Slowly
he looked back at the insanity of her words. He had not thought her so easily
duped. With rigid formality he untied the reins from the post and mounted his
horse. "Then I wish you well," he said, looking down on her. They
gazed, unspeaking, at each other.
"You
will return by Christmas?" she asked.
"It
is my plan."
"We'll
speak again at Christmas. Perhaps—" Quickly she reached out and touched
the side of his leg, her face as drawn as his. "Take with you the
knowledge that I care deeply for you," she said.
He
looked down on her, confounded. It was a curious declaration, about which
nothing could be done. They passed a silence, too deeply entangled in emotion
to trust themselves to speech. Then, as though releasing him, she withdrew her
hand.
There
was no reason for him to delay longer. With admirable control he urged the
horse forward. Quickly he wrapped the reins about his wrist as though to bind
himself to the saddle, every downward hoofbeat protesting his departure.
At
the end of Great Russell Street he stopped and looked back. She was still
waiting at the curb, still watching, a small yellow figure stirring his misery.
He
could watch and wait no longer. The wind rose. Dover beckoned, the white sails
of the channel packet billowing. Suddenly he dug his heels into the horse's
side with such strength that the animal reared back, neighing his pain. It was
a sound which might have come from his own throat as with eyes unfocused he stole
a final look at her, there, so distant.
He
drove the animal forward, speed increasing, moving at a dangerous pace through
the busy commerce of London, feeling worn out, mauled, speed still increasing,
the trade houses and shops and carriages a passing blur on either side, still
no thought, still nothing, but speed and wind and WTrath. . . .
"There
it is, Thomas!" Billy shouted eagerly. "Look! Look ahead!"
From
the close rocking confines of the sedan chair, Thomas looked and saw nothing
but the splattered black and white landscape of the Wiltshire winter. Obviously
Billy, riding ahead on horseback, saw more.
Abruptly
Thomas felt the sedan chair being unceremoniously dropped to the ground. Oh,
God, would he now be forced to tramp across the cold waste? He didn't give a
damn about the site for Billy's tower, and had consented to the uncomfortable
expedition simply because he felt he was in Billy's debt. The young man had
treated him with admirable tenderness during the last few months of his recuperation,
had carried him out of the embarrassment of London to the seclusion of Fonthill
Splendons in Wiltshire, on the promise that as soon as he was capable of
further travel, he would see him home to Eden Point. That had been over four
months ago, and if Thomas' shoulder had improved, his spirits hadn't.
"Are
you well, Thomas?" Billy called do\\Ti, trying to rein in his spinning
horse, looking closely with a concern that was about to drive Thomas to
distraction.
"Why
must I walk?" Thomas grumbled. "I can see from here."
"But
you can't," Billy protested. "You can't possibly take in the whole vista
from that cramped little box. It's medicinal, Thomas," Billy added. "The
physician said you need air and movement."
"Damn
the physician," Thomas muttered, slowly pulling himself forward, still
protecting his arm as though the wound were fresh and bleeding. Standing erect
on the cold ground, he shivered and marked the difference between Wiltshire
cold and De\'on cold. The latter was bracing, truly health-giving, while this
cold was merely damp and penetrating. A longing was forming in the back of his
mind and he determined to share it with Billy as soon as he had seen and marveled
over this blasted site.
Apparently
Billy saw the irritation on his face. Quickly he dismounted and handed the
reins to one of the waiting porters. "We'll walk together, Thomas,"
he soothed. "The better for conversation."
Damn
conversation, Thomas thought. He was sick to death of Billy's conversation. But
he obliged because he was an honorable man and clearly in Billy's debt
As
they started off across the frozen terrain, Billy launched into a monologue
that Thomas knew by heart. "A cruciform shape, Thomas, imagine it if you
will, the western entrance thirty feet high opening onto a Grand Staircase that
leads up to the Octagon Salon. There, under the two hundred and eighty foot
tower, where a three hundred foot long south to north range of galleries
cross—"
Oh,
dear God, how his ears ached, along with his bones. The damnable arm still caused
him pain, in spite of Billy's bumbling physician, who claimed it was totally
healed. They were pushing up a slight incline, Thomas growing breathless from
the exertion, new waves of self-hate washing over him as he realized how soft
he had become in his recuperation.
Damn
the girl, he thought, his breath causing a stitch in his side as anger joined
his emotions. His boots slipped constantly on the frozen footing, his good arm
outreaching for balance. He'd been absent from Eden Point for almost seven months,
a bleak, painridden, embarrassing, and expensive seven months, expensive in
that he'd paid off almost thirty thousand guineas in gambling debts, his
remarkable lack of success that night at William Pitch's being common knowledge
and public gossip. "His Lordship's desire nipped in the bud," one of
the cheap Tattler pamphleteers had said. "The North Devon Peer had his
wings clipped," said another.
Mortifying!
"For
God's sake, Billy, slow down," he panted. "I'm not a well man." He
moved toward a fallen log at the top of the incline and sat heavily. With his
good hand he drew the collar of his cloak up about his neck while Billy pointed
toward the summit of another incline, designating it "the place."
"Can't
you just see it, Thomas?" he rushed on. "The most impressive Gothic
structure in all of England, in all the world perhaps, people coming from all
over to see and marvel."
Relieved
of his own misery by the boy's madness, Thomas watched with a self-indulgent
smile as Billy ran a distance up the hill, still describing the marvel which
would shortly cover the barren site. "Eight years is Wyatt's
estimate," Billy was saying. "My birthday gift to the new century. A
Christmas unveiling." Breathless, he sat down on the cold fallen log
beside Thomas, seeming not to feel the chill at all. "Promise you will
come, Thomas. Promise me the pleasure of your company on the night of the Grand
Unveiling."
Thomas
smiled wearily, feeling old. "I wouldn't dream of missing it, Billy,"
he said, indulging the boy. "I must confess, though, your eyes are sharper
than mine. Where you see Gothic architecture, I see only dead trees, a dim
future, and a bleak past."
Concerned,
Billy hovered close, smiling pallidly at the remembrance of pain. "You
must not look back, Thomas. The incident is over. You must find a new
dream."
There
was something amusing in the spectacle of youth preaching to age. Still, Thomas
could not deny the wisdom of his words. He was too old for dreams. But he was
not too old to be homesick.
He
sat up on the log, still cradling his arm. "Billy," he began, moving
at last to the subject of his heart, "I must return to Eden Point. I've
been absent far too long. I hope you understand."
Apparently
Billy did, although his face fell into sorrow as he confessed, "I shall
miss your company, Thomas. How good it has been to know you were so
close."
Thomas
had an idea. "Then come with me," he cordially invited. "Why
not? Let me return your hospitality. You know Eden Castle well. There are
comfortable chambers—"
Billy
nodded readily. "When I was young I thought it the grandest castle in all
of England, much better than Warwick, better even than Windsor." He
paused. "And yet a rough place." He laughed softly. "My father
used to say of Eden Castle that it was the one place on earth where a lord
could freely exercise his rights as a man."
Thomas
smiled. "So it is and so it has remained." Again he glanced about at
the damp cold site. "You're free until spring," he reminded the young
man. "Come with me and look after me. I'm afraid I've grown quite
accustomed to your company." With a surprise, he realized only at that
moment the truth of his words. Even though he was slightly daft, Billy was good
company. They had passed many enjoyable evenings together over cards and flagons
of wine. He was a good talker with boundless enthusiasm. He helped to fill the
blank spaces which more and more were beginning to represent the sum of Thomas'
life.
With
a shudder he realized that in spite of his desire to return to Eden Castle, he
dreaded being alone with only old Ragland for company, and the bumpkin, Russell
Locke, to remind him of the girl, the old debt, and the recent failure and
humiliation at her hands. Of course he would have to keep the smuggling
enterprise quiet. His trust in Billy was great, but not that great. It would be
no matter of consequence anyway. At the height of winter the French ships could
not navigate the channel. According to his latest communique from Ragland,
there hadn't been a delivery in several weeks.
Quite
in earnest, he entreated Billy. "Come with me, then. Let's return to the
fire at Fonthill and I shall pen a message to be dispatched by one of your
couriers. 'His Lordship is returning in the company of his truest friend, the
one man who understands him, who smiles at his weaknesses, and speaks cool
words to him, his friend who keeps him from being alone.'"
Billy
blossomed under the show of a selection. He nodded appreciatively to everything
Thomas has said, and agreed. "I shall come for a while." As they
started up from the log, Billy grasped him by the shoulder, his young face
suddenly sobered. "The tower will be built, Thomas," he pledged, as though
Thomas had refuted him. "Most people, even you, I fear, think me mad. But
the tower shall rise—" His face contorted, as though with pain. Fiercely
he concluded, "I shall rid myself of this fever. I vow it."
He
looked up toward the incline at the place where his dream resided. The moment
was so tense that Thomas found himself quite without words. How could he soothe
the young man? How could he inform him that it was part of life's bitter potion
to live with unrealized schemes and dreams? He felt uncertain under Billy's
feverish gaze, remembered his own schemes of the past, how they had gone
tragically awry.
Abruptly
Thomas strode away from his obsession and urged Billy to do the same. "Of
course it shall be built, your tower!" he shouted over his shoulder.
"But not now, not this very moment. Come, man, I'm frozen. My arm's
throbbing. I've seen the site and I shall not look upon it again until you've a
Grand Abbey to show me."
He
started down the hill, hopeful that his false enthusiasm would stir Billy to
good sense, at least enough so that he would follow after him.
It
worked. Billy followed, slowly at first, at last running to catch up, his words
spilling out in customary fashion, his excitement rising for the proposed
journey. "We'll celebrate Twelfth Night at Eden Castle," he
announced, drawing even with Thomas. "I remember the Banqueting Hall as a
boy, filled with guests, the fires lit and roaring, a side of beef on the spit.
With
some misgivings, Thomas looked ahead to the gloomy isolation of Eden Castle.
Times had changed since his father's day. Well, no matter. If necessary, he'd
invite all of Mortemouth up for the Festival Day. For his sake as well as
Billy's, the Banqueting Hall would be filled again.
The
two porters, waiting patiently at the sedan chair, moved into position, alert
and at attention. As Billy swing up on his horse, he shouted, "I'll go
ahead, Thomas. Hot wassail will be waiting."
Thomas
watched as the horse shot forward under Billy's direction, the hooves throwing
back frozen particles of grass and soil. There was this to be said for youth.
How quickly transitions were made from obsession to sanity, the madness of the
spirit passing away imperceptibly.
The
porters behind him stamped their feet, apparently frozen from standing on the
cold ground. Quickly Thomas crawled inside the chair and drew the fur up around
him. Occasionally, at moments like this, looking out into silent realms, he
pondered the perplexity' of the world, why some men carried, and other men
rode, why some served and others commanded.