House of Masques (16 page)

A brave ran from the trees, stopped when he saw the cavalrymen, knelt and fired. A trooper spun in his saddle, sprawled wounded on the ground. Two soldiers galloped ahead, crouched low, and the lead man struck down the Indian warrior with his saber. More Indians appeared at the edge of the trees and the cavalry line dissolved into a series of skirmishes.

Charles saw movement a hundred feet ahead in a brush-covered gully. His first impression was: squaws. Off to the right a trooper swung from his horse with his repeating rifle at the ready. Donovan? No, Donley, one of the Ohio volunteers.

Donley fired at the movement. A small child holding a white flag on a stick crawled from the hiding place.

“Stop!” Charles shouted as, he urged his horse toward the soldier. When he reined up, Demon's front legs pawed the air. Donley watched Charles approach, all the while throwing nervous glances at the gully.

“Don't shoot,” Charles called. Donley replied but his words were lost in another burst of rifle fire. A shot whipped past. Charles thought he saw a glint of metal from the Indians' hiding place. Donley fired once, twice. A high-pitched scream came from the gully.

“Damn you,” Charles shouted, aimed a warning shot at the man's feet, felt Demon pivot, making his arm swing up and the shot go wild. Donley fell, hands to his belly, and Charles saw a black stain spread below the belt buckle of his uniform. Charles leaped to the ground and ran to the wounded man.
My God
, he thought,
I've killed him.

“I killed him,” Charles said to Edward. “He died the next day.” Charles's hands clenched together in his lap, fingers laced.

“Were they squaws in the gully?” Edward asked.

“Five or six squaws and an old man. One of the squaws had a superficial leg wound.”

“Did you find what the metal was?”

“When we searched them we found one with a silver crucifix.”

“She was a Christian then?”

“No, probably not. The braves often took medals and the like from the bodies of settlers.”

“Do you have anything to add, Captain?”

“Nothing.” Edward waved him from the witness chair and looked to Josiah. “I've completed the case,” he said. Josiah nodded.

“Would you like to go to the library to consider your decision?” he asked Kathleen.

“Yes,” she said and accompanied one of the cadets along the empty corridors.

She sat stiffly at the desk in the book-lined room.
What should I do?
she asked herself. A few weeks ago she would have had no problem. After all, Charles had shot Michael, and admitted it. True, he hadn't meant to kill him, yet he fired in anger, had in fact murdered him.

She closed her eyes and tried to bring back the familiar memory of Michael running to her across the field holding a bouquet of daisies. For a moment she saw him, smiling, heard him call her, “Kathy, Kathy,” then the memory blurred, replaced by the sharp crack of rifle fire, the Indian child running toward the cavalrymen holding the white flag.

The Michael who fought at Rock Creek was not the Michael she remembered. This new Michael was a man, not a boy, and seemingly a vengeful man. She recalled him leaving Ashtabula, when they had been, for the first time, at odds. “I don't know if I'll ever come back to this town,” he said. “Here I'll always be the son of the town drunk. I want to go where I can be a man.” So bitter for eighteen, she thought, so eager to prove himself. Was this, though, cause for murder?

But for Charles Worthington, Michael would be alive today. Yet, no longer could she view life as black or white, not since Edward. How could she when she was so confused about her feeling for Edward, doubting whether she had done the right thing after her emotions overcame reason when they sought sanctuary in the cave?

And hadn't Charles been punished enough? Blaming himself for Michael's death, haunted by the memory of what happened at Rock Creek. “I killed him,” he told her on the balcony the night of the masquerade. “Pull the trigger, pull the trigger,” he had said. Did she have the right to add to his burden? And what of the Indian women? Would they be alive today if Charles had not intervened?

When she returned to the ballroom the rain had stopped and the sun shone through the tops of the windows. “Have you decided?” Josiah asked.

Kathleen began to speak, hesitated when she found her voice trembling. “Yes, I have,” she said. “I find Charles Worthington not guilty.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Won't you join me?” Charles called to Kathleen as she came down the stairs the next morning. He stood below her in the front hall.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“On a picnic. Please come.”

She smiled, feeling warm and alive. “Yes, all right. When?”

“Now, if you can wait another half hour before you eat. I've had the horses saddled.” He ran up the stairs until he was on the same step as she and extended his arm formally to her. She placed her hand lightly on his sleeve to let him escort her down the stairs.

As Charles helped her mount she glanced about looking for Edward. No sign of him. She had not seen Edward since the night before and a feeling of unease nagged her.

“Mad Anthony,” Charles said unexpectedly.

“What?”
Forget Edward for now
, she told herself.
We'll have our time together later.

“Your horse,” Charles said. “Named for the Revolutionary War general. He's not like his namesake, though. He's gentle, always has been.”

“And yours? The horse, I mean. What's his name?”

“Demon,” he told her. She felt a sudden chill. The same horse he rode at Rock Creek. She remembered the trial the day before, the cavalry attack, the Indians hiding in the gully, the death of her brother. Kathleen shook her head.
I won't have this day spoiled,
she vowed.
Everything must turn out right today.

The weather was fine, cloudless with a light breeze from the west. They rode side by side, Charles and Kathleen, until they came to a meadow far from the blackened forest. While riding Charles did not speak, as though he too had been reminded of the past and now wondered how she felt toward him.

They dismounted and found a tangled clump of vines where they picked and ate ripe blackberries and blackcaps. The tang of the berries pleased her, and the smell of the summer fields brought back the quiet days when she was a girl in Ashtabula.

Charles breathed deeply. He looked rested and she thought he must have slept well. Jeb and Floyd, she knew, had left the Estate early that morning.

“Alice Lewis talked to me last night,” Charles said. Kathleen paused with a berry halfway to her mouth. “She admitted she put something in your milk after she heard you tell Clarissa you planned to kill me.” Kathleen licked her fingers. “I'll give her an annuity,” Charles went on. “She can go live with her cousins on their farm.” Kathleen did not reply. She felt no rancor toward Alice Lewis. Today nothing would spoil her happiness.

They crossed the meadow, keeping to the footpath for the grass was still wet from the rain. When they came to a stream Charles knelt and dipped water for her in a metal cup. They sat on the sloping bank and Charles unwrapped the picnic lunch, handing her cold chicken and bread covered with butter and strawberry preserves. They ate and afterwards drank again from the stream. Several times Charles seemed about to speak, only to think better of it. Finally, he spread rugs on the ground and they lay on their backs beside the murmuring water. He turned to her.

“I've changed my mind about your Josiah,” he said. “At first I thought him a charlatan, but now I respect him. His performance yesterday was masterful.”

“I feel the same,” Kathleen said.

“And I've become very fond of Clarissa,” he said, watching for her reaction.

“I'm so pleased,” Kathleen told him. “I've also come to like Clarissa.”

“I'm surprised. She feels you don't.”

“When I first met her she thought me narrow. I was, but having her tell me so hurt. And then she seemed so serene, but men—you for one—liked her. I couldn't understand, probably because I'm not placid myself. I must be
doing
, trying to change what I don't like. She
accepts
.”

“Which is what attracted me to her, I suppose,” Charles said. “I need someone who is at peace, for I am not.”

In a way, Kathleen thought, she and Charles were not talking to each other. They were trying, with words, to understand themselves.
Does that make sense?
she wondered.

“Nor am I at peace,” she said. She thought again of Edward Allen. “Do you know something? I've only been with you, Clarissa, and Josiah for a few days. Yet it seems I've known you a long time, and the better I know you, all of you, the more I like you.”
And Edward
, she thought,
I've come to love.

She looked above her head through the leaves of a maple to watch puffed clouds drift across the sky. How she wished Edward were there to share this day with her. She stirred, then sat up with arms about her knees. Seeing her restlessness, Charles stood and helped her to her feet. When she mounted Mad Anthony he held the reins for a moment as he searched her eyes. “Someday,” he said, “I hope you'll be able to forgive me.”

She returned his gaze. “Someday,” she said softly. “Not now. It's too soon.” He nodded and swung into the saddle for the ride back to the Estate.

After the stableboy led the horses into the barn, Charles took Kathleen to the parlor and went to find Clarissa. Kathleen leafed through the copy of
Harpers Weekly
on the table, then leaned over the piano to pick out a tune with one finger.
No
, she decided,
I will not stay here waiting. I'll go looking for him, whether it's proper or not.

Where is Edward?
Neither in the house nor the stable. At last she climbed the stairway to his room and pushed open the door. She found the bed, chair, the table with its kerosene lamp exactly as they had been on her only visit. Otherwise, the room was completely empty. The trunks gone, bags gone, clothes gone. The masks of comedy and tragedy no longer leered from the wall. As Kathleen ran from the building she almost collided with Clarissa.

“Charles told me you'd come back from your ride,” Clarissa said. Kathleen saw concern in the other woman's face.

“Edward. He's left.”

Clarissa embraced her. “I know. I came to tell you he rode to Beacon to catch the New York train.”

“New York?” He might as well be going to the end of the earth. “Why?”

“I don't know. But you might have time to see him before he leaves if you hurry.”

“Yes, I will.” Kathleen ran to the barn, holding her dress with one hand. She stopped at the door and looked back. “Clarissa,” she called, “I'm sorry.”

Clarissa looked alter her, perplexed.

Mad Anthony had not been unsaddled. She took the reins from the surprised stableboy, hurried the horse from the barn, trotted down the driveway.
Clarissa
, she said to herself,
I'm sorry for the feelings I had, my impatience, my jealousy.

When she reached the lowlands along the river she urged her horse to a gallop. She had forgotten her hat and her hair blew free. As she rode into Newburgh on the river road she was conscious of curious stares from the workmen at the gravel pits. She did not care. Nothing mattered except Edward.
Why?
she asked herself.
Marriage?
No, she could not imagine Edward being interested in marriage.
Because I love him
, she decided,
I must see him again.

The ferryman held the gate until she boarded as though he had waited just for her. The ship churned into the river and Kathleen felt the breeze fresh on her face. Far to the south she could see the scar from the fire on the mountains.

The newly painted depot stood a few hundred feet from the Beacon dock. She tied Mad Anthony to the hitching rack. No train waited, nor could she see one approaching. Was she too late? Kathleen hurried through the station and climbed to the long wooden platform. Men and women clustered in small groups or paced back and forth. She searched their faces. Ah, there he was. Edward leaned against a post with a black leather valise at his feet. She ran to him.

“Edward,” she gasped. He raised his eyes. He was dressed in the same rough jacket and trousers he had worn when she met him. Had it been only a week ago? The beard covered his face like a black mask.

He looked at her and shifted uneasily, one of the few times she had seen him unsure of himself. Now that she was there, Kathleen did not know what to do or say. A whistle sounded from upriver and she saw smoke billow above the trees to the north.

“You're leaving,” she said at last. He nodded but did not answer her unasked question.

The train, black and monstrous, rounded a curve, and the locomotive and four cars screeched to a halt beside the platform. Kathleen turned from the noxious fumes.

She had so little time. The Beacon passengers were already beginning to climb down from the coaches. “Why?” she asked. Edward shook his head, stared at her, his gaze going from her hair to her mouth to her eyes.

“It's not that you're a criminal,” she said. “Yet you act like a hunted man, a murderer, an assassin.” He looked quickly away, but not before she saw fear touch his face. She put her hand on his arm. “Look at me,” she pleaded. “Tell me.” He would not meet her eyes. Kathleen walked from him, eyes stinging, to look blankly at the river sparkling in the midday sun.

Then she knew. Had she always known, hiding the truth from herself? No, she rejected the idea. How could she have guessed? Only now did the clues come together, the hints coalescing into a terrible pattern.

Who was Edward? She marshaled the evidence in her mind—his dramatic entrance to the inn at Newburgh, his impersonations, first of their driver, then of the learned Dr. Gunn. An actor, she was sure. The masks of comedy and tragedy seemed to confirm her conclusion.

What had he done?

Josiah had warned her. “Never ask,” he had said at Gleneden. “Never try to find out. The secret must die with him.” What secret could be so awesome?

She recalled the play Edward had written, so reminiscent of Shakespeare's
Julius Caesar
, in which a supposed tyrant is assassinated by self-proclaimed patriots. Had Edward been guilty of murder? If so, whom had he killed?

One conclusion came to her mind. She rejected it with horror, only to have it return unbidden. The enormity of her suspicion overwhelmed her. She sank onto one of the benches, bent over and held her head in her hands, feeling a sharp pain in her stomach.

Why had Edward been disturbed by her story of Mrs. Ehrman's journey to Washington and the President's compassion? No, she told herself, it cannot be, must not be. The horror clutched at her and fear crawled like a living being inside her body.

Edward is alive
, she reassured herself. That man was killed, hunted down, finally slain in a blazing barn. With a start she remembered Edward's panic as the flames seemed about to envelop them on the mountain. His had been an unreasoning panic, as though he were being forced to relive a terrifying memory. She raised her head to look pleadingly into his eyes. Edward stared back at her, his face taut. She waited for a sign telling her she was mistaken. He gave none.

“All aboard, all aboard,” the conductor called.

He reached for her and at first she held herself from him. His hands caressed her shoulders and she threw herself against him and buried her face on his chest. The train whistle blew. She gripped the sides of his jacket and they stood holding one another, not moving. He drew back and placed his hand on her cheek as he had in the glen beside the waterfall. Tears stung her eyes. He took her hands in his, held them tightly, then turned from her to pick up the valise. Edward climbed the steps of the coach and for a moment the old, carefree Edward returned, and he waved.

“I'll see you again,” he called. Kathleen stared, frozen, as the train lurched ahead. Edward slumped as though the bag he carried had grown heavier. She saw him through the windows as he walked down the aisle of the swaying coach. And then he was gone.

Kathleen walked beside the train, slowly at first, then faster and faster until she ran. She came to the end of the platform and stopped. The train clattered away, grew smaller and smaller, and finally disappeared around a curve. Tears welled in her eyes and she sobbed, cried out, a cry of desperation, of protest.

For a long time she stared at the empty track. Then she wiped her face with her handkerchief and, head held high, lips tight, she walked back along the almost deserted platform. An old man sweeping the steps smiled at her but, unseeing, she went past him to the depot.

I have no one left
, she thought.
Michael is dead, Edward is gone. I have no one but myself.