Billy
made a motion toward the door, then hesitated. Apologetically he whispered,
"I must recall the women, Thomas. They were here for that—"
"Then
call them," Thomas snapped. He moaned, "Oh, my God."
For
the next few minutes he shut his eyes to the indignity, the disgrace, of
feeling his body handled like a sack of potatoes. Billy and the surgeon lifted
him unceremoniously into the air while the old women stripped off the linens
and replaced them with fresh ones. The drastic movement caused fresh agony. He
felt his eyes fill with tears as the throbbing in his arm erupted into a
drumbeat.
Never
in his life had he suffered so. He longed for Ragland, and old Dolly Wisdom.
And for one crumbling moment he wanted his mother, more than life itself, that
stern handsome visage whom he had scarcely known.
Finally
the change was completed, the bed clean. He felt the surgeon return the
sandbags to his shoulder, anchoring him, pinning him like a specimen. Thomas
decided that he despised the man, despised all of them for humbling him. Only
Billy had the kind sense to whisper thoughtfully, "Are you better now, Thomas?
More comfortable?" During this inquiry Thomas felt his cool hand on his
brow.
Weakly
he reached up and grasped Billy by the wrist "Don't leave me," he
whispered. "Sit with me. Please."
Billy
assured him that he had no intention of leaving, but he would stay with him as
long as he desired. Thus reassured, Thomas lay back on the fresh pillow and
listened halfheartedly to the continuous murmurs in the room.
Eventually
the chamber cleared. He heard the surgeon giving last minute advice to Billy. Beyond
the heavy drapes he saw the first crack of dawn. The night was over, a
senseless, futile night.
Looking
up, he saw Billy sink into a chair close beside the bed. It occurred to him
that the thoughtful thing would be to dismiss him, send him to his lodgings for
a respite of sleep. But he couldn't bring himself to do that. He wanted
company, and with an obstinate egoism he ignored Billy's fatigue and turned his
head restlessly on the pillow as though in the throes of fresh agony.
Billy's
reaction was gratifying. Quickly he leaned forward and reached for the mug of
brandy on the table. "Drink, Thomas," he urged. "The surgeon
recommended a high state of intoxication for three days."
"Damn
the surgeon," Thomas muttered. "All the brandy in the world won't—"
He closed his eyes unhappily. It felt as though the sandbags were digging into
the fresh wound. He longed to shift his position but could not. "Oh, my
God," he moaned aloud, his head tossing restlessly, his hand clutching at
air.
As
though to distract him, Billy leaned forward and clutched at the wobbling hand.
"Thomas," he began softly, "will there be a redress of
grievances? It's your right, you know. You were fired upon without
provocation."
The
suggestion entered Thomas' mind very stealthily. Redress of grievances had not
occurred to him. He thought again of William Pitch's unexpected appearance in
the room. Redress of grievances? Not likely. Instead of building towers, Billy
should acquaint himself \nth the law. He, Thomas, had been the trespasser, the
girl naked and weeping before him. Unfortunately, there now were laws to
protect the likes of her.
Weakly
he muttered, "No redress, Billy. One shot is quite enough."
"But
you have cause."
"I
have no cause, no legitimate one." He looked almost accusingly at Billy.
"I wish you had warned me about Pitch."
Billy
sank back in the chair, shaking his head. "He's never done—it was so
totally out of character—everyone said that he—" Incoherent and clearly
puzzled by the irrational act of William Pitch, Billy could do little more than
shake his head.
Thomas
watched from the confines of his pillow, his eyes heavy, but his mind still
alert. It wasn't William Pitch that confounded him. An idiot could determine
the cause of his wrathful act. It was the girl. But he didn't want to think
about it. Still, regretfully he smiled. "I lost more than blood this
night, Billy."
Billy
looked up. "I don't understand."
"The
wagers at White's. What did they amount to?"
Billy
had to think. Vaguely he shook his head. "Several thousand guineas. I have
the notes."
"Then
I shall have to pay off and take their jeers as well."
Slowly
the confession dawned on Billy. "You mean, you never—"
Thomas
shook his head.
Clearly
Billy was surprised. But after a moment he touched his chin, stretching his
throat muscles. "Consider yourself fortunate, Thomas. She's probably
diseased."
"No!"
The rebuttal was swift and strong. With his eyes closed, Thomas saw the white
untouched skin, the expression in her eyes which bespoke complete inexperience.
"No," he added more softly. "She's never been touched."
Billy
seemed to digest this information. Then, still puzzled, he leaned forward.
"May I ask, Thomas, why this particular one?"
"I
have no affection for her," Thomas said defensively. "She owed me,
owes me still."
A
look of shock spread across Billy's face. "And will you try to collect
again?"
Thomas
thought on this, then murmured, "No." Peculiarly, he felt himself on
the verge of tears, felt womanlike. "I was defeated by words, Billy,"
he said. Abruptly he broke off, unable even to give voice to the one sight
which had literally unsexed him, the girl ultimately confronting him with his
own handiwork, reminding him that his present small agony was but a trifle
compared to her map of torn flesh.
Apparently
Billy saw his distress. "Put her out of your mind, Thomas. As soon as you
are able to travel, I'll take you home where you belong. We'll stop at Fonthill
on the way, and I'll show you the site of my new tower." He took Thomas'
hand. "A man must pin his hope to the light of heaven, Thomas. Appetites
are whimsical and easily satisfied. A man must give himself to higher
causes."
Thomas
listened to the rational discourse, somewhat irrationally delivered. Billy's
eyes glittered with the light of a fanatic. Feeling totally the invalid, Thomas
whispered, "I place myself in your hands, Billy. For the first time in our
long relationship, you must take the lead."
It
was a gift weakly given but heartily received. Billy began to lavish little
attentions on him. As he lifted the brandy again, Thomas protested, "No
more. It does no good anyway." When Billy inquired earnestly as to the
nature of his pleasure, Thomas thought for a moment, then replied, weakly,
"A beefsteak, the smoking, juicy kind we get at Child's."
Billy
smiled. "And a flagon of their warm white wane with aromatic spices and
pepper and cinnamon?"
Thomas
nodded. "And a round of their good cheddar would be nice."
"And
a Bath cake?" Billy contributed, "with burnt sugar and almonds?"
The
fare planned, the gloom over, Billy left his chair, his own appetite apparently
fanned by the description of the banquet "Then sleep now, Thomas," he
urged. "I shall return at one, ladened. We shall feast together and talk
of nothing but the future. I am your servant," he added, bowing elegantly
from the door.
In
spite of his discomfort, Thomas smiled. He was hungry and an appetite was a
good sign, the body mending itself. "Send the hags away," Thomas
called weakly, spying through the opened door the two old women still hovering
about. "And tell the others I wish to be disturbed by no one except
yourself."
Billy
beamed, as though he had only just realized a lifelong ambition, the respect
and devotion of Thomas Eden.
Thomas
found extreme gratification in such a look and regretted the shabby treatment
he'd once given the young man. "One thing more, Billy," he whispered.
"Forgive me."
Puzzled,
Billy turned back. "For what, Thomas?"
Grave
feelings rose within him, a little effusion of love, a new awareness of what
had happened this night, the sharp recall of a small, white, scarred, back.
"For—everything," Thomas said, and at the last minute, turned his
face to the wall.
He
heard the door close softly, heard a whispered dismissal as Billy sent the old
women on their way, then heard nothing.
A
full morning sun was penetrating the crack in the heavy drapes. With his good
hand he wiped the embarrassing moisture from his eyes and tried to study the
bandages which encased his right shoulder and half his chest. Where the ball
had grazed him, he saw a small coin of spreading red.
What
were the words she had spoken to him? "You cause fear, sir."
Thomas
lay motionless. He might have taken her so easily had he not been duped into
words. Yet in a way perhaps her words had saved his life, for if he'd fallen
upon her immediately, he would have taken William Pitch's ball in his back and
he would not be here now, lying abed in misery.
Not
once had the terror in her eyes abated. Yet she had clung to that thin chemise
as though it had been the shield of David. And once again she had defeated him.
Restlessly
he turned. A pain as from the digging point of a sharp knife cut down across
his shoulder. His head pressed backward into his pillow.
Tears
again. His heart ached as his shoulder ached. As he stared into the mist before
him, it seemed to him as if the countenance of his Destiny was smiling at him
enigmatically and coldly. . . .
Child's,
and White's, and MacFarlandes', and every chophouse and coffeehouse between
Tower Hill and Hyde Park Corner was abuzz with the excitement which had
transpired the night before in the remote rural area of Bloomsbury.
Citizens,
genteel and well-bred, devoured the scraps of gossip, then eagerly invented
more. On a dull hot June morning, the gallantry usually associated with truth
seemed scarcely worth pursuing.
First
Citizen: Two naked ladies, you say?
Second
Citizen: 'Tis what I heard. One stripping willingly in William Pitch's Chinese
drawing room. The other stripped unwillingly in Pitch's upstairs bedroom.
First
Citizen: Strange connections for Lord Eden. For a man of intelligence, why did
he not take the one who stripped willingly?
Second
Citizen: My sources tell me a wager had been made.
First
Citizen: Foolish business. A gentleman ought never to wager on a woman's
floodgates. Who was the lady?
Second
Citizen: No lady, sir. A local from Eden Point. As I understand it. Lord Eden
had had her publicly whipped within the year.
First
Citizen: I do not approve of Public Whippings.
Second
Citizen: Nor do I. But it is my understanding that she did him a grievous
wrong.
First
Citizen: How so?
Second
Citizen: She bit him with her teeth, or so I've heard. In a most unfortunate
place. Almost took his manhood.
Third
Citizen: It was reported to me that she has supernatural powers and has cast a
spell over his Lordship.
First
Citizen: Nonsense! No such thing is possible. Not in this day and age. And
what, pray tell, is William Pitch's interest in the sordid little affair?
Third
Citizen: He wants the temptress for himself.
First
Citizen: And what of the common woman who keeps his house?
Second
Citizen: She's well-stretched by now. He hungers for a virgin.
Fourth
Citizen: A common woe. After five children, my wife is like a bucket. I
scarcely know when I've entered or departed. And what of the shot? Is Lord Eden
mortally wounded?