Sons of the Wolf (29 page)

I knew Ada, really. I was never mad, I knew who she was. After she had pestered me for a long time, kissing me and crying down the neck of my dress, I admitted it just to make her stop.

"Take me away from here," I said. "I don't want to stay in this place."

We were sitting on the bed, in the corner. It was the only possible place to sit. The room was noisier than ever, filled with people-a crowd of dark, wild-looking men who talked in a language I could not understand.

"We will go," she said. The tears kept pouring down her cheeks. She always cried like that, easily and beautifully. "We will go, dear, in just a few minutes."

"I want to go now," I said.

"Not just yet. Harriet, Harriet, what is it? You are safe now. He-he is dead, Harriet. The dogs killed him-his own dogs. They say he must have had blood on his hands or face, and the scent of it maddened them. He can't hurt you now, don't you believe me?"

"There are too many people here," I said. "I want to go away from them."

"But they are David's friends, darling. That is why I was able to come so soon, because they were nearby. David and Francis planned it, they knew help might be needed. . . . Harriet, everything is all right now, don't look so. . . ."

Someone detached himself from the crowd of men who were gathered around an object that lay on the floor. I continued to look straight ahead of me, counting the cracks on the wall, but when the man spoke, I knew David's voice.

"He's living. Bad off, but living. We'll fetch him to the manor, and Tammas will ride for the doctor."

"You told me he was dead," I said accusingly to Ada.

"He is. He is. But not Francis? Oh, David, I am so glad!"

I shook my head. It was a shame to destroy her shining look. But then she loved David. It did not really matter to her.

"They are all dead," I said. "I saw Julian's face. I saw Francis. . . . Ada, I want to go away from here. I will not stay in this room."

They made me go and look at him-at Francis. They were trying to help, but it was a mistake. As soon as I saw him, I knew they were lying. His eyes were closed-someone must have closed them. They had put him on a heap of straw and piled wrappings on him, and the straw, under his head, was stained and dark. They seemed to expect me to do something, so I knelt down and kissed him goodbye, although I knew it wasn't really Francis anymore. His lips were still warm. It takes the dead a long time to grow cold.

So then, finally, they took me back to the manor and Ada put me to bed. I did not faint. I never did faint, except for that one time, with the dog. I was not ill. I slept and woke up and ate and slept again. And all the while Harriet sat back in her dark place with her hands over her eyes and her ears and her mouth.

That was-how long?-six months ago. After a time I knew that Francis was still alive. I had to believe it when they took me in to see him, and he smiled and held my hand, and spoke. They had to shave off most of his hair, and his head was covered with an absurd cap of white bandages, but the scratches on his face had almost faded. The rock had only grazed his head; the bone was not even broken. But it cut a long gash, and he bled a great deal. What kept him in bed so long was the fever and lung sickness. But he has, as someone once said, the constitution of an ox. Two months later he was as fit as ever. He was Mr. Wolfson now, and the owner of the Abbey.

Three months ago he came to see me. It was still winter then; it had snowed for six days and the white drifts were piled high at every wall and tree. Snow still fell out of a cold gray sky. Ada had drawn my curtains and lighted all the lamps. She was gone that afternoon-with David; she spent with him all the time she did not devote to me. So I was alone when Francis knocked.

He sat down beside me on the sofa and took my hands.

"I want you to marry me, Harriet." he said.

"You can have the money," I told him. "Ada must have some, to buy the land and the horses David needs. You may have the rest."

"I don't want the damned money," said Francis. "I want you."

I could not comprehend his lack of understanding, so I tried to explain.

"You need not marry me out of pity, either. I am sorry about Ada and David, but he is right for her; you must see that. She never wanted to be the mistress of a fine house. She will be happy with him and you must find someone else. You don't have to marry me, Francis. I am well, truly I am. I am going to live with Ada and David." "No, you aren't. You're going to live with me." He took me by the shoulders and stared down into my face. I thought he was going to kiss me, but instead he pulled me close to him and held me, resting his face against my hair.

"God knows whether I'm doing the right thing," I heard him say and knew he was no longer speaking to me. "Everything else I tried to do I made a mess of. Maybe this is a mistake too. But I can't stand this any longer, I've got to reach you somehow. I'll be kind to you, Harriet-as kind as one of my cursed breed can be. Let me take care of you."

It was pleasant in his arms, sheltered and safe. It was another barrier against the world.

"All right," I said.

He held me off at arm's length and studied me doubtfully.

"You will marry me? Whenever I say?"

I stiffened. The words were familiar-painfully so. But I was so tired.

"Yes."

He will want to kiss me now, I thought, and held up my face.

He did kiss me-on the cheek, like a loving brother. Then he bent his head and kissed my hands, which he still held, and I almost thought I heard him mutter, "I love you so much." But I knew that must be a mistake.

We were married a week later, in a private ceremony. No one was there but Ada and David, and a stiff old man in very correct black clothes who kept glaring disapprovingly at David throughout the ceremony. When the minister said, "Whom God hath joined together," I lifted my face and Francis brushed my lips with his. Then we all had wine and cake, and I went back to my room.

I am the mistress of Abbey Manor now, but not for much longer. Francis has sold the house and the land and all the furnishings of the house. Thanks to Wolfs love of luxury he will gain enough from the sale to pay off most of the debt to the poor young man whom Wolf defrauded. The rest he will pay from his earnings, over the years.

He has refused to touch any of Grandmother's money. With the lawyer-the stiff man in black who attended our wedding-I arranged to have half of it settled on Ada. She will be the wealthiest farmer's wife in Yorkshire. She and David have decided to wait a proper year after Grandmother's death. In the meantime he has been looking for a suitable establishment and thinks he has found one not far from York. The house is old and rambling, a cross between a cottage and a mansion, Ada says. I am not afraid for them. He loves her very much.

Francis and I are going to settle in York. He has an old friend there, a physician whom he will assist and whose practice he will eventually inherit. I will miss my handsome room here. At first I hated it, especially when I woke at night crying out with nightmares. Ada took to sleeping with me, but although she always woke me when I began to twist and moan, I never felt secure with her. After Francis and I were married, he moved into Ada's room. Then it was better. He always seemed to hear me, however softly I cried out, and then he would come in and sit on the bed and hold my hand until I woke up and knew that it was a dream.

It was only today that I understood why his presence comforted me as Ada's could not. The nightmares were always about him. Over and over, night after night, I dreamed I saw him lying dead. Part of me, the waking part, knew he was safe. The other part, the Harriet who crouched inside, could not believe it. She had retreated, closing an inner door, at the moment when the rock left Wolfs hand and she knew that nothing in Heaven or earth could stop its fall. That door was still closed and she was still caught in the nightmare like a fly in a web, imprisoned by the past and all its memories.

I little thought, when I hid my diary, that I would be the first person to read it afterward. I hoped it might serve some purpose, but I never dreamed how important that purpose might be to me. As I read it over, written down like a story-and a rather incredible story, at that-I began to realize that it is finished, done with, all in the past, like a book when the last page is turned and the covers are closed.

But there is still one thing to be written, like an envoi. I was reading over the final section when I heard his footsteps in the hall-quick, heavy, like no one else's steps. I closed the diary and left it lying open on the table. I rose to my feet. The door of my room opened, and it seemed to me that I heard another door opening elsewhere.

He stood in the doorway gazing at me, and as he looked his shoulders straightened and he let out a long breath, as if some heavy, invisible burden had been lifted from his back.

I held out my arms to him.

"My own dear love," I said.