Thomas
bobbed his head in scant acknowledgment. He stood a moment longer, peering down
as though into a void. The truth was, he wanted her. With desire that was pain,
he wanted her. Straining against this want, he shouted down at the waiting
carriage, "I'm coming."
With
all due haste, with the promise of relief, he left the room and entered the
darkened corridor. He took the steps running, then abruptly stopped.
He
was Lord Thomas Eden. While he might feel like a rake and a schoolboy, he must
cling even to the slenderest thread of what he truly was.
With
that resolve he continued the rest of the way down the stairs, with dignity,
trying with all his might to digest the grotesque intermixture of human agony
and absurdity that was the state of manhood.
As
though he were in hiding, William Pitch stood beside his magnificent escritoire
of black oak and watched his salon. At two in the morning the downstairs rooms
of his house were filled with ladies and gentlemen, all amorous and coquettish,
stray hands and pouting lips, little better than a public house, a place for
assignations.
He
wondered sadly when and how it had changed. What had happened to that
"nest of singing birds," the manner in which Dr. Johnson had once
described a good salon? William himself remembered the London salons of two
decades back, when as a young man of twenty, fresh down from Oxford, he had
mingled in other salons of a most rarefied air: Hogarth, holding forth on a
plush settee; Dr. Johnson and his shadow, Boswell, playing off each other in
perfect concert on the discourses of Diderot and the tasteless excesses of
Rousseau; an Olympian atmosphere wherein a young man could feel himself
treading with the gods, picking up their snippets for his own nourishment.
Now?
Nothing. All dead except Boswell, the flat tip of his inquisitive nose reddened
with excess, his pursed lips with their delightful sense of relish grown thin
and blue, his ears grown thick and clogged with the wax of age.
William
stared out and around his escritoire, feeling like a trespasser in his own
house. Now he made do with fools like young Billy Beckford there in close
huddle with James Wyatt, whose nose was beginning to resemble Boswell's, and
those blasted blueprints which Billy carried everywhere, his fabulous tower
which one day soon would rise from the Downs of Wiltshire.
A
soft explosion of contempt left William's lips. Mind, he would never enter such
a tower. The shaking hands of Wyatt could scarcely hold a glass, let alone
construct a tower.
Still
in hiding, William closed his eyes and wished the rooms of his house were empty.
His feelings from earlier in the evening were still with him. From where he
stood, just inside the drawing room, he could see clearly across the entrance
hall to the blue floimce of a gown where she sat alone in the dining room,
where she'd been alone almost the whole evening except for a few introductions
from Jane, who had dragged people back and forth, introducing them to her
"beloved sister."
Apparently
Marianne had shut off all facets of light within her personality, for no one
had seemed compelled to sit and chat, and sooner or later all had drifted back
into the clogged society of the front rooms, leaving her as alone as ever.
He
longed to go to her side, to reassure her that there was not a wit or
personality in the crowded rooms worthy of her attention, but he dared not.
Their earher and extraordinary closeness had taken a toll.
Laughter
rose about him. A gentleman stumbled at the edge of the Persian carpet. Two
ladies shouted coarse jokes, glasses in hand, as the man struggled to right
himself; shrieks of laughter, a hand knocking against the sun of the Orrery,
throwing it out of kilter, the ribald mirth growing, couples strolling
upstairs, carnal cravings in their gestures, rakes like racehorses, getting
ready for the grandest of Grand Nationals. And Jane, swirling in and between it
all, the country girl turned Queen Bee, keeping her sharp eye on each new
member who entered the front door.
At
the height of the battle, William felt a silence close around him. The only
comfort he could find anywhere was in the hem of that blue gown sitting alone
in the dining room.
Annoyed,
he looked up, hearing music coming from the far comer of the room, a tune by
Rameau, delicate against the background of coarse laughter. He saw that a
couple had opened his French music box. Several others pressed close to the
music, as though in search of a dance. He saw a bewigged woman in a yellow gown
bare her teeth like a vixen, as though ready to bite and snarl. She seized a
gentleman roughly by the arm as though she wanted a partner for dance. The
gentleman bowed low, his mouth brushing the front of her dress.
The
sally was applauded by shouts and laughter from the rest of the company, which
rose in volume as the lady put her arms around the gentleman in simulated
affection and caressed him tenderly.
William
watched. It must end. It could not go on. As a full-scale and raucous dance
erupted in the drawing room, his eyes returned to the hem of the blue gown.
Purity there, and honesty, twin virtues he missed terribly. And Jane, the
ringleader in Judas gown passing by him with scarcely an acknowledgment of his
presence, moving in a rush toward that temple of innocence, that fragment of
blue hem.
Still
William watched from his hiding place as Jane bent low over the seated figure
as though whispering in her ear. The two women appeared finally in the arched
doorway, Jane's arm protectively about Marianne's shoulders, holding the girl
in fondest embrace, leading her toward the bottom of the steps.
He
saw Marianne say something, a beautiful face in spite of her apparent fatigue
and rejection of the evening, looking weary unto death and somewhat frightened
by the bawdy shouts coming from the drawing room. She cast only a furtive
glance over the "dance," her eyes, in the process, falling on William
where he stood in the comer. There they stayed for a moment, a curious brief
expression, almost an apology, as though she thought she had failed.
Oh,
good Lord, how he longed to go to her. But he could not and took some relief in
the realization that upstairs in the privacy of her room she would at least be
out of harm's way. He wondered what had happened to Jane's plan. Perhaps his
Lordship had found better sport. Perhaps it had never been his intention to
appear.
In
which case all was well. Still, as a precaution, he called up the steps after
the retreating figure, "Lock your door!"
Both
women swiveled around in his direction, Marianne halfway up the steps, Jane
watching from the entrance hall.
"Yes,
do," agreed Jane. "It's a lively gathering tonight," she added,
gesturing toward the room where a minuet was being performed with all the grace
and dignity of a polka.
Marianne
nodded, again casting her eyes in clear discomfort over the whirling figures.
William thought, "She must have worn that expression the morning of her
ordeal, afraid yet defiant, as though something within her refused to recognize
fear."
A
moment later she disappeared down the long corridor at the top of the stairs,
fairly running, or so it seemed to William, toward the fortress of her room.
Jane
turned back to him, deftly adjusting her wig. "She's worn through,"
she said pitiably. "Not herself at all. Too much excitement for one
day." She smiled tenderly. "She needs sleep, don't you agree?"
But
before William could answer, and with what seemed unseemly haste, she grasped
his arm, scolding lightly, "Do you mean to lurk all evening at your own
salon? People are talking. Let's make our guests feel at home."
Before
he could protest, she dragged him out from behind the escritoire and thrust him
forward into the crowded room.
It
mattered little. Marianne was safe, all guests arrived and indulging
wholeheartedly in the pursuits of their mindless pleasures. The plan had
obviously gone awry, thank God. As he approached his company, it was his one
great hope that he would never lay eyes on Thomas Eden again.
As
a female hand reached out and drew him close for the dance, he thought again of
his torment and renewed his decision to leave for France within the fortnight.
As the woman drew him yet closer, he threw off his inertia as if he had just
awakened from a deep sleep. The girl was safe, at least for the night, no
further need for him to behave like a stray hero from Rousseau's blue-befogged
quill.
The
woman sidled closer. He'd never seen her before in his life and would never see
her again. But for now she was here and available and nameless. As she lifted a
glass to his lips, he drank. Why not enjoy? It was his house, his wine and
brandy. The lamplight caught her face and he saw before him a fleshy visage
with damp locks of hair sticking in wisps on the brow, painted cheeks and
yellowed teeth.
In
spite of all, he buried his face in her neck with biting teeth, his hands
covering both her breasts while behind him the company roared their approval.
In
that damp darkness beneath hair and flesh, the woman's body straining toward
him, he closed his eyes and thought again with old pride and new regret how
much he missed Hogarth, how much Boswell and Johnson, the Olympian slopes where
once Gods had trod.
Simultaneously
and very skillfully playing the triple roles of hostess, coquette, and
betrayer, Jane kept a sharp eye on the door. As Lord Eden himself had pointed
out, timing was all.
Standing
in the archway at an appropriate site for seeing the front door in one
direction and the drawing room in the opposite, Jane watched with mixed feelings
as William took a woman in his arms, bent her almost backward as though in the
throes of uncontrollable ardor, his face hidden in her neck, the crowd laughing
in obvious relief that their host had at last come out of hiding.
The
smile on her face was fixed as William actually kissed the woman, clearly a
kiss lacking warmth and fullness, merely a theatrical for the amusement of his
guests. She had not the slightest idea what had possessed him earlier, the
sullenness with which he had eaten a silent dinner, head down, an embarrassment
with Marianne sitting at table with them for the first time.
Perhaps
it had been wrong of her to force the girl into their society with such
rapidity. Well, it had to be done. It would have been an impossibility to
arrange anything under Sarah's eagle eye. If Lord Eden's desires were to be
fulfilled, the girl had to be brought out of the kitchen and placed in the
greater freedom of the house.
Quickly
she looked out toward the street, thinking she had heard a carriage. Nothing.
The street was dark, empty. Stealthily she moved her hand to the small pocket
tucked in the folds of her gown, and felt the cool substance of a key. She
glanced toward the staircase, recalling William's curious warning to Marianne.
"Lock your door."
Hurriedly
she looked back toward the street. Where was he? Now was the perfect moment,
the company laughing heartily, their attention focused on some new activity
taking place on the couch, the hall and staircase deserted.
Weary
from the suspense of waiting, she leaned against the wall beside the door. In
the drawing room beyond, the ribald mirth increased, almost a continuous din.
Then she heard something on the street, a carriage rattling to a stop. She
hurried forward to open the door before he rang the bell. Peering out into the
night, she saw the torches held by the linkboys, saw the coachman and at last
the man himself.
He
stood on the walkway, adjusting his jacket. Then he was moving up the walk and
through the door, sweeping past her, a rough stubble of beard visible on his
chin, his eyes rapidly assessing the empty entrance hall.
Foregoing
the decency of a greeting, he looked at her as though she were merely a piece
of furniture, his eyes cold, businesslike, one hand extended, his voice
demanding, "The key, please, and directions."
Quickly
she produced the key and handed it to him. "Up the stairs," she
whispered, feeling her pulse racing. "Last chamber on the left. She's been
retired for—"
But
Lord Eden didn't even wait to hear. He strode across the hall as though he
ovraed it, taking the steps two at a time, a roughness in his dress, a foul
odor even, a man marching on a plan without ceremony.