Authors: Edward Cline
O
nce she had a single, irreplaceable hero, and a certain future with him. Now there were two heroes, and the future was a clouded uncertainty. It was an unparalleled circumstance for a young girl to find herself
in, ominous and dangerous. Yet, it thrilled her, and caused her to hold her head up with pride. She thought she was equal to the danger, and worthy
of the rivalry that was sure to ensue.
Ian McRae left the education of Etáin to his wife. It was simple logic to
him: he loved Madeline, was proud of her, and reasoned that she was best
qualified to produce an admirable daughter. He gladly paid for Etáin’s
books, music lessons, and occasional tutor. Although he did not always
approve of what Etáin learned from her mother, he also reasoned that if
such knowledge did his wife no harm, it could hardly tarnish Etáin’s reputation or moral character, nor diminish the prospects of an agreeable marriage of his daughter to a respectable gentleman. The occasional, fleeting
comparison of her with the daughters of the planters engendered a disapproval that lasted the length of a breakfast. Besides, it was an understanding between the couple that Etáin was being prepared and educated to
become the wife of Jack Frake. This assumption was also subscribed to by
Etáin, who needed little persuasion concerning the desirability, suitability,
and success of such a match.
Ian McRae was placidly oblivious to the danger. Madeline McRae was
too aware of it. She spoke briefly with her daughter about the matter, once
she was certain that Etáin’s head was being turned by Hugh Kenrick. “But,
Maman,
they are both perfect. There are no faults in either of them to balance against their virtues. They are somehow identical, but each possesses
his own
élan
.”
A colonial girl, whatever her rank, station, or status, was raised to be
one of two things: an ornament of her future husband; or his working
partner, if her intended spouse was a farmer, merchant, artisan, or in one
of the “professions,” such as law or medicine, preferably a deferring, nearly
invisible partner whose partnership was limited to assuming the management of the household she married into. She was educated up to a certain
point, enough to enable her to be witty and conversant in a superficial
manner on unimportant matters; philosophy, politics, and most other
serious subjects were considered beyond her ken or proper interest. The
rules that governed her range of knowledge and action were as painfully
restrictive as the hidden stays that bound the bodice of her gown. This was
the norm which few women had the skill or courage to flout without
inviting the dire consequences of social ostracism and spousal rebuke.
Obliged to disguise or suppress their minds, many colonial women, consigned to the great houses of their planter husbands, found outlets of
expression in poetry, diaries, or in anonymous or pen-named letters in
newspapers.
Madeline McRae frowned on such a fate. Her daughter, she decided,
was not going to become an animated doll. She wished Etáin to be
grounded as thoroughly as possible in the ways of the world. She introduced Etáin to reading matter not normally allowed in the hands of other
“educated” girls: histories of Rome and Greece; Cato’s letters in the
London
and
British Journals
; volumes of
The Spectator
; English and French poetry,
plays, and essays; and newspapers and magazines not intended for delicate,
impressionable eyes. Under her direction, Etáin McRae began to assume
the perspective of a woman of the world, without losing her innocence.
Moreover, with the arrival of Hugh Kenrick, Etáin began to assume the persona of a Greek mortal who attracted the combative attentions of two gods.
It was a development Madeline McRae could not have foreseen.
It caused her brief consternation, until she better understood that
Hugh was more like Jack than unlike. Her fears were allayed, and her suspicions confirmed, on the occasion of a visit which she, her husband, and
Etáin made to Meum Hall one fall afternoon, the first of many visits.
Among all the titles of the books in Hugh’s library, she espied a copy of
Hyperborea
. Madeline McRae had read it, as had Millicent Morley. She gave
Etáin the late governess’s copy when her daughter was seven. “It is quite
pagan in its sentiments,” she told the girl then, “more pagan than Plutarch.
Irecommend it. Study the character of Circe, the heroine, and how she
views men. Be her some day, that is, learn to want an Apollo.”
Etáin read
Hyperborea
, and was hopelessly drawn into its universe. No
other work of literature could coax her out of it; no other work would she
admit into it. And as she grew older, the novel became a litmus test for
many men and events in the real world. And she reached a point of maturity when the test of the literal against the real transfigured into simply a
test of the spirit of Drury Trantham’s world against that of the real world.
Once, only Jack Frake passed that test, in terms of the man to be worshipped and to be gladly owned by. Then, without warning, came the glorious interloper, Hugh Kenrick. Madeline McRae was more aware of the
difference his presence would make than was Etáin. She was dismayed, and
happy for Etáin, at the same time. She envied her daughter the dilemma she
would face in the future.
Etáin McRae was not popular with the other girls of Caxton. Nor did their
parents approve of their associating with the daughter of a Scottish factor.
Still, the other girls were drawn to her by a fascination with the fact that she
had won Jack Frake without even trying. The future match was a paradox
they wished to understand. They were raised to be seen, not often heard, and
then only with cultivated coyness, affected modesty, and muted intelligence,
and trained to be distant and aloof where men and especially suitors were concerned. Once, at a ball, Etáin had listened to other girls gossip or boast about
the men who sought their company with discreet, unspoken intentions of
eventual engagement and marriage. She asked, with some incredulousness in
her words, “Does not one of you hope to marry a hero?”
Selina Granby, some years older than Etáin, laughed and said, “A hero?
Of course, Etáin — provided he owns ten thousand acres, a handsome
annuity from the consols, and has a friend on the Board of Trade!”
“But not a man who could be a man without having or needing those
things?”
“You poor dear!” exclaimed Eleanor Cullis. “Such a man is a fiction! A
fable! The true measure of a man’s worthiness is his fortune and
respectability. Also, he must be of good character and good family. How
secure is he in the world? That is the question every girl must answer
before considering any other.”
“Can he dance, and show a good calf?” chimed in Annyce Vishonn.
“Are his manners above reproach? Are his vices moderate and discreet?
These are only a few of the many questions a girl must ponder before she
may tolerate a man’s attentions.”
“And
intentions
,” giggled Eleanor Cullis.
Etáin felt sorry for these girls. Also, she felt a twinge of contempt for
them. She did not believe that their indifference to heroes had much to do
with their not having read
Hyperborea
.
She had little trouble conforming to the crucial criterion of maidenhood of being distant and aloof. No young man ever called on her at home,
but not a few managed to steal a moment alone with her at balls and other
social gatherings. They, for their part, were tutored to regard an eligible
young lady as something of a saint, and to come to her humbly and with
profuse bows, uttering flourishing blandishments and verbose protestations of affection. She would discourage timid men who mumbled their
words with statements such as, “Speak up, good sir! Or are you so dumb
with wisdom that you do not know where to begin?” She would offend flattering, presumptuous young dandies with replies such as, “But, sir, your
arguments are Sisyphean. Some day they may roll back down and crush
you!” Such young men would conclude that Etáin, as a wife, would be
either a nagging shrew, or a troublesome threat, and with relief they would
forget whatever designs they had had on her. To Etáin, these men were as
forgettable as one of Reverend Acland’s Sunday sermons, and would flit
from her memory soon after taking their leave.
For a long time, there was only Jack Frake. They had never kissed,
never touched hands, not even when they were alone, except briefly during
a country-dance. A bond existed between Etáin and Jack. He wanted a completed, mature woman, and wanted her to progress to that point without
his influence and constant presence. He was willing to wait for her to
accomplish that. Etáin understood this, and knew that she was not yet his
equal, neither in spirit nor in knowledge, nor in some intangible form
whose identity eluded her. When they met, in public or in private, they
spoke to each other as though they had been married for years. Their bond
was the foundation of an intimacy and familiarity that was real and alive
in all possible expressions but one.
There was a time when the bond did not exist. Etáin was too young to
do anything but note Jack’s marriage to Jane Massie, too young to appreciate his loss when she and the infant boy died. Jack never spoke of them.
Now that she was a near-woman, she respected his reticence. One thing
that she admired about him was his capacity for overcoming the most
crushing events in his life — imprisonment, indenture, the death of people
close to him, and war — yet he would emerge from them unscathed, indestructible, unchanged, and somehow stronger. His initial stoicism would
surrender to an irresistible charm.
Hugh Kenrick had that same capacity. Once, when she and her parents
had supper at Meum Hall, she had seen the sketched head of a comely
young woman on the wall of his library. She did not ask him about it, but
he noticed her studying it. “That was her,” he said, as though she had
inquired. “Reverdy.”
“Why do you keep it?” she had asked.
“Because I cannot forget what I thought she was, but was not.” He
paused. “It is a fair likeness of her.”
Etáin noted the absence of bitterness in his words. He could have been
speaking now of a distant relative, or of a mere acquaintance.
The histories of both men were common knowledge in Caxton, discussed in secretive, oblique terms when the subject of Jack Frake or Hugh
Kenrick arose in company, and when the subjects were not present. Their
characters instilled whispered caution among those critical of their pasts.
Many young men harbored a repressed envy of Jack and Hugh, but,
wishing to appear respectable and upright, publicly frowned on their histories. And many young women, even married ones, developed unacknowledged fantasies of being wooed and conquered by either of the two
men, attracted by a vitality lacking in their
beaux
or husbands. Their own
disapproval of Jack and Hugh was caused by an equally repressed knowledge that, to those two men, they were fundamentally invisible. They were
women scorned by courteous indifference.
Madeline McRae was one of Jack’s and Hugh’s few defenders. “An
absence of scandal in a man’s life,” she remarked once at a supper party at
Granby Hall, “is evidence that he is incapable of passion.” She was replying
to a cryptic exchange by other guests at the table about Jack and Hugh and
their disreputable pasts. “Here are two men for whom scandal is a ribbon
of honor. You will concede there is a difference between scandal and disgrace. But it is exhilarating to see them bring passion to everything they do.
You ought to thank fortune that two such scandalous men choose to live
among you.”
The table was quiet for a moment as the host, hostess, and guests
absorbed this tactful reproach. Then Damaris Granby ventured, “As food
for conversation, Mrs. McRae?”
“No, my dear,” said Madeline McRae. “Either man would serve as a
beau-idéal
of Virginia manhood, worthy of emulation by this colony’s sons,
and of admiration by its daughters.”
“I see little distinction between scandal and disgrace,” said Ira Granby,
coming to his wife’s defense. “Disgrace is bred by scandalous behavior. A
scandal, after all, is but a failed passion — say, for outlawry, or for insulting
aking’s son and associating with probable regicides — failed because it is
frustrated and checked by lawful moral decency.” He scoffed. “It is no
wonder to me that the
y
are
here
, and not in the mother country.”
Madeline McRae shrugged her shoulders. “More to the shame and loss
of the mother country, sir,” she retorted, “that they belong here, and not
there
.”
Ian McRae, seeing that the conversation was becoming heated, spoke
up. Not addressing his wife, but the rest of the table, he said, “Do not contradict wisdom, good people. You will only embarrass yourselves, and what
a scandal
that
would be!”
Etáin, too, knew the histories of Jack and Hugh. For her, their scandals
were acts of heroism, as thrilling as the adventures of Drury Trantham in
Hyperborea
. She shared with them some special approach to life. She was
certain of this; it was felt by her as an emotion, yet she knew that its root
was a knowledge whose words eluded her. There was Jack, who had risen
and grown and triumphed in spite of a society that had repeatedly knocked
him down. He was a living, incurious contradiction of that society. There
was Hugh, who had rebelled against that same society, yet who seemed to
be a purified symbol of it.
“He is like so much of our music,” she told her mother one day.
“Aspiring to an elevated, blameless, logical glory amidst so much pettiness,
artifice, and silly distraction.”
“And Jack, your intended?” asked her mother.
“He, too, is like that music. He would be a barbarian, or a Turk, but for
his dedication to reason.”
“One might say that about Mr. Kenrick,” reminded the mother.
“Perhaps,” Etáin said. Her brow creased in thought. “But for Hugh,
reason and all its children are pedestalled gods to whom he has pledged
undying love and allegiance. For Jack, the love and allegiance come from
somewhere inside him.”
Etáin had seen Jack and Hugh together many times. She thought that
they should have been antagonists. Yet, they acted like brothers. Moreover
— and this observation perplexed her more than anything else about them
— she saw no rivalry between them for her. It was as though they were
waiting for her to make a decision. But she could not yet decide on her own
role in the riddle. On one hand, she was Circe, the temporal seductress of
mortal men; on the other, she was Athena, who had the power to dispense
a final justice on them.
One of them was the needle, and one of them the north.