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The Standing Stone on the Moor
Beth said, ‘I was sent to school and educated to be a gentlewoman. At one time I wished very much to be a teacher. But I had to return and now I do not know, if I had the freedom, that I would take it. Home is …’ she sought for the right words, ‘… so powerful a draw,’ she concluded. ‘But …’ she did not know how to explain what she wanted to say, how the heartstrings that tied her to Tall Chimneys felt sometimes like restraints that she must fight against. That this home—no matter how secure or comfortable it might be—felt like a prison. That she was capable, was ready for so much more. And that this contradiction caused her, sometimes, to feel both restless and afraid.
She lifted her gaze to his, and it felt that even though she had not expressed the heart of her dichotomy, he had understood it.
He said, ‘Indeed. But not so powerful that one would remain to die. Whether that be a physical death, or an emotional one. Either way, the instinct to live is stronger.’
Beth thought about Tall Chimneys as it lay below them in the quiet hollow; its stately chimneys, its patient pride, its watchful waiting silence. ‘I think, if I had to leave here, I might die,’ she said, very low, ‘but sometimes I think I will die if I don’t.’
The look of empathy that crossed his features was intense, a mirroring of her own tormented soul, and Beth felt the great balm that comes from being seen and understood. But then, with an inrush of compassion and eyes full of guilty sorrow she said, ‘How thoughtless and cruel you must think me. When you have been torn from your home and have no idea of when—or if—you might return. You must think about it, in its neglected state. Your childhood memories, I suppose, are all there, and you left behind the ones you loved.’
‘Oh no,’ he assured her, allowing his eyes to travel to where Aoife and Dónall sat across the fire. ‘I brought away the ones I love, to save them. They … they could not withstand it. Could not watch their neighbours starve, sicken and die. The ravening wolf of hunger took many forms, Betsey.’ He had used her familiar name, the one that made her feel like a child, but Beth did not care; they were so aligned in spirit and like-mindedness that there was no space for nicety between them. ‘You would not conceive the ways people will prey on those who are desperate. Aoife is not constituted for hardship,’ he went on, ‘and Dónall is too …’ he groped for the word, but it evaded him. ‘Life is confusing enough for him. But for them, I would have stayed. Oh!’ He turned back to face her, and his eyes were alight with passion. ‘I understand you when you speak of the power of home. My roots were deep in the soil, as yours are, and had I been by myself I believe I could have endured any hardship for the sake of that patch of ground that was mine and mine alone. No landlord could take it from me, and I had not mortgaged it, as so many had. But the land, Betsey, was poisoned, and anything that grew was foul. While I might have scratched a meagre living for myself, I could not feed three and so I tore myself from it as a tree is torn from the ground, as that stone there,’ he motioned to the standing stone, which was a monolith of shadow now, for the sun had set and night had come, ‘as that stone was ripped from where it belonged.’ His voice broke, and he pressed his hand to his eyes.
‘I am sorry. I am sorry,’ cried Beth, sick at heart.
He reached out and took her hand and held it tightly, and they sat side by side in the glow from the fire, speaking no more, until at last her head drooped and rested upon his shoulder.
The night slipped around, over and past her. She was conscious of low voices, of the lilt of the harp as it played a haunting air, of the snap of the fire and the crackle of sparks as they rose into the night sky. Then even that remote consciousness left her, and she slept.
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