“Mr. Carlyle is very handsome,” Margaret whispered to Sorrow as they did their evening check on two of the old dears.
“Do you think so?” Sorrow asked, creeping into one of the small quiet rooms on the third floor ahead of Margaret. She approached the bed, checked the bedside table for water and handkerchiefs, and watched old Mrs. Mackintosh sleep for a moment.
“I do.”
“One of my friends in London damned his looks and said his ears stuck out too much.”
“Then she was a great ninny,” Margaret said, brushing back a strand of the old woman’s hair and bending over her with a smile. She laid a kiss on the old woman’s forehead and straightened. “And she did not know a gentleman when she saw one.”
Arm in arm they moved on to the next room, where an even older lady lay, close to death. She was so old that she had outlived the family who had cared for her before their own deaths, and so had needed a place to go. Letty was there, sitting by the bedside with her basket of darning, and Sorrow and Margaret held a whispered conference with her, asking after Miss Chandler. She was the same, Letty said, quiet, still breathing. She might have hours left or she might have months. The doctor was coming to see her on the morrow.
Sorrow thanked Letty for her care, and she and Margaret crept out, closing the door behind them. Servants did the actual labor involved in caring for the most elderly of the inhabitants of Spirit Garden, and a couple had evolved into fine nurses, especially Letty, for all her complaining. But Sorrow or her mother checked on all of their friends every day a few times, and arranged special treats, taking those able outside when the weather permitted. Sorrow had determined not to let her own impending nuptials change her habits, for she knew the old folks would miss her when she left. Margaret was starting to take an interest and that was good, for it was the best cure for her own problems, Sorrow had learned; it made her think about others instead of her own fears and worries.
In the hall once again, Sorrow said, “I agree. Bertram is very good-looking and he kisses wonderfully!”
“Kisses? He has kissed you?” Margaret gasped, and then dissolved into giggles.
They retreated to Margaret’s room, her haven, she called it, the walls covered with her sensitive and brilliant watercolor paintings. She could not bear to wear bright colors, preferring gray or brown, but her paintings were always filled with beautiful hues. Sorrow saw a new one and exclaimed over it, “Oh, Margaret! It’s . . . it’s beautiful!”
It was quite obviously of herself and Sorrow was deeply touched. Margaret, when she was calm, painted quite lovely works, but, oddly, it was when she was disturbed and at her most agitated that she painted with a brilliance and intensity that was frightening, the colors deeper, the images more vibrant, but sometimes hard to understand. This was clearly painted in one of her sunny moods and showed Sorrow in a white lace gown holding a bouquet of roses. She reached out and hugged Margaret to her.
“It is to be a wedding gift for you and Mr. Carlyle,” the girl said shyly. “I hope to do one of him to match, now that he is here.”
Overcome by a sudden case of nerves, Sorrow sat down on Margaret’s narrow bed and covered her face with both hands. “Am I doing the right thing? Will he ever understand me?”
Margaret sat down by her and said, “What’s wrong? Do you not love him? Isn’t he perfect?”
Struggling to put her fears into words, Sorrow uncovered her face and said, “Perfect? Well, no. He’s a little stuffy and too diffident. He’s a very intelligent young man, but he lets his father rule him. Will that continue? And what about his father? I only met the man three times, but I quite despise him. Will Bertram understand that?”
“I had been thinking marriage was a solution to all a lady’s problems,” Margaret admitted with a rueful tone. “But it seems that it creates quite as many as it solves.”
Turning on the bed and drawing one leg up under her, Sorrow said, “Please, Margaret, don’t mistake me. I still want to marry Bert. He’s a good man, better, I think, than he even realizes, or I should not be marrying him. I . . . I care for him a great deal. Shall I tell you how I first saw him?”
Margaret nodded.
“He doesn’t even know this,” Sorrow said, twisting her hands together and staring off at one of Margaret’s paintings on the wall. “But I first saw Bertram at a dinner party at the home of friends of my aunt, Lady Spotswycke. I had wandered off to the library—out of boredom, I’m afraid, for there were a great many pompous people there—when I heard an argument. I came out to the hall and saw a young man abusing a maid. I was about to make my presence known when Bertram came out of the drawing room, assessed the situation immediately, stopped the fellow and shamed him into apologizing—actually apologizing!—to the poor maid. I was immensely impressed. Even more so when I found out later that he had escorted the poor girl to the butler and demanded she have a few moments and not be expected to wait upon that young man again. And even more so when I discovered he had spoken to the hostess to make sure the girl did not suffer, for a maid will often be dismissed for that kind of thing, you know, and who knows what the young man who abused her would say about her to her employer?”
Margaret, listening intently, said, “Why have you not told Bertram about this? Witnessing this?”
“It was a private deed, and he would be embarrassed if I told him what I saw and how affected I was by his kindness and consideration.”
“But . . .” Margaret hesitated, but then said, “You have not said you love him. Did you say yes to his proposal because he is kind? Are there not other kind men in London?”
“Of course.” Sorrow gazed down, untwisted her hands and plucked at the bedspread. “But Bert . . . I don’t know how to explain it. He . . . captured me. I knew, somehow, that we could have a wonderful life together, and Margaret, I want children and a home and . . . all the other things every lady wants.”
Wistfully, Margaret said, “Do you think I’ll ever have those things?”
Sorrow took her hands in her own and said, “I believe you can,” knowing of the girl’s fears. “But you must give yourself time to learn how to calm yourself. You’re a very special person and deserve everything in life, but you must give yourself time.”
“You’re right of course,” Margaret said softly, her voice breaking. “How can I think of marriage when I’m afraid to even leave Spirit Garden? If it was not for your parents, I don’t know . . . I don’t know if I would still be alive.”
Sorrow took the girl in her arms. She had seen the cuts on Margaret’s wrists when the girl first came, and knew that she had made a solemn promise to the Marchands never to do that again. She had been like a wounded bird, afraid to fly, but gaining strength and confidence slowly. “Give yourself time,” she said, releasing her. “Even if you need to stay here forever—”
“No! I will be stronger one day.” Margaret sat up straight. “Maybe soon. Sorrow, I have begun to feel, lately, that I might learn to make my own way. I want to go to London for a visit, and Mr. Marchand has promised I might go and visit Lady Spotswycke. And . . . may I come and stay with you and Mr. Carlyle when you are married? I mean, only for a week or so, and not right away.” She blushed and turned her face away. “I know you will want to be alone together for a while, but sometime?”
“Of course,” Sorrow said, pulling her friend back into a hug. “Of course you may.”
• • •
Bertram stood outside the library door, knowing Mr. Marchand was in the library going over some estate papers. He wanted to talk to him but wasn’t sure what he would say. He had so many questions about the day, and about the Marchands. Their household was unlike any he had ever visited, seeming almost like a hospital at times and at others like the most joyous family home one could imagine.
This visit had started oddly and showed no sign of ever being normal. Dinner had been served in a series of fits and starts, with Mr. and Mrs. Marchand called away a couple of times to attend to emergencies. At that moment his fiancée, instead of being in the parlor playing the piano or netting a purse, was upstairs seeing to “the old folks,” as she called them. It appeared that Mr. Howard was not the only elderly, sickly inmate of Spirit Garden.
He was trying to cultivate a new attitude of boldness and courage, so he raised one hand and rapped on the door. At the summons, he entered.
The library was cluttered, with books over every surface. Mr. Marchand, oddly youthful even with his graying hair, sat on the floor among piles of books, cross-legged with one open on his lap. He looked up over his glasses and smiled. “Bertram! How good of you to visit me. Time we had a talk, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Bertram said, trying to think where he would sit, whether the man expected him to collapse onto the carpet with him, or should he be more dignified in talking to his future father-in-law?
“Take a chair, young man. Just push those books to one side or pile them on the desk.”
Bertram shifted a pile of books from a wing chair to a side table and sat down. “What are all these books, sir?”
Frowning down at the one in his hands, Mr. Marchand said, “They’re medical books, such as they are, I suppose, on the state of the mind. You witnessed my tussle with young Joshua today.”
“Who is Joshua, sir? If I might ask?” After Sorrow’s story he had some insight into Mr. Marchand, but was fascinated by what made such a man do what he did. Surely he had more than fulfilled expectations any spectral being had of him in exchange for his life!
“Joshua is the son of a couple whose name you would recognize immediately, if I told you. Joshua is their youngest.” Mr. Marchand, his silver-tinged hair and silver-rimmed glasses glinting in the lamplight of his library, frowned down at the book in his hands again and then continued. “He is troublesome to them. He will allow only so much contact before he rebels and cannot bear to be touched or spoken to. I would not have chased him so this morning if his hair had not gotten into such a state. I have found that in most cases it does not help to force things on these folks.” He paused and shook his head, and with a sad tone muttered, “They used to use ties to confine poor Joshua. It only made him afraid and wild. But he’s getting better, though you would not know it by that spectacle this morning, eh?”
Bertram watched Sorrow’s father, considering what she had told him of the man. He was as unlike Bertram’s own father as two men could be, and he wondered what the two fathers would make of each other when Lord Newton arrived later in the week. But first he wanted to have some understanding himself, so he could try to explain this household and this family to his father.
He had no doubt that if Lord Newton had known the depths of the Marchands’ eccentricity he would never have considered his son marrying into the family, but now that it was accomplished, now that he had Sorrow to plan for as his future wife, Bertram had no intention of giving her up for anything. The kisses they had shared that afternoon had left him strangely elated and with the oddest feeling of walking on clouds, and he wanted to feel that more, and more often.
“Mr. Marchand, why do you do what you do? I mean . . . Sorrow has told me about . . . about her origin and how you came to adopt her, but why do you continue? Surely you have done enough good in your life and should enjoy your time now.”
The older man leaned back against the chair behind him and set aside his book. He took off his glasses and met Bertram’s eyes for the first time. “In truth, when I started, though I felt much enthusiasm, I didn’t know what I was doing. My only goal was to help people. Whoever needed it. But when I opened my eyes it was to see how terrible we are here in this country at looking after those who do not fit into our narrow strictures of proper behavior.”
“Sir, pardon me for saying this, but . . . you don’t really believe you were . . . were visited by a being or . . . or ghost, do you?”
“You are not so closed that you dismiss outright the possibility, are you?”
“Well, I suppose—”
“I don’t know what happened that night. I don’t think we know enough about the miracle that is our brain,” Mr. Marchand said, tapping his head with one finger. “Did I invent the being to give myself hope and courage? Did it indeed give me the power to stay alive until help came? I was very badly hurt. Or was I truly hovering between this world and the next? Do you claim, sir, to have a definitive answer to that which has plagued men for centuries?”
Bertram felt foolish, suddenly, to even question this man who had so clearly thought much on the topic. “No, sir, I would never dream of claiming some special knowledge.”
“Bertram, you’re allowed to doubt any part of my story. I was in a great deal of pain at the time and may have imagined the whole thing. However, regardless of the impetus, this . . . this way of living,” the man said, waving his arms around to indicate the whole of Spirit Garden and all of its inhabitants, “has been a godsend. I was aimless before, wandering, with no purpose, and a man without purpose is fulfilling only a particle of his function on earth. Just think of the possibilities,” he went on, leaning forward and tossing the book aside. “Just think, if every person who was able would do everything they could in life to better life for those around them . . . well, the world would be an astonishing place. No hunger, no pain . . . peace!” He sighed. “Formidable. It would be formidable, sir!”
His enthusiasm, while infectious, was frightening in its intensity, and Bertram didn’t quite know what to say. Bewildered and confused, he said nothing.