Chapter 31
A Late Arrival
The driver was undoing the rope on the canvas tarp when they got to the hay wain.
"Hallo," the man called when he saw them, then nodded and smiled when he recognized Carlisle.
The driver's son was underneath the wagon. He called from below, "I've almost got all of the ropes undone, but it's bleedin' hard work. The knots are all wet, Pop. Hang on, there's one more."
"Ooo. Nothin' got damp, did it?" Mrs. Carlisle said, feeling around the tarp.
"Oh, no ma'am, not to worry. We tied it up real tight just like you asked," assured the driver.
"I was so afraid you weren't comin'. What could have possibly tooken so long?" she asked.
"Got snagged on the streambed when first we started, but a kind gentleman come along and helped us out." He winked at Carlisle.
The driver's son emerged from the rear of the cart, lithe, handsome and sandy-haired. "That's the last of 'em. Ye should be fine now, Pop." He tipped his hat to Mrs. Carlisle. "Mornin', ma'am. Sorry 'bout the language, I didn't know there were ladies present." He grinned and tipped his hat in a jaunty way to Sheila and May.
Catching a cool look from Mrs. Carlisle, he returned her a disarming smile.
Mrs. Carlisle was not disarmed.
The young man cleared his throat and busied himself by loosening more of the ropes, all the while stealing small looks at Sheila, who for her part, pretended not to notice.
Carlisle ran his hand over the tarp. "What's in it, Cora?" he asked.
"Go ahead," said Mrs. Carlisle, pushing her husband's elbow encouragingly.
He pulled back the corner of the rough canvas and stared at the items underneath in complete silence.
His wife grabbed his hand. "I hope you don't mind," she said, sounding worried. "But I sent for all your things. The studio here looked so empty when I arrived and not one of your paintings anywhere to be found. 'We can't have Mr. Carlisle arrivin' with the place lookin' like this,' I said. I sent for everythin' straight away."
Carlisle leaned down and kissed his wife on the cheek. "Thank you, dear."
"All your paints and brushes and canvasses should be here," said his wife.
"Oh, yes, ma'am," said the driver. "We took everythin' we could find in the studio. I can't imagine anything is missing."
"Hey, you even got my pipe tobacco!" Carlisle reached for a large green mason jar full of tobacco and a well-used pipe next to it.
"Indeed. Now how did that get in there?" asked Mrs. Carlisle, shooting the driver a dark look.
"I recall you specifically asking us not to forget it ma'am," the man said to her, winking at her husband.
Rufus placed his front paws on the bed of the wagon and snuffled the stacked paintings.
"Down," scolded Carlisle. The dog bounded off and circled the cart, tongue flapping and eyes rolling, his slobbering mouth snapping at dragonflies.
"Hope you don't mind the dog," said the driver. "He doesn't belong to you, by chance? He joined us back down the road a piece. Would you like him?"
Carlisle said he would.
"I thought you might," the driver said and smiled. "Now, let's help you get all this inside."
"Mr. Carlisle's studio is through the double doors in the living room. Mind the walls, please, and don't damage anything," instructed Cora.
May went to help carry some items, but Cora shooed her away. "Let the men do it, dear."
Carlisle removed a heavy wooden box with tightly sealed jars that clinked and rattled together as he carried it to the cottage while the driver and his son took several paintings each.
"Don't drop anything," said Cora.
The girls looked over the paintings that remained in the cart. "This is gorgeous," said Sheila, holding a landscape in her hands.
"Don' I know it," said his wife. "That one always makes me want to cry. It's like Mr. Carlisle turns everythin' inside out, so that he's not just showin' you what's on the outside, but the heart and soul of everythin' as well. I'm amazed by it."
Mrs. Carlisle suddenly said to May, "Don't you just look peaked, dearie. Your long trip must have caught up with you. We must sit you down straight away." She took May by the hand and brought her to a wooden bench under an arbor of orange roses.
"I'll be better in a minute or two," said May. "I just feel a little dizzy."
At the cart, the driver's son returned for another load. "'Scuse me, miss," he said to Sheila.
"Goodness, am I in your way?" Sheila smiled at him without moving whatsoever.
Poking the brim of his hat up with one finger, he gave her a wide grin.
Mrs. Carlisle came back quickly to the hay wain to supervise the removal of her husband's property and the propriety of her niece. Sheila slipped to the side of the cart as the driver's son hastily grabbed several pictures from the bed of the wagon and started for the house with them. A painting from the middle of the stack in his hands began a downward slide to the ground. Drawing up his knee, he slid the painting back into the pile again then dodged a sinister look from Mrs. Carlisle and continued to the cottage.
After he was gone, Mrs. Carlisle said, "The gawking dandy. He should keep his eyes to himself and concentrate on what he's doing. Pity the poor lass who ends up with that dolt."
Sheila pointed to a newly uncovered painting in the bed of the wagon. "It's Uncle Frank."
"Oh, mercy no, dear. But it's a common mistake. That's his father," said Cora.
"Is he a lot like him?" Sheila asked.
Mrs. Carlisle considered for a moment and frowned. "That's not easy to answer, dear. At first they seemed so different to me, ye see: Mr. Carlisle bein' the way he is and his father as hard as a railroad watch. Yet the longer I knew them, I began to see that, deep down, the two o' them weren't so very different at all. In fact, I think they were just about as alike as father and son can be. Only his father had spent most of his life stompin' and stampin' out all those things about himself he didn't like, or was told he shouldn't like, or thought was holdin' him back from the good Lord knows what."
"Then along comes his son and there it was all over again in spades, staring straight back at him in the flesh. And what did he feel, but that he had to do all that stompin' and stampin' out all over again and set out to make his son just as shiny and cold as he was himself. Of course, it didn't help that his father blamed Frank for all his misfortunes on account of his poor mother, God rest her soul."
The lady paused, crossed herself and drew in a much needed breath. She hushed her voice. "If you ask me, the Good Lord in His Infinite Mercy took the poor lass to her heavenly reward early, so that she might not have to suffer all the rest of her days with that man. Ooo, what a black temper that man had, especially when he was three sheets to the wind, which was anytime he wasn't workin'. And Frank always seemed to be taking the worst of it. I remember one time he—"
"Mrs. Carlisle," called her husband from the doorway of the cottage with his pipe in one hand and a match in the other. "Would you mind getting me another cup of tea, dear?"
"Yes, dear," she called back at once.
"He's right there; can't he get his own tea?" said May from the bench.
Mrs. Carlisle waved the thought off. "Honestly dear, have you ever had his tea? You can stand up a spoon in it. Besides, he always takes the teacup from me as though I'd just given him a kiss. How could you deny a man a cup o' tea when he looks at ye like that?" She lowered her voice as her husband neared the wagon. "Besides, I certainly don't need the man muckin' about my kitchen and crackin' all my teacups together. No indeed."
"The men would probably like some as well, Mrs. Carlisle," her husband said, putting his pipe and match down on the wooden bed of the wagon.
"Of course, dear," said his wife, then to Sheila she said, "Would you like to keep me comp'ny while I make more tea, dear? I would love to hear how the family's getting on."
As Cora and Sheila headed to the house, the driver and his son tipped their hats and stepped off the pat
h to let them by. As the driver got to the wagon, he said, "Now that's one of the prettiest little lasses I think I ever saw. Though if you don't mind me sayin' so, she dresses kind o' peculiar. Maybe even a little forward, as it were. Ah, well, pretty is as pretty does."
"Well then, she's pretty through and through," said Carlisle, picking up a crate.
"Let my son get that for ye, sir. Only one last load here."
Carlisle thanked him, then gave a short, sharp whistle through his teeth to the young man who stood in front of him with his hands out, but whose head and eyes still followed the rounded backside of his employer's niece. Carlisle shoved the heavy box forcefully into the young man's waiting arms and the driver's son coughed out a burst of air, nearly dropping the box. He lumbered to the house after his father.
When he was gone, Carlisle smiled to himself and shook his head. He picked up his pipe and match, and turning to go, tripped smack over Rufus who had come to sit at his master's feet at the sound of his whistle.
Carlisle cussed a blue streak then looked down at the dog gazing up into his face with expectant devotion. "What do you want?" he asked the dog, before heading for the bench May was sitting on.
"Oh," he said when he saw her. He made little circles in the air with the pipe and match. "I didn't realize you were sitting there."
"Anybody ever tell you that you sound like you work in a railroad yard?" she said, grinning.
"Sorry," he said with a guilty look.
"Don't worry about it. Let me guess—your favorite bench? I can move if you'd like to be alone."
"No, don't. That's fine. I never mind the company. It's just that Cora doesn't like me smoking too close to the house. She says the smell makes her sick."
May busted out laughing.
Carlisle looked confused.
"I can't smell anything else but roses," she said when she recovered herself sufficiently. "It's even on my hands."
"Oh, don't I know it, too," he said, rolling his eyes and sitting down next to her. "She won't leave off putting it in the soap. You ought to try walking down the street smelling like a six foot rose garden. It's uncomfortable to say the least."
"You must make some interesting friends."
He struck the match on the bottom of his shoe then lit his pipe. "Not the kind I'm interested in, May," he said, shaking out the match and tossing it.
Rufus came and curled up at Carlisle's feet with a stick in his mouth. He began to chew at it with intense canine concentration.
"I like your wife," said May. "She has a pretty accent. I can understand why you said you like to listen to her."
"Mmm," he said, smiling and puffing his pipe awake.
And listen. And listen.
"I notice you pick up her accent a little when you're with her."
"Do I? Well, I don't doubt it. It was my father's as well."
"Incidentally, they've found out that smoking causes cancer," she said.
He held his pipe away from him and raised his eyebrows at it. "Really?" He stuck it back in his mouth with a shrug. "I could be wrong, but I'm not entirely sure that matters anymore."
They sat in silence a minute while Carlisle let out puffs of smoke from his mouth and watched them shift and disperse lazily into the atmosphere.
Rufus chewed moistly on the stick between his paws, making sloppy crunching and scraping noises that crawled up May's spine. She broke the relative silence. "Your wife mentioned something about supper, but I think Sheila and I should really be heading out this afternoon."
He took the pipe from his mouth. "May, you've got to give me one more day."
"We don't need—we don't expect you to go with us," she said.
"It's just that I've had an idea for a while, and I just couldn't figure out how to do it. Well, 'till now, anyway." Carlisle leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. "Only, it might not work."
"What is it?"
"It's just that it occurred to me a while back that if I painted you into here, maybe I can paint you out. It's worth a try isn't it?" His eyes questioned hers plainly, trying to gauge her reaction.
May looked away and considered.
"You don't lose anything by trying," he coaxed.
"But how?"
"You'll sit for me—you and Sheila."
"Sit?"
"Yes, so I can paint your portrait."
After having chewed the stick to splinters, Rufus decided to mouth Carlisle's shoe.
"Stop," Carlisle said to the dog, drawing his foot away. He gestured with his hand to his foam-streaked shoe. "Just look at that!" He sighed into the dog's warm brown eyes. "Dumb mutt," he muttered.
"Why do you keep him then?"
He leaned down and scratched behind one of the dog's ears, "Oh, he's really not a bad dog. A bit stupid, but he's a great watchdog. Never misses a thing. And a he's the best hunting dog I've ever had, that's for sure. He's a natural in the water." He smoothed the dog's coat and patted the animal soundly on the back.
Rufus nuzzled May's hand wetly. She snatched it away and looked at it.
"You don't really like dogs, do you?"
"How can you tell?" she said, wiping the slobber off on her t-shirt with a nauseated look. Luckily, Rufus spotted a butterfly and lit out after it.
At the cottage, Mrs. Carlisle and the hay wain driver emerged from the front door and exchanged a farewell. The driver and his son began walking towards the wagon down the path as Cora wandered back inside.
"She probably got chatting and forgot all about the tea," Carlisle mused with a small shake of his head.
"You could get your own tea, you know."
"I do," he said, furrowing his brow and leaning back on the bench. "On occasion."
"Good day to ye, miss, sir," said the driver, tipping his hat to the both of them.
"Hang on," said Carlisle, getting up from the bench and feeling around in his vest pocket. He glanced towards the house, turned his back to it and handed some money to the man.
"That's not necessary, sir. Your wife already paid us."
"Take it," said Carlisle, "for the pipe tobacco. And get a padded seat for that wagon. Thanks for your help."
Next to him, the driver's son stared at some rocks on the ground. "Here," said Carlisle, handing him a few coins.
Carlisle came and sat down on the bench next to May again and together they watched the cart bump down the road until it crested a hill and rolled out of sight.
May felt a painful scratching on her shoulder and discovered a thorny rose vine had attached itself to her shirt. Carefully plucking it off thorn by thorn, she said, "Not entirely friendly vegetation around here, I see."
"My wife tries to keep them all pruned. This one is worse than the others though. She didn't realize how it was until after it had twined itself completely round the arbor. It's very hardy. Nothing kills it. You have to admire that. Mrs. Carlisle lost almost every other rose bush in the garden but this one a few winters ago. Did you happen to smell it? It's different—spicy. Unusual color, too. Not showy at all, but it's always in bloom." He admired one of the plain orange blossoms.
"Still, it's so—so—ornery," said May, trying to encourage the vine to go elsewhere without success.
"It's just because the petals fall off easily. It's just protecting itself. See?" He gently touched one of the orange flowers and several of the petals rained down. "Wonderful fruit, though. Did you know roses have fruit? I didn't know that until I met my wife." He sat back, crossed his arms and enjoyed his pipe.
"Rose hips."
"Yes. That's it. She makes some kind of tea from them. She makes me drink it if I get sick. Cures me pretty quick," he said, curling his lip.
"That's pretty smart of her."
"She is."
"So what took you so long to marry her? Didn't you like her?"
"She was far too young when I met her."
"I thought you all—"
"Fourteen, May."
"Oh."
"And she wa
s under my aunt and uncle's roof as well. My uncle liked me fine but my aunt—well, who can blame her. Anyhow, I had this idea that maybe if I made something of myself in the few years until Cora was marrying age, then maybe my aunt might finally come around. But one year led to another and me never better off than the year before—I could scarcely support myself let alone all the other things a wife brings: babies, houses, pianos—"
"Do they really bring pianos?"
He cocked his head to the side. "Most of the time, I think.
"And you told Cora about your plan?"
He shook his head. "How could I? Cora made it obvious exactly how she felt about me. And like I said, she was too young. I could hardly be in the same room with her. I'll never, ever know what she saw in me. I was the poorest catch there was and no woman within ten counties didn't know it. I just figured she was too naive to know any better."
"There must have been others that wanted to ask her out."
"Someone started a rumor that she was spoken for already."
"I see. Rumors can be so nasty, can't they? So not only did you make her think that you didn't want her, you made her think no one else wanted her either. No wonder she finally gave up and decided to join a convent."
He looked to the heavens. "Can you imagine Cora in a convent?"
"And her so talkative and all," said May.
"She would have been miserable. She didn't belong there. My aunt couldn't stand the thought of it. And Cora had got her mind dead set on it. My aunt had grown uncommonly fond of Cora and the thought of her locked away in a convent—"
"After already losing her only daughter."
He nodded. "My aunt came to me."
"The poor woman must have been desperate."
"I'll ignore that."
May leaned back on the bench. "So when did your wife find out that you couldn't read? Was it after you were married?"
Not looking at her, he held up a cautionary finger. "You know May, that nose is going to get you into trouble someday."
"It was only a hunch. Did she teach you after you were married?"
"As much as she could. It was no hardship. She's a wonderful teacher." He smiled at the memory.
Mrs. Carlisle appeared at the front door of the cottage wiping her hands on her apron. "The tea is ready. Would you like me to bring it out?"
"No thanks, Mrs. Carlisle. We'll get it inside." He collected his pipe from the armrest of the bench then said to May, "It'll take me a few hours to get my studio set up again. By afternoon, the light should be right; come in and sit for me then." A gentle scented breeze stirred the rose bushes around them.
"It's beautiful here," said May.
"I know. We should never have left."
At the cottage door, they were greeted by the sight of Mrs. Carlisle standing on a kitchen chair in front of the fireplace. She poised on her tip-toes and stretched awkwardly toward the handle of an antique cutlass suspended between two hooks above the mantel.
"Cora," yelled Carlisle when he saw her. "What are you doing?" He rushed over to the fireplace. "It's just a good thing there's no fire going, Mrs. Carlisle."
"Oh, hello, dear," she said to her husband clutching her skirt. She straightened with the cutlass in her hand, twisting the hanging gold tassels around the handle. Carlisle removed one of his hands from her dress and took the tarnished weapon from her.
"What are you doing with my father's sword?" he said.
"Well, dear, I thought the new one you brought home was so beautiful that we should hang it here instead. Could you hand me that, Mr. Carlisle?" She pointed to the jeweled sword and scabbard on the settee.
"Well, I suppose so," he said, reluctantly. "But get down and let me do it, will you?"
"It's alright, dear. Really, I can do it. If you'll just ...." She pointed to the settee again.
"No."
"But Mr. Carlisle—"
"No," he said again firmly. "You shouldn't even be up there."
She gave out a sigh, picked up her skirts and got down.
Carlisle stepped up onto the chair. Without looking down, he held out his hand and his wife placed the new sword and scabbard into it. Mrs. Carlisle clasped her hands in front of her mouth as she watched him arrange it above the mantel.
"There. It's done," he said, getting down and kissing his wife on the cheek.
Cora grabbed the chair and practically ran back to the kitchen with it. "I'll go get your tea," she called back to him.
"She worries far too much," he said. He headed in the direction of the double doors and said loudly for his wife to hear, "I'll be in my studio."
Cora poked her head out from the kitchen. "What about the tea?"
"Oh, the tea, right. I don't suppose you could—"
"I'll bring it in," she said. "What about lunch?"
"Just call me when it's ready."
"Frank," she said with a note of warning in her voice.
"Really, I'll come out."
"We have guests." She gestured to the girls.
"I know. I'll come out. I promise." He sniffed the air. "Shouldn't you really check on the pie, Mrs. Carlisle?"
"The pie! You're right. Thank you, dear, I will."
He entered the studio, turned around and held up two fingers. "Give me two hours. Then—after lunch." He closed the double doors after him.
Mrs. Carlisle said, "The man has an uncanny nose for pastry. Seems to know by smell alone exactly when the apples are tender but not mushy."
One of the double doors opened again and Carlisle looked out. "The pie?" he reminded her.
Her hands flew up and she ran off to the kitchen.
He smiled after his wife. "She gets to talking. I hate when the apples are mushy. Did you know she's won the Maine state fair five years in a row with that pie?" He wiggled two fingers. "Two hours," he said before shutting the door.