Part IX
Collinwood
It had taken so little to make Jenny happy, only a pair of store bought dolls. She had been sleeping when Beth had laid them in the cradle she had brought to the tower room, and when Jenny awoke, she had found them there. My babies, she had cooed to them, my babies. She was content now, no longer looking for the real children that had been there, then gone, no longer waiting for the absent husband and father to come to them. She knew now why he had gone, she had heard them whispering when they thought she was asleep. She wouldn't let any of them know that she knew. Not even Beth, because if anyone found out, then maybe they would take her babies and send them to him. She would never let him have them. Only if he came back to her, only if he promised that he would stay and he would forget all about that other one, and promised that they would be a real family, only then would she let him see them.
"Its late, Jenny, the children should be asleep by now." Jenny looked up at Beth. She hoped that Beth wouldn't think she was a bad mother for keeping her babies up so late, it was just that it was hard to know what time it was up here all alone. Well, she would tuck them in now, and sing to them, then Beth would go away, and she could wake them back up to keep her from being lonely. She always did everything just the way Beth told her to, then they would know she was being good, and let her keep her babies.
Beth watched Jenny, absorbed in her dolls, then quietly slipped out of the room, locking the door behind her. She knew she would be late in meeting Dirk, and hoped that he wouldn't be in one of his antagonistic moods. Lately all he ever went on about was how things would be when Edith died, he always seemed so concerned with whatever changes there may be when the old woman's heart finally gave out on her. It didn't make much sense to Beth to bother worrying about it. She supposed that Edward would keep things the way they were once he inherited, as he was bound to do. Not that it mattered to her which of them was to be the heir, she couldn't see where all their money had bought any of them a lick of compassion.
Over dinner at the Inn, Dirk did indeed talk of Edith's dying, as though it was something he hoped for ever day. When the desert was served, he reached across the table for her hand, and again talked of how Edward had promised him opportunities that would allow him to realize more than he had now, more than the simple gatehouse he went home to, alone, each night.
Dirk didn't see himself as particularly ambitious. He wanted only what other men wish for, a wife to take the edge off his loneliness, and someday children to give him the promise of a future. There had been a time when his dreams were much grander, but that was before Beth had finally allowed him to get a little closer. Now he wanted nothing more than to come home at night and find her waiting. But that stubborn old woman had to give in and die first. Then he would be free to use what he knew against Edward, force him to show a proper appreciation for the silence Dirk had kept. Only then would he be able to ask her, not before, not when it would mean she would have to keep on working for them. No one would ever be able to say that Dirk Wilkins could not provide for a wife.
Beth did not pull her hand away from his, not at the table, not in the carriage on the ride back to Collinwood. She was tired all the time now, both from the demands of keeping Jenny happy and from keeping Jenny a secret. What little time she had to slip away in, she spent with the children at Nell Fillmore's small house just outside the village. It had never stopped bothering her that they had been so casually removed from Collinwood, and sometimes she would sing to them, so that they may know a little of how their mother loved them. She would sing the same lullabies Jenny sang to her dolls, hoping that in some way she was giving a little of their mother to them.
She had come to depend on these nights Dirk took her away from the house and its secret. His hand wrapped around hers was comforting, she liked that she was the one being tended to. In the darkness of the servant's hall, when he pulled her into his arms, she leaned against him, and when he bent to kiss her, she let him. If only it could stay this simple, just the closeness, and the warmth of his arms, but when his hand moved from her waist, and slid tentatively towards her breast she pulled away. He kissed her cheek then, told her goodnight, and left thinking that soon the time would come when goodnight would not mean leaving her.
In her room, Beth leaned against her closed door, the tears hot against her eyelids. What would become of Jenny if she were to think of trying to make a life for herself? How could she possibly go on caring for her if she kept letting Dirk get closer? And if she pushed Dirk away now, would it mean always being alone?
It was strange to think that she used to love to be by herself, that being alone didn't mean being lonely. Now she felt only this burning emptiness, and in a way she did care for Dirk, and was grateful for the moments he filled. Maybe it didn't matter so much that she wasn't in love with him, because if it were not him, then it would only be another that she couldn't love.
The only man she would ever love was the one she did not expect to see ever again.
ALEXANDRIA
Winter nights in Maine are meant for sleeping. With the day's cold settled in his marrow, a man's bed beckons with the allure of a lover. The sheets never seem quite so comforting as when they have been warmed by the pure heat of a nearby fire, the layers of quilts weigh on the body with a reassurance that promises a night's uninterrupted dreams.
Had it really been a year since he had last slept in complete peace? It was hard to imagine winter in this place, with its unnatural heat and the dry air that scorched his lungs. Sleep was impossible, but he knew that it was more than Egypt that made him restless. There was also Laura. He had never overcome his basic distrust of giving in to sleep with her by his side, still insisted that he keep his own rooms, but he knew that no door could keep her out, and hated the exposure of sleeping uncovered in temperatures that he could well imagine driving a man mad.
Always, he was aware of each sound the night made, and woke easily. So it had been in all the time spent here with her, even before his suspicions were realized. Now, waiting for her to return, the noises of the night gave way to the early morning stirrings of the city. So aware of each individual sound was he, that later he would swear he could hear her footfall long before she had actually neared his door.
When she came into the room, he was standing, he would not give her the advantage of looking down on him. Never again would he allow her an edge.
Finding him up at this hour startled her, and her surprise satisfied him. It was such a small thing, really, but it was enough to ground his resolve. This time, this moment, would belong to him.
"Up so early, Quentin? Could it be you missed me?" Laura laughed at him, but he couldn't help but notice how her eyes had narrowed with apprehension. Not this time, he thought, not this time will you take control from me.
"Miss you?" He moved close to her, never taking his eyes from hers. "Miss you? You forget how easily distracted I am. I can always find some amusement." He forced himself to turn his back on her, trying not to be afraid of the force of her eyes boring into him. "Its the heat, how can anyone be expected to sleep in the pit of hell?"
He took the first step that would lead him across the room, the first step followed by the second, each step of the twenty or so paces it took his long legs to reach the window sounding in his brain like the measured striking of a metronome. Each step counting off moments of his lifetime, until, at last he was reaching out to touch the gauze of the curtain, grasping, pulling, tearing it away from the brackets that had held it in place.
He turned to face her, his voice firm with the strength he felt flooding into him. "I cannot bear one more day of this goddamned heat."
She looked at him, her lips parted to speak, but then there came the sounds of running footsteps, and she was quiet, listening, a question locked in her eyes.
They were there, upon her, and Quentin finally dared to breath. He thought there must be close to a dozen of them, but they kept moving, circling her, and he could not be sure of his count. They had closed in on her, hiding her from him, he could only hear her, her voice pleading. Over and over, like a mantra, rising in panic, she spoke only his name, a whimper at first, rising to a scream.
He could hear her struggle as they moved her towards the door, and in a moment's panic thought she might break free of them, but then she was gone, only her screams still echoed through the room, his name trapped within its walls, pounding in his chest with every beat of his frightened heart.
From the window, he looked down, watched as she was shackled to the bed of the cart they had lifted her onto. He could see her fight against the restraints, all the while searching the crowd that had gathered, looking for the face of her lover. But when she lifted her head, when her gaze finally found him at the window, she saw only her assassin.
The cart began to move through the street, pushed along by her captors. Quentin ran from the room, ran to see where it was they were taking her. When he reached the street she was gone from sight, but he needed only follow the throng that scurried in excitement to find her.
He saw her being lifted onto some sort of crude staging that had been erected in front of a temple, and wondered what grace they were granting her that she should have been taken to such a place. Pushing through the gathered onlookers, he moved closer, until he could see the pyramid of dried wood that lay under the platform she had been tied down to.
Burn...she must burn...away from her god...he remembered their words, and he understood.
The flames needed no coaxing, the first touch of fire to kindling rose with a knowing vengeance. Tongues of flame wrapped around the pyre, around Laura, and he watched as her arms bent defensively, her fists clenched. He watched as her skin fell away, the acrid scent of charred flesh stinging his sinuses.
He would have imagined it would have taken longer for a human body to burn, but Laura was gone in a matter of minutes, lost in the heat of the flames, and the sound of melted flesh spitting against the embers of the dying fire. Laura was gone, and Quentin was free.
He made his way back to his rented room, exhaustion and exhilaration melding into one, untying the knots that had been holding him together for so long now. He fell across the bed, savoring the ease that was creeping through him, spreading through his long body, until at last he slept.
In his dreams he was home, breathing in the moisture of the ocean's breeze, the cool air soothing against his skin. He could smell the pine needles, hear the buoys clanging in the harbor.
Outside his dreams, outside his window, the sun still hung low in the sky, the streets were empty. No breeze carried across the desert, even the work animals seemed to be suspended in state of not quite existing, waiting for some relief from the oppressive heat.
In the valley of the tombs, the flame of the Phoenix still burned.
Collinwood
It was Christmas time, and Edith Collins couldn’t understand why everyone was so quiet. Why, she remembered years when the whole house sang with joy, when her boys were little, when her grandchildren were growing up. Nothing seemed right this year, even the children were so serious, especially the boy.
Funny, but when Jamison had come to see her, to talk to her, for a moment she had thought him to be Edward...so silly of her. Edward was a grown man now. She hadn’t minded when her body had started to tire on her, but this, having her mind play these tricks on her, this was something else entirely. It wouldn’t do to have them all know just how often she her thoughts muddled on her.
Not that they paid enough attention to her to notice. It seemed these days that only Judith had any time for her at all. She was lucky to have a friend like Magda, it would be so lonely without her. And so sharp Magda was! A good thing, too, because with the way her mind was so scattered these days, she really needed Magda to help her think clearly.
Why, just this morning, when Judith had sat right over there, she knew that there was something she had to tell her, but couldn’t for the life of her think of what it was. She thought maybe it had something to do with Quentin, but wasn’t quite sure. Quentin, where was that boy off to anyway? He never bothered to stop in to tell her good morning, or kiss her goodnight. Now what was it about Quentin she had to tell Judith? Something the boy had come to her about, but what was it? Oh well, no sense in worrying about it now, later she would remember.
For now, she just wanted to get ready for the holidays. Didn’t she always have the grandest Christmas in Collinsport? Everyone said so, said that no one could make a holiday happy the way Edith Collins did. And how they would smile when she ushered them into the church....Edward such a proper little man, Judith always fixed just so, Carl with that impish smile of his, and Quentin, turning heads even then, even when he was just this big.
Of course, that was it, that was what she hadn’t been able to think of. Quentin wouldn’t be here this Christmas, and the boy missed him. Well, it was Christmas, and she was still head of this family, no matter how much they tried to go about doing whatever they may behind her back. Well, she would just show them, every one of them. She would telephone Evan right now, before she forgot, and have him send the wire. She wasn’t sure where Quentin was, only that it was very far away, he would never make it home in time for Christmas, which was a shame. No matter, she would have Evan send the wire anyway, and she wouldn’t tell any of them. It would be her little secret with Evan.
Then, when Quentin came, he would be such a lovely surprise.
1897
Though it would soon be spring, there was no sign of a thaw, and the cobblestones of the village’s streets were slippery with ice. Quentin stood in the light of a street lamp, and watched as the puffs of vapor that were his breath rose in the frigid air.
He loved this cold, loved the way it felt heavy in his lungs, the way it tightened the skin on his brow. All that kept him from perfect contentment was the lack of snow...it would have been so nice to see the flakes drifting around him, dancing on the breeze that came in from the Atlantic.
They would not be expecting him, he hadn’t even given Evan an exact arrival date. From the wire, then in more detail in the letter that had awaited him in New York, he knew that his grandmother wasn’t well, that the old woman’s sharp mind had finally given in to age. She could have forgotten that he was coming, but that was all very well with him. If he could surprise her, maybe then she would remember only that he had once been her pet.
Edward could be a problem, but with Laura gone, Quentin’s logic saw no need to let the matter lie between them, saw the problem as having gone up in flames with the woman. He and Edward had enough natural animosity between them without Laura, but that was good, it would keep him alert.
Edward he could deal with later, for now he wanted only to walk through the town, walk out to Collinwood, absorbing the taste of home with each step, feeling himself more and more to be the real Quentin Collins.
The first glimpse of the house, it startled him to realize how happy he was to see it, there, over the trees, just the peak of the tower. He imagined a faint light in the window, but knew that none could be there, it was just a trick of the moon, and of his happiness at being here.
He stood for a moment at the gate, Collinwood before him. The tower, dark now as it should be, the arch of the entry, the tall windows of the drawing room. This was home, and he forgot any reasons he may have had for not wanting to be here in the past. Now, there was nowhere else that seemed so beautiful as this old house in front of him.
He tightened his hand on the handle of the grip he had carried from the station, tomorrow the rest of his bags would be delivered, and he would go about the business of unpacking, of settling in, of making his presence back here real.
There were few lights burning at the windows...who would be awake, who would greet him at the door? He thought briefly of just walking in, going quietly to his room and letting the morning deal with the problem of his welcome.
But no, he was here now, here to stay, and if nothing else he had style. A grand entrance, yes, that was the way. To come home with the flourish that was the signature of Quentin Collins.
He raised his hand, rapped firmly on the door. Who would it be that came to see him in? Judith, Carl? A current of confidence pulsed through him, he would not even mind seeing Edward open the door.
Listening, he thought he heard footsteps approaching behind the closed door. Home, he was home. He knocked again, this time calling out as he did so:
“Hello, hello...”
And the door swung open . . .