Chapter 8: The Mustard Seed
What I saw of the building was minimal at best. Still, the details of its facade dominate my mind as I walk to where Father might be found. It looks like almost every other building in town. The Bird Cage, on the other hand, is a location that could never be duplicated. It is not so far from The Beech Nut, just a couple of short blocks. I decide that I will survey that location for any trace of Marigold or Arthur before fulfilling my obligations as a son. Father does not deserve my comfort tonight, but his pull on my heart cannot be denied. I simply wish to speak with him about what I suspect. It may make little difference in the outcome, but I must try. I feel torn down the middle. If I could, I would further that tear and tend to Father and Marigold at the same time. I would, if only I knew how. The Bird Cage is normally combusting with motion and noise at this hour. I am alarmed to see it lying dormant at the end of the road. I find no one, no movement, no light. The place is a ghost town.
"She must have arrived where he intended. God willing," I think aloud before proceeding into the darkness.
Unlike the theatre, the bar is just as lively as ever. I ask around, inquiring for Father and receiving numerous versions of the same answer. None have seen him on this night. Not even Angelique, who would have been my next lead. There are times when he meanders about town, just looking for a fight. Other times, he slinks pitifully into the harbor and bribes the guards to allow him to sleep on one of his ships. I should accept that what he does now is out of my hands. I should accept that Marigold is at the mercy of Arthur Tarleton and what happens next relies very little on what I decide to do now. I stay for a drink, my eyes locked on the door. I am halfway through my second glass when I see a hooded figure sprinting down the other side of the street. I drop my gratuity at the counter and move outside to gain a better look. Whoever this person is, they are lost and judging by their frantic movements- distraught. The nearer I draw, the more reason I have to believe that there is a woman beneath that cloak. I can see two elegantly crafted rings on her fingers, one on each hand and a pair of pretty shoes flashing velvet from beneath her fluttering housecoat.
"Mother?" I call out. She rotates, the silken edges of her attire spinning along with her. "Mother, is that you?"
"Oh, thank God!" As she approaches, the wind blows back her hood and I see that she has tears in her eyes. "You must come quickly, my son. There is no time to explain."
I follow, my heart thundering in my chest. From over her breathing and the clapping of our feet against the cobblestones, I can almost hear her heart pounding, too. We may number two, but in this moment, we are a stampede. Wild and unhinged. I do not ask what we are running towards. Perhaps I am frightened of what I might hear. Perhaps I already know. That is what it is, fear. It is fear that pulls us past the gates and into the yard, through the garden and to the other side of the house. I can see him standing on the other side of the centermost balcony. His bare feet teeter where the floor drops off and becomes midair. From where we stand, I can see that the thick rope around his neck is bound to the stone railing that his legs are backed up against. It was not me, but Mother who witnessed his death last time. The trauma, the grief was potent enough to end her.
I hold her near and turn her head away. "Go inside, now. You go inside and I will talk him down." At first, she resists and cries out to him. But Father refuses to speak. "I'm coming up! Don't you dare move! Mother, come." I lead her indoors, to the staircase and call for Hortensia to watch over her. "Don't you worry," I say, fearing the emptiness of my own voice, my own promise, "I will fix this."
To say that I am relieved to see him still standing might not be entirely true. I suppose that is why my words to him are so cruel. Cruelty, as he taught me, is easy. Cruelty mimics strength. "What the hell are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm going down with a bloody sinking ship in the most dignified way that I can! If you and Harriet and hell, even Orlando were smart enough, you would do the same and spare yourself the humiliation of losing everything."
"There is no dignity in such a gesture. None. The dignified course of action would be to face your fears of poverty and-" I stop myself. "Your sons are grown now. You needn't do everything on your own. There is dignity in asking for help. Ask me and I will oblige. Swallow your pride and ask! Think of Mother!"
"I've done all that I can for her," he cries.
I wring my hands. They are sweaty and cold and numb. I am terrified. Terrified, but also furious. I want so badly to scream at him and call out how cowardly he is being. But there is enough fury burning within him for the two of us. One ounce more and it will send him tumbling over the edge. "Indeed. You have done so much for all of us. But I haven't done enough for you. Let me help you. Isn't that what you wanted?" I close my eyes, ridding them of a wave of gathering tears. "That's why you led me into the woods and helped me find the mirror, isn't it? If it is saving that you want, then give me your hand. I'll help you turn." The instant that his fingers leave the railing, I grab hold of them and, as I suggested, help him turn until we are facing one another.
His eyes are lowered, his body is quivering furiously. "You are wrong," he mutters, looking at our clasped hands. "I want you to take care of her."
"Father, look at me. Please. Why won't you look at your son?"
"Take care of her," he says again, raising his head.
His gaze follows but before our eyes can meet, he startles abruptly. Terror, pure terror overcomes him and a quiet gasp which is somehow more piercing than the most bloodcurdling of screams passes through his lips. I turn, expecting to see the devil himself at the other side of the balcony. What I see, instead is the two of us reflected on an empty window, followed by myself only. It was his own reflection that startled him so. The man in the glass pried his hands from my own and send him plummeting towards the ground. The noose did its job, breaking his fall and his neck all at once several meters from the lawn. He dangles now below me, limp and inanimate as an unmanned marionette. I drop to my knees, clasping the knot that he tied. Within those fibers, I can still feel the last reverberations of his life force. The windowed door behind me swings open and with it, my self-restraint escapes. I weep. For his loss, certainly, but for Mother, most of all as she stands before me with her hand clamped tightly over her mouth.
"Oh, Julius, my love! What have you done?" She pleas, frozen in her tracks. I move in to embrace her and she dashes past me, bending over the stony edge, reaching out to her lifeless husband more and more with every word. "What have you done? What have you done?! Bring him back to me, William! I know you can! You know how to meddle with time! Don't you?"
I pull her in, holding her so closely that my limbs begin to shake. "I don't. Even if I did, he would chose this path again. I've lived through his death before. I cannot subject you to this again. I will not."
"What about before?" She sobs. "To when we were young? Before he became so distant, so cruel? I want more time with him! Another lifetime! It can be done, can it not?" She examines my face, helplessly searching for the comfort of an answer. I shut myself down, abandoning her without taking a single step. She shakes me several times before collapsing in my arms, broken only by her sudden and immobilizing grief.
...
The days leading up to his burial pass by, performing their excruciatingly silent dance. I spend nearly every hour watching Mother from afar. She clings to her garden and has taken to collecting flowers and leaves from every growing thing there. She presses them between the pages of her favorite books. I know what she is doing. She is collecting mementoes, little pieces of this place to remind her of the estate after it is seized. Father's will is all that I expected it might be. The cost of his funeral alone could keep us here for the remainder of the year. I comb through each extravagant detail, scrapping what I can. Orlando is of little help. In fact, he has no desire on being present and so, those final wishes are left between Father and myself.
"Take care of her, indeed," I spit, glancing at the hack-job that I have given the list of expenses. "Naturally, your dying words would contradict what you truly want. Damned hypocrite!" I rub my eyes. A deep soreness lies within them. I blink it out as best I can and return to the piles of parchment before me, shivering. Father's study always was the coldest room in the house. Cold and dark, like the bottom of a lake. I continue on with my act of forgery and factor in the two ships that have yet to sell. Even then, it all comes up short. I am deadlocked. Cornered, with no where else to turn. "So, this is how it felt to be you, Father. Wrapped so tightly in a facade that you bleed yourself dry."
"The rebel who killed you," a low voice says from behind a distant curtain, "what did he call himself?"
I jump to my feet, storm across the room and throw the curtain aside. Behind it, stands my father's spirit, just as he appeared to me in the woods. "What concern is that of yours?"
"The Ghost. Strange, is it not? You live in a ghost story, with no end in sight."
"Why have you come here tonight?"
He points to the desk. "So much for dignity. Forging my signature, rewriting my words to serve your own needs. Do you truly have such frail faith in me?""
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do."
With one of his typical sour glares, he begins seizing every letter, every sloppy calculation done by my own hand and thrusts them all into the fireplace. I dive after them, reaching for each one and stepping on them to extinguish the flames. He grabs me by the collar. Fighting against him is like pushing back at the fiercest winds of the strongest gale. "What am I to you?" He shouts. "A monster? People speak of monsters all the time, as though they have seen them in real life. Nobody has ever seen one. You know why? We create them in our mind. They are born of ignorance. Of sheer misunderstanding"
"I understand you perfectly, Father. You are petty and you are weak. Just as I was."
"You are in no position to talk down to me. You are here by my design. I called you back here. Now I am forced to watch you pawing helplessly at the soil for that little mustard seed who trailed behind you on a breeze. She will not survive this. You will be a resentful father, just as I was to you," a smile, nearly amiable in nature, illuminates his face. "I am here tonight because I know you need my help."
"And what help is that?"
"I need you to forget about these documents. There is another will. One that I kept secret and which bears a seal that must remain unbroken. You must deliver it to my lawyer in the morning. Will you do this for me?"
"Why should I?" I am nearly stunned. Nearly, but not quite. Father is quick to the punch, always the first to defend his good name. Now, when met with my resistance, he becomes meek and pitiful. "You had plenty of time to get your affairs in order. Including this little errand. What is your angle?"
"Her. And her alone," he touches the side of his desk and lifts the latch on what appears to be a secret drawer. Inside, there is a large, sealed note. "I did not give your mother the care the she needed when I was alive. Death has a strange way of altering one's priorities."
"It is hardly a priority if you hide it away, Father."
He looks at the document, "Sell me short, you always have. I admit that it was wrong of me to keep my one scrap of charity behind lock and key."
"Charity?"
"This cottage has been in my possession for twenty years. I could have sold it. God knows, I came close to doing so a time or two. I could not. You see, it never really felt as though it was my own. It was hers and she never even knew. All of the paperwork is in that bundle. Including my own wishes to be buried on that property, so that I might be near her for the remainder of her days."
I reach and he places the papers in my outstretched hand. "That is why you brought me here?"
"One of many reasons. It will all make sense in good time."
"You should have treated her better. In life. Not only in death."
He gives me a quick, lopsided grin, "That's pretty tall talk coming from the ghost of The Butcher. We all have our regrets and shortcomings. Those pains do not cease once our lives are wicked out. They are ours to live with for eternity. Will you help me? Or better yet, will you help your mother?"
"I shall."
...
Never in my life did I imagine that such a humble grave would hold him. Yet somehow, here I stand. Every memory that I have of his regal processional and the divine statue of his likelihood sculpted to stand guard over his bones, have been wiped clean. Now, he lies alongside a broken fence. Deep within the jungle of an overgrown side yard. Mother and I tend to the weeds as best we can. Then we prune the shrubs and hedges that are worth salvaging. From the road and even from the garden gate, no man alive would know that they are looking at a burial site. She wanders the grounds, lost in melancholy.Only time will tell if his final gesture was merciful or if she requires distance from that little wooden cross. Unlike the lawn and garden, the cottage has not fallen into disrepair. It is cozy, even lovely at certain hours of the day. Despite its uncomfortable proximity to Father, I do believe that she could find happiness here. The only question which remains is: When?
She stays behind as I head into town. The streets are teeming with noise and motion. Ships bob in the deep water which shines gold in the midday sun. I am here on a simple errand. Namely, for a thimble to replace the one that Mother lost during the move. I never performed such a task, not even as a boy. We had servants on hand who tended to our every need. Even the mending of popped buttons and torn seams. A lady such as Mother had little need for thimbles and thread. Or so I thought. I find the vendor and he overcharges me. He must see my weariness with the world if not, my ignorance of his trade. Right as the exchange is made, coin for thimble, cheap metal for cheap metal, my attention is snatched away, influenced by the surrounding mob.
Three women strut, arm-in-arm down the sidewalk. Their very presence causes every head to turn towards them. Most of the stir is bewilderment, the rest is a potent combination of delight and disgust. They are wearing corsets with capped sleeves sewn onto them, haphazardly and skirts that rise mid-calf. No stockings are worn, no petticoat can be seen. This attire would pass as modest in the 21st century. However, in this day and age, they are as good as naked. While those around me react to their exposed legs and arms, my gaze is drawn elsewhere, to the large poodle emblem on the right side of their skirts. They proceed, unshaken towards the cart that I am standing beside. The tallest one, the redhead, waves at me and I find myself immediately embarrassed.
"Good afternoon, Miss Rose," I say to Lolly, nodding to each of her friends, perusing their faces. The poodle skirts have given me hope that one of them might be my wife in disguise. Indeed, I had seen each of these women before. But none were her. "Where ever did you find such fetching garments?"
"Our new seamstress!" Replies the shortest and youngest lady with a wide smile. She is blithe and pretty with dimpled cheeks and yellow hair. From a distance, I might have even mistaken her for my beautiful one. "She is a genius! An absolute wiz!" She begins swooshing her skirt to and fro, halted only by Lolly slapping the top of the poor girl's head with her parasol. "Ow!"
"Hush, Ione! A lady never reveals her secrets!" Lolly hisses before contorting her scowl into the loveliest smile she can muster. She extends her hand, quietly begging for me to give it a kiss. "Good day, William."
I follow through with the painfully straight-laced formalities. "You have a new seamstress?"
"Suddenly interested in the affairs of our little theatre, now, are we? Yes, we do."
"From the colonies, of all places!" The third woman says, a Scottish lass like my mother, by the sounds of it.
"From the colonies, you say?!" I look at each of them, my joy surpassing them all. "That is the best news I've heard in days!"
"Greer, Ione, I'm afraid you will have to excuse dear William. His poor mind must have been addled by the disappointment of recent events. I was saddened to hear about Julius. The Beech Nut hardly seems itself without him. How is your mother taking it?"
"About what you would expect."
Ione and Greer look at one another from across Lolly's overstuffed corset. "Nothing that a day at the theatre won't cure!" They say in chorus.
"Hush, you ignorant oafs! You have no idea what this poor man has been through. And here you are, trying to sell him tickets! The nerve!"
"I thought that was what we were doing!" Greer winks at me, twisting a lock of her auburn hair around her right pinky.
I look at them, clearly on an entirely different planet. "Sorry. Tickets?"
"Perhaps one of us fortunate ladies can escort the handsome man to the box office? And by this, of course, I mean myself!"
"Don't make me fight you on this, Ione" Greer holds out her fists, "no where in the script does it say that Hermia is supposed to have a shiner that even the greasiest grease paint can't cover! Lolly, you best run along tell her understudy the good news!"
I look to Lolly, massaging the deepest crease imaginable from my brow. "I don't know what to say. Only that I do not require the box office. The costume shop on the other hand... do excuse me." I make for the theatre as fast as my legs can carry me.
The noisy footfalls made by Lolly's heeled shoes fill my ears. "William, don't! I know what you are thinking, but it is not what it seems!"
I halt, abruptly. "You know, don't you? You know that she is there and now you are trying to keep her from me! What is her name?"
She catches her breath, "I spoke with her just this morning. Her name is exactly what you want it to be, but she is not."
"How do you know?"
"I saw her reflection that night. She looks like Marigold, talks like her, acts like her. But you have to trust me. You are only setting yourself up for disappointment!"
"I don't have time for this!"
The last few blocks are traveled alone and through that remaining stretch of thatched roofs and cobbled alleyways, doubt pursues me. I have been troubled, not only by my last "encounter" with Arthur Tarleton, but by the voice within me. I want a happy reunion for us. I want her to run into my arms the way that she always has, regardless of how few minutes we have spent apart. I want to introduce her to Mother and return home knowing that my time here was well-spent. Somehow, I know that it will not be so simple.
I swing open the stage door and fly down a steep flight of stairs into the dank underbelly of The Bird Cage. The lowermost hallway is dark, so dark that its entire existence is spent in the golden glow of candlelight. I follow it down as far as it goes, past every dressing room and towards the costume shop. I hear her from behind the door, humming gently to herself. Casting every ounce of fear and doubt aside, I call out her name. Her humming stops and she appears beneath the doorframe, holding a badly stained garment in one hand and a bar of brown, milled soap in the other. I say her name again, only this time as a quiet breath of relief.
"Yes?" She comes closer, donning an expression identical to the one that she had the night we met by the schoolhouse.
"I know you." Silence. Piercing, painful silence. I feel my heart dip lower in my chest as I clench my sweating palms. I may know her, but she does not know me.
A/N: I had a little disruption in my schedule and had to post this chapter a day earlier than intended. Chapter 9 will be posted next Monday, as usual. Thank you again to everyone who is reading this story- I hope you are all having a safe, happy and healthy holiday season! =-)