The Mark of Merlin

CHAPTER SEVEN

The details of living got us through the rest of the evening. I washed the dishes while the two men chopped wood and replenished fireplaces and wood buckets throughout the house. Thanks to a fall survey course in English literature, I cleverly bethought me of heating bricks to warm the beds.

The wind had risen higher with nightfall and the snow was swirling and howling around the Point where occasionally whitecapped waves lunged to the top of the protective dunes. Within the house, despite its chilling discussions, there was warmth and companionship.

By the time the chores had been done and Merlin let out for a brief run, we were all ready to turn in for the night. Perhaps as much to be alone with our various thoughts as to sleep. Maybe the others felt, as I did, that all should sleep on what had been said and suspected.

My room was warm and the wrapped hot brick did take the clammy chill off the sheets. With Merlin stretched comfortingly beside me, I should have slept. I think I did but it was a restless slumber and shallow, for any crackling of the fire or sudden whine of the wind at the shutters roused me.

I was awake when I heard the minute clink of the latch moving on its track. Merlin raised his head briefly but his body did not tense. He didn’t even mutter a growl. He put his head back down, sighed, and slept. I could feel the cold from the hallway and, through slitted eyes, I saw a figure cross the room. The dying fire lit the gargoyle side of the major’s face as he softly stepped across the floor. He bent over the fire and quietly added more logs. He turned back. I closed my eyes tightly, then remembered to relax the muscles of my face. I could feel a difference in air pressure as he stood right by my bed. I could feel Merlin turn his head and I felt motion through Merlin’s body against mine as the major scratched the shepherd’s muzzle. Then lightly, so gently I couldn’t be sure whether it was his fingers or just the air current preceding the withdrawal of his hand, I felt him touch my hair, much as I had his the previous night.

When he had left, I wondered if he were mocking me. Had he seen my eyes a trifle open? Had he been awake last night when I had caressed him in similar fashion? Caress, I suddenly admitted to myself, was the proper word. Because caress implies tenderness, affection, desire. I could chide myself all the way from Orleans to Boston on any cold, uncomfortable baggage car, yet not escape the fact that the major was more man that I had been next to in a long time and I was - to be blunt - man-hungry. These years when I should have been dating, dancing, having fun with boys were empty. The boys were embattled in far places. I remained in chaste loneliness. By virtue of a life as an army child, I understood the world of men better than most girls, but I understood it as a child and not as a woman. The major, wounded and embittered, was a magnificently romantic figure. This whole crazy situation of his being my guardian was romantick in the Gothick tradition. Ridiculous when my father must have known exactly .

My train of thought stopped with an icy jerk. The realization that my father had known exactly what he was doing in assigning me to Laird’s guardianship dawned on me. He’d’ve known that the major’s type was attractive to me. He’d had plenty of opportunity to judge what kind of man I liked, or what kind of man he’d prefer me to like. I had, after all, dated regularly on most of our posts after I was fourteen. Well, Dad had provided me with his choice and thrown us together by the simple expedient of making the Chosen my guardian, in case he shouldn’t be around to introduce us. Of course, Dad was a fatalist so he would have done just as he had to make sure Regan Laird and I met. Had he anticipated the fact that I would divine his complicity? Probably. Dad never underestimated my intelligence, which is why I worked so bloody hard at getting good marks. He’d insisted on a proper good education even to the point of putting me in day schools when the post facilities were inadequate. And he’d insisted I try for Radcliffe. Always aim high, he’d said.

I gave Dad full marks for a mighty shrewd campaign. I wondered if the major had tumbled to Dad’s strategy. Probably not. Dad kept his cards hidden. He’d always made money playing poker even against Turtle. But now I understood why the major had been deluded about my sex. Dad had intended to imply that I was a boy so the major would be easily gulled into the guardian routine.

Wait a moment. Had Dad had a precognition of his death? No, I dismissed that notion as foreign to his character. A cautious soldier always leaves a bolt-hole.

Silly tears came to my eyes, tears of longing and gratitude for this silly, magnificent gesture. I turned my head into my pillow and sobbed bitterly for his loss, for the utter wastefulness of his manner of dying. Merlin shifted his body, nuzzling me with ready sympathy. I buried my head in his silky ruff and he endured my rough embrace and sobs with devoted patience. I finally cried myself into an exhausted sleep.

I drifted back to consciousness in a curious state of mind. I had evidently argued with myself while sleeping and I had the silliest impression I was picking up the argument at a point where I had dropped off to sleep. I was saying to myself, as consciousness increased, that if Dad had never underestimated my intelligence, he had overestimated my physical charms. What guarantee had I that I had any appeal for the major? Now there, I found myself commenting, was the crux of the matter. It was all very well for Dad to slap the white man’s burden on Major Regan Laird but did he intend to leave the seducing to me? And did my father feel I was up to such carryings-on?

For one thing, I was twenty and the major must be fifteen or so years my senior. If not more. He was a damned good-looking man, or would be again, when the surgeons at Walter Reed had a go at him. The good Major Laird might have certain plans in mind that did not include five feet two inches, one hundred and a half pounds of curly-haired imp. Imp was what I had serf-styled myself from the day I had regretfully decided at sixteen that I was stuck down at five feet two inches. The major was a well-built six foot one. The angle of elevation made his height deceptive. It was a pet peeve of mine to see tall men guiding around little girls. It seemed a waste, particularly when I considered some of my lengthy friends forced to wear flats so as not to tower above their dates. Of course, once this fool war got finished up, taller men might reappear on the scene. In the meantime, it was close to indecent for five foot two to run around under the waistband of six foot one. That was approximately eleven inches going to waste, right there and, as we are forever being told, don’t waste manpower. This put me in mind of a very obscene joke I’d overheard. Which put me in a very good frame of mind. Which reminded me of how I had fallen asleep.

My grief over my father had taken a curious shift somewhere during the subconscious moments of the night. Perhaps I had admitted that Dad had forever passed beyond recall. Perhaps I had let go the trappings of grief to take up the banner of just retribution and vengeance. Or perhaps time, in its inevitable way, had moved me past the initial plateau of sorrow. Turtle Bailey’s appearance had completed my acceptance, allowing me the vital catharsis of tears coupled with pleasanter reminders.

My remorse over things omitted and committed in relation to Dad had been painfully keen. The letters I had not found time to write that would have reached him in a moment of desolation. The meals I had skimped those last months together; the evenings I had elected not to spend in his company. All the petty things that rise to plague the mourner were now done with.

It would be ridiculous to chalk up my new spirit to one isolated incident. It seemed plain silly to waste time analyzing the whys and wherefores. Just accept the blessing graciously and get yourself out of bed, I told myself.

I looked at my watch.

“Ten o’clock!” I exclaimed, sitting up. With some astonishment I realized Merlin had left. My exploring hand told me it must have been some time ago for the impression his body had made was cold.

A shutter, its fastening broken or loosened by the continual pounding of the storm winds, swung leisurely ajar. The day was fair with that curious brilliance of reflected snow. Someone had mended the fire again for new logs burned warmly on the grate.

I dragged clean clothes out of my suitcase, loath to leave the warmth of the bed. I managed to dress under the bedclothes, no mean feat. I rued the fact that slacks and pullovers are not exactly siren togs but I could not fancy any man enjoying the embrace of an iced-maiden, however chic in her dress. Presuming, of course, I could entice the major within my skinny arms in the first place.

I stared at my image in the mirror over the dresser. There had been no overnight physical metamorphosis. I sighed. The color in my cheeks was only the product of the nippy air and the freckles stood out like beauty marks. The dark circles under my green eyes had receded by perhaps a quarter of an inch. I brushed my black hair vigorously, hoping it might condescend to fluff out. Instead, the friction in the cold air only made it lie flatter to my skull. I looked more like Jeanne d’Arc than Helen of Troy. I gave up and decided to put my trust in good cooking, hoping that the major was so suitably indoctrinated into infantryitis as to remember that every army moves on its stomach.

“Forward, Joan,” I urged and opened my door with a dramatic flourish.

The major, about to knock, teetered precariously in an effort not to knock on my forehead and to recapture his balance in order not to spill the coffee in his hand.

“And what does Joan have to do with the morning?” he asked, a droll expression in his eyes.

“I have absolutely no idea,” I lied. “How sweet of you!” I took the coffee from him gratefully.

He was dressed in an assortment of heavy clothing, widewale corduroy trousers tucked into infantry boots, a well-worn red blanket-coat, sweater cuffs showing at the wrists which indicated he wore several layers under the jacket, a muffler, and a hunting hat with earflaps turned down. Heavy gloves were stuffed in one pocket.

“Don’t tell me mine is the only fire in the house?” I asked, indicating his outdoor costume. He reached over my shoulder, reminding me again of the difference in our heights, and closed the door to my bedroom.

“No. There are several islands against the sub-zero weather,” he assured me. “But we won’t keep them long if Bailey and I don’t bring home some more wood. I neglected to plan on so many houseguests, to say nothing of that storm, when I last chopped up a woodpile.”

“One of these years we must put in central heating,” I said and suppressed the astonishment I felt at hearing myself so possessively impudent.

He hesitated a brief instant, giving me a measuring look before he smiled politely. “Yes, we must.” There was the briefest lingering on the pronoun.

With what poise I could muster after that gaffe, I glided to the stairs and hurried to the kitchen, hoping the devil was not at my heels.

Merlin was having words with Turtle when I entered from the hall. Merlin was extremely pleased with himself, his tail pumping violently while he barked fit to clear the chimneys of soot. Turtle, too, was dressed for heavy weather work. He needed the padding to roughhouse with Merlin. The kitchen chairs had been knocked askew and the heavy wood bucket had been pushed back under the kitchen sink.

“Good for you, Turtle,” I cheered as Merlin made a lunge which Turtle dodged expertly. “He had to give up that sort of play with me when he was eight months old or there would have been crushed Carlysle to spoon up from the floor. And he loves to fight.”

“This dog has ‘an insufficiently aggressive temperament’?” asked Regan Laird dryly, hands on his hips, watching the dog’s snarling face.

Turtle looked up just long enough to be distracted. Merlin took advantage and sank his teeth into the sergeant’s forearm.

“You overgrown son of a bitch,” Turtle roared. “Leggo.” Merlin promptly obliged.

The sergeant rubbed his forearm thoughtfully, frowning at the dog with new respect. He had felt that bite even through the layers of clothing.

I was laughing too hard to be sympathetic although I did hand signal Merlin to sit. He didn’t want to but he did.

Glancing at the major, I caught my breath, my laughter trailing off. He had turned up his jacket collar, preparatory to braving the cold outside, and only his good profile showed. I abruptly gave up all hope that I could ever interest him in little old Little Bit.

“Ready, Major?” Turtle picked up an ax from the kitchen table, the edge gleaming with newly sharpened steel. “Keep the coffee hot, Bit,” he enjoined me and the two started out.

Merlin whined expectantly, rocking back and forth as he reluctantly maintained the sit. I waved him out.

“Wait a minute. I want him here with you,” the major objected, extending his leg across Merlin’s path. The shepherd stopped, whining plaintively.

“Oh, for Pete’s sweet suffering sake,” I exclaimed in exasperation. “And what panzer division are you expecting today?” I waved out the window at the snow-fast land.

The major deliberated, shrugged, and slapped the side of his leg to encourage Merlin. The three stamped out through the back. As they lurched up the slippery slope behind the house into the scrubby beach pines, I saw a sled trailing behind the major. High slatted sides had been fastened on to make it an excellent wood carrier on either snow or sand. Once it must have been young Regan’s and I wondered what kind of a boy he’d been.

“Maxim two,” I muttered to myself, “the infantry moves on its belly and they will be mighty hungry ‘footsojers’ when they get back probably on their bellies.”

I brought the meat in from the freezing porch and eyed it. I might just as well pop it into the oven now. Eventually it would have to thaw. I found a pan and, a little dismayed at the size and solidity of the meat, put it in the oven, closed the door, and crossed my fingers.

I remembered seeing some dried apples so I put them to soak and got out piecrust makings. Oh, but it was nice to have butter to cook with again.

When I put the pie in, there was the barest hint of tan on the meat. Fork testing proved that approximately one thirty-second of an inch had thawed. This was a hopeful sign. I fed the stove a few sticks of wood and did dishes. It then occurred to me that men were men in blizzard and in war. I went to find what I could do with the state of the major’s socks, et cetera.

This little job was taken care of and distributed neatly, festooning the bathroom, after a solid hour of scrubbing and rinsing in the tub. The pie had cooked perhaps a trifle too crisply brown but it smelled heavenly. The meat was doing far better than I expected so I fed the stove again and went to straighten up the study.

One of the nicer things about a good fire is that it burns. It burns dust, cigarette butts, and dirt. By the time I had finished, the major’s room actually looked respectable. I had also changed the sheets after an intensive recon for a linen closet. I was coming down the stairs with fresh towels when I saw what must have been a snow mirage. 1 covered my eyes with my hand for a moment and looked out again.

The figure plodding down the road was no mirage. It also walked like an infantryman. I caught the glint of metal at the shoulder, but the face was hunched in the protection of the collar, chin tucked down so that I couldn’t distinguish any features.

The more I looked the more apprehensive I became. It was ridiculous to assume the man was looking for any other house but this. All the others were boarded up tightly and no one would survive in this weather without a fire. Our chimneys were all blooming with smoke.

The stranger was no one I knew. Not even Warren. Not that you’d have caught Warren walking very far. Certainly not in weather like this. Warren loudly bemoaned the fact officers no longer rode thoroughbred steeds into battle, spurring valiantly into the fray, saber held high. He was a frustrated Jeb Stuartite. However, he had accepted the jeep as an endurable alternative to walking.

No, this wasn’t Warren but it was someone looking for the major. I deeply regretted my generosity with Merlin. I’d have faced my mythical panzer unit with no qualms with that shepherd at my side.

The man had come abreast of the house now. He looked towards it, examining the sloping approach. He made a decision and started up, removing his hands from his pockets as the tricky footing required additional balance. He slipped and went down on one knee. As he got to his feet I saw his face for the first time. He was no one I knew but his face, not handsome like the major’s, was attractive and there was an openness in the exasperated determination on his face that I liked.

I threw back the bolts on the front door and pulled it open.

“May I help you?” I asked, conscious of the triteness of that remark.

He looked up, startled, grinned broadly as he brushed snow off his legs.

“You sure can, Mrs. Laird,” he agreed warmly with a trace of a southern accent in his tone. “You are Mrs. Laird, aren’t you?” he asked with concern when he saw the startled expression on my face.

“No!” I said flatly, wondering did I look that old in the light.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but this is Major Regan Laird’s house. Or did I take the wrong turn?” and he looked over his shoulder at the road in dismay.

“No, this is the right house.”

He was almost to the front door now, and the ground under the drifts was even. He got up to the windswept front stoep and stamped the snow off his boots and trousers.

“Actually, while I do want to see the major, I was told that his ward, James Murdock, would be here.”

“That’s right.”

“I served with the lad’s father in France,” he said quietly, “and I wanted to see him.”

“That does you credit,” I said, gesturing at the drifts and trying not to sound sarcastic.

He regarded me with a disconcerting directness in his clear light-green eyes.

“May I come in? I’d hate to cool the house off,” and, at my invitation, he pushed the door wider and stepped in.

“There’s not an appreciable difference in this part of the house,” I explained, suddenly aware of the load of towels in my arms. “Follow me, Lieutenant ?”

“DeLord, Robert DeLord, ma’am.”

The towels fell in a mosaic on the floor as I turned to stare at h im.