"Nothing much more, or everything. Over the years, others in the family moved down south and spread out. My ma was from Alabama, I have two brothers and a sister, all younger than me. Now Billy's with the North, New Jersey 1st Cavalry, and my little brother's Janny--named after my granddaddy, Janov Syborodin, Janny's cavalry too but with the 3rd Virginian, Advance Scouts. It's all crap--those two know crap about war and fighting and they'll get themselves killed, sure as hell."
"You... are you going to go back?"' "Don't know, Malc. Every day I think yes, every night yes and every morning no, don't want to start killing family whatever side I'm on."
"Why did you leave and come to this godforsaken part of the world?"' "Emilie died. She got scarlet fever-- there was an epidemic and she was one of the unlucky ones. That was nine years ago--we were just about to have a kid."
"What rotten luck!"
"Yes. You and me, we've both had our share...."
Struan was so concentrated in his mystery book that he did not hear the outside door to her suite softly open and close, nor the lightness of her tiptoeing, nor notice her peer in for an instant, then disappear. In a moment there was an almost imperceptible click as her inner, bedroom door closed.
He looked up. Now listening intently. She had said that she would look in but if he was asleep she would not disturb him. Or if she was tired she would go straight to bed, quiet as a mouse, and see him in the morning. "Don't worry, darling," he had said happily. "Just have a good time, I'll see you at breakfast. Sleep well and know I love you."
"I love you too, cheri. Sleep well."
The book was resting in his lap. With an effort he sat upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. That part was just bearable. But not getting up.
Getting up was still beyond him. His heart was pounding and he felt nauseated and lay back. Still, a little better than yesterday. Got to push, whatever Babcott says, he told himself grimly, rubbing his stomach. Tomorrow I'll try again, three times. Perhaps it's just as well. I'd want to stay with her. God help me I would have to.
When he felt better he began to read once more, glad for the book, but now the story did not absorb him as before, his attention wandered, and his mind started to intermix the story with pictures of her about to be murdered, and corpses, him rushing to protect her, other glimpses becoming ever more erotic.
At length he put the book away, marking the place with a page she had given him, one from her journal. Wonder what she writes in it, knowing her to be as diligent as anyone. About me and her?
Her and me?
Very tired now. His hand reached for the lamp to turn the wick down, then stopped. The little wineglass with sleep in it beckoned. His fingers trembled.
Babcott's right, I don't need it anymore.
Firmly he doused the light and lay back and closed his eyes, praying for her and his family and that his mother would bless them, and then for himself. Oh God, help me get better--I'm afraid, very afraid.
But sleep would not take him. Turning or trying to gain comfort hurt him, reminding him of the Tokaido and Canterbury. Half asleep half awake, his mind buzzing with the book, the macabre setting and how would it finish? Adding all kinds of pictures. And more pictures, some bad, some beautiful, some vivid, every little movement to get more comfortable bringing blossoms of pain.
Time passed, another hour or minutes, and then he drank the elixir and relaxed contentedly, knowing that soon he would be floating on gossamer, her hand on him, his hand on her, there on her breasts and everywhere, hers equally knowingly, equally welcomed, not only hands.
Friday, 3rd October
Friday, 3rd October: Just after dawn Angelique got out of bed and sat at her dressing table in the bay windows overlooking the High Street and harbor. She was very tired. In the locked drawer was her journal.
It was dull red leather and also locked.
She slid the little key from its hiding place, unlocked it, then dipped her pen in ink and wrote in it, more as a friend to a friend--her journal these days seemed her only friend, the only one she felt safe with: "Friday, 3rd: another bad night and I feel ghastly. It's four days since Andr`e gave me the terrible news about Father. Since then I have been unable to write anything, to do anything, have locked my doors and "taken to my bed" feigning a fever, apart from once or twice a day going to visit my Malcolm to allay his anxiety, closing the door to everyone except my maid who I hate, though I agreed to see Jamie once, and Andr`e.
"Poor Malcolm, he was beside himself with worry the first day when I did not appear nor would open my door, and insisted that he be carried on a stretcher into my boudoir to see me--even if they had to break down the door. I managed to forestall him, forcing myself to go to him, saying that I was all right, it was just a bad headache, that, no, I did not need Babcott, that he was not to worry about my tears, telling him privately that it was just "that time of the month" and sometimes the flow was great and sometimes my days irregular. He was embarrassed beyond belief that I had mentioned my period! Beyond belief! Almost as though he knew nothing about this female function, at times I don't understand him at all although he's so kind and considerate, the most I've ever known. Another worry: in truth, the poor man is not much better and daily in so much pain I want to cry."
Blessed Mother give me strength! she thought. Then there's the other. I try not to worry but I'm frantic. The day approaches. Then I'll be free from that terror, but not from penury.
She began to write again.
"It's so difficult to be private in the Struan building, however comfortable and pleasant but the Settlement is awful. Not a hairdresser, not a ladies' dressmaker (though I have a Chinese tailor who is very adept at copying what already exists), no hat maker--I haven't yet tried the shoemaker, there's nowhere to go, nothing to do--oh how I long for Paris, but how can I ever live there now? Would Malcolm move there if we married? Never. And if we don't marry... how can I pay even a ticket home? How? I've asked myself a thousand times without an answer."
Her gaze left the paper and went to the window and to the ships in the bay. I wish I was on one of them, going home, wish I'd never come here. I hate this place... What if.... If Malcolm doesn't marry me I'll have to marry someone else but I've no dowry, nothing. Oh God, this isn't what I'd hoped. If I managed to get home, I've still got no money, poor aunt and uncle ruined. Colette hasn't got any to lend, I don't know anyone rich or famous enough to marry, or far enough up in society so I could safely become a mistress. I could go on the stage but there it's essential to have a patron to bribe managers and playwrights, and pay for all the clothes and jewels and carriages and a palatial house for soirees --of course you have to bed the patron, at his whim not yours, until you are rich and famous enough and that takes time, and I don't have the connections, or have any friends who do. Oh dear, I'm so confused.
I think I am going to cry again....
She buried her face in her arms, the tears spilling, careful not to make too much noise lest her maid hear her and started wailing, creating a scene as on the first day. Her nightdress was cream silk, a pale green dressing gown around her shoulders, hair tousled, the room masculine, the curtained four-poster huge, this suite much bigger than Malcolm's. To one side was the anteroom that adjoined his bedroom, a dining room off it that could seat twenty with its own kitchen. Both those doors were bolted. The dressing table was the only frivolity, she had had it curtained with pink satin.