Feeling
estranged and mildly repulsed by the pitiful efforts of the privileged class to
look common, Thomas considered the unforgiveable rudeness of simply walking
away from the lot of them, in spite of Billy's urgent plea for him to come and
join them.
But
he couldn't quite bring himself to do that. He was what he was for better or
worse, and while he might ride with his men and don common clothes and lift a
glass in a country pub, he was still Lord Thomas Eden.
Burdened
with this bothersome sense of himself, he walked slowly toward the curb.
As
he drew near, Billy babbled on about the glories of the evening and the great
sport of masquerade, clutching the gentleman by the arm and teaching out as
though to similarly ensnare Thomas. The serving girl, Thomas noticed, suddenly
withdrew, reaching out for the haymaid and fairly dragging her up the steps and
into the ballroom where the first minlet was now taking place.
Empty-headed
highborn ladies, Thomas brooded. They'd come to dance and see and be seen. They
could not waste their time in conversation standing on the pavement in front of
the Pantheon.
He
noticed that the Scottish Highlander looked perturbed by their sudden
departure. But there was precious little he could do about it, for Billy till
had a rigid grip on his arm and was steering him toward Thomas.
Like
ships at sea, thought Thomas wryly, lost in a fog. Collision was inevitable.
"Thomas
Eden," Billy pronounced, a charming flattery in his voice, William
Pitch."
The
collision complete, it seemed to Thomas that the Highlander hesitated before
extending his hand. Then he did, and Thomas took it, surprised at the
identification. He'd expected to be shaking hands with James Wyatt.
"Editor
Pitch," Billy intoned. "Just about the finest, most liberal mind in
London, Thomas, if you're interested."
Thomas
wasn't interested. He was not a great reader of newsprint. He had no need of it
on Eden Point, where a man could read of all truly important matters in the
comings and goings of the tide and the movement of the stars.
Now
it was
his
turn, and Billy did himself proud with a simple,
straightforward, irrefutable "Lord Eden, if you please, William. A name as
old as England."
Thomas
liked the sound. In spite of the changing times, the title was his, had become
his through a long, backward-stretching line reaching across the years to the
tenth century. Continuity! The grace of continuity! That was what legislation
and all the personal freedom in the world could never duplicate. Ten Bastilles
could fall and the rabble would still be lacking this gift, this privilege,
this grace of continuity, this "Lord."
Apparently
impressed, William Pitch shook his hand, his eyes behind his mask alert yet
calm.
Thomas
appreciated such a look and gestured toward the central arch through which the
two ladies had just disappeared. "I apologize," he said with a smile,
"for frightening off your companions."
Pitch
glanced over his shoulder in the same direction, then gracefully accepted the
apology. "No need. A respite was in order both for them and me."
Billy
beamed, then his face fell. "Two for you, and none for us. Not fair,"
he protested in mock hurt
"Take
them both," Pitch smiled, bowing low.
Evidently
interested, Billy asked, "Who are they? Anyone?"
But
Pitch merely wagged a finger. "Don't defeat the purpose of this insanity,
please. I should hate to think that we all dressed like fools for nothing.**
The
three shared a genuine laugh as though newly aware of their ridiculous apparel.
Thomas felt himself beginning to relax. Seeing Billy again was good. The boy
was daft but harmless. And as far as he could tell, there was nothing in Pitch
to censor or condemn.
Billy
and Pitch were talking to each other, not necessarily private matters, but
beyond the reach of Thomas' familiarity. From the conversation he surmised that
Pitch held a salon each evening, that Billy had frequented it on occasion, that
they were discussing mutual friends.
During
this interim Thomas scanned the front of the Pantheon. The crowds had dwindled,
the revelers all inside. His eye fell on the shadow cast by one of the
colonnades. He saw, or thought he saw, Pitch's two ladies watching them.
His
attention was drawn back to the curbside conversation by William Pitch, who
said quietly, "I'm sorry. Lord Eden, I can't place you. Do you sit in the
House of Lords?"
Thomas
looked at him, surprised. It was a peculiarly probing question for an
acquaintance of less than five minutes. "No," he replied curtly.
"You
do have a seat there," the man went on.
Annoyance
rising, Thomas said, "I have a seat, but I don't sit in it."
"Why?"
The interrogation continued, the man clearly overstepping his bounds.
In
an attempt to alter the direction of the conversation, Thomas threw the
question back at him. "Why do you ask, sir?"
Without
hesitation Pitch replied, "Because now more than ever we need men of
substance, understanding, and wisdom in Parliament."
Thomas
laughed. "Then that's why I don't sit, sir, because I have none of those
admirable qualities."
Billy
joined in his amusement. "He's right, you know, William. The villain
almost pushed me off a cliff once. We both were boys and I probably deserved
it. Still I can't see Thomas in the House of Lords in spite of his right to be
there. Devonians have their own peculiar way of managing things." He
leaned closer to both men. "It's the Celt in them, you know," he
whispered. "They still put waterpots by their chimneys to catch the
smokewitches."
Thomas
was grateful to Billy for his attempt at levity. Unfortunately it had not
served the purpose of diversion at all. If anything. Pitch seemed stirred to
even greater interest "Devon, you say?" he asked, displaying an
intense restlessness.
Again
Billy served as Thomas' mouthpiece. "North Devon," he announced. "All
of it as a matter of fact, or most of it Sinfully rich, he is, William. My
father used to say of Eden lands that between the herring below and the sheep
above, all that was lacking for complete supremacy was control of the
heavens."
Thomas
listened to the drivel, but did not comment on it, still fascinated by the
change which had come over William Pitch. The restlessness expanded to
uncomfortable nervousness. Twice Thomas saw him glance sharply over his
shoulder toward the massive arch of the Pantheon.
"If
you gentlemen will excuse me," Pitch muttered, backing away.
But
Billy would hear none of it. "Wait, William," he called, taking a
final glance at the street, empty of all carriages. "Perhaps he isn't
coming," he said mournfully.
"Who?"
Pitch asked.
"Wyatt,"
Billy said. "James Wyatt was to have met me here."
Still
moving away. Pitch called back, "Jamie Wyatt is probably facedown on a
table at White's."
Billy
looked shocked. "Drunk?"
Pitch
shrugged. "Whatever. At any rate, you would never find him here."
"Why?"
Several
feet away, walking backward. Pitch called, "He never enters one of his own
buildings. He's not certain the roof will hold."
Thomas
smiled. Whatever had caused the man's distress, he obviously had not lost his
sense of humor. Pitch called out to Billy, "If you want to see Wyatt, come
by to my house tomorrow evening. Now, if you'll both excuse—"
But
again Billy called after him, "Wait! We'll go with you."
In
spite of the mask, Thomas thought he saw a stem objection in Pitch's face.
Thomas tried to restrain Billy but to no avail. The artist's smock eluded him
as Billy started up the stairs, shouting back at Thomas, "Come along.
While the others dance, I'll tell you more of my tower."
Not
a very exciting promise, but what could Thomas do? Both men were waiting for
him at the top of the steps, Pitch ensnared again, Thomas partially ensnared.
Between them, like a questionable bridge, stood Billy Beckford.
Thomas
bent his head forward, perturbed. If companionship was a cultivated task, it
was one that he preferred not to cultivate.
Slowly
he climbed the steps, head down, catching sight of his smuggling clothes,
wishing that he were astride his horse, galloping at top speed along the
dangerous headlands of his North Devon home.
The
Grand Ballroom inside the Pantheon was a dazzle of light. Twenty gigantic
chandeliers, each bearing at least a thousand candles, stretched in a blinding
line down the center of the promenade while on both sides were arrangements of
tables covered with white linen that seemed to reflect the light and heighten
the illumination.
Beside
the Grand Archway the three men stopped. Thomas looked out at the scene before
him. Since it was the fashion, spilling over from the turbulence in France, to
deny heritage and birth, most of the guests had come garbed in peasant's
apparel, hundreds of woodcocks, hay wains, blacksmiths, and shepherdesses, all
dancing the stately minuet, while in the gallery above stood the lower classes,
dressed for the gala occasion in their best, their church finery, their
festival-day clothes.
Apparently
Billy made the same speculation. He laughed aloud. "Here's an upside-down
world for you, William." He shook his head, as though he longed to flee
back to the good sense of building towers which served no purpose. "Please
make sense out of it for your readers," he added, "all of us, in next
week's editorial."
But
Pitch, Thomas observed, was not thinking about next week's editorial. He was
casting an urgent glance over the tables, clearly looking for his ladies.
Thomas
had had enough. If Billy had forgotten his manners, he hadn't. "Come
along, Billy," he said, grasping the young man by the arm in an attempt to
steer him away from William Pitch. "Let's find our own amusement. Mr.
Pitch has his hands full enough."
But
Billy was adamant and he had a good memory. "He offered us his ladies,
Thomas," he protested. "Where could we possibly find our own?"
Bristling
at the insistent youth, Thomas walked ahead alone. "Then if you'll excuse
me—"
But
Pitch moved alongside him. His manner had changed again. He sounded almost
insistent that Thomas join his party. "I beg you. Lord Eden. No need to
take your leave. Tables are scarce, I see. As long as we're here, let's enter
into the spirit of the evening. Let's forget our names and questionable
positions. Let's keep our masks firmly in place and pretend that beyond that
arch the world is in the hands of men of goodwill."
Apparently
the fantasy held great appeal for Billy. While Thomas was less enthusiastic, he
was not altogether opposed. Pitch interested him. And it was true, there were
no available tables and the suggestion of anonymity was a good one.
"I
thank you, Mr. Pitch," Thomas said. Then, laughing, he corrected himself.
"Or is it Angus?"
Pitch
bowed low. "Angus, sir, if you please."
"And
I'm Artist," Billy chimed in. "All artists, rolled into one. And
Thomas here is Smuggler." He laughed openly. "Angus, Artist, and
Smuggler," he pronounced.
The
three of them started toward the left side of the room, Pitch leading the way,
his head bobbing from side to side in search of his ladies.
There
was boisterous laughter all about To one side, Thomas saw a "highwayman"
pull a "milkmaid" down onto his lap, his black-gloved hand probing
beneath her tightly-laced bodice while a small circle of shepherds and sailors
and assorted ruffians urged him on. Thomas watched, amused at the mock
protestations coming from the lady, who quite possibly had dreamed all her life
of being ravaged by a highwayman.