"She
must be bled," the old man pronounced.
Marianne
drew weakly to one side, protesting, "No—"
The
fear in her face alarmed Thomas. Bleeding made no sense. She was already
weakened from lack of food. Still, he was at a loss to know how to deal with
his unwilling prisoner. But when the physician bared her shoulders and lifted
the leeches from the box, she cried out so pitifully that Thomas ordered,
"Wait!"
The
old man looked over his shoulder, annoyed. Marianne pressed back against the
pillow, her face distorted by anguish. Thomas moved to the other side of the
bed and drew her attention toward him. "You must eat, then," he
ordered.
Given
the choice between food and bleeding, Marianne promised weakly, "I'll
eat."
Quickly
Thomas dismissed the old man, silenced his grumbling with several coins, then
shouted down the stairs to the ever-present Russell, "Bring food, and
brandy!" He looked back at the woman on the bed. Her misery and reluctance
only served to increase his ardor.
But
not like that, not lying weak and pale, her usually brilliant eyes lusterless,
her hair scattered upon the mussed linen. Obviously she was aware of his gaze.
She tried to raise herself and fell weakly back against the pillow.
"Don't,"
he begged. "Lie still."
She
looked directly at him, her eyes distended in what seemed acute fear. That fear
caused Thomas' heart to melt. He drew a chair close beside her, thinking her
the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. "Are you so unhappy?" he
asked.
In
reply to that, she merely shut her eyes. He leaned closer, eager for conversation.
"You must know that I'm unhappy, too," he said.
With
her eyes still closed, she murmured, "Then I'm sorry for both of us."
"But
it doesn't have to be like this."
"I'm
your prisoner."
"No,
you're my guest"
She
opened her eyes, the trace of a smile about her lips. "As a lamb is the
guest of the butcher?"
"It
is not my intention to slaughter you."
She
looked directly at him. "What
is
your intention, milord?"
The
direct question caught him off guard. He bowed his head, mindful of his past
sins, the offenses he'd already committed against the young face which looked
at him without humility. He did not understand the face. All he knew was that
he was fascinated by it.
"Compensation?"
he offered. "A need to—"
"What?"
For
the second time, he was caught off guard by her soft inquiry. "A need to
make reparation," he concluded. He felt that his voice had begun to
tremble. It was as though he were the one lying weak and helpless and she the
figure of command.
Quietly
she asked, "How long do you intend to hold me your prisoner, milord?"
"You
are not my prisoner," he repeated, feeling anger rising, and trying to
control it. "You owe me a debt."
"A
debt I will never pay willingly," she replied. "Surely you know that
by now."
"In
time," he said, sharply.
"Never!"
At
that moment a serving woman appeared in the door, bearing a tray. Thomas stood
quickly, still hearing the girl's arrogant refusal. "Feed her," he
commanded, his anger perilously close to the surface. "Then cleanse and
clothe her. If she objects, call for assistance. I want her presentable and
sitting upright. We shall dine together this evening in this chamber. Is that
clear?"
The
serving woman, middle-aged, large-boned, with coarse red hair, bobbed her head,
then cast a stem glance at Marianne on the bed. "If she objects,
milord—"
"She
will not object."
There
was silence coming from the bed. Was she weeping? No. She smiled at him.
"Are you certain you don't want to stay, milord and witness the sport, for
I shall not lift a finger willingly? Nor shall I suffer anyone to come near
me." The smile broadened. "It should be a battle to please you, I'm
certain, you of all people who take such delight in cruelty."
He
saw before him the same stubborn arrogance that she'd first displayed on that
hot August morning in Eden Castle. Quickly he turned away from the bed. He
shouted at the gaping servant, "Feed her! And make her presentable."
Then, as though it were the worst possible epithet he could conceive, he
shouted, outraged, "She smells!"
He
slammed the door behind him and stood at the top of the narrow staircase. At
the bottom of the steps, he saw Russell Locke staring up at him. "What are
you gaping at?" he yelled. "Fetch hot water and linens and be
prepared to lend a hand." He started down the stairs with such force that
the ancient wooden staircase jiggled from side to side. "The invalid will
recuperate!" he shouted back over his shoulder.
He
took refuge in his private chambers and slammed the door with resounding force.
He went to the table by the window and poured himself a full brandy and drank
it all at once and bent over, choking, as the burning liquid fought its way
down. He leaned against the table, breathing heavily. By God, no woman would
make a jackal of him. She would do his bidding.
Below
the window, on the cobblestones of Oxford Road, the sun beat mercilessly down.
Angrily he thought, 'August again, always August!' If only she were not
becoming even more beautiful. What strain had slipped from old Hartlow's cock
to make her thus? It was as though he'd gathered the substance of her seed from
the North Devon cliffs themselves, beautiful yet hard, capable of defeating a
man if a fateful wind happened to blow him against that unbending headland of
stone.
Again
he poured a glass of brandy and took it with him to his favorite chair by the
window.
She
was the one who had forced him to take extreme measures. The
ruse that night with the spunging agents had gone well enough. That evening, on
her knees before him, he thought he'd seen a new submission in her face. Now he
realized bitterly that he'd seen nothing. Apparently she preferred starvation
to his presence.
The
thought stung, like the beads of sweat rolling down his face into the small
cuts where he'd hastily shaved himself that morning. Well, she wouldn't starve,
and she would learn to tolerate his presence, and no matter if she didn't, he
fully intended to collect his debt, perhaps this very evening. Then he'd pack
her back to her greedy half-sister and put an end to the whole affair.
Suddenly,
coming from the third-floor apartments, he heard a resounding crash. This was
followed quickly by the sound of footsteps running. He heard a woman's coarse
cry, "For Gawd's sake, help!" Then more footsteps, the corridor
outside his door filled with movement.
He
sank deeper into his chair and glared unseeing at the open window. There were
new screams, sounds above of a tremendous struggle, several loud thumps as
though heavy furniture were being overturned.
He
closed his eyes. The battle raged on for the better part of the afternoon. At
last, approaching five o'clock, all sounds ceased. A soft knock came at the
door. Thomas called out, "Come in."
Russell
Locke appeared before him. He was soaked from head to foot, a single scratch
ran down the left side of his face, and his clothes smelled of beef broth and
bath water. But there was a triumphant grin on his face as he announced,
"She's ready for your company, milord."
Thomas
looked at the mute evidence of the struggle and felt queasy. He had taken a
firm vow against all violence and already she had caused him to break that vow.
"Later," he muttered, turning away from Russell's grinning face.
"But,
milord—" Locke protested.
"I
said leave me be!" Thomas shouted.
He
waited until he heard the door close, then lifted his glass and drained it. He
then set for himself a goal for the night, a rather intricate one; to drink
himself senseless, to drink until he was no longer cognizant of who he was, or
where he was, or of the young woman or the ominous silence coming from the
apartments above him.
But—and
here was the fine point of the goal which he set for himself—
not
to
drink himself so senseless that he would be unable, under cover of dark, to
slip out of St. James's Park and avail himself of the first whore he
encountered, some robust, willing female who would endure his embrace, accept
his coin, and go on her way.
He
accomplished his intricate goal and returned to the house on Oxford Road after
midnight, staggering slightly but satiated, his eye combing the darkened high
third-floor apartment, like a great blind searchlight of the heart.
Paris
St.
Denis
August,1794
Only
as the carriage jolted to a halt did William revive and find himself again. For
a moment he wished he hadn't. It was so much safer in his unconscious vacuum.
He
saw the house, Number 63, Rue de Faubourg St. Denis, a private mansion reported
to have belonged once to Madame Pompadour. Then he felt movement around him,
again felt himself lifted up, his confused gusts of memory still washing over
him, the blessed numbness of his stump replaced by agony more pronounced than
any he'd ever endured. Around him, there seemed to be as many people as he'd
left in front of the Assembly, and leading them all, shouting orders, was the commanding
presence of Thomas Paine.
As
they carried him from the carriage, he saw through his distorted vision that
the house resembled an old mansion farmhouse, enclosed by a wall and gateway
from the road. In the courtyard, which was like a farmyard, stocked with
fowl—ducks, turkeys, geese—they were greeted by a small group of women.
Following the direction of one thick-waisted, gray-haired lady, they carried
him through to apartments on the first floor, consisting of three rooms-the
first for wood and water, the next a bedroom, and beyond it a sitting room
which led into a garden.
There
at Paine's command they placed him on the bed. The women followed behind with
basins of water and clean linen. Paine himself cradled William's head and gave
him brandy to drink, and as the soothing warmth relaxed him, he thought
mournfully that there would be no packet for England on the morrow, no eager
return to the house on Great Russell Street, no reunion with the lovely face
that had both haunted and sustained him throughout this dreadful year in
France.
Then
his attention was drawn back to the surgeons, who had resumed work on his arm.
New pain shot upward into the back of his head. His eyes watered. Oh, God,
death was preferable. He heard a voice, deep and comforting, "Hold to my
hand. It can be endured." Something in the voice, so confident, yet
easeful, convinced him of his ability to endure, and he did as he was told.
Throughout
the entire surgery, William was constantly aware of Paine's presence in the room.
Others came and went, but that one face remained fixed.
After
everyone in the house had taken their turn at prodding and lifting and shifting
him, after the surgeons had sewn the flesh down over the jagged bone of his
upper arm and rebound it to his chest, after all had come and looked and given
advice and sympathy, and after William himself had raised an enfeebled head and
looked, horrified, at his smooth, wingless right side, he was aware then of a
soft silence in the room, a sudden emptiness after hours of constant traffic.
"Marianne,"
he whispered weakly, feeling his head spinning with the effects of brandy and
medicine, the shocking event of the day beginning to dawn on him.
Thomas
Paine was there again, his own countenance looking none too well, two fiery
brick-red spots of fever blazing on his chalk-white cheeks. Gently he spoke.
"I don't know your Marianne, Mr. Pitch, but from the number of times
you've called her name, I wish I could bring her to you." The man leaned
closer, sat on the edge of the bed. "Is she your wife?" he asked.
Peculiarly,
William felt an embarrassment of tears. He shook his head. "Not yet, sir.
With God's help, perhaps one day." Suddenly he again caught sight of his
mutilation. He was a cripple now, a freak. What woman would ever want— As the
embarrassing tears increased, he was aware of Paine bending closer, the voice
hard.
"Enough,
sir. Your tears lack just cause. We are both alive. For that we should be
thankful."
Weakly
William protested, "One more alive than the other, sir. One whole.
One—"
"If
it were possible, I would give you my right arm, Mr. Pitch. As it is, all I can
give you is my support and lasting gratitude."
William
had not intended to force such a sentiment. He had done what he had done willingly,
and would do it again if the circumstances required it. Feeling self-anger, he
tried to change the subject. "Your papers, sir," he murmured, trying
to guide the conversation to less personal matters,
"My
papers can wait," Paine replied. "You must regain your health and
strength."
William
smiled. "As you must."
Paine
nodded, returning the smile. "For a blessed interim, the Glorious
Revolution will wait. We will be invalids together and concern ourselves with
nothing of greater note than the flowers in the garden and perhaps later,
playing games such as marbles or battledores."
William
closed his eyes. "You have an easy opponent in a one-armed man, sir."
For
the second time, Paine looked sternly down on him. "Your value and dignity
as a man, Mr. Pitch, did not reside in your arm. Any clerk can hold the pen for
you. Here are your riches." Lightly he touched William's forehead.
"And those are unscathed, intact as ever, and perhaps tempered and refined
by your present crucible."
William
listened, his head clearing. He wanted to talk, he wanted to retain the strong
presence before him for as long as possible, as defense against those weaker
moments when self-pity threatened to overwhelm him. "The Revolution,
sir," he began, as objectively as his discomfort would permit. "Is it
worth pursuing? I've seen things, as you have, which defy all laws of human
decency and conduct. To what end? For what purpose?"
Thomas
Paine settled more comfortably on the edge of the bed, as though he had
discerned William's need to talk. "All revolutions go poorly in the
beginning. By their very nature, they require surgery as radical as that which
you have just endured. But as your body will heal, so will the body politic of
France." Quietly he shook his head, as though for a moment doubting his
own words. "I must confess, though, there have been nights of severe
doubt. France seems destined to suffer more than is necessary."
"Why?"
William asked, feeling a cessation of discomfort as his mind became engaged in
the larger matter.
Paine
stood up from the bed and walked a short distance away, his head bowed as
though in thought. Wearily he shook his head. "France herself, I fear, is
the blame. She breeds idealists, then takes great delight in killing
them." He looked back at the bed. "And without idealism, Mr. Pitch,
without the strong voices of noble intention, all revolutions will founder in
their own blood."
"Then
there's no hope?" William asked.
"Oh,
there's hope. There's always hope. It will just take France longer. She will suffer
more." Paine returned to the bed, the fever spots of his cheeks blazing
anew. "But think of the difference a Jefferson would have made. What a
debt America owes that man! He became their soul and they at least, at the
pitch of insanity, had the good sense to listen." He shook his head and
again settled wearily on the edge of the bed. "There is no French voice of
such stature and wisdom, not now."
"What
of your own?"
Thomas
Paine laughed, his eyes closed. "I have the misfortune of possessing an
English voice, Mr. Pitch, or hadn't you noticed? It is a talent of the French
to go conveniently deaf to all accents save their own."
"Then
the madness will go on forever?"
"Not
forever, Mr. Pitch. Ultimately enough blood will be spilled, enough deceits
worked, enough alliances shattered. Then, bloodied and bowed, France will lift
her head in search of a leader. Pray God the right man appears."
At
the door, William heard soft footsteps and saw the old woman, bearing a tray.
Paine
glanced over his shoulder and smiled broadly, "Look—Madame has brought you
the elixir of health." And he lifted from the tray a small bouquet of
flowers. "August roses," Paine beamed. "I planted them myself
two seasons ago, proof that seeds planted in the crucible of winter bear summer
blossoms."
He
placed the roses on a nearby table. "And healing broth," he added,
taking the tray from the old woman and placing it before William. Sternly he
commanded, "Take the utensil, Mr. Pitch, in your left hand and feed
yourself."
William
started to protest but knew it would be useless. Weakly, and with trembling
fingers, he lifted the spoon awkwardly, dropped it once, slowly retrieved it,
and aimed it for the bowl, spilling some of the hot brew, spilling more as the
spoon reached his lips, half-empty.
The
woman started forward in assistance, but halted at a signal from Paine. In one
of the most tortuous ordeals of his life, William clumsily manipulated the
spoon back and forth between his mouth and the bowl, consuming a little , until
frustrated, he begged, "No more, please."
"You
see?" beamed Paine. "You're still a man." As the woman removed
the tray, he added, "You must never think otherwise, or you will do more
damage to yourself than the pistol did."
Exhausted,
William leaned back upon the pillow. His head was beginning to spin again, the
stump of his arm coming to life, the shattered nerve ends awakening. Paine was
beside him lifting his head, urging him to drink the brandy.
In
a daze, William heard him send the woman away. "I'll sit with him," he
whispered, "until his Marianne comes for him again. Go along with you. rU
stay with him until he's safely in his dreams."
William
tried to form words of gratitude, but his lips refused to move. Instead he sank
back into a blessed blackness, less blessed now, as it was filled with visions
of the futility of everything, the futility of the Revolution, the futility of
his dreams of Marianne, the futility of his own life, altered so radically on
the broad pavement leading up to the Assembly.
Where
in God's world was a place for a one-armed man?
Where
in God's world?
London
August
She
could not bear standing on tiptoe any longer, trying to peer out the high
window. Looking quickly about, she spied a small three-legged stool and dragged
it into position. She climbed aboard, and for the first time during her long
confinement, got a clear glimpse of the world beyond. It was glorious, the sun
on distant spires, the sound of people moving freely about on the street below.
She
stepped down from the stool. By now she knew every inch of the third-floor
apartments. Fortunately they were generous chambers, consisting of the large
bedroom, a smaller dressing room beyond the arch, and an ample sitting room
beyond that. They were sparsely but adequately furnished with old pieces of no
real value, but comfortable nonetheless. Recently someone had gone to a great
deal of trouble with the new damask wall-hangings, lovely floral designs of
lavender and rose, softening the dark wood interior.
She
stopped pacing and looked about, as though seeing her "prison" for
the first time. It occurred to her that her father's entire cottage at
Mortemouth would fit easily inside this one room.
Through
the high windows, the sunlight of the late August afternoon fell in two
slanting quadrilaterals on the rich rose carpet. She knew so little of her
captor. She remembered as though it were a hundred years ago the night of her
abduction, remembered the single thought which had brought her comfort, the
realization that by dawn it would all be over.
But
that was a month ago and still it was not over. Why did he persist in keeping
her here? She hadn't seen the man himself in over a week. She'd heard his voice
outside the door as he conferred daily with her guards. She saw the
never-ending parade of servants, seldom the same one twice in a row, as though
he did not want her to form an attachment And this nameless parade treated her
as though she were an inanimate object to be maintained and cared for, but
certainly never addressed as a human being.
The
isolation could not go on much longer. She commenced pacing again, step by step
consuming the light rose spaces. She returned to the window and climbed back
onto the stool. "Soon it will be over," she thought, although she
knew better, knew that he could hold her a prisoner here as long as he wished,
for she was powerless, bereft of allies on the outside, no one to come to her
defense.