Abruptly
William stood. Well, he would have no hand in this latest fiasco, and he'd told
Billy Beckford as much when the young man had come around, acting as the
go-between for Thomas Eden. He'd also told him that it was his advice to Lord
Eden to leave the girl alone. She'd suffered enough at his hands.
But
they wouldn't. William knew they wouldn't. Everyplace he looked he saw compromise,
deceit, betrayal. It deserved to go, the whole bloody thing, in a great ball of
fire.
As
though something had been settled, he took out his watch and tilted it toward
the fading light outside. Half past seven. Dinner at eight. His salon would be
filled by ten, a large portion of all the wit, energy, and power of London
congregated under his simple beams. This would be a particularly
"exciting" evening, for Billy Beckford had promised him the company
of Lord Thomas Eden.
William's
heart accelerated in anger. He paced the length of the room, his mind moving
ahead. For one second his rage surfaced and he reached blindly for an inkwell
and hurled it across the room. With a crash it struck the far wall, and a black
stain spread and slid, enlarging itself as it ran down the surface of the wall.
At the moment there wasn't a hell of a lot he could do about the madmen in
France. But here there was an arena over which he had absolute authority.
The
awareness of this power blazed out with a vividness that contrasted brutally
with the twilight's quiet melancholy. He had once envisioned himself saving
worlds. Since that was impossible and perhaps even scarcely worth the effort,
he would have to settle for the salvation of a young serving girl.
Quickly
he adjusted himself to the evening ahead. He looked out the window and saw dusk
struggling into night
He
must hurry. He must hurry!
The
"serving girl" stood before the pier glass in the upper bedroom,
wearing an expression of perfect benevolence. Her placid eyes smiled at the
image in the mirror.
Not
bad for a hasty job. The trouble was she felt "dressed up," felt
restrained in the pale blue gown. Still Sarah had worked miracles, had nipped
here, as she had put it, and stitched there, narrowing the waist until now it
clung to Marianne like new skin.
Again
Marianne glanced in the mirror. She turned to check the height of the softly
rolled collar. Sarah had assured her that it was high enough, the one scar that
crept across the back of her neck now hidden in white ruffle. She took another
last look, then slipped into a chair and sat gazing out the window at dusk falling.
Softly
she leaned her head forward and closed her eyes. Whatever went on in Jane's
house, it was not Marianne's place to disapprove. The only area over which she
had absolute control was her own life and conduct. She would look to that and
ignore the rest. But what was she supposed to do? What did William and Jane
expect of her? What role did they want her to play now?
She
heard a soft knock at the door. Sarah, she imagined. The knock sounded again
and she thought it strange, Sarah going so formal with her. The rooms
downstairs had always been opened one to the other.
When
the knock sounded a third time, she retreated to the shadows by the window, determined
not to reply. If Sarah wished to enter, let her enter of her own volition.
Besides, this room did not belong to Marianne. It was not her place to say who
could and could not enter.
The
knock came again and she saw the door opening, caught only a glimpse of a
shoulder silhouetted by the lamplight coming from the hall beyond. Still it was
enough for her to see that it was not Sarah. A familiar deep voice which
stirred her called softly, "Marianne? Are you here?"
Although
the nature of his presence only compounded her confusion, she was pleased to
see him and called out from the shadows, "Over here, William."
His
head swiveled in that direction, his eyes searching through the semidarkness,
finding her at last, then glancing back out into the hall like a trespasser.
The lamplight caught his face and she saw a weary visage, an expression which
mirrored her own feelings.
"Are
you looking for Jane?" she asked, knowing somehow that he wasn't, but
feeling a need all the same to deflate the silence.
He
shook his head, his hands shoved into his pockets, still looking uncomfortable.
Slowly she moved out of the shadows in an attempt to put him at ease. "She
went out," she added. "Jane, I mean. Some time ago. She didn't say
where."
He
nodded, as though he knew this. "I just wanted to see," he began,
then hesitated. "I just wanted to see if you were settled."
"Settled,
yes," she said with a smile. "I'm afraid however that I understand
nothing."
He
turned toward her eagerly, as though at last having something definite to
respond to. "Aren't you comfortable here?" he inquired earnestly.
"This
isn't my room," she said.
"Neither
is the one downstairs near the kitchen," he replied as though willing to
engage her in a debate on so trivial a matter.
"No,"
she agreed, "But I felt at home there."
"And
you don't here?" Quietly he closed the door behind him, mindlessly
pursuing the matter of her comfort. "If the room doesn't please you, we
can always find another. It's no great thing. All we want is—"
Again
he hesitated, then stopped altogether. Mystified, she looked at him. He was as
changed as she was, both of them drowning in a pool of lies and subterfuge.
"What
is expected of me, William?" she asked.
He
looked at her as though he had not understood the simple question. "What
is expected—" he repeated. "I don't understand. What do you mean,
what is expected of you?" There was a slight rancor in his voice. "No
need to make things more difficult than they are," he went on. "Jane
simply felt that—" Again the mind and the tongue apparently broke down
simultaneously. Embarrassed, he tried to change the subject. "You look very
nice," he said, with great formality.
"It's
Jane's," she replied.
"Yes,
but you wear it well."
Again
the muddle of mismatched purposes threatened to overwhelm them. They stood as
though confronting each other. Their eyes met, and in his, she read shame
mingled with bitterness. This look touched a chord in her. She offered him
comfort and an apology. "I'm sorry, William," she began, "for
upsetting your household. It was wrong of them to send me here. I shouldn't
have—"
He
was at her side, sternly scolding, "Nonsense. It's where you belong."
His voiced grew determined. "And nothing will be expected of you, I
promise you that You are my guest, and as such I offer you my hospitality, my
table, and my protection."
She
found the latter offering strange, but said nothing, concentrating now on his
closeness, his shadow falling across her face, his hand lifting toward her.
They
stood without moving, only half aware of background noises in the house and the
street beyond, the clink of china coming from downstairs, the clatter of
carriages passing by on Southampton Row, evening birds in the garden.
His
hand was on her arm, exerting soft pressure, and she found herself leaning
forward, and in some miraculous way, his arms were around her, drawing her
closer. They came wordlessly to the embrace, a spontaneous closeness, his hand
pressing her head against his heart, an amazing tangle of sensations, leaving
her vnth a feeling of beatitude, akin to tears.
She'd
never known such closeness, such warmth, yet responded admirably by nestling
closer, her eyes shut. She felt weak and pleasantly vulnerable within his
embrace. If only she could remain thus for the rest of her life.
But
she couldn't, and apparently neither could he. Abruptly he stepped back,
looking like a man breaking in half, his face contorted, glistening with
perspiration. "I'll leave you now," he murmured. At the door he
turned again, a glint of anger in his eyes. "Nothing is expected of you
tonight," he promised. "Nothing." And with that he left the
room, closing the door firmly behind him.
She
stood alone. The pier glass caught her image and she saw the woman standing
there, in her fine blue gown. Suddenly her hand moved rapidly forward and
extinguished the lamp. She didn't want to see the woman. Sitting now in
darkness, she would have given all she possessed, life itself, to be released
from this new feeling, for in that one brief, innocent embrace, the worst had
been confirmed. The awareness of this "worst" caused a strangulation
in her throat until finally she leaned over and pressed her brow against the
table, horrified at the impact of her discovery, the realization of her
capacity to love, the realization of betrayal, of returning Jane's goodness
with treachery.
Slowly
into these thoughts crept a note of comfort. Perhaps she'd only imagined it.
Perhaps William had only intended to offer comfort, as a father soothes a
frightened child, by simply taking her in his arms and holding her, for that
was all that had happened. Nothing more.
In
that case the burden of the future would be upon her, to stay away from him
until she could rid or cure herself of these feelings.
Hazards
within and without. A new room, a new role, new gown, new feelings. At the very
moment that she laid herself gratuitously upon such a mountain of guilt and
shame, trying to free herself from these new feelings, she heard herself
whispering "William" as though the man were still with her, as he was
with her in memory, as she knew, despairingly, he would always be, for an
interval which merely encompassed the rest of her life.
He
had held women before, hundreds of them, highborn and lowborn, fragrant and
soiled. He had wooed and courted, bought and bartered, traded and dealt. He had
won them gambling, had slipped them out from beneath the watchful eyes of
husbands, had risked duels, had taken them by force and whimsy, had soothed and
assaulted, caressed and struck and, finally over the years, finding nothing new
or surprising in the shape and biology of the female body, nothing stimulating
in sustained sexual variety, he had at last taken a simple mistress, a
goodhearted, uncomplicated country girl, who looked after his table and his
bed, satisfying all his needs.
But
now—
William
sat in the dark in his private bedroom. The window was opened, the night air
fragrant. Over-warm, he stood up, tore off his coat, and hurled it into a far
comer. He felt reduced somehow, adolescent. He paced, realizing with a wave of
remorse that had he stayed a moment longer in the room with her, he himself
would have been guilty of the assault from which he had vowed to protect her.
Abruptly
he stretched out across his bed, trying to make his feelings blind to his
memory.
Yet
, and here was the puzzle, he had not intended to touch her.
He had been merely indignant at the plot which was being perpetrated against
her, had felt it his duty to make her aware of his protection, like a father to
a child.
He
groaned at this self-deception, and rolled restlessly onto his back. Protection!
He was no better than Thomas Eden, perhaps worse. At least there was something
honest in Eden's plot, the need, like thirst, to avenge an old humiliation.
His
thoughts shifted back to the bedroom down the hall, to the young girl sitting
stiffly by the window, scarred, unaware of the game presently being planned by
her sister. Before this night was over, if he didn't intervene, she would be
scarred again, in deeper and more subtle ways than those acquired at the
whipping oak.
Again
he tossed on the bed, unable to separate his feelings of desire from his more
admirable inclination to protect He'd thought he was beyond such agony. Part of
his misery now was simply the tacit realization that he could still be moved,
stirred, that apparently as long as a man lived, he would, at unexpected
moments, always be plagued by such discomfort.
Yet,
and this too was a puzzle, she was scarcely a woman, more of a child, but endowed
with a sweetness, a deceptive simplicity, beneath which he was certain dwelt
incredible richness. The man who finally took her would be justly rewarded. But
that man must not be himself or Thomas Eden. In both cases she deserved better.