Lament for a lost lover

“Praying,” he said. “Praying to God. There have been murder done here. ‘Tis an unhallowed place. I’m praying to God for the soul of my father.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Oh, God, save his soul from eternal torment,” he said. “What he done, he done for the glory of God but the Book says, ‘Thou shalt not kill’ and that means even in His name. My father killed a man here. He were Satan’s own, caught in Satan’s work ... but, the Lord says, ’Thou shalt not kill.’”

I said gently: “It was all long ago, Young Jethro. It is best to forget.”

“He burns in hell. A good life and one false step and for it ... he burns in hell.” I kept seeing it again. Should I ever forget it? That scene in the arbour and the madman with the gun. The lovers ... caught there. Illicit love and Edwin dying instantly, and Harriet running into the house and the self-righteous man of God going back to his barn, the task he had set himself to do, done. And afterwards? Had he suffered remorse? He was a murderer no matter in which cause he had murdered. And he had disobeyed the law of God.

I felt stirred with pity for this strange, near-mad man. I wanted to comfort him. To tell him that I who had suffered the loss of my husband through his father’s action forgave. And he must forget.

But there would be no reasoning with him. I could see that reason and Young Jethro were strangers. There was only the law of r God as he saw it, and he believed that his father, in spite of all his piety, had committed a mortal sin.

I turned, and as I walked away I heard him muttering his prayers.

There was one thing I was sure of now. Young Jethro had not been the one who fired the shot at me, and Carleton’s theory that J the Jethros harboured enmity towards our family because we were Royalist and Young Jethro thought we were responsible for the licentious state of the country had no foundation in truth. I Then it was someone else. It was Leigh, I told myself. It must be so. Poor child, he had fired in the wrong direction and then was so terrified of what he had done that he had convinced himself that he hadn’t done it. I was all right now. All I had to do was regain my inner health, to muster my spirits, to throw off my misgivings and feel life was good again. “Carleton was still away. I was in the nursery with Sally and she was going through the children’s clothes and trying to decide r what was needed. Later we should go to London and buy what was required. Both Benjie and Priscilla were having that afternoon nap which Sally insisted they have, and the boys were out riding. I was on the point of telling Sally about Young Jethro’s prayers at the arbour when Charlotte came in.

She went to the cots and looked at the sleeping children.

“How peaceful they look!” she murmured.

“Not much peace about them half an hour ago,” said Sally. “Benjie was screaming his head off and Mistress Priscilla had fallen down and dirtied her clean dress.”

“It’s all forgotten now,” commented Charlotte. “How soon their troubles are over.

I was thinking we ought to do something about the arbour. It’s getting so overgrown.”

“Yes,” I said, alert suddenly.

“That old place should be pulled down, I reckon,” put in Sally. “What do you think of this muslin, mistress? Priscilla is getting too big for it. It’s in good order though. I’ll wash it and put it away. Who knows when it might come in handy?” I knew she was referring to the fact that in due course I should have another child.

It was a habit of hers, done, I believe, to reassure me. Dear Sally! “I went inside the old arbour. I couldn’t resist it,” said Charlotte. “What a musty old place it is! Yes, I do think it should be pulled down. The paving must have been quite pretty at one time.”

I thought of the paving-a mosaic in pale blue and white, stained red with Edwin’s blood and Harriet watching him, panic seizing her, wondering what she must do. I had to stop these pictures coming into my mind every time anyone mentioned the arbour.

I tripped over one of the paving-stones which was loose,” went on Charlotte. “I stopped to fit it in place and I found these funny things ... like little dolls... They seemed to have been put under the loose stone. What are they?”

She drew two little figures from the pocket of her dress.

“What would you say they are meant to be?” she went on. Sally had come to look. She turned pale, then I saw that they were wax models. One had a look of someone. The set of the eyes, the shape of the moulded nose. Myself! I looked at Sally and saw the hot colour flame into her face which a moment before had been so pale.

“That’s a witch’s work,” she said.

“What do you mean, Sally?” asked Charlotte. “They’re children’s toys, I think. But what were they doing under the paving stone in the arbour?” Sally picked up the figure which resembled me. “You see where the pins have been. There ... where you would have been carrying the child.” She picked up the other figure. “Oh, my God. I see what it’s meant to be. It’s the wax image of an unborn child.”