Outside
the door, she heard movement, heard the guard stand, the chair scraping urgently
against the wooden landing. Such immediacy of response generally was reserved
for only one.
Quickly
she left the window and dragged the stool a distance away. She was certain that
if he saw her pleasure at standing by the window, he would have the stool
removed. She slipped quietly into a straight-backed chair beside the table,
facing the door, a guard-like stance of her own.
She
heard his voice, a low indistinguishable exchange of some sort, the servant
responding, then silence.
Outside
the window, darkness steadily thickened. Night soon. Her fears were always
greater at night She heard his voice again, loud and strangely desolate.
"Unlock
the door," he commanded.
Every
nerve in her body tensed as she heard the key grating in the lock. She saw the
heavy door ease open, saw the spill of light from the lamps in the corridor,
and realized for the first time how dark the bedchamber had become, how quickly
the sun had set
Then
she saw him in outline, standing in the doorway, his powerful figure filling
the open space. "Light the lamps," he called over his shoulder. A
moment later an old woman entered the room bearing a lighted wick. Marianne
never took her eyes off the man in the doorway.
As
illumination filled the room, she made an attempt to control her fear. Perhaps
at last it
would
be over by dawn. The lamps lit, the old woman glanced
toward her and muttered, "That's where she always sits, milord. Never says
a word."
"That
will be all," he said, his voice cold. As she passed by him, he added,
"Wait outside."
"Yes,
milord."
He
closed the door and stepped further into the room, smiling. He was neatly
dressed and looked fresh and erect. He stood a few feet from where she sat at
the table. "I trust you are well," he inquired with great courtesy,
as though the state of her health were a matter of genuine concern to him.
When
she failed to respond to his inquiry, he stepped closer. "Are your needs
attended to?" he asked, the ludicrous expression of concern still on his
face.
"My
needs, yes," she replied. "My wants, no."
His
face became grave. "All you must do is ask and it shall be granted."
She
looked up at him. "My freedom, then. I ask for my freedom."
He
looked angry. "Freedom to what?" he asked pointedly. "To return
to the house on Great Russell Street, to poverty, to your sister who betrayed
you? Freedom to return to Mortemouth, to a senseless father who is looked after
by two old women?"
Suddenly
she felt a flare of anger. "You are responsible for those harsh
conditions, milord," she said, in a voice without margin.
He
bowed his head as though he did not want her to speak further. "I did not
come here to argue," he murmured, waving his hand in her direction.
She
was on the verge of asking him why he had come, then changed her mind. In the
silence that followed, she was aware of him staring at her.
When
he spoke again, his voice was changed, softer, as though he were making a fresh
start. "I'm tired of dining alone," he said, simply, like a small boy
about to ask a favor. "With your permission, might I dine here this
evening?"
"It
is your house, milord," she replied. "You may dine wherever you
wish."
He
was silent, then asked almost timidly, "Will you—join me?"
"I
eat little now."
"You
should eat more."
"I
have no appetite."
He
stepped closer. "Because of me?"
She
remained immobile, astounded by his question. Had he no conception of what he
had done, was now doing? In despair, she walked to the high window. Beyond she
saw dusk falling, saw around a distant tower a flock of dark birds circling
with slow, deliberate, wingbeats.
Behind
her he waited. "You've not answered my question."
With
her face turned away, she murmured, "I find it inconceivable that you
should ask."
Again
silence descended on the room. When she looked back, she saw him, still
standing before the table, his head bowed. He looked bereft.
To
her surprise, she found his demeanor almost moving, a giant robbed of his
power. "As I said, milord," she added, trying to dispel the curious
feeling of sympathy, "it's your house. Dine where you wish."
She
saw him moving toward the door. He flung it open and summoned the old serving
woman, gave her orders of some sort.
Through
the half-opened door, Marianne heard the old woman protest,
"Who
is to sit guard if I'm—"
"
No
need for guards," he scolded. "I'm here. Go on with you and be quick
about it."
Slowly
he turned back into the room. She felt foolish standing unoccupied by the
window, felt equally as foolish staring at the lamp. She considered returning
to the chair, but such a move would only shorten the distance between them. She
did not understand why it had become so quiet. She dragged the stool to a
position directly beneath the window and sat, like a child, her knees elevated,
her hands primly folded in her lap.
"Are
you comfortable?" he asked.
"I
beg your pardon?" she inquired, looking up.
"Are
you comfortable?"
"Yes,"
she said.
He
did not respond. He took a seat at the table, his position awkward-appearing,
placing his folded hands before him, then withdrawing them into his lap. His
voice, when he spoke, expressed melancholy. "These chambers belonged to my
grandmother," he said, looking about. "She was happiest in London.
Hated Eden Point."
His
mood required no comment and she gave none. He went on. "With my grandfather,
it was just the opposite. He always said he felt excluded and rendered mute by
the populace of London. Enormous blocks of piled stone, he called it."
Again
he looked about, as though listening to ghost voices. "Do you like
London?" he asked.
"I've
not seen it, milord," she replied.
"But
you've passed time here for several years."
"My
movements have been confined," she responded. "I've seen the meadows
of Bloomsbury and the towers and spires of the city. From a distance." She
glanced briefly up at the high window as though to illustrate her point.
"Little else," she concluded.
Almost
timidly, he corrected her. "You've seen the Pantheon."
She
looked in his direction, remembering that night, her own absurdity with
William's lilacs pinned to the hem of her servant's gown. "Yes," she
concurred.
"We
danced together," he went on, his face and voice brightening. "Remember?"
She
remembered. "I did not know who you were, milord," she said.
"Would
that have made a difference?"
Out
of the habit of honesty, she answered, "Yes."
Urgently
he leaned forward and placed his hands on the table. "Why?" he
demanded.
Again
she felt overwhelmed by his apparent insensitivity. She considered reminding
him of that hot August morning in the inner courtyard of Eden Castle, then
changed her mind.
At
that instant she was aware of movement coming from the table, of a chair being
pushed back, of footsteps moving toward her. With her eyes down she saw his
boots first standing before her, elegant black leather boots polished to a high
shine. She held her breath and closed her eyes, and felt the weight of his hand
covering hers, heard his voice exceptionally tender, yet hoarse as though
bearing the brunt of deep emotion. "I have lost track," he began,
"of the number of times that I have prayed for forgiveness for that cruel
moment. I have paid a thousand times, and there still is debt."
She
listened closely, her eyes focused on his hand, tanned, strong, small black
hairs curling atop each knuckle. "I suspect I shall go to my grave owing
the debt," he went on, tightening his grip on her hand. "If it were
within my power, I would erase every scar from your back and transplant them
onto my own, along with the pain you must have suffered—"
His
voice broke. He shifted slightly from the awkward stooping position. "Please
look at me," he asked, and when she did not, he raised his hand to her
face and forced her to see his eyes, which were glittering with emotion.
"Don't,"
she begged, trying to pull away.
He
released her face, but continued to hold her hand. "Say the words that
would ease my pain," he requested softly. "Please, Marianne, speak
forgiveness."
Again
she tried to draw away, but he held her fast. Embarrassed by his closeness, she
averted her head. "There is nothing to forgive," she said. "I
disobeyed you. It is a punishable offense, and I was punished."
Before
he could reply, there came a soft knock at the door. Quickly he turned his back
on her and made an effort to arrange his face. "Come in," he called.
She
saw a small parade of serving women enter the room, each bearing trays. One
quickly covered the large table with a circle of white linen, arranging china
and cutlery. The others deposited a platter of roast beef, a round of bread, a bottle
of wine.
As
the women worked, Marianne watched him. He'd taken refuge in the far comer of
the room, his back to her, head down, one hand searching for something in his
pocket, then finally withdrawing a handkerchief. With the exception of the
slight noise the women made as they fussed about the table, there was no sound.
Again she felt peculiarly undone by his distress.
One
of the women asked timidly, "Shall we stay to serve, milord?" When he
either failed to hear or was incapable of response, Marianne took the lead as
though it were hers to take. "No, thank you. That will not be necessary.
I'll serve. You may go."
She
saw indecision in the old eyes looking back at her. All three women glanced
from her to Lord Eden, as though seeking confirmation for this new voice of
authority. But when he refused to respond, they bobbed their heads and quickly
took their leave.
She
waited until the door had closed behind them, then sent her attention back to
the bowed figure standing in the shadows. In the face of his obvious distress,
her fear was subsiding, though she still viewed his presence as potentially
threatening. As for pronouncing forgiveness on him, that she could not do.
Finally,
when he did look back at her, she saw his hand go to his side as though he were
seized with a spasm. His face had gone ashen. She watched carefully as he
walked to the table, lifted the decanter, and poured two glasses of wine. From
that distance, he extended one to her.
When
she did not come, he placed it on the table, lifted his own glass, and drained
it. He stared at the empty glass, then sank heavily into the chair. He cast a
searching eye in her direction, and in a kind of gruff apology, muttered,
"We'll talk no more about it." He gestured to the table and invited,
"Come and eat."
She
hesitated. Then, because she had denied him once and because in that denial she
had felt a kind of power, and because she was hungry, she walked to the chair
opposite him and sat.
He
bestowed upon her a grateful smile. "Thank you," he said simply. He
whispered hoarsely, "I hope I'm not too repulsive to you."