Bitter Eden Read online

  Gruffly he asked, "How's your arm?"

  Peter stretched slowly, cautiously loosening tight, sore muscles. The bruise across his shoulder and chest was vivid and ugly. "I am feeling better than I deserve. Just don't count on me to be spritely and alert today."

  Think you'll be able to hide the damage from Albert when we get back?"

  Til have to. But I'm not too worried about Albert. He'd have caught me long ago if he had anything but bone between his ears."

  James frowned. "That kind of talk makes me wonder if you and Albert don't have something in common after all."

  Irritably James pushed Peter through breakfast, then through the London streets, grumbling incessantly about everything except the problems at hand. 'The damned city stinks! Too many people crammed into one place. A man can't breathe. Look at that! Brick wall grating against brick wall—no air between. Bah! Soot!" He sneezed.

  Peter smiled to himself, knowing his father. James was deciding to accept Callie Dawson as one of his own children. He'd never laid eyes on the girl, didn't know who she was or what she was like, or how many more problems she'd add to those he already had, but James was thrashing out his misgivings by attacking the irrelevant. Peter loved his father heartily. James could accept anything—nearly anything—given the freedom of a few moments of irascible temper in

  which to batter at the walls of his world and make room for something new. Peter's laughter was soft to his father's ears. "You realize you've reduced one of the world's great cities to a rubble of people, dirt, and sweat"

  James managed a smile. "Perhaps I've overlooked its finer points. I seem able to recall them only when I'm comfortably at home." James bounded into the street to hail a cab. He instructed the driver to take them to Mrs. Pettibone's establishment.

  Mrs. Pettibone, in spite of talking so positively to Callie, had heard nothing from the Bereans. She had no idea if they would take Callie in or not. To Mrs. Pettibone it was no longer of consequence. Now that her better nature had recovered its practicality, she had made her decision: One way or another she was going to be rid of the responsibility of Callie. Mrs. Pettibone was not without resources. She knew of several families who would like a hand with their houses or their children. And for once that useless sister of hers could be worth something. She had traded ailments and symptoms with half the women of London. Surely one of them must be in the market for a com-ganion. Of course, it wouldn't be quite like being taken in as part of a family, but in Callie's position there was no room to be choosy. She was fond of Callie, but only so far as her meager ability to share her life would allow. She couldn't become a surrogate mother.

  Mrs. Pettibone helped Callie pack crates and boxes with her father's books, her mother's china and ornaments. These were possessions Callie treasured, and although Mrs. Pettibone recommended strongly they be sold, Callie insisted on keeping them. Defeated on that score, Mrs. Pettibone determined to have her way

  in all else. Systematically she sorted through the clothing, allowing Callie to select a few items of Ian's she could keep in remembrance. The rest would be given away or sold to pay the back rent Ian had owed.

  Last, she examined Callie's scant wardrobe, her face crumpling in disapproval. "I've seen better in the maid's cupboard," she sniffed. "Your petticoats need mending. If you're not handy with a needle, you'd better learn. No one will be wanting a useless girl. That's what comes of bein' raised by a man." She glanced at Callie's pinched, frightened face. "Well, we'll get to that. Meantime I'll mend these for you. Come down for them in an hour. I'll leave them on the hall table for you." She snatched up the disreputable petticoats and left Callie alone in her room, fighting back tears.

  Rapidly the small security Callie knew in her father's flat was being torn away from her. She knew Mrs. Pettibone liked her, was even genuinely fond of her—but didn't want her.

  Callie rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. The Bereans wouldn't want her either. No one wanted her except Mrs. Peach and her horrible men.

  She couldn't count the number of times she had awakened tangled in her blankets, thinking she could hear the sound of Mrs. Peach's tapping cane in the corridor outside her room. She shivered. Still she hadn't learned to control the awful frozen feeling that came when she'd unexpectedly hear the loud sound of a man's voice in the street below her window. Mrs. Pettibone said the remembering and the fright would be washed away with time, but the fear seemed to get worse. And so did the prospect of leaving Mrs. Pettibone. Callie trusted no one else.

  Peter and James arrived at Mrs. Pettibone's just as she completed mending Callie's petticoats. James introduced himself and then asked to see Callie. Mrs. Pettibone placed the neatly folded package of mending on the table, then turned her attention to the two Berean men.

  "Now, what's this about wantm* to see Callie? How am I to know you are who you say you are? These days you might be anyone comin' to my door . . ."

  "My dear woman . . " James blustered.

  "None of that high-falutin 'dear woman' business, Mr. Berean. The poor child's been frightened out of her wits wondering and worrying that no one wants her. It wouldn't have hurt you to let us know you were comin' for her. And before I turn her over to you, I have a few questions I'll have answered to my satisfaction! How do you plan on usin' the girl?"

  James was taken aback by this formidable, protective woman thrusting questions at him while her eyes, bold and bright as a peacock's, looked him and Peter over as though they were two stallions on the market. As Mrs. Pettibone hustled him into her parlor, James looked helplessly at Peter, who touched his injured arm, deftly sidestepped the landlady, and ambled down the hall past the other apartment doors.

  Peter studied the few inexpensive prints Mrs. Pettibone had hung to make the bleak brownish wallpaper less dreary. Every now and then he heard James's or Mrs. Pettibone's voice rise as they argued about the back rent and the inconvenience James had put her to.

  An old man entered the building and examined the package Mrs. Pettibone had left on the table, then walked on past Peter to his door.

  Peter, bored with waiting, called a greeting to the mans retreating back. Mr. Jenks paused, tapped on

  his good ear, and decided he had heard nothing. He closed his door behind him. Peter sank down on a small straight-backed chair near the rear of the hall. He counted splotchy brown designs on the wallpaper, figuring how many grotesque rosettes fit across horizontally, then vertically. It was putting him to sleep when a new distraction caught his interest. From somewhere above he heard the sounds of a person moving. They were furtive sounds, not at all the kind of movement one would expect from a tenant of the building.

  Callie ran down the first flight of stairs, then slowed, rounding the landing and approaching the last flight down into the hall with caution. Since her experience with the men at Mrs. Peach's, she always looked carefully into the main hall, making sure no new or unfamiliar face lurked below. She looked warily and for a long time at the empty entry square, saw the package on the table, and came down several more steps.

  Peter watched the empty stairwell and listened to the stealthy approach curiously. He edged out of his chair, flattening himself against the wall so he couldn't be seen. At each step the girl paused, looking to the left and right. Peter remained quiet, seeing but unseen, waiting for this furtive creature to reveal what she had in mind.

  Callie took the final step, once more looking around the hall. Reassured, she made a quick dash to the table and snatched the package with one quickly out-thrust hand. Hugging it to her, she ran for the safety of the staircase.

  Peter jumped out from behind the concealing wall. He grabbed her arm, roughly whirling her 'round to face him. "Thievery is a bad practice."

  Ashen, Callie stared; then she began to tremble vio-

  lently. Shaking her head wildly, she screamed in a maddening, senseless wail.

  Peter let go of her arm. He'd never heard a shriek of such naked terror. He felt it in hi£ own body/ Her scre
ams tore through the building. Doors on the upper floor opened. Feet raced along the corridors. Frightened, questioning faces stared over the rails. Cries for help echoed along the halls.

  Mrs. Pettibone burst out of her apartment and shoved past the gathering circle of curious onlookers. Peter gave way easily as her red, work-raw hands clawed at him to move aside.

  "What have you done to her?" She shook Callie until the girl's head wobbled back and forth as though her neck were made of putty. "You dirty brute! What did you do to her?" She clutdhed the girl close against her bosom and talked to her in a soothing way.

  James finally managed to make his way to the tableau on the staircase. "What's the matter with the girl?" He got no reply from Mrs. Pettibone, so he turned to his son for an answer.

  Peter's face was paper white, his dark eyes standing out like burned holes. He clutched his wounded arm. "I caught her sneaking down the stairs. She stole that package she's holding. Then she . . . she started screaming."

  "You did her harm!" Mrs. Pettibone said, glaring at him. "She's tremblin' like a frightened wren. Shame be on you!"

  Shame was on him. Peter reached over Mrs. Petti-bone's shoulder, gently touching Callie. 'What did I do to her . . " he murmured.

  "If this is the way you'll be treatin' her, she'd be better off if I find her the decent home of a Christian to work in!"

  James's eyes widened with dawning comprehension. "Who is this chit? Surely she's not the Dawson girl!"

  After the confusion had died down, and Mrs. Petti-bone had been persuaded that the incident had been a misunderstanding, James and Peter packed Callie's boxes and baggage onto a hired coach. Sedated and quiet, Callie was seated only half conscious in the coach beside James. As dazed and sleepy as she was from the laudanum, she still watched Peter with an unsubdued, wild fright in her eyes.

  Peter was tense and unhappy. Moodily he tried to keep his eyes off this quivering, doelike woman-child, whose eyes and soft trembling mouth made him feel like the most callous lout. Never in his life had he deliberately hurt a living creature. He treasured life with all its infinite variety and blessing. He let his gaze slide back to Callie. Her hurt blue eyes stared at him, the tears poised but not falling.

  For all of them the trip to Kent was filled with thoughts and silence. James struggled with his misgivings. He had reluctantly given in to Meg's insistence that they give the girl a home. Now he found himself saddled with a young woman who went into hysterics at the sight of a man. James did not even consider that Peter might have brought on the hysteria by some action. He knew Peter too well for that. In a harsh age most living creatures develop an instinct of cautious wariness, but in mankind there are those few whose vision remains pure, and their defenses weak. Peter was one of the rare idealists, who saw in stumbling humanity the signs of divinity. He had not harmed Callie.

  But James worried that Callie, with her instability and obvious fear, might harm his own daughter, Natalie. .Fondly, he thought of his flowerlike girl child.

  Her nature was as elusive as the scent of honeysuckle blown on a vagrant evening breeze. She was delicate and sensitive, and James worried about bringing a girl as distraught as Callie into his home.

  Mrs. Pettibone had hinted that something terrible had happened to Callie after Ians death, but she had adamantly refused to say what it was. Because of her reaction to Peter, James was certain it had something to do with men, but the more he thought about it, the worse his imaginings became. He had no idea if it was something the girl had brought on herself, or if she had been forced.

  He wiped his hand across his face. Dear God, suppose the girl was with child! He should have left her there with Mrs. Pettibone. He should have, he insisted to himself, and avoided looking at her as Peter did. There was something too vulnerable, too hopeful, shining through Callie's frightened eyes. James again thought of the words he had used to describe his son ... in mankind there are those few whose vision remains pure, and their defenses weak. Was Callie also such a one?

  From time to time as they careened through the countryside, Callie looked out and saw knots of men standing by the roads, looking like an army on the wastelands with neither shelter nor reason to explain their gathering. They are like me, she thought. Lost. No one listening to them. No one caring about them. In spite of her efforts to fight the laudanum, her heavy eyes shut.

  Peter watched her. She whimpered in her sleep. He could still feel her thin arms under the pressure of his hands, still see the look of terror in her eyes, still hear the piercing agonized screams. What had he done to her? How in God's name could he ever undo that unknown sin?

  They were almost home. Wistfully Peter looked out of the carriage window at the front of the house. As he watched, the front door burst open.

  A clutch of Bereans poured from the house, Meg leading them. Natalie, her sweet face lit by a dreaming smile. Anna, Frank's well-chosen, practical wife, making certain everyone had his coat on. Stephen, as always in the background, his eyes alone betraying his ardor. Still farther back, remaining in the warmth of the house, were Frank and Rosalind standing beside Albert Foxe. Those were the lost of the Berean family, but Peter loved them nonetheless. The lines of his mouth deepened into a thoughtful frown as he looked at them. How much they knew of survival and how little of life. Perhaps there was still time.

  James leaned forward to open the door, but Meg, too impatient to wait, poked her anxious face through the coach window. She gaped at Callie's slumped form, her slack mouth, her sickly white complexion.

  James, instantly aware that Stephen had told her what little he knew of their hasty departure, began to reassure his wife. "Now, Meg. It is nothing to worry yourself about. We're all safe and sound. We . . ." he hesitated over the lie, and she noticed. "We had a little trouble with the carriage. The girl was ill. . . ." James stopped again. He had no story. He had meant to plan what he and Peter would say, but he had never done it. He kept talking, hoping that no one would question him too closely until he could sort it all out. "Peter hurt his arm, but it was nothing serious, I assure you, dear. A couple of days' rest and we'll all be fine."

  "Peter," Meg said, her own face white now too. "Is your father telling me all? You are all right . . ."

  Peter looked at his mother, swallowing hard to rid himself of the paining lump in his throat. What a tangle of lies he had gotten them all into. What damage

  he had done to his family, to the girl Callie, he didn't know.

  "We're all fine, just bruised and a little frightened, that's all," James muttered, his eyes desperately signaling Meg to ask nothing more.

  Meg, still apprehensive, nodded and moved back from the coach, allowing James to alight "Bring her into the parlor by the fire. She must be frozen."

  James began to pull Callie to her feet, when Peter gently but firmly pushed him aside.

  James whispered gruffly, "You can't carry her; you'll open that wound."

  "What does it matter now? I was hurt in an accident on the way home. Let Albert get his eyes full; let him think what he damn well pleases. I'm going to carry this girl into the house."

  Rosalind's face was set in stony jealousy as she watched the care with which her husband carried the girl into the house. His eyes on Callie were filled with tender pity to the exclusion of all else. He took her to the parlor, laid her on the sofa, removed her gloves and slippers, then placed a lap robe over her. Carefully he removed her bonnet, smoothing her hair from her face.

  Several minutes later Peter went to look for his wife. Rosalind stood by the window, looking moodily into the front yard. He came up behind her. She didn't move, and her voice was low and flat

  "You finally got round to me, did you? What happened? Did your mother remind you that you already have one wife?"

  Peter moved so he could look at her face. "Can you never see things as they are? She is only a poor, sick, frightened child, Rosalind, and if you care to listen I'll tell you my part in that."

  "Don't bother to explain, P
eter. I'm sure I could

  guess. The story is always the same with you. If it isn't the poor starving peasants, it is the poor crippled beggars, or the poor frightened girls, and I always come last."

  "Rosalind, it is my fault that . . ."

  "I said that I want no explanations. What did you bring me?"

  Peter slumped against the wall. He looked up at the ceiling. "There wasn't time. ... I didn't think of it. Then Pa wanted to hurry back here, and we had the trouble with—" Peter's eyes slid back to the slender, beautiful child lying unconscious on the sofa.

  Rosalind's expression grew hard and resentful. She turned quickly, crossing the room to sit beside Albert Foxe. Filled with false vivacity, she flirted and talked and charmed until she had Albert laughing and oblivious to the more serious mood of the others.

  The rest of the family clustered around Callie. "Oh, Mama, will she be all right?" Natalie asked, her hand playing with a silky strand of Callie's golden hair.

  "Of course, darlin', she's been—" Meg glanced at James "—ill. The trip did her no good. The first thing we'll do is fatten her up. She looks like a long piece of hop twine. Poor, poor little lambie." Meg thought her the palest, thinnest waif she'd ever seen. "I knew she needed us. Something told me as soon as I read Mrs. Pettibone's letter."

  Stephen Berean, quiet and unnoticed by the others, looked at Callie and thought of what his mother was saying. Somehow he knew better than anyone that Callie needed them, needed him. He was fascinated by her, and entranced by the silent sadness of her face.

  Callie slept the night on the parlor sofa. When she awakened it was afternoon of the following day. The

  men were already in the fields. Rosalind, Natalie, and Anna had gone to the market in Seven Oaks. Meg alone sat vigil.

  Callie yawned; then her blue eyes opened wide, darting in frightened bewilderment about the strange room, finally resting on Meg. "What are you going to do with me?"