He
remained silent. She tightened her grip on the scissors, ready to do battle
with the dandy whoever he was. Then in a flat rural voice, he mumbled,
"Miss Jane Locke, please."
"Out,"
Sarah snapped. "All out, for the evening."
This
information seemed to displease him. As he stepped closer to the door, Sarah
warned, "Be off with you now. You've no business here. The salon is
closed."
"Miss
Jane Locke," he repeated again, his voice rising. He moved forward as
though he intended to enter, invitation or no.
Quickly
Sarah slammed and bolted the door, her heart racing. Merciful heavens, what was
the world coming to when a single woman could not sit in safety within the
confines of her own kitchen? Hurriedly she went to the broad front window of
the parlor, leaving the lamp behind, peering in darkness out at the front
stoop. There she saw him, standing in some confusion, a large man, really, with
a small head. He was turning aimlessly on the walk. Finally he let himself out
of the gate. He stopped beneath the streetlamp. His dandified garments caught
the reflection of the light. She saw him glance back toward the house, then
begrudgingly start off toward Southampton Row.
Gone!
Thank God. She hurried back to the door and tested the latch. Secured. Whoever
he was, good riddance. There were public houses aplenty in London. Within the
hour he would undoubtedly find solace in one of them. It was none of her
concern.
The
matter resolved, she retrieved the lamp and made her way back to the kitchen.
Her back ached from stitching the hem of Marianne's dress. The nip of whiskey
had given her a slight headache. No reason to wait up. It would be dawn at
least before they returned. She was confident that she would hear all about it
Her
normally stem head filled with all sorts of romantic conjecture, she set about
tidying up the kitchen, returning the crate to the storeroom, her eye falling
on the low couch where the poor child had been so rudely deposited that first
night. No need to dwell on it That episode was closed and she had the strong
feeling that another was beginning.
The
kitchen in order, she poured herself another cup of tea and sat relaxed,
waiting. Just as she was beginning to doze off, the bell cord rang again. This
time, startled almost out of her wits, she clutched at her breast to still her
heart and glared angrily in the direction of the rude noise.
Back
again? Well, she wouldn't have it. She just wouldn't have it. She left the
chair in a fury, determined to give the rascal a piece of her mind. But midway
through the darkened dining room, she stopped. Perhaps it would be wiser simply
to ignore him. Certainly safer. These were depraved times, all sorts of madmen
disguised as gentlemen roaming the lanes and roads.
Still,
she was curious and tiptoed stealthily into the entrance hall, taking up her
vigil once again by the broad front window. From that angle she saw a different
figure, this one stooped in a short cape, an old man, or so he appeared. He
pulled the bell cord once again, waiting. In the splash of light from the streetlamp,
she saw his unruly white hair, wigless, sticking out in puffs about his face.
He threw one quick glance backward over his shoulder, then appeared to hurry
off into the night as though someone were chasing him.
Bewildered,
she watched as long as she could until he disappeared at the comer of the road.
Still annoyed, she straightened her back from bending over the window. Apparently
Mr. Pitch had failed to send the word around that his salon would be closed
this evening.
Incredibly
weary from the events of the day and the distractions of the evening, she made
her way back to the kitchen and took a final look around. Her one and only true
domain. She took up the lamp and carried it down the long corridor to the back
of the house and there secured and double-checked both latch and bolt. Standing
in the dark, she felt as though she had lived a long, long time and now only
wished that age had endowed her with a selective memory or perhaps given her
something to remember.
But
for the most part she was grateful that she'd been able to pick her own way
through life, unfettered by highs or lows. And although it had been a little
like watching a cavalcade of the dead, still she was safe, had not had to
"endure" like others she could think of.
A
carriage rattled by on the road. She listened. When she had decided, not
without some arguing, whether to sleep or wait, she went into her room,
extinguished the lamp, and settled down to wait.
Too
late, Marianne realized she'd made a terrible mistake.
Sitting
opposite the two in the carriage in her silly arrangement of sewn-on lilacs,
she realized that she had made a dreadful error. When would she learn not to
manipulate circumstances or individuals?
Ruefully
she glanced out the window at the increase of shops along Southampton Row.
Perhaps she should at least pretend that she was having a good time. But only
one glance at William's stem face changed her mind.
Regretfully
she thought of the premeditated break in her routine, deliberately postponing
the sweeping of the front walk from noon until four o'clock. No one passed the
walk at noon except tradesmen and farmers on their way to London, and an
occasional child guiding his hoop down the road.
But
at four o'clock, she knew that would be different. William's customary arrival
for tea, a chance to see him outside the confines of the house and well beyond
her sister's all-seeing eyes.
Guiltily
she looked up at Jane's eyes, red and swollen behind her mask. Again she
refocused her attention on the passing street outside the carriage window,
noticing an increase in the traffic, carriages on either side providing her with
fleeting glances of other passengers, laughing, talking, excited to be abroad,
while all around her the mood resembled that of a funeral cortege.
Still,
she didn't have the courage to penetrate the gloom, and continued to sit on her
side, watching the "Highlander" staring out one window, the "haymaid"
out the other.
In
all the months she'd been in London, she'd never traveled this far from
Bloomsbury. She tried to amuse herself with the strangeness of it all, there
the huge tower of a church which rose into the night sky, unlovely but
reassuring. The streets were lined on either side with uninterrupted shops, liveries,
butchers, tobacconists, confectioneries, public houses, each proclaimed by a
neat wooden sign, lamps still burning in many of the windows in spite of the
late hour.
"Do
they never close?" she asked, more to herself than a direct question.
"Not
as long as there is someone who will buy," William said. She looked at
him, grateful for his effort.
"How
does the poor customer decide which one to do business with?" she asked,
preferring the sound of voices to the sound of silence.
"The
one who offers the best bargain wins the greatest number of buyers,"
William replied, apparently willing to pursue the stupid conversation as far as
necessary.
She
noticed Jane look sharply at William, as though he'd broken a rule by speaking.
"No need to fill her head with nonsense," she snapped. "She has
no money to seek bargains of any kind."
The
comment had obviously given her a great deal of pleasure. She looked back out
at the street and Marianne saw a slight smile behind the mask.
William
fell silent. Marianne felt as though they were all thrashing about in their
places, yet remaining perfectly still. She was in the process of ruining the
evening for both of them, and for that she was profoundly sorry.
Gathering
her courage about her, she leaned up and lightly touched Jane's hand. "I'm
sorry," she murmured. "I shouldn't have come."
"Nonsense,"
muttered William under his breath, but loud enough to be heard.
Marianne
went on, speaking only to Jane. "If you wish, I can always go back. It's
not that important."
Without
looking at her, Jane replied. "You're here now. It's too late to go
back." She looked at her with just a bit of nastiness. "All I ask of
you is that you behave."
Marianne
felt a surge of anger at the implication, as though she were nothing more than
an unruly child, accustomed to dragging herself and her family into
embarrassing and humiliating situations.
Painfully,
she realized the truth of her thoughts. She leaned back in the carriage, and
although she was staring out the window, she saw nothing except the specifics
of her own misery.
Apparently
Jane spotted her unexpected weakness. Pleased, she advised, "Stay close to
me this evening. Between William and myself, it should go well enough."
Marianne
nodded, scarcely hearing this latest humiliation. Then William was leaning
forward, as though bodily to come between the two women. "It will go well,
I assure you both." A look of anger shadowed his face. His eyes moved over
the facades of the buildings as though searching for one worthy of comment.
"Piccadilly!"
he announced, his tone clearly trying to distract.
As
William pointed out several landmarks, Marianne tried to appear fascinated, all
the while aware of Jane's eyes on her, watching, watching. Small memories, like
unidentified prehistoric ruins, surfaced in her mind; Jane standing for hours
in the comer of the parlor of her father's cottage. Her offense? Marianne
couldn't remember. Jane being denied supper, creeping off to bed. Her offense?
Marianne couldn't remember. Jane crying herself to sleep at night. The source
of her sorrow? Marianne wasn't certain.
As
the full weight of Jane's miserable childhood washed over her, Marianne again
put out her hand. After a moment, as though uncertain what to do, Jane took it,
her head moving perceptibly with the broken arc of two instincts, recoil and
advance, so that the head rocked timidly and aggressively at the same time.
"I
said not to worry," Jane soothed, still apparently perplexed by Marianne's
show of feeling. Kindly, Jane added, "I'll look after you." The words
were so sweet and welcome that Marianne smiled and breathed a sigh of relief.
William
recognized the reconciliation and the three of them smiled behind their masks,
Marianne almost jubilant for the first time that evening.
William
launched forth into his role as guide again, directing them into the turn which
led to Oxford Road, pointing out and identifying the grand building just up
ahead.
"The
Pantheon!" he announced proudly, as though he'd had something to do with
it. "The new winter Ranelagh. Built by James Wyatt, it was."
Marianne
nodded excitedly to everything, still grasping Jane's hand as though fearful of
letting go, the small gesture of need working miracles on the tall
"haymaid," who looked almost with pride at her younger halfsister.
Jane
whispered, "Wyatt sometimes comes to our salon. When he isn't drunk he's
very amusing. Which isn't often."
Both
girls giggled softly. William said defensively, "Drunk or not, his work is
an improvement on that of the Adam brothers, you'll have to agree."
The
carriage pulled up directly in front of the brightly lit building. Through the
central arch Marianne caught a glimpse of a long avenue of glittering
chandeliers. The steps were filled with people in masquerade, everyone laughing
and chattering. In the distance she heard the strains of a minuet.
As
the coachman opened the door and William stepped out, she caught sight of a
young man in an artist's smock with a jaunty beret on his head running toward
them. With him, reluctantly following, was a tall, blackclad smuggler. The
artist was calling William's name over and over again.
At
that moment it occurred to her that she would have to meet people. How would
she be introduced? And how identified? Still grasping Jane's hand, she climbed
trembling out of the carriage, wishing with all her heart that she were back at
Eden Point, running along the cliffs with only the sea gulls for company.