She
walked further back to the very edge of the garden. Beyond the wall she could
see the towers and chimneys of the city, could hear the rattle of carriages on
cobblestones, a vendor shouting out for all to try his chestnuts, a thousand
voices and noises, or so it seemed to one who was accustomed to the rhythm of
waves slapping against a beach and the plaintive screech of gulls swooping low
at eventide.
She
adjusted her eyes to the dimness of the evening light and looked back toward
the handsome red brick house. Sarah had gone back to her duties and Marianne
was blessedly alone, left to recover, to assess, to speculate.
Her
random thoughts, gathering momentum, ascended from the general to the specific.
She was here, having successfully completed a journey which at times she
thought certainly would kill her. But she had survived, and she had every
intention of surviving further.
She
paced softly at the back of the garden, the cool air reviving her, the dampness
of sweat on her forehead feeling like ice, clearing her brain. Poor Jane. Not
changed really. Oh, a lovely gown to be sure and undoubtedly a closetful of
them upstairs. But the same, uncertain, encumbered.
She
lifted her head to the night sky. She still had her wits, her intelligence, her
sense of justice, all fed and made doubly strong by an unquenchable need for
revenge. There lay her escape route. Of course the particulars had to be worked
out, but that, too, was part of her strength, her absolute faith that Fate
would arrange itself on her behalf.
For
now she would have to be satisfied with a borrowed bed, kitchen duties, and the
subtle assaults of her sister. It wasn't the most glorious present, but it was
better than the past, and the future would compensate for both. Her thoughts so
occupied her that for several minutes all the street sounds were blotted from
her ears. She heard only the gentle lapping of waves on a beach, saw a cliff
path which led up to a black grille inside a castle gate. Through the gate into
the inner courtyard, she saw-
Abruptly
she closed her eyes. Her mind made a frantic retreat away from the image. A
short time later, restored, she looked blankly about her. Half-turning, she
caught sight of the red brick house. Why was she standing here in a cold, damp
garden when she should be preparing herself for tea?
For
it was her intention, as it had been since early that morning, when she'd first
seen him bending over her, to have tea this evening with William Pitch. . . .
Most
women, William reflected, were diminished by service. But Marianne, his mistress'
half-sister, was clearly an exception. He noticed that the girl, encumbered
with a large tea tray, looked so excessively at home in the elegant front
parlor, fashionably done in chinoiserie, that she made Jane, lounging uselessly
to one side in a red lacquered chair, seem like the visitor.
William
was surprised to see her up and about. She'd appeared quite pale only that
morning, without spirit or will, and certainly without speech. He smiled at
catching Voltaire with his aphorisms awry. "
We employ speech only to
conceal our thoughts
." Not true, for William was certain now, as he
had been earlier that morning, that behind the silent facade was a mind teeming
with something.
Leaning
back on the couch, he watched her, foregoing for the moment his twin amusement
of watching Jane watching her. Brushed and combed, her long fair hair falling
prettily down her back in obvious ignorance of the fashion of the day, dressed
with utter simplicity in a dark blue country gown that had seen better days,
she moved with ease and grace through the rather garish room decorated with
Chinese wallpaper, a peasant scene with waterwheels and oxen and almond-eyed
workers.
William
looked about him, masking his distaste. Jane had talked him into it, this
overpowering confusion of red and black and jade green. For himself, he would
have felt much more at home with the delicacy of English rose, plain, but
substantial English furnishings. But chinoiserie was the style, and they
would
be stylish, if nothing else.
Again
he shifted on the couch, mildly puzzled by the feeling of unrest which had
plagued him all afternoon. He demanded order in his house. But the atmosphere
of his front parlor this evening was not ordered. It was charged with muted
tension.
Jane
had said nothing all the while that Marianne had been in the room. Prior to
that she'd been a talking machine, informing William in a burst that she was
certain her younger half-sister had reformed, was truly repentant.
Repentant!
Masking a smile, William took the teacup now being offered him by Marianne. As
she turned away, he tried in vain to find something in that self-contained
exterior that spoke of repentance. As she stood half-turned from his scrutiny,
he saw a blush on her cheeks, as though she knew he were watching her, aware
with conscious knowledge that she was an object worthy of scrutiny.
A
fragment from his day's work at translating Kant entered his mind.
Sapere
Aude!
Dare to know. Have the courage to use your own intelligence.
That
was it! Precisely and succinctly her entire personality defined by a remote
German.
Sapere Aude
. Dare to know. He looked up to see her lightly
touching the Orrery on the table, his newest toy, a tiny model of the solar
system, duplicating with clockwork the orbits of the earth and moon around the
sun, an expensive toy which had brought him pleasure in its rosewood case with
inlaid ivory.
"Do
you know what that is, Marianne?" he asked quietly.
Quickly,
Jane looked up from her tea. Her eyes darted nervously to Marianne, whose
fingers were lightly assisting the movement of the sun. "Don't touch
it," Jane ordered. "It's quite delicate and easily broken."
Marianne
looked up at the reprimand, but did not immediately do as she was told.
William
interceded. "Nonsense," he said to Jane. "She can't hurt it.
It's there to be enjoyed." He was aware of Jane's displeasure, but at the
moment was more fascinated with Marianne's pleasure.
"It's
the solar system," he instructed gently. "The Heavens reduced to
rational order. Here the earth"—and he pointed to a small pewter ball— "and
there the moon, and there"—he pointed to the large brass orb—"the
sun."
Clearly
she was fascinated, one hand extended as though in a desire to touch, the other
hand withheld, as though to warn the child in her who went incautiously about.
Before
such an enraptured audience, William had no choice but to elaborate. He shifted
the Orrery close to her. "You see," he expounded, "all three are
in constant revolution, each moving about the other, the entire mystery of the
universe performing with clockwork predictability which human reason can reduce
to a few simple equations."
Her
face furrowed as she leaned still closer. Her eyes, normally blue, burned
almost blue-black. William waited to see if she would say anything, but she
didn't. He realized that he had yet to hear her say a word.
Jane
scolded him lightly. "William, your tea is getting cold," a slight
condescension in her voice as though to convey to him that he was wasting his
explanation on the dull-witted girl.
"Then
I'll have it warmed," he said over his shoulder, and turned immediately
back to the subject at hand. He liked Marianne's attention. The Orrery had been
in the front parlor for over three weeks. With the exception of himself, no one
had paid it the slightest mind.
"You
see this empty place here?" he asked, pointing toward the green enameled
surface.
Marianne
nodded.
"A
few years ago, a man named Herschel discovered a new planet there, Uranus, the
first planet discovered since ancient times. With that, the diameter of the
known solar system doubled, and man, correspondingly, shrank."
She
took it all in, and leaned still closer, the better to study the empty place
where he was pointing.
Behind
them, Jane laughed. "For heaven sakes, William—the child can scarcely read
or write and you're filling her head with thoughts of the solar system."
For
the first time Marianne looked across the room toward Jane. William thought he
saw a tightening of the skin stretched smooth across her forehead. He hoped
that she would speak. But she didn't. The spasm passed, the point of ambush
evaded.
Mysteriously
weary, William withdrew to the couch. It was difficult to sustain enthusiasm in
the face of such silence. Perhaps Jane was right. Perhaps the child's ordeal
had rendered her simpleminded. At any rate it was none of his concern.
As
he sank back onto the couch, he patted Jane on the knee, mending broken
bridges. "She showed an interest," he explained. "I
thought—"
Jane
laughed. "You're too kind, William. And you love to preach. You should
have been a minister."
"Oh,
of course," he agreed sarcastically and rested his head against the
cushion, disliking the sense of a battlefield which had invaded his parlor.
At
that moment Sarah appeared in the doorway, her eagle eyes taking in everything.
Apparently finding nothing to object to, she drew herself up and delivered
herself of her message. "There's a tradesman at the back door. Miss Locke.
He requires payment. Will you come?"
Jane
objected. "Now? Why so late?"
"He
was here earlier," Sarah replied, "but you were sleeping and I didn't
want to disturb you."
William
chuckled. "The wages of laziness, my dear. Go. Pay the man off. It's your
job." He had not intended his voice to be so stem. Without arguing, Jane
stood up, cast only a brief glance at Marianne, who stood silently at attention
near the door. Then apparently convinced that all was well, she swept out of
the door, followed immediately by Sarah.
The
two remaining in the room did not move. William knew that he was staring at
her, saw her blush.
"Would
you care to take a seat?" he asked, curiously annoyed.
She
shook her head, indicating that she did not wash to take a seat.
A
most awkward position, he thought, his annoyance increasing. Was she guest or
servant? How should he treat her, and why didn't she speak? For several
minutes, he sat, silent, now and then adjusting his waistcoat, shifting the
garter below his knee. Too tight Everything seemed too tight The simple wig on
his head was crushing his brain, the jacket was binding him across the
shoulders, his knee trousers were cutting off the circulation from his knees
down.
In
an attempt to rid himself of this mysterious discomfort, he stood up and
commenced pacing lightly. Suddenly he could stand it no more. "For God's
sake," he ordered, "either sit down or leave the room."
Instantly
he regretted it. He was a firm believer in the virtues of reason and humane
regard. She slipped quietly into a near straight-backed chair and sat, her
hands folded primly in her lap.
Incredibly,
he wanted to punish her for having so slyly brought him to such a state of
agitation. He turned away in order to bring himself to a semblance of
self-control. He looked back at her. "Do you think you will be happy in
London?" he inquired, deciding to force her into speech with a direct
question.
She
looked up at him with utmost gravity. 'Why shouldn't I be?"
Although
pleased at her capacity to respond, he found the response itself incomplete,
almost disagreeable. "Well, I'd say that would be up to you. Wouldn't you
agree?"
Again
she looked up calmly. "Not necessarily."
He
glanced across the room at her. Where had she acquired such exalted airs?
"Why not necessarily?" he demanded.
She
gave him a momentary and none too friendly glance. "One's happiness
generally depends upon the reasonableness of those around him, unless of
course, one has the good fortune to occupy a position of such power that reason
is unimportant." She continued to sit in the chair, in a position of
perfect self-containment, while he was the one who paced restlessly about like
some nervous student.