Sarah
gasped. The sight proved almost too much even for Jane. It was far worse than
she had expected, the crisscrossing of long angry scars, the grisly script of
the whipping oak.
The
lamp bobbed in Sarah's trembling hand. "God have mercy," she prayed.
"What caused it?"
"Disobedience,"
Jane said without hesitation. "And impudence. She was in service and
forgot her place."
Jane
averted her eyes from the scarred back and took in the confusion on Sarah's
face. It had worked. The sympathy was receding, and was replaced by a look of
stem discipline. "So," Sarah said, "she has been sent to you."
Jane
nodded, pleased. "To us" she corrected. "We must help her to
know who she is and where she belongs."
Obviously
the task appealed to Sarah. "Well, I could certainly use help around here.
There's no mistake about that."
Jane
smiled. God bless the woman. She was a pain on occasion, but she was quick, so
quick.
Jane
stepped back from the couch, feeling a delightful sense of repose. "Then
as soon as she is able, Sarah, I'll turn her over to you, for your
guidance."
The
woman nodded in agreement, her eyes still lingering on the specifics of the
scarred back. "It seems a bit harsh, don't it?" she said falteringly.
Jane
moved in with a final defense. "I was told," she began, her voice
even, "that she threatened Lord Eden's life, caused him considerable
pain."
Sarah's
eyes grew wide with horror. Following that, her face relaxed into complete
understanding. "Well, it's clear what she needs. A stem hand, that's
what."
Jane
nodded in blissful agreement. At that moment Millie returned, carrying a white nightshirt.
As she caught sight of the mutilated back, she cried out, a soft expulsion of
air, as though she were feeling the whip herself.
Sarah
hushed her, then warned, "That's what happens to headstrong girls who
don't know how to obey orders. Keep it in mind and remember it next time you
talk back."
The
girl, horrified, retreated to the door, her hand clamped over her mouth. Then
she turned and ran, obviously for the safety of her own bedroom.
Jane
shared a good smile with Sarah. "A lesson witnessed," she intoned, "is
a lesson learned."
Sarah
smiled in complete agreement.
Abruptly,
Marianne groaned. Her head twisted upon the couch as she fell over onto her
back. Both women moved closer, fascinated. The dark blue eyes fluttered open.
Looking about at the mysterious surroundings, she tried to lift herself, but
lacking the strength, she fell back again onto the couch. Aware of her
unbuttoned garments, her hands struggled to rejoin the wet fabric, her eyes
darting from Jane to Sarah.
Jane
stepped close to the couch, her voice soothing. "You're safe here,
Marianne. No need to be afraid."
What
sweet revenge! How different she was! The lovely charming child with golden
hair had been miraculously transformed into a scarred, thin, haunted waif with
sunken eyes and terror as a constant companion.
Thoughtfully,
Jane urged, "Sarah, you go on to bed. Leave her to me."
The
woman, whose face now bore a splintered expression, half-sympathy,
half-condemnation, complied. She drew up an empty crate beside the couch and
placed the lamp on it. Shaking her head as though the mysteries of the world
amazed her, she left the room.
Marianne
began to shiver visibly. Her head rolled from side to side, a soft mysterious
"No" escaping from her lips.
Jane,
feeling refreshed and clearheaded in spite of the fact that she'd had no sleep,
bent over and began forcibly to remove the wet garments. Thoughts continued to
tumble about in her mind. But every time Marianne protested "No" to
the wet garments which were being stripped from her body, Jane responded with a
firm, half-angry, wholly authoritative "Yes!"
In
a blaze of morning sun, which belied the ferocity of the night's storm, William
Pitch sat at his breakfast table and deftly cracked the top off his boiled egg.
"Whipped,
you say?" he inquired, without looking at his sleepy-eyed Jane across the
table. "Publicly?" He scooped up the warm yellow yolk and slid it
into his mouth. "A bit barbaric, isn't it?"
Jane
sipped coffee. The night had been long and clearly she was exhausted.
"She
deserved it, William," she sighed wearily. "I can assure you of that.
She was an impossible child."
As
William spread butter on toast, he detected a tone in Jane's voice which
interested him. Jealousy perhaps, or resentment. No matter. Either might prove
interesting. As his common-law wife spilled out the specifics of her late night
visitor, William only half-listened. Of greater interest to him was what was
not being said.
At
thirty-eight, possessor of one of the quickest wits and brightest minds in
London, he took pride in his ability to "read" people. Indeed, his
very survival and his present high position were both direct results of his
uncanny ability to hear not what people were saying, but what they were
thinking, always of far greater importance.
Abandoned
at birth by a whore of a mother and a highly respected barrister father, he had
been raised in a foundling home, had grown accustomed throughout his childhood
to receiving anonymous packets of guineas from a nameless solicitor. When he
had come of age, a final packet had arrived in the rich sum of five thousand
guineas. Clearly someone had felt that he had performed his duty.
William
had taken the money, a poor gift in comparison to his own native born
intelligence, had gone up to Oxford, and had come down with highest honors, his
wit and ability to turn a phrase rivaling the dying Dr. Johnson's. With the
money remaining after his education, he had purchased a small, declining
newspaper called The Bloomshury Gazetteer. In ten short years, he had turned it
into the "Mind of London." The "E.G." as it was
affectionately referred to in literary circles, was well on its way to becoming
the pace-setter, the trendmaker, informant to Monarch and commoner alike.
A
tall, lean, slightly driven man with fair sandy hair, William Pitch was keenly
aware of who he was. With the fury of a fanatic, he had hunted down his own
disqualification, had discovered his father to be a wheezing, asthmatic old
man, not worthy of his attention, either his love or his outrage. He had found
his mother in a pauper's grave. Now he channeled all of his considerable energy
and intelligence into his newspaper, living scandalously with a country girl
because it pleased him to do so, pleased his friends as well, fellows grown
jaded and numb by the constant availability of all of London's pleasures. He
ran an open house, one of the most notorious salons in London, feeling that the
great embarrassment of the past might mend a little if he provided a
pleasurable place for others. He asked little of Jane but that she keep his
household books in order, manage his small staff efficiently, come to his bed
whenever he ordered her to do so, and look pretty and receptive and hospitable
every evening from ten until three in the morning, so that his friends, weary
of commerce and politics, of titles and wives, might know the unparalleled joy
of total relaxation in a free and easy environment.
As
he watched Jane, still talking, soft wisps of dark hair curling prettily around
her neck, he realized anew how fond he was of her, and how much he hoped that
her foolish ideas of marriage did not spoil their good relationship. He was
willing to give her everything he had save his name, and how could he possibly
give that away when it wasn't even his, but rather the construct of a nurse in
the foundling home who had plucked him out of a basket on the steps of a pitch
black night while mourning the premature death of her brother, William, who had
hanged himself that morning in debtors' prison.
William
Pitch he had been named and he would not share that with anyone. He stood
eternally straight before the embarrassment of the past, and now concentrated
on the soft white line of Jane's breast, heaving excitedly beneath the edge of
her rose velvet robe.
"William,
you're not listening," she accused him, falling back in her chair,
sulking, drawing her robe about her, hiding the breast.
But
she was wrong, and he told her as much. "I heard everything, Jane,
dear," he said. And he had and now gave it back to her, the whole,
slightly melodramatic account of the younger sister crossing her master— "Good
for the girl," had been his first thought—then being led to the whipping
oak and flogged in sight of friends and neighbors and her poor father, a
sorrowful, maudlin tale, the girl herself being deposited on his doorstep only
the night before, now apparently
his
responsibility. He recited the
whole tale for her, yet felt that something was amiss, withheld by Jane,
something to do with her bone-dry eyes, which apparently had resisted all the
tragic overtones of her own tale, something too to do with the hard little line
around her lips, a line which he had never seen before, some weight from her
past, still wreaking havoc.
"Where
is she now/' he inquired casually, noting the reflection of sun on the silver
coffee urn as he refilled both their cups.
"In
the storeroom," she replied, still sulking as though angry with him for
having heard all.
He
looked up, both amused and shocked. "Where did you say?"
"The
storeroom," she repeated defensively. "I couldn't very well drag her
up the stairs last night, William. Millie was hysterical and Sarah and I
couldn't do it alone."
The
enigma was beginning to fascinate him. "So you deposited her in the
storeroom," he repeated.
Jane
nodded. "It suits her well. I'll move her later." Hastily she added,
"But not upstairs. She'll be in service here, with your permission, of
course. She'll sleep with Millie."
William
smiled at the pretty face, reeking falsification. After ten minutes of solid
talk, Jane had not come near the truth even once. This younger half-sister had
settled with precise fury on her brain. What a marvelous entertainment it might
be! He imagined wagers being made all over London on which Locke sister would
emerge victorious. In the bored affluence of London society, vast wagers had
been made on lesser matters. Human beings hunted such minor sport persistently.
Something in their natures demanded it.
"May
I see her?" he asked. Never bet on a horserace without first inspecting
both animals. He knew intimately Jane's dark buxom good looks and commonsense
ways. But what of the young girl with courage enough to bring her knee up into
the balls of a peer of the realm and who had suffered and survived a public
whipping because of it? What of her?
Jane
looked as though her expression had been tightly stitched onto her face.
"Not now," she replied calmly. "She's quite undone, a drowned
rat, really. You wouldn't find her to your liking." She stood as though
the matter were closed. "She may stay then?" she asked with monstrous
kindness.
"Of
course," William murmured. "You didn't think I'd turn her out, did
you? She's earned a safe harbor and we shall give her one."
Jane
smiled her gratitude. He had never seen her so distraught, yet so eager to hide
it. Sad! She was losing her country ways. Perhaps the younger sister had
arrived just in time. William needed honesty about him. His life, both past and
present, was rife with lies and liars.
Jane
yawned prettily, throwing her false face into her first true expression. "If
you'll excuse me, William," she smiled. "The night was long."
He
agreed, though with a wave of his hand called her to him for a moment. Sweet
Jane. He was fond of her. The storeroom could be filled with a dozen drowned sisters,
and he felt certain he would still choose Jane, in spite of her new and
unappealing habit of deception.
As
she drew near to his side, he encircled her waist and pulled her close,
tenderly pressing his face into her breasts.