Ahead
through the black rainy evening, she saw lights, and the bobbing of lanterns. A
sharp cry of "Salisbury!" brought her back to the cold night. The
lights were coming closer, a scattered arrangement of low cottages and shops,
the horses slowing down on the slippery road. There were runners alongside the
coach, men and boys shouting up at the passengers, trying to entice them into
various pubs and inns, promising warm fires and dry linens and roasted meat and
ale.
All
about her, in the other passengers, Marianne felt a sharp sense of expectation,
although for herself it was a matter of indifference. She had no intention of
leaving the coach. It was too great a risk. Why become warm and dry when there
was a whole night of misery yet ahead? She would remain in her seat and endure
the rain and cold, both more palatable in the long run than the warmth of a pub
where, relaxed, people might ask questions. She could not endure that.
The
coachmaster cried out to the horses in a thick guttural voice. The coach turned
sharply to the right down a road which resembled a stream. Most of the runners
had fallen back, unable to keep pace. Straight ahead, she saw four lanterns
held aloft by porters, guiding the coach close to the front door of The Haunch
of Venison.
Before
the inn door, the coach came to a halt. Scarcely had it stopped than the two
women and child behind her spilled to the ground. The women clutched their
rain-soaked skirts, and ran as fast as the mud would permit to the door of the
inn, dragging the still-weeping child behind them.
The
two men on either side of her followed suit, the farmer leaping to ground in
one fluid jump, then running for the shelter of the inn, the old man climbing
laboriously down, wasting his precious breath on curses. Below her she saw the
porters assisting the lady out of the coach. She looked warm and dry and
serene, her head erect among her furs, tiny rounds of gold bracelets over her
gloved arms. Marianne watched, fascinated, as she approached the inn, everyone
falling back to make way. Bringing up the rear of the procession were the two
maids and three dandies, mincing their way across the puddles, their brocade
knee breeches twisted from the rough ride, their smooth pink hands adjusting
and holding on to their combed white wigs.
Only
the porters remained, unharnessing the horses in preparation for fresh ones.
Even the coachmaster had taken refuge in the Inn, whose diamond-shaped panes of
window glass were fogged over by the heat and push of customers, a warm refuge
of laughing, shouting voices, the good smell of roast meat drifting out onto
the rain-swept air. Coming from somewhere in the recesses of the inn, she heard
a fiddle in the high, sliding screech of a jig.
Marianne
watched it all, then let her head drop downward. There was nothing for her
there, nothing at all. Still, the fuss and bustle were disturbing. She could
not help but listen and watch. In her position high up on the coach, she
received stares and pointed looks of inquiry. She could not rid herself of the
feeling of shame, and yet each time she experienced it, she always asked
herself with injured surprise, "What have I to be ashamed of?" Since
there was no ready answer, she felt her nerves being strained tighter and
tighter.
Quickly
she lifted her head, allowed herself to take some of the space vacated by the
two men. Three gentlemen in black cloaks passed her by. She tried to draw deep
breath, but rain ran in at the comers of her mouth.
Where
was her father standing? There! What was in his hand?
No!
Again she dragged her mind back, like a disobedient child. Another gentleman in
a heavy overcoat stepped between her and the flickering light coming from the
inn. Putting his hand to the beak of his hat, he bowed to her and asked if
there was anything she wanted. Could he be of service to her?
The
man looking up at her, the direct question, the earnest inquiry, took a
dreadful toll. She gazed at him without answering.
Tear
the dress, Jack, a dean tear—
The
gentleman, his face creased with concern, asked again, "May I be of help?
You can't sit here for an hour. You're frozen."
At
that moment the wind, as if surmounting all obstacles, sent a sheet of rain
flying into her face. The horses whinnied.
"Did
you hear me?" the gentleman shouted above the wind. "You must come
inside for a while."
She
gave no answer, but saw the concern in his face and was frightened by it. When he
lifted a leg to the step as though in preparation to mount the coach, she drew
quickly to the far side.
Be
quick, Jack-
Hearing
above the wind and rain the sound of the whip whistling upward into the air,
she cried out and at the sound of the cry, the man retreated, leaving her alone
on her high place.
Through
her fear and the rain, she saw the gentleman at the door of the inn, talking
with the coachmaster. She saw him point in her direction, saw the coachmaster,
pint in hand, shake his head. An unpleasant sensation gripped her as she
watched them talking. They knew! They knew who she was and what had happened.
They knew of the scars on her back, had been among the witnesses who had seen
her stripped and bound, had perhaps been standing close enough to hear her
prayers.
Her
agitation was constant. Surely they would tell the others. Everyone in the inn
would come out to look at her. She doubled over, hiding her face in the folds
of her wet dress, trying to prepare her mind to bear what was upon her. Come
spring, she would gather dog violets. Come spring, she would—
They
were watching her.
Come
spring, she would walk along the headlands and talk to the sapphire sea and
wave at Lundy, sitting in the ocean like a sentinel at the Gates of the West.
They
still were watching her. They knew! She buried her face deeper in her lap.
The
whip had not yet come down. Perhaps Thomas Eden had reconsidered. The mere
thought of that one name was nameless medicine, causing her thoughts to cease
as she channeled a mesmerizing hate outward, a hate so exalting, so ennobling,
that she found she was again capable of lifting her head, a reviving hate that
warmed her as surely as though she were sitting before a fire, a hate-filled
harbor, a safe hate, a hate beyond mortification and disgust, a redeeming,
healing consciousness of hate, canceling all new spheres of liability to pain,
converting her within the instant into a statue, sitting upright, a divine
hate, feeding her, a hate without qualification or appointment, without
authority or opposition, an intentional hate, like a true religion without
complexity or resolution, a hate that was pure joy.
She
stared back at the men at the door, her mind weary of all images, all
illusions. She assumed an air of fully comprehending everything, yet responding
to nothing. She watched without interest as the gentleman and the coachmaster
disappeared into the warmth of the inn. One consolatory reflection occurred to
her—that she would inevitably make Thomas Eden as wretched as he had made her,
that she would profit from his misery, that she would carefully catalogue and
itemize each step of his suffering, and when, in the opinion of a compassionate
and weak world, he had suffered enough, she would find unpardonable happiness
in increasing his agony.
The
intensity and nature of her thoughts warmed her. With conscious intention,
without knowing how it would come about, she plotted a future, then clung to
it, sitting rigidly up, feeling nothing of her present or past discomfort, all
safely obliterated in her healing, sealing hate for Thomas Eden.
So
complete was her passage into the future that she was scarcely aware of the
gentleman, who reemerged from the inn, carrying a warm blanket and steaming mug
in his hand. Carefully he approached her, swung the blanket up onto the coach,
placed the mug on the seat, then climbed up beside her. "Miss," he
began softly, "my name is William Beckford. Billy if you wish. I mean you
no harm. Please let me cover you."
Her
eyes stared straight ahead into the gloomy view, not so much as blinking as he
arranged the covering over her, then placed the mug in her cold hands.
"Drink
it," he urged kindly. "It will warm you."
But
she was no longer cold. With her characteristic decision, without explanation
or apology, she simply ceased to be and was a husk, dreaming of delights to
come, the irresistible attraction of revenge, the sweetness that would mark the
destruction of the man. . . .
Forty
hours later—the schedule had been upset by a lame horse—in a dark cold wetness
of early morning, the coach rumbled into Piccadilly. As the roads converged on
the capital, they became crowded with every kind of vehicle and by travelers
walking, carrying packs; adding to the confusion were droves of
animals—bullocks, sheep, and pigs—all on their way to the slaughter pens of
Smithfield.
Throughout
the entire journey from Salisbury, Marianne had not moved except for the walks
uphill where she had slipped away to relieve herself. As the coach drew up in
front of the White Bear, she looked at the commerce and bustle of the street.
In spite of her stern self-control, her face was pale and her lips were quivering,
more dead than alive.
Mr.
Beckford was waiting to help her down. "Is there anyone to meet you?"
he asked kindly.
She
shook her head and drew cautiously away. "Let me fetch you a cab," he
insisted. "Surely you have an address, someone expecting you?"
When
again she failed to respond, he gently took her purse from her and with murmurs
of apology, he opened it, withdrawing the piece of paper on which Dolly Wisdom
had printed her sister's address.
"Do
you know this place?" he asked.
She
began to cough and shiver. Mr. Beckford led her slowly to the side of the road,
sheltered her from the push of people, and called out to the first passing
hired chaise. Because of the crowds the driver could not bring the carriage to
the pavement so Mr. Beckford guided her to the center of the road, assisted her
into the seat, and closed the door after her.
She
saw him hand the paper to the driver, then take some coins from his own pocket
and hand them over. Marianne had intended to thank him, but the spasms of cold
swept over her in continuous shudders.
As
the small black chaise started forward, she saw the gentleman put his hand to
his forehead in a gesture of good luck. She tried to lift her arm in belated
acknowledgment of his thoughtfulness. But her sufferings, growing steadily more
intense, did their work. There was not a position in which she was not in pain,
not a part of her body that did not ache and cause her agony.
As
the cab rolled through the night, carrying her away from the bustle of
Piccadilly, she saw a lamp now and then burning in a window, an incredible
congestion of houses and shops, all piled atop one another, one street after
another, thick habitation, all the people in the world, or so it seemed after
the space of North Devon.
She
should have thanked the gentleman. Now there were other problems. Where was she
going? What would she find there? Wouldn't everyone know what had happened?
Wouldn't her punishment be common knowledge? How could she endure their stares
and endless pryings?
Without
warning all disguises were thrown off. She looked frantically about at the
strange night, then pressed her head back against the cushion. As she felt the
threat of tears, she shut her eyes and conjured up, by dint of will, a rocky
sea cliff adorned with sea lavender and strawberry clover. She held the images
sternly before her closed eyes, then wrapped her arms around her shivering body
and let the carriage do with her what it would. . . .
Jane
Locke was a practical woman. It was this sense of practicality that caused her
to resent the need to relight the lamps and candles at four thirty in the
morning when they had only just been extinguished an hour earlier, caused her
to deeply resent having to drag herself out of a warm bed and leave the side of
her sleeping William. She drew her dressing gown around her in preparation for
hurrying down the stairs to quiet the halfwitted cries of Millie, her young
maid, who had answered the bellcord a few moments earlier.