He
pressed his eyes closed and wished that he might doze. Ragland and Locke must
be almost to Salisbury by now. He had put them on the coach and ordered them
home early this morning. While thus far he had been unsuccessful with new
French contacts, someone must at least keep their one and only appointment with
Captain Girard in North Devon. Ragland and Locke could handle it, would be
there in plenty of time the next day to clear the fishing fleet and form a
small armada at the mouth of the channel. Ragland and Locke could also handle
the disbursements. Besides, they were both a nuisance to him here, loaded with
the freight of their own various involvements, Ragland scolding Thomas,
scolding him if one could imagine, to leave the girl be.
And
Locke was gloomy after his first night on the town, when he had gone on a
fruitless hunt for his sister and had been set upon by thieves and relieved of
everything save one pair of white silk stockings. He'd wandered through the
London streets, a small cut on his forehead. God alone knows what would have
become of him if Ragland hadn't happened upon him, given him the protection of
his cloak, and seen him home. A week ago that had been. The night of the
Masquerade-
Dangerous
territory, there. He had not expected to see her again. But having seen her
even so briefly had reminded him of the "unfinished" nature of the
entire episode, a sun setting but not falling, a meal prepared but not eaten.
He
heard indistinct sounds from the street, horses trotting, the noise of heavy
wheels, mysterious and agitated conversations close by. Slowly he looked up.
But
the carriage drawing up outside was not the one he was waiting for. A bewigged gentleman,
slightly unsteady on his feet, stepped out and began to make his way to the
door. He was carrying beneath his arm a large, tightly rolled sheet of blue
paper. Then a very excited Billy Beckford was at Thomas' side, whispering,
"It's Wyatt, Thomas. Come and meet him. See his plans for the tower. I need
your counsel."
But
Thomas shook his head. "Later, perhaps, not now. I'm waiting for-"
A
petulance surfaced on Billy's face. "You're really carrying the whole
thing too far, Thomas, if you want my opinion. Ragland was right. Leave her
be."
Then
the lecture was over and Billy was pushing his way through the crowd in an
attempt to join the bewigged gentleman at the door, who was engulfed in
admirers, men extending their hands, bowing in deference to the lion of English
architecture.
Thomas
watched it all with slightly raised head, the annoyance of Billy's advice still
in his ear. The counsel of the entire world, it seemed, was leave her be. No
matter. He was accustomed to keeping his own counsel. He wasn't obsessed, as
Ragland had accused him of being. He was simply a man who liked to see a thing
through to its natural conclusion. Once he'd had her, that was all he wanted.
And knowing where she was, and waiting for the one person who could make it all
possible, he felt relief in his burning brain.
Perhaps
in the months since the whipping oak she'd learned a form of obedience. It must
be very disagreeable for her to endure the humiliation of service in her
sister's house. He merely wanted to see her again, to take what had been
rightfully his on that hot afternoon last summer, and then write "the
end" to the whole episode. Tomorrow evening, at the latest, he would be on
his way back to Eden Point, his mind clear, the fever in his brain eased.
He
straightened himself with the decision of a strong and healthy man who makes an
easy goal. He called for one of the boys to bring an ale. The evening would be
long, though promising.
Of
course, there wasn't a chance in a million that she was still a virgin, and
that was sad. He was certain she had been a virgin that day she had defied him.
But now, after seven months in London, it simply was not possible. Well, so
much the better. At least this way she knew what to expect. Rather sadly, he
remembered her day on the whipping oak. So unnecessary, all so unnecessary.
Then
there was a mug of ale before him on the table and he drank it eagerly, as
though trying to quench the fever in his brain as well as the desert in his
throat. Over the raised mug he saw Billy in close conversation with James
Wyatt, the two men bent over the large blue piece of paper which earlier had
been rolled beneath Wyatt's arm.
A
greasy smell of burned sausages pervaded the air, a crackling of small
explosions. The spit in the enormous fireplace was too near the flame. Still,
he saw men reaching in with bare fingers and extracting the burned pieces of
meat and popping them gingerly into their mouths.
Beyond
the smudged window the evening brooded a menacing red, smoke escaping from
chimneys, forming halos around the church spires, the glow of the setting sun
lingering more pallidly, as if in fear that no one had seen its beauty. Beyond
him was the city, with roof upon roof, chimney upon chimney, cut into a deep
evening blue perspective. Feeling quite reflective, like a man with victory
dose at hand, he cast his gaze even farther and shuddered at the thought that
every stone, every beam, every tile, everything he now saw in a swift glance
was formed with toil during long hours by human brains and human hands. Yet,
impressive as it was, it did not begin to compare with nature's hand which
alone had wrought his coast, his headlands, his ocean, his cliffs, his
seabirds, his fortress, his Eden.
He
realized with a wave of humor that he was homesick. A small pang of doubt
again. Perhaps he should have returned in the coach with Ragland and Locke and
ignored the girl. But it was his pride. No one must have a hold on him, no
matter how insignificant. It was to break that hold that Fate had brought him
to this point, their paths crossing again.
Just
then he looked up. Beyond the window a carriage was drawing up to the pavement.
He waited, peering close. Then a smile broadened on his face. Quickly he
drained his mug, adjusted his jacket, dropped a coin on the table, and started
for the door.
Billy
called after him, "Thomas, wait, come this way!"
"Not
now!" he shouted back. "I'll see you later."
"At
Pitch's?" Billy cried, as though fearful of losing all contact.
Thomas
nodded, "With luck, yes. At William Pitch's."
A
dazzling grin spread across Billy's face as though a brilliant idea had just
occurred to him. He lifted his mug into the air and cried, full-voiced, "A
thousand guineas says you won't make it to her bed this night."
Within
the instant the intoxication of the wager spread. Incredulously Thomas saw the
crowd of gentlemen push close to Billy, apparently not overly concerned about
odds or the parties involved, their hands already fishing for the proper amount
to contribute to the wager.
At
the door Thomas watched the madness, gravely at first. Then, confident of
success, the spirit of the moment flamed up inside him. "You're on!"
he shouted. He lifted his purse from his belt and, holding it high above his
head, shouted again, "You're all on!"
It
was only a thousand-guinea wager, small by White's standards, but fascinating
and appealing nonetheless because it involved a woman and conquest. As the
gamblers pushed closer about Billy, seeking details and odds, Thomas hurled his
full purse toward them and ordered Billy, "Keep books for me. I'll be too
busy myself."
Billy
caught the purse and bowed low, then turned immediately to his audience,
filling them in. The details, Thomas was certain, would be distorted beyond
recognition before the night was over.
No
matter. He glanced quickly through the door. The carriage was still waiting at
the pavement, and within it sat his guarantee for a successful evening. What
harm would there be in returning to Eden Castle tomorrow several thousand
guineas richer?
Behind
him the wagers were mounting, the laughter raucous as the specifics of Billy's
tale reached their ears. As Thomas started out the door, he noticed that even James
Wyatt was drawing forth his purse, the money being collected on the large sheet
of blue paper, the proposed tower momentarily forgotten in the excitement of
the gamble.
On
the pavement at last, Thomas stood for a moment, his eyes focused on the discreetly
drawn curtains at the carriage window. He stepped forward and knocked lightly
on the door. A well-tended hand lifted the curtain and the door opened.
As
he stepped into the recesses of the carriage, he saw a woman, overdressed, in a
taffeta gown, a ridiculously high powdered wig perched precariously on her
head. If she knew how foolish she looked, she gave no indication of it. With a
smile Thomas settled in the seat opposite her, amused and confident in the
knowledge that for a rich man there was always a way.
With
a tap of her parasol on the floor of the carriage, they started forward. Once
under way, she smiled stiffly. "Lord Eden? Am I correct?"
He
bobbed his head, a little regretful of the betrayal which would shortly be
plotted within the confines of the carriage. Still, through his own experience
of life, he had come to the conclusion that in this world everyone must look to
himself.
So
thinking, and relieving himself of any responsibility; remembering the rich
purse which would be waiting for him at White's tomorrow and the satisfaction
of the encounter itself, the conquest which had been postponed far too long as
it was, he leaned forward and extended his hand.
"Miss
Jane Locke? Am I correct?" he inquired.
William
Pitch stood in the dim evening light of his small office, staring out at the
street beyond. It was congested with early evening traffic. But he saw nothing,
and felt the combined weight of France and England on his shoulders.
There
were certain poisons that could not be contained, certain ingredients of mind
and soul that, by their very nature, grew and spread. And the news, now
creeping across the channel from France, spoke of such a contamination, this
Robespierre, all the more dangerous because he was masquerading as a savior, the
one force in muted alliance with the lesser spirits of Danton and Marot who
could lead France out of her agony and into the dawn of true independence.
Slowly
William's face darkened. The whole thing had death written on it. He could
sense it. Yet England slumbered, and awakened only long enough to applaud the
"glorious movement," that "nation of courageous men,"
"the greatest revolution in the history of the world."
Wearily
William turned away from the window. The small office was empty now, his colleagues
scurrying to the comfort of their homes, impervious to the fact that shortly a
new reality would alter the comfort of their homes. No, there was no way to
contain it. France was fated to undergo every form of revolutionary experience,
France the crucible in which all the modem elements of revolution would be put
to the test.
He
stared blankly at the rapidly darkening room, sparsely furnished with four
desks and a copy table, a low-ceilinged room in which, supposedly, thoughts
were organized, then printed for the digestion and edification of any thinking
Englishman. He felt again a menacing dip of his spirits. What difference did it
make? What reason the effort when half of England couldn't read and the other
half read only what amused them? What difference any of it?
He
felt tired and overexcited at the same time. He didn't want to think any more
about what was going to happen. Pitt had just announced that he believed in fifteen
years of peace for Europe. Nonintervention was his policy. Good God, couldn't
he see? Couldn't he-
He
sat heavily on the corner of his desk, noticing the ink-stains on his fingers,
the results of a laborious editorial, a too-shrill alarm trying to jar England
out of her self-indulgent lethargy. The trouble was the men who ruled England
had never been hungry, had never felt a boot on the back of their neck, had
never known brutality and terror save that which they inflicted on others. The
world, like a good hunting hound, could always be replaced if something
happened to it.
Scars,
he thought darkly, should be the prime prerequisite of all public leaders. They
enabled a man to think on eternity. He smiled, both annoyed and amused by the
incoherency of his thoughts. If that were the case, the young girl now living
in his house should be Prime Minister. But she wasn't. Quite the contrary. She
was, at this very moment, being set up as a sacrifice.