This Other Eden (12 page)

Still
she had invited it on herself. Unless insubordination were nipped in the bud,
not a peer of the realm would be safe. England performed as the greatest
civilization the world had ever known because everyone born had a place and the
wisdom to stay in it. If it were otherwise, the nation would dissolve into
chaos.

Satisfied
with his thoughts, he shifted his gaze from the fire to the ornate screen
depicting thirteenth-century knights on their way to battle, a glorious
reproduction with banners flying, horses neighing on their hind legs, the very
excitement and fervor of the moment captured in rich and highly polished wood.

He
turned slowly and looked over his shoulder. The entire room pleased him
immensely, the only room in the castle in which he felt the full, pleasant, and
reassuring weight of his birth and breeding. He deserved it. If on occasion he
behaved like an ordinary mortal, God forgive him. The whipping had been severe,
but the girl had survived and all the staff had been vividly reminded of how
the machine must work.

He
started pacing and again stopped. His eyes lifted to the high rain-soaked
windows. So! The girl had survived and was now on her way to London. For the
best. He never wanted to see her again. Let her find her destiny in London. The
people were like children really, in constant need of a strong paternal hand.

Softly
he laughed aloud, then moved quickly back to the bottle of port at the end of
the table, poured himself a glass, and sipped. Good. Fine vintage, warming,
rich-bodied. After a long silence during which time his thoughts repeatedly dwelt
on a white, upturned, enraged face, he sipped steadily, eyed the bottle, and
counseled himself moderation. There still was business to attend to. Later, in
the privacy of his chamber, he would obliterate his thoughts with several such
bottles. It was his cursed loneliness more than anything else. He should have
married. But whom? Twenty years ago, the "eligible and suitable"
girls reminded him of frozen fish, dressed, degutted, and laid out in dead
splendor. Now at forty, it was too late. Those eligible fish were gone and all
that remained were the beasts, the thin sticks that their proper families could
not even pay to get rid of.

No,
he'd remain a bachelor, at least until sixty. Then he would wed some
thin-lipped parson's daughter, as his grandfather had done, impregnate her once
so the line might continue, then go back to his actresses and music hall
entertainers, the warm ones who knew what to do, what to expect. They made him
laugh.

Thinking
on his loneliness seemed to make it worse and, as comfort, he reached again for
the port, refilled his glass, and was lifting it to his lips when the serving
girl reappeared in the arched doorway with the message, "The gentleman,
sir, he's come."

Ah,
distraction. Thank God. "Show him in," Thomas said quickly.

The
girl bobbed her head and disappeared. Thomas' mind, still working in all
directions, found her pleasing, some quality that he'd failed to notice the
first time. Quickly he called after her, "Don't go to bed yet. Bring the
gentleman in and leave us, but wait outside in the hall."

She
looked back at him, a surprise on her face which was quickly replaced with
blank, bland obedience. "Yes, milord," she said, curtsying.

He
took a deep gulp of port for fortification and assumed a position by the
fireplace, a pose designed to impress upon anyone who entered the power of the
Lord of the Castle.

A
moment later a man appeared in the doorway, a large man with a small head,
drenched from the rain, clutching in his hands a well-worn, soft-brimmed tri-cornered
hat. He bobbed his head in deference and stood unmoving, as though fearful or
perhaps intimidated by both the room and the man standing before the fire.

Thomas
smiled. He enjoyed intimidating people, particularly this rascal.

"Come
in," he ordered. "Closer to the fire. You're soaked through."

The
man obeyed, stepped carefully down into the room, and proceeded to the fire,
never once taking his eyes off Thomas. As he approached, Thomas drew back to
the table, a subtle movement designed to keep distance between them. He poured
a second glass of port and left it there. "If you want it," he said.

Again
the man nodded, his eyes darting this way and that, as though the room were
full of unseen hazards. He trailed after Thomas to the table, quickly lifted
the glass, and drained it. The strong liquid caused him a moment's discomfort,
his eyes bulging in an obvious attempt to keep from coughing.

Still
amused, Thomas sat at the table opposite where the man stood. He waited for the
seizure to pass, then spoke. "You are—" He hesitated as though he
were struggling for a name, although he had been aware of both man and name for
several months.

The
man stood as though at attention, his crude, coarsely woven garments still
glistening and rain-soaked. "Locke," he pronounced slowly. "Russell
Locke."

He
seemed proud of it for some reason although for the world Thomas couldn't
understand why. He had a large mouth, both literally and figuratively. In every
pub from The Hanging Man to the Pig and Whistle, he'd been announcing to one
and all that Thomas Eden owed him a debt, that if it wasn't for him, Thomas
Eden would be in Plymouth now, standing trial.

The
smile on Thomas' face faltered. "Yes, Russell Locke," he agreed. He
leaned back in the chair, warming to the game. "I've heard of you. My
'ears' have heard of you. They bring me reports."

For
the first time, Locke smiled. "Out of respect, milord. I thought they
might. That's why I talked so much. I didn't know any other way."

"To
do what?" Thomas inquired, clearly baiting.

Locke
faltered under that steady gaze. "To—reach you," he stammered, "to"—the
smile widened as apparently more appropriate words crossed his mind—"to
gain an audience."

To
gain an audience! How pretty! Thomas leaned forward in his chair and sipped in order
to keep from smiling. "I am not the Pope, Locke," he scolded.

"Begging
your pardon, milord, but to us you are," Locke replied earnestly.

Thomas
looked up, surprised. Not bad for a country man. He'd learned manners and
diplomacy from somewhere. Too bad his sister had not availed herself of the
same tutor.

"Well,
then," Thomas said sharply, annoyed at the persistence of the girl to
enter his thoughts, "what precisely is it that you've been telling
everyone? Since I'm involved, I feel I have a right to know."

Locke
couldn't have agreed more. He stepped forward, bobbing his head furiously.
"Oh, indeed, milord," he concurred. "You are the only one. I
would have come directly here, but—" He broke off. His face reddened.

"But
what?" Thomas urged.

Again
the man ducked his head as though to offer a final obsequiousness. "I
thought it best to wait for word from you. Then I knew you would be willing to
listen."

Thomas
studied this last remark. The man might look foolish, but he was not foolish.
On double guard, Thomas pushed his glass aside. No more port until later. The
bumpkin had completely captured his attention. He ordered, "Then
talk," carefully on guard, for he knew the rumors of this man's
cooperation with the excise men in Exeter.

Russell
talked. Clearly he was a man who needed only an invitation and having received
it, the floodgates opened. "I am a poor man, milord," he began, still
standing at attention, his eyes focused somewhere above Thomas' head, as though
the speech had been carefully rehearsed and direct eye contact would shake his
concentration.

He
cleared his throat and began again. "I am a poor man, milord, a simple
man. I've never seen a room like this." And with that he gestured stiffly
to the left, still clutching the hat. "I'm not likely to see one again. My
mother's dead, God rest her soul. My father's a fisherman in Mortemouth. In
hire to you, he is, when he's up to working, which isn't often now—"

Thomas
listened, fascinated by the nerve of the man. A family history no less. He'd
heard about Hartlow Locke, but wanted to force the son to state it. "Why
isn't he up to working now?" Thomas probed. "My fishing vessels leave
every morning with the tide. Why isn't he aboard?" There was a sternness
in his voice which he did nothing to relieve. He enjoyed the confusion washing
across Locke's face.

"He's—well,
he's poorly," Russell stammered.

"He's
taken leave of his senses, you mean," snapped Thomas. "I've heard he
sits in his garden all day like an old woman. Is that correct?" There was
an overtone of cruelty in his voice, a clear attempt to insult both father and
son.

But
it didn't work. Russell merely bobbed his head in eager agreement."Right,
milord. He's a weak man, always has been. Jenny Toppinger cares for him.
Otherwise I'd a' shipped him off to Bedlam long ago."

Thomas
stared sharply up at the flat face before him. Ship him off to Bedlam! That
London pit of hell for the deranged and mad? He'd visited it on several
occasions. It was good entertainment for a Sunday afternoon. But it was a death
hole, a living charnel house.

He
stood slowly up, a twinge of guilt causing him mild discomfort. Hartlow Locke's
derangement dated from August the third of this year, the very morning that—

"Go
on," Thomas ordered, reaching for more port in spite of his resolution.

Locke
waited obediently until the glass was filled, placed his own empty one
stealthily on the edge of the table. If he wanted it refilled, Thomas did not
oblige. Locke took the slight with good grace and went on. "As I was
saying, milord, I've learned from an early age to fend for myself. There was no
one else. It was either learn the ways of the world and survive, or not learn
them and perish." He delivered this last with great flourish, as though
he'd worked long hours on that well-turned phrase.

Already
Thomas was bored. He knew, had always known the nature of the man's mission. What
he did not know was the price. Locke rambled on in a passionate discourse on
the ways of a hard world, Thomas wandered distractedly down to the fire screen,
finding constant nourishment in the frozen parade of crusading knights. The man
was saying something now about rot in the grist mill, mildew on the com, and a
man having to eat.

Enough!
Thomas strode back to the table and slammed down the empty glass. "How
long have you known the excise men in Exeter?" he demanded, cutting
immediately to the heart of the matter.

To
his surprise, Locke made the leap with him, without so much as blinking. "Five
years, milord," he replied.

"And
what do they pay you?"

"For
rumors, only a few shillings. For names and places, three guineas."

Thomas
continued to stare up at him. "And what is it you want from me?"

Locke
grinned. "I want nothing, milord. I rather thought it was the other way
around."

Thomas
was astonished. Was that a threat? Didn't the stupid oaf know that he had no
bargaining power, that if Thomas so desired, Locke would never make it home
tonight, that at the very edge of Eden cliff he could meet with a most
unfortunate accident? Was it a family of fools?