Chapter Twenty-Six

 

Bartholomew paused outside the lighthouse, dreading the coming interview with Pritchard. He thought of the long day he had spent with Ariah, beachcombing and making love, and smiled. However unpleasant his talk with Pritchard might be, the end result would be well worthwhile if it meant having Ariah as his own for the rest of his life.

Pritchard was putting away the brass-polishing supplies in the storage cupboard when Bartholomew entered.

"Hello, Uncle Bart. I suppose Old Seamus has been spouting omens of foul weather all day. It certainly looks like it's going to blow up a storm." Pritchard glanced out the window at the calm sea and blue skies as he slipped his logbook into a drawer. "Can't gripe about the day, though. It's been sunny and warm."

Bartholomew's eyes hid secret pleasure. "Aye, it was an exceptional day."

"I'll be off then. Everything is in order."

"Are you in a hurry?"

"I thought I'd go into town. Was there something you wanted to speak to me about?"

Bartholomew busied himself storing away the metal tin which held his lunch and taking out his own logbook, while he contemplated the best way to approach the delicate subject on his mind.

"You've been going into town more often than usual lately," he said finally. "It must be difficult being away from your new bride all night. I'm surprised Ariah tolerates it."

Seconds ticked by while he waited for his nephew to answer.

"Has she said something about it?" Pritchard's tone was both defensive and wary. "Did she complain? I—"

"No, Ariah said nothing," Bartholomew interrupted, eager to avoid causing more trouble. Doubt suddenly plagued him. Maybe he should have let Ariah handle this, as she had wanted to, before he insisted it would be better discussed man to man. "I simply wondered how things were going for you. I gathered from the way you talked the day after your wedding that you were having difficulty consummating your marriage."

Pritchard turned red as ripe beach strawberries. He spun away. Taking a deep breath, Bartholomew plunged on. "This isn't an uncommon problem, Pritchard, and it’s easily resolved, usually in only a few days, as I'm sure you've already found out."

"She wanted time, Uncle Bart." Pritchard's voice was muffled as he stared at his feet. "She said we needed to get to know each other better. Then everything would be easier. I've been trying to be patient."

"Is that why you've been seeing a certain young woman in town? To help you be patient with your wife?"

Pritchard whirled, caught a glimpse of his uncle's stern face and collapsed against the wall, one arm over his face. "God, Uncle Bartholomew, how'd you find out?"

"It's a small town, Pritchard. People talk."

The young man flung out his arms, beseechingly. "I swear I only meant to go once, just to get some experience so I'd know more what I was doing when Ariah was ready to. . ."

Unable to bear the guilt and misery on his nephew's face, and fearful now of how this interview would end, Bartholomew glanced out the window. A formation of cormorants was flying low over the gentle swells of the aqua-tinted ocean. As boys, he and John Upham called the birds shags. Once, when they failed to bag a goose for their supper while they were hunting, they tried to cook one. Even after twelve hours over a campfire, the meat was tough and inedible. Like the sponge cake Ariah had baked for supper one Sunday.

"You realize this gives Ariah grounds for annulment," he said softly.

"Please, don't tell her, Uncle Bartholomew. I promise I'll. . ." Pritchard stumbled to a halt when he realized what his uncle would expect him to do. He couldn't give up Nettie. Not yet. "Just don't tell Ariah."

Bartholomew closed his eyes. The knuckles of his big hands gripping the chair back turned white as a puffin's breast. "Are you saying you still intend to consummate your marriage after all this time? Are you sure marriage with Ariah is what you want?"

"Yes, I. . ." Again Pritchard paused. "She's a lady, Uncle Bartholomew. She's educated and well mannered, the kind of mother I want for my children."

"What about love, Pritchard?" Bartholomew's voice grew cold and hard. "Do you love her?"

"Yes, I-I love her."

Pritchard crossed his fingers behind his back to nullify any bad luck his lie might bring down on him. He wasn't sure what love was, but Ariah was his wife and he wanted her. Surely, making love with her would give him the same feelings for her that he already had for Nettie.

Silently, Bartholomew released his breath. He felt tired. Tired and ill, clear to his soul. "I won't tell her, Pritchard. Go on home now."

When Old Seamus showed up at eight bells for what he called the churchyard watch, he found Bartholomew hunched over the desk. Unaware of the older man's arrival, Bartholomew cursed, crumpled up the paper on which he had been writing and tossed it to the floor where it joined several others. Thick, blunt fingers raked through long sable hair and his expression was as bleak as the now-cloudy sky.

Seamus tactfully banged the door shut, announcing his presence.

Bartholomew glanced up, then at the mantel clock on a shelf above the wooden pegs which held their rain gear. "You're early. Still deny that you love this pile of brick and iron and glass?"

Seamus grunted as he set his lantern on the floor. Smoke from a well-chewed pipe streamed from between yellowed teeth and the strands of a bristling mustache. One gnarled hand caressed the ball-topped newel post of the circular stairway.

"Whore is what she be, blast her purdy hide," he said softly. "Catchin' up yer log, are ye?"

Bartholomew's mouth was a grim slash. "No, a letter."

Without another word, Seamus trudged on up the stairs. Bartholomew sighed and resumed his work. The clock chimed the half-hour. Outside, the beam from the bronze, five-wick lantern switched from white to red, then back to white, conspiring with the clock to taunt him with the hours wasted at his hated chore.

Seamus shuffled back down the stairs, filling the room with the scent of tobacco. "Brightwork's shipshape," he said, speaking of the gleaming brass gears and fittings Pritchard polished each day.

Bartholomew answered with a disgruntled snort.

"Vexed with the lad, are ye?"

Bartholomew tore his letter into shreds and scattered them on the floor.

Seamus's wise old eyes studied the other man, and he shook his grizzled head. "Got the weight o' the world on them shoulders o' yourn, haven't ye, lad? Wanta talk 'bout it?"

Bartholomew sat back in his chair and squeezed his eyes shut with a thumb and forefinger. Stress lined his forehead below his mop of dark hair. A button was missing from his shirt. After a moment, he stood, flexed his stiff back, and handed the old man a piece of paper. "Here, read this."

In the silence that followed, the first raindrops peppered the window. When Seamus finished, he handed back the letter with a single word. "Why?"

"It's best."

Seamus yanked the pipe from his mouth and plunked it down in the brass ashtray on the desk with a clunk. "Fer who? You, or that loblolly boy up to the house? Clap onto yer mind, man. The lass don't want him, and he dad-blamed don't deserve her."

Bartholomew let his mouth curl in a grim smile. "She got to you, too, eh?"

"Aw, put it up," he growled. "I'm right and ye know it."

"He says he loves her, Seamus, and intimated that he'll do the right thing about the Tibbs girl."

"Money'd no doubt get that flash packet's jaw working good, should ye need 'er words to win the lass a divorce."

Bartholomew sank wearily into his chair. "There's no need to get Nettie to testify against Pritchard. The marriage hasn't even been consummated. Ariah could get an annulment."

"Then heave to, lad. Make off with her on the morrow, while that lubber she's tied to plies his polishin' rag in town. He'll be napping half the day, anyway, no doubt, since he's gone adrift on the evenin' tide an' won't be back till dawn."

"He went into town?"

"Aye."

Bartholomew swore under his breath, furious that the boy had gone to his doxy in spite of their conversation that afternoon. Perhaps he had gone to end it with Nettie Tibbs. A part of Bartholomew hoped not. Yet it made no difference to the decision he had made this night.

"No matter what he's done, I can't run off with his bride before he's had a chance to make his marriage work."

"Yer brain's cast off fer Fiddlers Green, lad, an' left yer body here to flounder about without it. What if he manages to plug 'er good an' clean and the marriage still don't fare well? 'Twill be too late then fer easy measures."

"To do anything else would be less than honorable and I've enough on my conscience. Just promise me you'll look after her. She has an uncle who has it in mind to take her to Greece and sell her off to some rich, old duffer. That's why she came here. She's sure the man will give up his scheme once he sees that he can't get legal guardianship over her, now that she's married, but it won't hurt to keep an eye out. You know she can't count on Pritchard."

Seamus nodded. "I'll guard 'er like she was me own ship. You gonna be around in case yer needed?"

"Yes. For awhile anyway."

Seamus shook his head and picked up his cold pipe. "'Tis a sad day, lad. A powerful sad day."

Bartholomew watched the old man drag himself up the stairs, looking almost as old as Bartholomew felt. As always, Seamus had perceived the goings on at the cape with a clear and unbiased eye. He had seen straight into Bartholomew's soul and sensed not only the turmoil there, but the cause as well. But to Bartholomew "sad" seemed too small a word to describe the torment inside him.

♥ ♥ ♥

It was ten after eight when Ariah looked up from the flower bed beside the front porch to see Seamus coming up the walk from the light. She waved before turning back to the fringe cups she had transplanted from the forest. The stalks of creamy, minuscule flowers rose as pertly above their maple-like leaves as they had at the clearing where Bartholomew and she had made love. The night's rain had done the plants some good.

"Good morning," she said as she dusted off her hands.

The old man stared at her so long she put her hand to her face, wondering if she'd smudged her cheek with garden dirt.

"Ye've a glow 'bout ye this mornin', lass."

"Why, thank you." The unaccustomed compliment surprised her. "The coffee's on the back of the stove. I'll be in to fix your breakfast in a minute. I thought I'd step over and invite Bartholomew to join us."

Seamus frowned. "Got somethin' ye'd best read first."

Puzzled, she followed him into the house. He sat at the kitchen table and fumbled in his pocket while she poured him a cup of coffee.

"What is it, Seamus?"

Though a sober man by nature, his manner today was gruffer than usual. Almost angry. Ariah's heart fluttered with unnamed fear. Something was wrong, something that had to do with Bartholomew. Had Seamus seen them together in the woods yesterday? Color flooded her face at the thought, but she was more concerned what this gentle old man might be feeling toward the man he obviously saw as the son he'd never had.

Without another word Seamus handed her a sheet of paper and lumbered from the room, taking with him his coffee and the fresh apple fritters she had left on the table for him. Unease ghosted down Ariah's spine as she pondered the folded note. Her name was spelled out on the front in the slanted, spidery script she recognized as Bartholomew's.

Her vision blurred. She blinked moisture from her eyes and tried to dislodge her heart from her throat, took her shawl from its hook and slipped from the house.

Apollo galloped toward her as she headed for the sheltering comfort of the woods. He slowed as he reached her, seeming to sense her mood, and sedately followed her through the tangled, moss-bedecked hemlocks and spruces. The night’s rain had left the ground wet and muddy and she regretted not putting on her rubber overshoes.

Only when she reached the clearing with its strangely naked trees towering overhead did she stop.

In the center, where she and Bartholomew had lain the day before, the false lily of the valley were bruised and bent. Like her heart, she thought. She knelt upon her shawl and tried to smooth the crimped edge of a satin leaf. The breeze carried the briny scent of the sea and the whisper of its roar. Sunshine arrowed through the branches to bathe her in golden warmth, adding to the sense of peace and solitude in the small glen.

The serenity was welcome; the solitude was not. She keenly felt Bartholomew's absence.

Sighing, she pulled his note from her pocket with trembling fingers. Meticulously, she unfolded the paper and smoothed the creases, as she had tried to do with the leaf. The sight of her name scrawled at the top in his strong masculine hand brought moisture back to her eyes. She brushed it away impatiently and focused on the words.

 

My dearest Ariah

I am leaving this Missive with Seamus as I know

I can trust him to get it to you discreetly. The Tide which will return

your Husband to you this Morn, will also carry Me away.

Last evening Pritchard assured me that he loves

you and wants to make his Marriage work, which caused

me to wonder how much my Presence in your Life has interfered

with the success of your wedded Life. On reflection, I find that I

cannot in all good Faith, steal his Wife from him without allowing

him the chance to win her for himself.

Therefore, I am resigning my Post as Head Keeper.

I apologize most heartily for leaving Seamus and Pritchard to take

care of matters alone until a replacement can arrive.

I can almost taste your ears. Believe me, sweet nymph, I go

not from you unscathed; for mine own Heart has shattered into a

thousand Pieces. But I know that, once your Tears have dried and

you have had time to reflect upon my decision, you will understand

and deem my actions not only fair, but necessary.

Yours Always,

Bartholomew

 

Ariah crumpled the letter in her fist and pressed it to her heart. He had abandoned her. How could he go off and leave her like this? Had he lied when he said he loved her? Now that he had finally sated himself inside her body, had he tired of her already?

"Damn you, Bartholomew Noon," she raged at the empty sky. "I won't let you do this to me. I won’t let you . . ."

But he already had.

Did Seamus know where Bartholomew had gone? Instinct told her that even if he did, he wouldn't tell her. The old sailor would point out that, had Bartholomew wanted her to know, he would have told her in the letter. She could go to his brother. Even if Bartholomew wasn't there, surely Calvin would know where to find him.

When Pritchard came home this morning, no doubt smelling of whiskey as he always did after a night in town, he would surely see Bartholomew at Barnagat waiting for the boat. Unless Bartholomew stayed out of sight in the trees until his nephew left for home.

How clever of Bartholomew to sneak away in the night, telling only an old man as close-mouthed as a clam.

"It's not fair, Bartholomew," she wailed, unaware of the tears coursing down her cheeks. "It's not fair."

Summoned by her ragged cry, Apollo came from the forest where he'd been sniffing out a hare. Whining, he licked the salty moisture from her cheek. Ariah wrapped her arms around the warm comfort of his furry body and wept. After a long while, she wiped her face on her sleeve and read the letter once more. Though her tears were now dry, she still didn't understand. Neither did she "deem" his actions fair or necessary.

Necessary. What a vile word. Worse even than "fair."

She laid back and stared at the sky, feeling Apollo's warmth curled up next to her and wishing he were Bartholomew. How would she live without him?

With her eyes closed she stretched out her arms until the cool satin of lily of the valley leaves kissed her fingers and sent their fragrance wafting to her nose. Tears ran unheeded down her temples while she relived the precious hours she had spent there with Bartholomew only the day before.

She ran her tongue over her lips and felt his kiss. His gentle hands stripped her bare and her body tingled at the remembered ardor in his gaze as he looked at her. Her mouth spread in a wan smile as she envisioned him standing before her again in all his naked, masculine splendor, so strong and proud and powerful.

Like his brother the eagle.

He had trapped her in the talons of his heart, ravaged her soul with his love. Now he was gone, leaving her broken and incomplete. Didn't he know he was taking her heart with him?

Half-blinded by her tears, Ariah leaped to her feet and ran down the trail, filled with a sudden need for action. Her feet slid on the slick mud, dumping her on her bottom in the muck, but she picked herself up and kept going. Behind her Apollo followed, barking. She had started down a steep grade when she glanced over her shoulder to see him racing after her.

Suddenly her feet went out from under her. Her body hit the ground with a thud and rolled down the steep slope. Twigs raked her hands as she scrabbled for something to stop her descent. When her sleeve caught, bringing her up short, she thought at last her fall had been checked, but the fabric tore free and she plummeted on down the sheer incline. Pain bolted through her as a knee struck a gnarled root protruding from the ground.

Apollo's wild barking became frenzied. She opened her mouth to cry out to him and tasted moss and dirt.

The trail zigzagged and Ariah's tumble came to an abrupt end as she slammed into a moss-encrusted log. Apollo slid to a stop beside her, whining and nosing her inert body. Slowly, she sat up. Aside from scrapes and bruises, she was unharmed. Bracing herself with a hand on the dog's strong back, she limped the rest of the way down until she stood on the bluff above the beach and the crashing, frothing sea filled her gaze, its wild, rumbling voice calling out to her.

♥ ♥ ♥

Nestled in the gentle cavity between two thick roots of a massive uprooted Sitka stump, Bartholomew leaned back and gave himself up to the sights and sounds of the sea. The bleached wood cradled him like the arms of a chair, sheltering him from the brisk wind. Gulls wheeled overhead, their shrill screams sounding like children one moment, wailing women the next. Beyond the breakers a small fishing craft drifted south toward Pyramid Rock.

The day of the shipwreck, when Pritchard first told him he was marrying a young woman he had never met, seemed long ago now. So much had happened since then. He no longer felt the same person who began that trip into Portland with a crateful of frightened pheasants and an empty soul.

Ariah had filled him with her beauty and generosity. She had given him back his will to live.

He hungered for her with an intensity that shocked him. In all the weeks he had forced himself to stay away from her, to remind himself over and over that she could never be his, he had thought it impossible to want anything more than he wanted her. But that was before he had sunk himself into her warm welcoming body and learned what joy truly was. When, for the first time in his life, he learned how it felt to be fulfilled, complete, whole.

Walking away from Ariah in the middle of the night had been the hardest thing he had ever done. For an hour he had stared at her darkened window, willing her to awaken and look outside, knowing he could never tell her good-bye if he had to do it gazing into those incredible blue eyes.

Forget-me-not eyes.

Bartholomew's throat tightened. If only he could forget her. And yet, even if that were possible, he would not choose to have it so. He was more a man now than before she came into his life. Through her eyes he had seen his weaknesses and his strengths. He no longer hated the part of him that had chosen to do right by Hester. Nor did he hate Hester.

Yesterday he had allowed his need for Ariah to convince him that Pritchard's infidelity negated his wife's need to be loyal in return. Bartholomew had told himself that they could make love with impunity. He had been wrong.

Pritchard had destroyed all his rationalizations with three small words: I love her.

The boy's transgressions, no matter how heinous, failed to justify Bartholomew in casting aside his own integrity, his own honor. Or to cause Ariah to violate hers.

"God forgive me," he murmured, and the sea murmured back.

He closed his eyes, straining to hear redemption in that soft rhythmic whisper. All he heard was the barking of a dog.

Bartholomew's head jerked up. Far down the beach where the trail began, two small figures were emerging onto the strand, one gamboling about the other on four sturdy legs, the other stumbling toward the sea in a muddy, tattered dress.

Ariah!

Bartholomew's heart stilled. His soul soaked up the sight of her the way hot sand absorbs water. This was what he had hoped for, what had kept him from leaving; a last secret glimpse. He drank it in hungrily, his heart surging, pulse racing, until finally it sank in that she was limping.

The sand on which she walked was not the loose sort one sank into, making walking awkward. It was smooth and firm with only a little give to it, nothing to account for her stumbling gait. Without thinking, Bartholomew moved away from the enormous stump and stepped toward her. Three hundred yards of empty beach was all that separated them. He could reach her in a few short minutes.

Something halted him. Something forbidding in her appearance. Her dress was torn and covered with mud. A ripped sleeve fluttered in the wind. Loose, disheveled hair lashed at her face like silk ribbons. She reached the line that segregated dry sand from wet and sank to the ground. Shallow water, marbled and edged with foam, rolled toward her invitingly. The dog, seeming to realize she was in no mood to play, sat down beside her. Together, they stared out to sea looking lonely and forlorn.

No words were necessary to tell him that Seamus had given her his letter, that it was his abandonment of her that had brought her to the state he saw her in now. It was his fault. She was suffering, because of him. He took another step toward her and stopped.

What good could possibly come from going to her now? He could never leave then. And if he stayed . . .? To keep his hands from her would be impossible. To sleep alone while she shared the bed of her husband would be intolerable. Torn between abiding by his heart and breaking it, Bartholomew stood there doing nothing. His hands clenched in helplessness. His throat ached with emotions clamoring to burst free.

Ariah rose onto her knees. She brought her fists to her heart, her head fell back and she screamed, "Bartholomew!"

Never had he heard a more eerie and soul-shattering sound. It drove, with crucifying, iron fingers deep inside his being.

"Bartholo-mew-oo-oo . . ."

Moisture clouded his vision, but he could still see Apollo pacing about Ariah where she sat on her heels, her head on her knees, hair trailing in the wet sand. He could hear the dog whimpering, hear Ariah's sobs, soft and ragged like torn silk.

He had to go to her.

No, Bartholomew. You've done enough damage.

Ariah was hugging the dog now, letting his long, shaggy fur absorb her pain, the way Bartholomew wished he could.

She needs me.

Leave her be. She's young, she'll forget you and go on with her life.

What about me? What will my life be without her? Don't my needs count?

No answer came to that.

Before he could move from the spot where guilt and agony held him nailed to the ground, Ariah came to her feet. She gazed out to sea for a long moment. Then she turned and, with the dog beside her, limped to the path that would take her home and out of Bartholomew's life forever.

With a hand lifted as if to stop her, he moved forward.

His answer came then. His needs did not count, not when they interfered with hers. He had to do what was right. He had to let her go.

His hand fell. Like the shadow of the giant tree stump in which he had sat, he stood frozen, watching her walk out of his life, while his heart crumbled to a billion pieces at his feet.