Dirk Wilkins loathed Quentin Collins, and had since they
were children. They had been
playmates once, mister fancy pants rich boy and the son of a stable
hand. In all their child
hood games it was Dirk who had the edge, even so, there had never
been a time when he
didn't realize that in life, it was Quentin who had been dealt
the winning hand. As if the
chasm of social caste were not insult enough, there was the compounded
indignity of
Quentin's looks and personality. Dirk's handsome features seemed
plain beside Quentin's
impossible beauty, his natural affability faded to bland when
compared to the aura that
Quentin always seemed to walk in. That both were quick tempered
was the only equality,
but even in this, Quentin played a hand that Dirk was forced to
fold. When they irritated
one another, which happened often, Quentin had the luxury of being
able to laugh at Dirk.
So focused was Dirk on hating Quentin, his expression had taken
on a permanent scowl,
his once easy going manner had grown sharpen with cynicism.
Quentin, of course, was oblivious to Dirk's hatred, which only served to exacerbate it.
This particular night was atypical of the many the two men
loosely shared. Dirk drinking
cheap ale in the Blue Whale, seething, while waiting for the summons
to drive Quentin
back to Collinwood. Quentin sipping fine brandy in front of Evan
Handley's fireplace,
giving no thought to the effect this arrangement may have had
on Dirk's evening. To
Quentin there were two varieties of people who warranted only
cursory attention, and one
was represented by his waiting servant.
The other he sat discussing with Evan. For all his familiarity
with the opposite sex, until
his marriage to Jenny, Quentin had real knowledge of only three
women. His
grandmother he viewed with a reverence borne of habit, his sister
he saw as
inconsequential, and Laura only reinforced his assumption that
women really were an
irrational lot. He had no objections to Laura's nearly masculine
pursuit of physical
pleasure, it was her lack of style in the pursuit that perplexed
him.
There was no question that Quentin was a deft lover, but
as husband he floundered in
confusion. He had made Jenny his wife, had seen that she was given
one of the finer
rooms Collinwood offered, made frequent visits to it. He had worked
out her allowance
with his grandmother, it was more than generous, he had insisted
that Judith introduce her
into the town's better circle of ladies, his name alone assured
her hospitality anywhere in
the village.
None of this was enough, Jenny wanted more. She demanded
an intimacy that he was
unable to give her. Jenny wanted conversation. All this he explained
to Evan, who
answered him with a simplicity that only confused him more.
"So talk to her."
"I do talk to her, Evan, it seems that every time I
turn around I am talking to her, but I
never say enough. Every word I utter needs an explanation, as
though some piece of my
soul is a part of each one."
"But isn't it Quentin? What we say is very telling
of ourselves, when we say what we feel,
perhaps even more so when we say what we don't."
Quentin reached for the decanter and poured himself another
drink. "Really, Evan. The
examination of one's feelings is a rather feminine occupation,
don't you think?"
Evan laughed, "Ah, Quentin, you still are naive! The
examination of one's feelings is a
rather marital occupation. One you should have considered in your
haste to the altar. If
you weren't looking for intimacy, why did you marry?"
"You know why! I married to rid myself of Laura."
"And is it working?"
Evan did not expect an answer, and Quentin did not give
one. Both men knew that it was
not working, that in trying to avoid Jenny's demands on his heart,
Quentin had only
become more deeply involved with his sister in law. In a rare
moment of compassion,
Evan felt a true pity for the man across from him.
"Don't misunderstand me, Quentin, I envy your considerable
success with the fairer sex.
But you've let it spoil you...you have become so enchanted with
your own legend you
haven't given yourself a chance to really appreciate a woman.
To know the comfort a
woman's understanding can bring, even to you. And she is there,
Quentin, somewhere,
waiting to happen to you. Don't let your vanity keep you from
recognizing her."
Quentin suddenly felt very lonely. "Perhaps, Evan,
perhaps. If she is there, and she is
real, I'd certainly like to meet her."
He had no way of knowing how soon the time would come, or
how much it would cost to
realize.
The Islands that dotted the Coast of Maine were much prized
by the upper crust of the
Mainland. Many long winter nights were spent in fond reflection
on the summers, on
warm afternoons spent on front porches of summer homes that looked
out on the ocean.
They called their summer retreats "cottages", but the
name was misleading - the casual
atmosphere of the homes was deliberate. Each rustic appointment
that contributed to the
furnishings had been selected with the same care that had gone
into establishing the year
round houses. "Look" was important to these people,
even their attmpts to escape the
demands of society were designed to reflect just that. They were
precise, even in
pretense.
If the Islanders themselves spent much time in speculation
of the summer people, Beth
Chavez was not one of them. She did not consider them a curiosity,
in fact did not much
consider them at all. Even as a child she had organized her thoughts
with the same
practicality with which she organized her person. The summer people
were simply there,
and no amount of native grumbling could change the fact of their
being. It was the
familiar that was strange to her, the fierce pride the Islanders
held for a harshness of life
she felt was unnecessary. The mail boat made weekly stops, even
in the cold of winter,
any one of them could leave, never look back. She would someday.
There were aspects of the Island she loved. The solitude
was comforting, and much like
she was herself. She was a quiet girl, not given to displaying
her emotions. So detached
she seemed, even those closest to her had no hint of how deeply
her passions ran. They
knew only that she could be depended upon, and were drawn to her
for this, and for the
honesty of her demeanor. If she appeared to be somewhat removed
from them, they were
not offended by it, for it was real, and she did not try to pretend
to be one of them, when
so clearly she was not.
If there was one person who could not appreciate her quiet
nature, it was her father. Her
reserve infuriated him. His days were spent at sea, hauling traps,
when he came home, he
wanted to be greeted with displays of affection, but instead was
met only by a frail wife,
beaten down by hard work and the weight of burying dead babies,
and this daughter who
retreated inside herself whenever he approached. He valued strength,
and was insulted
that his one child who survived infancy was this pale, thin girl.
He had tried to accept her,
had been willling to forgive her being born a girl, but in everything
she did she seemed to
spite him. Her latest treason was to refuse the hand of the most
able of the Island's boys, a
match he had long had his heart set on.
Beth, however, had no intentions of marrying into this life
that had broken her mother
down. She had seen too much of the hardiness the men in her world
prized, and thought it
a ridiculous trait to encourage, one that only destroyed those
who could not meet the
expectations. Too often she had stood at the grave of one of the
wives or children, only
to watch the other women walk away, back into the circle of the
men, back into the circle
of it happening all over again. One by one they would walk away,
until she alone stood by
the grave, her heart aching for the uselessness of it all. Always
it would be someone she
had cared about she was saying goodbye to, for she had an uncanny
knack for seeing the
vulnerability in people, was touched by it.
Over time she closed herself off even more, not daring to
risk caring. She distanced
herself from her father, her neighbors, concentrating all the
love her gentle heart held on
tending to her mother, and to old Mrs. Fields up on the bluff.
Mrs. Fields had taken a liking to this strange, quiet girl
on their first meeting, had seen in
her a resolve rare to the people she had come from. Having been
forgotten by her own
children, she had been delighted to chance upon Beth, and the
two had quickly grown
close, united in a kinship of not quite belonging. From Mrs. Fields,
Beth learned of a
different world, a world of gentle manners and good taste. She
never tired of listening to
the stories of Mrs. Fields life in Boston, before her husband
died and her children tucked
her neatly away. To a girl who wanted only to erase the ugliness
from the lives of those
around her, the house on the bluff was a wonderland. When Mrs.
Fields gave her her first
store bought dress, she was ashamed to accept it, could not think
of anyway to repay the
kind woman. But she did not love lightly, and her devotion was
something the old woman
cherished, she asked nothing more from the girl.
After one particularly brutal winter, they died only days
apart, her mother and old Mrs.
Fields. A week later, Beth was on the mail boat, carrying only
a few meager personal
possessions, and a letter of introduction that was a genteel old
lady's legacy to the girl she
had loved as a daughter.
The letter recommended her highly. She would be well suited
as lady's maid to Mrs.
Quentin Collins.
Lightening split the evening sky, the ocean churned, the
breakers meeting the rocks on
shore with an audible force that drowned out the thunder. The
wind came in from the
east, it fragmented its way through the trees, coming together
again in the clearing to
regain its fury as it raced across the lawns and gardens, finally
meeting resistance at the
walls of the great house.
Inside they played at family, gathering in the drawing room
to unite against the storm. On
nights like these, with the conflict outside, it was comforting
to believe that they were
passing their time together by choice, it was not until the wind
died down and the rain had
thinned to a mist that their own disquiet could be heard. Still,
traces of their recent civility
lingered, and when Jenny, taking her leave, asked Quentin if he
would be stopping in to
say goodnight, he agreed with a warmth he hadn't felt towards
her in quite some time.
When he joined her in her room, his mood was one of affection.
This is how he imagined
marriage to be, quietly sitting by the fire, sipping wine, his
wife by his side. None of the
demands of courtship pressing him, simply being together with
no demands. Demands he
could get from Laura.
His mood was quickly broken - Jenny, as always of late,
wanted more from him. Jenny
and her chatter, his affection turned to annoyance. Jenny, however,
was too animated to
notice. Quentin sighed, and sat, resigned, in the wing backed
chair she had placed by the
fire for evenings like these. He paid no intention to her prattle,
simply sipped his wine,
waiting for her to tire of talk. If the night hadn't been such
a cruel one, he wouldn't need
to be here, he could be in the village, being entertained by one
of the local lovelies, caught
in lively conversation instead of having to pretend to listen
to his wife's details of domestic
life.
Her voice broke into his thoughts, "..such a fine letter
of recommendation, and I really
liked her...I'm sure she will work out well."
What the hell had she been talking about? He tried to pull
something, anything, from the
back of his mind, any word that may have slipped into his consciousness,
but found
nothing. He had become too accomplished at pretending to give
her his attention. Now
he would have to humor her.
"I'm sorry...the storm has me distracted tonight...what were you saying?"
"My servant, Quentin, I think she will work out well.
She seems much nicer than Judith or
Laura's girls, I'm quite lucky. I expect to like her."
"Like her?" he laughed, crossed the room and put
his hands on her shoulder. "She is a
servant, Jenny, and you are my wife, you don't have to like her."
He was pleased with his
response, thought that it would satisfy her, and this useless
conversation would end. He
was leaning in towards her, his lips moving to hers when there
was a quiet tapping on the
door.
Jenny pulled away from him, went to the door, opened it.
For the slightest second,
Quentin found himself unable to breath. He could only see her
standing there, totally
unaware that he was in the room.
"I thought that if you were settled for the night,
I would be turning in myself, Mrs.
Collins."
Jenny nodded, pleased with the deference she was finally
being shown, one that none of
the family had extended. "Yes, of course. First though, you
must meet my husband."
Jenny turned to Quentin, her eyes shining with pride in her proprietorship.
"Beth, my
husband, Quentin Collins."
She looked over at him then, and for the first time their
eyes met. She smiled, "Mr.
Collins." She nodded in his direction, but so slightly, that
afterwards he wondered if he
may have imagined it.
Then she was gone, and Jenny was there again, reaching for
him. He looked at her, but
didn't really see her. "Jenny, I'm sorry...I have a terrible
headache, it must have been the
thunder." He kissed her cheek, "I'll see you at breakfast."
In his own room, he wondered why he had suddenly wanted
to be alone, couldn't
understand why he had felt that to lie in his wife's bed that
night would be some sort of
betrayal. He only knew that something he could not recognize had
crept into his being.
He turned the lights off, and in the darkness crossed the
room. From his window in the
west wing he could look down on the main body of the house. All
but a few windows
were dark, but there, in the corner of the first floor, a lamp
burned, and instinctively he
knew that it was her room. He wondered what she was doing.
He would have been pleased to know that she was thinking
of him. She had only given
him the briefest glance, but every line of his face had become
a permanent part of her. She
hadn't looked towards him as she left the room, but still knew
that his eyes had never left
her. Standing in front of her mirror, she whispered his name,
anxious to savor its taste.
"Quentin." Watching herself, she saw her cheeks flush,
as though she had been burnt by
his brilliance.
And so they had met, a man and a woman, and every moment
of the rest of their lives
would be given to an awareness of the other.
The storm had left the village feeling revigorated. The
lethargy that hung like a fog over
its streets and buildings and people had been rinsed away with
the rain, the morning was
seasoned with the fervor of rebirth.
Quentin Collins strode through the town with an intensity
that was more than his usual
restlessness. The energy that had torn through last nights sky
seemed to pulse in his veins,
he had no purpose to this visit to the village, knew only a need
to be somewhere,
anywhere away from the walls of Collinwood.
Business did not constrain him as he did his brother Edward.
His grandmother had put his
unique talents to good use, he need only devote his natural charm
to the family's concerns,
it was enough that once having come into contact with him, even
the most staid of the
bankers, the merchants, the brokers were eagar to be a part of
whatever world was his, if
only by association. The mundane could be left to Edward.
It was an arrangement he ordinarily found ideal, but today
he found himself wishing there
were something to occupy his time. Jenny had been fawning at breakfast,
suffocatingly so,
which had not been lost on Laura. His sister in law's smug expression
told him that she
thought she was the reason, that she had so firm a hold on him
he had come to regret the
rashness of his marriage. The urge to slap the self-satisfied
smile from her face had grown
so strong, he had stormed from the room, wanting nothing more
than to be away from
both of them.
Now, as he neared the livery stable, his thoughts were intent
on devising some amusement
for himself, something that neither of them would approve of were
they to know. Which
of course, they wouldn't, he hadn't yet taken to accounting for
himself to them, and would
never do so. Collinsport, however, was as disappointing today
as it always was to him,
offering little in the way of temptations.
"Quentin, Quentin." He turned to the sound of
his name, and saw Carl running towards
him. Though he wouldn't often give in to the sentiment, he missed
Carl, missed the easy
companionship they had shared before Carl had become the gauntlet,
before he had
thrown Carl down in his challenge to Edward. Now he was grateful
to see Carl, happy to
see the smile of excitement that lit his brother's childlike face.
"Quentin, did you hear? Gypsies Quentin! Real live,
honest to goodness Gypsies! Here,
in Collinsport...they have a camp set up down by the lake. Come
to see them with me?
We can have our fortunes told! Please, Quentin!"
Quentin laughed, feeling buoyed by his brother's enthusiasm.
He had been looking for
excitement, well, why not Gypsies? The very worst they could do
was try to con him out
of the last cent in his pocket.
"A splendid idea, brother." He dropped one long
arm across Carl's shoulders. "Hold tight
to your purse strings...we are off to see the Gypsies, to learn
of what glories our futures
hold."
"And how can you be sure, Magda? Does the ball tell you he will come?"
Sandor Rakosi laughed at his wife, but was resigned to the
fact that she had made up her
mind, and once Magda's determination set in, nothing could dissuade
her.
"You hush, Sandor, he will come I tell you. They gossip
in town, they gossip about the
Collins family. Like old women the men gossip, all Magda needs
to know about Quentin
Collins, she find out just by listening."
Magda had learned much by listening. She had quartered herself
at the mercantile,
knowing that they would all hover near her, partly out of curiosity,
partly out of fear that
she would manage to hide half the store's stock under her full
skirts. As they followed her
about, they talked their little small town talk, thinking her
too stupid to understand all they
said. Everywhere, they all thought the gypsies stupid, but Magda,
ah, she would learn
much from her listening. Gypsies, stupid, ha! Hadn't her own sister
been smart enough to
marry one much better than them?
So Magda listened, and freely they talked. She learned of
Edward Collins, who ran the
family business, and for all purposes, the town. She learned of
Judith Collins, a lonely
woman, jealous of her brothers and their wives. She learned of
Carl Collins, and how they
all thought him slow witted. This she would remember, Carl Collins
could serve her
purposes well.
Finally, she heard his name - Quentin Collins. They spoke
it in hushed tones, spoke of him
as though he were something more than a man. They spoke of his
gambling, his women,
spoke in a way meant to judge, but only told of how much they
envied him, how much
they wished to be him. Well, not for long, Magda would see to
that.
Women! He had stolen her Jenny from her, and still he looked
for women? He should
offer up his soul in thankfulness for Jenny! But he would not
have her long, for Magda
had a plan, she would destroy Quentin Collins, and her Jenny would
give up her grand
notions and come home, home to those who really loved her.
All this she explained to Sandor, all this and more. She
told Sandor of the old woman, the
most dangerous of the women in Quentin's life. It was the old
grandmother who could
make Quentin a rich man, and suspected that Quentin was just clever
enough to make that
so. Then her Jenny would be completely lost to her, living in
grand style as mistress of
that big house way over there. Magda could not let this happen,
she must make Quentin a
broken man, then Jenny would not think him so fine.
It was the old woman, the old woman she would need to meet.
The feeble brother would
take her to the old woman, But first, she must actually see this
man - her brother in law.
She must know more about him, know to "see" him in the
cards, so the grandmother
would recognize him.
"He will come, Sandor, he will come. They talk about
him, and Magda listen. And you
know what they say? They say that Quentin Collins embraces the
black arts. So, you see
Sandor, he will come to us."
As she spoke, the two men stepped from the path into the
clearing. One, a few steps
ahead of the other, eager, his curiosity bright in his eyes; the
other hanging back, trying to
look bored, but his keen eyes scanned the scene in front of him.
They passed over the
campfire, the wagon, her Sandor, finally resting on her. So handsome
he was, and those
eyes, bluer than the robin's egg they were. Yes, this was him,
the man that had seduced
her sister away from her.
This was Quentin Collins.
She smiled and welcomed him.