Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [56]
She liked Samuel Ellison very much. Was it for himself or because he reminded her of everything that had been good in Edward, and of a past which was so much less threatening, less dangerous to her safety, her self-esteem, to keeping the ideas and values she had grown accustomed to?
Samuel was talking to her, his face puckered with concern, perhaps because he knew she was not really listening.
“. . . all about land,” he was saying. “You see, Indians don’t see land as we do, to be owned by one individual or another. They hold it in common to the tribe, to hunt, to live on and to preserve. We didn’t understand their way of life and we didn’t want to. They didn’t understand ours. Their tragedy was that they believed us when we said we would feed and protect them in return for allowing us to settle.”
“You didn’t?” she asked, knowing the answer already from his face.
“Some would have.” He was not looking at her but somewhere into the distance of his memory. “But more moved west, and then more again. Once we saw the rich land we were greedy to keep it, put fences around it, and let no one else in. The story of the Indians is a tale of one tragedy after another.”
Caroline did not interrupt as he recounted the betrayal of the Modoc tribe. She did not know whether Mrs. Ellison was listening or not. She sat with her black eyes half closed, her mouth thin and narrow, but whether it was the Indian Wars which she disapproved of, or Samuel Ellison, or something else altogether, it was impossible to say.
Caroline was startled, and deeply moved, to see tears on Samuel’s cheeks. Without thinking she stretched out her hand and touched him, but she said nothing. Words would have been pointless, a mark of failure to understand, an attempt to communicate the incommunicable.
He smiled. “I’m sorry. That really wasn’t a teatime story. I forgot myself.”
“This is not an ordinary teatime call,” Caroline said instinctively. “If one cannot speak to one’s family of things that matter, then who can one speak to? Should it be strangers, so we don’t have to think of it again, or live with those who know what we have said and felt?”
Mariah Ellison ached to agree, the words throbbed inside her, but fear held them in. It would be too much, too precipitate. Once out they could not be withdrawn, and they might give her away.
Samuel smiled. “Of course not,” he answered Caroline. “But I do speak too much.”
“It is customary in England to talk of less personal things,” Mrs. Ellison said with emphasis. “Not to disturb people, or cause them embarrassment or distress. Teatime is supposed to be pleasant, a small social interlude in the day.”
Samuel looked uncomfortable. It was the first time Caroline had seen him disconcerted, and she felt instantly protective.
“And criticism of other people’s behavior or remarks is an excellent thing to avoid,” she said sharply.
“As is family unpleasantness,” the old lady retorted. “Disrespect,” she went on. “Or any form of unseemly behavior, overfamiliarity or clumsiness.” She did not look at Samuel but at Caroline. “It makes people wish they had not come, and desire to leave as soon as they decently may.”
Samuel glanced from one to the other of them uncertainly.
Caroline did not know what to say. Even for Mrs. Ellison this was extraordinary behavior.
The old lady cleared her throat. She was sitting rigidly upright, her shoulders so tight they strained the black bombazine of her dress. The jet beads hanging from her mourning brooch shivered slightly. Caroline was torn by conflicting loathing and loyalty. She had no idea what emotions raged inside the old woman. She had known her for many years and never understood her except superficially, and they equally disliked each other.
“Thank you for coming to see us, Mr. Ellison,” Mrs. Ellison said stiffly. “It is good for you to spare us the time when you must have many other commitments. You must not rob yourself of the opportunity to go to the theatre and see the sights of London, or wherever else you may