All Else Is Shadow

By Margot Dolgin

(An American Wuthering Heights)

America in the midst of an Industrial Revolution and the throes of a Spiritual Revival. An affluent couple, the Claiborne's, take in a ten-year old orphan boy sight unseen.

Upon his arrival Rod's sad secret is revealed as well as his extraordinary talent. The Claiborne's have a five- year old daughter, Memory. The children are at once drawn to one another. As adults, they fall desperately in love. Having been raised as siblings they are emotionally torn.

Memory discloses her feelings, while Rod is hesitant. Although each endeavors to pursue their life apart from the other, the Karmic bond between them persists. Theirs is a bittersweet love that transcends time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 19, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462091980

Margot Dolgin

The acclaimed ALL ELSE IS SHADOW, is the first of four novels by the author, three historical fiction. WALK IN LOVE evolved from the author?s kinship to the city of her birth. The Bay and topography remain in a pervading view of another time. Her story reveals provocative details of that era. As an artist, the author has again created her own cover, ?Yerba Buena 1844.?

Book preview

Prologue

This was a time of great industrial change, a transition so rapid that a decade in America’s progress was comparable to a hundred years in Europe. The Clipper ships were reaching the Continent in ten days, and there was now the use of steam in navigation. Telegraphs were affording almost instant communications, while the railroads were quickly meshing cities with wastelands. There was an influx of immigrants by the thousands, each bringing his own particular culture and creed. An avidly growing movement for Abolition was already in the wind. Curiosity and compassion were directed toward the conditions of the destitute and the insane. Prophets, mediums, Mesmeric healers, testaments and publications all extolling the supernatural were incredibly popular.

The old staid religions that had long dominated American life-style were suddenly being questioned by intellectual minds that sought to disprove the threatening concept of brimstone and fire. If life indeed continued after death, then there was not death at all, but a far more rewarding and beautifully unencumbered dimension.

Some labeled this transition a vast psychological change. Many called it a Spiritual Revival. Yet, there were those who considered it but an unclosing of what already existed through all of time, a belief in Karma.

Chapter 1

Hartford Connecticut 1840

Damn it, Vivian! I’m sick to death of the subject! I have told you time and again that the answer is no. Absolutely no! And that’s final. Do you understand me?

Julian was furiously pounding his fist on the table, causing the abundant New England breakfast fare to quiver in its porcelain platters, along with the unnerving clank of silver and china. Small splashes of coffee and cider spotted the crisp white table linen. For one of medium height and weight, his broad shoulders gave the appearance of a much larger man when seated. At thirty-five he still retained a youthfulness, which his fullblown mustache and sideburns failed to conceal. His hair was of the same pale brown as his eyes, which glistened with shades of amber, particularly when he was angered. At the moment they were afire.

A harsh hissing sound shot back at him from across the table, as his pretty wife sucked her breath in repressed rage. Considering their bounteous meals, Vivian looked much too thin. Her once snug fitting mauve file dress hung unbecomingly from her shoulders. Her deep blue eyes and glorious crown of auburn hair seem to have lost their luster. For a moment her eyes seared at him, then briefly softened as she turned to address the embarrassed governess seated next to their beautiful little daughter Memory, a five-year old charmer.

The little girl was the least unshaken of the lot. She remained captivated by her parents on-going battle. Though very young, her sentiments were at once with her mother, and with good cause.

Kamala dear, Vivian managed to muster a show of decorum. Will you be so kind as to feed Memory in the kitchen.

There was a strained silence as the tall, slim, darkly garbed Kamala Wilding led Memory to the kitchen, through the leaded glass pantry door.

Vivian, who had held back her anger, was fiercely upon her husband the moment the door closed.

How dare you humiliate me that way? What must they think of you shouting and cursing at me like that?

Damn it all woman! Don’t tell me how to act in my own house. It’s not the first time anyone has heard me raise my voice.

Never like this! Almost shattering the china, startling the wits out of Memory and Kamala, not to mention the rest of the household.

Come now, that little girl knows I’m butter in her hands. Seldom have I denied either of you anything. This is not a frivolous matter. As for Kamala, you’ve always insisted that she was one of the family, so families’ feud. It’s about time someone heard my side of the story. I know damn well you confide in her, and God knows who else. He was about to again pound, but wisely held back. His voice sounded even louder. I’ve made my decision, damn it! The matter is closed. From now on I expect peace and quiet at my table. The way it was intended. The way all New Englanders for generations have eaten, in silence.

Vivian sadly sulked. How was she suppose to eat, and in silence yet. She felt repulsed at the sight of that huge chunk of roast beef sitting in a puddle of its own red juice, adjoined by platters of eggs and potatoes, a basket of biscuits and a pie. She wanted to vomit.

How had it all come to this, here in the Hillocks? They were newly settled in the very house they dreamt of owning, only to find themselves vehemently at odds, for the first time in nine years of a supposedly ideal marriage.

The gracious white Georgian structure sat high on a knoll encompassed by its own small forest of maple and elm. A great iron-gate, elaborate in its grillwork, proceeded the long shaded path to the house. The Hillocks was built by a manufacturer of firearms, whose grandiose gate stood in tribute to his family’s wealth hailing back to the Revolution, and to his own, in these days of immigrant labor and mass production. He had initially planned to name his estate something strongly significant. The idea never quite took hold. The house was a few miles ride from Hartford, the bustling port-city ensconced on the shores of the Connecticut River. On the village green, the old brick Center church, with its white steeple soaring through treetops, remained a steadfast reminder of a pastoral time. A proliferation of businesses, catering to every conceivable need, as well as the wharves and warehouses contributed to the constant din of activity.

From the Hillocks one was immediately entranced by the sight of lush forests and meadows, azure hillsides, meandering stone walls, glistening lakes and streams and that great undulating river. The river was replete with steamers and scows with ferries and foreign liners with setting poles and huge rafts bearing lumber. The overleaf of each season slowly concealed the garish gate until the house became one with the hills. Almost mystically the name Hillocks emerged.

With the demise of its owner, the house barely had time to be empty, when Julian and Vivian Claiborne found themselves enamored with it, and the community with them.

The wealth and comeliness of the couple and the opulence of the Hillocks might well have incited envy in anyone so disposed. A glimpse at this morning’s conflict would have quickly dispelled all such mystique.

You tyrant! Vivian spat breaking the unbearable silence.

Julian threw down his fork. Tyrant, me? I resent that. I’ve denied you nothing, ever, save for this inane idea. He again raised his fist to pound, but shook it at her instead. For a married woman, you have unbelievable freedom. You have your trips and lectures, your constant intellectual pursuits that are beginning to be a real pain in the behind. I have always made fair and thoughtful decisions for both you and Memory. All of a sudden my judgment is questioned. And you have the audacity to call me a tyrant?"

Flustered by the ambiguity of his own words and angry voice, his pitch softened. I have been one of the most generous, patient and solicitous husbands a woman could want.

And modest, she scoffed.

He gave her a long seething look. "Ever since you were sixteen I’ve pampered and protected you, treated you like a damn jewel, Vivian. Yes, we moved away from your family and life long friends, You’d think I had abducted you. Well, we’re here and you love it. You wanted this house more than anything in the world. So now it’s yours. All of a sudden this matter comes up and over night you’ve became totally dissatisfied, with everything. Particularly me, the man who has cherished you, damn it!’

Cherished me? she shot back How can I feel cherished when you keep swearing at me like I were some cheap trollop.

What? He modulated his voice, sounding patronizing at best. Vivian, you know the man that I am and where my heart is as far as you and Memory are concerned.

Do I?

Vivian wondered if they did indeed understand one another, or had they each played their prospective roles according to custom. He was the head of the house and she the proper wife being generously accorded her frivolous pursuits. Except the pursuit of knowledge and wisdom, was not at all frivolous in her mind. Nor was what she now wanted with all her heart.

Adamantly Julian continued. Haven’t I always allowed you to visit your family, separating us for days at a time? Not to mention, you’re relatives continually showing up at our doorstep.

My immediate family has never imposed upon us.

I grant your parents were a joy. Bless them. At least give me credit for putting up with that fanatic, that meddling shrew you endearingly call Auntie.

My great aunt, Vivian emphasized, and only through marriage. My uncle is a saint. It’s really magnanimous how you tolerate my family, when you barely speak to your own.

"Let’s not stray from the issue. With the fact that I definitely do not want that boy in my house. Look at you, Vivian, you’re as skinny as a broomstick and too emotionally wrought to take on the responsibility of another child, at least not now.

When then? There was a slight cry in her question.

At twenty-five she was no longer Julian’s naive little bride. She had married at sixteen and became a mother at twenty. It was a difficult birth. Uncommon of most men of the day, Julian refused to leave her side, exposing himself to the birth and after birth. The joy of having a beautiful baby girl was followed by the sad news that there would be no more children. Vivian was devastated, more so than Julian, who had helplessly watched her suffer, fearing she would die. Yes he cherished her, then and now, though she could provoke him beyond belief, as did the infuriating accusation ready to erupt.

You resent me for being barren. I just know it. I feel it deep inside!

I never want to hear that out of your mouth again. Not for a moment have I implied such a thing, less thought it. You know it’s untrue. He sarcastically added. What you’re feeling deep inside is hunger. You’re hallucinating from hunger. Eat.

No. She was near tears. What I wanted most in the world was to give you a son, an heir.

1 have an heir, my daughter. This boy, you want to take into our home, happens to be ten years old, mind you. He could never take the place of a child that I myself sired.

That withering figure that once was his voluptuous wife was shaking uncontrollably. There was urgency in his voice.

You’re not going to cry now, Vivian, you’re not. Aside from our differences of late, you know I love you and always will. I’m perfectly content with just the three of us. Can’t you see how this outsider, this bastard child could disrupt our life?

Bastard? she gasped. You’re calling an innocent little boy you don’t even know a bastard?

So, possibly they got married. That’s not the point.

Yes it is. Catherine and Trevor were not only married, but madly in love.

And that makes everything perfect, he mocked.

Yes it does, she emphasized. You very well know that Catherine and I were each other’s dearest friend since childhood, as close as sisters. I trust whom she wanted to marry. I loved Catherine. I love her even now. How can I not help her boy? There was a tremor in her voice as she recalled her sweet friend, realizing how much she truly missed her. Julian, you’re not listening!

I’m giving it my best not to hear, he droned. We all already know how I feel. I shall reiterate because you’re not well and not remembering. Trevor Drake was an ass. Your dear Catherine had to be demented to run off with him. Subject closed.

I hate hearing you demean her time and again when you don’t really know what happened between the two of them.

Come now, you haven’t laid eyes on the woman in years. Even then, it was sans husband and child. What does that tell you? And you want us to take on the responsibility of raising their offspring? Catherine has a family, an affluent one at that. Let them be accountable for the boy.

Vivian bit her lip. Obviously no one cares.

Of course you do. It’s the all-consuming issue in your life.

Yes, she solemnly answered.

You haven’t the slightest idea of what kind of monster might have emerged from the union of two such thorough imbeciles.

You get uglier with each discourse, she fired back. It is a side of you I have come to detest. Catherine was a beautiful woman, an angel, and Trevor was suave and devastatingly handsome.

Suave, devastatingly handsome? And me, you detest? Do you see what these people are doing to us, to our marriage, from the grave? All the romanticizing on your part isn’t going to change my mind. There was bad blood there. Not Catherine, she was just plain stupid. Now Trevor, he was a first class charlatan.

I don’t want to hear anymore.

For over a month you’ve managed to ruin every meal Martha has prepared and all of a sudden you don’t want to hear anymore. Vivian, the man didn’t do a lick of honest work in his life.

You don’t know that. He lavishly courted Catherine.

Come now, he was courting her father’s money, that’s what.

That’s a lie. He loved her. He proved it when Catherine was disinherited.

Those were little stakes, my dear. The man was a gambler. He was gambling that Caleb Ashe would relent and take his daughter back into the fold, especially after she gave birth to a son. The old man is no fool.

Good for him, Vivian sarcastically screamed. Caleb Ashe still has his vast fortune, but his daughter is dead and he has never seen or wants to see his grandson. She remained sadly pensive for a moment before continuing. None of you could know how deeply Catherine loved Trevor. I remember the look on her face whenever she mentioned his name. It was ecstatic. Do you know something? I actually envied her. I wanted to be in love in the same way. To absolutely glow with joy.

And were you? With me?

She lowered her eyes, aware that he was awaiting a response. Quietly she concluded that he deserved to suffer. When she again spoke it was with complete disregard to his question.

What difference does it make that Catherine and I hadn’t seen each other for a while. What does time have to do with real friendship? We never failed to correspond. Her letters were sensitive and sharing, filled with the adventure of all the places they’d seen. The postmarks are there on the envelopes. I remember reading how happy she was when her son was born. ‘The most beautiful, perfect child in all the world.’ Those were her very words.

Exasperated, Julian mockingly finished her words. We named him Rodney. Trevor fancies the name Rod. Imagine Vivian, my baby has my eyes. He commenced to fume. My God Vivian! You’re not going into it again, are you? The accident, rain, lightning, a carriage swept away through torrential waters. Lovers dying in each other’s arms. Sounds like a lot of rubbish. I still contend that their deaths were contrived to rid themselves of the responsibility of a child. How could they possibly drag the boy about? My guess is that they’re alive and roaming the gambling casinos in Europe.

In reality, Catherine and Trevor had been traveling in a coach with several other passengers through New Hampshire when a flooding river fiercely carried away the covered bridge they were crossing. A week passed before their bloated bodies washed ashore, far apart on the riverbank. A valise identifying them lay close to Catherine. A daguerreotype of Rod was found deep in a side pocket, wrapped in a lace handkerchief. Miraculously, he was not with them. Vivian was so distraught by the news that she had to be confined to bed with a sedative. She remained taunted by the awful way they had died. There was no excusing Julian’s morbid humor.

You’re heartless! Isn’t it enough that they’re dead? Must you treat it as a joke? There’s a boy left without either of his parents. He meant the world to them. Every bit as much as our little girl means to us. She took a breath, her voice suddenly becoming more controlled. Catherine may have married before me, because she was a bit older. Years before Trevor came along, we were equally accused of being frivolous. We were curious and romantic and elated with the idea of falling in love and marrying. She went off with Trevor and I married you. She was condemned because of him and your stability suddenly gave me new worth. Neither of us was ever judged for ourselves, just for our choice in men. As if anyone really knows what they’re getting into when they marry.

Was that little speech sarcasm or flattery?

Neither.

There was indifference in her voice. She took a sip of coffee. Julian was annoyed at her sudden coolness.

The raging battle that persisted between them this past month would have previously been unthinkable. Always he had assumed the father role with his wife. At times he allowed her to believe she was having her own way, when in reality, the truly consequential decisions were his alone. He found himself furious over her stubbornness concerning the taking in of Catherine’s son. Ordinarily, the topic would have been discussed and closed. Perhaps she would be every bit as fiercely protective if it had been Memory’s life in the balance. But the Drake boy was a total stranger, and worse, his father’s son. As much as Julian objected, there was something commendable in his wife’s convictions.

She tried sounding calm. Just because Catherine and Trevor did not live up to your standards doesn’t mean they didn’t love their son. They were living life as they wanted. What’s wrong with being adventurous and spontaneous? If that’s what made them happy, so what?

He was about to take a sip of coffee when further infuriated by her comment. The fine porcelain cup, which he held mid air, made a hard descent to the saucer.

She flinched expecting it to shatter, but it didn’t.

So what? he screamed. So what? Stop making stupid excuses for irresponsibility and down right selfishness. I wonder how you’d feel if I threw caution to the wind and uprooted you and Memory from the security of our home. Now, there’s a thought, I could became a river boat gambler and sport a huge diamond on my shirt front and a gaudy display of rings on my fingers.

Refusing to give in to Julian’s ridicule of Trevor Drake, she paused pretending to be fascinated by the idea.

Really Vivian, for all your intellectualizing I believe you’re regressing mentally. Our five-year-old daughter is beginning to make more sense. Perhaps, I should give you a good switching and send you off to your room.

She gave him a long pained look. Suddenly she was sobbing hysterically in her palms. He at once fell to his knees before her, pulled her hands away from her face and held them tightly in his own.

My God! You really are crying. What did I say? I’ve never in my life laid a hand on you or Memory. You know that I’m not that kind of man. Now please stop crying.

I can’t she heavily sobbed between sentences. Catherine is dead! It’s so final. I’ll never see her again, never hug her. All the thoughts I’ve been saving up to share with her will never happen. All our reminiscences are gone. Even worse, her little boy is alone in the world and no one cares, except me. How can I ignore his plight and continue to live with myself. And you, above all, fight me. Her sobs came stronger. You have to want him. You have no choice, because he’s arriving this afternoon.

What?

I sent for him. There was nothing else to do. I was haunted by Catherine’s pleas to me for her son. Someone had to care.

Julian threw down her hands with such force that he came short of tearing her from the chair. He rose seeming to loom ten feet tall above her.

I can’t believe this! You mean you actually went behind my back and sent for the boy? You had the gall to defy me in such a personal matter? I can’t believe you.

Well do. She straightened, yet sniffling. Yes, I dared to make a decision on my own without anyone else thinking for me. God! Aren’t I allowed some conviction? You were being blindly unreasonable and something had to be done and soon. Would it make more sense to allow the boy to be left destitute on the streets or rotting away in some almshouse? Was I supposed to live with that on my conscience? Can’t you understand I had no choice?

What I understand is that my own wife deliberately went against my will! Julian shook his finger angrily in her face. Well, you can be damn sure of one thing! He’s going right back from wherever he comes from. Then you can have a goddamn good cry!

Chapter 2

Vivian stared sadly at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Through elegantly gowned and coifed, she appeared distressingly gaunt. Not at all the radiant image of the welcoming new mother she planned. The emotional stress of the last month had left its mark. Anxiety and loss of hunger gave her face and figure an angular mature look that bore little resemblance to Julian’s cherubic bride.

Though he was sharp in his criticism, Julian was deeply concerned about Vivian’s condition, for want of a better word. He firmly afforded his own simple solution.

Perhaps now is the time to visit your family and friends in Rhode Island. He soundly declared. Regain your perspective along with some well-needed weight.

Her voice choked in response. You’re not even remotely aware of how deeply I feel for Catherine’s boy, whether we’ve met or not. Nor do you realize how much I’ve changed as a woman. Not only since this whole thing happened, but since we’ve married. She found herself mouthing those very words to herself in the mirror, as her thoughts regressed to one of their countless arguments over the subject. Yes, she had changed. Still her outward appearance was inconsequential compared to the strange metamorphosis which was occurring within.

This was not the first time in her life that she had been devastated by death. There was the shock of that fatal hunting accident that killed her brother Eric and the prolonged and successive illness and death of both her parents. Julian was there for her, compassionate and caring. She wept in the warmth of his arms and felt his soft condoling kisses upon her brow.

With the horrific news of Catherine’s death, he had shown little emotion. Save for Vivian no one seemed to notice that her beautiful loving friend had perished in a terrible accident. She alone seem to feel the enormous loss. But then, there was the boy, a lone youngster consumed with grief. This she knew and felt.

A pervading part of Catherine was cleaving to her guiding her, thrusting her into another dimension. She was there in Vivian’s dreams and upon awakening, an ephemeral image forming and fading in her subconscious and in her mind’s eye. It was too powerful to dismiss.

Julian would have never understood. To him, anything beyond the senses did not exist. ‘Explain love’ she defied ‘is it all carnal pleasure? Is there nothing spiritual between us?’

He remained exasperated by her newfound ideas and constant questions. Yet they were always there inwardly searching. It had never before been so apparent as now, especially with this wave of progressive thinking that was captivating the country.

A group of intellectuals, who included Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Margaret Fuller and Bronson Alcot, gave rise to a new movement called Transcendentalism. Vivian found that their views were close to those she had secretly harbored. At least now she dared to openly discuss the subject.

In his more patronizing moments, Julian amusingly referred to his wife’s intellectual and spiritual quest, as leisurely pursuits. Lately, they were acidly labeled as frivolous pursuits.

At the onset of their marriage he was convinced that they had an idyllic relationship, the wealthy, dominant but doting husband coupled with the utterly feminine wife. Their chemistry in bed was surprisingly spectacular, considering the times.

As a whole, women were coldly submissive to their spouse’s desires. Never once did he consider going to a brothel. What else could a woman want? So what that he chided her at times. That was his way. This she accepted less and less with little humor.

Transcendentalism indeed, he jested. It should keep you and Kamala busy with lectures and lyceums. Is this one of those life after life beliefs, or some political movement? Or both?

Of late he was directing his snide remarks at Kamala, the least manipulative person alive. She had come to live with them prior to Memory’s birth. They met while visiting friends in England. She was working as a companion to an elderly invalid woman. She was only twenty at the time and extremely introverted and alone surrounded by a house full of demanding elders. Vivian felt an immediate rapport with this gentle olive-skinned girl. Kamala was intelligent, gracious, and perceptive. When Vivian showed signs of fatigue, it was she who soothed her over a fragrant brew of tea. Warmly she fondled Vivian’s hand saying. ‘It shall be a lovely baby.’ Vivian’s giddiness was compounded when she later discovered she was pregnant. She was convinced that there was something wonderfully intuitive about this young woman. The Claiborne’s had tried for some time to conceive a child. Vivian was convinced that Kamala was a good omen and proceeded to persuade her to return with them to America and be part of their household. Besides, it would free her from the drudgery of her present position. It meant going to a new country, a new life, dealing with the young, those embarked upon living instead of dying. Julian had his reservations.

After all, she’s different. Not obviously so, but her background is so ambivalent.

He was not certain what he meant. Actually, he could not help but like her. She was extremely intelligent, poised and willing to work. One could not guess that behind Kamala’s sweet smile and calm, there was the pain of her past.

She was a half-caste, a product of two cultures. Her father, Philip Wilding, was a Major with the East Indian Company in Calcutta. Her mother, Sita, was the sixth child of a Brahmin Hindu family. Kamala did not know a great deal about their courtship or her mother’s family, just that they vehemently opposed the union. Philip and Sita were married in the registrar’s office. She was denied the lovely Hindu ceremony she had longed for all her life. Instead of being resplendently dressed in jewels and flowers, with her groom equally garbed, to perform the sacred rite of the seven steps around the fire, she succumbed to a near barren room. Sita was attired in a lovely yellow and gold sari and carried a bouquet of marigolds. Her tall fair English groom wore his white uniform. How ironic, for in India white is never worn at weddings because it is the color of mourning. Kamala could only conclude that they were deeply in love.

For the first few years of their marriage they lived in Calcutta rather lavishly, as was the custom for British officers. The English ladies at the post were appalled at such a liaison, considering it as being unnatural. Sita was made to feel uncomfortable and confused. She, with her kohl-rimmed eyes and gold-bordered saris, was suddenly thrown into a Westernized atmosphere. Slowly, painfully, she conformed.

Kamala was six when they moved to London. How quickly a child forgets, even the language. Once settled in England her mother addressed her only in English, save for an occasional word or phrase and sometimes a subtle celebration, but that was all. She wore English clothes and served them English food. It was important that she fit into her husband’s life. Sita’s eagerness to change only tended to emphasize their differences. Kamala was a half-cast at an all-English school. Although considered fair by Indian standards, her chestnut hair having grown darker as she matured, there was still diffidence in her manner. Her loneliness drove her to books. Strangely enough, it was in her studies, not from her mother, that she became proud of her Indian heritage. Kamala’s fondness for her mother’s country truly emerged when she discovered the Indian epic, the Ramayana. It was here that she found the name Sita, like her mother’s. It was a story similar to the Odyssey. It dealt with the wanderings of Rama and his wife Sita. Kamala smiled upon finding a familiar quote that came often from her father’s lips. She thought it was of his own-making. ‘Softly came the sweet-eyed Sita bridal blush upon her brow.’ It was his personal bit of affection, but more so it revealed to Kamala that he had tried to somehow be a part of Sita’s lost world.

When Kamala was fifteen her father died from a prolonged fever. Sita seemed to have also died. She quickly deteriorated. Grief compelled her to suddenly cling to her old Hindu beliefs. She shed her westernized clothes and again wore her sari and the tika, the red powdered mark in the center of her forehead. Though there were only the two of them, her mother took to eating alone as was the custom of a Hindu widow. Remarriage was also forbidden. If possible to practice suttee her mother would have done so. It was the burning of the Hindu widow at her husband’s pyre, a holy yet horrible custom, still less tortuous than what was transpiring. Sita was compelled to submit to the less dramatic. Philip was buried in an English Christian ceremony with honors. Sita and Kamala subsisted on his