Never Call It Love (38 page)

No
letter came from either of them. But on one of the rare sunny afternoons that
April, as she was about to hang freshly laundered curtains at the dining-room
windows, she looked out and saw Donald Weymouth walking down the road. The
curtains dropped from her hands, and she stood motionless, unable to believe
that he was on this tropical island thousands of miles from the vicarage at
Hadley. He turned in at the gate.

Then,
as she realized the undoubted reason for his presence, grief twisted her heart.
The shock was not as great as it might have been. These past weeks, even as she
had felt an increasing hope that she carried new life within her, she had
sensed that her mother no longer lived.

She
moved to the door, opened it. Donald said, with that grave, gentle smile she
once had loved so much, "Hello, Elizabeth."

For
a moment, overwhelmed by memories of her mother, and of home, and of this man
she had once planned to spend her life with, she could not speak. Then she
said, "Come in, Donald."

When
she had led him into the parlor, she turned to face him. "My mother is
dead, isn't she?" Then, as he hesitated: "You can tell me. Somehow I
have known it."

He
reached out and took her two hands in his own. "Yes, but it did not happen
as you might think. I never told her of your letter. She was very ill when I
received it. I did not know what to do, except pray for guidance." Wryness
touched his voice. "The guidance never
came. While I was still undecided, your
mother died one afternoon in Mary Hawkins' arms."

Elizabeth
withdrew her hands. She said, from a tight throat, "I think you did
receive guidance. I am glad she never knew what was in my letter. And now you
have come all this way..."

She
broke off, and then said distractedly, "Forgive me, Donald. Please sit down.
I will make us some tea."

He
did not move. His gaze, fixed on her face, held such a strange, searching
expression that for a moment she thought he had not heard her. Then he said,
"Thank you, Elizabeth, but please don't make tea. There may not be time for
it."

She
said, bewildered, "Not time for..."

"The
Netherlands ship I came on will sail for Haiti in a few hours. It stopped here
only to discharge me and one other passenger. Perhaps I will sail with it. It
depends upon you."

She
waited, a silent question in her eyes. He said, "I did not want you to be
alone when you learned of your mother's death. But I had still another reason
for coming here. You see, there is a young woman, the daughter of a family who
moved into my parish six months ago. I have found myself becoming fond of her.
But first I had to learn if there was any hope that you would come back to
England with me, now that Christopher and your mother..."

Breaking
off, he again searched her face with his eyes. "Your feelings for me have
changed, haven't they, Elizabeth?"

She
remembered herself standing in the muddy Irish road in Donald's arms,
remembered saying, "I will always love you." It seemed to her that it
was another woman in another world who had spoken those words. She shrank from
answering his question, but she knew that the very least she owed him was
honesty, complete and immediate.

"Yes,
Donald, my feelings have changed."

Again
that searching gaze. "But you do love someone, don't you? You have... a
fulfilled look now, not that lost one you had in Ireland." He paused.
"You love your husband?"

"Yes."

"And
he loves you?"

"I
don't know," she said painfully. "Perhaps as much as he could love
any woman. Perhaps not. I just know that I cannot leave him." She added,
"Oh, Donald! Forgive me!"

He
had paled slightly, and his smile was a bit uneven, but still it was a smile.
"For something you cannot help? I think I knew as soon as you opened the
door to me. But I had to come here. I had to know whether you were entirely
lost to me, before..."

He
broke off. She said, "Oh, Donald! That young woman. I hope she knows how
fortunate she is."

His
smile was quite steady now. "If she refuses me, perhaps you will write her
a letter extolling my many virtues."

"There
will be no need for such a letter! And, oh, Donald! Be happy."

"I
shall try. As you must know, my poor Elizabeth, from the many times I quoted
him to you, Samuel Johnson is my favorite sage. The good doctor says that it is
the duty of the wise man to be happy. I shall try to be wise." He reached
out and touched her cheek. "I had best get back to the ship now. Good-bye,
Elizabeth."

***

That
night in bed, with Patrick holding her close, she wept out her grief for her
mother. When at last she lay quiet in his arms, she expected him to ask the
question he had not asked when, earlier that evening, she had told him the news
Donald had brought.

Instead
he said, after a while, "Weymouth must have
sailed with that ship, all right
I heard that some Englishman came ashore for an hour or so and then went back aboard."

Again
she waited. But he just stared up at the darkened ceiling, one arm around her,
the other crooked behind his head. Was he afraid to ask what emotions that
brief reunion with Donald had brought her, or was he so confident of her that
he did not need to ask? Or did he, quite simply, regard the question as of no
importance?

She
wondered if she would ever really know him, and what went on inside his dark
head. Perhaps not But it was best to resign herself to ignorance. She had
learned how completely her emotions bound her to him. Now there was a new bond.
These past few days, she had become certain that again she was pregnant And
pray God that this time the child would live.

***

On
a night a few weeks later, Patrick stood in the distillery's cooking shed,
uncrating two iron rollers that, once installed, would be used to extract juice
from the sugarcane fed into them. Shipped from France, and then carried by mule
back up to this low-ceilinged shed, they would replace ancient stone rollers
that, cracked and eroded by a half-century of use, were no longer efficient.

Through
the open doorway of the adjoining room that housed the huge rum caldrons, he
could see Colin seated at the littered desk in one corner. He was bent over a
ledger, oblivious of the sound of Patrick's chisel and to the throb of drums
higher in the hills. It was definitely the dry season now. For three days no
rain had fallen. And so the blacks, obeying the call blown on a conch shell— an
eerie, drawn-out sound that had echoed two hours ago through the early
darkness—had slipped out of their ramshackle quarters and made their way
through wind-stirred cane fields and along all-but-invisible forest trails to
the meeting place.

Suddenly
through the drum throb Patrick heard something else, a deep, rolling sound like
distant thunder. For a moment he stood motionless, realizing what the sound
must mean, and thinking bleakly: So perhaps we'll have to run again. Then he
dropped the chisel, left the shed, and crossed the narrow dirt road carved out
of the hillside. From there he could look down the tree-covered slope to the
coastal plain and the lights of the little town, and then out over the black
water. Out to where ships' cannon flashed, raining iron on the island of
St.-Marc. Evidently the fortress on St.-Marc had been caught unprepared,
because there was only occasional answering fire.

So
English men-of-war had managed to slip through the French Caribbean patrol to
attack the small island. And there were many ships. Cannon fire flashed from
all along a rough semicircle that appeared to be about a mile in length. It
would not take such a force long to subdue St-Marc. Probably English longboats,
under cover of cannon fire, were already putting men ashore. And once they held
St.-Marc, it would be St.-Denis's turn. He thought of cannon pounding the fort
to rubble, and of the pinkish beaches reddened with blood as the invaders
fought the fort's outnumbered survivors with musket and sword. He thought of
himself and Elizabeth and Colin sailing under guard back to England, where he
and Colin would receive a speedy trial and an even speedier strangling by the
hangman's rope.

Stomach
tightened into a knot, he realized that the English, in their present mood,
might not be too gentle even with his pregnant wife. After all, she had not
only come here with him but also stayed with him, a rebel with a price on his
head.

Until
Colin spoke, Patrick was unaware that his brother had limped across the road to
stand beside
him. "There are four American merchant ships tied up at the wharf."

As
Patrick turned to look at him, Colin added, "Since they won't want to fall
into English hands, they must be hurrying preparations to sail now. If we could
sail with them..."

Instantly
Patrick realized that one of those American ships could offer the best
solution, perhaps the only solution. But the captain might ask a stiff price
for taking three passengers aboard at the last minute.

He
asked swiftly, "Colin, how much money do you have?"

"Damn
little. A few louis in my pocket, and perhaps two hundred dollars American back
at the inn."

And
the only other money they had between them, Patrick realized grimly, was in the
distillery strongbox. "Come on."

They
hurried back to the long shed. Kneeling at the strongbox beside the desk,
Patrick opened it and took out a leather bag containing coins—English
sovereigns and French louis and American dollars. The bag had been much heavier
before Patrick took delivery of those iron rollers that afternoon. The rollers
were useless to them now, just as the whole distillery was useless, and the
little house Elizabeth had refurbished, and everything else they owned except
money.

He
handed the bag to Colin. "I'll leave the bargaining at the wharf to you.
I'm going straight to the house. For God's sake, don't pay a cent more than you
have to."

Colin
gave a short laugh. "Don't worry. I have no more desire to starve in the
American wilderness than you do." He left the shed.

As
Patrick slammed the door of the empty strongbox and extinguished the oil lamps,
he heard the sound of Colin's horse dwindle away down the road. Patrick stepped
out into the darkness and untethered his own
horse from a tree. The dramming high in
the hills, swifter now, seemed to hold an elated note. Poor devils, he thought.
Did they hope that they would fare better with English masters? Probably not
More likely they celebrated the fact that soon this island would be filled with
the din and smoke and cries of white men fighting white men. He swung into the
saddle and turned his mount's head toward the road.

When
he strode up the walk behind the little white house, Elizabeth opened the
kitchen door to him. He said, "We have to get off this island. You had
better start packing. Take as little as possible."

She
nodded. "Jeanne and Jules were here half an hour ago. They told me what is
happening. I have already started to pack."

He
looked at her appreciatively. What a woman she was. Aside from her pallor, she
seemed quite calm.

"I
had best see what sort of bargain Colin has made." He turned and went back
down the walk to his tethered horse.

When
he had ridden down the drive to the road, he reined in for a moment. Colin
could be trusted to make the best bargain possible. And none of those American
ships could sail for another two or three hours. They would have to remove
loading gear from their decks, batten down hatches, hoist sail. And ships'
officers would have to round up crewmen from Harbor Street grog shops and
brothels, rousting out the ones too drunk to be even aware of the bombardment a
few miles away.

Yes,
he would have time. Turning in the opposite direction from the harbor he rode
at a gallop for almost a mile and then turned in at a graveled drive.

The
two-story house ahead looked white in the darkness, although he knew, from the
many times he had looked up this drive as he passed along the road, that it was
actually pale blue. Light shone from a ground-floor window.

He
dismounted, knocked on the door. After a moment Moira opened it. She wore a
gown he remembered, a pale green silk one. And she was more than a little
drunk.

The
leap of mingled pleasure and pain in her face gave way to a sardonic look.
"Sir Patrick, after all these months! Enter, Sir Patrick. Enter without
fear, for I am alone." Turning, she moved rather unsteadily toward an
archway. Over her shoulder she added, "But then, you must have realized
that my lieutenant would be at the fort."

He
followed her into a room large enough to be called a salon rather than a
parlor. He gained a swift impression of thick rugs and gilt furniture, perhaps
shipped from Port-au-Prince or even France, and a few small objects—a clock
ornamented with gilt cupids, an ivory-framed mirror—that he remembered from
Wetherly. She stood at a small rosewood table, the bottle in her hand poised over
a glass.