Stella Rosa's Story – Section VI
by Sabine

Last update June 5, 2002

The Beginning
Previous Section

September: Misery's Company (con't)

William

After they returned home, he dragged himself up the stairs and into his dressing-room, where he hurriedly cast off his clothing, and, wrapping himself in a sheet, waited for Barrington to make a hot bath for him. The dirt from this morning had gotten under his fingernails, ate at his eyes and remained dried up in his hair. He could still taste it from the night before, when they dug frantically at what remained of two tenant houses, hoping to still find someone alive. But it was of no use; William chased away the thoughts of what they finally found, having lifted up the buckled roof of one of the houses.

Barrington filled his bath and placed two large pitchers, full of hot water, near it. Then, he left. This routine was old, for ever since he was old
enough to concern himself with modesty, William had not felt comfortable being completely nude in front of his valet.

As his weary body slid into hot water, William emitted a piteous sigh, grateful that there was no-one to hear it. He dove under water for a second, then lathered his hair, squeezing his eyes shut and huffing through the bubbles. Feeling for the pitcher of water, which Barrington placed near the tub, he finally located it and, holding it with both hands, tipped it over his head. When his vision was returned to him, he leaned back in the bathtub, looking up at the whitewashed ceiling of his dressing-room.

September had been one hell of a difficult month, he thought, trying very hard not to pity himself too much. Stella’s pregnancy was
beginning to take its toll on him: over the duration of their marriage, however short, he had become comfortably used to receiving favors from her nearly every night (to say nothing of the sweet mornings and languid, hot afternoons), and now, having not touched her for a month, remained in the constant state of unfulfilled desire. It was not that she would refuse him—but, as he saw her so ill so often, his conscience did not allow him to impinge upon her. That, and he was terrified of hurting their child.

The situation in his family did nothing to make him feel more relaxed: Samuel had gone against his wishes and advices and married Anabelle Fenwick. But you have done exactly the same, he said to himself-—married against the wishes of your mother—but, he started arguing with himself, it was Stella, his sweet gentle Stella, so good and perfect (though of course, he understood very well the pathetic inconsistency of such arguments—for Anabelle Fenwick must have been as dear to Samuel as Stella was to him, never mind her unpleasant personality). In addition, his younger brother and his fiancée had exhibited such pernicious lack of self-control as to make haste necessary, and William could not but disapprove of that…

And Vanessa—oh, Vanessa. William gnashed his teeth at the thought of his sister. The whole affair has left him livid—and the fact that his mother peppered him with letters, demanding he immediately go to London, tear his sister away from whatever she was doing and bring her back “to the family, which loves her!”, did not make it any better. He was angry with Vanessa for her benumbing selfishness; he was incensed at Fenwick’s pathetic weakness and, however shamed he was at such feelings in retrospection, despised him lightly for being unable to keep his wife satisfied and by his side.

The weariness of his body was soon bested by the returning tension, and William, sighing deeply, slid his hand under the water, in an attempt to relax the best he knew how. In his mind, he conjured up his wife, who in her early pregnancy remained every bit as alluring as she was on their wedding night. As he lazily pleasured himself, William heard his wife’s voice in the antechamber, inquiring after him. Hope sprang eternal that perhaps, Stella would deign to help him in his undertaking; but when the door flew open and he saw her standing there, white as a wall, her face wet with tears, William knew that something irreparable had happened.

In her hand, Stella was holding a letter. Her lips trembling, she held it up and said, plaintively:

“William, my father—my father—“

In his shock, he watched the letter slide out of her hand and fall through the air. Before William could say a word, his wife’s body joined the letter on the dressing-room floor.

Stella

The news of my father's death hit me like a hurricane. There was nothing I could do or think of to counter the mad force of this
misery--for to the pain, there was adduced a hefty portion of guilt. I could not deny the possibility that my father was dead because of me, that my thoughtlessness and cruelty had killed him, that his heart could not bear the pain I had caused him.

I came to and saw William, dressed in a robe, leaning over me, looking concerned. Alexandra sat on the other side of the bed, from time to time pressing a cold cloth against my forehead.

"Oh, Stella," my husband whispered, as he gently caressed my cheek. "I am ever so sorry, love."

We left for London as soon as we could—half an hour after the service for the Fullerton children and twelve others who had perished in the collapse. In the carriage, William held me; after the first shock, the feelings of grief and remorse lodged themselves deeply within my soul. Leaning my head against William's chest, I silently chastised myself for serving as the reason for my father's death. Elena had written to me that his death was sudden and
was, by all estimations, the direct consequence of a heart-attack. To try convincing myself that it was not all me, that Beni's impending leave and his falling-out with Enrique might have contributed to my father's demise as well, seemed disgraceful. And so, I wallowed in my self-hating misery.

We arrived to Whitechapel shortly before dusk. William stood behind me as I reached for the heavy knocking ring on my father’s door. Feeling his steadying grip on my elbow, I knocked.

The door swung open, and I saw Beni, dressed for mourning, barefoot, and unshaven. When he saw me, his whole countenance flushed.

“Beni,” I said softly, “let me in.”

His face twitching, he abused me with language most foul. I felt William start behind me, and placed a hand on his arm.

“Go back to where you came from!” my brother hissed, attempting to shut the door in my face, but William forced it open. Then, to my surprise, my husband spoke to my brother, in a tone of great civility.

“Mr. De Lara,” he said hoarsely. “Is it not your custom to allow a pauper to come in after there has been a death in the house?”

My brother looked lost; I, myself, was dumbfounded as to where William received such an intelligence.

“Yes,” Beni said, finally, “but what of it?”

”Surely you can afford your own sister the same kind of respect you show a beggar?”

Beni hesitated, and then, o wonder, stepped aside, letting us in.

My father’s house was brightly lit, as is the custom during shiva. To my great sorrow, even the very last good-bye was denied to me, as I found his bed empty. Elena’s letter took too long to find me—the interment, in the custom of my people, had happened the next morning after my father’s demise. I never had the time to say good-bye; and, as I stood leaning against the doorpost of his empty room, looking at his empty, white bed, I wept. To my sorrow, a great feeling of guilt was adduced—I was certain that it was my escape that had hastened my father’s decease. I felt my husband’s presence behind me yet could
not bear to turn around and look at him. I was afraid that in my eyes, he should read regret—for the first time since our elopement, I wondered whether the price for my happiness was not too high.

I heard Beni’s voice behind me, unusually hesitant: “Perhaps we should leave my sister here—“ he faltered, before finding an address that both sounded proper and did not jar his pride.”—Mr. Hester.”

William did not correct him, but I heard him walking away, following my brother. I was grateful to Beni for finding the strength inside to take this step. There was one I had to take myself, as well. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the room and approached the bed.

There was a tray of food near the bed, left there for the dead man’s soul to feast on. Kneeling in front of my father’s last berth, I drew my hand across the empty white pillow and whispered in Ladino:

"May the Lord save you now that you have passed away.
You were once alive as I was.
I shall one day be like you.
In heaven where you now are,
Pray to the Lord for me.
In this valley of tears,
I shall pray to the Lord for you.
May the Lord give you a good night…"

The rest of the prayer was my own—and it was but a supplication for forgiveness.

I felt lighter as I left my father’s room, though the pain in my heart persisted. The house around me—white, shining and hot from all the burning candles—stared at me with the blind eyes of the covered mirrors. I followed the hallway to my mother’s room, where I found her abed, looking ill and worn out. Around her, all my siblings gathered, and, to my great surprise, I saw William among them.

“Mama,” I approached the bed and knelt near it, taking her hand. “Oh, Estellica,” she whispered, smiling a tired smile. “You have come, m’ija… I have asked Beni to bring your husband here as well… He is a good man, from the looks of him—“ she sighed torturously and smiled. “Elena tells me you are with child, my love?” “I am,” I said as I caressed her hand.

“How good,” she whispered. “How happy you must be—“ her eyes closed, she trailed away. Panic gripped me, and, grasping her hand, I called after her. Her eyes slowly opened again.

“I am just so tired, dear girl,” she whispered. “The doctor told me to stay in bed…”
As she drifted away again, I turned to my brothers and sisters and asked them whether she was in any danger. Margarita quipped, immediately, that it was all my fault this has happened in the first place. Resolved to pay her no mind, I turned to Elena and Enrique.

“No,” my brother said, “the doctor said she is simply broken down after Father’s death.”

At the realization of the awful meaning of his words, his face twitched strangely and I looked away lest I see him cry.

The reception William and I received from my family that day was better than I had hoped. Elena and Joseph, Enrique and Viola all embraced me and I cried on my brother’s shoulder, feeling the stubby shadow of mourning on his cheek; Beni remained reserved and quiet, but said nothing else—as if William’s reminder of our ancient custom willed him into acceptance. Once, as Margarita attempted to say something mean-spirited to me, he stopped her, curtly, and told her to go and ask Rufina whether supper was ready.

“You can just ring for her!” she replied cattily, but Beni’s one withering glance sent her scurrying on her way.

“You shall stay for supper, shan’t you?” Elena asked me. We were exhausted from the road, as we had come to Whitechapel without stopping to change or rest at Lady Hetty’s townhouse. I had no appetite whatsoever, but I knew that William was hungry, and I could not bear to leave my family just yet.

Our old cook, Rufina, on carrying the dishes into the dining-room, saw me and almost dropped her plates.

“Miss Stella Rosa!” she cried. Forgetting all propriety, I embraced the old woman, who once doubled as nurse to my sisters and me. “Rufina, this is Sir William, my husband,” I said. William bowed courteously, and I was touched that he found it in himself to show such civility to a servant.

The supper was made without meat, as is the Sephardi custom for the shiva. The conversation at the table was constrained at first, but as I asked Enrique about his new son, whom Viola only just had a fortnight ago, his face brightened.

“Oh, he is wonderful!” my brother said, beaming. “He is so big, bigger than Margarita’s Lewis was when he was born!”

On their end of the table, Margarita and Luis scoffed and argued that it was not true; the conversation turned to babies and children and flowed freer from there.

My brother had named his son Levi, after our father; it was an ultimate sign of respect, and I smiled, thinking that another Levi de Lara was already living in this world.

That night, before we left my father’s house, I returned to his room once more, and placed a coin and a piece of bread on his pillow, as I had missed the opportunity to place them upon his eyes.

“Please forgive me, father,” I whispered as I felt myself breaking down again. “I was only trying to be happy…”

On my shoulder, I felt William’s strong hand. Looking up at him, I saw compassion in his eyes and, weeping, rested my head against his chest.

“Come, let us go home,” he said gently to me. I followed him despondently out of the room, past my siblings, who stood, huddling, in the hallway.

“How long shall you be in London?” Elena asked me.

“Until tomorrow afternoon,” William said. “My sister is in town right now, and I wanted to pay her a visit. After this, I have pressing business back in –shire.”

I knew it to be true: after the rain-caused collapse, William never had the time to take care of the families, some of which had lost members in that nightmare.

“I shall come visit Mother tomorrow,” I announced, and neither Beni nor Margarita said anything to that.

As we were quitting my father’s house, I felt a strange twinge in the pit of my stomach, and, looking up at my husband, was struck with realization: my child had moved inside of me! After we were safely in the carriage, I told him of it, and pulled his hand to lie on my stomach—as he felt it, too, his eyes widened in happy wonder. He, however, hid his delight for fear of offending my recent grief. For the rest of our ride through the city, he held me close against himself, from time to time leaning to kiss the top of my head.

The next morning, I returned to Whitechapel, this time alone and bearing gifts. Having spent several hours at various West End
shops, I bought a shawl for my mother and pretty mantillas for all my sisters, even Margarita. I brought Enrique and Joseph each a cigar case, and Beni—having stopped for that purpose at a millinery shop in Whitechapel—a new velvet scull-cap. I brought gifts for their children, as well, having picked a particularly pretty doll for Beni’s daughter Flora, my favorite niece.

More than anything else did I want to make peace with them all. They must have felt it, for they accepted gratefully, and only Margarita, in her usual asinine bull-headedness, pursed her lips tightly and said that she wanted nothing of mine, and that I should know better than to bring pretty things into a
mourning house.

“You are not the one who will be mourning our father,” she said bitterly. “You shan’t be the one to visit his grave for a year—you shall simply retire into your country lady’s existence with your goyische husband.”

Suddenly, I was short of patience with my sister.

“Very well,” I said, “I am sure our mother can use another mantilla, after the mourning is over,” I set the kerchief aside together with
Mother’s shawl. “And you know what? Leave all of it—if you do not want my gifts, do not take them—do not take the ones for your sons,
either—but I shall not cry about it. I am only trying to make peace, Margarita. If you are intent on hating me for the rest of our lives, it is
your choice—but I shall not endeavor to justify my life. Not to you. Do what you want, you are of no concern to me.”

With this, I turned away. The rest of them were benevolent and even Beni thanked me, sounding somewhat confounded. I
half-expected him to apologize for what had happened during Elena’s wedding, but he did not; instead, shortly before I was about to leave, he laid a heavy hand upon my shoulder.

“Stella Rosa,” he said weightily, “I think it is time for us to say good-bye. In a fortnight, I am leaving for Palestine.”

I knew not what to say; howbeit in my mind I realized that I should never see my oldest brother again, I could not bring myself to be sorry at his impending departure. All the days of my childhood, Beni, had been too distant, too cold, too much of a pedant. Unlike Enrique, who was often my playmate during our childhood, Beni never paid a bit of attention to me or Elena; as we grew up, he constantly found fault in everything I did and a reason to criticize or scold. I held no resentment towards him, but neither did I hold any love.

After saying good-bye to my mother, I quit her house and went, accompanied by Elena, to the cemetery. There, as I knelt at my father's fresh gravesite, I wept with release, begging for his forgiveness. But it did not come; of if it did, I did not feel it.

...

Three days after our return from London, the High Holidays came. I knew that Rosh Ha Shanah[17], the New Year, was the time to rejoice and celebrate, but , in mourning for my father, I could not will myself to get out of bed. It was not fitting to celebrate so soon after a death, but even if it were, I hardly could. I knew that William worried about me, and it grieved me to cause him distress, but I could do little to help it.

Then, on the New Year's Eve, William came to our bedroom, carrying a silver bowl in each hand and a knife in his teeth. He looked like a bucaneer, and in spite of myself, I laughed.

"Would you like any help with it?" I asked him, but he had already set the bowls on a small table near the bed. Putting the knife down, he approached the bed, and opened his embrace to me.

"Come," he said. I wound my arms about his neck and he carried me to the fireplace, where he sat me down on a rug. I pulled my knees to my chest as he stoked the coals. He then brought the bowls and the knife along, leaving me to wonder what it was all about.

"I hear tonight is the New Year's Eve," he said, as he sat, cross-legged, facing me.

"Where did you hear that, sir?" I asked.

"I have my sources," he smiled. I looked in the bowls and saw that one of them had half a dozen apples in it, and the other one was full of honey. I was touched, greatly, and reached to caress his cheek. He caught my hand and kissed the palm.

"Stella," he asked, gently, "what can I do to relieve your suffering?"

I shrugged. "A year ago, what could anyone have done to relieve yours?"

He sighed. "I know. But it was relieved, when I met you."

"You had the advantage of knowing yourself to have been a good son towards the end--you had done nothing to hasten your father's demise or make his suffering worse."

He looked at me, and there was such pain in his gaze, that I immediately regretted my harsh words.

"You should not blame yourself," he said. "You did not kill your father."

He turned away and began peeling an apple. I felt awful for having hurt him, but he had started this conversation, and if I were to be candid, I had to acknowledge from whence a part of my grief stemmed.

"Please, Stella," he pleaded, as he dipped an apple slice in honey and offered it to me. "Please, love. We cannot bring him back--but I cannot stand living with a knowledge that you blame yourself for his death--"

I looked down at the apple slice in his fingers, golden honey thick, covering the green fiber of the fruit. Leaning forward, I ate the proffered delicacy out of my husband's hands, as if I were a bird. I heard him sigh and shudder and then felt his arms about my form, as he whispered his supplications into my hair.

"How did you come to know about apples and honey?” I demanded to know. He fidgeted for a while, but then admitted that during our stay in London in June, he purchased yet another book—a guidebook of Hebrew customs and traditions, written in English for a benevolent Gentile.

“A manual on how to placate a Jewish wife,” I said, chuckling.

“Something of the sort,” he agreed. I returned his favor by feeding him a sweetened apple slice.

“You are doing rather well, I must tell you,” I said to him. “Hold on to that book, Sir—it is a veritable treasure…”

That night, as he held me, I was able to sleep without nightmares, for the first time since my father’s death. When I woke up, I found him gazing at me, resting himself on one elbow. It appeared he never did go to sleep himself.

Now, it was my turn to provide comfort for him, as he rested his head on my shoulder and fell into a crevasse of sleep, bottomless and dark. G*d knows, we both needed this simple comfort—and only we could provide it for each other.

William

He did not know how to comfort her. That her father was dead was a tragedy—that he understood better than anyone else. Only a year ago, his own life revolved around the inevitable—that, which the reasonable adult in him knew, with certainty, was coming and which the son in him abhorred thinking about. But Stella spoke the truth: though it was no consolation, he always had his own integrity. Since the first day of his father’s illness, William had shouldered all of the responsibility for running the estate—something, which many young men of his age may have eschewed. He had, in essence, become the master of the estate two full years before his father’s death. There was nothing for which he could blame himself. William could not imagine what it must be like to feel, added to his grief, benumbing guilt.

For, he knew, this is what Stella felt.

If he, himself, felt remorseful for Mr. De Lara’s death, it was only because he saw Stella’s compunction. Only with the man’s demise did William think it right to abandon the memory of the slight dealt to him by Stella’s father. The manner in which he had been refused her hand still made his face hot as he thought about it. For all his kindness, William was not an easily forgiving person; and it took him the longest to forgive disrespect to his person and to those he loved.

But as he saw his beloved pine for her father, William felt that it was highly un-Christian of him to hold a grudge against the dead man. Stella was miserable, and he knew not how to soothe her pain. No words could be said; for, while her mind understood perfectly that she was not to blame for her father’s sudden demise, her heart insisted on the contrary. And so he endeavored to comfort her by allowing her to grieve at leisure.

One of the measures undertaken by him was that the family was to remain in mourning. William asked Stella to choose the length of time, hoping that she would be reasonable. She was, more or less—she would remain in mourning for at least forty days, and as to the rest of the household, she did not require it at all. Whatever suited him, she said and kissed him gratefully.

All social engagements were cancelled, including Alexandra’s birthday party. If his sister was disappointed, she chose not to show it, and William was amazed at Alexandra’s unexpected maturity. It was his brother who managed to frustrate him once again.

The younger Hesters were to visit at Bloomfield several days after William and Stella had returned from London. William had written to Samuel, reminding him that the family was in mourning and to please dress accordingly. Which is why he was severely aggravated when, upon their arrival, Mrs. Anabelle Hester stepped out of the carriage wearing a stunning peacock gown and a feathered hat. William looked at his brother, but Samuel only shrugged.

“Samuel, a word,” William said dryly, and Samuel followed him reluctantly to his study.

“You know, Will,” he said, as they entered and William closed the door behind them, “I should really stop indulging your need for preaching. If you have something to say to me, why not say before the entire family?”

“I simply wanted to spare you the mortification,” William said coldly. “It is the matter of your wife’s attire,” he continued. “I choose to assume that you did not receive my letter regarding the mourning in this house.”

“No,” Samuel smiled, arms crossed on the chest, “I did. I even read it, Will.”
”And yet—“
’And yet I fail to see why my wife should be in mourning for a man neither of us has ever met.”

William bit his lip, knowing full well that his patience with his brother was slowly reaching its limit. “It is Stella’s father of whom you speak,” he said, looking away so as not to betray the anger in his gaze. “My wife’s father, who is now recently deceased.”
Samuel let out an incredulous chortle. “William, remind me—is it not the same gentleman that forced you to elope with his daughter—by not giving you—with all your money and lineage—the permission to marry her? ‘Tis pure hypocrisy, if you ask me. ”

William gnashed his teeth, exasperated. “Well I do not ask you,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “I tell you. It is a matter of respect to the mistress of this estate—whether you like it or not.”

Samuel shrugged. “What do you suggest I do?” he asked with some degree of haughteur.

“I am sure that there are some dresses of Vanessa’s left after father’s wake,” William said. “Anabelle can wear them while you are visiting.”

“And if she does not?”

William sighed. “Samuel, why do you need to make it so difficult? Do you doubt that Stella and I would afford the two of you the same civility had the situation been reversed?”

“I just do not see the reason—“

“The reason is that I willed it so!” William thundered. Then, taking a deep breath, he said in a very even voice. “If Anabelle fails to gratify my request, then neither of you are welcome at Bloomfield at this time.”
”You shall put me out of doors?” Samuel laughed.

“I very well shall. Do you not believe me?”

The two brothers stared at each other with a fair degree of malice. Finally, it was Samuel who averted his eyes. “No,” he said. “I believe you.”

Spinning around on one heel, he stormed out of the study and strode across the foyer to the drawing-room, where Anabelle chatted idly with her brother and Alexandra, brandishing a feathered fan.

“My dear, come, we are to go,” he said to her, extending his hand to her. She stared at him with her large cornflower eyes, and William was struck with how little patience she had for him.

“You have only just arrived!” Stella looked shocked herself. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Perhaps, dear sister,” Samuel said poisonously, ”you can ask your husband this question.”

What ensued was an exceedingly unpleasant scene, where Stella pulled William aside and chastised him quietly. He was furious that she chose to do there and then; but the nature of the argument called for immediacy. Stella did not want Samuel to leave:

“Not on my account, William,” she said, looking at him rather expressively. “She has done worse things to offend me—“

“This is not about you—it is about your station as the mistress of this estate—“

“William, this is your brother,” she said urgently. “Do not do this—and especially do not do this for me. Not right now. I could not bear to be the reason for the rift between you two,” she added. She left him standing there, fuming, and returned to the rest of the party.

“This is only a misunderstanding,” she said, smiling charmingly. “Samuel, please. We are all glad to see you. Please stay.”

That she addressed her supplication to Samuel only, pointedly ignoring his wife, was a bit of private vengeance for her, William knew. Samuel and Anabelle stayed. William became resolved to bearing this disrespect on her behalf; but he was not becalmed. He left right after the tea and went on a solitary ride.

Of course, he was punished most severely for his lack of restraint: the cold autumn rain caught up with him and soaked him thoroughly. As he burst through the kitchen doors, dripping water and utterly numb from the cold, Mrs. Livesay wrung her hands and bid him to discard his wet closing expeditiously and wrap himself in a warm blanket. As he did her bidding in his dressing room, the door swung open and Stella came in.

William knew that he had worried her, but this time, he was actually pleased. First, this gave her something to think about besides her feeling of guilt; second, he enjoyed how she fretted over him. She insisted on towel-drying his wet hair and checked that the blanket about him was pulled tightly enough.

“Pray you shall not become ill,” she said angrily.

“Why so?”

“I have heard, sir, that you do not particularly enjoy the ministrations that usually accompany the treatment for a common cold You know, camphor, hot milk with honey, things like that.”

“Well,” he laughed, “if I have such a lovely nurse, I might actually enjoy it!”

At this, sufficiently thawed, he let the blanket fall away. She blushed at his state of extreme undress under it. They had not been together as man and wife for over a month now, and the manifestation of that on him was quite blatant.

“It would behoove you to wear dry undergarments right now, sir.”

He hesitated. He wanted her madly; their last time, etched in his memory, was the day after his birthday, roughly six weeks back. But there were numerous reasons not to—she was in mourning and she was with child, and the rest of the family had not yet retired—William sighed convulsively as Stella slowly rose and moved away; but his sigh of disappointment turned into one of eager anticipation, as he saw her lock the door.

Returning to him, her eyes locked on his face, his wife asked him:

“So tell me, sir, is it true?”

“What is true?”
”Do you abhor a nurse’s ministrations?”

“Some of them,” he whispered, watching raptly as her fingers slowly moved to the buttons of her dress.

“Would it be imprudent of me to inquire, sir, which ministrations you do not despise?” The black dress slid off her shoulders, leaving her in a chemise and numerous petticoats.

“I cannot think of any,” he replied. “My memory is quite faulty, really. But perhaps you can remind me—what ministrations there are to begin with.”

She did, and she did very well. By the time she was done reminding him, her own memory’s return was manifested with a hoarse cry, reflected by the high ceiling of their bedroom. As to her husband, he immediately began to feel remorse for what had just transpired. For he had just seduced his wife, ignoring the fact that she was in mourning and possibly incurring harm to his issue, which she carried. Stella dismissed his worries with a flippant wave of her hand.

“You know perfectly well that this only makes me feel better,” she said as she placed his hands squarely upon her breasts. But he was not convinced; the possibility of harming his child through his own sexual immoderacy was petrifying. It was humbling. And so he resolved to seek no more favors from Stella until the end of her confinement.

Their small interlude did serve two important purposes: first, it banished any possibility of his getting a cold; second, it served to lift his spirits considerably and allowed him to look at Anabelle’s peacock frock all night long without once wishing to kill his brother.

October: El Dia Puro

Stella

The Holy Day of Yom Kippur fell on October 1 that year. I had not given much thought to what I was going to do. It was my family’s custom to spend this day in fasting, prayer and reflection. Perhaps the most important holiday of the year, El Dia Puro was also a mournful one. There was no simcha[19] but at the conclusion of it, when the sun set, and the family gathered together to break the fast. But even then, we were mindful of what this day meant to us as people and Judiyos. For this was the only holiday our ancestors observed in the black days of the Spanish Inquisition.

While I adored celebrating most Hebrew holidays with my family, I was always burdened by human presence on Yom Kippur. This year in particular, I dearly wished to be alone. For I had much to ponder. Thus, I was presented with a rather unpleasant predicament—how to tell my beloved husband that his company was unwelcome to me.

To my desire to be alone that night he readily, though reluctantly, acquiesced. But when I did not come down to breakfast, he appeared in my bedroom as I sat on my bed, a prayer book in my hands, whispering atonement prayers to myself.

“Stella,” he knocked gingerly on the doorframe. His voice startled me, for I was entranced. My concentration was broken in the middle of a prayer; the book fell out of my hands and I lost my page.

“You have not come down to breakfast,” he said. “Are you not well?”

“I am fine,” I said, knowing that my physical state belied my words to him. For in my attempt to truly observe Yom Kippur, I did not dress or wash my face that day, nor had I eaten anything since the night before, and was now cruelly tortured by nausea.

“You have not eaten,” he said. I smiled.

“This is the point of it,” I explained to him.

“What, to starve oneself?”
”’Tis a fast, William,” I said.

“But you are with child!” he noticed fairly. “Surely an exception can be made.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But I do not wish an exception to be made for me, sir. I am perfectly capable of weathering twenty-four hours without food.”

“I protest,” William persisted. “You must eat!”

“Sir, my condition is not a sickness. I feel quite fine—better, in fact, than it is proper to feel while fasting.” I said. “I shall not eat.”

“I am absolutely aghast you would do your body such a penance—I your condition, madam!” he cried.

“Please,” I begged him. “You have shown such amazing liberality when it came to my religion and traditions—but this one time, William, is truly important. Please do not pressure me, William.”

“Had it been your health alone,” he said angrily, “I should have desisted. But as this concerns our child, madam, I shall not. You shall eat.”

“You cannot force me,” I uttered, raising my chin.

“Oh, madam, you watch me,” he said fiercely and walked out of the room.

Of course, he could not make me eat—after all, he would not force the food down my throat.. But as he left, I realized that in the house, I would have no peace. And so I dressed quickly, without alerting my maid, and braided my hair loosely. Taking my prayer book and wrapping a shawl around my shoulders, I slid out of my room—just in time, for, as I turned around the corner, I saw William return, trailed by a servant carrying a tray of food. They did not see me, but I knew that a moment later, a frantic search for Lady Stella should ensue; and so I hurried.

I left the house through the front doors and turned left immediately, hiding myself in the maze of the gardens. No-one saw me and no-one called for me to turn back. I walked quickly, clutching my shawl about my shoulders. I knew that William would be furious with me; but this was important to me, and I should even risk his extreme displeasure—only to be alone that day. Very soon, I lost myself in the woodland, which began immediately behind the house.

When I was reasonably certain that my seclusion would afford me at least of few hours of uninterrupted time, I sat down in the moss under a tall pine, and, leaning my head against it, closed my eyes. Somehow, I had lost all need of my prayer book. The prayer I was to read was etched in my heart. For years, I had repeated the Ashamnu along with the entire congregation; now, the duty was mine alone, and never did I feel a stronger need to say it.

Ashamnu*. I have been guilty. I have followed my heart selfishly and it has led me to betray my people, my family, my father. I have eaten forbidden things and broken the rules of kashrut.

Bagadnu. I have betrayed. I have been treasonable. I have had forbidden relations.

Gazalnu. I have stolen—stolen my parents’ peace, breaking their hearts.

Dibarnu Dofi. I have spokn falsely—to those who love me most.

He’evinu, V’hirshanu. I have caused others to sin. I have caused my sister to lie for me.

Zadnu, Chamasnu. I have become violent; I have scorned the honor of Shabbat. I have scorned the honor of my parents.

Tafalnu Shequer. To my other sins, I have attached lies.

Kizavnu. And I lied, again and again, for good and bad reason.

Maradnu: I have rebelled. My flesh has rebelled; my heart has rebelled; my spirit has rebelled.

Niatznu: I have scorned the Holiness of Israel.

Sararnu: I have been defiant; I have turned from G*d’s path.

Avinu: I have been perverse; I have fulfilled my appetite for my beloved’s embrace when it was a grievous sin for me to do so.

Rashanu. I have been lawless; I have disobeyed my father and escaped my family, causing it disrepute.

Tainu, Titanu. I have gone astray.

Having finished, I sat back, leaning against the tree, the last words of my supplication still ringing in my ears. There, I said it. I had gone astray. From my father, my family, the ways of the Hebrew women. Driven by the desires of my heart, I had abandoned the world I cherished, and, as if in punishment, it purged me from its ranks. As this realization sunk in, I raised my eyes to the sky and asked G*d’s forgiveness for all the ways I had sinned against Him.

But any amnesty I should ask for would have to be for the future as well as the past. For, though I sharply realized al the ways in which I had sinned, a thought to cease never once crossed my mind. Not even the practical impossibility of my return to the juderia prevented me from thinking of it: had it even been possible, I should never return. For my very life was now tied, inextricably, to my husband. I loved him dearly even as we eloped; but the attachment, which I had developed for him since our wedding, rendered me utterly unapologetic for my sins, though sharply cognizant of them. His presence was like air to me, so overwhelming was my need to be near him at times. (?) However much I grieved what I had to do, I also knew that I would continue doing it until the very last day of my life.

I remained under the tree for a long time. After a while, I ceased praying and simply sat there, leaning against the tree and listening to the child inside of me. My mind was exhausted, but my heart was now light. At length, I drifted away.

I was woken by someone’s gentle touch against my cheek. Opening my eyes, I expected to see William, but saw, awash in the glow of the setting sun, a solitary white figure. Suddenly short of breath, I made to rise to my feet, but they did not obey me, and I sat back, slumped against the tree. My heart in my throat, I looked up at my father, as he leaned closer and his fingers brushed my cheek again. I must have gasped or cried out; I know not, for my senses were usurped by the vision, harrowing yet beautiful, which presented itself to my fevered eyes. I was never the one to believe in ghosts; yet, the apparition before my eyes left me no doubts. I remember whispering, “Papa!”, as my father leaned and placed a kiss on my forehead, as he often did when I was a little girl. There was such love, such tenderness in his gaze, I felt tears flow indiscriminately down my cheeks. Leaning lower, my father laid a hand on my stomach and, by the look in his eyes, I knew that he blessed this child of mine. As he retreated into the setting sun, my father seemed loath to release my face; his fingers tarried on my cheek.

“Baruch ha-Shem, galanica[21],” he mouthed almost silently. “Blessed be His name.” Galanica. This is what he had called me long ago, when I was still a girl in his house in Whitechapel.

Slowly, his figure dissipated in the red glow of the sunset. Reaching for him, I only grasped air. A moment later, he was gone, leaving me all alone.

I do not know how long I sat; the sun had set, and I was beginning to feel the effects of hunger. The child in me kept still, as if becalmed by the touch of the ghostly hand. Exhausted, I scrambled back to my feet and, my legs shaky, made my way back to the house. Halfway there, I bumped into my husband, who, along with Mr. Fenwick and several of his men, had been combing the surrounding areas for me since lunchtime and was now utterly sick with worry.

“Oh, my love,” he grasped my shoulders, looking intently into my face. “Where—where were you?”

I told him. He stared at me in disbelief.

“Impossible,” he said. “We have gone through all the woods at least three times—you were not there.”

I did not know how to prove to him that I had, indeed, spent the day in the nearby forest, under a tall pine. Mr. Fenwick gazed at me thoughtfully from his horse.

“Pardon me, Hester,” he said softly, “but perhaps you should not query Lady Stella here.”

William took his suggestion to heart and legged me quickly into his own saddle atop Zanzibar. That night, in our chamber, having broken my fast, I sat, shivering, in the bathtub. Under Dr. Younge’s explicit instructions, I was not to take overly hot baths, lest I should miscarry. But even Dr. Younge would have found he tepid water in the tub wanting.

Lucy came in with more hot water. She balked slightly at the sight of the master, who had perched himself, silently, on the edge of a vanity.

“Thank you, Lucy,” William said, taking the water from her. “I shall attend to Lady Stella from here.”

She left, and William bid me to leave the tub, so that he could add the water without scalding me. I did as told, and stood, dripping and holding my arms, as he made the water hotter. His shirtsleeves rolled up above his elbows, William leaned to check the water.

“I think this should do,” he said. As I stepped towards the tub, he held me back and stared, quizzically, at my stomach and breasts.

“I can see it now,” he said, drawing his hand against my rather well-pronounced mound of a stomach. “And your breasts—“ he added, pensively, as his hands tarried around my nipples. Shivered, I sneezed, and he came to his senses.

“Come, get into the water, “ he said, as he helped me in. As I settled, comfortably, in the warm water, he knelt on the side, laying his chin upon his folded hands. “Stella,” he said. “Where were you today?”

I sighd. “I was in the woods behind the house. Quite near to where you found me,” I added, and seeing his incredulous mien, dared. “William, I have to tell you something.”

As I told him of my encounter in the forest, his eyes grew round.

“You must be unwell to hallucinate,” he said and laid a hand upon my forehead. “You have a fever… That is what not eating for twenty-four hours will do to you!” he added, rather angry.

“No, William, I feel fine,” I smiled, and brought his hand to my lips. “But I think I know what I saw. And I think perchance that was why you could not find me.”

He shook his head with abandon. “This is the most prepostserous thing I have ever heard!” he said.

“What would you rather believe?” I asked him. “That I lied to you about my whereabouts?”
He considered it. “No,” he said. “That we somehow missed you on our search!”

I ignored his stubbornness, and went on.

“William, I think he forgave me.”
”Your father?”

“Yes—I think he forgave me, and blessed our child. “

He smiled softly. “Well my love, I am glad of that. If that is what you saw, who am I to tell you otherwise? But Stella,” he reached into the bathtub and reached for my hand. “You have given me the fright of my life. Please do not leave me anymore.”

“Please do not try to feed me when I am fasting?”

“Please do not fast when you are pregnant?”

“No,” I said, resolutely. “That is impossible. I plan to do this every year. Perhaps then we should consider the timing of the Yom Kippur when we consider the timing of our next conception.”

“Oh,” William sighed torturously. “That could prove quite difficult, my dearest…”

William

He had searched for his wife frantically. Upon entering Stella’s chamber and not finding her there, William shuddered at the thought of having driven her away. He knew that he should not have pressured her; when it came to her faith, she had proven most forthcoming and compromising, so William blamed himself fully. He should have foreseen how important this was to her—and so soon after her father’s death! William cursed his own bull-headedness a thousand times.

At first, they looked for her in the house, for he did not expect her to venture out alone—not when she was so sickly and tired. But several hours later, having combed through all the eighty-eight rooms, the extensive, abeit dusty, attics and the mildewed cellars (but what did you expect, he asked himself, to find her sitting among the bottles in your wine cellar?), he had to face the fact that she had gone. Upon which, the search party set out on horseback: Wililam, along with Fenwick, Mr. Preston (for there was not a man who knew the surroundings quite as well as he), and two men in the latter’s employ. As they went, Fenwick patted his back reassuringly.

“Do not worry, my friend. She could not have gone far.”

A good three hours later, he was desperate and ready to call out a full search. Indeed, why he did not do that from the start was beyond him. A young woman alone in the woods: a gentlewoman, a lady, and in a family way at that! William felt cold beads of sweat on his forehead. He was about to turn Zanzibar around and rouse the entire estate to search for Lady Stella, when his weary eyes beheld a miracle. There she was, walking towards him, and it did not look to him like she had succumbed to starvation, was mangled by wolves (what wolves?) or violated by brigands (brigands, at Bloomfield?).

Awash with relief, he alighted immediately, and, taking her in his arms, held her to his heart.

Later that day, he lay next to her on the bed, watching her sleep. It was really quite late and he was exhausted from the day’s tribulations, but sleep would not come, so he simply rested himself on one elbow, letting his eyes feast on her dear face. In her sleep, Stella looked peaceful; her whole countenance glowed. William thought of what she had told him earlier. Her father…

William was a reasonable, thinking, learned man. He believed in G*d, of course, but mostly out of habit and partially—out of convenience. For he did not feel comfortable on this earth without a great Overseer above. Every estate needed a good administrator, and surely one as large as this world would be in utter chaos without one. His faith was utterly devoid of mysticism. The Good Book, he found wise at times and utterly boring at others, but never for a moment did he believe it to be the Divine word, handed down from above. As he sat, seriously, through more than one tedious sermon at the parish, his thoughts were far away. This was more by choice than out of boredom: not completely devoid of arrogance, William did not believe that any man, be he twenty times clad in black, could teach him moral principles he, himself, had not already learned.

And surely, he did not believe in ghosts.

So Stella’s tale of her father’s ghost seemed absolutely ludicrous to him. Yet he was careful not to reject her story overtly; for he noticed how her face glowed and her eyes sparkled contently all through the evening. Whatever she saw in the woods helped his wife unburdened her soul, and William, knowing himself to be the proximate beneficiary of this event, did not mind in the least.

Stella slept like a child, wrapped snugly in a blanket, knees pulled tightly against her chest. William traced a finger down her nose—quite perfect, really; he could not fathom why Jews had the fame of being long-nosed—and she sniffed like a rabbit and smiled. Tenderness flooded him; he had never before imagined it was possible to love another human being with such intensity. William did really quite surrender his heart onto Stella: over the four months of their marriage, his soul attached itself to her, and wherever she went, thither it followed. When she was not near, everything around him irritated and annoyed him; her presence becalmed and enchanted him. Stella’s tears rent his heart in two—and her laughter colored his world in brighter tones. His love for her rendered him weak in the head and shaky in his knees, unable to reason, incapable to control himself. Her word truly was his command; and that she never took advantage of that left in utter awe. Before, he had always been reserved and somewhat obtuse when it came to compliments and endearments. Yet for her, he learned words of love in her own language. Corazon—heart. Luz—light. Palomba—turtledove. Yet his favorite one for her was joya, jewel, for he treasured her above anything else in the world.

And also, because it reminded him of joy, with which she so utterly suffused his life.

October: Maldicha Que Durmes Sola

William

Wearing a long velvet robe over a night-shirt, William entered his wife’s bedroom. She was already there, reading in bed at flickering candlelight.

“Stella, you shall spoil your eyes this way,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. She smiled, putting the book down. “I shall sacrifice knowing how the chapter ends,” she said, “if you, sir, provide me with some other sort of entertainment.”

“Stella—” he wrinkled his nose as if in pain. His body had immediately responded to this small innuendo, but he could not let it lead him.

“What?” She looked up, still smiling, but the smile disappeared off her face as she saw the expression on his. “What is wrong, dearest?”

“I can’t—I cannot be joking with you this way,” he said, hiding his eyes, as he slid into bed next to her. In the past three months, they hardly ever came together. He had held back stoically; however, it was not that difficult, as nearly every morning, Stella shot out of their bed and darted to her dressing-room; when she came back, she usually looked exhausted and ill. She was also moody and easily upset; there were plenty reasons for him not to want her.

Now, however, as the morning sickness had ceased to torment her and her good disposition returned, such restraint was far more trying. By the end of her third month, she had grown pleasantly curvy and her assets were amplified most marvelously; happiness shone in her countenance, making her skin glow and her eyes sparkle. William had never before desired his wife as much; but, as the cruel Fate would have it, he could not have her.

Stella could not seem to understand what was happening; it was the second time that she approached him in such a tempting manner, and this time, he had to explain himself. After all, he could not forever blame it all on his headache.

She was kneeling in bed now, looking at him inquisitively. The night-dress, made of thin cotton, clung most attractively to her generous forms; her black hair, curling slightly and gleaming like ebony in the candle-light, covered her shoulders like a cape. William swallowed as he said:

“Stella, I cannot—you are with child, my love.”
“Thank you,” she said, smirking, “for informing me. You are ever so observant, husband. What follows from this?”

“I cannot—we cannot do—what we usually do.”
“Why?” she stared at him in honest confusion.

“I am afraid we could hurt the child.”

“Hurt the child?” she cried in agitation. “You have no notion of female anatomy, do you, William?”

“Well, I—“
“Darling, the child is sufficiently deep inside of me to—argh!” A sound of exasperation and anger escaped her lovely lips, which seemed to William, in his abstinence psychosis, fuller and more sensual than before. He turned away, wondering at his own restraint. As it was, simply sleeping in the same bed, unable to touch her, has been torture to him recently. Each evening he lay down next to her, fully aware of her feminine allure, and, as she snuggled against him, seeking the protection of his embrace, knew that in the morning, he should wake up painfully aroused. But he could deal with this—for as long as she made no demand upon him.

“William, are you listening to me?” she asked, angrily; with great difficulty, he tore his eyes away from her breasts, which peaked, tempting, through her thin nightgown.

“Forgive me,” he muttered, looking away.

“You have once promised not to do this—not to refuse me—“
“But Stella, it is for your own good—for that of our child!”

“Our child is hurt far more when you leave me lonely and unloved!” she snapped.

He shook his head. “I just can’t,” he said. “I am afraid to hurt it, I am embarrassed that it can—that it can see… me.”

“See …you?” she stared at him, confused, before his meaning dawned on her and she sputtered, letting out a derisive chuckle. “You do flatter yourself, sir!”

William felt himself color; it was a low blow on her part, and angry, he turned away from her. Her cold words served its purpose: his masculine pride hurt, he no longer wanted her.

Sleep did not come to either of them, and as they lay there, with their backs to each other, William heard Stella cry quietly. He could not bear it: his anger immediately evaporated, turning, like snow to water, into guilt.

“Stella, my love,” he turned around and drew her into his embrace. Enraged, she fought her way out of it.

“Leave me be!” she cried. “Do not touch me! How dare you humiliate me so?!”

“Humiliate you?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“Shall you have me begging for it, sir? From you, my own husband—you, who, before your God, promised to love and cherish me like a husband should?”

Your God. The words stung him more than he would have expected. But he told himself that right now was not the place for it, nor the time; he had, on his hands, a hysterical pregnant woman, who needed to be pacified before her state did their child any harm. Almost forcibly, he finally managed that embrace, holding her tightly, kissing her neck, the side of her face, holding her hand up to his lips.

“Sh-sh, my love, my precious,” he whispered to her, and she started to calm down, slowly, though, from time to time, a torturous sob did still escape her.

“I know what it is,” she muttered, “You no longer find me attractive. This is it: I have grown fat and fail to entice you.”

“Stella, if only you knew how far from the truth this is,” he laughed. “I have never wanted you more—but please, darling, let us sleep now.”

She sighed. “I do not believe you. You cannot possibly be so daft as to believe everything you’ve told me. It is a mere excuse, sir.”

But she did not struggle any more and, exhausted by their confrontation and tears, fell asleep soon enough. William was not as fortunate: her feminine form pressed against his yearning body, he remained awake until the first morning light. Only then did he drift off into uneasy slumber, complete with bothersome erotic dreams.

About a week later, as William, about to ride off on his weekly surveying excursion around the estate, was already in the saddle, he saw a carriage pull up. His agitation was great when he saw that his unexpected visitor was none other than the old Dr. Younge. William quickly dismounted, and rushed to meet the old man.

“What is it? Did my wife send for you?” he snapped, in place of a greeting.

“No—I’ve come to speak with you, William,” he said. “Oh, and good morning to you, too.”

“Pardon my rudeness,” William said, still tense. “What is this about? It is not about Stella and the child, is it? Is my wife well?”

Dr. Younge waved a hand at him.

“Perhaps you may be so kind as to let me slide a word in?” he inquired. “Lady Stella is fine. I have looked at her two days ago, and she is in the best of health—and your heir appears to be as well.”

“Of what have you come to speak with me, then?”

“Should you mind terribly if we went inside?” The old gentleman asked, smirking. “It is altogether too cold for my old bones to have lengthy discussions outside.”

William apologized again, and, having given his overseer the necessary instructions, escorted Dr. Younge to his study on the first floor of the house. Inside, he offered him brandy—to warm himself up—which the old gentleman readily accepted.

“Thank you, my boy,” he said, taking the glass from William. “Ah,” he said, taking a sip. “Excellent. You Hesters have always known where to buy the best liquor.”

William was about to jump out of his skin with impatience. Looking at his somber face, the doctor laughed.

“All right,” he said, “I shall torment you no longer. I have come to speak of your wife.”

“But you’ve just told me she was well!”

“She is—she is doing splendidly. Physically, that is.”
|“Physically?

“Yes. Emotionally, she is quite sad.”

William knew where this was going; in exasperation, he asked:

“All right, what has she told you?”

“Nothing,” Dr. Younge shrugged his shoulders. “I have lived and practiced long enough to tell myself when a vibrant young woman has been abandoned.”

“I have not abandoned her!”

“Really? Tell me, then, when was the last time you have fulfilled your husbandly duty to her?”

“This is most untoward, sir!” William cried, coloring deeply. “I shall not discuss—“

“Young man!” The old doctor slammed his hand against the table. “I am not only your family physician—I am also an old friend of your father’s. I delivered all four of you Hester children. I have seen you, sir, run around sans pantaloons when you were but six years of age. With any luck, in about five months, I shall deliver your own precious heir. So would you please kindly answer my question?”

William sighed, rubbing a hand against his eyes. “I—I do not know,” he said. “Once—maybe three weeks ago. Before that, in August.”

“Ah!” The doctor cried, raising a reproving finger into the air. ‘Today is Fifteenth of October. And you dare say you have not abandoned her?”

“I cannot,” William muttered, pathetically.

“You mean to say—you physically cannot?” Dr. Younge was merciless.

“No! No, it’s not that. Physically, I very well—very well can. I am just too afraid to hurt our child.”

“William,” the old doctor said kindly, “You are making a most egregious mistake right now—by viewing your wife as a container for your child,” and, as William protested loudly, held his hand up in the air, asking for silence. “She remains a woman, William,” he said, “and right now, she is at a time in her pregnancy, when she needs your intimate company most.”

“But our child—”

“Your child will be fine. Trust me, dear boy—as long as you are gentle with her, and do not jostle her about too much—there is no danger to your precious heir—and! Do you know what else? Your child cannot see your, er—manhood. In fact, he cannot see anything, William.”

William was now red to the roots of her hair. “Are you certain?” he asked.

“Young man, I have delivered babes for nearly thirty years now. You were one of my first ones, by the way, you’ll be glad to know. Yes, I am certain, you can f—fulfill your duty to your wife again.”

Still shaken, William nodded. Dr. Younge went on:

“William, you do not know how fortunate you are.”

“How so?”

“You have a passionate woman for your wife. Whether it is a consequence of her upbringing or the fact that she belongs to a Southern race—but you have no idea how many men around here would gladly take your place.”

William remembered their old discussion with Fenwick and had to agree.

“Well,” the doctor said, rising from his chair. “I shall be off, then.”

“Do you not want to take a look at her?” William asked.

“I examined Lady Stella two days ago,” the doctor said. “Has she complained of anything? No? Well, then, boy, I daresay she needs a whole other kind of attention.”

After the doctor was gone, William, still blushing from the conversation, went to look for his wife. The surveying trip would have to wait for tomorrow, he told himself, feeling incredibly stupid, as if Dr. Younge had just given him license to make love to his own wife.

He found her in the solarium, curled up on a sofa under a giant ficus tree, her dark head resting on one arm, reading.

“Stella,” he addressed her as he knelt in front of the sofa.

“What?” she looked up and he was struck by the hurt in her eyes. He was all of a sudden very shy and did not know what to say, how to ask her to go back to the bedroom with him. You couldn’t tell your own wife, after all: “Dearest, I have seen the light and will now gladly f—“

“Dr. Younge was just here,” he said, reaching for her hand, which she, to his utter happiness, allowed him to have.

“Mmmm?” was all she managed.

“He thinks I have neglected you—“

“You need Dr. Younge’s determination to believe that, sir?”

“No, no, I—Oh, Stella, please forgive me!”

“Forgive you for what?”

“For abandoning you like I have,” he whispered, pulling her closer for a kiss. She held back, looking into his face, squinting against pale October sun.

“Seriously?” she asked. “What has Dr. Younge told you?”

“Only that I have been an idiot. And that you have every reason to be angry with me.”

“This is all?” She asked, looking disappointed. “Well, then, I continue to be angry with you—in full right now.”

“No, no, that is not all,” he murmured, staring lovingly at her. “I have come to tell you—you were right, last week, right, and I was wrong.”

“My, my,” she chuckled, “Dr. Younge’s visit certainly had an effect on you.”

“He confirmed all the you were saying—that there is no danger—“
“Well, then, great,” she shifted uncomfortably. “William,” she snapped suddenly, tensely, abandoning all pretense. “what have you come to tell me?”

“That I—that I want you,” he whispered, timidly placing his hand on the slight swelling of her belly. “That I have wanted you like mad, ever since you have blossomed like this—“ She did not remove his hand and, emboldened, he began to move it up, to her breast; her eyes closed, she moaned, a small shudder running through her. “I have missed you so much—“

“I am glad,” she whispered, a slow smile spreading around her face. “I have missed you, too, my love, most terribly.”

He was flooded with gratitude that she did not choose to torture him; guilty before her as he was, she could have tormented his remorseful body and soul at leisure.

“I love you ever so much,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “Please forgive me, dear love!”

As his lips, starved, sought hers, it seemed to him that she whispered, giggling girlishly through their kiss: “Done, love.”

William jumped to his feet and gathered her in his arms; she was still light, and he thought, stupidly, that the fourth month of her pregnancy was the best state in which to have his wife—at her most womanly, tempting and good-natured. She rested her head on his shoulder as he carried her through the house towards their bedroom; slamming the bedroom door behind them, he thought he had seen Alexandra’s shocked, pale face, and Mrs. Livesay gently leading the poor thing away from such a spectacle. A good guardian you are to this girl, he thought quickly and regretfully; but as Stella began to kiss him with increasing ardor, this was his last coherent thought for some time.

------------------------
*Ashamnu Vidui is a communal prayer, said on the first night of Yom Kippur, during the Kol Nidre service, by the entire congregation. It is a supplication to G*d for forgiveness of the sins commited against Him.

**May G*d bless [you], my girl (Hebrew & Ladino).

***How sad it is that you should sleep alone (Lad.)--a phrase from the song En la mar.

Start archiving, please.

October: For her own good
William

Over the past month, as misfortunes descended upon Bloomfield, William watched his youngest sister with worried eyes. With Vanessa’s leaving and Fenwick brooding and often drunk, the atmosphere at Bloomfield was hardly proper for a young girl. A compassionate soul that she was, Alexandra suffered no less from witnessing others’ distress than she did from her own. More than once, William caught her looking at Fenwick’s darkened countenance with soulful eyes: a paranoid older brother, in his mind, he already envisioned her falling in love with long-suffering man. For nothing so leads to infatuation as compassion, and of that Alexandra had in abundance.

William was severely worried for his sister, for, ever since the day of the collapse, she was more reserved and somber. She also insisted that she must be useful; therefore, she undertook to care for those less fortunate than she. At first it was only the Fullertons, whom she visited nearly daily, but soon, the circle of her charity expanded, and it was not long after that William, passing on horseback by the local tenant church, espied his sister alighting out of its doors, surrounded by a gaggle of tenant children, dirty—and probably sick with every manner of mange and consumption. A dozen of tiny hands pulled on Ali’s skirt, nearly making her stumble. William roughly called after his sister and immediately swept her up on top of Zanzibar.

At home, having set her in a chair in his study, he inquired of her what on earth she was doing at that church.

“What difference does it make which church I frequent, William?”

Lord, he thought, she never called him William. He did not remember the last time he was anything but Willie for her. His sister seemed sadder, more clever, and, what frightened him in particular, older.

“What difference is it to you?” she repeated. “I do not like going to church with Mrs. Dixon and Beatrice Featherstonehaugh and the Millburns. I would much rather go to church where the Fullertons go. I feel happier there.”

“Ali, you know not how many of these people are ill with consumption! Scarlet fever comes to haunt them nearly every year!”

“Then I shall care for them,” she replied, with a certain degree of pathos.

“You shall do nothing of the sort! You are to stop your ministrations forthwith!”

William was shocked to see that she shook her head.

“What is the meaning of this, Miss?”

“I have a Christian duty to aid these people,” she said hotly.

“You have a Christian duty to contract consumption and bring it back to all of us?” he asked her, angrily. “Ali, I already do more for these people than most of my neighbors do for their tenants.”

“And yet they are so dejected,” she said glumly. “And we live in such luxury. Luxury, William, for which we have not worked a day.”

William was far from viewing his wealth, amassed over generations of prudent management of this land, as unjustly gained. Yet, that his sister now espoused the notions of the July Revolution was only natural for someone young, kind-hearted and affected. But it would not do: he worried exceedingly that this passion of hers was going to blossom into an obsession. Even if she did not fall ill with consumption, such a pursuit—mucking about with a brood of unwashed children— was hardly fitting for a young lady of consequence and good breeding.

Stella was of a different mind altogether.

“But William, how is she to learn compassion unless she practices it?”

He scoffed.

“I think she has that in overabundance.”

He paced around the room a little bit, as he always did when something irked him.

“In any case, it is decided—she is not to go out on her missions any longer. I shall not have my sister become a revolutionary or a religious hysteric. And,” he added, “I am counting on you to tell me if she disobeys me.”

Stella, of course, threw up her hands and refused, outright to help him spy after Alexandra. But he knew that she cared for Alexandra like she did for her own younger sister; and that she did not want to, any more than he did, any harm to come to her. For a time, Alexandra’s exploits into the unwashed masses ceased; her spirits, however, sunk ever so deeper, and Stella complained to him that she could no longer rouse her interest during the morning class.

An idea soon appeared and lodged itself firmly in William’s mind. One morning in October, he sat down in his study and wrote a letter, which he then dispatched posthaste. He paced, deep in thought, around his study and wished dearly that he could share his plan with Stella. For lately, nothing was quite a serious design until she had weighed in with her opinion. Unfortunately, in this case, he suspected her reception of his idea was to be less than enthusiastic.

But nothing prepared him for the vehemence, with which she rejected it.

“Send her away?!” she cried, looking up to him from a baby blanket she was embroidering.

“Well, it is a very good school,” he tried to explain. “My mother was there for several years—it is almost two hundred years old—the best teachers—“

“And what happened to me being ‘superbly qualified’ as a teacher?” she breathed angrily.

“You do not—ah, Stella, you know it is not about the quality of instruction!” he cried, exasperated. “I do not think that it is good for Alexandra to be here at the moment!”

“Why not?”

“Because without Vanessa, she is unhappy! Because she is given to strange pursuits! Because,” he lowered his voice, “she moons over Fenwick, do you not see? Because,” he sighed, “this house is of late unhappy.”

She watched him, her expression strangely pained.

“I did not know it was,” she said, sounding hurt.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “it is nothing to do with you, love, please! It is Vanessa, and Fenwick, and what happened at the collapse, and the fact that the house is in mourning—“

Stella was immediately defensive.

“I never asked you for this, William!”

“But it is proper that it should be so, Stella,” he said tiredly. “Proper, but not good for Alexandra.”

She capitulated a bit. “Why not just send her to London?”

“Because she needs instruction,” he said. “Because my mother will thoughtlessly spoil her. Because I do not wish her to be in the close proximity to our London relatives, especially Cedric.”

His resolve to send Alexandra away had been further strengthened when, shortly after he had discovered her favorite avocation, a letter came by post, addressed in her name. William’s eyes narrowed as he saw his uncle’s coat of arms on the seal; lately, the insipid youth Cedric Hester took to writing Alexandra letters. William disapproved staunchly of too many things that the London cousins did, though he did remain on very friendly terms with Captain Hester. There was his uncle’s drinking and gambling, the fiscal immoderacy, the constant debts, the mistresses, kept at various times by Uncle Lazarus and later on, Cousin Alec. And in addition to that, his insufferable aunt, who, amidst all this dissolution, managed to find fault with everyone else’s family but her own. That Alexandra should be courted by a scion of such a family! William cringed. He had not yet seen a letter to Cedric from Ali; but he suspected that if he were to be allowed, with time and perseverance, the youngest Hester could gain his sister’s attention, and perhaps, G*d forbid, her young, impressionable heart.

All this, William explained to his wife.

“She does not even like him, William,” Stella said. “I saw them together—she hardly pays him any attention.”

Stubbornly, he shook his head. “ ‘Tis of no importance. I shan’t have her go to London. She is going to Highbury.”

Stella tried to appealing to his sense of compassion: “You said it yourself—she has lost so much recently—she will think that we have betrayed her!”

“Could you, at least, allow for a possibility that it is for her own good—and not just for my own selfish desire to get rid of her?”

“Her father died last year, William. Her sister has just abandoned her! And now this? Now you are abandoning her?”

He could tell himself the “for her own good” speech all he wanted. He knew that his wife was right when she delivered her verdict.

“Oh, William, you shall break her heart.”

Her words were prophetic indeed, for, when the confirmation arrived from the Highbury Ladies’ Academy, and William, with a heavy heart, announced to Alexandra that she was to start there before All Saints’, his sister grieved terribly. She did not argue with him, for the resolve in his eyes was almost palpable; but her shoulders sagged dejectedly as she quitted his study.

“Ali,” William called after her. She turned around, throwing him a pitiable glance. “It is only forty miles away,” he said. “We shall come visit soon.”

“Yes,” she said, and actually dropped a curtsy to him. “As you wish, sir.”

She was heartbroken, and, William began to suspect, it was not simply leaving Bloomfield that left her so disconsolate. There must have been something else, and very soon, he came to discover what it was. Or, rather, it came to introduce himself, wearing an elegant top hat and carrying a walking stick, crowned with an ivory elephant’s head. Its name was Roger Whitney.

The Whitneys held a substantial and handsome estate, ten miles to the north of Bloomfield, called Blair Hall. William was aware that his father, who had been universally respected all over –shire, had once (years and years ago, likely before William was even born) quarreled with Mr. Charles Whitney and even called him out; only after Mr. Whitney offered a public apology—for what, nobody was willing to say—did Sir Isaiah changed his mind about killing him. No-one really knew the reason for the argument, but, William suspected, it could not be anything over land, or sheep, or tenants. With a sinking heart, William thought that, for his father to call a man out, the offense could only have to do with one other person. But William could not ask his mother about that; and, presented with a public apology, Sir Isaiah was becalmed and even remained on tolerably friendly terms with the master of the Blair Hall.

Ironically, a far closer friendship existed between Mr. Whitney’s only son (the last breath of hope after six daughters), the “young” Roger Whitney, and Samuel. They two young men were of the same age and were roommates at Oxford. William knew not why, but he instinctively disliked the young Mr. Whitney; and, when the latter appeared at Bloomfield, alighting from a very fine carriage (William had his own opinion of men who, in fine weather, took a carriage to ride some five miles in the country), dressed as if for a London ball, was prepared to give the sternest reply to whatever request he had come to make.

But the young man’s civility bowled William over. Roger Whitney spoke politely and respectfully, as befits a younger man and a petitioner, but his speech was utterly devoid of obsequiousness. He was serious, and—never mind the carriage and the foppish cane—rather manly.

“Sir William,” he said, having politely refused any refreshments, “I am here in regards to Miss Hester.”

William was so accustomed that this appellation belonged to Vanessa, he almost started. Then, he remembered.

“I am quite violently in love with your sister, sir,” the young man said. Having fought off the initial stupor at this pronouncement, William shook his head in disbelief.

“You are speaking of Miss Alexandra,” he reminded his visitor.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Pray tell, how did you come to know my sister well enough to become violently in love with her?”

“She is friend with my sisters, sir,” Roger Whitney replied earnestly.

That she was, with the Whitneys’ two youngest girls, Prudence and Diana. William sat mute, thinking how insupportable it was that one could not even let one’s child of a sister visit with her female friends without a male forming matrimonial designs about her.

“Young man,” he said, finally, “my sister has only just turned sixteen. She is altogether too young to get married. You, yourself are—how old?”

“Twenty-three, sir.”

William wanted to comment on, in his opinion, a rather large age difference of seven years, but caught himself in time: he was five years older than Stella, and it suited them fine.

“I am not asking your permission to marry Miss Hester, sir,” the young man said, and added, coloring slightly. “Yet.”

“Well,” William coughed, “what then?”

“To court her, sir.”

This was better, of course, but not good enough.

“You are aware, sir, that my sister is being sent to a girls’ school?”

“I am, sir. I would like your permission to write to her.”

William liked that. It was an honorable thing to do—to apprise the young lady’s family of his intentions before beginning to court her. He could not refuse the young man, especially as he imagined that such correspondence would surely serve to lift Alexandra’s spirits. And that cane of his, he thought, his cane looks rather interesting.

“I trust you to keep any such correspondence, mmm, proper?” For he knew very well what improprieties les billets-doux could contain: over the four months of their marriage, every time he had to leave Bloomfield for a day or two on business, he wrote Stella love notes, expertly calculated to make her blush and think of things most unmentionable—so that by the time he returned, she would be eager to greet him accordingly.

“Absolutely, sir. Only most proper. A gentleman’s word.”

There was no reason to object to this. William nodded and extended his hand to the young man.

“Very well, Mr. Whitney, you have my permission to write to my sister.” They shook hands, and William liked the look of measured delight on Mr. Whitney’s face. In a hope to raise Ali’s spirits, he allowed the young man to see his sister once before she left for Highbury. Stella, though thoroughly unnerved by the idea of having to spy on Alexandra, agreed to serve as a chaperone.

Alexandra left for Highbury the next day after Mr. Whitney’s visit. Before she left, she threw her arms around Stella’s neck and patted her stomach gently.

“You have me a beautiful nephew, dear sister,” she said. “Or, better yet, a niece. Boys do sometimes grow up so cold-hearted.”

William felt the barb, but was actually glad of it: for it signified a rise in Alexandra’s spirits—not in the least degree, William suspected, due to Mr. Whitney’s appearance in her life. Anything was better than the crestfallen martyrdom she had exhibited in the days before.

Alexandra’s carriage featured, in addition to the driver, two footmen, men of remarkable height and strength and armed to their teeth. William rode along with it for several miles, before turning back to Bloomfield.

October: Yildirim
William

Fenwick bought it two years ago, immediately upon their return from the Mahreb. William thought it amusing that his thoroughly practical friend could not decide, for a good two weeks, after which of the two great Asian conquerors to name his horse. He was torn between Bayazid, one of the greatest Ottoman Sultans, and Tamerlane, his Mongol nemesis. The horse was a thoroughbred, black, tall and fierce of temper. It favored both personnages admirably, but Fenwick was still not certain whether he wanted to name the beast after an honorable and ilustrious loser of a sultan, or after his caravan robber of a conqueror. As it was, the black, fierce stallion remained without a name.

Finally, it was, of course, Vanessa who suggested the resolution to this impasse. “Sultan Bayazid died from partaking poison out of his ring,” she informed Fenwick when he came to sup at Bloomfield one summer evening. “He was locked in a cage and taken to Tamerlane’s capital of Samarqand[23]. While there—“

“Samarqand?” Sir Isaiah asked.

“No, papa, the cage,” Vanessa explained seriously. “While in that cage, he saw his beloved wife Olivera defiled by Tamerlane’s soldiers—“\

“Vanessa!” Sir Isaiah shook his head, hiding his admiration of his clever daughter behind a bushy moustache. “That is enough of such talk, young lady.”

But the deed was done. The story was indubitably very romantic, and Fenwick, who viewed everything Vanessa did or said with starry eyes, immediately made his choice. The horse was to be known as Yildirim—the Turkish word for “lightning”, the nickname of the famed sultan.

And a lightning it was, at least in its temper. The understanding was that sooner or later Yildirim was going to do some serious damage. William disapproved heartily of keeping such a horse at all, much less as one’s primary mount; for in the two years since Fenwick bought it, the beast kicked two footmen, seriously injuring one of them, almost bit Alexandra when she attempted to feed him sugar (William and Fenwick had a rather serious falling out over that and did not speak for two weeks) and threw Fenwick himself three times. It might as well have been breathing fire through its flaring nostrils: Fenwick’s grooms usually tossed a coin to determine who would clean the animal, so universally feared it was. It was only a matter of time before it hurt someone again; but Fenwick was strangely attached to the beast, and William blamed his sister’s impression for it.

It was on Yildirim that Fenwick rode out hunting, along with William, Samuel, and a dozen other local landowners, one October morning. Since she could not ride, Stella had remained at home; William regretted that she could not come along, although he did suspect that the show would not be entirely to her liking. She had said once that the picture of a group of grown men on horseback chasing after a small, frightened animal was both ridiculously pathetic and wantonly cruel. William did not attempt to dissuade her, remembering full well what happened to Alexandra the only time she accompanied her older siblings on a fox hunt… he surely did not want a repetition. Both Anabelle and Vanessa lacked his wife’s tender sensibilities when it came to hunting, and right now, Anabelle sat gracefully in a side saddle, pretty as a picture in her smart riding habit.

“I dare you, gentlemen,” she trilled, riding out in front of them, “to get that fox! For if you do not, I surely shall.”

Beatrice Featherstonehaugh, Henry Featherstonehaugh’s younger sister, a young woman slight of built but loud of voice and fierce of spirit, immediately called Anabelle’s bluff. As she was dressed as a man, and sat, quite scandalously, astride her horse, Anabelle’s resolve wilted.

The morning was still gray and misty, and the baying of the innumerable hounds, which swirled around the legs of the horses in a brown maelstrom, throbbed in the drizzly air. Willaim had brought out Aslan; mad with excitement and already larger than any of the other dogs, the Dane pranced around. The name proved prophetic: already at the age of six months, Aslan was of a young lion’s size. It was hard to keep a straight face when referring to him as a puppy; but his propensity to leave little puddles of excitement at particular heart-felt moments (as any time when Aslan espied Stella after a few hours of her absence from his life) did not quite qualify him as an adult dog. William knew that the dog would be quite useless during the hunt, but still took him along for the sake of exercise.

Soon after, the fox was roused and skidded, like a small orange brushfire, among the yellowing fields. The party took enthusiastically after it, dogs barking wildly, Aslan’s sonorous woofing booming over them all. The only two women in the hunt—Miss Featherstonehaugh on her elegant brown Arabian, and Anabelle on a young black mare, which prodigiously favored Fenwick’s Yildirim—were ahead of them all. William was somewhat irked that his sister-in-law was so far advanced upon the fox, and, wishing to overtake her, he spurred Zanzibar into a mad gallop. Fenwick followed on the fiery Yildirim, not to be outdone by anyone, particularly not by his brother-in-law. For, though Fenwick appreciated Zanzibar’s good breeding, he thought William’s beloved steed altogether too sedate.

The rest of the hunt trailed behind.

William was so caught up in the chase—for he had not hunted or raced in over a year—that it took him some time to realize that Fenwick was not at his side. He abruptly stopped Zanzibar in his tracks and rose in his saddle, looking back. There was the rest of the hunt, trailing quite behind him; there were Anabelle and Miss Featherstonehaugh, quite far ahead; and there, wandering in the field, was Yildirim. To William’s horror, the Lightning was without its rider.

For a brief second, William hoped that his friend had alighted for some reason, but, as he spurred Zanzibar to ride back, William knew that something momentous and awful had happened.

He saw him but a minute later. Fenwick lay, face down, in the field, one arm awkwardly under him. The way his body had crumpled, William could tell that there had to be broken bones; as he called his friend’s name, frantically, there was no movement of any kind to indicate that Fenwick had heard him.

William alighted with a jump and rushed to kneel at his friend’s side. To his immediate relief, as he cautiously turned Fenwick on his back, he could see him breathing; to his utter dismay, he also saw a rather large stone, on which Fenwick so clumsily landed; and, the stone was spattered with blood which had also fairly soaked the hair on the side of his head. William scrambled to his feet, knowing that the rest of the hunt had no indication something terrible had happened.

John Dixon saw William first and brought his mount to an abrupt halt.

“Whatever is the matter, Sir William?” he cried out, seeing William dismounted in the field. Riding up behind him were Milton St. Charles, Henry Featherstonehaugh and Samuel, and William apprised them, hurriedly, of what had transpired. Immediately, Samuel took off towards the house, so as to bring help. After all, they could not very well move Fenwick by horse—they did not even know which injuries he had suffered! Mr. Featherstonehaugh, ever so obliging, immediately rode off to fetch Dr. Yonge to Bloomfield.

Very soon, they were joined by the rest of the men, as well as the ladies. Anabelle’s horror at the sight of her brother’s lifeless body overshadowed even the disappointment of losing the fox to Miss Featherstonehaugh (who, with unpleasant hubris, had pinned the dead animal against her saddle); crying, she hid her face on William’s shoulder, and, as her nearest relation there, he was forced to comfort her the best he knew how. That, notwithstanding his suspicion that his own grief at Fenwick’s misfortune far eclipsed that of his sister.

Soon enough, Samuel arrived with the carriage: poor Fenwick was loaded into it with as much care as possible, and taken to Bloomfield, where they were soon joined by Dr. Younge. Installed in his room, Fenwick was examined by the good doctor, who, upon reappearing and wiping his hands on a towel handed to him by a maid, pronounced his verdict.

“He has cracked a rib,” he said. “His left arm is broken, and I had to set it. But it is not a bad fracture, and daresay it will heal soon, as will his rib. “

“But?” William asked.

“But he is unconscious, and, in my estimation, it is due to a concussion he received from hitting his head on something hard.”

“A stone.”
’Yes, that would do,” the doctor sighed and rubbed his nose with one finger. “I do not know whether he will wake up, William.”

William closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. He heard Stella gasp quietly; he heard Anabelle break into a sob, and Samuel comfort her, but his feeling of incredulity prevailed. This is not happening, he said to himself, it cannot, Fenwick is young and strong, and he will battle this! Then he remembered, with sickening clarity, that this was precisely his feeling at the announcement of his father’s impending demise.

William gathered his composure and opened his eyes.

“He may wake up tomorrow,” the doctor said softly. “He may remain like so for years. Really, the best you can do is pray and hope.”

That night, William remained at his friend’s bedside, staring mutely at his ashen face. His thoughts took him back to his childhood, when his exploits with Dick took them all over Bloomfield and Hereford, up trees, down streams and into the rabbit holes; William had to smile as he thought of that. With a strange twist of his heart, William thought that his attachment to his friend was stronger perhaps, than to his own brother—or at least as strong. At Cambridge, they remained close, and even roomed together for two years; by then, they had abandoned their childhood appellations of “Dickie” and “Will” and graduated to the haughty-sounding “Fenwick” and “Hester”. William remembered how that grieved Lady Hetty, who thought the practice distasteful.

Then came the years of separation, when William finished his studies at Cambridge and Fenwick lead what William then thought to be an utterly dissolute life in London. He kept a woman then; a lovely young French actress named Mademoiselle Denise. At that time, William so stringently disapproved of Fenwick’s conduct as to not talk to him for several months; but he missed his friend terribly and was grateful to Fenwick, when the latter rode to Cambridge himself to mend the things between them.

“Do not judge me, Will,” he said, returning to the childhood appellation. And he invited William to visit Mademoiselle Denise with him; reluctantly, William noticed the open and frank affection with which the girl treated his friend. Fenwick was good to her, William knew, and she provided as much emotional solace to him as she did bodily comfort. William still thought such a situation unacceptable for himself, but he had ceased to judge his friend.

Fenwick’s liaison with Mademoiselle Denise came to an end the year of their trip to the Continent and the Mahreb. William was aware that his friend had settled a sizable annuity on the girl, of whom he had become rather fond; but all ties were cut before, one morning, his friend had arrived to Bloomfield with a map. William, having only just returned from Cambridge, slumbered in his room in the early hours of the morning: from school, he was used to rising late when he had no lessons. He was rudely awakened, when his friend, flying up the stairs, rapped urgently on his bedroom door. William started and groaned unintelligibly, but Fenwick wouldn’t let go, and was soon let in by the cantankerous, heavy-eyed William. Flying in, Fenwick immediately made it for the escritoire and, with a flourish, unwrapped a large map. William, still in his nightshift, stood near, supporting himself by leaning against the wall, while Fenwick furiously searched the desk for the inkwell. Grasping a quill, he dipped it quickly and traced a route on the map.

“This,” he said. “Is where we are to go.”

And so they did, over the next two years. They went to France, but, immediately upon alighting in Calais, turned east, and went to Germany. Having spent a month among the somewhat frigid Germans, the two friends were glad to encounter the ever-so friendly denizens of Vienna as they turned south. Soon after, they found themselves entranced by the majesty of the Swiss Alps, from whence their journey took them to Italy. The month they spent there was perhaps, the most pleasant of all their trip, for it included the Carnival in Rome, innumerable gondola rides in Venice and the festival of art in Florence. From there, back to France, where fine salons abounded in escapades and Mme Sands amused the society with her exploits more than her books.

France bored them quickly, though the craggy mountainous glory of Chateau St Michel did entrance William into a semi-romantic reverie.

Spain, of course, was an entirely different matter. For in Pamplona, they ran with the bulls, and Fenwick almost got trampled; and in Andalucia, William was stricken—and smitten—by the stunning Moorish mosques and palaces of Córdoba and Granada. It was then that he realized, for the first time, that Europe was not the pinnacle of civilization; feasting his eyes on its beauties only fueled his desire to see the world outside of it.

So, from Spain, having taken as much abuse as possible from running bulls, flying tomatoes, and—in Fenwick’s case—stunning gypsy dancers, the two friend crossed the Straights of Gibraltar and found themselves in Morocco.

How different Africa was from anything William had ever experienced! Even now, several years later, as he closed his eyes, William could feel the near-palpable heat, smell the spices, hear the clamor of innumerable camel drivers and shopkeepers, five times a day punctuated by a mournful cry of muezzin, and see it all—the very peculiar humped beasts, so placid and strong; the veiled women; red dust in the streets and red woven rugs. Then, Egypt, with its awe-inspiring pyramids; the two friends found a guide, a French-speaking Arab named Abdul-agha, who volunteered to show them around. As he bestowed upon them the exact dimensions of each pyramid, Fenwick remained unconvinced.

“Say what you will, Hester, but I do not believe that humans could ever build anything so architecturally perfect and grand in size!” –

“Well, then, perchance, ‘tis animal gods who built the pyramids,” William remembered himself laughing. “Builders with heads of cats and crocodiles.”

He did not like Egypt, for he felt exposed there. Fenwick was right: everything in the desert was of a colossal size and it made him feel small. From the broad yellow sky, to the rippling sands of Sahara, to the magnificent expanse of the Nile, to the Sphinx, which had kept its enigma despite being defaced by the French, to the pyramids, which, by their incredible girth and age, seemed to mock the transitory, diminutive people. He never thought himself a coward, but the stories of human sacrifices at the Labyrinth unnerved him. He felt himself watched: it was as if the animal gods watched him, with narrowed eyes; as if, wherever he went, he was trailed by the unmoving gaze of Sobek and Sekhmet, Bastet and Anubis. Though Fenwick could not marvel enough at the “grandness of it all,” William found that he was glad to leave the Land of the Pharaohs…

…The sound of commotion behind the window tore William out of his reverie. Stretching from his seat, he pushed himself up against the windowsill and looked out. There, three burly grooms scattered, reins flying, as the tall black thoroughbred reared, neighing furiously. William felt flushed at once; he had made no disposition with regards to Yildirim’s fate. He had hoped that whoever did would have enough sense not to bring the vile animal to Bloomfield, but take it, perhaps to Hereford, or, perchance, shoot it right there in the field. As he stood watching his grooms battle the great animal, anger welled up in him. Rushing past Fenwick’s bed, William ran down the stairs and into his study, where, in his desk, he found his pistol.

He swept past Stella, who had loomed in the doorway to call him to supper; past Samuel, who was holding Anabelle’s hand reassuringly in the drawing-room; past Mrs. Livesay, who was on her way to the dining room with a case of freshly polished silver. He ran outside, only to find that the horse had been finally removed to the stables. Not in the least becalmed, he ran there, and, upon entering, dismissed all the groomsmen with a wave. Seeing the pistol in his hand, they all hurried to make themselves scarce.

William approached the last stable, the one near the wall; the sound the gun made when he cocked it echoed throughout the empty stables. Yildirim was there, and it was obviously still very angry, as it neighed and threw its head. It still had the harness on, as William had interrupted the groomsmen in the process of removing it. Too furious to think of anything but his overwhelming desire to put this beast away, William reached in and grabbed the reins with one hand; while opening the stable door with the other. With one rough movement, he pulled Yildirim out by the bridle and, breathing heavily, pushed the barrel of the pistol against its forehead.

The horse froze. It was as if it knew what was to transpire; as if it understood that for once, a man was stronger. That for once, its owner was not there to protect it… William could see its left eye, bulging, and black, and undeniably intelligent, as it sized him up, as if wondering whether he would take this last step. William closed his eyes and gritted his teeth; as much as he hated this animal, he could not kill it when it looked at him like that: searching, wondering, frightened but still dignified.

Yet he must. For all he knew, this vicious creature had only just murdered his best friend, the only man who was ever brave enough to approach it and magnanimous enough to treat it with kindness. You shoot a rabid dog; you put a murderer, criminally insane or a leper where he belongs; this was no different. As he pushed the barrel harder against Yildirim’s forehead—his eyes still closed—William felt, all of a sudden, the horse’s breath on the hand, which held the reins. It was soft as a child’s; and William could not, reason as he might, convince himself that this was the same as shooting a rabid dog.

Slowly, he lowered his gun and ushered Yildirim back into his stable. All of a sudden, he felt weak in the knees at the thought of the evil he had nearly done. With shaking hands, he locked the stable and stumbled towards the exit. There, Stella, having come in search of him, suddenly confronted him. Seeing the still-cocked pistol in her husband’s hand, she threw a terrified, questioning glance at him. To that, he only waved his hand and shook his head. Tracing her gaze, William uncocked the gun and stuck it behind his belt.

“I could not,” he whispered weakly.

“Thank G*d!” Stella cried expressively, grasping both his hands. “It would have been a low thing to do, Will!”

William leaned against the whitewashed wall, and, as he felt himself too weak to stand, slowly slid down to the floor. “I have never come so close to anything so base,” he whispered to her, as she came to sit near him, her arms about him.

“You are simply discomfited at what’s happened to Mr. Fenwick,” she said.

“Discomfited” was not the word; the last time William had felt this miserable was when her father had refused him her hand in marriage. Before then, whwen his own father had first fallen deadly ill.

“I have been angry at him,” William replied, trying hard to analyze from whence his grief stemmed. “I was furious with him for the dishonor that has befallen us—I had fought with Vanessa for years, and he simply let her go!”

Thereupon he stopped to consider, for the first time, that perhaps, it was the loss of Vanessa that made Fenwick fall. For he was a natural rider, and Yildirim, wild as it was, obeyed no-one but him. It was not only that Fenwick had drunk more than ever before in the past month and a half; it was the sadness and the pain that had firmly lodged itself in his eyes ever since she left. The very way he fell—so awkwardly and with such damage to himself—signified how painfully distraught he was ever since her leave.

Immediately, a realization formed in his mind.

“I must bring her back.”

“Write to her,” Stella said.

He rose, decisively, and held his hand out to her.

“No,” he said as he helped her up. “ I am going to fetch her.”

“You shall go to London?”

“Tomorrow.”

If Stella grieved that, if she sighed torturously at the thought of his leaving her even for two days, with a dying man on her hands, she did not show it. They walked out of the stables together, and went back to the house. There, the dinner was somber—for three usual and belov’d faces were missing from the table. Neither Alexandra’s lively chirping, nor Vanessa’s quiet, reassuring drawl, nor Fenwick’s warm laughter were heard that night. Only Anabelle’s somewhat pretentious sighing and the slight clunking of silverware punctuated the gloomy quiet of the dinner table. That is, until her husband said:

“William, I am taking Anabelle back to Linwood tomorrow.”

In obvious surprise, William swallowed a somewhat larger piece of meat than he had intended; scowling, he took a swig of wine and for a second, held a napkin to his lips.

“You are—what?”
”It is not good for her to be here.”
”Um—very well, then,” William shrugged, obviously nonplussed as to how to react.

“Sir William,” Anabelle addressed him plaintively, “I am of no help to him at all. And seeing him so helpless—it just breaks my heart.”

William could only shrug and acquiesce. Though he never particularly liked Anabelle—and that would be putting it mildly—he had not imagined that even she would leave her brother in so helpless a state.

“I am going to London tomorrow,” he apprised them all. “I think Vanessa should know what has transpired.”

“Very well,” Anabelle said, hre pretty nose upturned. “After all, it is her wifely duty to be near Richard.”

All of a sudden, Stella rose, slamming her silverware down with a clank.

“Dearest?” William looked up at her and saw her pallor, lips pursed tightly, eyes narrowed to a slit.

“I find that the air here is stifled,” she said coldly, and quitted the table, all propriety forgot. Throwing his napkin down, William followed his wife out of the room. No apologies were rendered to either Samuel or Anabelle.

William found Stella in her boudoir. She stood by the window, leaning her forehead against the cool glass.

“How am I to tolerate her?” she whispered, when he slipped his arms around her disappearing waist.

“She is our sister,” he reasoned.

“I was so happy to call Vanessa and Ali my sisters,” Stella mused. “I truly do love them. But I cannot abide this woman—she is all that is false, mean, despicable!”

“But she is Samuel’s wife, not to say anything about her being Fenwick’s sister—“

“Not a very good sister.”

“No, not a very good one, but a sister nonetheless.”

“It is good that they are to go,” she said resolutely.

“Shall you manage yourself?”

“Do you suppose Anabelle would be of much help to me in any case?”

He considered it and had to agree that her presence would be more of a bother than a boon.

The door to the bedroom was open, and the bed beckoned, invitingly. William felt, all of a sudden, all the weight of this awful day.

“Can we retire, love?” he murmured into her hair. She did not even remind him that they still had guests; after all, this was once Samuel’s home as well, he can bloody well find the way to his room himself, William thought as he made his way towards the bed.

That night, he and Stella approached each other gingerly, as if shamed by their own desires in the face of so great a misfortune. William caressed the outline of her bulging stomach and her breasts, lately so tumescent.

“I shall be back in two days,” he said to her. “Please bear with me, love.”

She reached up and slid her arms about his neck. Mindful of Dr. Younge’s admonition to be cautious, he made love to her with great care, mostly with lips and hands. It was rewarding nonetheless, and very soon, William fell asleep. He did not see his wife rise from their bed, get dressed quietly, her hair loose on her shoulders, and slip out of the room. When Barrington came in to wake him up, before the first light of the morning, William was alarmed at not finding Stella at his side. Yet, he soon knew where to look for her, and, upon finding her slumbering in a chair near Fenwick’s bed, only felt dull irritation with his sister. That his wife, heavy with child, should spend uncomfortable, sleepless nights at his friend’s bedside—in place that was so clearly Vanessa’s! Oh, how insupportable that was.

He gathered Stella in his arms and carried her to her bed, knowing full well that, as soon as she awoke, she would take her place near his friend’s bed. She was good like that, he thought, secretly proud of her. He watched her for a short time, and then, turning sharply on his heels, quitted her bedroom and headed for the exit. If everything went well, he and, with G*d’s help, Vanessa, would be back at Bloomfield within two days.