I Carry Your Heart
Carole W.
Part 3
Chapter 9 ~ Here, Waiting
In the shattered door space she turned to look back at the ladder, obscured now by the strange shaft of light. Catherine felt no disquiet. And turning again to the light that beckoned her, she made her way toward love – toward him – deep and slow, resolute and firm of heart.
She was given a curious privacy and allowed to approach the living spaces unaddressed. Aware of the sentries passing her advance along on the pipes, hearing whispers, she called out, “It’s Catherine. Someone? Anyone! I could use a hand with my suitcase." She turned a corner, anticipating a younger greeter, and was surprised to find Mary leaning against the wall.
“Let me help you, dear. You’ve had quite a tramp and you must be tired from carrying.”
“Thank you,” Catherine said, releasing her bag to Mary’s grip. “I didn’t expect to see you. I figured Zach or even Samantha. Where is everyone?
“Word travels quickly down here and Father sent me to meet you first and tell you ...”
"Is something wrong?”
“No, no. Don’t worry. Vincent sent a message just a few hours ago. Pascal came straightaway with it. He and Mouse have ... completed their task and are on their way up and home. I’m guessing sometime tomorrow late afternoon, early evening at the latest, you'll see him.”
“Then tell me what?”
“Sweet child, I’m to tell you that Jamie has given us quite a thorough tongue-lashing, suggesting we have interfered in many ways. I’m to tell you, that we – all of us – are prepared to grant you and Vincent ... complete privacy ... until you or he tells us differently. I’ve prepared the guest chamber closest to his,” Mary said, with only the slightest quaver, “so you’ll have the space you need. Vincent has been so quiet for days now, so alone and adrift. He needs you close. I am not so old or so unseeing. I still hope ... I wish I could know for myself what binds the two of you.”
“When I started down, I was so sure, but now I’m a little afraid."
“I know, dear. I know.” Mary was quiet for the rest of the walk.
_______________
The guest chamber had been made special for her. There was a four-poster bed heaped with quilts, the topmost one, Catherine was sure, Mary’s handiwork. A bedside cabinet held fat, white, long-burning candles, a pitcher of water, a pottery glass. Two overstuffed, mismatched but tempting high-backed chairs flanked a small round table host to a bowl of shimmering marbles – all sizes and colors – as decoration. An ornate, silver cheval mirror stood to one corner, opposing a carved folding screen that hid a washstand and an old-fashioned beaten-copper tub. Soft, pale, braided rugs stopped the cold of the floors and a drum of fire warmed the space.
“Do you think you'll be comfortable here?” Mary asked. “Can you think of anything you need?”
“Courage and patience,” Catherine replied.
“Yes, waiting requires a great deal of fortitude. It can be a bit ... cold.”
“I’d like to talk to Father, if that’s all right.”
“I’ll tell him to expect you. Get settled. Come down to the dining room for a late supper. I know there are all sorts of delicacies hidden away. William has been working up new recipes this week, though I must tell you, some of them are unusually spicy. Anyway, Father stays up quite late and likes nothing better than an into-the-wee-hours chat.”
Catherine hugged Mary tightly and long. With a deep sigh, Mary stepped out of the embrace, holding Catherine at arm’s length.
“I’ll have to tell you the thing Jamie whispered in my ear after her ... lecture. She leaned close to me and said ‘don’t be a dope.’”
Catherine clapped her hands to her mouth, failing to hold back a snort.
“I know,” Mary said. “I laughed too. It seemed absurd at the time, but I’ve spent every minute of every waking hour since trying to understand just what she meant." Mary patted her shoulder. “I’ll leave you, but you know where to find me. All right now?”
Catherine nodded and soon she was alone.
What time is it? As keyed up as she felt, how would she ever sleep? She unpacked her suitcase, distributing her toiletries and clothes to the proper places. There were soft dresses in the wardrobe and extra layers folded in a dresser drawer – comfortable, scented with lavender and vanilla. Compared to her office wear, these were the clothes of a princess.
________________
Father sat deep in thought in his big chair, slumped a bit, elbows on the arms and hands clasped, his head tilted against the high, upholstered back. In truth, he was thinking not about Vincent for a change nor about Catherine nor Jamie nor Mouse nor any of the myriad people Below.
He was thinking of Margaret.
He remembered the summer dress she wore when he first saw her, felt again the warmth of the breeze that carried her perfume to him. It was the scent of such exquisite promise. Lately, he’d felt the wounds of his heart healing over, a delicate and tentative healing to be sure, but nevertheless, a change. Their last, sweet seven days together had brought with them the blissful freedom of forgiveness.
He’d not had what he wanted, for which he still truly longed – the comfort of a life companion. He’d steeped himself first in anger and bitterness and then, after Vincent, an intense sense of purpose, almost priest-like in his care of the strange and wonderful baby. Oh, the mistakes he’d made as Father, as a father. No matter that he would counsel any other parent that, with love at the root of thought and deed, such mistakes are always forgivable, always rightable ...
In affairs of the heart? Father knew himself to be ... disheartened.
Vincent had told him a dozen times – such decisions were not his to make. Yet he'd opined and railed, perversely harassing Vincent with negativity. He’d been wrong. Catherine was not Margaret. He had been stubbornly resistant to her, dear God, even jealous of her, jealous of Vincent’s having ...
Catherine surprised him with a kiss to his brow, her approach unnoticed, deep as he was within a tangled memory. He startled. “Oh, goodness! Catherine! I was, apparently ... elsewhere and you are apparently ... here.”
She smoothed back his hair, an intimate gesture, and leaned in close to him. “Yes, I am here. And Father, I don’t plan to leave.”
“Catherine, dear Catherine.” Father took her hand in both of his. “Sit with me for a while, please. There are things I want to say to you.”
___
She sat opposite Father, silent, taking in all the now-familiar sights of the library. So often, she’d felt a bit less confident than she preferred here, even a bit young. Father was a very powerful presence, a man who had accomplished the extraordinary, but also a man who distrusted her. Perhaps she’d distrusted herself as well.
He was having trouble voicing his thoughts, making several attempts to begin a sentence, stopping after each drawn-in breath without a word. “Catherine," he said at last, "I have to tell you what Jamie called me and I have to tell you that I agree with her.”
“And that was ...?”
“She called me an old fart.”
She could not hold back her smile or next, a snicker, and then Father joined her, laughing out loud.
_____________
As Catherine made her way back to her chamber, she felt she’d claimed a prize, the bright brass ring. She’d heard the stories she’d dreamed of hearing – stories of a toddler Vincent, of the curious boy, the serious student. She often wished for photographs, but Father could, as Vincent always said, paint clear, colorful word pictures. It was at least a late-hours chat and one that soothed Catherine into believing she would sleep after all, but upon reaching her chamber, she paused in the doorway, then turned and walked deeper into the tunnel.
His chamber ... the physical place of her own transformation. Healed here, changed here. She stepped further in. How silent the room was! Candles were lit – another kindness of Mary’s, no doubt. Those lighting the stained glass glimmered in their muted fashion.
Hmmm. What is behind that, anyway?
She had time and solitude now to explore and question this place. She stood in the middle of the chamber desperately pulled. Vincent’s writing table called to her, heaped with books marked in mid-read, his journal in plain sight, closed on a pen. Rolled maps like giant straws filled an urn and pages of drawings and notes were weighted with various treasures cast off above. It took all her will to refrain from devouring his written words, even the less private ones, wanting so to know him at his core.
She opened his wardrobe and was awash in his familiar scent. Lifting the sleeve of a favorite overshirt to her face, she found it redolent of ice and fire, of cold mineral waters and wafting candle smoke underscored by some unnamed spice and musk. Her throat tightened and she swallowed against lost time. How could she ever have doubted?
The big bed drew her and she smoothed the pillows where he lay his head, imagining the dreams devised here by a young boy, the caprice of the teenager, the self-examination of the man. Longing overtook her, the desire to crawl under the covers and curl into the embrasure left by his weight nearly irresistible.
“Be well, Vincent.” She coupled her thoughts to his. “You carry my heart.”
***
Chapter 10 ~ His Return
Catherine dreamt long into morning, lulled by the rhythmic tapping and the distant whisper of a timeless wind and by the even darkness mitigated by a single, flickering candle. Her dreams were more image than story and comforted her with sensations of warmth and safety. Hidden so deeply away, a truly separate peace enfolded her.
______________________
For Mouse and Vincent, the day dawned early. Vincent awoke first, rolling onto his back from his curled position of sleep. He raised his forearm across his eyes, his dreams of the night not as soothing as he would have wished.
In his, he had walked for miles through unfamiliar streets above until he reached the end of the city. A massive boat was anchored in the harbor, made not of wood but of twisted thorny branches, black and wet. Wherever he touched, the thorns grew and arched toward him. From deep within the recesses of the boat, he could hear a faint music, alternating sweet and discordant, and he felt compelled to climb. Instead he stepped back, legs in wide stance, his arms behind his back, one hand grasping the other wrist.
“A difficult study for neither Jung nor Adler,” Vincent chastised himself. He pulled to a sitting position, stood and stretched away the stiffness of a night in a bedroll. Mouse still slept and Vincent smiled at the manifestation of his dreams – a syncopated finger-tapping on the rocky floor.
“Mouse ... Mouse, time to get up.” Vincent gave him a gentle shake.
“One more gizmo ... need one more,” Mouse muttered.
“Mouse.” Vincent repeated the nudge.
Mouse opened his eyes and smiled, each day a wondrous surprise party. “Morning already? Kinda hungry.”
Vincent chuckled. “We have what remains. Let’s eat it up."
“Yeah, won’t have to carry it outside.”
Vincent tilted his head in silent question.
“You know. Carry it inside instead!” Mouse laughed at his joke and scrambled from his covers.
Vincent took his breakfast and the book he’d been reading closer to the lantern. Mouse followed and asked, “What story is that?”
He showed him the cover. "Adam Bede.”
“Who?”
“George Eliot.”
“Poetry?”
“No.”
“Don’t always get poetry. Words left out.”
Vincent laughed. “Yes. Words left out, Mouse.”
“Vincent ... read to me ... like when I was little?”
“This is not a children’s story.”
“Not a child.”
“All right. I left off here last evening. Adam is going to Snowfield to see Dinah after being apart many weeks”
___________________________________________________________________
Chapter 54: The Meeting on the Hill
You perceive how it was: Adam was hungering for the sight of Dinah, and when that sort of hunger reaches a certain stage, a lover is likely to still it though he may have to put his future in pawn....
She was much longer coming than he expected. He waited an hour at least watching for her and thinking of her, while the afternoon shadows lengthened and the light grew softer. At last he saw the little black figure coming from between the grey houses and gradually approaching the foot of the hill...
What was she thinking of as she wound up the hill? Perhaps she had found complete repose without him, and had ceased to feel any need of his love. On the verge of a decision we all tremble: hope pauses with fluttering wings.
But now at last she was very near, and Adam rose from the stone wall...with the fine instinct of a lover, he felt that it would be best for her to hear his voice before she saw him. He came within three paces of her and then said, “Dinah!” She started without looking round, as if she connected the sound with no place. “Dinah!” Adam said again ...
This second time she looked round. What a look of yearning love it was that the mild grey eyes turned on the strong dark–eyed man! She did not start again at the sight of him; she said nothing, but moved towards him so that his arm could clasp her round.
And they walked on so in silence, while the warm tears fell. Adam was content, and said nothing. It was Dinah who spoke first.
“Adam,” she said, my soul is so knit to yours that it is but a divided life I live without you. And this moment, now you are with me, and I feel that our hearts are filled with the same love. I have a fulness of strength to bear and do our heavenly Father's Will that I had lost before.”
Adam paused and looked into her sincere eyes.
“Then we'll never part any more, Dinah, till death parts us.”
And they kissed each other with a deep joy.
What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined for life – to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting?”
__________________________________________________________________
Vincent paused, closed the book and brought it to his forehead with two gentle taps.
“What? You didn’t get the story?”
“I understood the words.”
“Me too. She goes away. She comes back. He’s glad to see her. Things work out.”
“Yes. That is the story.”
“What’s wrong then, Vincent? You look ... bothered.”
“Just thinking.”
“I’m bothered,” Mouse said.
“What about?”
“Father. Mad at me.”
“No one is mad at you, Mouse. That I promise.”
“You're supposed to tell me what to do.”
“What guidance do you seek?”
“You know. The Talk. Heard Father ... giving instructions,” Mouse said, rolling his eyes.
“Which talk shall I give you?”
“Heard ‘em all already. Kinda like the birds and bees one best.” Mouse wiggled his eyebrows up and down.
“I think you can revisit that one on your own time.”
Mouse stared at the cavern roof, then over at Vincent.
“Got one question.”
“And that is?”
“What do I do?”
“About what, Mouse?”
“About ... you know ... Jamie.” Mouse whispered her name, hunching his shoulders as if bracing for a blow.
“You must follow your heart.”
Mouse drifted into puzzled thought. “Sometimes heart runs fast. Sometimes heart stops. Follow which one?”
Vincent smiled and clapped Mouse twice on the shoulder, but he had no other response. They rose and gathered their camp into packs, leaving behind no trace of their presence.
“Just to make sure.” Mouse was busy with straps of one bag, opening it to inspect the treasures they’d carried up from deeper down.
“Sparkly.” He sat back on his heels. “You think they’ll like?”
“They will like, Mouse.”
“Nervous.”
“I know.”
“You?”
“I'm not sure.” Vincent sighed.
“Not sure?”
“Not sure what I am.”
_____________
Catherine pulled herself from the deepest sleep she’d known in weeks, roused by a rustling sound in the passageway. “Who's there? You can come in!”
Jamie appeared in doorway “It was my idea to give you all this privacy, but I wanted to talk to you.”
“Come sit.” Catherine patted the covers and settled against her pillows.
“How do you manage to look so pretty in the mornings?” Jamie asked from her perch at the foot of the bed.
“Aren’t you sweet. Usually I head straight for the shower first thing without looking in a mirror. I’m a bear without coffee too.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here, um, mostly. I can bring hot water for the tub, or I can take you down to the bathing chambers. We could get a coffee on the way and some breakfast, if you'd like.”
“Oh, I'd really love a shower," said Catherine, intrigued beyond imagining in the destination. "So what’s the rest of why you’re here?”
“I don’t know. I’m a little nervous, I guess. Sometime today ...”
“Yes, sometime today. I know just how you feel.”
“You do?” Jamie was incredulous. “Huh. Imagine that.”
“I’m just a girl too, Jamie. With dreams and wishes”
“I told Father to, ahh, kind of ... stick it.”
“Yes, he told me. Old Fart.”
“Is he mad?”
“No. He agrees with you!”
“Huh! Imagine that.”
Catherine changed from her nightgown, brushed her teeth at her washstand and followed Jamie out and down. William was in fine form, his face flushed from the heat of baking. There were fresh scones heaped on a platter and a large French press full of dark coffee waiting on the sideboard. People milled about, some packing lunches for an outing. Several heads were bent over plans for a new technique to channel the naturally warmed waterway Mouse had discovered. It was as normal and familiar as her office cafeteria. Though welcomed with surprise, she soon felt as if it were her custom to breakfast here and filled a mug twice with coffee before she and Jamie continued on.
The bathing chambers ...
A warren of narrow tunnels ended in intimate hollows, each with a gentle fall of warm waters into a pool. Jamie explained the order of things – that a white towel hung outside a doorway signaled occupancy. Father and Mary had private chambers further down the passage and there was a communal pool for soaking.
“Vincent’s?” Catherine asked, aiming for nonchalance.
“Vincent’s isn’t here with these.” Jamie eyed Catherine with a flash of pity. “You get to his down a stairway behind the stained glass in his chamber, through that hidden passage. You didn’t know that?”
Catherine pressed her hand to the hollow of her throat where she could feel her heartbeat and a flush of heat. She needed a shower. And when she emerged, Jamie was waiting in the antechamber, finger-combing her wet hair.
“What will you do today, Catherine?”
“Explore some. Wait, I suppose. What about you?”
“I can’t wait around. I’ll go nuts if I do. It’s Sunday, but I’m thinking I’ll go down to the water project site and do some work. Besides, it won’t surprise me one bit if Mouse and I don’t speak to each other for days. He’ll probably take one look at me and disappear.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Catherine said, tucking a dark, damp strand of hair behind Jamie’s ear.
______________
She changed her clothes again, this time into a soft dress Mary had provided. Then she reached into the wardrobe for her gift, emerging with the box cradled in both hands.
What to do with it ...
She unwrapped it and, after a few moments of silent consideration, carried it down the passageway. In Vincent’s chamber, still so very silent and empty, she placed it in the middle of his writing desk. Stepping back, two fingers to her lips, she shook her head, muttering aloud. “I can’t leave it there with his journal! He’ll think I snooped.”
She moved it to his dresser, the card under the base. “This is so cluttered. He’ll never see it!” She moved it to his bed, nestling it in the pillows.
“Aacck! Not there!”
His chair. Yes. She set it on the seat and walked away, but twenty feet down the passage, she turned back. “It should be wrapped!”
In her room, she returned it to the box of crinkly paper shreds. Tying it with some jute string she found in the bedside table drawer, she meant it this time. Wrapped. She carried it back to Vincent’s room, settling the gift and its card in the corner of his big chair. She fussed with the position of it, pulling the seat out, turning it to an angle, pushing it in until, with a groan, she slumped over the back of the difficult chair, her hands grasping the finials, her forehead to the fabric.
“Just leave it, Chandler. Cast your fate to ... to the chamber of the winds,” she said in a voice caught between a whimper and a laugh.
She turned then, sparked by memory and with curiosity. What was beyond the stained glass? Just as she began to sidle over, thinking she might discover the secret passage, she heard noises – a clatter of footsteps. She darted from the doorway and trotted down the tunnel.
Safe in her chamber, Catherine slowed her breathing and searched her dresser-top for her watch. It was almost surreal, the idea of time below. Above, the day had a structure meted out in segments, schedules, time clocks. Here, time had a forward and backward flow to it, as if today and tomorrow and yesterday dissolved into their original matrix, measureless and mystical. Still, the Sunday afternoon concert in the park would begin at a particular hour and she wanted to hear it.
------------
Their private place to listen ... to be together ... in the circle of his arms, against his strong shoulder ... her face turned close to the pulse of his throat ... hours of beautiful music for the two of them alone ...
These days, they kept a bundle of quilts and pillows to lessen the cold and cushion the hard floor. Catherine pulled these out when she arrived, but it felt strange to be there alone. And so she paced … from the light to the shadows to the light again … until the orchestra finished with tuning and the concertgoers quieted. For a moment, the music was birdsong and breeze and when the violins swelled with the opening measures, she sank into the cushions. With her knees drawn up and her arms folded, pillowing her head, she lost herself in music.
“Catherine.” Vincent called her name. He leaned against the tunnel wall a few feet down the passage, cloaked in shadow.
“Vincent." She echoed his careful tone. "You knew where to find me?”
He bowed his head, his answer just audible over the strings. “Always.”
“It's difficult to surprise you,” Catherine whispered.
“That, Catherine ... is inaccurate.” A few measures floated by in their silence. “Albinoni?”
“Yes, the Adagio and then, after that, Bach – the Air in D and the Concerto for Two Violins.”
“Beautiful.”
“It is.”
“I meant ... you, Catherine.”
He stood apart from her under the grate, his face turned to the light and sound. His stillness settled her jittery heart, but he was so terribly quiet ...
“Won’t you sit with me?" She held out her hand. "I've missed you so."
[1] George Eliot. Adam Bede. Chapter 54. The Meeting on the Hill. 1859.
Next: Part 4