A
short time later, Sarah returned with the tea tray. She put it almost crossly
on the table near Jane, who waited until she had left before she made any move
to serve. Then she poured herself a cup of tea and sipped at it, selected an
arrangement of small sandwiches and cakes on a plate. Finally, in a cordial
tone she told Marianne to serve herself.
Apparently
Jane saw her hesitancy and spoke in a clear command. "Take a cup,"
she ordered. "I want to see how you handle the service."
Her
bewilderment mounting, as though she were being tested, Marianne did as she was
told, lifted the silver urn, filled the empty cup, and sat down in her chair.
"Cakes?"
Jane asked, still watching her closely.
"No,
thank you," murmured Marianne, wondering if she'd passed or failed.
Jane
returned the plate to the tray, licked the granules of sugar clinging to her
fingers, then lay back on the couch like a woman preparing for a nap. She
smoothed out the cushions, put them under her outstretched arms, and seemed to
take stock of the room around her. She asked, "Do you find this a pleasing
room, Marianne?"
The
direct yet rather senseless question caught her off guard. Again she wondered,
the truth or a lie? In truth she found the Chinese decor gaudy. "It's very
different," she replied safely, "from what I'm accustomed to."
Apparently
Jane extracted from the simple statement only what she needed. "Yes,"
she concurred, "I doubt if there's a room like this in all of North
Devon."
Marianne
thought of the small cottage in Mortemouth where the only "decor" was
a handful of heather gathered from the moors. The thought did damage to her,
reminding her of her father, the happy days she'd known before she'd been put
into service in Eden Castle.
Foundering
under the weight of recollection, she asked Jane softly, "Do you ever miss
home?"
Jane
laughed. "No," she concluded firmly. "Why should I?"
It
was an unanswerable question. She watched as Jane poured herself another cup of
tea. After an icy moment, Jane spoke again, almost dully. "I've worked all
my life to get where I am," she said, studying the shimmering surface of
tea. "It's not been easy, and perhaps you don't think it's very much,
but—"
Quickly
Marianne protested. "I think you've done very well," she soothed.
"And more than that, I'm grateful to you for your kindness to me when I
sorely needed it." She lowered her head, speaking truthfully for the first
time. "I don't know what I would have done, where I would have gone, if
you—"
She
broke off. Apparently something she had said had struck Jane as well.
"You're
my sister," Jane said kindly, as though nothing more needed to be said.
The simplicity of the sentiment moved Marianne and she responded with the
warmest of smiles. For a moment the meeting was what she had hoped it would be,
a simple trusting encounter of two sisters, free of bitterness, almost free of
past wounds.
The
silence held, the only sounds in the room being those of distant carriages at
the bottom of Southampton Row and the soft ticking of the Orrery spinning
around in its limited cosmos.
Abruptly
Jane stood up and walked a little around the couch. "Do you like it
here?" she asked.
An
easy question, since there obviously was no place else for her to go. "Yes."
"Are
you comfortable with us? With Mr. Pitch and myself?"
Not
so easy, this one. Perhaps she enjoyed too greatly talking and being with
William Pitch. Still she answered, "Yes."
As
though with sudden resolve, Jane straightened her shoulders, lifted her head,
the elaborate wig slipping backward in the process. "Then we have
decided," she began, "William and myself, that you should move out of
the servants' quarters and into one of the rooms upstairs." She made a
ceremonious and almost comic little bow as though the matter were over and done
with.
But
it wasn't closed. Marianne sat up on the edge of her chair, even more
bewildered. "W-why?" she stammered.
"Because
you don't belong in the servants' quarters," Jane replied. "You're my
sister and I think you've served your penance. It's quite an embarrassment, you
know, when people ask who you are,"
Marianne
was curious to know who had been asking after her. "I'm afraid that I
don't understand," she said falteringly.
Jane
sat on the couch again. "There's nothing to understand," she
pronounced primly. "There's a bedchamber at the end of the second-floor
corridor. Quite comfortable it is. It's yours."
It
was at best a joyless gift. Marianne knew the room well, having cleaned it
often after it had been occupied by one of William's late-night guests who had
lifted a glass too many. It was a pleasant room, lovely rich mahogany
furnishings, a small but exquisite Persian carpet covering a portion of the
hardwood floor, delicate French porcelain pitcher and bowl on the water stand,
a high window giving a lovely view out onto the gardens. In her mind's eye, Marianne
saw clearly the room, but couldn't quite see herself in it.
"Has
my work here been unsatisfactory, Jane?" she asked, thinking that perhaps
another serving maid was waiting to take her place.
"Of
course not," came the reply. Apparently Jane had reached the limit of her
endurance. "Oh, for heaven sake, Marianne!" she exclaimed. "Why
must you make everything so difficult? Are you that fond of the room off the
kitchen? Am I to interpret your hesitancy as a sign that you prefer Sarah's
company to ours?"
Before
Marianne could answer, Jane stood up as though to close the subject. "You
will move your belongings up to the second floor immediately. I shall tell
Sarah. She'll have to make do until I can interview a replacement." She
looked back at Marianne. "And leave the serving dresses," she
ordered. "You can't wear those hideous things."
"I
have nothing else," protested Marianne.
Jane
pondered the problem. "I'll place one of my gowns in your room. You'll
have to hem it, but it will do for tonight. Then, tomorrow, we shall buy
others."
Still
Marianne sat, aware that she should be making sounds of gratitude. But she
couldn't. The scheme held little appeal for her.
"Well,
then," Jane concluded, apparently interpreting Marianne's silence as
grateful consent. "You must get moved, and I must go out briefly. We'll
expect you at dinner, in your rightful place."
"Jane?"
"No
more questions. It's late and I really must be—"
"But
I would like to understand—"
"There's
nothing to understand. Your position as a serving girl in this house is not
suitable."
"It
was suitable for over seven months."
Jane
looked around sharply from the door. Both remained silent, one in dismay, the
other in anger. "If it makes you feel better," she offered, "you
can visit Sarah now and then in the kitchen."
There
was something patronizing in her voice. Marianne felt a surge of anger.
"How am I to know," she began, "that one day you won't come to
me and tell me that this is unsatisfactory, that for some reason I shall have
to vacate the second-floor room and move back to the kitchen?"
As
though sensing her anger and pleased by it, Jane smiled sweetly. "Well,
I've never heard such a fuss." After making an unabashed scrutiny of
Marianne from head to foot, she softened. "We don't lead such a despicable
life," she said with a smile. "I think, knowing you, that you might
enjoy it." She swept out into the hall and returned a moment later,
parasol and gloves in hand. "Has it ever occurred to you," she began,
speaking as though to a child, "that it's your future we're thinking of?
Neither William nor I am prepared to support you all your life."
For
the first time Marianne thought she saw the light of a reason. The move up was
merely the first step in a move out. As Jane's sister, and William's
houseguest, she would be easily identifiable as "eligible." The
nightly salon was to become a marriage market, or worse, a place of procurement
where, if she was lucky, she would catch the eye and purse of a rich Londoner.
More alarming than this, she saw that Jane had no qualms about the arrangement,
apparently void of moral distress.
As
though to confirm her terrible suspicions, Jane rhapsodized, "Here in
London everything is possible. A pretty face and a quick wit can conquer almost
anything." She smiled sweetly. "Be ready for dinner at eight," she
ordered. "Take your pick of my gowns. I have enough for both. Now I really
must be going."
As
though all were resolved, she hurried to the front door and out of it, leaving
Marianne sitting in a benumbed, angry state. A moment later, she heard a
carriage draw up in front of the house, then pull away.
Marianne
sat motionless. Every passing second had its own note, every memory its own
ring. Then someone was speaking to her.
"Marianne?
Are you all right?"
She
looked up at the insistent voice, found Sarah's concerned face. The woman was
kneeling before her. "You look like a ghost," she scolded.
Marianne
leaned forward and embraced the woman, more than embraced her, hugged her close
as though clinging to life itself.
Sarah
responded stiffly but admirably, claiming that she'd miss her company in the
kitchen, but it was the right thing to do.
Marianne
separated herself from the embrace. Hoping for an ally and finding none, she
stood. "It seems I'm to become a lady, Sarah," she said with a smile,
helping the woman to her feet.
"Not
become," Sarah scolded. "You are. The only one in this house as far
as I'm concerned." Then she became businesslike. "We have work to do.
It'll take more than hemming to make one of her dresses suitable for you. Then
I'll help you with your things." Again Sarah confirmed the truth in her
heart. "Oh, yes, it's right. In fact it should have come that first night.
Putting you in the storeroom like that—" And she shook her head as though
belatedly shocked. "Well, it's proper now. You're in your rightful place
and—"
She
had been talking in feverish haste, and was suddenly silent with a questioning
look at Marianne. "You're—pleased, aren't you?"
Slowly
Marianne nodded, although her face showed neither surprise nor joy. She
wandered toward the back of the house, Sarah following eagerly after her,
bobbing from one side to the other, spilling out plans and schemes.
Still,
there was something in Marianne which gnawed like self-contempt. As she packed
her few belongings, in preparation for leaving the servant world, she felt
crushed and humiliated, like a servant.
Thomas
Eden sat lost in thought at a table placed near the window of White's Tavern,
once a chocolate house, now a gambling inn. He was awaiting the arrival of a
coach which should have come some time ago; it was already an hour late.
Billy
Beckford, who had accompanied him here, as he had accompanied him everyplace
for the last week, like a scavenger over a corpse, was engaged in a raucous
game of dice at the center of the crowded, smoke-filled room. While White's was
large, it could not begin to accommodate the hordes of gentlemen, laughing and
shouting, the constant rattle of dice, the thick white candles burning on
double standards around the walls.
Very
tired and mildly hung over, Thomas crossed his arms on the table and laid his
head upon them. The warmth of the early summer sun, still hot at the beginning
of dusk, began to strike the surface of the scarred oak table. A pleasant
lassitude enveloped his nerves, and his thoughts began to run riot as a sick
man's will, gradually taking on strange forms and colors.
Eden
Castle. . . the girl . . . another drink . . . the need to return. . . the
compulsion to stay . . . William Pitch's house in Bloomsbury. . . tired . . . constantly
drunk or on the verge of it. . . .