He was very quiet in the subsequent weeks. It was upsetting to see him so consistently unhappy. A week or two of depression, I was used to, but this was another thing entirely.
It was a matter I brought up to James a fortnight later. He was finally finishing up the fence, and I had ventured out to chat with him after hours. I helped him hold up the last few boards as he hammered.
"That violin meant everything to him. I don't care much for that sort of thing, and I do not even know the bloke very well, but I was aware of its worth." His words were compassionate, but his manner was nonchalant, dismissive.
"I have never seen him so down. He is not even in a bad temper. He is just merely silent and sparse now in his appearances in any other area in the house save his room," I replied.
"Give him time, and he'll soon be right again."
"I am not so sure," I murmured, securing a board against a post using my side.
He stuck a nail in his mouth while marking a spot on the wood. I tried to move the lantern into a better spot with my foot but only succeeded in pushing it off-balance. James relocated it to a desired position without acknowledging my effort.
"Have you talked to him?" he asked.
"Why would I?"
"He is your friend, is he not?"
I tried to read his words to see if they were deeper than they seemed. His face was neutral, giving no indication that he was trying to imply anything out of the ordinary.
"Yes, I suppose. He is not the easiest person to talk to sometimes, though."
"Yes, I can imagine. Could you hold it up a bit higher?"
I moved the wood up for him absently, my mind still on other matters.
"He'll buy a new violin. I am sure he can find another of good quality."
James grunted, hammering into the board. It vibrated against my side, and it took all my strength not to drop it.
"I think it had some sentimental value though," he continued.
"Does it?"
He did not answer; giving the nail one last whack, he gestured for me to step back. I moved away carefully, afraid that the whole thing would come crashing down. When it did not, James gave an exuberant exclamation and wiped his brow. "Bloody thing is finally done."
"You should be proud."
He settled down onto the grass, the light from the lantern casting his shadow eerily on the brand-new fence.
"Well, I cannot take all the credit can I?" He gestured at me appreciatively.
I curtsied and then gathered my skirt to sit next to him. He pulled out a flask and took a swig. I shook my head politely when he offered it to me.
"Sorry, that was not very gentlemanly of me."
"Do not be sorry."
He leaned his elbows on his knees and peered into the darkness. "I think it belonged to his grandfather. His mother's father."
"Oh."
"He died a few years ago. He was close to him."
"How did he die?"
"It's not spoken of openly, obviously, but he took his own life."
"How horrible. I wonder why."
James shrugged. "I can't fathom why. He had security and a loving wife. By all accounts, he had everything that would make a man happy.'
"That is not a given, James. Money does not bring happiness. Marriage does not necessarily bring happiness either."
"It should, if you love each other." He looked at me intensely. "That actually brings me to something that I have been wanting to speak to you about."
Panic rose in me though I knew it was unfair to him. "What time is it?"
"What?" He looked confused by my question. A small part of me hoped that he noticed my avoidance; maybe it would discourage him.
"The time. I think I have been out here too long."
"I am not sure. We are probably already into the morning. Why?"
I gathered my skirt and rose clumsily, "Oh, dear. They lock the doors at eleven. I do not want to wake the master."
I started to rush away, leaving him there with his words unfinished, as I hoped they would remain.
Crossing to the back I tested the handle of the porch door and cursed under my breath. I did not have to check the sitting room doors or front way to know that they were also soundly secured for the night.
I knew that there was really only one thing I could do if I did not want the lady or master of the house aware of my late hours.
I wandered around to the side of the house and counted the windows. Finding the desired one, I searched around the dank fringe of grass surrounding the pathway and found a small round pebble.
I contemplated for just a moment before reaching my arm back to hurl it in direction of the second-story window. Surprisingly, it reached the desired target and made a small ting on the glass. I waited for a moment before grasping around for another object to toss. As I was bending down, I heard a click from above and looked up to see the window panes opening outward. A few seconds later, a tousled head poked out, squinting down at me.
"Mary? What in the world are you doing out there?" His voice was clipped, irritated.
"I have been locked out, sir."
He stared at me for a moment, the darkness somehow making his eyes even more startlingly noticeable. They were looking at me coldly.
"It is two in the morning, Mary."
I felt it best not to respond. He looked at me for a moment. "What would happen if I said no?" he asked.
That option had not occurred to me, and I clenched my teeth in irritation. "Do not even think of that, sir. I need to be let in immediately. It is very cold and a true gentleman would oblige as quickly as possible."
A smile appeared and then vanished, "I have never laid any claim to being a gentleman. First, tell me what you are doing up so late?"
My fists balled up at his stubbornness, "Does it matter so? You are up too."
He smirked, "True, I am up, but I am up in my own bedchamber, not wandering around in the backyard."
"Just let me in. Please." I tried to look cold, and his chivalry took over. Sighing loudly, he brought his head back in and closed the window softly.
I jogged back to the rear entryway and waited for him. I knew he was taking his time because he was angry with me, but I never doubted he was coming.
After an unendurably long time, the door creaked open, and I slipped inside to the relative warmth of the kitchen.
He stood glaring at me, looking only slightly sleepy. Fully dressed and still booted, I wondered what he had been doing up this late.
"Thank you." I curtsied.
He continued to glare, "Do not thank me." He strode to the counter, his back still stiff. "Would you like some tea?" he asked.
I opened my mouth to decline, feeling the need to retire, but changed my mind at the thought of sitting with him for a bit. I pulled out a chair as he set the tea kettle onto the fire.
"I did not wake you?" I prodded softly.
Striking a match on the counter, he lit a cigarette before settling down next to me and resting his arms on the table. "No. I was up reading."
I observed his profile. "I heard your violin was a gift from your grandfather?" I blurted.
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "James has been gossiping again?"
I started to protest, but he cut me off, "Quite all right. Most people do anyway - gossip, that is."
"What was he like?"
He shrugged, "He was a complicated man. Melancholy, extremely erudite. He was artistic, always composing."
"Sounds very much like you."
He gave me an inscrutable look. "I certainly hope not. He hung himself with his own belt."
We were still for a heavy moment before I found my voice, sounding weak to my own ears, "Why?"
"He was sad," he remarked flatly, looking as though it were the most evident thing in the world. I suppose it was.
"You don't know what made him feel that way?" I asked and noticed the tightening of his jaw. I seemed to be saying all the wrong things to him.
"No. And we weren't so much alike. He was an artist, a poet, a composer, great in all the things I've always lacked."
"I disagree. You lack in nothing, sir. I think you merely are too harsh with yourself."
"Yes, well, the only activity I was adequate in is now lost to me."
"Your father should not have broken your violin. It was a petty thing to do."
"Petty things are his métier." He sounded cavalier, but I noticed he inhaled deeper on his smoke. "If I can cross him any way; I bless myself every way."
"Pardon?"
He stubbed out his cigarette and stood to receive the tea kettle. "I was quoting Shakespeare."
"Some you have not read to me?"
He frowned at me as he poured the hot water into my cup and over the tea leaves. "No, I hadn't. Not yet anyway." He streamed some of the amber liquid into his own cup, not reacting to my tone. A smile tugged at his mouth, "I'm going to confess to you, I played a small part in a production of Hamlet in London once."
He wandered to pillage the leftover tortes from the night before. I'd wrapped them in parchment paper so that he could tuck in when he wanted to. I put my cup down before drinking, shocked by this new development. "You've acted before?"
He brought a finger up to his lips, letting me know it was a secret. "I tried my hand at it a few times when I was bored with everyday life. You should not look so surprised. Just now you said that you believed that I had a hidden artistic side. I was not being entirely facetious that morning with my father. I could make my way striding the boards of the London stage." His eyes grew pensive for a moment as he regarded me. "What happened to your father?"
I fiddled with my cup, "He died at work. I don't know what he did; I was too young to really understand what was happening."
"What did your mother do?" he asked softly.
I sipped daintily, though my hands vibrated with sudden nervousness. He was staring at me too intently. "My father left her a little money, and we traveled around, doing odd jobs. I'm actually quite ill at ease staying in one place," I supplied with a self-conscious laugh. He did not smile, not willing to humour me. He continued to watch, his eyes reflecting a deep commiseration that seemed strangely at home there.
"So what happened?"
I shrugged, "Money ran out."
He fell silent at that. "Are you cold?" he finally asked, ignoring our last conversation. He popped a shabbily squared bit of chocolate into his mouth.
"A tad."
He didn't have a coat to offer me so he merely smiled sympathetically and swallowed. "You shouldn't be out so late. Or at least bring a coat with you when you go off to build fences with handsome men."
"How did-"
He smirked at me, "You have dust here." He reached a hand to my face, his fingers, rough and calloused with activity, brushing against the line of my jaw, and he swiped at something only he could see. I let my eyes flutter closed, letting out a contented sigh that he noticed. His fingers stilled but stayed pressed faintly against my skin. His hand strayed away eventually, though I could sense it as it lingered over my shoulder, finally descending back to its rightful place next to his teacup.
"Were you helping with the fence?" he asked.
"Yes, one of the posts we put in last week finally gave out."
"Finally?"
"We knew when we dug it that it was temporary. The rain would make it unstable. We merely needed it to stay up for Jane's party."
"So you knew it would eventually fall?" he sounded odd as if the idea was infinitely more exciting than it was.
I nodded slowly, confused by his action.
He chuckled and leaned back in his chair, deep in thought for a moment.
"What is it?" I pressed.
"Nothing. A hypothesis that is easily tested." He chuckled again and then waved off the topic. "Do you remember your father?" he asked
"A little," I answered, surprised by the shifts in mood, "He used to carry me on his shoulders, spinning me around until we were dizzy. Then he'd drop me down on the chair or the divan."
He drew on his cigarette, pushing his cup around with his free hand, the one that had only moments ago flittered across my cheek delicately. "That sounds exciting."
"It was. Once he missed, and I received a pretty good knock to the head, but I forgave him. We never told mum." I smiled absently at the memory.
"Why did your mother not marry again?"
"She was able, but she wouldn't. We'd roam from town to town and she sometimes worked night and day, but she wouldn't think of marrying someone else. I don't think she could love anyone else."
"Are you angry at her for that?"
I contemplated, though I didn't really need to. "No, I envy her. She was able to marry the man she loved. I do not think I'll be afforded that luxury."
He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "Depends on who you love."
"Love shouldn't work that way." My voice was taut.
He stubbed out his cigarette, "But it does." He looked me in the eyes, his own grey and tempestuous. "You're a bright girl. Any man would be lucky to have you, Mary." He waved his hand airily, "You are a lily among the thorny weeds; a mare in the chariots of Pharaoh."
"Is that Shakespeare?"
He laughed. "The Bible, Mary."
My cheeks burned with embarrassment. To smooth over my blunder, I said, "You don't have to do that."
He frowned, genuinely confused. "Do what?"
"Try to make me feel better. " He opened his mouth to respond, but I wouldn't let him. "I wake up some days, and my life isn't so bad, considering. But other days…" I looked up at him, wanting him now to interrupt me; to stop me from confiding in him. His eyes prompted me, though, and I rambled on as he listened patiently. "There was this older woman back in London; she'd draw pictures for people. You'd see her walking around with a bag of charcoal sticks and old tattered paper. She only received a shilling for each drawing, even though she drew more beautifully than anyone else I'd ever seen.
"I never thought anything of it when I'd see her with her things out sketching someone, sitting on the kerb. It was her life, you know? But once, she offered to draw me…and she told me about her past, as older people enjoy doing, and I think she just liked having someone who would listen to her. She used to be an actress and then she fell in love with a doctor. His family detested her, and they disowned him. He lost his mind a few years into their marriage, and she had to take care of him. They were both shunned from society - she'd fallen so far because of things she had no control over. She had nothing but a few drawings and a broken man at home.
"I think it was the first I realized what I'd been feeling all those years because I could see it in her eyes. She was trapped and lost and so was I. It was the first time I ever realized that it was much easier to fall than to rise up. I was thirteen years old, and my life was already over, all I had to look forward to was poverty or death . . . just like Violet."
He anticipated tears; I could tell by the way his eyes searched my face. But I shed none. His hand hovered over mine. "I'm sure that's not true."
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound ungrateful. Your family has been wonderful." I stood hastily, feeling embarrassed. I ignored his gentle urging to sit back down and escaped.