Off
then! No need to say anything. Quickly he reached for his valises and started
toward the door. As bad luck would have it, Sarah was just emerging from the
dining room, feather duster in hand. She looked at him as though he were an
interloper. Then, spying the valises in his hand, her normally suspicious face
softened.
"Is
it to be today, Mr. Pitch?" she asked kindly, standing back a step. "And
you not even saying good-bye?"
He
nodded. "I've said it so many times before, Sarah." He smiled.
"It seemed useless."
She
shook her head. "Wouldn't be right or proper just to leave without our
knowing."
Reprimanded,
he placed the valises on the floor and went through the entire ordeal again,
speaking like an actor from a memorized playscript. "All is in order,
Sarah, as I've said before. The household money will come once a month. It
won't be much but it should provide adequately for the three of you. I've asked
the watchmen to walk here nightly, and all trade accounts will remain opened
and in my name."
She
nodded to what she already knew. Under the awkward pressure of the moment, he
deviated a bit. "I'm very grateful to you, Sarah, for remaining in my
house. I know it has not always been easy or pleasant, but your continuing
service is greatly appreciated."
She
blushed and ducked her head. "I stayed because I wanted to, Mr. Pitch,
because I felt I was needed."
"As
you were and are."
The
personal sentiments seemed to embarrass her. "We'll be just fine, Mr.
Pitch," she said. "Look to yourself. It's not a safe world,
particularly where you're going."
He
laughed softly. "It may be safer than London."
She
seemed to agree, the unspoken knowledge of past events passing between them. He
tried to change the subject as well as the mood. "I'll be back by
Christmas, I promise. If not then, at least by Twelfth-Day, and I shall expect
to be greeted by one of your finest sugar cakes."
Again
she blushed. Eager to be off, he asked quietly, "Would you please send
Jane to me?"
The
woman curtsied and turned immediately, as though grateful to be released by
him. Briefly he pondered in the abstract on the mysteries of womanhood.
Certainly less selfish than the male of the species, they still required a
great effort of understanding. Now he felt oddly weary of that effort, and
longed for a period of simple, safe, male companionship.
Deep
in his own musing, he failed to hear Jane's approach and was aware of her only
when she spoke.
"So!
You are really abandoning us today," she said, appearing in the doorway.
"Not
abandoning you, Jane," he replied, regretful that over the weeks she'd not
come to an acceptance of his leaving. "You'll be well provided for."
She
seemed to be holding herself very rigid. "I don't understand,
William," she said. "I should think that past events would have
demonstrated that we need more than bread on the table. We need your
protection."
He
found this melodramatic and smiled tolerantly. "I daresay there's not a
threat in London that you and Sarah can't handle. You are strong women."
This
she protested. "Not strong. Not me, at any rate."
She
looked so miserable that he lightly put his arms around her, drawing her close.
The affectionate gesture had a disastrous effect. She flung her arms around his
neck. "Why must you go?" she said, weeping. "What am I to
do?"
He
tried to hold her tenderly, all the while making his voice stern. "You'll
wait for me," he soothed. "You will run my house and look after your
sister, and keep yourself for me alone, and at Christmas I'll bring you a
French bonnet."
Still
she clung to him, her arms tightly enfolded about his neck. He found the scene
touching but embarrassing. "Jane, please," he begged. "I must
go. Don't make it any more difficult."
On
hearing those words, she relaxed her grip on him, her face stained with tears.
She looked quite pathetic as she murmured, "How have I displeased you?"
"You
haven't displeased me," he reassured her.
"You've
not come to my bed in weeks."
He
lowered his head, embarrassment rising. "You were always occupied with
Marianne."
"Not
always. I did her an injustice."
"So
you did."
"But
it's past now. She trusts me."
"I
know, and I'm happy for you."
"But
I had not expected to gain her love, and lose yours."
"You've
lost nothing, dearest," he soothed.
"Then
why are you leaving?"
It
seemed a round-robin, a subject with no beginning, no end. Instead of attempting
to answer her, he merely smiled and said, "Take care of everything, and
most of all, yourself."
Apparently,
seeing him reach for his valises and knowing there was nothing she could do to
stop him, her misery vaulted. She took one last look at him, then ran sobbing
up to her room where he heard the door close and lock.
He
stared after her, his face still damp with her tears. He knew what he should
do. But instead he quietly picked up his valises, took a final and tortured
look about the appointments and beauty of his home. He shook his head. He'd
worked so hard and he was turning his back on everything.
At
the curb, he saw his horse saddled and standing patiently. Then he saw more,
saw the quick movement of the yellow gown. Apparently she had slipped out of
the garden gate. She looked up at him. He heard nothing but the rapid movement
of his heart. Even the sight of her did damage, her hair and gown blending in
the blaze of golden sunlight, enchanting.
He
moved slowly down the walkway, never lifting his eyes from hers. Nor did she
lift her eyes from him. She still looked pale from her illness, the hollow
circles about her eyes merely accenting their deep blueness, their terrible
earnestness.
Against
such weapons he had no choice but to adopt a stem visage. As he drew near his
horse and threw the valises over the saddle, he averted his eyes. "I'm
happy to see you well," he said with great formality.
She
stepped back as he adjusted the heavy straps, anchoring his luggage. "Sarah
said you were leaving," she commented, a simple sentence requiring no
response. And he gave none.
He
tugged twice at the strap, adjusting it beyond the point of necessity,
indulging in countless small gestures, trying to keep his mind and hands busy
and averted from her presence. When all gestures were no longer creditable, he
turned at last, still clinging to the saddle, and found himself impaled on her
eyes.
She
looked up, assessing the sky. "There should be a good sailing wind at
Dover," she said. "My father used to say that a high blue sky always
brought promising winds."
"I
earnestly hope so," he replied. "I don't think I could return so
unceremoniously a fourth time."
She
laughed softly. "I'm sorry to admit I didn't even know you had left
before."
"You
were ill."
She
lowered her head, seemed to be suffering a moment's self-consciousness. He
lamented the stiffness of this their last meeting. Still, something howled
within him. In spite of his powerful efforts to discipline his mind, he saw her
again, cringing in darkness, on her knees before her tormentor. He stepped
forward as though to summon her attention. "You will be safe," he
said firmly. "I've told both Sarah and Jane that no one is to enter the
house after dark. The watchmen have been alerted. You are never to go out
unescorted. Is that clear? It is my preference that you never go out at all.
Jane or Sarah can see to your needs. It would be safer for a while. Do you
understand?"
She
did not look at him, but kept her face down, her hands lacing nervously in on themselves.
When she refused to comment one way or the other on his advice, he stepped
still closer and inquired softly, "You're not afraid, are you?"
She
answered readily, "No." Then more hesitantly she added, "I'm
worried, though."
"Why?"
"I
fear I've driven you away."
He
scoffed at that. "Nonsense. To leave London is no great loss." He
moved back, putting a safer distance between them. "The people of fashion
in England are very ill-educated. Conversation is reduced to a system of
insipidity."
She
stood motionless before him, listening. "I thought it would be
different."
"Once
it was. Years ago."
For
a moment he thought they might pursue a certain train of thought. Then, without
warning, she changed the subject, looked up at him, still holding herself rigid
as though for fear of miscalculating her words. "I'm very sorry, William,
for all the trouble I've caused."
The
blame was not hers and he refused to let her bear it. "It was none of your
doing."
"I
shouldn't have come here."
"Where
else would you have gone?"
"Home,"
she said simply. She raised her head with just a hint of defiance. "I had
nothing to run from. I did nothing, caused no offense."
Watching
her closely, taking careful inventory of all aspects of her incredible beauty,
the alabaster skin, the soft contours of her body beneath the pleasing gown,
her face cleansed of paint and pretense, he found her again the loveliest
vision in the world. His breath caught in his throat, as wildly he imagined
himself scooping her up onto the horse with him, carrying her to Dover, then to
France where in spite of the Revolution, surely they could find a remote
cottage of peace.
So
powerful was this vision that he found himself trembling, the wind pushing at
his back, feeling an intimacy for her which precluded their position on the
pavement, standing in broad daylight on a public street.
She
ceased talking and looked up at him as though aware of his vision. He bent
close to her and whispered, "For Christ's sweet sake, come with me.
If
she was shocked by his suggestion, she gave no indication of it. She looked
almost serene, as though she had known precisely what he would say. There was a
glow on her face which she made no attempt to hide. "I've thought on
it," she confessed, simply.
His
heart was screaming inside his chest. He stepped closer, his hands still safely
inactive. He felt the softness of her breasts against his coat. "And?"
he prodded, not daring to move too fast or all would be lost.
Still
she looked at him, permitting the closeness, even encouraging it as one small
hand attached itself to his sleeve, caressed it. At the moment of greatest
hope, he suffered the greatest disappointment.
She
whispered, "No. I cannot."
"Why?"
he persisted, catching the hand on his sleeve and pressing it to his chest.
"I
must stay here," she said.
"Why?"
he insisted again almost angrily. "There's nothing for you here except
threats and dangers."
Gently
she corrected him. "And the love of my sister and the care of Sarah. I
could not betray them."
He
felt a compulsion to inform her, however painful it might be, of Jane's
betrayal of her. But of course she knew that now and had apparently forgiven
all. Instead, with the face of a man enduring torture, he moved away from her,
stood as though ready, indeed eager, to mount his horse.
He
heard her voice again. "There are other matters as well, William, which
you wouldn't understand. But primarily it is my obligation to Jane. What sort
of sister would I be to repay her goodness in this manner? She's suffered
enough on my account."