She
watched until he disappeared at the top of the stairs, then rushed forward as
though belatedly to stop him. For the first time the realization of what
shortly would transpire penetrated. No match. The girl would be run to ground.
Lord Eden had come to collect a debt, and he would be paid.
Suffering
a curious pang of regret, she turned toward the company in the drawing room as
though she were beseeching them to help. But at that moment a male voice called
gleefully for her to "come and watch."
As
she glanced into the crowded room, she saw a woman standing atop the black
lacquered table, just slipping out of her gown, standing with great pride
before the predominantly male company in her chemise, wagers rising, sums and
odds called out on the probability of her stripping entirely, the woman herself
enjoying her notoriety.
Chief
among the encouragers, she saw William, sitting on the edge of the couch,
thoroughly enjoying himself. Between the certain knowledge of what was about to
take place upstairs, and the almost totally nude female preening like a peacock
on the table, Jane foundered.
She
wanted, had always wanted respectability. Not this. Well, it was beyond her
now. Having set the wheels in motion, she was powerless to stop them. On the
morning she would court respectability. On the morning she would pick up the
pieces of her sister and pack her back to North Devon. She did not belong here,
had no place here, was certainly not Jane's responsibility. Then she would
speak to William about their evening salons. They both had their reputations to
consider.
Having
thus gratified her need for respectability, she turned her back on the
staircase and the quiet corridor beyond, and confronted the woman who had just
thrown her loosened corset to the eager, outstretched male hands.
Oh,
how complicated and difficult life was sometimes. How many complex games one
had to play! How many gambles come to nothing, she thought, and yet one must
keep going.
Fatigued
and suffering a drowsy headache, yet still feeling the warmth of her sister's
apparently genuine affection, Marianne stood by the table, in the light of a
single lamp, preparing for bed.
Carefully,
so as not to damage it, she slipped the blue gown from her shoulders and placed
it gently over a chair. She gave a little smile as it occurred to her that she
would have to accustom herself to the agony of "dressing up." Quickly
she unfastened the cutting band around her breasts, reveling in the new
freedom, stretching luxuriously. A sudden spasm in her back caught her breath
and caused her to lean against the table in order to wait out the discomfort.
In the interim one hand slipped tentatively around to her back, felt the
beginning of the scars, the once torn flesh improperly rejoined.
No!
That was over. She did not have the heart or desire to dwell on it further. She
slipped from her chemise and stood naked, searching for her small valise, which
Sarah had carried up for her that afternoon, in which she had packed her
belongings, including her nightdress.
Nowhere
in sight. She stood in an uneasy silence. Down below she heard the hearty laughter
of the company and felt regret at her inability to take her place among them.
Perhaps in time she would come to feel greater ease in society. She hoped so.
Obviously it meant a great deal to Jane, and she owed Jane much.
Now
there was a more immediate problem. Her brow contracted as again she searched
the room for the valise. Just as she bent over the wardrobe, she stopped.
Outside the door. Had she heard something? The floor cracking under the
pressure of a foot? It sounded again very distinctly in her ears, but it did
not seem to come from any definite direction. Instinctively she reached down
and picked up the chemise where she had dropped it on the floor.
Perhaps
it was Jane, belatedly realizing that she needed night garments. But at that
moment the sound outside the door faded. Certainly she had imagined it,
although she could measure her own pulse by the very velocity of the beating of
her heart. She searched the room again in vain for her valise, then sat down on
the near chair, still clasping the chemise to her with no certain knowledge of
why she was alarmed.
Again!
Listen! A slight sound, a tiny crack. She sat as though bound to the chair,
stubbornly disputing with herself the fact of danger. After all, the door was
locked. A drunken fellow, perhaps, wandering far afield of the gaiety below?
All
this she was thinking when softly, unmistakably, she heard a key in the lock.
She felt a flood of relief, recalling that only Jane had a key. In this frame
of mind, she was on her feet as the door swung open, her mouth already forming
words, then catching suddenly in her throat as the nightmare himself stood
before her.
Recognition
was instantaneous, as though she had expected him, the smuggler from the
Masquerade, her memory of him eternalized by the hieroglyphics of the past.
Quickly she moved away, placing the chair and table between them, as though
those simple objects would be her sole protection.
He
said nothing,
but
closed the door behind him, his eyes in the dim light
never leaving her face.
From
round about her in anguish, she heard her own voice whisper, "What do you
want?" Although she expected him to reply, he didn't.
She
saw in his hesitancy to approach a breach in his armor. He seemed almost shy.
"Lady," he began huskily, "I—"
Again
he faltered, but still he stared at her as though unable to turn his eyes away.
It
seemed to her an age had elapsed since he had entered her room.
Cautiously
she lowered herself into the chair, afraid that sudden movement on her part
would rouse him out of his stupor, remind him of his mission.
Still
he stood as though in a state of suspended animation, his hands hanging limp at
his sides, his breathing regular and heavy, like an awkward young man who had
simply come to compete for modest favors.
She
sat in the chair, still clutching the chemise to her, her voice dropping almost
into dissolution as she whispered, "Sir, I do not desire your company.
Please leave—"
At
last he
stirred, stepped toward her. "Madame, you owe me—" he pronounced, and
stopped short of her by several feet, but still so close she could see the
stubble of beard on his face.
The
dark misery of her nightmare was borne again in her mind. She thought with
sorrow of her good name, her father's ruination, the dying of something within
her, the separation from all she had known and loved. Two feelings, terror and
anger, wedded somewhere back again and rose crying within her. "I owe you
nothing," she said, "and intend to pay nothing."
In
the face of her defiance he seemed to soften, certainly not abandoning his
intent, but merely postponing it for an interval of amusement. He stepped
closer until there was only the table between them, his eyes making careful
inventory of her bare shoulders. Incredibly, she saw him smile. "We danced
well together," he said. "Remember?"
"I
did not know your identity, sir," she replied, longing to rid herself of
his eyes, but knowing if she looked away first all was lost.
"I
think you did," he contradicted. "I think you knew precisely who I
was."
"That's
not true," she countered, pressing the chemise closer.
He
leaned heavily across the table. "Why do you find me such disagreeable
company?" he asked, almost plaintively.
Without
hesitation she replied, "You cause fear, sir."
"It
is not my intention," he protested. "I wish only to be obeyed."
"According
to whose whims, sir?"
"My
own. The only ones that matter to me."
He
moved sluggishly, almost unwillingly, as though he were aware of the defeat of
words. He stepped back from the table, assessing the small room and her
presence in it.
She
turned in the chair, very stealthily, the better to secure the protection of
the chemise.
At
the faint movement he turned on her and asked in a quite normal voice, as
though he genuinely wanted to know. "Are you happy here?"
"I
have no choice," she said.
"Don't
you miss your home?"
"Very
much."
"Then
why don't you return?"
"There
are those who think it best that I stay here."
He
looked at her intently, a peculiar strength on his face. Then he was moving
toward her as though angry at the words, at the postponement of his desire.
Before
she could protest or move away, he lifted her roughly to her feet and kissed
her with disproportionate strength, as though she were a male of equal power to
his who had to be subdued. In the crush of his arms, her fear vaulted. Rage
howled within her as she tried to free her hands. She prayed quickly and felt
herself little more than a shadow. When the crude embrace ended, she pulled
forcibly away, transfigured by her terror, her fate clearly before her. There
was no escape, for he blocked her passage to the door. A scream against the din
coming from below would be useless. Run to ground at last, she turned her back
on him, doubled up, and collapsed to her knees. She felt already dead, aware of
the silence coming from behind her. Yet she knew that it would soon be over,
that he would lift her up and have his way, and that if there was any life left
in her she would be obliged to snuff it out, for she could not live with
herself and the weight of memory and sensation.
Then
she heard running from outside the hall, heard voices shouting, a terrible
commotion. Bent over on herself, her head down, she heard the door pushed
violently open. What she heard then sounded like a single volley of thunder in
her ears, a resounding explosion that shattered glass somewhere. She held to
her knees, her face hidden. She wanted darkness in her mind, to throw a shadow
over what she was powerless to alter. If this was the last reckoning, she
wanted no part of it.
Behind
her and over the din of approaching voices she heard a man give a terse, sharp
order. "Get her out of here." She felt something being dropped over
her back, a thin coverlet of some sort, heard a woman's voice inquire,
"Can you stand? You must! Hurry!"
She
thought it a curious question. Of course she could stand. But once up, she felt
her knees buckling and would have fallen altogether had it not been for the strong
support of arms about her shoulders. "Please, Marianne, you must,"
the woman urged again. Was it Jane? She couldn't tell. Her only choice was to
obey the support of arms and face whatever calamity had occurred in the room
behind her.
Erect,
she looked back at the tableau, Thomas Eden lying on the floor a few feet away,
motionless, sprawled on his back, his legs in the curious position of a man
running, a dark pool growing and spreading beneath his shoulder, the material
of his coat torn away and still smoldering.
Marianne
could not relinquish the sight. Her mind and reason urged her to turn away, but
still she stared.
Then
the man's voice again, clearly angry this time, "Get her out of
here!"
As
they hurried out the door, she caught only a brief glimpse of William. She saw
his eyes but at first did not recognize him. In the hurried passage she saw the
pistol still in his hand, smelled the burning powder, his hand grasping it as
though at the first provocation he intended to use it again.
Outside
in the hall they encountered a very white-faced Sarah in her nightcap. Behind
her, just coming up the stairs, were the guests, their faces flustered with
excitement at the sound of the shot, mauling and pushing, still chattering as
though on their way to a new diversion.
Sarah
whispered almost hysterically, "I couldn't turn them back, Miss Locke. I
tried, but I-"