"Bah! You do not believe in Magda! I see nothing."
She slammed the empty tea cup
back onto the table top, glowered across at him.
Quentin felt a laugh begin to rise, but when he looked up
at her, it froze in his throat. An
expression had flashed briefly in her eyes, then it was gone,
yet its memory nagged at his
mind. Something in that look was familiar, he had seen it before,
but it was gone before
he had a chance to fully recognize it. Now, only a second after
it had passed, to be
replaced with fury, he couldn't even remember what it was he saw,
knew only that he had
seen it before, and it had led him places he never should have
gone.
He cocked one eyebrow at the Gypsy woman. "Perhaps,
Madame, you see nothing
because your vision is depressingly narrow, or maybe convenient?"
Magda waved her hand, dismissing him, "Oh, I have the
vision, but you must be ready to
accept. You must come to me with an uncluttered mind. I try your
brother now."
This time, Quentin's laughter reached his lips. "Well,
there you have it, your uncluttered
mind."
Carl was too anxious to hear what the woman had to say about
his future to be insulted,
and jostled Quentin until his brother stood, then slipped into
the chair. He took the cup of
tea Magda offered, drank it in a single gulp, laid down the cup.
"Tell me, Gypsy, tell me
what you see."
Magda took the cup up, stared down at the leaves. She saw
love, she saw heartbreak, but
none of this concerned her. There would be time enough to tell
him of all this later, if she
played her game well. Instead she told him of other things, things
she wanted him to hear,
based not on the pattern of the leaves, but on the bits of gossip
she had picked up in the
village.
"I see a woman, a very old woman. She is tired, and
is losing spirit. But she is a kindly
woman, and does not want to sleep just yet, not when she worries
so about her kin. She
has a confusion to settle, and cannot rest until she is satisfied
that the choices she will
make will be the right ones."
Carl gasped, and turned to his brother. "Grandmama! Quentin she sees Grandmama!"
The good spirit Quentin had brought to the Gypsy camp was
gone now, replaced with an
impatience at a morning wasted. "For God's sake, Carl, of
course she sees Grandmama.
No one can come to Collinsport without seeing, or hearing of the
great Edith Collins," he
cast a suspicious look at Magda, "the rich Edith Collins."
"So Mr. Collins, you think I abuse my gift? I will
prove to you that I honor the vision
with which I have been blessed." She crossed herself, rose
and disappeared into the
wagon.
When she came back, she was carrying a stoppered bottle.
"For your dear grandmother,
so that she may feel better, may grow stronger." She handed
the bottle to Carl, "My
Sandor's magic elixir - you give to the lady, with the blessings
of Magda Rakosi."
Carl hesitated before taking the bottle, looking to Quentin
for approval. By this time
Quentin was feeling the urge for a bit of the "elixir"
himself, and wanted only to be away
from this foolish woman and her foolish talk. "Oh go ahead,
Carl, take it. It can't possibly
do any harm, they would be hard pressed to peddle their snake's
oil if word got out that it
had actually killed someone."
He turned, and with his long legged stride soon had reached
the path at the edge of the
camp, Carl scurrying to keep up with him. Watching them leave,
Magda spit on the
footprints Quentin had left in the dirt. "This is not the
last time we will meet Quentin
Collins."
Sandor came to her side. "Did you really see nothing?"
"Ah, Sandor, I see much. I see evil and hatred. I see
love and betrayal. But I will not
waste my warnings on Quentin Collins."
"And why the elixir, Magda? We have many bottles, why
do you give them our special
stock? Special for us, you know I save the bottles with the coca
leaf for the two of us."
"Because, Sandor, I want the old woman to appreciate
the elixir. I want her to appreciate
us. She will be sending for us, you will see. Then we get in that
house, we find Jenny.
Then we show her just who he is, this man she married."
"You will see."
It was the ghosts of the living that haunted Jenny Collins.
The living who threatened to
unearth that other self, the woman she buried by becoming Mrs.
Quentin Collins. Here, in
the house they talked openly - Edward and Judith with revulsion,
Carl and Edith with
admiration, Quentin with apprehension. In the village they pointed
and whispered, and
with every whisper Jenny turned, expecting the fingers to be pointing
at her - "Gypsy."
In the month since Carl had come rushing into the house,
babbling excitedly, she had
scarcely drawn an easy breath. She watched as Edith steadily gained
energy, and knew
where this new vitality had come from. She listened as Carl told
his stories of the
wonderful gypsies and all they knew. She waited, waited for someone
to put an end to
this nonsense, someone to send her sister and brother in law away,
away from Collinsport,
away from her. She waited for winter, for the cold to come, coaxing
them into leaving on
their own.
But when winter came, it brought only a new anxiety. Edith,
enraptured with her new
found vigor had worried as much as Jenny. She worried that if
they were to leave, Sandor
would take his wonderful elixir with him. That she would no longer
have the
companionship of Magda. That there would be no one to tell her
all the things that she
could only fumble with on her own when left to herself. For Edith
could only see the past,
and it blinded her with compassion for Quentin. Magda could see
the future, and not
being bound by affection, could see Quentin as he was today, and
would be tomorrow.
For the Quentin that Magda promised was to be was one that
frightened Edith. She knew
that he was reckless, but had so believed that with maturity he
would learn to channel his
endless energy, it broke her heart to think that she had been
so fooled by him. But Magda
had seen into Quentin's soul, and Magda had no reason to lie.
Yes, Magda had told her
many things, now she knew what she must do. She needed only the
strength to do it, the
strength that Sandor's elixir and Magda's advice could give her.
They could not leave her
now.
She would invite them to spend the cold winter in the Old House.
It was a decision that infuriated Quentin. That damned gypsy
woman was determined to
destroy his life, and he didn't even know why. His wife was no
help at all - he had
encouraged her to befriend Magda, but Jenny proved to be even
more snobbish than
Judith in her views, refusing to associate in any way with the
gypsies. He'd cajoled her,
bribed her, risked Laura's wrath by showering his wife with attention.
Nothing. The only
course he saw left was to threaten. To tell her that if she was
not interested in helping to
secure his future, he had to assume she was not interested in
sharing it.
But in her room he found only Beth. Another insufferable
woman that irritated him at
every encounter. The way she moved, as though every step was designed
to demand his
attention. The way she would look at him whenever he forced her
to do so with some
question whose answer he couldn't care less about - her expression
always clear and
direct, her eyes meeting his with a purpose that told him that
she understood very well
what he was all about. That she knew him in ways that he had never
allowed anyone else
to. Knew things about him that he hadn't even discovered himself.
She annoyed the hell out of him. Annoyed him with her indifference,
annoyed him with
her silence. Annoyed him with the way she never quite left his
thoughts. But there was
no avoiding her. In Jenny's room, in the sitting room he shared
with his wife, in the foyer.
She was always somewhere.
And when she wasn't, he felt a desperation he could not understand.
He stood in the doorway, looking at her, wondering what
he was going to say to her, then
wondering why he felt he had to say anything. Damn this woman,
anyway, what was it
about her? He knew only that her quiet ways unnerved him. He couldn't
shake the feeling
that she was always thinking something, and wanted to know what
it was.
"Beth." His voice was curt, he let no inflection
soften it, wanting to see how she would
react. But she only looked up at him, registering nothing. No
surprise that he was
suddenly standing there, no hesitation, nothing.
"Yes, Mr. Collins?"
"I was looking for my wife."
"She has gone into the village with your sister. I
expect her back shortly." Beth went
back to gathering up the clothing Jenny had scattered about the
room, and watching her,
Quentin noticed the disorder of his wife's room.
"Is it always like this? How does she know where anything is?"
Beth turned to look at him, and for the first time let her
voice register some expression.
"She doesn't - often she will insist that something is missing
when it is right by her hand.
Other times she will forget completely that she has just brought
home a new hat or ribbon,
and think someone has been trying to move into her room."
She hesitated for a moment,
then looked directly at Quentin. "Mr. Collins, is something
bothering her? Something I
could help with?"
What she said irritated him, it was impudent and presumptuous,
but it was the way she
said it that kept him from pointing that out to her. He studied
her for a minute, realizing
that her concern was genuine, and at the same time realizing exactly
what it was about her
that bothered him so; she was genuine. She had none of Laura's
vanity, as she stood there,
the only thing about her that was in any way affected was the
ridiculous array of
ornamental fluff she held gathered in her arms. And that, unfortunately,
was the property
of his wife.
He searched for something to tell her, anything that would
indicate he may have noticed
that Jenny was acting peculiar of late, but knew that it was a
question he really had no
answer for. All he really knew of Jenny was that one minute he
had seen her, dressed in
black with her incredible hair hanging down around her shoulders,
and the next she was
his wife. But how to explain that to the woman standing in front
of him? How to have it
seem as sensible to her as it had to him at the time. Explain
it so she wouldn't think him a
complete fool.
"I don't know...our courtship was brief, there are
many things about my wife I don't
understand. I'm afraid I married in haste. Does that shock you?"
"It really isn't my place to be shocked or not."
He laughed. "Maybe that is exactly why I want to know.
Maybe my place in this
marriage is as far removed as yours." Now what the hell had
he said that for? If he had
done it to startle her, he could have understood, he was quite
used to that type of behavior
from himself.
But he hadn't, he had said it because he honestly wanted
to know what she thought. He
looked at her, and smiled when she didn't look away.
They understood each other.
It was the beginning: the beginning of his always looking
for her. Several times a day he
would stop in Jenny's room, hoping to find her there. Jenny, knowing
only that his visits
had grown more frequent, began to hope as she had in those first
days. She scarcely dared
leave her room, afraid of missing him. Always she would wait for
him, and if this time he
didn't stay, there was always the next time to look forward to.
Laura could not help but notice how often Quentin was knocking
on Jenny's door, and
contrived to meet him in the hallways, to sidetrack him as often
as possible. Her
desperation made her careless, when Edward would ask how she had
been passing her
time, she could not remember her lies.
Judith, ever jealous of her sisters in law, watched, waiting.
In Edith's room, Magda read the cards. She told the old
woman of a great disappointment
that would break her heart, of a handsome, laughing boy, of eyes
bluer than a summer's
sky that lied to her.
Edith listened, and promised herself she would not be made a fool of.
Quentin and Beth danced like moths around the flame, drawn
to the light, yet neither was
ready to step completely out of the shade. Not now, not yet.
Still, there was no turning back.
There would come a time when Quentin, finally and irrevocably
alone, would look back
and see this time as the moments of his life that cemented his
destiny. But for today, he
could only wander from room to room, always one step behind his
own restlessness.
He awoke that morning feeling unusually ready to face the
facts of his life, and had invited
Jenny to picnic with him on the beach. She had seemed eager, but
had suddenly changed
her mind just as he had actually worked up some enthusiasm for
a planned afternoon with
her. Now he had nothing to look forward to but hours of Collinwood
closing in on him.
He wasn't much in the mood for Judith's grousing or Carl's childish
jokes. Jamison was in
the schoolroom, would be all afternoon, and his grandmother had
closeted herself off with
that ridiculous gypsy woman right before lunch.
He supposed he could go off and find Beth, say something
to rile her up and watch her
eyes shoot sparks, but he was enjoying nursing his grudge far
too much to let himself be
cheered up by a good round of battle with Beth. He wondered where
she was off to
today; she hadn't been with Jenny when he stopped by his wife's
room this morning, or
then again when he had checked back to see if Jenny was ready.
Now he had something else to annoy him, thoughts of Jenny.
Why had she changed so
quickly this morning? She had seemed so happy at the thought of
spending an afternoon
with him, only to abruptly refuse to leave her room. Thinking
about her fostered his anger
with her, his unrest with his marriage. Damn Jenny anyway, he
would go off and find
Beth, at least she talked to him, even if it was only to argue
with him.
He left the drawing room, hoping to seek her out, but instead
found only Laura. A
petulant wife, a dotty old grandmother, a sanctimonious sister,
a mad gypsy, and now a
demanding sister-on-law; for a man who loved women, he certainly
was having a difficult
time finding the company of one he could appreciate today.
"Quentin, I've been looking for you." That was
the problem with Laura, she was always
looking for him. Time spent with her was so cut and dried, she
left him no leave for the
art of seduction. If it wasn't for the thrill of the furtive he
would tell her to go to hell right
here and now. He was in such a foul mood, however, that it was
easy to let his annoyance
with the world carry over to Edward...combined with his displeasure
with Jenny, it would
take very little commitment on his part to let an afternoon's
dalliance with Laura occupy
his time.
They left the house together, walked to the cottage without
conversation. It wasn't his
favorite place to amuse himself with his sister-in-law, he preferred
the late evenings he
spent here with other women, ones who had the good sense to flatter
his masculinity. But
given the daylight, and the disquiet that was gnawing at his soul
today, he was glad for its
sanctuary.
Once the door was closed behind them, she stepped into her
other self, the coy woman she
liked to pretend herself to be, but today he had no patience for
her games. He pulled her
roughly to him, took her with all the fury that had been building
up inside him since
morning. He found no pleasure in this coupling, indeed, hated
her all the more for
enjoying it. She was nothing more than a moments anonymous gratification,
he wanted
her to realize that, but she met each of his movements with an
enthusiasm that enraged
him.
The way she clutched at his back, the things she whispered
in his ear....damn her, she
knew, and was reveling in his helplessness against her right now.
Using the force of his
rage against her to carry her to an ecstasy that he could not
remember ever finding in her
arms. He rode the waves with her, having passed the point of free
will, and hated her for
bringing him this far. He wanted only to find his way to a place
beyond the reach of her
whispers, beyond the pounding in his ears that kept him from hearing
clearly something he
knew he should be aware of. He forced himself to concentrate,
to recognize whatever
intrusion had found its way into this compartment of his life
that he had tried for so long
to keep separate from his real world.
He pulled away from Laura, shook his head as though that
were enough to shake her off.
The room seemed to spin around him, he could not focus. He searched
through the
dizzying whirl of colors and textures for a point of clarity,
and when he found it, recoiled
in shock and fear.
There, in the doorway, stood Dirk, with Beth behind him.
He saw the scuttle and hod
Dirk held, the folds of heavy draperies in Beth's arms, and a
half heard breakfast
conversation crept into his consciousness. Something Edward had
been saying between
bites of biscuits and marmalade. "A harsh winter....much
to be done...prepare the
gatehouse...the cottage...."
He was swimming under water, fighting his way to the surface,
reaching for Beth to save
him, but the shame he felt when he looked at her weighted him
down, threatened to drown
him. He could have prevented this, stayed safely on the shore,
if only he had paid
attention, heard what Edward had been saying, if only he had been
listening.
And now, too late, he realized that Laura had.
Edward stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring into
the fire. Dirk's words rang in
his ears, but his initial shock had subsided, leaving him with
only a realization that had
come too late.
Of course.
How long had it been happening? Looking back he wasn't sure
he could remember a time
when he hadn't really known that it was someone, now he could
only wonder if
somewhere, in the corridors of his mind he never traveled, Quentin
hadn't hidden all along.
The wives of successful men took lovers, this was understood,
but that lover should not
be one's husband's brother. What a fool Laura had been, such a
mess she had made. And
Quentin! It had long been Edward's belief that Quentin had less
common sense than even
Carl, and this only proved it to him. Now Edward was left to pick
up the pieces, to decide
what was to be done with his brother.
He turned to Dirk. "You're sure Wilkins, that it was
only the two of you who saw?" Dirk
nodded. "And Beth? Will she be discreet?"
"She can be trusted." Of this Dirk was very sure.
He thought of all the nights in the
servants hall, when they would all gather over steaming mugs of
cocoa, chattering about
their day..trading their stories of lives lived vicariously, analyzing
every detail of the every
day patterns of the Collins family. Beth would sit quietly, and
when they attempted to
draw her in, she would only look up from her sewing and smile
that smile of hers; the one
that would puzzle Dirk, all the while setting his heart on fire.
Yes, she could be trusted,
his only wish was that she would also one day come to trust him.
"Good then. And you Wilkens, I would like to show you
my appreciation. You've been
at Collinwood since you were a boy, haven't you? I think it is
time that you were given
more responsibility. Its past time, really, for old Thad to be
pensioned off. I think you are
just the man to step into the caretaker's post. Of course, with
the position comes the
gatehouse, it is small, but comfortable, and quite an adequate
little home to bring a wife
to, should you begin thinking along those lines."
That what Edward was offering was meant to assure his silence
didn't bother Dirk. He
had ambitions, and didn't much care how they were met. For that
matter, he didn't much
care that Laura Collins was lifting her skirts outside her husband's
embrace. He did
however hate Quentin, and if striking a blow against him meant
ingratiating himself with
Edward, well, all the better. He tucked his arrogance in his pocket,
and turned to answer
Edward.
"Thank you, Mr. Collins, I'll do my best not to disappoint your confidence in me."
They both knew exactly what it was he was saying. Dirk left the study smiling to himself.
When Edward stepped out into the foyer, Laura was standing
there. Another man may
have confronted his errant wife, may have accused, may have threatened,
perhaps may
have even pleaded. Edward did none of these, he only brushed her
aside and strode up the
stairs.
He didn't stop to knock on Quentin's door, but let himself
in, where he found, as he knew
he would, his brother waiting.
"I will be brief, Quentin, and I expect no argument
or response from you. You will be
gone from here by midnight." He drew an envelope from his
breast pocket, tossed it on
the table, "In here you will find traveling money. I don't
not care to know where you
decide to go, nor do I care to deal with you further. Within the
next few days I will have
arranged an allowance for you that you can access through Evan
Handley's office. All
transactions will begin and end with him. Grandmother will be
told only that you have
grown bored with what little responsibility you have assumed here,
and that you have
turned your back on the family and the business."
"The amount of funds that are to be put at your disposal
will depend upon your
circumstances. Should you decide to take your wife with you, your
allowance would
reflect that. Should you choose not to have her accompany you,
or should she have the
good sense to refuse to go with you, her upkeep will, of course,
come from your allocated
resources. If I find her at my breakfast table in the morning,
I will make it clear to her
that, while she will be provided for, she cannot possibly remain
at Collinwood."
"This, Quentin, is the last we will speak of the subject.
In fact, I trust this is the last we
will speak at all."
"As of midnight tonight, you have no home called Collinwood.
And I have no brother,
Quentin." With that, he was gone.
Quentin had uttered not one word.
He had planned to tell her in as few words as possible,
but as soon as he walked into her
room, he realized that Laura had already been there. No sooner
had he closed the door
behind him than she was upon him, clutching at him, pleading with
him. Why?, she asked,
over and over again, Why?
Why indeed? How to tell her that in all the early mornings,
all the afternoons, all the
evenings and late nights with Laura, there had never been a moments
tenderness? That he
had been motivated not by passion, but by a rage that had smoldered
inside him for nearly
as long as he could remember? How to explain that she, his wife,
had failed him? That all
he had ever wanted from her was an end to the madness that was
Laura, but instead it was
Jenny's own neediness that had propelled him further into the
intrigue, beyond the point of
ever coming back. Beyond the point of being able to separate where
the fury with Laura
ended, only to begin with Jenny. How the two of them, wife and
mistress, were indelibly
twinned for him, and he wanted nothing more than to be rid of
them both.
Now Jenny was grasping at him, begging him, and he had to
fight the urge to slap her.
Her love for him was tangible, and it sickened him. She loved
only the man who had
courted her, who had rushed her with sweet murmurings and promises.
She didn't love
the real him, the Quentin who was trapped in the confusion of
his own making, the
Quentin who was frightened, and just this once, wished there was
someone to tell his fears
to.
But Jenny only pulled at him, wait, Quentin, wait,
there is something I must tell
you....well, nothing she could say now could persuade him to take
her with him. It was
too late.
Too late, for the first time since their meeting they were
thinking the same thing. Too late.
Jenny felt the panic rise in her throat, too late. She could have
told him sooner, if it hadn't
been for Magda, but she could not let her husband know without
her sister finding out,
and her sister stubbornly hung on, refusing to leave Collinsport,
despite how Jenny
pointedly ignored her. Damn Magda and her Gypsy perseverance,
and her Gypsy
superstitions, and her Gypsy blood that Jenny shared and that
Magda could expose. Damn
Magda, who should have gone away, so she could have told Quentin,
so that he would
stay.
But Quentin was gone, the door slammed firmly behind him,
and Magda was in this house,
locked up with the old lady again. But Jenny would wait, and when
Magda saw that, even
now, she would chose her husband, Magda would go away. Then Quentin
would come
back, and she could tell him, and he would love her. She would
wait, in this huge cold
house that she had such a short while ago come to as a bride,
in this house where her
sister whispered of the future, and her husband, even now, was
walking down the stairs,
walking towards the door, walking away from her.
In the foyer, Quentin stood for a moment, letting his childhood
home wash over him. He
loved it as passionately as he hated it, and knew that he could
never travel so far that he
could leave it behind. He looked towards the grandfather clock,
five minutes til midnight.
Five more minutes of home.
A quiet rustle caught his attention, and he looked up to
find Beth watching him. Startled,
he could see her again as she looked that afternoon, standing
behind Dirk's shoulder, with
an expression he could not read in her eyes. He brushed that image
aside, until he could
see her clearly as she stood now, saying nothing, but watching
him, and now, in her eyes,
he could see only sympathy.
He lowered his eyes, and reached into his pocket for his
gloves, letting them distract him
until he felt his voice could be trusted. Then, he looked up at
her once again. "My
brother appreciates discretion. You have impressed him. He won't
forget that...you'll be
all right."
She nodded, and spoke softly, "Take care of yourself, Quentin."
Quentin. It was the first time she had called him by name,
and it warmed him to think that
he had lingered, however briefly, on her lips. Something picked
at the edges of his
memory, something Evan had said:
"Even for you, Quentin"....even for you.
What would she say now if he went over to her, if he leaned
down and kissed her, and
pulling away told her to come with him? Told her that he would
show her places and
things she had only dreamed of, and that none of this would matter,
none of what they
were leaving behind, because they would be taking something glorious
with them, and
they would only need each other?
His arms trembled with the urge to hold her, he ached with
longing as he felt her tear into
his being with an intensity that scared him.
Even for you, Quentin, even for you.
He stood in the debris of his life and his marriage, locked
into her gaze, regretting every
second that had been lived before this exact moment in time when
he knew what it was
like to really feel. If he told her, what would she say? He didn't
have the courage to find
out.
So he turned, and reached for the door. With his hand on
the latch he faced her again, all
his impulses and words locked inside him, and said only this:
"Good-bye, Beth."