What have I done to be treated so? he asked, of no one in particular. He felt then the entire world arranged against him in a unified mocking he was powerless to affect, nor could he escape it. It was a torture for him, as he walked on under a crisp, low moon and heard again the sound of his wife crying. I had only this one wish, he thought to himself.
He became convinced as he went that his aunt and uncle had sided against him only because they had never had children of their own and were jealous. No sooner had he thought this, though, than he realized he did not know the reason for their childlessness.
Because his mind was well-formed and rational, he was forced to admit as he continued on that there were those whose wishes were daily denied them, and he was only unused to it — having been granted far more than was withheld. He knew then there was no pact against him, only bitter circumstance; not two-faced plot-making.
I shall still throw her out, he thought to himself, with some small satisfaction. If he could not prosecute her criminality he could at least expel her presence and give himself peace of mind. A stab of guilt shot through him no sooner had he formed the thought, though, and he admitted to himself it was only wicked fantasizing. Still, to accept what had happened to him meekly was not the way he was used to being. He had been raised to think he could achieve whatever he wished with the strength of his body and will and his mind’s cunning. He was now defeated, however, and the barb was all the more jagged because it was with something that came so easily to others. He felt crushed as one upon whom a monumental boulder has fallen. It was with this admission that he opened the door on his house.
Inside he smelled smoke and was at first worried that, on top of his other burdens, fire had broken out in his absence. Only slowly did he realize it was not the house on fire but the smell of lit tobacco. He followed the scent out to the kitchen, where he found Libbie and Claudia sitting on stools at the table, puffing away on little pipes. He had never known Libbie to smoke before and was stupefied to see her engaged in it now. He held his tongue, though, not knowing whether he should chastise her or let the grievance pass. He was certain Claudia had introduced her to this as well.
When the women saw him they were at pains to extinguish their little smokes, fanning the air as if he had not already seen their misdeed. “Libbie, how are you?” Caleum asked, feeling a deep weariness that seemed to the others a kind of patience.
“I am fine,” Libbie answered, as Claudia withdrew. “How are Uncle Magnus and Aunt Adelia?”
“They are well,” he said. His earlier suspicions still had not left him entirely, but now came to rest upon Libbie herself, and he wondered whether if, fearing as she had, she had been the one to enlist Claudia in her aid. Nevertheless he pressed ahead in his original inquiry. “Libbie, I want to ask you something,” he said, seeing no reason to be mysterious about it. “How trustworthy do you find Claudia?”
Libbie felt a pain when she realized the jealous suspicions that were unleashed in her husband’s mind. “Completely,” she answered.
“You do not think she could have a hand in any of our misfortunes?”
“No,” Libbie answered, afraid of where she knew it might lead. “I told you it was only misfortune.”
“Very well,” Caleum concluded, with the same patience he displayed before, leaving his wife there in the kitchen as he went to the parlor to be alone. He sat down on a sofa that allowed him to look out on the lake beyond the window. He was not fully satisfied there was no pact against him, or that his wife’s misfortunes were only what she said. He had no evidence, however, of any foul deed, and no course to act, so tried to find a position of calm and stillness within himself.
How will you run your house? When he thought of his aunt’s question from earlier that evening it seemed a very different thing in this light, and he was shaken again with self-facing grief that he knew he must undo.
After a long hour of staring at the lake and listening to the frigid wind as it whistled through the trees and even seemed to move the house a tiny fraction, he finally went to bed with no answer and no true satisfaction; no peace at all save a mature, abiding grief.
nine
The spring rains were as relentless as the ones of the preceding autumn, storming down cold and hard from late February until the middle of March nearly without intermission, until the landscape began to show shadings of green that put all in mind of new beginnings: new hopes and chances in all their struggles, great and small. When the rains finally did ease, the stench of manure and winter decay mingled on the air, announcing the start of the new season. Caleum was happy that he could once again spend the better part of his days out-of-doors instead of inside the barns or his house, and he began to walk his land, like one who had been doing so many years, to assess its state and plan its future.
Of cloven-hoofed beasts there were four cows in calf that spring, and six ewes ready to lamb. The hogs rooted in the blood-red mud, searching out mushrooms, the occasional nut, and other treasures, after having tasted nothing but dry grain for so many months. One of the sows had birthed at the beginning of the month, and her sucklings fought for dominance and who should be first to feast and fatten from her milk. The hens sat their eggs patiently in the musty gloom of a coop that still retained its winter heat and darkness.
Caleum and Magnus toured each district of the larger farm, glad to see the bright green shoots in the pasturelands as the grasses bloomed again; debating how soon to let the animals out to graze, or wait for the higher pastures to open. When they saw stalks of the same grass in the rice and tobacco fields, though, they were made anxious, and discussed the best method of weeding it out so that it would not reappear. It was the same conversation they had this time every year, and it never failed to soothe both of them, no matter what their other worries — to know spring had arrived and the certainty and rhythm of life at Stonehouses was reached anew.
Libbie was with child again as well, but Caleum did not wish to dwell on the subject — it would turn out for good or ill, and there was nothing he could do — so he stayed focused on what he had some sway over: when the crops went in the ground and the animals were let out to pasture — though not how much that planting or shepherding would increase and yield.
When they finished their tour, Magnus, who had not been into Berkeley since the fall markets, suggested they go to Content’s place for a pint, as the sun was not yet set and there would be light out for still another two hours.
As they took the road into town, Caleum gave his horse a loose rein, letting the animal exercise its powerful legs on the open expanse of road after being confined all winter. Magnus had never been one for flashy riding, but the perfume of the air and the vigor of the new season inspired him to let his animal open up as well. The beast he sat was the mare Annabel, and he knew her stride as well as he did his own and trusted her as much to carry him where he wished to go. As she gathered speed, though, he felt a violent jerk in his arms and thought she had lost her footing in the mud. He looked for a place to jump clear in case she went down, but soon after the initial pain he realized the hot sensation he felt was not the mare losing her hold on the ground but his own arm losing hold of the horse. His entire right side clenched up then and froze against him, and no matter how he tried he could not move. As both the animal and his own body flew away from his control he knew something grave was the matter.