Still
he looked at her. There was something, a curious inability to break away from
that gaze, as though behind her eyes were powerful magnets. There was something
else, an unreasonable feeling of shame welling up within him as though he had
been the one who had punished her.
Annoyed,
he pulled away from her gaze and walked hurriedly through the kitchen, throwing
back over his shoulder a vague order for Sarah to "See to her." At
the front door of his house, he waited. Then, like a man who for too long had
forgotten to breathe, he stepped out into the crisp cold early December air,
and welcomed the sight of carriages and commerce, wholly welcomed a rational
and responding world filled with rational and responding people.
Abruptly
he reversed that last thought. Responding perhaps, but rational? What he had
found in the storeroom was not so great a mystery. The world was exposed every
day to such incidents. The "carnivals" at Tyburn Hill were still the
most popular entertainments in town, nothing more satisfying than the circus of
a public hanging. Misfortune held a deadly attraction for all. And there were
more exciting pleasures to come, the sketches he'd seen recently, secretly
smuggled in from France, a sharpened blade suspended high in the air over the
victim's head, instant decapitation, new pinnacles of enjoyment for Sunday
picnics.
But
still, without a doubt, the most interesting of all, rather simple really, yet
enormously satisfying, the sight of a woman, stripped and bound and flogged to
the very brink of her life.
He
shuddered slightly and lifted his head as though for breath. Dear God, he'd
never understand men. Never!
As
though to flee his inability to understand, he stepped quickly, resignedly,
onto the crowded pavement. . . .
Grumbling
to herself, Sarah hastily prepared a tray. She used the chipped kitchenware and
filled a bowl with lukewarm porridge left over from her own breakfast. She
fetched the coffeepot from the dining room and shook it sternly. There was a
faint slosh in the bottom. Enough.
They
had no right. Millie off at midmorning to care for an ailing aunt in Brighton,
Miss Locke upstairs asleep, Mr. Pitch gone to his office, and who, guess who,
gets saddled with the new "guest."
She
slammed the cup minus saucer down on the tray and regretted anew her hasty
decision three years ago to leave the service of Lady Groveton. Proper people,
those, with her a part of a proper household. Suddenly in the tension of the
morning, feeling a fatigue from the splintered night's sleep, all the
resentment which she usually kept carefully concealed, rose within her.
She
didn't like what she was becoming, a common woman, as common as the woman she
now worked for. She missed the Grand Palace off Regency Park where fine
carriages came up to the door with sweet gentle horses, when a person knew what
was expected of her and was justly and graciously praised when she did her job
well.
In
increasing moodiness, she looked down at her worn black dress, smudged and
bespotted with food. Her depression complete, she sat heavily on the kitchen
chair. For a few extra guineas she'd allowed her world to go topsy-turvy. Here
she was, living in a scandalous house, the two of them not even wed, serving
meals at all hours to the rabble he called his friends. Just last evening,
hadn't she been forced to serve a blackamoor, a savage with a thick gold chain
around his neck and bare nipples?
She
shuddered involuntarily. She was not a dumb woman. She knew what she had done.
It was simply a matter of greed. Her own! For a few extra guineas she had sold
her soul, and now she was forced to serve whores and blackamoors, scoundrels
and discards from the whipping post. She bent her head even lower, tears
increasing, so involved in her own misery that she scarcely heard a soft,
faltering step behind her.
Not
until she felt the pressure of a hand on her shoulder did Sarah whirl around,
embarrassed, and look up. The girl, lost in the folds of the nightshirt, smiled
at her, her face full of recognition, not for the woman herself, but for her
state of misery.
"Don't
cry," she soothed.
So
great was Sarah's astonishment that she couldn't speak. She could only watch in
a kind of paralysis as with shaking hands the girl took the chipped cup from
her grasp, filled it with coffee, and offered it to her.
That
done, the girl fetched another cup from the sideboard, filled it, and sat
opposite Sarah at the table. Her long, mussed hair hung down beside her face as
she warmed her hands on the hot coffee. "Once," she began, speaking
to her cup, "when I was a child, I stepped, barefoot, down on a rake. I
cried then like you're crying now." Slowly she looked about at the kitchen
floor as though searching for something. "Where's your rake?" she
inquired earnestly, though a smile played about the comers of her mouth.
Slowly
recovering, Sarah wiped her eyes on the hem of her apron. She sat up straight
in the chair, still dabbing at the comers of her eyes, trying to present at
least a facade of decorum and dignity. Speech was beyond her.
Meanwhile
the girl concentrated on her coffee and was now eyeing the bowl of porridge on
the tray.
With
a slight movement away from the table, Sarah said, rather gruffly, "Go
ahead. It's yours," and watched fascinated as the girl reached for it
eagerly. A few minutes later the spoon was scraping the bottom of the bowl.
Apparently
it was Marianne's turn for embarrassment. With a shy smile she looked down at
the empty bowl. "The last time I ate was in my father's house."
Sarah
continued to watch and began to feel uneasy in the expanding silence. Someone
should speak. She cleared her throat. "Did you—sleep well?" she
faltered, appalled at how silly it sounded.
But
apparently it did not sound silly to Marianne. She nodded eagerly. "I must
have. I remember nothing." She looked at Sarah as though seeking her help.
"The last thing I remember is the coach—and the rain—" she paused,
then added, "and the cold."
Sarah
listened carefully, her eyes fixed on the girl. She still resembled a drowned
rat, dried now. Sarah noticed that she was looking at the kitchen, as though
trying to determine precisely where she was.
But
at the moment that it occurred to Sarah to tell her, the girl looked up again
and asked directly, "Who was that man?"
Since
Sarah had been eavesdropping, she was certain that Mr. Pitch had identified
himself. Still, perhaps the girl had been half-awake. "William
Pitch," she said, wondering precisely how far she should go in her
definition of William Pitch. A new approach occurred to her. "Your sister,
Jane, is here, too."
Obviously
this last piece of news meant less than nothing to the girl. Or if it did hold
meaning, she carefully masked it. "I'm in London?" she asked as
though amazed.
"Now
where did you think you'd be?" Sarah replied, amused.
Shyly,
she asked Sarah a peculiar question. "Do you know who I am?"
Sarah
nodded. "You're Miss Locke's sister come to visit." She might have
said more but didn't. No need. In an attempt to put her at ease, she added,
"Your name is Marianne."
The
girl seemed pleased. She folded her hands on the table and fell silent.
In
a few scant moments she had made a good impression on Sarah who, in spite of
herself, began to like her. There was a simplicity about her, a stern harbored
quality, yet a sweetness. Clearly whatever she had endured had taken a toll,
but she had not been defeated by it.
"My
name is Sarah," she said, for some reason wanting the girl to know.
"Sarah,"
Marianne repeated. Without warning the radiance of a smile cut through the
tension of her face. Lightly she added, "I won't ask why you were crying.
It would only make you cry more. Someday, when it's no longer worth your tears,
wall you tell me?"
Sarah
nodded. Merely thinking anew on her misery, she felt her lips tremble. But the
girl was right. Perhaps later.
Marianne
stood up. She looked down at the nightshirt as though amazed. "Wherever
did I get this?" she asked as though seeing it for the first time.
Sarah
smiled. "It's Millie's, the girl who works here. All your things were
quite ruined, I'm afraid. We had to—" She was going to say something else,
but the expression had frozen on Marianne's face.
"Who
undressed me?" she asked, her voice cold.
Then
it was clear. Her scarred back. Although Sarah had seen it, she now denied it. "Your
sister," she replied, rising from the chair, carrying the empty dishes to
the sink. In an attempt to change the subject, Sarah asked, "Are you still
hungry?" and looked over her shoulder where the girl leaned heavily
against the table as though suffering new weakness. "Here," Sarah
said, hurrying to her side. "You'd better sit." As she put her arm
around the girl's shoulder to assist her to a chair, she was amazed at the
thinness.
Marianne
gave in to her support and confessed to feeling weak. Safely seated, she folded
her hands in her lap, head down, as though some unbearable memory were moving
over her.
Sarah
watched, feeling herself moved. Apparently the girl's life now was one long
effort to hold herself in check. Having known her for less than ten minutes,
Sarah was nonetheless convinced that the punishment had been too severe. These
lords of the provinces were little more than feudal chieftains, lacking the
civility and sense of justice with which London was blessed.
Within
the moment, the girl's mood vanished. She looked up. "All my things were
ruined?" she asked.
Sarah
nodded. "At least for now. We must wash and dry—"
"Then
I'd better get to work," Marianne said, leaving the chair, as though eager
to restore herself. "I can't go about looking like this. Will you help
me?"
Although
she had several hours of her own chores yet ahead of her, Sarah agreed readily
to help, her fancy galloping in all directions, to the delicacy and obvious
breeding of this younger sister compared to the one sleeping upstairs.
For
the better part of the afternoon the two women worked together, washing
Marianne's meager collection of three dresses, stretching a dark blue muslin
over a bush in the garden for the rays of the December sun to dry it. Marianne
explored every nook and cranny of the garden, identifying each shrub and
flower, spilling out to Sarah the specifics of the garden she'd left at home.
Sarah noticed that there were still those occasions when she ventured too close
to some forbidden subject and the light vanished from her face. But soon it
passed and she'd moved on to some safer subject, her good spirits increasing,
her laughter contagious.
About
midafternoon Sarah boiled a large tub of water, filled her own bowl and
pitcher, and gave Marianne complete access to her own room across from the
kitchen. Since the matter of the girl's permanent quarters was still up in the
air, Sarah had no choice. Not that she minded.
Marianne
said thank you and hugged her lightly in passing. The brief embrace, so quick
and spontaneous, left Sarah breathless. She couldn't remember the last time
someone had touched her in affection. She turned back into the kitchen, taking
the sweet sensation with her.
A
short time later Marianne emerged, obviously scrubbed, the long hair pulled
back and tied becomingly at the nape of her neck, the blue gown falling in soft
folds from the tiny circle of her waist, a vision compared to the wreck of
early morning. She stood in the doorway as though awaiting Sarah's inspection.
Sarah
approved, and was amazed at the transformation. She was even more amazed at the
broader transformation of her own thoughts. Some practical instinct was already
telling her that this house would never be the same.
"You
look lovely," she said with a smile.
"Not
lovely," corrected Marianne, modestly, "but clean at least. Now it's
my turn to help you." She filled the sink with the remaining hot water and
began immediately to plunge the dishes into it. Sarah started to stop her, then
changed her mind. Quite obviously it was Miss Locke's intention to make a
servant of the girl. How sad for Miss Locke that the girl had already assumed
that role, thus denying her the pleasure of intimidation.