ain't gonna run again."

He didn’t bother to turn and face her. "I've told you, I have no intention of moving back to town. I'm happy here with the sea and my birds."

"And your slut over there in Pritchard's bed?" she retorted. "What about me? Don’t my happiness matter? I hate it here, Bartholomew. That's all that's wrong with me. If you're really worried about my health, move me back to town and just see how healthy I can get."

"You forfeited your right to my concern the day you locked me out of your room, Hester. I've spent my entire life looking after the welfare of others. Now I'm going to see to my own, wherever and however I have to."

Hester snorted. "Like in that trollop's bed? I'll see you in hell first."

He turned and pinned her with his hard penetrating gaze. "You've done your best for seven years to make my life a hell, and you've done a good job of it. But no more. I no longer care what you do, Hester."

His attention switched back to the house forty feet from his own, dismissing her as though she were a bug on the wall. Hester had always known he didn't love her, not even when he married her—in spite of the way she'd worked her fingers to the bone, cooking and cleaning and caring for his paralyzed pa, and for him too. She wasn't good enough for Bartholomew Noon. No, she was hill people, looked down on all her life because she'd had the misfortune to be born into a family of poor white Southern trash.

If she could be honest with herself, she would have to admit it was his very lack of love for her that drove her to his bed the night his father died. That and the need to secure her future. He had wanted her body; oh yes, the same way Lenny Joe had, back when she was sixteen. Lenny Joe had run away to avoid paying for what she'd given him. But not Bartholomew. She'd made sure Bartholomew didn't get away. And she'd made him pay for his filthy use of her body.

The way she'd always wished she could've done to Lenny Joe.

♥ ♥ ♥

Ariah closed the cover of Dr. Chase's book and went to the stove to check the roast she was browning for supper. She'd had enough of the doctor's Hints on Housekeeping. "Do everything in its proper time. Keep everything to its proper use. Put everything in its proper place." Simply reading the words clasped a constricting steel band around her chest. The good Dr. Chase obviously didn't believe in enjoying life. She imagined him lying awake at night, unable to sleep until he'd thought up a new rule to live by.

She turned the roast, and glanced around the kitchen. The room needed something bright to make it more cheerful. She considered moving her mother's decorative plates from the dining room where she'd hung them, and decided against it. Every room in the house needed dressing up. She'd ask Pritchard for yellow gingham for kitchen curtains and a matching tablecloth.

When Hester had set her to righting the house that was to be her new home, Ariah had been appalled at what she'd found. Dirty dishes overflowed the sink onto the workspace, mingling with ancient editions of the Headlight-Herald, empty cartons, spilled food, and tin cans filled with dottle from Seamus's pipe. Piles of ashes and wood chips waited under the stove to ignite to the entire house. Dried food crusted the tabletop. Greasy fingerprints marred the walls.

The furniture was still dull and unpolished. The family of mice she'd discovered in the pantry refused to budge, and the scent of tobacco, rancid grease and wood smoke clung stubbornly to everything in spite of her scrubbing. Ariah doubted anyone had dusted, polished, or swept since the house was built the year before. She was sick of grimy windows and rebellious dust balls.

For two self-indulgent hours after Pritchard left that morning to relieve Seamus, Ariah remained in bed, pondering her situation. Her usual optimism was in a dreadful slump. No matter how she scrutinized the matter, there seemed no answer to her dilemma. She was in love with one man, married to another. Pritchard's favorite subject next to baseball was himself. He had never heard of Plato, called Shakespeare a fop, and insisted that the only birds worth bothering with were those that made good eating, like ducks, geese, robins, and Bartholomew's pheasants. His hands on her body left her cold as the sea in winter. His kisses had the appeal of the four-inch greenish-yellow slugs in the forest.

Was this how Hester felt toward Bartholomew? Was that why she locked him from her room the day after they were married? No, that wasn't possible. Gentleness and sensitivity were second nature to Bartholomew. He could have been no less tender with Hester than he had been with her.

Bartholomew. Ariah closed her eyes against the sting of tears. She would not give in to her need for him. How could she ever face him again? To see the pain in his eyes, because of what he and everyone else assumed Pritchard had done to her in bed last night would be more than she could endure.

She had bled after Pritchard's battering of her, but only a spot. And when she had examined herself, curious about this very intimate, very sore, part of her body which could inflame men almost to violence, and which, under Bartholomew's gentle talented hands, had given her a glimpse into heaven, she found the precious membrane still firmly in place, right at the mouth of her feminine opening. If she had her way, it would stay that way. At least until she and her new husband could come to some sort of understanding, and develop some sort of basis for mutual regard.

From outside came the clear, flute-like notes of bird song. Out the window she could see a bird as yellow as a buttercup perched on the porch railing. She gasped at its beauty, but before she could note its unique markings, it flew off toward the forest north of the house.

A strong need to be outside, to explore that tantalizing wall of greenness so alive with promise, had assailed her since the moment she arrived. Now the urge overwhelmed her. If she kept the house between her and anyone who might be watching, surely she could reach the trees without being seen. She didn't want to be spotted. Hester would be angry with her for not doing any chores and Bartholomew . . .

In a defiant bid for freedom, Ariah snatched her shawl from a hook by the back door and fled the house.

♥ ♥ ♥

A flutter of pink as bright as a wild rhododendron blossom caught Bartholomew's eye. He yanked the lace curtain aside and peered closer. Someone was running toward the forest beyond the compound, something fleet-footed and dressed in billowing folds of pink. Ariah.

His heart soared as he watched her slim vibrant figure vanish into the forest, taking the old Indian trail that led to the beach this side of Barnagat. If he circled through the trees from behind the barn, he might intercept her and Hester would never know. He let the curtain drop and forced himself to walk to the back door with a calmness that belied the excitement surging through his veins.

♥ ♥ ♥

Like a mother's arms, the woods enveloped Ariah in their soft, shadowed world. The serenity sank into her spirit, soothing her. Like a sponge, the lush layers of moss and evergreen needles absorbed the sound of her footsteps on the narrow, winding Indian trail that was as ancient as the Sitka spruce towering overhead.

The rest of the land was densely carpeted in multiple shades of green. Trees, logs—even the bogs—were verdant with moss and lichen, making forays off the trail treacherous. Except for the path, there wasn't a square inch of ground or bark naked of growth. Ferns higher than her waist lifted feathery fronds to the filtered sunlight that prevented total darkness beneath the towering trees. Tri-petaled trillium blossoms, fading from white to rose as they aged, mingled with thimbleberries and false lily of the valley. Broad leaves hiding small spikes of tiny white flowers scented the air with a vanilla-like aroma. Everywhere Ariah looked she saw a land as primeval as the day God created it. Formidable, forceful, enduring, yet soft as velvet, it encompassed her like Bartholomew's embrace.

A loud caw brought up her head in time to see a bird flash past in a blur of blue and black. There was no sign of the yellow bird she had seen on the porch. She was crouching at the side of the trail, examining a sprawl of redwood sorrel with rose-pink blossoms the exact shade of her dress, when her flesh prickled as though caressed by unseen hands. Slowly she rose to her feet and turned. He stood not more than thirty feet away, his dark hair gleaming in a shaft of sunlight. He looked at home there in the woods, among the wild, aromatic vegetation and the rich, fertile earth. Primal. Ariah let out a glad cry and ran toward him, but he held up his hands.

"Don't try to come closer." Bartholomew gestured to a low spot between them that was dank with stagnant water and bright with large blossoms that looked like sheaths of yellow satin encasing golden phalluses. "There's a bog here."

They stared at each other across the smelly morass, while insects buzzed and tree frogs belched from hidden nooks.

"Are you all right?" he asked finally.

She nodded, wanting desperately to throw herself into his arms and tell him how awful her night had been, but she knew that would only make him feel worse, and she feared making a fool of herself by bursting into tears.

Bartholomew found her more seductive than ever, surrounded by the lush wild greenery. His wood nymph. Her hair hung loose over one shoulder, making his fingers itch to caress the silky strands.

"I saw a Steller's jay,” she said lamely.

He smiled. "Did you?"

She shrugged. "We don't have them back East. What are those odd flowers called?"

"Skunk cabbage. Because of the stink."

Another long silence yawned between them. There seemed so much to say and yet so little. The important messages were evident in their eyes. Longing, need, sorrow. Finally, he lifted a hand, then let it fall uselessly to his side. "I'd better get back. It will be time for me to relieve Pritchard soon."

Ariah bit her lip to keep from begging him to stay. He backed up one step, another, and still she said nothing, only stood staring at him and trying not to cry.

Bartholomew forced himself to turn away. He had gone only half a dozen feet before he wheeled about to find her where he'd left her. "What was it you said to me in Greek before the ceremony when I gave you over to Pritchard?"

Her words came slowly, soft and rich with emotion. "I said 'We have eaten bread and salt together'. It means that we have shared food, suffered hardships together, discovered mutual joy, and nothing can break the bond that ties us." Her voice broke as she added, "Not even death."

He stared at her a moment, pain in his eyes. He nodded, turned and vanished into the trees.

Ariah returned home a short while later to a house reeking of smoke and Hester flapping her apron over a scorched roast.

"Have you got a cerebellum in that head o' yours?" Hester railed. "You could've indicted the house on fire, going off and leaving meat on a hot fire like that."

Ariah rushed to the stove. The meat was black char on one side, raw on the other. Hester moved it to the sink and opened the windows to air out the room. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Save your worthless exculpations. Knew you was a useless piece the moment I laid eyes on you, but Pritchard had to have you. Well, let me tell you, Miss High and Mighty—" Hester hovered so close Ariah could smell the tonic the older woman was always sipping "—you best make him happy or . . ."

"Hester." Bartholomew stood in the open doorway, his dark eyes like chips of obsidian, cold and dangerous.

Hester immediately set to defending herself. "She went off and left a roast on the stove. She—"

"Hester!" He moved to the sink and studied the roast. "Only one side is burned. Cut that part off, the rest should be fine." The raw side was speckled with a reddish-brown substance. He scooped some on his finger, sniffed, and tasted it with the tip of his tongue. "You used cayenne on this?" he asked Ariah with a grimace.

"Cayenne?" she repeated. "What's that?"

A small tin sat near the sink. He picked it up and showed it to her. "You didn't use this on the roast?"

"No, why would—"

"What's that filthy thing doing in here?" Hester screeched, pointing to a barn cat calmly licking her tail.

"That's Toots. I locked her in the pantry so she would catch the mice in there." Ariah went into the passage between the dining room and the kitchen. The door to the pantry stood open. "I don't understand how she got out."

"I believe I do." Bartholomew tossed the tin of cayenne pepper into the air and caught it deftly with his other hand, his hard penetrating gaze on Hester.

"Why are you looking at me that way?" Hester retorted. "She's the numskull who can't tell cayenne pepper from regular and can’t be trusted to do a simple thing like season a roast."

"But I didn't put the pepper—"

"It doesn't matter, Ariah. Simply wash it off." He turned to his bristling wife. "Come along, Hester. You can get back to your own business now."

"Speaking of minding your own business, what're you doing here?"

"I was headed to the light and saw the smoke. Come on, I'll walk you back to the house."

When she opened her mouth to argue, he said softly, "Or do you wish to cancel that little bargain we made?"

With uncharacteristic meekness, Hester left through the back door. Turning back to Ariah, he cocked his head toward the cat. "Toots?"

Ariah stifled a grin. "She's always hungry and good at catching . . .mice."

His eyes softened to charcoal. He chuckled, and was gone, leaving her to wonder about the bargain he had made with Hester and why she suspected it had something to do with her.

♥ ♥ ♥

artholomew left Hester at the porch of their house and went on to the light. Dreading the sight of Pritchard's smug, satisfied face, he opened the door and closed it softly behind him.

"Evening, Pritchard."

The young man jumped halfway out of his chair. "Oh! Uncle Bart." Pritchard settled himself at the table and went back to staring at the logbook lying open in front of him.

Bartholomew frowned. Something was troubling his nephew, but he had no intention of asking what. He started up the stairs, taking them two at a time until he heard Pritchard call out. Gritting his teeth, he peered at the young man over the curved metal railing. "What is it, Pritchard?"

"Could I speak with you a moment?"

The nervous edge in the boy's voice did not bode well. Feeling like a crab in a baited cage, Bartholomew retraced his steps. Pritchard avoided his uncle's direct gaze—another bad sign—giving all his attention to the barometer on the wall.

"I was wondering if . . .do women who haven't . . . you know, virgins . . . is it always . . . difficult the first time?"

Bartholomew's shoulders slumped. He didn't want to hear this, didn't want to learn how miserable Ariah's wedding night might have been with an inexperienced, insensitive cub like Pritchard. "I'm afraid I've had very little experience with virgins, Pritchard."

"You mean, except for Aunt Hester?"

Bartholomew's pause might have been answer enough for a more discerning man, but Pritchard only stared at his uncle, waiting. "Yes," Bartholomew finally said, "except for your aunt. If you are referring to the initial tightness—"

"Initial tightness?" Pritchard's laugh contained both relief and fear. "Yeah, well, that gets easier, doesn't it?"

A question formed in Bartholomew's mind. A question he did not want to ask. He had known a man once who had claimed an inability to consummate his marriage until his wife's hymen was surgically removed. How Bartholomew hated to think of Ariah having to endure such pain and embarrassment.

"It's like learning to be patient, I guess," Pritchard said hopefully. "Each time is easier?"

"It's a simple matter of learning control, Pritchard."

Pritchard tried again to laugh, but it came out hollow and desperate. "Yeah, without that, a poor fellow would find himself making a mess on the sheets like a thirteen year old, instead of where he ought to. Glad I don't have to worry about that. It would be—" his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard "—humiliating."

Bartholomew cursed wordlessly. On the one hand, he was thrilled to think that the boy hadn't been able to take what he coveted himself. But on the other, Pritchard's fear of losing control was bound to cause more problems. Guilt ate at Bartholomew as he fought the urge to enhance Pritchard's fear rather than ease it.

Abruptly, Pritchard shoved the logbook into a drawer. "I'd best get home." He tried for a grin that came out more like a grimace. "I have a wife waiting for me now."

Before Bartholomew could utter a word, the young man bolted out the door.