Vital Secrets (5 page)

“
s
o, you're in our neighbourhood again—scoutin' hogs and whatnot?” Beth said with that touch of colloquial teasing in her voice that Marc found irresistible. She was alluding to his visit the year before and to his rather inept attempt to pass himself off as an assistant quartermaster. The “whatnot” suggested that she knew full well the true purpose of his abrupt arrival this time.

“And duck's eggs,” Marc said, “when they're not broken.”

“Things've changed a lot here since last June.”

“Little Eustace, you mean, and Winnifred and Thomas?”

“I think you know what I mean,” Beth said.

They were walking slowly northward along the snow-packed
path that linked the miller's house with the Smallmans'. It meandered its way more or less beside the frozen creek on their left and the cleared ground on their right. The snow was so deep that no stubble showed through from the fall's meagre harvest. Only uprooted, charred stumps marked the crude outlines of pasture and wheat field.

“Fewer pigs and more radicals?” Marc said, struggling to keep the tone of the conversation light. It felt so good just hearing Beth's voice once again that he found himself torn between wanting the dialogue to continue at any cost and the fear that one wrong turn in its progress would kill it outright. And her physical presence here beside him—their footsteps in lazy unison, the breeze crisp and clean in their faces, the sound of their voices the only sound anywhere, the delicate frost of her breathing mingled with his own—left him so intoxicated that he was sure to blurt out some foolishness or other. He was tempted to reach over and take her elbow, as a proper gentleman should, but he dared not.

“Winn an' Thomas had to keep what grain they took off last fall to feed the oxen, the three cows, and our pigs.”

“Erastus told me about their troubles.”

“They haven't had it worse than any others in the township.” Marc caught the edge in her voice, but when he glanced over, she was staring resolutely ahead.

“Rastus also told me how well you've nursed Aaron through his illness.”

The low morning sun blazed through the fringe of Beth's
hair below the tuque and transformed it into a russet halo. It took all of Marc's willpower to resist pulling the tuque away.

“I'd have even prayed to the Anglican God if I'd thought He could help,” Beth said.

“Ah, but you know perfectly well He's always been a Congregationalist.”

Beth laughed, and for the first time glanced sideways at Marc. The force of her gaze, the infinite blue intelligence of her eyes, struck him like a blow. He felt numb and then, strangely, invigorated. His blood hummed.

“Whichever gods intervened,” Beth said, guiding him briefly around a submerged stump, “Aaron's made a wonderful recovery. In a minute you'll hear him chopping wood out behind the summer kitchen.”

“Chopping wood? But—”

“Oh, I see that he naps every afternoon. But I figured he needed to get outdoors as soon as he could. He lives for the animals and his chores around the barn.”

“And he'll be needed more than ever now that Thomas has a battered hand.”

“Seems we just get through one trial when a new one comes on.”

“Who'll help with the spring ploughing and planting?” Marc said, trying his best to make the question sound disinterested.

Beth slowed her pace, for which Marc was grateful, as it suggested she was not overeager to arrive at the cabin. In the
distance he could now hear the staccato
chunk
of an axe on wood.

“Well, Winn won't take money, from me or her father, so it'll have to be mainly me and Aaron and Winn. Winn and me have done some sewing this winter, so we'll have a few goods to trade for a bit of hired help. And we can work the ox-team together if we have to.”

Of that Marc had little doubt, even though, under the bulky mackintosh and cloth trousers, Beth was tiny and trim and not much more than a hundred pounds.

“But that means you might be stuck down here until June or later?”

“It's not a matter of choice. We often get ‘stuck' where we ought most to be.”

Marc winced at the reproof. And he realized with a sinking heart just how difficult and possibly hopeless a task lay before him. How could he plead a lover's cause in the face of such competing exigencies, of such overriding moral claims? There seemed for him, equally, to be no choice: he, too, was where he “ought most to be.” So he plunged recklessly ahead: “But surely your aunt Catherine will be needing you at the shop? Spring and summer are your busiest seasons.”

“I hadn't realized you were so well acquainted with the millinery business.”

Ah, that teasing tone again, but he persevered. “Your aunt did pull up stakes in New England, as I recall, to join you in Toronto. Surely you can't—”

“Your ‘recall' is as keen as it's always been. But I can do without your ‘surelys.'”

“I'm sorry.”

“No, you're not. But it doesn't matter because I've taken care of Aunt Catherine and the business.”

“You haven't sold it?”

Beth laughed for a second time. “No, we haven't. When I left in January to come here to nurse Aaron, we hired a young girl from the town to help Aunt Catherine with the seamstressing side of the business. And next month a distant cousin from her husband's side of the family is coming up to Toronto from Rochester to stay with her.”

“Can she sew? And help run the business?”

“He certainly can't sew—”

“He?”

“A great-nephew. About your age, I think.”

“And what help could he possibly be in a millinery shop?” Besides being a male presence, and possibly a handsome one to boot.

“Since you're so curious, he's really interested in starting a business of his own. Things've been bad in the States since the dollar went crazy down there, and he wants to start a new life. He'll live in and keep his aunt company, help with any heavy work, and learn how to operate a shop. Any further questions, counsellor?”

For Beth's benefit, Marc managed a smile at this reference to his aborted law career. They walked a few paces in silence,
but neither seemed in any hurry to speed up. Something remained to be said.

“How long will it be before Thomas is able to work again?”

“Well, it was his left hand he cut, thank God, so he's still able to do quite a bit with the right. Dr. Barnaby says it should be completely healed in a month, six weeks for sure, if he doesn't tear it open or let it get infected.”

“Barnaby should know if anyone does. He's repaired a thousand sword cuts in his time. But what about Winnifred?”

“I see the good news is out.”

“Due in late September, Rastus tells me.”

“She's as strong as an ox. You'll see quite a change in her.”

“Her father was extremely worried about her.”

Beth stopped. The axe-blows were much sharper. Along the northwestern horizon a bank of black clouds curdled the otherwise pristine blue of the winter sky.

“You know about her going to the meetings?”

“Not much. But enough to realize how much her thinking must have changed since I last saw her. Moving from church bazaars and social teas to smoky barns and questionable associates is quite a shift for anyone, and incredible for a—”

“Woman? I think we've had this conversation before, haven't we?”

“Surely she won't take such risks now.”

They were still face-to-face: assessing, gauging, probing.

“Surely not,” Beth said.

“Well, then, I'm glad she's being sensible. And Thomas, too.”

Beth put a mittened hand on Marc's arm. She smiled wanly, and he noticed now the dark shadow under each eye and the vexed wrinkling at the corners of the mouth he wanted to press against his own and breathe into comfort. “I haven't been to any of the meetings,” she said. “I've been too busy with Aaron.”

Marc's relief was palpable.

“I listen to what Winn and Thomas are saying, which isn't a lot—at least not outside their bedroom. But I say nothing.”

“It's hard to believe you've given up,” Marc said, turning with her and walking, slowly again, towards the ring of Aaron's axe.

“Oh, I haven't given up. But after we lost the election last June, after all our effort and after all the promises made and not kept by the governor, I couldn't summon up the energy to protest—even though I was raging underneath my numbness. Auntie and I worked hard at the business all summer, and hard it was—dispensing bonnets and frippery to the very people that engineered us out of the Assembly. Then, when the bad harvest hit and the Yankee dollar collapsed and Sir High and Mighty reneged on his solemn word, just when my blood was starting to boil like it did when Jesse was alive and we were up to our necks in Reform Party politics, I discovered that everything had changed.”

“In what way?”

“The open talk of violence. And I don't mean the vicious talk we've all got used to.”

“Talk of revolt, you mean?” Marc could have bitten his tongue, but it was too late.

Beth stopped and looked searchingly at the man who had done so much for her last winter and who had more than once declared his love for her.

“Damn it, Beth, I'm not here as a spy!”

She stared at her boots. “I'd not be honest if I didn't admit that when I dropped those eggs at the sudden sight of you, that was my first thought.” She peered up. “But I haven't thought it since. Nor will I again.”

“But I'm still in this uniform?”

“Yes, you are, aren't you?” She started walking again, as if afraid to hold his gaze any longer for fear of what she might detect in it and preferred not to see.

“I think we've had
this
conversation before,” he said.

They had turned onto the path that wound between the barn and outbuildings towards the back-shed of the split-log cabin ahead. Marc stopped and quickly placed one hand on each of Beth's shoulders. He held her gaze for several long seconds. She made no attempt to look away. He saw what it was he had to know: her feeling for him had not diminished, in spite of everything that had happened over the past fourteen months.

“We've spoken about everything except the thing we really
need to speak about,” Beth said softly, her eyes misting over. “I haven't been avoiding it. After lunch, when it settles down inside, we'll sit by the south window like we did last year and have a long cup of tea.”

He leaned over and brushed his lips across her cool forehead.

She pulled back, reluctantly he thought, and said, “Now, let's go and say hello to Aaron.”

M
ARC REMEMBERED
A
ARON
M
CCRAE WITH VIVID
painfulness: a tall, gangling sixteen-year-old with one lame leg that he dragged behind him and slurred, stammering speech. But he was no simpleton to be patronized or mocked by his fellows, though Marc had little doubt they had done so more than once. He had his sister's blue eyes that, like hers, saw much more than they conveyed. In fact, it had been Aaron's observation and reliable memory that had helped solve the mysterious death of Joshua Smallman last winter. But Marc wondered what might have been wrought upon that misaligned frame by typhoid fever and eight weeks of agonizingly slow recuperation.

Aaron spotted Beth and the uniformed gentleman at her side, and put down his axe. A quarter-cord of hardwood lay scattered about him. A big grin spread across his face as he recognized Marc.

“H-h-h-ello, Mr. Edwards.”

“Hello, Aaron. I'm so happy to see you are recovered, and
back helping run the farm.” Marc made a point of admiring the lad's handiwork.

“Lieutenant Edwards has come for a visit,” Beth said. “He's going to stay for dinner.”

“G-g-good.”

Marc, too, was pleased to hear this, then remembered that “dinner” was sometimes the local term for luncheon, to which meal he had already been invited.

“Just finish up that log, Aaron, and then come inside. We don't want you overdoing it, do we?”

Aaron frowned, then smiled his agreement. Marc was astonished to see that Aaron had grown another two or three inches, bringing him close to Marc's six feet. Moreover, he had “filled out,” as they said here in the colony, putting on muscle around bones that had thickened and toughened. His pale face and a telltale hollowness around the eyes hinted at the earlier ravages of the fever, and underneath the loose sweater and denim work pants that new bulk would likely be a bit flaccid and toneless, but the big-knuckled, bare hands and masculine jut of the chin intimated that he was soon to be a full-fledged, powerful man.

“I'll see you inside, then,” Marc said.

Aaron grinned again, and gave his sister a curious look before turning back to his work.

At the shed door, Marc stopped for a moment to watch the operation at hand. Aaron gripped the axe with both hands, raised it over his shoulder, braced himself as best he could on
the lame leg, then drove the axe downward, using his strong leg for leverage and balance. For a second it appeared as if he must topple, given the angle at which his body was tilted laterally, but at the point of impact everything straightened itself—axe and axeman—so that the plane of the blow ended flush with the propped log. The wood split with a ruptured cry, followed instantly by the lad's grunt of triumph.

“He's learned to adapt,” Beth said as she opened the back door. “Now let's go in to lunch.”

Like so many of those around him, Marc thought.

T
HE MID-DAY MEAL WAS OF THE
pioneer farm variety—roast venison, potatoes, turnip, fresh bread, slices of cold ham, and several pots of hot tea—cooked by Winnifred and Beth, and served by young Charlene, yet another of the innumerable Huggan clan, before she herself joined them. Quaintly referred to as the “hired girl,” Charlene received no pay. (“But I'm keeping track of wages owed,” Beth had said, “and I'll settle up with her some day when she may really need the money.”)