Never Call It Love (41 page)

By
September Caroline was able to stand alone in her crib, gazing with eager brown
eyes at the big world beyond its bars, and gurgling comments that, Elizabeth
was convinced, would make perfect sense to her and Patrick if they had the wit
to understand them. Looking at the brown-eyed little face in its halo of blond
curls, Elizabeth found it amazing to recall that before Caroline's birth she
had hoped for a son. Oh, she and Patrick would have sons. Any frontier family
needed several sons. But she hoped that for a while Caroline would remain their
only child. She wanted to give her undivided attention to this enchanting
creature, wanted to enjoy to the fullest the sight of one-year-old Caroline
taking her first steps, and two-year-old Caroline running about the clearing.

One
afternoon in late September as she knelt in the kitchen garden weeding between
the rows of bush beans, she suddenly thought: Why I'm happy! Not just
reasonably content. Happy.

She
knew that many would say she had little reason to be. She and Patrick were poor
now. He worked as hard as any half-starved peasant in Ireland, or slave on
St.-Denis. The harsh lye soap she used for household tasks had
reddened her
own hands, and the dark blue gown she wore was of homespun, inexpertly woven by
herself. What was more, she still did not know whether or not her husband felt
anything more for her than a sense of legal responsibility, plus the physical
desire he might feel for any attractive woman. And yet she was happy.

Perhaps
the reason was that she felt she had finally escaped the past. She had lost all
fear that Moira Ashley might follow them to this wilderness. And although she
sometimes woke with vague memories of a dream in which two dark figures
struggled on a wharf jutting out into a black tropic sea, she had long since
ceased to speculate in waking hours about the mystery of Christopher's death.
No, the past was past. For her, America indeed had proved to be a new world.
Smiling, she rose, shook the damp earth from her skirts, and went into the
house to start supper.

Because
her sense of having escaped into a new life was so strong, she felt doubly
shattered when, three weeks later, the past came crashing in upon her.

On
that Sabbath afternoon, a hush lay over the settlement. The children who on
weekdays raced noisily from doorstep to doorstep were in their separate houses.
But even so, Elizabeth was aware, as she tended a pot of venison stew, that the
clearing was not empty. Half an hour ago a cart bearing two westbound trappers
had stopped out there, and the men of the community had gathered around it.
Soon Patrick would come in to tell her whatever news the Frenchmen had
brought—news of progress on the peace treaty that the Americans were still
negotiating with the English, or perhaps word of new settlers in the
communities to the east.

She
heard the door open. Turning from the fireplace, she saw him standing there, a
kind of grim exultation in his face. Even before she knew the cause of that
look, she felt a chilly premonition.

"What
is it, Patrick?"

For
answer he reached into the pocket of his buckskin shirt, walked past the crib
where Caroline lay sleeping, and held out a folded sheet of paper. Fingers
unsteady, she unfolded it.

It
was crudely printed broadside of the sort she had seen handed out on the London
streets to advertise some public event, such as a hanging. It read:

Irish-born
Americans! America is free, but the land of your birth still groans under the
English yoke.

Help
free Ireland also! Meet with the American Sons of Ireland in Hagerstown,
Maryland, October 27.

Her
voice sounded thin. "Where did this...?"

"Men
were handing them out on the streets in Philadelphia. Those trappers agreed to
distribute them in the settlements they passed through."

He
moved to the foot of the bed and opened the wooden chest that stood there. In
it they kept the clothes they never wore in New Canterbury, his cambric shirts
and broadcloth coats and breeches, and the few gowns she had managed to pack
before their hasty flight from St.-Denis. It also held a metal box containing
money.

"Patrick!
What are you doing?"

"I'm
going to Hagerstown, of course. I'll leave before daybreak tomorrow."

"Patrick!"

"I'll
go on foot. Colin will need the horses, if he's to go on clearing land.
Undoubtedly I will get a ride in a cart or wagon now and then. Anyway, I should
be there by the twenty-seventh."

She
cried violently, "But why? You are an American now. Why should you concern
yourself..."

He
straightened up and faced her, the metal box in his hands. "Yes, I am an
American. And now that I have seen what free men can do, I am more determined
than ever that Ireland shall be free." His voice grew harsh. "Did
you think that
a hundred acres of American soil would make me forget all I planned for, worked
for, for a dozen years? Did you think me that shallow?"

"I
hoped you were that sensible," she said bitterly. "What do you plan
to do, abandon Caroline and me so that you can go back and fight for your
precious cause?"

"Don't
be absurd." He placed the box on the bed. "I will be back in three
weeks, a month at most. You will be safe enough. And Colin is a good shot. He
will keep you supplied with game in case the food in the cellar runs low."

"But
if you don't plan to go back to Ireland, then why go to this meeting?"

"Because
I can give highly valuable information to those who will be going. Do you
remember how back in St.-Denis, Fontaine told us that the English had
discovered only a few of those caches of arms? Perhaps at least some of them
are still undiscovered. Before we left Ireland, I burned all my papers, but I
still carry the list of those locations in my head."

She
cried, out of some black foreknowledge of disaster, "Your duty is here! I
forbid you to go!"

His
eyes narrowed. "Forbid? I have told you before, Elizabeth, that you cannot
forbid me to do anything. Nor do I need you to tell me where my duty
lies."

She
heard a whimper, then a frightened cry. Their raised voices had awakened
Caroline. Elizabeth turned, reached into the crib, and lifted the baby out.
With the warm little body against her shoulder, she turned back to Patrick. He
sat on the bed, opening the metal box. He took out a leather bag and upended it
on the counterpane. Money spilled out, large silver dollars and small
five-dollar gold pieces—what money remained to him after the long journey from
the West Indies to New Canterbury, plus the sum the French trappers had paid
him for
supplies to take downriver. Bitter-eyed, she watched him stack the coins into
piles.

"Are
you taking that money with you?" Lest she set Caroline to crying again,
she tried to keep her voice quiet and matter-of-fact.

"Yes."

"Why?"

For
the first time since coming into the house, he seemed hesitant. "I may
find I can make an advantageous bargain for cattle. Even though I won't be able
to take delivery until next spring, I can seal the bargain now if I have money
with me."

Did
he believe, at least at the moment, that he might buy cattle? Perhaps. But she
was sure that the money would be used either for his passage to Ireland or for
that of some other diehard fanatic. One way or another, that money, like her
dowry, would be swallowed up by this cause of his, the cause that seemed so
much more precious to him than any one human being, even his wife or his child.

That
night in bed he drew her into his arms and tried to arouse her with kisses and
caresses. She lay silent and unresponsive. He did not react with the resentment
she had expected. Instead he said quietly, "Very well, Elizabeth. Just let
me hold you." She wished that she had the moral strength to free herself
from his arms and move to the far side of the bed. But beneath her rage, her
bitterness, there was an anguished premonition that this might be the last
night he would spend with his long, lean body stretched out beside hers. And so
she lay with her head on his shoulder, eyes staring blankly into the dark,
until long after she knew by the sound of his breathing that he slept

At
the last moment, just before he stepped out into the predawn darkness the next
day, she was able to overcome her bitterness sufficiently to go into his arms
and return his kiss warmly and tenderly. Then he held her close, his cheek
against her hair. "I'll return very soon, Elizabeth. I promise you."

She
moved back in the circle of his arms and looked up into his face, grave in the
candlelight. Did he mean that promise? Probably, at least at this moment. But
she still had that terrible sense that she might never again look up into that
thin dark face.

"And
it is not as if I am really leaving you alone," he went on. "Colin
will be here to watch out for you and Caroline."

He
kissed her again and then gently put her away from him. "I must get
started. Good-bye, Elizabeth."

She
managed to smile. "Good-bye Patrick."

In
the days that followed, she became glad that she had been able to send him off,
not with bitter reproaches, but a kiss and a smile. Because almost as soon as
he had stepped through the doorway into the darkness, all her anger was lost in
her longing for him. Let him give away their money to his fellow diehards, if
he felt he must. Let him do anything, as long as he came back.

The
days, with plenty of work to do in the house, and outside autumn sunlight warm
upon pines and golden maples and scarlet oaks, were not too unpleasant. It was
the nights that
were hard to get through. When with Caroline on her lap she sat at the table,
eating her own supper and spooning food into the little girl's pink mouth, her
awareness of that vacant chair opposite was like a weight upon her.

True,
all her neighbors had invited her to have supper with them "whenever you
like." But she could not impose upon them every night. Better to get used
to loneliness. Many nights, though, she thought of Colin, cooking and eating
his own solitary meal in his little house. It seemed sad that they could not
take supper together, as they had on so many otherwise lonely nights at
Stanford Hall. But no. It would not do to arouse even a shadow of suspicion in
the minds of their kind but sternly moralistic neighbors.

Apparently
Colin also realized that. The first evening after Patrick's departure,
Elizabeth heard her brother-in-law stabling the horses in the lean-to behind
the house. Then he came around to the front door and knocked.

When
she had opened the door, he asked, "Is there anything I can do for
you?"

"No,
Colin." She looked into the face that was so like that other, beloved
face, and yet so unlike it—the planes of jaw and cheekbones less pronounced,
and the dark eyes softer, with that hint of sadness in their depths. "But
thank you very much."

"Whenever
you do need anything, tell me. Good night, Elizabeth." Quickly he turned
and limped toward his own little house.

Each
evening from then on, once he had stabled the horses, he came to the front door
to learn how she and the baby were faring. But he never stepped across the
threshold, let alone hinted for a supper invitation.

Patrick
had been gone almost three weeks, when, one afternoon, Caroline caught hold of
a chair's edge to pull herself up from the floor, stood there for a moment, and
then took three tottering steps to catch hold of Elizabeth's
outstretched
hands. As she lifted her triumphantly gurgling offspring into her arms,
Elizabeth wished that Patrick had been there to see his daughter's first steps.
But no matter. He would be back in a week at most. And how surprised he would
be to find the infant-in-arms he had left toddling about with that look of
proud glee on her little face.

But
Patrick did not return the next week, or the next. Then, on a morning in late
November, a French trapper knocked at her door. He told her he had a message
from her husband. It had been given to him by another trapper, who in return
had received it from still another. Heart pounding, she unfolded the creased,
soiled piece of paper the Frenchman handed to her.

Not
all the men he wished to meet had yet arrived, Patrick had written in his tall,
distinctive hand, and so he might not start his return journey for another
week. "But even so, I will surely be there by the twentieth of
November."

The
twentieth had been two days before.

Bitterness
in her heart, she thanked the trapper and closed the door. She wished that she
could rip Patrick's note to pieces and toss it onto the fire. Instead, after a
moment, she thrust the folded piece of paper down the bosom of her dress.

Less
than a week later, the unseasonably warm weather broke. On a day that began as
brightly as any that preceded it, clouds blotted out the sun around noontime,
and a chill wind began to strip the trees of the last of their colorful autumn
foliage. By two o'clock, heavy rain mixed with hail began to fall. Unhooking
the deerskin covering at a window to look out at the clearing, muddy now and
strewn with hailstones, Elizabeth felt a new fear clutch at her heart. Like the
other men, Colin had wanted to clear as much more land as possible before the
onset of bad weather. Consequently, he had not shot any game. And
thanks to the
sales of salted meat and fish that Patrick had made to those trappers, the
supplies in the cellar were running low.