Chapter 16

Home Sweet Home

Ben Cartwright was amazed. The evening with Miss Heatherstone had turned out to be far less strenuous than he had anticipated. In fact, he had never seen her so relaxed. And for ages he hadn’t seen Adam so relaxed either. In contradiction to Joe’s earlier prediction, that the two would come to the house moody and grouchy after a day spent bickering and bantering their way through the Ponderosa, the couple had arrived a bit dishevelled and dusty, but laughing and with the air of people that had had a good time.

Both had said that they were surprisingly hungry, even after that queen cake (which was a good cake, wasn’t it, Adam—oh, naturally, Juliet) and of course, no one had understood why they had chuckled at that, but Hop Sing had served supper quite promptly: roast beef and Yorkshire pudding in compliment to their guest. Miss Heatherstone had eaten enough to satisfy the cook and amaze Hoss, and had graciously praised the meal and thanked ‘Mr. Hop’ for his considerate choice. Ben had been surprised that she had known how to address the Chinese properly—but what did Adam always say about her? Expect the unexpected. Ben resolved to do just that in the future. Hop Sing, however, had been delighted, and had fussed over her even more than he usually fussed over guests, providing her with a very generous piece of lemon pie and brewing his best cha only for her, as he had said.

Ben had watched Hop Sing’s bustling around Miss Heatherstone with amused understanding. Joe had spent not a small part of the afternoon in the kitchen, trying to teach the cook how to pronounce their guest’s name and when Ben had joined them close to suppertime, he had soon realised that Hop Sing hadn’t made any noteworthy progress.

“Missy Hassuhthon.”

Ben had cringed. “I’m fairly sure Miss Heatherstone doesn’t want to be called ‘Missy’, Hop Sing.”

“Miss Hassuhthon.”

“Hea-ther-stone.” Joe had distinctively pronounced every syllable, waving his hands like a conductor. “Hea-ther-stone.”

Hop Sing had listened carefully, mouthing every sound in perfect synchrony with Joe’s speech. He had concentrated hard on the uncommon name, his face screwed up, his brow furrowed. Then he had tried, “He-thuh-sson.”

Joe had grimaced. “Nope, sorry, Hop Sing. Maybe you better go with Juliet.”

“Juliet. Missy—no, Miss Juliet.” Hop Sing had smiled triumphantly, but Ben had to disappoint him.

“I’m very sorry, but, Joe, you should know better by now. Miss Heatherstone won’t be thrilled about such, um, undue familiarity.”

“But, Pa, we all say Miss Juliet. Adam even says Juliet.”

“Yes, but she expressively asked him to do so,” Ben had sighed. “Miss Heatherstone is a lady who was raised with very refined social rules, and to contradict these rules would seem very impolite to her. And I’m sure no one here wants to be impolite.” He had looked Joe deep in the eyes. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir. Still, Hop Sing has to call her something, and—”

And that was the moment they had heard the sound of hooves on the yard, and Ben and Joe had left the kitchen to welcome Adam and Miss Heatherstone, and so the problem remained unsolved.

Until after supper the cook had avoided addressing Miss Heatherstone directly, but when they eventually had settled around the coffee table in front of the big fireplace, Hop Sing had served the men brandy, and Miss Heatherstone some more tea, handing her the cup with a bow for which she had nodded at him, “Thank you, Mr. Hop,” and he had bowed again, deep, and said, “You are velly welcome, Miss Lady!”

Miss Heatherstone had bent over her tea and inhaled its scent before she had taken delicately small sips. Ben couldn’t have seen her face, but he had been certain she knew she had been honoured.

And then Hoss had asked how Adam’s and Miss Juliet’s day out had been, and if they had seen any big trout at the lake, and Adam and Miss Heatherstone had exchanged a short glance, and had said, yes, it had been nice, and there hadn’t been any trout, and then they both had seemed to be very interested in their respective hands.

The following awkward silence had been broken when, thankfully, Joe had suggested Adam could play something on the guitar for them, and Miss Heatherstone had chimed in, “Oh, Adam, that would be wonderful!”

And so they had taken up the old family ritual, Adam playing the guitar, by acclamation striking up one song after the other, while they all joined in the singing.

Miss Heatherstone had listened to their performance, swaying her shoulders in tact, tapping her foot and staying mercifully silent. She joined in only on the last song, Sweet Betsy from Pike. Just an hour ago Ben had planned to expect the unexpected, but he still found himself astonished that the lady knew the words, even to the last scandalous line. Her enthusiasm made up for her inability to stay in tune; and the melody was so plain and simple not even Miss Heatherstone could do any particular harm to it. What amazed Ben the most was that instead of singing the song in her usual clipped upper class English she tried to adopt their accent—and thereby she sounded surprisingly like Hoss. Ben wondered which of his sons spent more time with Miss Heatherstone, but, of course, this wasn’t a question, really, Ben thought in amusement, as he recalled how Adam had asked Hoss the other night if he was interested in a game of ‘draughts’.

They ended the song with their usual cheer and laughter. Adam, grinning broadly, half bowed in salute to Miss Heatherstone, which she received with a regal nod and a badly concealed smirk; then Joe suggested, “Now you’ve gotta choose a song, Miss Juliet.”

She considered them all for a moment, then gazed thoughtfully at Adam, and finally said, “I don’t know if you know how to play it, but I haven’t heard Greensleeves for a very long time….”

“That’s not a problem,” Adam replied. “I know the song. I haven’t played it in ages, though. Dunno why, really….”

When Adam trailed off Ben saw him close his eyes in search for the notes, the chords, and then smile triumphantly when he remembered the tune. The soft, tender melody, so different from the rackety, wild song they had intoned before, mesmerized Ben and, as so often before, he was amazed at his son’s ability to adjust his voice and performance to the most different of tunes. He wasn’t surprised in the slightest when he realised that Adam even adopted a British accent—it wasn’t the first time Ben had heard it, but this time it clearly was a tribute to Miss Heatherstone.

Ben turned his attention from Adam to Miss Heatherstone to see how she accepted the delivery of her song request, and was startled. Miss Heatherstone was staring unfocussed into the nowhere, her hands on her lap clasped so tightly that her knuckles turned white, her whole posture rigid and tense, her face showing unconcealed grief. Never had he seen so much emotion on her face; never had the restrained lady shown more of herself. He glanced at Joe and Hoss to see if they had noticed, too, and Joe looked back at him with an awkward expression, nudging his chin at Miss Heatherstone and shrugging his shoulders while Hoss embarrassedly stared at his hands in his lap.

The song ended, Adam looked up from his guitar with a smile that slowly fell from his face when he took in the tense atmosphere, and his gaze went immediately to Miss Heatherstone.

Ben knew that there were people who thought his eldest was cold. At times even Joe had accused Adam of being free of emotion, of thinking too much and feeling too little, but no one who saw Adam now would ever think such a thing. Concern didn’t even begin to describe what Adam featured; the intesity of Miss Heatherstone’s emotion was mirrored on Adam’s face, translated into empathy and care. Some wordless communication seemed to go on between him and her, spoken only with their eyes, not a single muscle in their faces supporting it.

Ben fervently wished he could do something, say something to ease the distress, to help out, but he would have felt like an intruder to something private, something he couldn’t be a part of. And so he just watched, helpless and fascinated at the same time, wondering if Adam was even aware of the closeness he and Miss Heatherstone displayed. And all at once he remembered that evening—had it really only been one week ago?—when he had questioned Adam about his friend Miss Heatherstone.

”What is this woman doing to you?” he had asked Adam, and his son hadn’t answered. Ben had been annoyed then, but now he began to understand: Adam hadn’t answered because he hadn’t known an answer. But the answer was right here, before his eyes. What was this woman doing to Adam? She was showering him with trust. For him she let her guard down, for him she opened and let him participate in the richness of her soul. Tonight they all got a glimpse of this other Juliet Adam always claimed to know. Her trust in him allowed Adam to open up, too, and Ben sensed how his son gradually dismantled his own fortress and let her in. Was it just their similarity in being secretive, the discovery of a kindred mind that allowed them to let go, or was there more? He watched Miss Heatherstone’s face, so raw with emotion, fighting for composure, and then looked at Adam, seeing him mouthing a word, Henry? Miss Heatherstone closed her eyes and nodded just once, which finally let her watery eyes overflow—two tiny tears she didn’t even seem to notice. Or, it suddenly struck Ben, perhaps she did notice but she didn’t care, because that was what she was doing to Adam, too: she was giving him her complete attention. He, Hoss, Joe, they all were not longer present. Just like the day Juliet Heatherstone and Adam had met for the first time, everyone else seemed to have become invisible to her.

The spell was broken only when Hoss eventually spoke up, “Dadburnit, Adam, that was a mighty gloomy ole song, would’ve made the meanest cowpoke cry.”

Adam looked up in alarm, but Miss Heatherstone took the enormous blue and red checkered handkerchief Hoss passed her, wiped her eyes, and after a short hesitation blew her nose, then smiled and said, “And he would have every right to do so, Hoss, cor blimey, he would!”

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Home is not where you live but where
they understand you. ~ Christian Morgenstern