Chapter Twenty

 

"There she goes again. Just like yesterday, the little trollop."

Hester winced as she limped to the next window where she could see better past the assistant keepers' house. On the far side of the clearing, Ariah, in a cobalt blue dress, was vanishing into the forest. At least this time Bartholomew wasn't sniffing along behind her, like a dog after a bitch in heat. Hester had made sure of that by insisting he catch them some fresh perch for supper. With Pritchard at the light, Hester was alone at the compound, except for that old fool, Seamus, who was asleep. It was the chance she had been waiting for.

Hester stepped outside and looked about to make certain no one was around. Her feet and legs, especially the bad one, throbbed with pain as she hobbled across the lawn to the other house, aided by a broken broom handle she used as a cane. The blister on her heel had become infected, and the whiskey she had poured over it to cleanse it had done no good. She wasn't about to waste any more of her precious supply. The blister would heal eventually, and her health would return.

When no one answered Hester's knock next door, she opened the back door and slipped inside. This time she would get rid of that slut for good.

♥ ♥ ♥

Ariah found the forest dim and shadowy. Night rain had left the cape shrouded in mist so thick the tip of the bluff where the light stood was completely hidden. All that had been visible from Ariah's window that morning were gossamer wisps of gray, giving her the illusion of having awakened in a strange and alien world. Even the normal cries of the sea birds had been hushed, and an eerie, surreal quiet lay over everything.

The fog had cleared by mid-morning, leaving low hanging skies and a somber gray ocean that battered angrily at the solid mass of the bluff. Bartholomew had been accompanying her on her trips into the woods, armed with a rifle, but last night Hester had created such a scene over the matter that, today, Ariah had stolen away an hour earlier than usual to avoid causing more trouble.

She placed some food on the trail and settled down a few yards away to wait. Suddenly she realized she was no longer alone. There was no warning. The dog simply appeared, as if he had materialized out of the vanished mist.

He hovered hungrily over the food she'd brought, afraid to take his eyes off her long enough to eat. Ariah went stock-still. A wave of her old fear washed over her, and she fought an impulse to run. For an eternity they stared at each other, the half-starved dog and the woman, and in that moment, Ariah's fear fled. He needed her, and she him, for in spite of her crowded days, she was lonely. Only when she was with Bartholomew did she feel truly alive and happy, but those stolen interludes were painfully rare.

The dog snatched up a piece of gravy-soaked bread, his piercing gaze never leaving the woman.

"Good boy," she murmured softly. "Go on, eat your fill. I won't hurt you."

As if taking her at her word, he lay down with the food between his front paws and ate greedily. When the food was gone, he stood. Slowly, she stretched out her hand, praying she had been right in her assessment of him.

"Come here, boy. I won't harm you. Let me pet that lush fur and show you that I want to be your friend."

The dog cocked his head, listening, but made no move toward her. A reflection of her own searing loneliness stared out at her from the large sable eyes in the regal, black and white head. His ears twitched and his gaze shifted to the trail behind her. Ariah turned to see what he was looking at, seeing nothing. When she glanced back, he was gone.

"Ariah? Be ye there, lassie?" a voice called.

Old Seamus shuffled into view around a bend in the trail, the rolling gait of his bowed legs giving him the appearance of a man still struggling to get his land legs after months at sea. His corncob pipe protruded from the salt and pepper bristles of his mustache. Suspenders held up baggy trousers that had seen better days and not nearly enough soap.

"You plan on burnin' down the house?" he drawled without preamble in the blunt way he had. "Or was that fire on the stove accidental-like?"

Ariah's eyes widened with alarm. "The beans! But how could they have boiled dry enough already to catch fire?"

"No water on 'em fer one thing. Fire hot enough to melt the plaster off the ceiling, fer another."

"But the fire was low, and I put the beans way at the back."

Seamus harumped. "Weren't when I found 'em. An' ye left that doctorin' book ye're allus a-readin' right next to the blasted pot. Good'n singed it be now."

"That can't be. I left the book on the table."

She rushed toward home and heard him muttering as he followed. "Tolt Bartholomew that hen crowin' this morning boded no good. He never listens. It's them hellfast witch's modern doin's people a-gone so bilge-brained over. 'Lectric lights an' tele-a-phones. Bah! Come to no good, wait an' see if it don't."

"Did you put it out?" she asked, thinking of the fire.

"Don't do no good to put it outside, cussed old hen," he said indignantly. "She'd jest go on crowin'. Woulda kilt her, was it up to me, but Bartholomew wouldn't hear of it."

Confused, Ariah screwed up her face. He was always talking about superstitions and reciting old tales of bad luck or good. Her Greek relatives were the same way, but it was all nonsense to her.

"I meant the fire, Seamus. Did you did put it out?"

"O' course I did, lass," he shouted. "Ye think me a total fool?"

Ariah hid a smile. For all his idiosyncrasies and orneriness, she liked the old man.

They had nearly reached home when Bartholomew came toward them with a string of fish. "Brought you some fresh perch, Ariah. The fishing was good today. My bait can was full in no time." He nodded to Seamus who was lighting a match for his pipe by scratching the tip with a broken thumbnail.

"On the way back I noticed that the pheasant cocks are displaying for the females," Bartholomew continued speaking to Ariah. "I thought you might like to go watch them."

“I can’t now.” Ariah rushed past him up the steps onto the back porch. "I've ruined supper again. It's the third time this week. Pritchard will sulk all evening if I don't have something prepared on time, and Hester . . ."

Her voice trailed off and she cursed herself silently for bringing up the woman's name. It always angered Bartholomew to learn that his wife had been reprimanding Ariah. Torn between apologizing and explaining, she clamped her mouth shut and decided to do neither.

Behind her, as she ran into the house, she heard Seamus mutter, "Tolt ye that cussed hen's crowin' meant trouble, lad. Woulda burnt the house down if'n I hadn't a-woke up early and smelled the smoke."

"The hen set fire to the house?" Bartholomew said with laughter in his voice.

"No, dagnab it! Yer woman done it, sure as I'm a-standing here."

Bartholomew stalked into the house and silently surveyed the damage done in the kitchen, his mouth taut and grim. "Damn the woman! She's gone too far this time." He headed for the door. Ariah grabbed his arm, afraid of what he might do.

"Please, don't go yelling at Hester. She doesn't mean any real harm."

"You don't call this real?" He jerked a thumb at the mess on the stove and the blackened wall behind. "What if Seamus hadn't waked up in time? He could have died."

Ariah blanched. "No. I'm sure she wouldn’t have interfered if she hadn’t believed I'd be back before anything like that could happen."

He shook his head at her in wonder. "She doesn't deserve your kindness, Ariah. I told you once, never turn your back on her. There's a sickness in her you don't understand. Hell, even I don't understand it. And I'm not talking about her physical health, either."

He brushed a hand through his dark tousled hair and down the back of his neck. "Maybe it's my fault, I don't know. Maybe I should have tried harder to . . ." He couldn't say the words. And, deep down, he didn't really believe that learning to love the woman who’d tricked him into marrying her would have made any difference. Hester would have seen such an emotion as a weakness in a man. A weakness she would have used to her advantage, to make his life even more miserable.

At the table where he'd quietly seated himself, Seamus cleared his throat. "What's ailing that woman was in 'er long ’fore you come along, lad. Don't be puttin' blame where it don't belong."

"I can't just let her get away with this either," Bartholomew countered. "Look at all she’s done to sabotage Ariah's housekeeping and make her look bad: the cayenne pepper, the sand in the bed, the spoiled meat in the stew she knew Ariah would be blamed for when we all became sick.”

Cursing, he punched his fist into the wall. “And Harlequin. She killed him, I know it. I've talked to the woman till I'm blue in the face. I've even threatened her." He shook his head. "She actually believes she's doing right, trying to ruin her own nephew's marriage. Who knows what she'll think up next? Somehow I've got to put a stop to it. Any way I can."

His face hard and implacable, Bartholomew slammed out the door. Ariah took one step after him, only to find Old Seamus standing in her way. "He's a good lad, lass. Let him deal with it as he sees fit. He'll not harm the woman, though the Lord knows she deserves it."

Ariah choked back tears. "But it's my fault. If I had never come here, none of this would have happened."

"Now there ye be wrong. Only difference 'tween now an' afore ye came was in who she aimed her poison at. Used to all fall on the lad. Sneaky, dirty, little things fer no reason anybody could name 'cept her."

The tears spilled over then, but she wasn't thinking of herself. She was thinking of Bartholomew and all he had suffered. Surely he didn't deserve such pain. How she wished she could make it up to him, soothe and comfort him with her love. The love she couldn't seem to feel for her own husband.

♥ ♥ ♥

Pritchard dashed into the house shortly after four that afternoon. He found Ariah in the kitchen, attempting to create a palatable supper for him, her eyes red-rimmed from crying.

"High tide in an hour," he said as he rushed through the kitchen toward the stairs, oblivious to the blackened kitchen and the stench of smoke and burned beans. "The fellows will be working out playing positions at the poker game tonight so I'll be going into town."

Seamus, seated at the table, muttered a quiet "Humph."

Ariah dried her hands on her apron and followed her husband. She found him in his room, pouring water into the wash basin with his right hand, unbuttoning his shirt with the left.

"I didn't know you played poker," she said lamely. It was the third time in the past week that he had gone into town. Since he couldn't get back until the next high tide early in the morning, Ariah was left alone in the house most of the night. Not having to suffer his ardent, puppy-dog stares was a welcome relief, but did little to ease her loneliness.

Pritchard barely glanced at her, too busy stripping off his undershirt so he could wash. "I don't very often, but if I don't go tonight they might leave me off the team."

"The team?"

"You know, the Tillamook Kings." He soaped up a cloth and began to scrub his arms. "Our baseball team. Stuffy Simms chose the name. He's a fisherman and king salmon is mostly what they catch here."

Ariah wasn't sure she understood. "Aren't you hungry?"

"If I take time to eat, it will cut short the time I can spend with . . . Ne . . . uh, in town with the fellows. Stuffy's wife usually serves sandwiches while we play anyway."

He finished washing, dried himself and rifled through his drawer for a clean shirt. Uneasy and unable to explain to herself why, Ariah returned downstairs where Old Seamus sat hunched over a cup of thick black coffee and an ancient copy of the Headlight-Herald. A few minutes later Pritchard pounded back down the stairs. He snatched his coat and cap off the hook and scurried out the door with a hasty good-bye. Seamus slapped the newspaper down on the table, rose to his feet and ambled off to his own quarters. The last thing Ariah heard before total silence fell over the house was a mumbled, "Cussed hen."

The next day when Ariah took Pritchard his lunch, he was snoozing in a chair balanced precariously on two legs, the back braced against the wall beside the window. His mouth was open, his head lolling to one side.

"Pritchard?"

The chair slammed onto all four legs and Pritchard's eyes flew open. Guilt flitted through the hazel orbs before they focused on his wife's face.

"Lunch time already?" He rubbed his eyes with his fists, drowsy still. Nettie had kept him up all night teaching him the many positions and methods of sexual stimulation, some he had never imagined possible. Under her tutelage, he had gained a new self-confidence that extended beyond the bedroom. Until today, he had never been brave enough to catnap on duty.

Ariah set the tray on the desk and removed the cover, releasing the spicy scent of mustard and fresh baked bread.

"The poker game must have lasted all night," she said, noting his lethargy.

"Pretty much." Pritchard stuffed his mouth with a forkful of potatoes and chewed while he talked. "But they designated me first-string striker so it was worth it."

Ariah turned away to avoid watching the food swish about in his mouth while she tried to remember what a striker was. "Does that mean you'll be first to hit that little ball?"

"The most important thing it means is that I won't be stuck on the sidelines this year." He grinned cockily. The other team members had looked at him with new respect when he spoke up for himself and demanded a chance to prove his worth. "I'll be hurling, too, on a stand-by basis. You know, throwing to the strikers from the other team."

"That's wonderful, Pritchard."

Through the lighthouse window, she could see waves breaking far below, against the huge formation of basalt Pritchard called Hat Rock because of its shape. With binoculars, she could see the puffins and murres nesting on its rough surface.

"I think I'll go up top and watch the birds while you eat," she said. "Join me when you're finished."

It was odd, Pritchard thought, as he ate a thick ham sandwich, that the idea of spending time with his new wife no longer sent him into shivers of joy or almost uncontrollable sexual urges. She was pretty and he liked her, but he felt more at home with Nettie.

In the wee hours of the morning, he had lain in Nettie's arms while she told him how she had run away with the first man who came along, a tinker nearly twice her age, in order to escape the beatings her father inflicted on her daily. The tinker had taught her how to please a man, telling her all the while how he loved her and would take care of her. One night he brought a man home and commanded her to show the man how nice she could be in bed.

Pritchard had actually wanted to kill the tinker and her father, but Nettie had assured him that both men had been out of her life for a long time. The whippings it had taken for the tinker to bend her to his will had left her so bruised and ugly that business fell off. One day he brought home a younger girl and kicked Nettie into the street. Circumstances forced her to sell herself to survive until a sick old man rescued her. She nursed Old Saul to his dying day, grateful for his kindness. In return he had left her the shack where she now lived. She might be poor, but she had a roof over her head now that no one could take from her and vegetables from her garden to eat. She didn't need Pritchard's money, she'd said, or any other man's.

To learn that Nettie wasn't the whore gossip had made her out to be had meant more to Pritchard than he bothered to analyze. He basked in her admiration because of his new position on the team and found that he wanted nothing more than to hurry back to her adoring arms.

At Ariah's excited shout, he leaped from his chair, dropping the last of his sandwich. When he reached her in the glass tower, she handed him the binoculars and pointed past Hat Rock.

"It's a whale, I'm sure of it," she enthused. "I saw a spray of water exactly as you described, and something dark rose to the surface."

"Yeah, I see it. There it blows again. Now, see its back hump up? In another minute… There! See its tail thrust up above the water?"

"Oh, it's wonderful. Do they ever come closer?"

Pritchard handed her back the glasses. "Not often."

Ariah watched the whale swim northward for several minutes before she turned to the stairs. "I'd better get back. Hester isn't feeling well, so I have all the chores to do."

Pritchard followed her down. "Uncle Bart's worried about her. He said Doctor Wills thinks she has something called diabetes."

"He has good reason to worry. She seems to have gotten much worse in only the last few days. I think you should spend more time with her, Pritchard. You can't be certain how long she'll be around."

Ariah's hint of possible death sent a shudder down his spine. He hated to think about death; it was much too frightening. Pushing the thought from his mind, he switched to a more pleasant subject. "The first practice game will be next Saturday. Do you want to come and watch?"

"I think we'd best wait and see how your aunt is doing. We may be needed here."

Pritchard pouted like a child denied another cookie. "I have to be at the practice, Ariah. If I miss, they might replace me."

Stifling the angry retort that came to mind, she went to the desk and picked up the tray she had brought. "We'll talk about it later. I'd better get these dishes done up."

He leaned against the doorjamb and watched her climb the damp wooden stairs outside that led to the upper level of the bluff, while balancing the tray and avoiding tripping on her skirts at the same time. Her ankles, in the fitted button boots, were slim, the calf above gently curved. Nettie's legs were long and lithe and wrapped about him in a way that drove his blood wild. Maybe it would be just as well if Ariah stayed home to take care of Aunt Hester on Saturday. That way, he would be free to visit Nettie after the game. He closed his eyes and envisioned her naked breasts cradled in his palms. His body hardened. With a smile, Pritchard turned back inside and shut the door. He thought again of Nettie's plump breasts while his fingers freed the buttons of his trousers. Another virtue Nettie had taught him was self-reliance.

♥ ♥ ♥

Bartholomew nudged his horse to a faster gait, surprised at how eager he felt to get home. He had spent three days, going to Tillamook to take care of business and visit his brother Calvin at the old Noon dairy farm. It amazed him how much he could miss a woman. But, Ariah wasn't just any woman.

At last he broke from the trees and cantered toward the barn. Even the old mare under him seemed eager for home now, and for the oats she knew would be waiting. A tendril of smoke rose from the chimney of the assistant keepers' house, filling Bartholomew with the warmth of knowing that Ariah was there, preparing the morning meal for her men. How he wished he was one of those men who could simply stride into the house and take her in his arms.

There was no smoke rising from his own house, but he'd expected no welcome there.

After seeing to his horse, he hoisted a burlap sack over one shoulder, tucked a box under the other arm and headed for his back porch. The kitchen door was locked. An oddity, for there was no reason to lock a door here. He set down the goods he'd brought home and stepped over to the door that led into the hallway. It too was locked.

"What the hell?"

Over in her own kitchen, Ariah heard him shouting Hester's name and pounding on the door. She raced to the window, her heart flooding with joy. The station had been horribly lonely without him. He looked more handsome than ever, now that he was back. Wiping her hands on her apron, she hurried out the door and around the side of the house, wanting to warn him about his wife's odd behavior while he'd been gone. She came to a skidding halt as his back door gave beneath the thrust of his hard-soled boot, the wood splintering with a loud crack.

"Hester? Damn it, Hester, where are you?"

He reached through the hole he'd made, unlocked the door and vanished inside. Even from where she stood Ariah could smell the awful odor that rushed out through the fractured door. Her hand over her mouth as a frisson of dread sleeted down her back, she debated what to do. Hester would not welcome her, but what if Bartholomew needed help? Should she go in, or wait to see if he called for her?

Bartholomew found the house eerily silent. The stench was so bad he had to cover his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. He tried to brush aside the unease that had niggled at him since dawn, but it had lodged in his throat, threatening to choke him. Remembering Dr. Wills' warning about how quickly Hester's illness could escalate didn't help. He thought of the unnatural sheen of sweat on his wife's skin before he left, the fluttering pulse at the base of her throat and her sudden lack of appetite.

"Hester? Where are you, woman?"

God, it smelled like something had died in the house. Terrified at what he might find, he raced up the stairs to Hester's room. The smell was worse here, not unlike the dead whale that had washed up on shore once and gone rotten. There had been a trace of this same stink even before he had gone to Tillamook. Hester had blamed it on a dead mouse in the wall.

"Hester?" He rapped his knuckles on her door. "Hester, open up."

When no sound answered his demand, he tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. It swung inward on noiseless hinges he himself kept well oiled. The heavy drapes over the windows blocked out the light. Trying not to breathe in the foul odor, he lit a lamp on the bedside table. Hester lay huddled beneath the covers of her narrow bed, blinking at the bright glare with sunken eyes devoid of emotion. Her gaunt face was as white as the handkerchief he held over his nose. Sweat beaded her skin, though it was cool in the room. He was afraid to speak, afraid to find out what he was facing. Afraid he already knew.

"God, Hester, what's happened? You look two steps from death's door. I'm getting Dr. Wills out here as soon as possible."

He had expected her to argue, but she said nothing. Metal drapery rings scraped along the wooden rod as he yanked open the curtains. Though the day was gray with a coming storm, she squinted at the additional light. He raised the window, letting the room fill with a brisk breeze.

"Just getting that stink out of here will make you feel better," he said, drawing an extra quilt over her so she wouldn't catch a chill. "I'll empty the chamber pot and bring you up something to eat."

The chamber pot was full, but, although he wanted to feel surprised at finding only urine, and no feces, he wasn't really. For a long moment he stared into the bowl while terror clawed up his spine. He stood and looked down at his wife. She turned her face toward the wall.

"What is it, Hester? You smell like . . ."

Without another word, he flipped back the covers to expose her lower limbs and nearly gagged. For a long while he stood there, gaping at his wife while his throat worked to keep from vomiting and icy fingers of dread dug at his flesh.

Death itself looked back at him.