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Chapter 9
Promises Tried
His name was Captain Hansen, and he'd been sent to the Ponderosa to speak to Mrs. Cartwright; that was all they'd been able to pry out of the soldier.
Ben had sent Hoss upstairs, and then time stood awkwardly still while they waited for him to return with Juliet. Sweaty and dusty, Hansen's clothes told the story of days spent in the saddle and nights under the open sky on his "velvet couch" of a bedroll. His unshaved face screamed for soap and water, his tired eyes asked for a place to rest his bones, and his dry lips seemed to beg for coffee—or something stronger. And yet the man had refused Ben's kind offers to sit down, to accept nourishment, to refresh himself. He remained standing tall and upright, nearly at attention, his jaw set, his face unmoving, his look straight forward, fixed on the stairs.
In a way, his posture reminded Ben of Juliet—Juliet when she was hiding behind that wall of impeccable manners, Juliet when she was afraid, Juliet when she was stalling. A rather uncomfortable similarity.
Then Juliet descended the stairs behind Hoss. Her face was a mask of composed politeness and mild interest, her posture graceful and sure, only a halting step now and then betrayed a sliver of discomfort. At the foot of the steps she enacted the Lady of the House with inbred ease: a short smile for their visitor, then a slight turn of her head to Ben and a lifted eyebrow in request of an introduction.
Ben was about to oblige, but Hansen beat him to it. "Ma'am," he said saluting. "I'm Captain Hansen. I'm here by order of Major General Schurz."
"You've come from Gettysburg?" She sounded surprised, curious, pleased.
"No, ma'am, I'm…well, I'm not authorised to tell you where I've been. I'm with the War Department. Secret mission, you understand?"
Juliet took two steps forward and came to a halt behind the blue chair. She laid her hands on the backrest and drummed her fingers once.
"Actually," she said, and her eyebrow rose. "I do not understand. Surely Mist—GeneralSchurz hasn't sent you here to tell us you're on a secret mission about which you cannot talk."
"Of course not." The captain shook his head for emphasis, but he didn't seem annoyed. "General Schurz sent me because he knew I'd pass near the Ponderosa in the course of my duties. I was his secretary before the war, and he trusted me to deliver…a message."
"A message, from General Schurz?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"But you did not come directly from the General?"
For the first time, the soldier averted his gaze from Juliet's eyes. "No. Major General Schurz sent me a telegram."
"But…" She frowned. "I'm afraid, Captain, I don't quite see why General Schurz wouldn't have sent a telegram to me rather than you if he wanted to tell—"
She choked on the last word, blinked a few times in quick succession, then, pressing her lips together, stared at the soldier. For a short moment, Ben saw pure and unshielded panic in her eyes, a flicker of hope, then dread, and then her armour was back up, and she had herself under control again. She straightened her shoulders, raised her chin, braced herself.
"If he wanted to tell me what?"
The captain shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable. "Maybe you better take a seat, ma'am."
Ben felt a shiver running down his spine.
Juliet's voice was imperious. She was scared, too. Shielding herself. "I'm very comfortable where I am, Captain."
"Yes, well, General Schurz didn't want you to get the news from the official announcements…" Hansen looked down at his feet. He grimaced, bit his lips, twisted his mouth, hunched his shoulders: there was nothing left of the military confidence he'd shown earlier. He took a deep breath before looking up again into Juliet's face. "Ma'am, it is to my deepest sorrow that I must inform you about your husband's demise."
Demise.Through the whooshing of blood in his ears, the rest of the captain's speech made it into Ben's numbing down brain only as fragments. "Second day of battle… mortally wounded…field hospital…gangrene …never regained consciousness..."
His vision blurred.
Mortally wounded.
Adam.
His son, his child, his Adam—dead. Fallen.
Mortally wounded.
Then he willed away the blackness, and the rushing in his ears, until he was able to hear the complete silence that had fallen. He saw the room again, too; the same old room with the same old fireplace, the same old rug before it, the same old settee, the same old clock beside the door. Everything looked the same. But how did it dare to look the same, when everything was different now, when everything was without Adamnow? Everything—and everyone.
He gazed at Hoss, took in his big strong son's forlorn face, felt despair radiating from his unmoving form; and then forced himself to look at his daughter-in-law.
Juliet still stood behind the blue chair, Adam's chair, her long pale fingers still on the backrest. Ben saw how her grip had tightened, how her knuckles had turned white, how her perfectly manicured fingernails dug into the faded material. Her face did not betray any emotion.
"Did you hear what I said, ma'am?" Captain Hansen asked carefully.
"I did." She gave him a small smile. "It was very considerate of General Schurz to send you, Captain, instead of a message. Please give him my thanks."
"Yes, ma'am."
She nodded, absentmindedly. Ben saw her eyes roaming the room, then her gaze falling on her hands. She released her grip on the backrest immediately and clasped them together. It looked as if she wanted to break her own fingers.
"What was the nature of my husband's wounds, Captain?"
"I am sorry, ma'am, the telegram didn't say it."
"Did he suffer a lot?"
"I…don't think so, knowing he wasn't conscious."
"Who was with him when he died?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
"Where was he buried?"
"In the Gettysburg cemetery, I believe."
"Is there a marker?"
"I don't—"
"What—"
"Now that's quite enough, I think." Ben stepped between Captain Hansen and Juliet. As much as he thought her questions were reasonable, as much as he wanted them answered himself, he also knew this had to wait for another time, and he didn't like the detached and rapid delivery of her interrogation
Juliet stared at him, and for the first time he discerned some emotion in her face: she was furious.
"I demand—" she started, but Ben interrupted her again.
"Not now. The captain has told us everything he knows, I believe."
Her face went blank again. Then the faint smile reappeared. "Oh, yes, certainly. I do apologise."
"There's no need for that, ma'am," Hansen said. "I understand."
That Hansen really understood her, Ben doubted. It had taken him the better part of two years to figure her out, and he was sure he had only scratched the tip of the iceberg.
The captain took his leave soon afterwards, once again politely declining any food or refreshments, or a bed for the night. In fact, he seemed eager to get away from the tense atmosphere—or perhaps he was just considerate enough to allow the family their privacy.
Ben saw the captain out, and remained on the front porch for some time after Hansen had ridden away, watching a large cloud as it moved slowly over the sky. Oh, Elizabeth, he's with you now. Tell him…No, not…not now. He couldn't…couldn't…just couldn't. There were no words right now. Not a single one.
He didn't want to talk, he didn't want to think, he didn't want to…he didn't want to go back into the great room, he didn't want to deal with her right now. Not with her stony face, not with her clipped words, not with her impeccable politeness, not with her stiff upper lip.
Not with her grief.
Especially not with her grief. He was barely able to cope with his own, and then there was the rest of the family, and they all needed him, they all relied on him when he only wanted to close his eyes and scream his wordless terror out into the world.
No, he didn't want to deal with Juliet now. He knew how it was to lose a spouse, oh, he knew about that. He knew how it hurt, he knew how it tore you apart, he knew how it left you numb and empty and void of...emotion. He shook his head. But all that was nothing, none, naught, nil...it was nothing at all compared to the hurt of losing a child. His son...
He felt the scream working its way from the bottom of his stomach up to his throat. He bit his lips, knowing once he'd let the roar out there wouldn't be an end to the all-consuming despair. He swallowed. Choked down the desperation; tears, cries, accusations, curses, sobs—all in one big gulp.
It seemed dealing with her would be easier than dealing with himself after all.
He found Juliet still standing behind the fortress of the blue chair, smiling faintly and looking at a point somewhere about four inches before her face. Hoss had moved to the fireplace. His back faced the room, and Ben saw his shoulders twitching while he beat his tightly clenched hand on his thigh.
Ben was torn about which of them needed him most. But the decision was taken from him when he made a step towards Juliet and reached out for her. Her eyes suddenly focused on him, her smile vanished, and she looked around in the room as if she just had been woken up from a bad dream. She lifted her chin imperiously, a gesture so familiar and yet so unsuitable and wrong, and heaved a deep breath.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," she announced formally. "I think I'll retire." She gave them a curt nod, then turned and stalked through the room and up the stairs, her posture straight, upright, and only a little bit stiffer than usual.
Ben watched her pivot at the middle landing, not once turning her head to look back. He heard her steps, steady, even, firm; heard her open the door to her and Adam's room, herroom now, more steps, and then the closing of the door: silent, deliberate, soft.
He wanted to follow her, but then there was Hoss's hand on his arm.
"I'll go," he said hoarsely. His face was determined, and nearly as composed as Juliet's. Never had he looked so much like his older brother—suddenly the resemblance was striking.
"Are you sure?"
Hoss nodded. "Besides, someone has to tell Joe."
Joe. Good Lord, he'd forgotten…
They went upstairs side by side, and Ben took as much support from Hoss's presence as he hoped he gave his now oldest son. At Joe's bedroom door they parted; Hoss headed for the room at the end of the corridor, and Ben, taking a deep breath, stepped into his youngest's room.
From the state his bed was in, Ben could tell Joe had tried and failed to get up. Several times, if Joe's flushed face and sweat-drenched nightshirt were an indication.
"Pa?"
Ben swallowed. How am I supposed to tell him…Lord, help me. He sat down on Joe's bed, struggling. There still were no words—would there ever be any?
Joe reached a shaking hand out. "Adam?" Less than a whisper, pleading.
All Ben could do was shake his head, and then open his arms and take Joe in as he threw himself at his father's chest; hold him, tight and secure, and not let go, not ever, never let go.
And every fibre of him wished he could have done the same to Adam.
At the other end of the corridor, Hoss still was standing in front of the closed door, breathing heavily in and out, in and out. Finally, he took heart and softly knocked at the door.
No reaction. Well, he hadn't really expected one. But it wouldn't stop him. He knocked again. Just a tad louder.
"No." Her voice sounded clear and strong, even through the door. She meant it.
"Juliet, it's me. Hoss."
"Go away."
He bit his lip. He could just walk away. He could. But he wouldn't. Couldn't, actually. No pretence: she needed him, he needed her. And so he took another deep breath and just opened the door and invaded her domain.
She was standing at the window, looking out while her hand was slowly rocking Henry's cradle. When she turned round, her face was still the same polite mask as before, her eyes still dry.
"I do believe I asked you to leave me alone." Her voice was void of impatience, of outrage, of indignation. She was merely stating a fact.
"We hafta talk."
"Talk? About what? There's nothing to talk about." Again, there was not a trace of anger, despite the harshness of her words.
"Juliet, you can't—"
"He is dead," she said. "Dead."
Hoss made a small choking noise.
"He promised to try and come home. He promised, and I trusted him. And now he's dead."
She looked down, stood completely still, her eyes fixed on the floor. Even her breathing became so slow and shallow that for a moment Hoss thought she was dead, too.
He closed the distance between them, and then, on sudden impulse, pulled her into an embrace. He held her to his chest, squeezed her nearly uncomfortably hard. Juliet didn't resist him, but she was stiff in his arms, tight and constricted. He softly caressed her back, trying to pull her closer, to break into her solitude—but to no avail: she didn't respond, she remained rigid and distant.
It hurt. It hurt him, and he was sure it hurt her, too. She was far away, in a place he couldn't reach her, in a place she didn't want to be reached. But he couldn't allow her that. Not now, when he needed her so much, and she needed something, someone...him.
Hoss slowly stroked up her back until his hand came to rest at the back of her head. With soft force and against her resistance, he pulled her head closer to his shoulder, heaved a deep shuddering breath, and then whispered softly, "Mylady?"
He felt her sobs more than heard them. She clung to him like a child, her face buried into his shoulder, her whole body finally pressed to his, boneless and heavy. And he held her tight, tighter than he ever had held a woman, ever dared to hold anyone, anchoring her and connecting her grief and his, and then he let go and wept, letting his tears flow as freely as she let hers.
They stayed together until late that night, talking very little, just sitting closely taking comfort from each other's presence. He left her when Henry demanded to be nursed, and went to bed knowing she would be all right.
It turned out he'd been wrong.
For the first time in weeks, he wasn't woken up earlier than intended by baby-cries the next morning. Instead, he was roused by his father, urgently shaking his shoulders and practically shouting at him, "She's gone!"
Yes, she was gone. She was gone, Henry was gone, some of their clothes were gone and—as a quick survey of the barn revealed—a buggy and a horse were gone, too.
There was no note that could have placated their racing thoughts. There was no hint as to where she could be heading. There was no person they could think of Juliet would turn to.
"Widow Hawkins," Joe finally ventured a guess when they conferred in his room after their frantic, unsuccessful search for any clues Juliet might have left. "We all know how much she likes her."
Pa shook his head. "No, she wouldn't have taken clothes with her."
And she wouldn't have left the house without letting anyone know, Hoss thought. But then, maybe she'd just forgotten that because she'd been in a hurry, or because she'd been too determined to get to wherever she wanted to go.
Determined to get to...wherever…. Hoss groaned. Oh Lord, now we got a real hair in the butter!
"I know where she's going."
Joe made an incredulous face. "Oh, really? No one knows what's going on in that woman. She's plain cra—"
"You hobble your lip, Joe." Hoss's voice was like a whip cord. The words were his, but the tone was sheer Adam.
Joe looked up, surprised first, then guilty. "Sorry," he muttered.
"Enough, you two." Pa's scolding was mild, frighteningly mild. And for the first time since the blowHoss studied him closely: he had aged overnight, the lines in his face deeper than ever, a weary tiredness edged into his features.
"You said you knew where Juliet might be?" Even Pa's voice sounded older than before.
Hoss nodded. "You heard her, Pa. She wants to know, she… She's gonna go to where she gets the answers."
"Gettysburg." A painful whisper, admitting resigned agreement.
Joe made a noise but, after a sharp glance from Hoss, kept his mouth shut. He was pulling a kite, though, but Hoss decided to let the snide grimace pass.
"Hoss, you have to prevent that," Pa said. "Go after her, and get her back. She can't—"
"Pa, you know there ain't no one keeping her from doing what she wants."
"Oh, but I can." Pa stood. "I'm going to the First International and freeze Adam's assets. She won't have the money to travel."
Hoss stared at him. "You can't do that. It's hers now."
"Only a small part of it. The most of it goes to—"
"Pa," Hoss interrupted. "Stop barkin' at a knot. You ain't wanta do that anyway, do ya?"
There was no answer, just a slumping in Pa's stance.
"Try as you might, Pa, you can't stop her if Juliet has put her mind to something." Hoss got up, put his hands on his father's shoulders and gently pushed him back down onto his chair. "You jest stay here with Joe. I'll go after Juliet."
"And you think you can stop her?"
"No. But I can look after her. Keep her safe."
"Do that. Do…whatever you must. Just make her understand this is still her home. Bring her back."
Hoss nodded. "Yessir. I promise."
Yessir. I promise.Hoss chewed on his words as he raced his horse to catch up with the stage coach Juliet had taken earlier that morning; the coach heading to Salt Lake City from where the trains went east.
He had no idea how she would receive him, he had no idea what would be waiting for him on the way east; and, most important of all, he had no idea how to keep his promise, how to make her understand that Adam wasn't the only thing that had made her a Cartwright.
ooOoo
So dear I love him, that with him all deaths I could endure, without him live no life.
~ John Milton, Paradise Lost
