Stella Rosa

Part IX

DNA: The small character of Miss Rosina da Silva is owed to Sandra Goldbacher and her wonderful film "The Governess." The picture of Miss Rosina and her camera can be viewed here.

August: Miss Rosina's Box Camera

William

The day after his twenty-seventh birthday, William woke up at the earliest light of dawn. Stella was still asleep, deep shadows around her eyes. William contentedly observed his wife as she slept, his mind wondering sweetly to the goings-on of the previous night.

Like a large cat, he stretched, clasping his hands high above his head. Throwing a slightly disappointed glance at his wife who slept like a child, William strode into his dressing room and rang for his valet, as he needed a bath.

At breakfast, William observed the multitude of relations gathered at his table. Both his Scottish and London relatives were to return to their respective homesteads in a few days; and so far, he had not had the time to tire of them. Even the most obnoxious Cousin Victoria was quiet this morning and, as Stella prudently put her between herself and Samuel, found no-one to straighten-out in the immediate proximity.

Victoria's rowdy adolescent sons, Archie and Alistair, remained strangely quiet all through their visit, and William mentally congratulated his cousin Percy on his sons' becoming much less insufferable than they were during their last meeting a year ago. Blissfully a table length away from his overbearing wife, Percy seemed relaxed and happy; his sister, Cousin Agnes, smiled sweetly as she was wont to do and chatted with Alexandra, who, on her part, completely ignored the ministrations of her cousin Cedric, who seemed anxious to take every possible care of her.

The conversation flowed freely, though his Uncle Percival did seem somewhat overbearing in his attempt to convince William that English thoroughbreds, of whom he owned many, were far superior to Lippizaners, whom William clearly preferred---except for Alexandra's heavy Scottish Clydesdale Vicar, all the horses he owned belonged to this powerful, color-changing breed. William attempted to get out of the conversation, for his uncle was wont to take most disagreements personally, but that was easier said than done.

"You must admit," Sir Percival drawled, "that the thoroughbreds are a breed far more established-"

"I do admit it," William shrugged, "but I do not necessarily think that how old the breed is has anything to do with its merits."

"You are a bad patriot, nephew," Sir Percival chuckled. "It is said that Lippizaners were a favorite of Bonaparte himself!"

William shrugged again---he had nothing to say to that---and buttered his toast.

"And what does your lovely wife prefer?"

William chuckled. "Nothing," he said, "I have tried repeatedly to get her on a horse, but to no avail---which is not surprising, as she was almost run over by Alexandra's Vicar in the very beginning of our acquaintance." And, he thought happily, now that she is in her delicate condition, this will not happen until next summer!

"Vicar?" Cousin Percy asked . "Is it not the gigantic Clydesdale---how strange it is that he should go mad!"

"Upon my word," William smiled, pleased that the conversation had been wheeled away from his dislike of the English thoroughbreds, "if you do not believe me, Percy, ask our very good Mrs. Da Silva, who was there at the time," he nodded towards Miss Elena, who sat just to Percy's right (William smiled at the thought that his poor cousin was rarely in the company of a woman so angelic and sweet). "Will you confirm my account, Mrs. Da Silva?"

Miss Elena smiled sweetly and nodded. "My sister practically saved my life, and that of our brother's wife! Were it not for Stella, I would certainly have been trampled."

Everyone seemed duly impressed, and the thoroughbreds were finally forgotten; William, insanely proud, beamed. At the opposite end of the table, the Mistress of the House, having caught her name in their discussion, turned from her conversation with Captain Hester, and gave him a most radiant smile. I am blessed, William thought, it is too much happiness, it is unreal. I shan't bear it---my heart will burst and I shall die of pure bliss.

In the meantime, a near-scandal ensued on the opposite end of the table. It started as Cousin Victoria inquired, rather testily, why there was no bacon at the breakfast table. It was Samuel who answered that they no longer served bacon at breakfast in Bloomfield Park, as it was not agreeable to Lady Stella. His cousin huffed and said that it was preposterous, really, to deny an entire family something because of one person's strange religious convictions. Anabelle Fenwick piped up immediately.

"Pray, Lady Stella, do you plan to undergo a baptism?"

William froze in dismay and anger: there was going to be a row, he knew that---and the day was beginning so beautifully! William loathed a family row and had little expertise in dealing with crying women; he braced himself for what was to come. From his position on the opposite end of the table, he could do little to help Stella. But, as ever, she handled herself marvelously.

"No, Miss Fenwick," she replied angelically. "I had no such plans."

"But should not the wife's faith be the same as her husband's?" Anabelle persisted. Cousin Victoria, feeling bolder, added: "I daresay it must pain Cousin William greatly that he does not have your company in that area of his life!"

Stella smiled. "If it does, madam, he has been hiding that masterfully---as he has never attempted to force me to abandon my faith," and, throwing him a look of deep love, she added, "For which I am ever so grateful to him."

William smiled back at her across the table. But it was not over yet, as at that moment, the door opened, and Stella's maid came in. In her arms, she had a babe, whom William, to his great surprise, recognized to be Mr. Preston's youngest issue. .

"Ah, Lucy!" Stella rose from her seat, lively. "Let me," she said, taking the baby out of the girl's hands. To everyone's stupefaction, she turned the fidgeting baby around, looking at his ever aspect and smiling approvingly; then, with him in her arms, she walked the length of the table and approached her sister.

"Elena dearest," she said, "look at him, is he not perfect?"

Miss Elena, blushing deeply and pressing her napkin to her lips, nodded, then reached for the baby. As the entire table was now deathly quiet and agape (Anabelle Fenwick was particularly put-off), she repeated her sister's maneuver and nodded appreciatively.

"He is a fine baby," she said matter-of-factly as she returned him to Stella, "and he should serve just fine! Shouldn't he, dearest?" she turned to her young husband. Mr. da Silva agreed, that yes, the baby should do splendidly. William thought he was going insane, when Stella, in returning the boy to Lucy, said with her sweetest smile:

"He should be just the right size by the time Pesach comes."

The shocked silence in the room was broken by a loud crash! and William saw Cousin Victoria slide off her chair. Stella threw a glance at her as she returned to her seat. "Lucy," she said, "bring Mrs. Lyons-McGregor some smelling salts." William, realizing that there was some sense behind this ostentatious display, looked inquiringly at his wife. Smiling back at him, she found it fit to explain.

"Do not be alarmed," she said, addressing the society in general. "No harm shall come to that boy just as surely as he were my own. My sister and I do not really murder Christian babies for their blood. I simply found it necessary to illustrate certain vicious prejudices which Cousin Victoria has chosen to teach her young sons."

Greatly relieved, William smiled into his wine glass, as the conversation at the table came alive. William surveyed the damage and found it tolerable: most everyone at the table chatted and smiled, obviously relieved, and it appeared that no lasting harm had been done by Stella's little joke. .He saw Samuel laugh and his mother smile benevolently; Vanessa, who could barely stand Cousin Victoria, beamed and that rendered Fenwick happy as well. Miss Elena, forced to participate in such an unpleasant prank, was slowly coloring deep red, and her husband, obviously more comfortable with his acting role in it, teased her gently. Near William, Cousin Percy, mortified, stared fixedly into his plate. William laughed, slapping his back:

"Percy, old chap! Do take care---have some more wine, it should ease your spirits!"

Having been revived, Cousin Victoria immediately quitted the table and would remain in her room until the family left the next day. Stella, very solicitously, sent food to her room and inquired whether she needed a doctor.

"Aye," Cousin Percy sighed to that, "if only there were one to reduce the amount of her bile!"

As they retired to their rooms to change for Miss da Silva's picture, William gently scolded his wife for playing such a cruel joke on his poor cousin. Stella enlightened him on the experience she had had the previous night with his young nephews---an encounter, which would have only been amusing, had the boys' intolerance not taken root in their mother's.

"Well," Stella reasoned, "perhaps that should teach her a bit of respect for other people!"
William agreed that perhaps it should, but he harbored no hope to that effect, as Cousin Victoria was an exceedingly silly woman.

Later that day, Miss Rosina da Silva set up a makeshift studio in Stella's blue sitting room. The room was chosen for its comfort and aesthetic appeal, but mostly for serving, over the past three months, as a venue for certain pleasurable pursuits, and being, therefore, very dear to their young hearts. After breakfast, William retired to his room and donned his most formal attire; he knew that Stella wanted this, and he wished to look his best.

That was why he was simply shocked when, upon seeing him, she flailed her arms and cried, a look of deep displeasure on her lovely face: "What on Earth are you wearing, Sir?!"
"I thought you wished me to look good," he said, feeling that the over-starched collar of his shirt was chocking him.

"I do, I do!" she approached him, and, to his further disbelief, proceeded to unbutton his coat. She soon forced it off his shoulders, leaving him in only a shirt and a waistcoat, which she unbuttoned quickly. She then untied his cravat and threw it down to join his coat.

"Stella, what are you doing?" he finally managed. "We can be intruded upon at any second---"

"You do misconstrue my actions, sir," she smirked as she undid the top three buttons of his shirt. That, he had to admit, was actually pleasant, as he began to breathe freer. "I have no desire to make any advances upon your person. I simply want you to look natural in this portrait."

"What?" he was not in the least amused. "Do you not realize how inappropriate this is?!"

"William," she smiled, and, to his mortification, reached for the maid's bell. "You have a beautiful neck---I should like to be in the picture."

When the beckoned maid appeared, Lady Stella kindly bid her bring Sir William's favorite foil. William was growing more and more surprised by the minute, but as he did not wish to argue with Stella in front of the help, he obediently explained to the abigail where the said weapon could be found.

"Why do you need my foil?" he asked after the maid had gone.

"Because-" she smiled dreamily, "because I adore watching you fence. You are so manly---and powerful---when I see you with that foil of yours," she blushed violently. "---is one of the times my desire for you is the strongest."

To that, William could say nothing, deeply touched and quite aroused by her words. Fencing, he surmised, would be quite difficult from now on. As if not noticing the effect her words had on him, his wife went on, "I have half-a-dozen formal portraits of you, but they are all for show---you are in them as the great illustrious man, the master of this estate---and I should like a portrait of you the way I love you," she finished softly and stood there, stroking his face. Fighting a primal urge to lift her into his arms and carry her to their bedroom (and blast Miss da Silva with all her equipment, she can wait), William sat down in a chair. After such an explanation, he could deny her nothing. If she asked him now, he would allow himself to be photographed naked, tarred and feathered.

There was a knock on the door, followed by Stella's bidding the visitor to come in. He looked up and saw Miss da Silva, followed by the abigail. Miss da Silva was carrying her box camera and a large throw tucked under her arm. The abigail was carrying a tripod and William's own foil.

"Is this the one, sir?" she dropped a curtsy, proffering him the weapon. It was, indeed, the one. The foil in question had belonged to his father and was passed on to him just before he was to depart for Cambridge. William thanked the girl, dismissing her, as Miss da Silva set up her equipment.

Miss da Silva bid him to remain in the chair, as relaxed as possible, and she placed Stella to the side and slightly behind it. Dressed in a pretty peach-colored dress, her hair braided and set appealingly on top of her head, his wife, upon Miss da Silva's bidding, put one hand on the back of his chair. Thinking that Stella should like that, William rested his right hand on the hilt of his father's sword possessively, the point of it against the floor.

From the other end of the room, Miss Rosina da Silva looked at them and smiled.

"You are an exceedingly handsome couple," she said, simply. "Please, look here," she pointed to the lens, before disappearing under the cover she had thrown over the camera. But in his admiration of his wife, William disobeyed that gentle order. Instead of looking at the camera, he looked up, catching her eyes with his and immediately getting lost in the sea of green. When the flash went off, he barely noticed.

When, three weeks later, their portrait arrived from Miss da Silva's studio in London, anybody who wished to see it would have to fight Lady Stella for it, for she would not part with it for anything. In time, the handsome portrait moved from Stella's bed-stand to the mantel across from their bed, having taken an honorable place right under Miss Elena's k'tubah.

September: Misery's Company
William

"Ha!" William exhaled loudly, making a lunge at Dick Fenwick, his long-time fencing partner. In an unseen before stupor, Fenwick made no effort to parry, and William all but pinned him to the wall. They had been fencing partners ever since William was seven---even then he chased the reticent, older Dickie around with a birch twig. By the time William's father gave him the treasured foil, the childhood diversion turned well into an obsession; now respectable gentlemen, neighbors and brothers, William and Fenwick met three times a week to partake in their favorite form of exercise (though lately, William noticed to himself, a wholly other form of exercise, with Stella as his most willing partner, has seemed to take priority).

"Touché," Fenwick said, sliding his foil into its sheath. "Well done, Hester."

"Never mind that!" William was appalled. "What has come over you today, Fenwick? You have been simply awful---I barely recognize you."

"No, nothing. My mind is just off---elsewhere."

"I noticed that!" William said, harshly. "Perhaps you should be so kind as to retrieve your mind from wherever it is wandering before our next practice."

"Hester! You are most unkind," Fenwick laughed, but his uneasiness was easily noticeable. Having put away his foil and stripped the tall black gloves, William reached for the coat to throw over his shirt.

"Is everything well, Fenwick?" he asked his brother. "Are you in good health? Is Vanessa?"

Fenwick assured him that everything was, indeed, well; but William knew him well enough to hear that he was lying.

"You are beginning to worry me," he said to his friend.

"Hester, my distress is of a rather private nature," Fenwick said, curtly. "It would be altogether inappropriate for me to share it with you."

"Does it concern my sister?" William asked. Seeing his friend nod, reluctantly, he added, firmly. "Then it concerns me intimately."

Fenwick threw an unsure glance at him; William was, after all, his best and oldest friend.

"Very well," he said, as the two men made their way into William's study. "But first, I shall need a confidence from you."

William closed the door behind them and poured them each a brandy.

"Ask."

"How are your---your conjugal relations with Lady Stella?"

William balked at this question; for, as he had pressured his friend into this line of discussion, he did not count on being asked such an intimate question himself.

"Do you see what I mean?" Fenwick asked with desperation. "It is almost impossible to discuss---"

"No," William said, gathering his composure. "It is very possible to discuss, if one does not stoop to baseness. Stella's and my relations in that area are fine, Fenwick."

"What do you mean by fine?"

"I mean that I am very happy---with my marriage in general, but with that area specially. Now you answer my question."

He already regretted having asked that, for he realized where it was going and doubted the propriety of discussing that aspect of his sister's life.

Fenwick sighed, studying the contents of his brandy glass with benumbing particularity.

"Well, Mrs. Fenwick, she---she tolerates me. She has never refused me, to be sure. But every time we are together, I feel like a violator---like I am forcing her-" his voice trailed off as he turned around to gather his composure. "She won't let me keep a candle burning---it has to happen in complete darkness; it cannot happen during the day or in the morning; and Hester, the night-dress she wears to bed!" There was a clear note of despondency in his voice at this last revelation.

William was lost; he did not know what to say. That Vanessa, with her superior mind and strong will, should prove to be a substandard lover, did not surprise him in the least. If she had made up her mind to despise this side of love, Fenwick could do little to dissuade her.

Fortunately, his friend seemed to need no answer; gulping down his brandy, he continued in a most plaintive voice:

"Do you remember the book I gave you a week before your wedding?"

William nodded, coloring slightly.

"Have you and Lady Stella made good use of it since then?"

William felt himself redden more; because of his rather strict views in this area of life, he was not accustomed to the free-flowing banter that often filled the gentlemen's clubs of London. It was exceedingly awkward for him to talk about this; but he was the one to start this, he should see it through.

"Yes," he said. "We have found it rather useful, I must tell you."

Momentarily, he drifted away, thinking about all the ways in which The Book has proved useful for them.

"Hester, you are not listening to me!" Fenwick said accusatively.

William snapped out of his happy reverie, quite embarrassed. "Forgive me, I got carried away," he murmured, hiding his eyes.

"Do you see now?" Fenwick asked, desperate. "Do you see, Hester? You are able to just drift away thinking about the time you spend with your wife---I, on the other hand, should rather avoid thinking about mine at all---for it is nothing but dissatisfaction and frustration!"

William could only mutter that such a cold reaction was "common," to which Fenwick reacted somewhat violently.

"It is common, but I have always thought myself able to awake the woman---to please her--"

"Spare me that," William said dryly. Fenwick was his only friend, yet, as much as he loved him, William had been appalled to learn that before his marriage to Vanessa, his friend frequented certain London establishments---though of the highest rank, of course, but bawdy houses nevertheless---during his bachelor days. William's own father had discouraged that stringently, believing that there was no carnal impulse, which a man's superior mind could not master. "You know what I think of that."

"Blast that, Hester!" Fenwick exploded. "Not all of us enjoyed the lifestyle of a recluse, to which you so gladly subjected yourself at Cambridge!"

William pursed his lips tightly.

"Fenwick, I consider this comment highly offensive."

Fenwick sighed, raking his hands through his hair. "Do forgive me, Hester," he said. "It is just that--I love her and desire her so ardently, and she just shuns me--" his voice trailed off, and William turned away, embarrassed to see his old friend so undone.

There was a knock on the door and as William opened it, Stella's sweet countenance made him recall all the things he was so thankful for.

"The tea is ready," she said, quizzically observing Fenwick's hunched figure by the window. "Is anything the matter?" she whispered. He made round eyes at her, which meant he would tell her later, and caught himself thinking that over this summer, his wife has become his closest friend and confidante. She retreated and he turned back to his brother.

"Give Vanessa time," he said peaceably. "She is so very young, Fenwick, and you have only been married for a month--she will come around, my friend."

He preferred to think that; Stella, whom he told about it that night, was somewhat less convinced, and suggested, half-heartedly, that she speak with Vanessa. A sigh of relief escaped her, however, when William politely refused her generous offer: Fenwick had not authorized him to speak of this to anyone, and, in addition, he could not imagine how she would even approach this question with Vanessa, who was exceedingly secretive and private. So they preferred to think that eventually, it should all work itself out: either Vanessa would grow fonder of her husband, or the poor fellow himself would grow accustomed to her cold reception.

Yet, something else entirely happened.

Early autumn was gentle that year; because most of the trees around Bloomfield Park were pines, it was hardly even noticeable that it had come. Only the great oak on the easternmost border of the estate signified that it was, indeed, already September.

Stella's disposition was slowly growing better, though nausea still tormented her each and every morning. Though they still shared the same bed, William and his wife hardly ever made love now: his fear of harming his precious offspring had finally taken over. He was thankful that she was much too sickly to really regret the cessation of his attentions; and he contended himself with the thought that one day, it would all end and he would have his wife back again.

It was also during this time that Samuel finally proposed to Anabelle Fenwick. William was devastated--he had began to hope that it was nothing but a fleeting fascination with a beautiful woman, bound to pass. No amount of pressuring could make Samuel change his mind: William pleaded with him, told him, rather cruelly, of all the reasons why he thought Miss Fenwick to be an abominably bad match for his brother, reminded him of their father's last words--that they should only marry someone who loved them ("Now that is a cheap trick, brother," Samuel said with uncharacteristic forbearance), even told him the story of his own near-engagement to Anabelle--it was all in vain. To his great chagrin, William could exert no real influence on his brother: at three-and-twenty and amply provided for by their generous father, Samuel was a man of independent means.

"Well, then, what do you want with me?" William finally asked, cross. "You do not need my permission--or you should never have it!"

"No," Samuel agreed. "I do not. But I do esteem you greatly, Will, and I would like your blessing."

William bit his lip: this was a painful reminder of a conversation he himself had had with their mother only three months ago. He gave Samuel his blessing, though his heart was not in it.

What even more vexing was that Samuel insisted on marrying Miss Fenwick immediately and even obtained a special license for that purpose. William pressed his brother for his reasons for such an untoward hurry; sitting in front of him in his study, Samuel remained calm as the sea, and William was left to guess.

"You did not--" the older brother said, and, struck with sudden realization, cried: "Oh my G*d, you did!"

Samuel's face remained impenetrable; this was quite out of character for him, for their usual roles were quite reversed. Normally, it would be Samuel who would rant and rave and pace around the room; but the very thought of Anabelle made him a stronger, better man, and William could do nothing about it.

So they were married, in great haste. Fenwick was very displeased, though more with his sister than with Samuel, and Vanessa was openly jubilant about having Anabelle out of the house. Shortly before the wedding, Samuel had finally let the Linwood estates, some thirty miles away from both Bloomfield and Hereford. It was a comfortable enough distance to have your relations at, but not close enough for Anabelle to visit more than once a month. Finally, as it turned out, the situation was agreeable to all.

That is, until something happened.

The new Mr. and Mrs. Hester visited with Lady Hetty in London (William was quite confounded at the friendly attention his mother bestowed on Anabelle--precisely that, which she had so egregiously denied to his Stella), and Vanessa convinced Fenwick, who seemed to do everything she asked of him, to take her there as well. She needed new sheet music, she said, and she was infernally bored at Hereford. So off they went.

It was a cool and rainy night in mid-September, and William, on his knees, was stoking the fireplace in their bedroom. Stella, cuddled in a blanket on the sofa, was engrossed in one of Mr. Merimee's gothic stories. She liked them: his tales of vampires and walking statues frightened, yet tantalized. There was something adorable and childish to the way she reacted to them; now, too, she leaned off the couch and tugged at the back of his shirt.

"I knew it, I knew it!" she cried. "It is the statue, the statue that killed that poor man!"

It was at that moment that someone rapped, rather loudly, on their bedroom door. Dropping her book, Stella squealed in terror, and William, unaccustomed to be disturbed so late in his bedchamber, was rather surprised.

What he saw when the door opened was hardly any less surprising than if Merimee's terrifying Venere d'Ille* had come to claim him. Soaked from the rain, white in the face and completely, utterly, shamefully drunk, there stood Fenwick.

"What are you doing here?" William stepped outside of the bedroom, pushing his along. "You were supposed to be in London! Where is Vanessa?"

An unbelievable thing happened: his old friend, a man tried and strong, covered his face with his hands, and wept, pathetically. William's heart sunk. Grasping Fenwick by the shoulders, he yelled at him, furiously, demanding to know the truth. Surely something awful had happened, to leave Fenwick so undone!

"She--is--she is gone," his friend finally managed. William felt weak in the knees and leaned, heavily, against the wall. And it was then that Fenwick said, stunning him further if only that was possible: "I have let her go."

William stared at Fenwick, dumbfounded. The door opened, and Stella came out into the hallway, pulling her dressing-gown tightly about her shoulders.

"What is the matter?" she asked, her eyes drifting from her very white husband to his very shamefaced friend. Fenwick, continuing to break down, slid down the wall and sat on the floor, weeping like a madman. Stella rushed towards him, grasped his hands and begged him to tell her what had happened. William, stunned, remained hunched against the wall--it was as if someone had dealt a painful blow to his midsection: he could not stand up straight.

Finally, Fenwick spoke. From his garbled account, they deduced, with great relief, that Vanessa was alive. Beyond that, it was difficult to ascertain anything, and Stella suggested that they take the poor man to a guest room and lay him to sleep. William was reluctant to let him go before he had extracted all the necessary information from him; but as his wife wisely reasoned, if there was any more information to be had, it would not happen tonight, for Fenwick was getting drunker by the minute. So he followed Stella's advice, and, with Barrington's help--"No, sir, Mr. Fenwick arrived alone, on horseback; no, Mrs. Fenwick was not with him"--dragged his pathetic best friend to a bedchamber.

Oh, what a night that was. William paced like mad around their bedroom. Stella, though herself mad with worry, attempted to reason with him.

"She is obviously alive," she said. "Richard would never leave her in any kind of danger, you know him too well for that."

William almost bellowed back at her: "YES!!! But what the hell does it mean: "I have let her go"?"

Stella winced at his language and removed herself to the bed; he continued to sit in front of the glowing fireplace, deep in thought, from time to time rising to pace around the room. He was sick with worry; slowly going mad, as he was unable to banish Fenwick's weeping mien out of his mind, he envisioned the worst possible scenarios. Thus he spent all night and finally fell into a nightmarish slumber on the couch in front of the fireplace.

He was up with the first morning light, and made his way to Fenwick's bedroom. His friend met him halfway, very pale, freshly shaven, and extremely grave.

"Well?" William asked, staring at him with Zeus-like fury in his eyes. Of all people whom he could trust! "What have you done to my sister?"

"I have let her go," Fenwick said simply.

"What do you mean by that?!"

IT turned out, that meant exactly what it sounded like. "She was miserable with me," Fenwick said as they enclosed themselves in William's study. "I could not but see it. How could I hold her back, Hester?"

William shook his head in disbelief. "So you turned her out of doors?!" he cried.

"I have given her back all of her dowry," Fenwick said.

"Have you then annulled your marriage?"

"No," Fenwick shook his head. "It should be up to her whether she wants that done. She is a free woman, and if she so wishes, she shall be one officially."

William strode towards his liquor cabinet, opened a bottle of brandy, and poured himself a full glass. Gulping it down, he thought: this is not happening, I am not having this asinine discussion, my sister is not scavenging in the gutters of Whitechapel--

"--to be sure, Hester, she has a situation."

"A situation?" William cried, slamming his glass down.

"Yes. She is to sing with Royal Opera company."

A fit of hysterical laughter seized William. So that what it was all about! Vanessa could not wheedle the permission to sing out of him, so she worked her magic on her husband.

"She is to be a singer?!" he cried, laughter gurgling violently in his throat, mixed with liquor. "My sister is to sing on stage, having abandoned her family, her husband--"

Fenwick inclined his head gently.

"I prefer to think as a temporary vocation for her," he said.

"Not from the looks of you yesterday you do not!" William snapped. This was unbelievable; idiotic; he could not believe his ears. But if he wished to appraise the situation fully, he would need the particulars. Forcing himself to sit down in a chair, William poured himself another glass of brandy and offered one to Fenwick (which the latter accepted gratefully).

"Pray tell," he said, "how has this outrage come about?"

Stella

How it came to be that Vanessa had left Mr. Fenwick and remained in London was a mystery to us all. He refused to speak of it, having assured us that she was well and that it was her fondest wish to do so; but he drank himself into the darkest depression every night. William kept him from returning to Hereford, as I knew he worried that the man was a danger to himself.

William wrote to Lady Hetty and waited, impatient, for her reply. When it arrived, it was wholly unsatisfactory, as she had remained in a state of shock similar to that of her son-in-law.

"Vanessa has not come to speak with me," she wrote. "I know from dear Anabelle that she is in London and is to sing Rosina in La Notte de Figaro on 1 October. I should have you, William, come and fetch your sister, as her husband has proved himself to be woefully inadequate at controlling her."

"Don't you dare," Mr. Fenwick said. "She is my wife, you no longer have control over her. I have made the decision to let her go." William gnashed his teeth, but had to agree. His guardianship over Vanessa had ended, and to that effect he wrote to his mother.

These nights, he slept badly, if at all, and was a pain to be near. My sweet gentle husband has grown cold and explosive, intermittently. I tried my best to be kind to him, yet my own patience was running short, and, one night, I locked my door. He knocked, and called my name unsurely, but I was firm---at least in appearance, for I lay in my bed, weeping.

The next morning, William did not come to breakfast. A terrible feeling of guilt took over me---that I should deny my husband comfort when he is in such distress! Standing by the window, I saw him ride out on Zanzibar, furiously spurring the poor animal, and, had I thought I should be able to catch up with him, I would follow him running.

That morning, I was an awful teacher to Alexandra, my mind drifting away and my nausea tormenting me every moment of our lesson.

"...William the Conqueror defeated King Harold at Hastings in 1066---" Ali recited. "Stella, are you listening?!" I looked up at my poor charge; her lips trembled and there were tears in her eyes. "Something has happened to Nessa, hasn't it?" she asked in a trembling voice.

We had not apprised her of what had happened; in William's estimation, this was news wholly inappropriate for a young girl to learn. After all, everything was still too much in the air, and there was too much we, ourselves, did not know. Here, however, I could hold back no longer, and at the risk of angering my husband, I shared with Alexandra what I, myself, knew.

She was shocked; she cried. "Does Nessa not love us anymore?" she asked me. I was left to calm her down, yet I was poorly equipped for such a task--for I was beginning to believe that myself.

My life at Bloomfield Park had been nearly perfect until Vanessa's escape; now, our entire family seemed to be falling apart. I forced myself not to dwell on it, lest I should hurt my child, and took to one occupation, which was always guaranteed to make me feel good. I picked up the guitar William had given me during our honeymoon, and started playing the first song that came to mind. Soon, my heart felt lighter, and the little hurricane in my stomach settled down.

My eyes closed, I sang an old song I had once learned from my mother. Why I chose it, I did not know, but something inside of me cried, and my guitar wept as well.

"Tres de la noche vo pasar
Con todos mis amigos.
En tu ventana vo pasar
Sonando mandolino.

Sali a la puerta, te veré.
Sali a la ventana.
Ávlame y descúvreme
Secretos de tu alma.

Por la tu puerta yo pasi
Y la topi cerrada.
La llavedura yo bezi
Como bezar to cara--"

I was interrupted by three loud claps. Opening my eyes, I saw William in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. I looked searchingly into his eyes, to see whether he was still angry with me, but saw only sadness.

"How true," he said, and translated: "I went by your door, and found it locked. I kissed the door--"

"---llavedura, the lock," I corrected him, feeling myself grow very red in the face. I had taught him the words to some of the songs I sang; he spoke Spanish fairly well, and it was not exceedingly difficult for him to understand.

"--like I have kissed your face. Now, am I a good student of your language?" he asked, approaching. I looked up at him and felt myself color even more.

"William," I muttered, "I wish to apologize--"

"For locking me out of your bedroom last night?" he finished, lively. "Worry not, beautiful Stella, worry not--there are enough bedrooms in this house to accommodate its owner."

Tears were dangerously close to my eyes; I lowered the guitar onto the rug. "And which one did you choose?" I asked him.

He was silent for a minute, before admitting, with a guilty air:

"Not one. I slept on the couch in the library. I cannot be in a bed without you, Stella."

I bit my lip to keep myself from breaking down. William knelt swiftly by my side, raised my chin and looked me in the eye.

"I came here to tell you that you were well within your right last night," he said. I was dumbfounded, and he explained. "I have been most uncivil to you lately, which is all the more egregious, considering your delicate condition. Please forgive me," he said earnestly, bringing my hand to his lips. Babbling, my hands trembling, I hurried to assure him that he had already been forgiven...

"Now, you forgive me," I said.

"I am tempted to do so," he laughed. "What should help it greatly if you kissed me--"

It was done, with all the possible ardor.

"--and," he added, when I finally released him, "if you sang a song for me. Actually, a particular song. The one about the girl with green eyes."

I was only glad to oblige, feeling vastly improved. The song was called "Arvolicos d'Almendra"--"The Almond Trees."

"Arvolicos d'almendra que yo plantí
Por los tus ojos vedrulis.
Dame la mano, niña.
Que yo por ti,
Que yo por ti me va morir.

La puerta de mi querida ya se avrio.
De lágrimas ya se hinchó.
Como la primavera
Qu'ansi salió
La bella niña que amo yo--"

At this, he stopped me with a kiss, and, having released me, murmured against my lips.

"La bella Stella que amo yo!"

So we reconciled, but things were hardly any better and the mood any happier at Bloomfield. There was still no news from London, and I saw William slowly go mad with worry. He and Mr. Fenwick barely spoke, but he still insisted that the latter remain at Bloomfield at all times. His friend treated William's fear with perfect indifference and even some good humor.

"Your husband is afraid I should lay hands on myself," he told me one morning, after William had left to deal with a tenant dispute that threatened to grow into a murderous fight.

"Should you ever do something like that?" I asked him, trying to be straightforward.

"I am too much of a coward for that," he smiled sadly. "And too much of an optimist."

He was still holding out hope for Vanessa's return, I understood. I shrugged my shoulders and acquiesced, though my heart was breaking for the poor man. No, I did not believe that Vanessa would ever return.

It started raining and went on, like so, for days at a row. William was often gone on estate business; he was unwaveringly gentle with me and cold with Mr. Fenwick. Unlike me, he did not have compassion for a husband who could not keep his wife near him.

As regards his husbandly duties, which he once promised to fulfill to my complete satisfaction, William did abandon them now entirely. Because I was still not feeling well and associated my bed with nothing but restful sleep, I let that go.

Beyond Alexandra's lessons, I now occupied myself with reading and playing chess with Mr. Fenwick, who was rather good at it. One, as we sat so, biding our time until it was proper to retire--William sat in the corner, toying with Aslan, who was growing bigger by the day, and Alexandra had already gone to bed--Mr. Preston, the estate overseer and steward entered, and bid my husband to speak with him.

"What is it, Mr. Preston?" William raised Aslan and placed him in his basket, which had already grown too small for the pup.

"Pressing business, sir," Mr. Preston replied, and I saw that he was all soaked from the rain and very pale.

It turned out that persistent rains had washed dirt away from a large mount, upon which several small houses had been rather negligently constructed, causing two of them to collapse.

"There have been victims, sir," Mr. Preston said, his lack of equanimity apparent. William rose, dark in the face; the houses apparently belonged to his tenants.

They soon left, having donned appropriate attire, Mr. Fenwick with them. I was sick with worry: nightmarish visions of walls of dirt and muck collapsing on top of my husband and burying him under an impenetrable deadly slate haunted me all evening. When I finally drifted away, still sitting in the chair in front of the fire, nightmares tortured me and just before dawn, I was woken up by the cruelest twinge of nausea. Tumbling out of the chair, I rushed upstairs.

Afterwards, I barely made it to my bed and fell into it, still fully dressed, having only kicked off my shoes. Sleep claimed me right away, dreamless this time. When I woke up, the sun was shining, but I was still in the same position, still wearing the dress from yesterday. This meant that William was not home yet; surely, he would have undressed me had he seen me slumbering like this!

I washed my face and went downstairs, where Mrs. Livesay looked grave, and no men were in sight.

"They are still at the collapsed site," she said as she poured me a cup of tea. "Still digging. How are you feeling this morning, Madam?"

Dreadful, I thought, holding my hand against my stomach, but well enough to go looking for my husband. I ordered the carriage, and was told that there was no-one to drive it, as all men were at the disaster site, trying to alleviate the effects of the collapse.

I could not drive, either, so I would walk. I asked Mrs. Livesay for directions, and she did not try to keep me from going. Alexandra, running down the stairs, insisted upon going with me, but I was not sure if William would approve of my taking her.

"I think you should take Miss Alexandra along," Mrs. Livesay said, authoritatively. "I do not know whether Master William would approve of you walking out alone, in your delicate state."

"Mrs. Livesay, I am with child--not an invalid," I said, annoyed somewhat. Alexandra, however, would not listen, and ran out, following me, right after I quitted the house and walked to the hill.

"Very well," I said, angrily, "you are on your own when your brother questions your presence here!"

Together, we strove on; yet we had not reached the infamous hill before I saw a group of men on horseback. They were ragged and dirty, and only by the snow-white Lippizaner did I recognize my husband.

"Stella!" William alighted in front of me, looking rather angry. "What are you doing here? And with Ali?"

"I went looking for you," I said. "I did not know if you were well, or if something had happened---and I could not bear to wait anymore."

"I had asked Mrs. Livesay to keep you at home," he said, obviously displeased. "I did not think you should go out--not with the mayhem that has been going on around the estate."

"William, I should rather you give me orders regarding Mrs. Livesay and not the other way around!" I said, piqued. He suddenly looked very tired, his eyes were red, his clothes ruined, his face--streaked with dirt. I took pity on him.

"Are you all right?" I asked. He nodded, taking my hand. "Come," he said, "I should like to go home..."

He legged me easily in his saddle, and Mr. Fenwick did the same with Alexandra. We rode back to the house in dead silence, and I was only left to guess what was it that my husband had witnessed this morning.

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 when they finally 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 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 quite tense. 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, thought about his wife. In her early pregnancy, she remained every bit as alluring as she was on their wedding night. Suddenly, William heard his wife's voice in the antechamber, inquiring after him. Hope sprang eternal for him; 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 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 with the first light of the next morning. 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 you r 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-" he 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!" he cried. Forgetting all propriety, I embraced the old woman, who once doubled as nurse to me and my sisters. "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, 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 corsair, 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 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.

"It would behoove you to wear dry underclothes right now, sir."

He hesitated. 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 this sigh was of disappointment and it turned into one of eager anticipation, as he saw her lock the door.

Later, William felt remorse for what had transpired. For he had seduced his wife, ignoring the fact that she was in mourning and possibly incurring harm to his issue. Stella dismissed his worries with a flippant wave of her hand.

"You know perfectly well that this only makes me feel better."

But he was not convinced; the possibility of harming his child through his own 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 enabled him to look at Anabelle's peacock frock all night long without once wishing to kill his brother.

*"Venere d'Ille"--Prosper Merimee's very disturbing gothic story about a statue, which strangled a man in its embrace.

**Shiva=mourning period.

© 2002 Copyright held by the author.

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