At
least she could talk. Oh, God, how she could talk. "Why," he asked, "should
the role of reasonableness be so exalted?" He wanted to drive her into a
corner, wanted to remove the peculiar privilege which resided on her face.
"It
isn't exalted," she replied flatly, "for those who think they possess
it."
He
leaned forward. "Do you possess it?" he asked bluntly.
"I
try," she replied. "I don't always succeed." She looked down,
fell into a vague arrangement of her skirt. Without looking up she asked,
"Do you?"
William
maintained an ominous silence. She was testing him.
Where
in the hell was Jane? He was weary of the confrontation. The talking Marianne
was worse than the silent one. Clearly she was one of those deviations by which
man thinks to reconstruct himself. In fact, looking at her again, he saw a
masculine quality in spite of her delicacy and small frame, a confidence, those
areas of manhood in which no woman should have a legitimate foothold. He
thought with a smile of the havoc she could wreak among his fellows—political liberals,
self-serving, yet broadminded wits or halfwits who would take her as a lamb
until they felt her lion's claws.
In
spite of the nature of his thoughts, he smiled again at the image. If only
Hogarth were still alive. He would sketch her in that likeness, the face of a
lamb, the claws of a lion. And God help the man who lacked the wit and
intelligence to leave her alone.
He
gazed with sharp attention at her downcast eyes. He had hoped she would be a
pretty, romantically pitiful bauble to add to his salon. But as bad luck would
have it, while she was pretty, she certainly was not agreeable. Finally, this
was completed by a sense of wounded pride. He had hoped to dazzle her. In truth
he had bored her.
Glancing
at her now, he noticed a change in her face. She raised her eyes to him, an
expression no longer contained and arrogant, but faltering, as though in
humility.
He
felt himself taken aback, and was in no way prepared for the words she spoke.
"Thank you for telling me about the heavens." Her eyes moved rapidly
across the Orrery, She left her chair and stood over the machine.
William
followed and stood opposite her, both gazing down at the miniature solar
system. The beautiful head opposite him lifted. She said softly, "I'd like
to go there someday. Wouldn't you?"
His
mind felt momentarily disengaged. "Where?" he asked.
"Uranus,"
she said, "in a flying machine. To the shores of Uranus—assuming, of
course, that they have shores."
William
laughed. In response to what she had said, he felt happy and restored. She was
a female, her head filled with foolish notions, a child upon whom the world had
placed no burdens save one, a scarred back and accompanying memories.
Apparently
she was not upset by his laugh. In fact she seemed pleased by it, as though the
restoration of his good humor had been her precise aim. "Why not?"
she asked prettily. "Why not a flying machine? We are capable of
everything."
William
shook his head. "Not quite," he corrected. "Almost, but not
quite. Where would we find wings?"
Smiling
as though at her own stupidity, she offered timidly, "We could make them.
We could study the birds and make ours like theirs. They could teach us."
There
was something so open and earnest in her face, a quality that William had never
seen in a face before, male or female, an absolute confidence in dreams.
"If
you say so," he conceded softly, standing very near to her, feeling
himself deprived of all breath. There was a pleasant scent about her, like wind
or sea breeze, and her eyes were holding him. He tried to glance away, knowing
that he should. The whole room seemed suddenly to fill with her fragrance. When
he glanced back at her face, he saw that she was pale, as though she too were
experiencing the same discomfort. He had never, never desired anything in his
life as much as he now desired the touch, the feel, the sensation of that one
hand.
Then
from the door came, "Three shillings for a decent piece of lamb! Can you
imagine! No telling where—" Jane stopped short. William could just see her
face over the dark blue shoulder. Jane laughed nervously. "Still
instructing her in the movement of the heavens, William? Will you never give
up?"
He
moved away, coming back to common sense, feigning a disinterested involvement.
"More accurately, she was instructing me."
At
the same time, he saw Marianne hurry to the door, her face down. She murmured
something about Sarah needing her, and within the instant, she was gone, the
room painfully empty, as though a throng had left instead of one. . . .
Eden
Castle
North
Devon
Whenever
his mind turned upon such things—and it was not often, for Thomas Eden was
basically a very sanguine person—it struck him that during the last few weeks,
he had been, if not happy, at least content.
On
a brisk cold mid-December morning, standing on the central staircase, looking
out over the inner courtyard, wearing only a loose-fitting white shirt and
riding breeches, his hair in an almost barbaric state of disarray, he watched
as Russell Locke put the magnificent horse through her paces.
Amid
cries and shouts from the watching guardsmen, Locke raced her this way and
that, a sagacious beast specially trained by Locke himself for special work. A
beautiful swift animal, she handled like a dream and could turn on a sixpence.
Thomas'
fingers twitched over the thin whip which he held in his hands. How he would
like to ride her, as Locke was riding her, around and around the whipping oak,
the maneuver clearly designed to display her speed and agility. Abruptly, in a
rush and sudden break, Locke stopped the animal directly in front of Thomas.
"Watch
this!" he shouted. Thomas stepped closer, longing to touch her, to feel
the sweat of her mane, the whites of her eyes glaring at him as though she were
aware of her own intelligence. Quickly Locke reined her to the left, slowed her
to a sedate gallop at the end of the courtyard.
Then
Locke shouted, "Whoa!" As if on opposite command, the horse shot
forward in a burst of speed, heading for the castle gate. Thomas laughed,
delighted.
"Incredible!"
he shouted while horse and rider were still a distance away. "You've done
a magnificent job, Locke." The compliment had been earned. It had been
Locke who had worked with the animal for only two weeks, teaching her to
respond to orthodox words of command, but in reverse, so that if a revenue man
happened upon a horse laden with contraband and ordered the rider to halt, the
obedient fellow might shout "Whoa!" and the horse would gallop safely
off into the night.
It
had been Locke's idea, the only way to escape if caught hands down with illegal
goods. Thomas had not thought it possible to train an animal in so short a
time. But here was the proof standing before him, her monstrous sides heaving with
exertion.
"Let
me try her," Thomas said eagerly, stepping up to take the reins.
"I'm
not certain, milord," Locke said hesitantly. "She knows my voice, my
hand—"
"And
she can learn mine," Thomas insisted.
Begrudgingly,
Locke slipped from the saddle. "Give her her head, milord," he
instructed, "until right before the command. Then pull sharply up. She'll
know."
Beside
himself with excitement, Thomas nodded to the instructions. As Locke held the
stirrups steady, Thomas swung his leg up and over, enjoying the sensation of
her massive sides. He took the reins from Locke's hand and led the animal in a
slow walk to the end of the courtyard. She was a beauty, a chestnut brown with
rippling muscles and a good sense of herself.
He
tightened his grip on the reins. The cold wind off the sea blew against him. He
looked over at Locke, who had been joined by several of the groomsmen. They all
stared eagerly toward Thomas, clearly awaiting the master to perform.
Then
perform he would! He wrapped the reins about his hand and with sudden strength
brought the heels of his boots down against the horse's sides. She shot forward
in a burst of speed, her mane in the wind slapping against his hand. He raced
her the length of the courtyard, then back, slowing her to a gallop. He could
feel the tension and imagined her weighted down with packs of smuggled goods,
the night dark, but her feet sure as she picked her way across the cliff top.
He
was midyard now, the horse prancing at a steady pace. Suddenly he imagined
other hooves behind him. The excise men. Closing his eyes, Thomas imagined that
above the howl of the wind, he heard a voice ordering him to stop. Being an
obedient fellow, he shouted to the horse, "Whoa!" Upon the command,
the horse shot forward, no steady acceleration, but moving within the instant
from a gallop to breakneck speed. The whipping oak passed by, a blur of black.
Yawning directly ahead was the castle gate. Sharply, Thomas jerked back on the
reins. As the bit cut into her tongue, the horse raised up on her hind legs.
Thomas gripped at the leather in his hands, doing more damage to prevent his
fall. He saw Locke start, alarmed, down the steps. Then she was steady again,
white puffs of smoke exploding from her nostrils, shaking her mammoth head as
though to tell him that he could let up.
Laughing
heartily, he bowed to the thin applause coming from the guardsmen on the steps.
"Quite
a trick, milord," one of the men shouted at him, "A topsy-turvy
animal if ever I saw one."
Thomas
smiled and nodded. He guided the animal back along the wall, past the charnel
house. A nauseating odor filled his nostrils in spite of the nine-foot
thickness of the Norman walls. The horse too shied away. It was only with the
greatest of strength that he kept her from bolting back to the center of the
courtyard.
Locke
grinned as he drew near. "That's how I trained her, milord." He
pointed to the charnel house. "I told her if she didn't behave, she'd get
thrown down the death well."
Several
of the young grooms snickered. Thomas stared down at Locke. Peculiar attitude
for a man whose sister had endured the place. Then he remembered, as far as
Locke was concerned, that his sister was dead. Thomas wondered briefly, was
she?
As
he dismounted and handed the reins to a groom, he asked, "What's her
name?"
Locke
thought a moment, obviously on the spot. Then, shyly, he ventured, "Brandy?"
In
spite of the impudence Thomas laughed. The fellow was quick. And shrewd. He saw
him shivering in the biting cold mid-December wind. He had done a good job.
Thomas
himself shivered, his shirt wet with perspiration from his recent exertion.
"Come along, Locke," he ordered. "We'll have brandy and
toast—Brandy."
Obviously
Locke had not been expecting so great a gift His face flushed twin circles of
red rising on both cheeks.
Thomas
turned the horse over to the groomsmen and led the way up the steps with
certain misgivings. He was not accustomed to drinking with his men, except
Ragland, whose encroaching age had somehow neutered him, made him neither man
nor woman, servant nor equal. But Locke was a different matter, a man who might
become accustomed to such privilege.
Still,
Thomas was wise enough to know how to use the "user," and in the
lonely stretches of his life and the North Devon coast, a man sometimes had to
take his company where he could find it
"This
way, Locke," he ordered, leading the way through the entrance hall,
avoiding the arched doors which led to the Banqueting Hall, choosing instead
the narrow stone staircase which led down to the dungeon and the new secret
stairway.
On
the long climb down, he looked back once at Locke. The man seemed disappointed,
as though he'd looked forward to the fire and rich furnishings of the
Banqueting Hall. Clearly it was no treat for him to return to the cold damp
hole where he'd spent the better part of the last month.