Chapter 11 #2
“I had nothing to do with it. It was your father’s wish.” I knew there was no point in saying that; he had already made up his mind. But I felt I needed to say so anyway, in my own defense.
“And you have shut up my sister in a prison!”
It was true; I could not deny it. But she preferred that prison to any alternative, and her own father and I had concluded that it was far better for her there than in the kind of place her mother was kept.
And, at any rate, Bertha’s mind had become a much worse prison than I could ever have concocted for her. I did not respond.
He ranted longer than I would have thought I could bear, and I listened wordlessly, until his fury abated and he gave me a final black glare and stormed out of the house. Hearing him leave, Sukey came in and refreshed my tea. “Are you all right, sir? Sometimes I think they all—”
“It’s enough,” I said. “We do not need to discuss it.”
She nodded.
We never again spoke of that episode. Sometimes I think they all are mad was what I knew she had started to say. I could not dispute it, but if I had let her finish, I would have had to.
* * *
I thought I had seen the last of Richard, but I should have known better. That same evening I returned to Valley View and was astonished to find him seated on the veranda, waiting for me, no doubt.
“We are not finished,” he said as I mounted the steps. “You have no right to take over my inheritance.”
“You will receive one-half; the other half is your sister’s. I am only the executor.”
“It is I who should be in charge!” he shouted. He had been drinking, more than he should, I thought.
“It was your father’s decision,” I said.
“You drove him to it! You turned him against me!”
It seemed nothing I could say would dissuade him, and, unable to unleash his pique anymore on me, he rose abruptly and strode into the house, slamming the door behind him.
I remained on the veranda, giving him time to cool down, but within a few minutes he returned, a box under his arm.
I could hardly believe what he was proposing.
Surely even Richard was not that foolish. Or stupid.
He made a great show of opening the box, displaying inside the two dueling pistols.
“Richard,” I said.
“Now,” he said. “Now we will settle it.”
“Have you ever in your life fought a duel before?” I asked.
“Have you?”
“This is foolish,” I said.
“Foolish? Foolish? You think I am a fool to demand my own rights?”
“Where did you get those?” I asked.
That stopped him for a moment. He had not expected to be interrogated. “They were my father’s,” he said in a voice suddenly less agitated.
“Have you ever fought a duel?” I asked again. “Do you know how to load and cock them?” I knew, but only in theory, for Mr. Lincoln had drilled us on all kinds of weapons, but I had never used the knowledge, for in the mounted militia we had only sabers.
He shoved the box toward me. “Take your choice,” he said.
“I will not fight a duel with you.”
“Coward!”
“Richard. If you should kill me, who will look after your sister? Will you take care of her from now on?”
“She is your wife.”
“If you kill me,” I repeated, “she will be my widow. You will be her only relative. Are you ready for that responsibility?” I remembered that he had tried to claim that custodianship before, but I did not think he would have ever been actually willing to do such a thing.
But, in response, he boasted: “I would take it gladly.”
“But don’t we need seconds?” I asked. “Don’t we need to make arrangements to meet at dawn?” That was what always happened in books.
He stood there in silence until I understood that he was trying to figure out how to get out of such a rash act, and I took a step toward him.
“It does neither of us any good to kill the other,” I said.
“No one gains by that, Bertha least of all. Your father would not have wanted us to end up this way.”
“My father,” he said, nearly mournfully. “My father. He gave me up for you.”
“Your father loved you. As he loved Bertha. He wanted only to see the two of you provided for.”
He stared at me.
“Is that not right?” I pushed. I could have said more.
I could have asked if that was not why Jonas and my father had conspired to bring me to Jamaica, why I was sent at the age of thirteen to apprentice in a manufactory, for even in those days, Jonas had known that his son would never truly want to be a planter, that he would always rather someone else do the work.
“It was…,” he started, but then he paused, and I could not tell what was in his eyes. “My father thought I was worthless,” he said at last.
“Your father loved you. That is why he tried to make sure you and Bertha would still have Valley View for the rest of your lives.”
The opened box was still in his arms. “He came to love you more,” he said petulantly.
“He gave me the responsibility; he gave you the living, because you were his son. Without ties, simply because he loved you.”
I saw the resignation come into his face then, and I pitied him. And envied him.