Second
Citizen: His pride, I daresay. They tell me he was lifeless and bleeding
profusely as they carried him out.
First
Citizen: Scandalous business. These are licentious times. What a price to pay
for a cheap diversion!
Second
Citizen: And there's the rub. There was no diversion, according to my sources.
Lord Eden left as full as he came, save for his spilling blood. His seed is
still clogged and intact.
First
Citizen: Beyond reason. An indelicate business. Shall we buy the Gazetteer and
see what Pitch has to say?
Second
Citizen: There will be no word from him today. I understand that in his
mortification he attempted suicide, turned the pistol on himself, and would
have succeeded had it not been for the watchman's quick hand.
First
Citizen: There's more to this than meets the eye. Will there be a redress of
grievances? Eden has that right, doesn't he?
Second
Citizen : 'Tis rumored he will call William Pitch forward unless the German
king intercedes.
Third
Citizen: Madness interceding in the name of madness? What topsy-turvy times! I
miss the Stuarts. No public spirit, less national principle.
First
Citizen: A bold and rash way of talking.
Second
Citizen: We live in bold and rash times when a peer of the realm is fired upon
without provocation by a common scribbler.
Third
Citizen: Pitch is more—
First
Citizen: Not last evening he wasn't. With the slightest of pressures on his
trigger finger, he obliterated his right to the company of decent men. As for
the common wench, she should be publicly whipped again on Tyburn Hill.
Second
Citizen: 'Tis rumored that she is fair.
First
Citizen: Fairness is not the issue. She has dragged down two good men and for
that she should be justly punished.
Third
Citizen: I heard that the crowd was drunken and that orgies were in progress in
every room.
Second
Citizen: Ladies celestial and ladies terrestrial.
First
Citizen: On their backs, they are all the same. Still, I believe the scandal
will be weighed in the balance and found light.
Third
Citizen: I think not. When the great names of England are involved, Eden,
Beckford, Wyatt, it speaks of deep moral decay. A lamentable story.
First
Citizen: Two ladies stripped naked, you say?
Second
Citizen: Aye, two. One stripped willingly in Pitch's Chinese drawing room, and
the other stripped unwillingly in his upper— In Child's, and White's, and
MacFarlandes', from Tower Hill to Hyde Park Corner, it was a glorious day.
Three
wrecks after the attempted assault, Marianne was still abed, suffering from a
mysterious malady that eluded the old physician. She was pale and listless, had
no appetite, and seemed to endure a constant fever.
There
were no visitors to her room save Sarah, and that good woman crept up the
stairs at every opportunity to sit with her and read to her, comfort her in any
way possible. William and Jane stayed away.
In
such isolation, Marianne had more than enough time to relive the events of that
horrible evening. She knew that Lord Eden could not have gained access to her
room without help. Someone had betrayed her. Having immediately and easily
eliminated William and Sarah, that left Jane. The thought of the betrayal was
such pain to her that she could scarcely bear it.
One
afternoon in July as Sarah was reading to her from Mr. Shakespeare's sonnets, a
soft knock came at the door. Thinking that it was the physician, come on his
daily visit, Sarah called out immediately, "Come."
To
Marianne's surprise, Jane appeared, a very different Jane, one she had never
seen before. Her head was unwigged, revealing her natural dark hair, streaked
with gray. Her dress was mussed as though she had recently slept in it, her
face unrouged. In her trembling hands was a mauled handkerchief, twisted
hopelessly out of shape.
Sarah
stepped back, apparently as shocked by the appearance as Marianne. "Miss
Locke," she murmured. "If you'll excuse me, I—"
But
Jane would not excuse her and lightly touched her on the arm, her voice hardly
audible. "No, Sarah, stay," she begged. "I have to speak to
Marianne and I want you to hear what I'm going to say."
On
guard, Marianne tried to raise herself up from her pillows. Weakened from her
time in bed, she felt herself beginning to tremble, the old seizures returning.
Propped up, she watched, bewildered, as Jane commenced walking slowly about the
room, her head still down, her fingers twisting in and out of the handkerchief.
Twice she stopped and looked at Marianne as though she were about to speak, and
twice she looked away, as though lacking words.
Finally
she took up a position at the foot of the bed, her face pitifully naked in a
direct ray of hot July sun, revealing new lines, as though she had recently
undergone some unspeakable crucible.
"This
isn't easy," she began at last, then faltered and stopped, her voice
catching, as though tears were close to the surface. She lifted her head and
drew a deep shuddering breath, then tried again. "Marianne, I want you to
know that—" She grasped the foot of the bed. For a moment Marianne feared
that she would collapse. "I want you to know," she went on,
"that Lord Eden, that—I—am responsible for—what happened."
Out
of the comer of her eye, Marianne saw Sarah look away, as though embarrassed.
Clearly it was a confession, and while Marianne had no appetite for the
details, still she was curious. "Go on," she invited.
Still
not looking at her, Jane commenced to speak, in the manner now of a person who
wanted to get it over with. "He contacted me after the Masquerade,"
she whispered. "He did not state his business at the time and I thought,
what harm? It was only on our second meeting that he—" Again she stumbled
over the words, her eyes closed, as though she didn't want to see. "—that
he made his proposal." She turned rapidly away to the window and stared
down on the pavement below. "Of course I said no. I told him I would have
no part in it. You believe me, don't you?"
For
the first time she looked directly at Marianne, her eyes pleading.
"Go
on," Marianne urged, withholding her belief.
"He
threatened me," Jane said, shaking her head as though even now incapable
of believing it. "He threatened all of us, said he would see to it that
harm befell our father and our brother." Her voice was rising, her manner
quite agitated as she paced in small uneven steps between the foot of the bed
and the window. "When I continued to say no, he threatened William, said
he would bring ruination down upon him." Suddenly she cried out, "My
God, what was I to do?" Then came tears, endless tears, the woman herself
slumped against the windowsill, her shoulders heaving with the weight of the
ordeal and her confession.
From
the bed, Marianne watched it all. It had never occurred to her that Lord Eden
had practiced intimidation. Yet she knew that it was certainly in character.
She looked back toward the window and the miserable woman weeping. Poor Jane.
What hell she must have gone through.
In
spite of the deluge of tears, Jane now managed a final word. "I tried
to—stop him that night," she sobbed. "I tried to—turn him back,
but—"
She
sank even lower until she was on her knees as though at prayer, a most painful
confession, the woman defeated by it.
Marianne
continued to stare, moved in spite of herself. She heard Sarah weeping in
sympathy. Of course Lord Eden had intimidated her, and worse, threatened
William. Why had she not seen it?
Softly
she left the bed and went to the window. She knelt beside the weeping Jane and
lifted her tear-streaked face. "I believe you," she whispered. "You
had no choice." Lovingly she wiped the tears with the hem of her
nightdress, her eyes soothing.
The
simple act was almost more than Jane could bear. She fell forward into
Marianne's arms and Marianne returned the embrace, the two sisters clinging
together, Sarah weeping openly at the door.
The
reunion was sweet and genuine, both girls hugging and crying, promising each
other lasting trust and devotion. As they helped each other to their feet, Jane
asked a searching and peculiar question. "Do you—forgive me,
Marianne?"
According
to her story, there was nothing to forgive. Still Marianne said, "Yes, of
course, I forgive you," and again they fell into each other's arms,
Marianne feeling at ease and free from pain for the first time in three weeks.
As
Jane helped her back to her bed, Sarah suggested tea for all. The two sisters
agreed. In fact Marianne felt hungry and said as much and Jane asked Sarah to
bring tea cakes and sandwiches as well.
After
Sarah had left the room, Jane arranged the pillows, then sat close beside
Marianne on the bed. "It's been such a dreadful time," she mourned.
Marianne
agreed. "But now it's over," she said with a smile.
Jane
nodded, blissfully, and took her hand and held it as though she intended never
to let go.
The
weather grew becalmed and sluggish with late summer heat, and the packets were
unable to navigate the channel until early September.
On
three occasions William said his good-byes and took off eagerly on horseback.
On three occasions he was forced to return and pass the days in isolation,
moving between two fixed points, his study and his office, as if he were
playing only the two important notes of an octave, the low and high.
His
salon was closed, had been closed since late June, the distorted stories still
flourishing in the summer heat. As for his house, he usually took his meals
alone in the study. He'd not seen Marianne to speak to her since that night.
She'd
been ill, a curious illness of spirit. Sarah had been in constant attendance,
as had Jane. Now she had recuperated and for the first time was up and about.
From
the window of his study he watched the two sisters and marveled at the
transformation of both. They were tending the garden, as now they tended
everything together. Marianne was still pale, bending gracefully in a simple
yellow gown, the color of her hair, and Jane, darker, taller, followed after
her protectively. He shook his head, amazed. He felt like a huge animal,
watching them, and while he was pleased with their reconciliation, he still was
bewildered.
He
felt pleased for them, Sarah the watchdog, keeping both of them safe from the
wagging tongues of London, turning away all visitors. Yet, standing in his
study, peering out at them through the window on this brisk bright September
morning, he'd never felt so isolated.
He
found he could no longer watch them in the garden. It was time to leave anyway.
The wind had risen with the promise of winter and would stay risen. Within the
week the packets at Dover would move again. His affairs were in order, had been
in order since mid-July. He'd even said his good-byes three times before and
wondered if he should say them again or simply leave. His packed valises were
at his feet, his horse saddled and ready.
He
longed for his first glimpse of the sea, the wind filling the sails and blowing
him away from the emotions of the last few months. In truth, he had never known
such inner turmoil, his futile attempts at first to set the story straight, the
anxious moments immediately following the incident as he had waited to see if
Lord Eden would demand a redress of grievances. He hadn't, and now, or so
William had heard, he was languishing melodramatically at Billy Beckford's
Wiltshire estate, on his way back to Eden Point where William fervently prayed
he would stay. For the rest of it, William had passed the days between two
tortures, the repentant woman that he could share, and the distant ill one that
he couldn't.