Stella Rosa

Part XI

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, albeit 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: William, 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: 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 personages admirably, but Fenwick was still not certain whether he wanted to name the beast after an honorable and illustrious 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 sidesaddle, 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. William 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, when 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, her 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. Gently, William caressed the outline of her bulging stomach.

"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 with her, he made love to her with great care. 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.

© 2002 Copyright held by the author.

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