Here Comes a Candle Read online

  At least she had borne up gallantly under the fatigues of their journey, which was now entering its third week.

  He had watched, with an intense personal interest, the winning way she dealt with the often crass interrogations of the people they met. Quite unaware of it herself, she had a gift for making friends. The crossest landlady seemed, somehow, to relent when confronted with this child’s gentleness. “Ladylike” was not a word much used in Boston, but whatever had happened to Kate Croston in the past, however she had come to marry a sergeant in the British Army, she was a lady, he thought, in the fullest sense. Watching her make friends with the hobbledehoy, mannerless children in the inns where they stayed, he found himself thinking: “She’ll do. She’ll do for Sarah.” At all events, he was committed. He must just go on hoping he was right.

  THREE

  The spring was racing them as they traveled eastward. In Albany, grass on the hill below the town hall and chamber of representatives was vividly green, and here and there a tree was gay with new leaf. The sun shone brightly as they crossed the Hudson and turned into the long street that ran beside it, and Kate exclaimed with pleasure as she caught glimpses of the narrow streets and high, gable-ended Dutch houses of the old town. “It’s almost like home,” she said.

  “Your highest praise? You’re right, of course, though the influence here is Dutch rather than English. I remember thinking some of the streets in Amsterdam might have been taken bodily from here. Or—I suppose you would say—vice versa. Albany was Beverwyck when New York was New Amsterdam.” He was beginning to enjoy explaining things to this eager listener. “It’s one of the three oldest settlements in the Thirteen Colonies,” he told her. “Of course we Bostonians think we’re the oldest, but I’m not sure the Van Rensselaers would agree.”

  As usual, Kate was the only woman in the crowded dining room of Pride’s Hotel except for the landlady and her daughters, and, as usual, nobody took the slightest notice. Most of these fast-eating, slow-talking men were actually residents of Albany, who preferred to dine in the hotel. “They get the news here, of course,” Jonathan explained. Albany, he said, was in close, touch with New York since Mr. Fulton’s steamboat, the Clermont, had begun a regular service up and down the Hudson in 1807. And indeed the news room at Pride’s Hotel had Boston and New York newspapers only a few days old. Kate longed for a glimpse of these, but this, evidently, was something that an American lady was not expected to do. She had to be content with the dinner-table comments on the news.

  It seemed to be gloomy enough from the American point of view. How odd, she thought, sawing away at a particularly tough bit of beefsteak, to find herself getting used to the American view of the war. A fat Dutchman who seemed, from his conversation, to be a fur dealer, had launched forth into a jeremiad about the state of the nation. “Terrible.” He filled his mouth with a huge bite of ham, chewed and swallowed it with formidable dispatch, and returned to his gloomy theme. “Boney’s beaten, by the sound of it. We could have told him to mind out for the Russian winter, if he’d asked us. They say he left his army to die in the snow and hurried back to Paris to get himself another one, but how long are the French going to stand for that, I ask you? And if they give in, what happens to us? Answer me that!” He addressed this to Jonathan, but did not wait for an answer. “And what does poor Jemmy Madison do? Does he build us a navy? Does he even prepare to defend Washington? And the British ships in Chesapeake Bay, too! No sirree, he summons an extra session of Congress and goes about to tax us out of existence. I tell you it’s more than a man can stand. Taxes on salt, on licenses, on spirits,, carriages, auctions, sugar refineries! There’s no end to it, sir!” He paused once more for a huge mouthful of hot bread.

  This time, Jonathan took the chance to intervene. “Maybe it’s a good thing,” he said. “Maybe it will give the country the courage to turn against this lunatic war.”

  “Ha!” The Dutchman pointed a dinner knife at him. “You’re one of those Yankee Federalists, ain’t you? I did hear that your Governor Strong thinks Jemmy Madison’s been unfair to England and partial to France. O’course I’m just a businessman, and don’t reckon to understand these things, but that sounds mighty close to treachery to me. And your Josiah Quincy, too. Did you hear what he said?”

  “No. What was that?”

  “Bless me, if he didn’t up and say Lawrence’s sinking the Peacock was ‘not becoming a moral and religious people.’ What do you think of that, sir? One of our few victories in this war and he wants us to act ashamed of it! It’s not the way they did in New York, I can tell you. I was down there on business when Lawrence got back in March, and, by cracky, he had a hero’s welcome. And quite right too. A few more like him and Chauncey—and a few more ships for them to captain—and things might look a shade better for us. You see, ma’am,” he turned to Kate, “we’ve proved over and over again, that man to man and ship to ship we can outshoot you British, yes, and outfight you, too.”

  What in the world could she say to that? Luckily he did not expect an answer, but had turned away already, to help himself lavishly to pie. Just the same, it was a relief to escape, as soon as she decently could, to the comparative solitude of the porch that overlooked the river Hudson.

  “I’m sorry about that.” Jonathan found her there a few minutes later.

  “It’s all right. I’ll get used to it. It’s only ... you none of you understand: you talk as if it was all some kind of game. Not real; not real people, fighting, dying, drowning...” her voice rose dangerously and she steadied it with an effort. “I hope you never learn.”

  “I hope we never need to.” His dry tone reminded her of how much he disliked any display of emotion. “But the question now is, are you quite worn out? Should we rest here for a day?”

  Every bone in her body ached to say yes, but how could she? “Of course not. I know how you must long to be at home.”

  “I shall be glad to get there certainly.” Once again his tone made her regret her proffered sympathy. “That’s fine then. I’ll go right out and order us an extra exclusive for tomorrow.”

  “Extra exclusive?” Here was a phrase she had never heard before.

  “A coach to ourselves. It’s the quickest way of finishing the journey.”

  “By ourselves?” She regretted it instantly.

  “Why not? You’re not in England now, Mrs. Croston. I remember how absurd I found it to see how your young women are hedged about with restrictions—as if they had no sense. We have more confidence in our girls here, I’m glad to say. But of course if you don’t like the idea—”

  What a genius he had for getting her, quite accidentally, on the raw. Did he really think she might be scared to travel alone with him, when he noticed her merely as a necessary piece, of extra baggage! She could not help an angry little laugh. “Nonsense, Mr. Penrose. I feel as safe with you as I would with my grandfather. But Mrs. Penrose—” She was remembering Janet Mason.

  “Arabella? She’ll think nothing of it. Why should she?” Why indeed? Why should not Jonathan Penrose, of Penrose, bring home the new nursemaid?

  But he had moved toward the porch door. “That’s settled then. I’ll order the coach now and we’ll start first thing in the morning.”

  “How much longer now?” Suddenly she wished this journey would go on forever.

  “Only two days, I hope. But we’ve no posting system here, as you have in England, so we’ll have to spare the horses.”

  “Of course.” If not the passengers, she thought with a little spurt of anger.

  The extra exclusive coach turned out to be merely a rather battered specimen of the usual boat-shaped type, with a surly driver who amazed Kate by asking no questions. But he knew his business, and took them up the winding, precipitous road over the Green Mountains without mishap. It was, to begin with, a silent enough drive. Pride’s Hotel, though more luxurious than the little inns where they had stayed before, had also been a great deal noisier. All night, it seemed to Kate, bells
had been ringing, parties coming and going, horses whinnying and harness jingling in the yard below her bedroom window. This on top of the cumulative fatigue of the journey left her, this morning, almost beyond speech, her eyelids graveled with sleep, the mere action of sitting upright on the hard seat a conscious effort.

  Jonathan, too, seemed preoccupied, brooding, no doubt, about the two days that must still separate him from Arabella. Or was he feeling the awkwardness of this enforced tete a tete? She certainly did. She was not going to forget again that she was in his service, not even a governess, but the lowest kind of nursemaid, and dependent on him for everything. And, worst of all, she had thrust herself upon him. Suppose Arabella or, worse still, little Sarah should take a dislike to her? Suppose, as Jonathan himself had suggested, she found she simply could not manage Sarah. What then? She had spoken boldly enough, back at York, of having money of her own, but the bills she had seen him paying along the way had taught her how little it was. Was he, perhaps, as he sat beside her, silent and withdrawn, wondering whether he had wasted his money, wishing he had never agreed to bring her?

  She had turned on the hard seat to look at him sideways and try to read the expression of the closed, brown face that gave so little clue to what he was thinking. Now, disconcertingly, he turned from gazing at the hills ahead, and the piercing, sea captain’s blue eyes met hers directly. Absurd and irritating, to feel herself color under the calm, impersonal, and yet somehow questioning gaze.

  Had he, too, felt that the silence was drawing out too long between them? Certainly, what he said was commonplace enough. “You will begin to see a change in the landscape, I think, when we’re over the mountains and into New England.”

  “It’s changing already.” She, too, could play at general conversation. “It’s good to be in country that’s been cleared awhile, away from the forest, with those forlorn tree stumps left standing, and the pall of woodsmoke over everything. But will it be tidier in New England?” More than anything, so far, she had been impressed by this element of untidiness in the landscape. However grand the remoter prospect might be, the immediate neighborhood of the road seemed always to be marred by evidence of man’s carelessness. And it was the same in the towns. Even in Albany, the capital of New York State, pigs had roamed the streets at will. “They’re the best street-cleaners we have.” It had evidently seemed sufficient explanation to Jonathan Penrose.

  “Untidy?” Her comment had surprised him. “I suppose it is. Yes, I remember your English countryside: those neat hedgerows and landscaped parks. And how do you do it? By what’s as good as slave labor—starvation wages and soup doled out graciously by the lady of the manor. I tell you, Mrs. Croston, we’ve too much to do here, and to independent a citizenry for that kind of refinement. You must take us as you find us.”

  “Of course.” Somehow a new warmth in his tone made it possible to ask the question that had been haunting her all morning. “But that’s not the point, is it? It’s how you take me. Mr. Penrose, I must ask you, have you regretted bringing me? Will I do, do you think?”

  Now again, and more disconcertingly than ever, he turned to gaze at her with deep-set eyes that seemed to see everything. “I hope so,” he said at last, after a silence that had seemed to her interminable. “It all depends ...”

  And then: “No, that’s not fair. To be frank with you, there have been moments when I have wondered whether you have the strength for the job. Whether I have not done you an injustice in bringing you so far from your friends.”

  “Friends? What friends? That’s what worries me, Mr. Penrose. I’m so afraid of turning out a useless charge on you. Just think what I’ve cost you already!”

  “Cost me?” The heavy eyebrows drew together. “You mean the expenses of this journey? Absurd! I’ve got more to worry about than what you cost me.” And then, more gently: “Don’t worry about the future. If it doesn’t work, and God knows it’s a forlorn enough hope, I’ll look after you.”

  “That’s not the point! Why should you look after me? I persuaded you to bring me. I had no right—”

  Her voice rose on the last words, and the driver turned around in his seat to give her a curious glance. “Coolly does it, Mrs. Croston.” Jonathan’s imperturbability was more galling than anger. “When you speak like that, I do find myself wondering whether you will have the patience for my poor Sarah. And yet,” thoughtfully, “who knows? Maybe it will be a good thing. Perhaps if you scream right back at her...”

  “Scream?”

  “She does. Endlessly, meaninglessly, dreadfully. Perhaps I should have made more of it. It’s as if she were in a world of her own, poor lamb, with an invisible barrier between us. We’re just not there to her, most of the time. And then, if something goes wrong—or, more often, for no reason one can understand—she starts to scream. It goes on and on: she’s like a mad thing. Biting, kicking, scratching. My little Sarah who wouldn’t hurt a butterfly. I don’t really blame the girls we’ve had for leaving. I won’t blame you.” He paused, remembering all his own doubts about her. On the Madison, he had been afraid she might sink into a state almost like Sarah’s. But, after all, she had not quite broken down, and therein, for what it was worth, lay a gleam of hope. Might she not, perhaps, understand Sarah out of a kind of fellow feeling? Searching for a scrap of comfort as much for himself as for her: “Did you know you were singing in the coach?” he asked abruptly.

  “Singing? Oh, dear: Greensleeves! It seemed to go with the motion, but I thought no one could hear me.”

  “Don’t apologize. I like it. And if you’ll just sing to Sarah ... You sing as if you cared And she loves music. I’ve seen her, when my wife has guests, creeping as near as she dared to the door of the room, just to listen. Her face comes alive again...” And then, with one of his sudden changes of subject: “You must let me exchange your English money for you. I shall be able to get a better rate than you would.”

  “Thank you.” She had not wanted him to know just how little she had. “But will you be able to?”

  “Able? Oh—you mean because of this war? I’ve told you before, Mrs. Croston, we don’t believe in it in Boston. I reckon there’s about as much English money as American circulating in town right now. When you came through Lower Canada, you must have heard of the lively trade in provisions that goes on between there and Maine. I’m not sure I’d do it myself, but some of my friends say they’d rather hold the English Government’s bills than our own.”

  “But that’s treachery! It’s as bad as Benedict Arnold!”

  He laughed. “You should hardly be calling him a traitor, Mrs. Croston. After all, he betrayed my country to yours. But what I’m trying to explain to you is that this isn’t like that war. This is just a mistake, an absurdity that our two countries have been lured into by Napoleon. He’s the enemy. He’s the one we ought to be fighting, side by side, like the friends and relatives we really are. You’ll see: there’ll be peace before the year is out.”

  “I wonder ... Do you remember something you said to that militia captain at York? It struck me at the time. ‘The fires you’ve lit today,’ you told him, ‘will be laid for sometime, in blood and tears.’ ”

  “Did I really say that?” He looked back at the absurdity with humorous resignation—“I was provoked that day: upset you might call it, by poor old Mac’s death. All nonsense, of course. You’ll see, Mrs. Croston. And, in the meanwhile, you’ll let me change your English money into dollars. Not that you’ll need them.” Had he sensed her anxiety? He was sometimes disconcertingly acute. “We live mostly out at Penrose—Sarah exclusively so. You will have no expenses there. Arabella uses the Boston house a good deal: for parties, the theater ... I prefer Penrose myself. Well, the manufactory is there, for one thing.”

  “Yes.” She was too tired to speak. He had warned her that it would be a long day crossing the Green Mountains, and she was beyond enjoying the rolling panorama of field and river when they reached the top of Mount Hancock, almost beyond thought
when they arrived, at last, at Northampton.

  “Another long day tomorrow, I’m afraid.” Jonathan helped her to alight stiffly from the coach. “But home at the end of it.”

  Home? Not hers. Kate shivered a little as she followed him into the main room of the inn, which she had learned to call the news room. She was used by now to the routine of waiting with the baggage while Jonathan arranged about rooms with the barman, but here things went differently. They were hardly indoors when her companion was the center of a hand-shaking, back-slapping crowd. “Jonathan!” “Jon Penrose!” “Where in tarnation did you spring from?”

  Laughing, and returning their greetings, he contrived at the same time to settle her in a comfortably inconspicuous corner by the door. “Canada.” He answered the last question and, inevitably loosed a perfect storm of further ones. But by this time the proprietress herself had come forward to greet him as an old and valued friend. “A room to herself for the young lady?” Here a very sharp glance for Kate. “Well—” the monosyllable spoke volumes of curiosity.

  “Mrs. Croston has kindly consented to take charge of my daughter.” This was the sea captain’s voice. “She is English and used to privacy.” It was settled.

  That evening gave Kate a whole new light on her companion. He had told her he was rich, but he had given her no inkling of the position he held in Boston. Now, watching the deference with which he was treated by even the older men among these free and easy Americans, she began to see him as a man of power as well as of wealth. They were eager for his opinion not only of events on the border but of what had gone on in Boston during his absence. When he spoke, they listened. Was it because he was a Penrose of Penrose—a descendant, Mrs. McGowan had told her—of one of New England’s oldest families? Must she revise all her views of this vociferously egalitarian society? Sitting quiet at her corner of the supper table, she rather thought not. The deference paid him was a tribute not to his ancestry but to the man himself, to Jonathan Penrose who had succeeded to a dwindled estate and made a fortune. She smiled to herself: the almighty dollar again. But that was not fair either to Jonathan Penrose or to the men who were cross-questioning him eagerly now about the command on the Canadian front It was his judgment they respected, and rightly.