"William,"
she protested, halfheartedly. "Sarah and Millie are about. What will
they-"
Grinning,
he pulled her down onto his lap and thrust his hands between her legs. She gave
him only a token struggle, all the while giggling and nuzzling his neck.
The
best of both worlds, he thought, still exploring her legs. He knew that all he
had to do was lift her in his arms and carry her up to his bed, and in spite of
her fatigue, he would find her receptive. Clearly the best of both worlds, a
female, part-whore, part-wife, but neither, really. No obligation, no legal
entanglements, a "gentleman's agreement" to live together as long as
each made the other happy.
Quickly
he released her, feeling himself become aroused and not wishing to go through
the laborious process of stockings and knee britches twice in one morning.
Freed,
she looked inquiringly at him. "You made me hungry," she pouted.
He
feigned sympathy. "Poor Jane. I'll come home early."
She
smiled. Leaning across the table, she said earnestly, "I do love you,
William. I love you so much."
"And
I, you," he concurred, hoping her pronouncement would stop there. It did.
She seemed to be looking about at the attractive dining room, the silver
gleaming on the table, the rich hues of Persian carpet beneath her feet, the polished
mahogany furniture. "How sinful we are," she laughed prettily.
"Breakfasting at noon and making love over boiled eggs."
Delighted,
William smiled. "It's our secret," he said. "For God's sake
don't let the world know how happy we are, or else an edict will be forthcoming
for the immediate restoration of our misery. Nothing is more unforgivable in
this world than happiness."
"Then
it's our secret," she complied. She moved to the door. There she turned
back, her thoughts obviously taking an unpleasant direction. "I'm sorry
about my sister, William," she apologized. "I promise she shall not
disturb you. I didn't give them permission to send her, but"—she lifted
her arms vaguely into the air—"they sent her anyway."
He
started to tell her that she was behaving unbecomingly, but he could not help
saying something utterly different. "We all have an inclination for cruel
spectacles," he said. "It will be interesting to observe the victim
of one close at hand."
"I
don't understand-"
"Your
sister has endured what most of us experience in our nightmares. We must watch
her, see how the human soul copes with the reality of cruelty."
A
look of alarm crossed Jane's face. "Well, if you're going to spend your
time watching her, I'll send her packing this very instant."
"Careful,"
he said, pointing toward the door behind him which led to the kitchen and
perhaps Sarah's eager ears.
As
though aware that she had said too much, Jane drew the robe tightly about her.
"I'm tired," she said, "I'm going to bed."
"You
do that," he agreed. "Remain there if you wish. I'll come home early,
and we'll take tea in the bedroom."
He
listened to her step on the stairs, an indelible shadow of the woman herself.
He waited until in the upper recesses of the house he heard a door close.
Based
on the experience of three years, he knew she would require about fifteen
minutes before falling asleep. Dropping back into his chair, sipping cold
coffee, his whole face bore the rigidity of the dead. Did this unexpected guest
bode ill or good? He preferred Jane lighthearted and empty-headed. If this new
presence upset her, it was only a matter of time before both he and his
household would be upset as well. He wouldn't abide that.
There
was nothing to do but see for himself. He checked his watch. There was time. It
was shortly before twelve. He had an appointment at one. With a slight bend to
the head, he passed quickly by the garden and proceeded quietly through the
hallway which led to the kitchen and the rooms beyond. From the door he saw
Sarah busily working at the sink, a colander of potatoes at her elbow. Millie
was nowhere in sight, off on errands probably, or sleeping in some quiet comer
of the house.
"Good
morning," he said, trying not to startle the woman.
She
whirled about, her plain, middle-aged face agape. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr.
Pitch. I didn't hear you. More coffee?"
He
shook his head. "No, thank you, Sarah."
"More
toast?" she offered, drying her hands on the hem of her apron, ready to
spring into action at the first hint of his command.
"No,
no," he assured her. He had hoped not to find her here. She would
undoubtedly tell Jane and there would be new trouble. Well, so be it. It was
his house.
"I've
come to see our new guest," he announced.
Still
rubbing her hands, she shook her head. "Arrived in the dead of night, she
did. Half-dead herself," she murmured.
He
listened closely to see if he could detect sympathy in the woman. He couldn't.
She might as well have been discussing the delivery of a load of coal. No
wonder Jane was so fatigued. Obviously she had already aroused the whole house
against her sister.
Sarah
lifted an impassive hand toward the corridor which led to the storeroom.
"In there, I imagine, at least that's where Miss Locke left her last
night. Not a peep have I heard. Miss Locke ordered me to stay away." She
shrugged lightly, then turned back to scrubbing her potatoes. "Not much to
see, Mr. Pitch," she called over her shoulders. "But help
yourself."
The
storeroom was situated at the end of the service corridor. To the left was the
door which led down to the cellar and his admirable assortment of wines. To the
right was the door which led out to the garden.
He
paused before the storeroom, feeling a curious excitement, followed immediately
by irritation. His heart, what was left of it after the cultivation and
domination of his mind, always went out to creatures alone and forsaken. Still
he preferred to surround himself with wholeness. Whole people were so
uncomplicated. Before this morning, he had assumed that Jane was whole.
Thus,
William tabulated precisely the capabilities of his emotions, then reached for
the doorknob. It didn't turn in his hand. He tried again. Locked! My God, his
beautiful monstrous Jane had locked her in. In a growing sense of excitement
mingled with anger, he shouted, "Sarah, it's locked, bring the key."
Denied
easy access, he felt his curiosity vault. He would see the other side of the
cell if he had to break down the door.
Sarah
was at his elbow, bewildered, "Locked? Why locked?"
"Do
you have the key?"
She
looked foolishly about at the floor as though the sought-after object might be
there.
The
expression irritated William. "The key, Sarah."
Her
confusion mounted. "I don't—" Then the light broke. She ran back into
the kitchen and returned, key in hand. "It's an extra, Mr. Pitch. Miss
Locke must have—"
Quickly
he took it from her and was in the process of inserting it, when he stopped. "That's
all, Sarah. You may go."
William
waited until she had disappeared into the kitchen. Slowly he opened the door.
The small interior room was dark. He saw a lamp burning low on an upturned
crate. He saw the couch, the familiar discard from the parlor, surrounded by a
confusion of barrels and sacks, half-undone, measures protruding. Then he saw
the young woman, her arms half-flung off the cushions. Her legs were spread as
in a dance, the thin coverlet thrown back. She was asleep. At least her eyes
were closed.
Out
of delicacy, William kept the door between them, not wanting to startle her
into a sudden state of wakefulness. Gazing down on her, he was dumbfounded.
What was there here to alarm Jane? Beneath the thin coverlet, he saw a child's
body, or an old woman's. He thought of Jane's luscious ripe warmth and the
mystery only deepened.
A
spasm of waking moved over her and she opened her eyes. Instantly he tried to
retreat, but it was too late. She'd seen him. Her hands drew the coverlet about
her. But her eyes held steady, wide-open, though darkly encircled, like two
pieces of coal. The longer she watched him, he saw her expression change from
submission to a level, unbending gaze of strength, as though he were nothing
more than a passing amusement, an expression he'd never seen in Jane's eyes or
those of any other female.
Feeling
foolish, clinging to the door, he stepped from behind it and said, "Good
morning."
There
was no reply, although in truth he didn't expect one. She lay as though she
knew that she had to submit herself to a period of observation, but it mattered
little to her who was doing the observing.
Feeling
the tension, William stepped closer. Surrounding the coal-black circles were
two spheres of pristine blue. They stared back at him as if the whole fabric of
sleep had begun to decompose. They moved from his face into a slow,
expressionless inspection of the small storeroom.
Stepping
still closer to the couch until he was looking directly down on her, he asked
softly, "Do you know where you are?"
If
she did, she gave no indication of it, but instead continued to stare up at
him. Her lips, thin and bloodless, had not so much as moved, as though she had
not yet been instructed in the art of speech. He had never been so closely
observed, yet so bereft of the ability to read the thoughts of the observer.
"You're
in London," he began softly, "in Bloomsbury in my house off
Southampton Row. Your sister, Jane, is here. My name is William Pitch." He
felt as though he were reciting a soliloquy to a post. He wondered briefly if
the indifference was feigned or real?
As
though to add to his confusion, she yawned and turned on her side.
In
some frustration, he carefully dragged up a wooden box and sat. "Marianne,
is it?" he inquired, thinking perhaps that the matter of names would make
a difference.
It
didn't. He noticed a few feet away a heap of ruined garments, stiffened from
drying, and beside them a valise, thinly packed, equally as soiled and
mud-splattered. Seeing the scant belongings, he felt again the melancholy of
the abandoned. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, and followed it
quickly with, "Would you like coffee?" He followed that with, "Are
you feeling ill?" then, "You're not frightened, are you?"
Slowly
she turned her head to the barrage of questions. Still no response. The
sensuality in her eyes alarmed him, perhaps the same expression that had
outraged his Lordship. Well, no matter. It was over, and she was here. Jane had
been right. Let her regain her strength, then put her into service.
As
he stood up, he looked back down on her and wondered if the public whipping had
come before or after his Lordship had had his way. Of course there was the
remote possibility that she was still a virgin. But he doubted it seriously.
The eyes certainly were not virginal, nor the body in spite of its childlike
quality. Quickly he steered away from such thoughts. She'd endured enough.
"Honi
soit qui mal y pense"
and his thoughts were growing dangerously evil.
Enough time wasted. He had work awaiting him, the translation from German to
English of that greatest of all eighteenth-century minds, Immanuel Kant. His
English readers were fascinated by the German. Too bad they didn't take his
teachings to heart.
At
the door he stopped again and looked back. She was wearing him out. The
abandoned right hand, somehow older and wiser than the rest of her body,
lifted, hung suspended in midair. Then, as though it were a great weight, she
moved it carefully and placed it on the couch beside her.
He
stepped further back and stared at her through the open door. Beyond him in the
kitchen he heard a suspicious silence, Sarah listening, just out of view.
"Sarah,"
he called. "Bring her coffee."