Again
Marianne was not inclined to speak or offer consolation. He served her plate
generously and served himself as well, and sat now, as though uncertain of
himself.
Seeing
his uncertainty, she picked up her fork and commenced eating. He followed suit.
With the first bite, his mood seemed to lighten. He asked, considerately,
"May I bring you news from home?" Without waiting for her to reply,
he went on, eating and talking. "It's all quite as you left it, the Point,
the Castle, the village. We had a severe winter, but the tenants forecast a
good harvest, and the herring were running well when I left-"
"News
of my father, please?" she interrupted.
Slowly
he placed his fork on his plate, took refuge for a moment behind his napkin.
"He's well," he said, melancholy spreading across his face. "He
has the protection of the castle now. Jenny Toppinger and Dolly Wisdom are
there, too. They tend to his needs and see that he is comfortable." Earnestly
he looked across at her. "He has my protection for as long as he
lives," he pledged. "I vow it on my life."
She
met his gaze. "I'm grateful."
The
simple exchange seemed to take a heavy toll. Neither fork was lifted again for
some moments. Then, because she felt responsible for this new glumness, she
tried to redirect the conversation along easier lines. "And old
Ragland?" she inquired with a smile. "Is he still as officious as
ever, telling everyone what to do and what will happen if they don't do
it?"
Suddenly
a terrible expression cut across his face. He leaned his elbows on the table.
Silence closed around him. Below on the street, she heard an organ grinder,
playing a forlorn tune.
Seeing
the disintegration, she inquired, "Milord?"
He
rested his head in his hands and massaged his forehead. "Ragland is
dead," he pronounced from behind this barrier.
Marianne
felt cut adrift. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I didn't
know." Then, "How did he die? He seemed hearty enough for his
age."
It
was as if every question, no matter how innocent, was a new assault. "My
fault, as always," he muttered, "though your brother pulled the
actual trigger." With that beginning, and pouring himself a full glass of
wine as though for fortification, he told her the whole grim story, leaving
nothing out, taking full blame for everything. At the conclusion of the tale,
the lamplight caught his face and she saw an emaciated visage, devoid of
strength. "I can conceive of no reason," he concluded brokenly, "why
I should continue to draw breath."
Impressed
by the depth of his despondency, she sat close to the table. "You were not
directly responsible for—"
"I
am directly responsible for everything!" he interrupted angrily.
"Everything! Within the last few years, I have, wittingly or unwittingly,
destroyed more lives than I care to count." He bowed his head even lower. "The
most regrettable being your own."
"I
am not destroyed, milord," she corrected with a smile. "Look at
me."
Slowly
he obeyed. She felt a warmth on her cheeks at the intensity of his gaze. His
expression was one of disorder, where impulses continued to discharge
themselves without rein, a gloomy forest of passions. It was a haunting face.
Working an even greater effect on her was his next whispered question, more a
plea than a mere inquiry. "What is the source of your strength?"
When
she failed to answer, he repeated himself. "The source of your strength,
please," he begged.
She
tried to return his gaze, but could not. The organ grinder's song floated up to
her from afar. She failed to answer him because she could not answer. The
source of her strength? What strength? She had never felt weaker in her life.
She
was on the verge of confessing this when he stood up. "I'm morbid company
tonight, I fear," he apologized. "Every avenue of conversation seems
to lead to a grave." He looked back at her. "Please forgive me. I'll
leave you now. I'm sorry if I intruded."
As
he started toward the door, she called after him, "Milord—"
But
he continued across the room and did not speak again until he had reached the
door. His voice still carried an inflection of apology. He asked softly,
"Would you kindly consider going abroad with me tomorrow through the city?
Between the meadows of Bloomsbury and the White Tower there's a great deal to
see," Again he lowered his head. In a subdued manner he promised, "I
shall conduct myself in a manner befitting a gentleman. I will do nothing to
cause you alarm. I swear it." He paused, then inquired, "Did you
hear?"
She'd
heard. "As your prisoner, milord?" she asked. "Or as your
guest?"
In
a voice scarcely audible, he replied, "As my guest. As my most honored
guest."
"Then
I should like that very much."
She'd
expected some reply from him, but he gave none. Instead he opened the door and
spoke a few words of command to the women outside. She watched in a trance as
the women quickly entered the room and cleared away the remains of the
half-eaten meal, continued to watch as they hurried down the staircase, and she
was still watching when from beyond the door he called back to her, "I
pray you sleep well, Marianne. Thank you for your company."
With
that, he started down the stairs, leaving the door open. No guard now, no
sliding of bolt, nothing but a clear access, a route of escape, the very
condition she'd dreamed about for over a month.
She
started forward as though she found herself on a path that she'd walked before.
All she had to do was pass through the door, down the steps, two flights, right
turn through the Great Hall, and straight ahead through the arches to Oxford
Road.
Then
where?" The dead end struck her with a caprice of its own. Back to the
house on Great Russell Street to the sister who had twice betrayed her, to
Sarah, who perhaps had been an accomplice? Back to North Devon to the empty
cottage in Mortemouth? She looked about as the realization dawned on her. She
had no place to go. And even if she did—
The
second thought was even more unsettling than the first. She retreated back
toward the bed and tried to confront the dilemma of freedom.
A
curious predicament, when the prison becomes the refuge.
At
the bottom of the steps, out of sight on the second-floor landing, Thomas
waited with held breath.
He
heard everything. He was aware of her hesitancy, her slow passage to the door,
another pause, then, miracle of miracles, the prisoner closed her own cell.
By
God, what a performance he had given! As he stepped from his hiding place, he
again glanced quickly up the steps to the closed door. By God, but he had been
skillful! Let any actor at the Drury Lane top that, he thought, grinning,
almost laughing openly. The penitent! The upright head bowed with remorse! The
crumpled visage! The trembling hands! The half-eaten meal!
He
took a last look upward, then moved hurriedly down the corridor toward his own
chambers, reviewing the theatrical in his head, relishing it anew as though it
were happening all over again.
"These
were my grandmother's chambers. She loved London—"
Dear
Jesus, from where he had dredged that piece of nonsense, he had no idea. His hag
of a grandmother had hated everything, the entire world and everyone in it, had
taken voluntary refuge in the high chambers for fear of contamination by the
ordinary mortals around whom she was forced to move.
Still,
it had made a good story. If his assessment was accurate, and he was certain it
was, that had been the turning point, the first delicate assault on her
resistance. And of course everything that had followed had been merely
brilliant, the reference to North Devon, to the condition of her father, to
Thomas' plea for forgiveness. . . . He stopped outside his door, almost
overcome with joy. Oh, dear God, how she had succumbed to that, that pitiful
plea for forgiveness. Suddenly he bypassed his door and ran to the top of the
stairs which led to the ground floor. He lowered his head the better to see. He
called out softly, "Locke? Are you there?"
An
old serving woman appeared, her ancient face twisted upward.
"Milord?" she inquired.
Still
keeping his voice down, he said, "I want to see Russell Locke
immediately."
"He's
in the kitchen, milord."
"Well,
fetch him!"
"Yes,
milord."
As
he started back toward his chambers, the old woman called out, "Do we sit
the door tonight, milord?"
He
returned to the top of the steps. "I don't think it will be necessary, old
mother," he said with a grin. "The bird is beginning to form an
attachment for her cage."
Hurriedly
he returned to his chambers and for the first time permitted himself the
pleasure of an outright laugh. He strode about the room exuberantly, lifting
his head as though to hear certain fragments of his performance—
I
have lost track of the number of times I have prayed for forgiveness. I suspect
I shall go to my grave owing the debt.
My
God, he had been positively inspired! Still, he moved about the room, always
seeing her, her incredible beauty, enhanced by the passing of time, her
youthful arrogance not gone, but merely tempered into a kind of awesome pride.
By
the window he came to a halt, stopped dead by one thought. What a conquest she
would make! What a mistress! What a charming companion! And what a complex of
emotions she aroused in him! As he stared, unseeing, down on Oxford Road, he
envisioned her, helpless, on the whipping oak, and immediately following this,
he saw her helpless beneath him. As he imagined the sweet invasion of that
young body, he found stimulation in every aspect of her, her face and hair, her
shoulders and breasts, and most curious of all, he imagined her back, the scars
for which he was responsible causing the greatest stimulation of all.
Be
patient, he counseled himself. He'd made giant strides in one short evening,
had coaxed his prey closer with kindness and remorse than he'd ever
accomplished with force.
Behind
him he heard a knock and called out, "Locke? Is that you?"
The
door swung open and the man stood before him, his face uninspired, crumbs of
his dinner still clinging to the front of his jacket My God, how to account for
the difference between these two?
There
was no accounting, and he had no time for it anyway. Quickly he returned to the
table, shuffled through a muss of papers, and retrieved the clipping which only
last week he'd torn from
The Bloomsbury Gazetteer
. Hurriedly his eyes
scanned the newsprint. "Dr. James Graham and his Celestial Bed."
"Designed to cure the most reluctant females."
Thomas
pondered the extravagant promise. Perhaps it would work. After a soft and
repentant day abroad with her tomorrow, showing her the city as well as his
bereft nature, perhaps she would be responsive to the effects of the Celestial
Bed. He felt that once she were his, there would be no problem. Her reputation
and good name ruined, she would have no choice but to stay with him, as long as
she amused him. After that, and because he was an honorable man, he would care
for her, would put her back into service at Eden Castle, where she could pass
her days in relative security.
But
for now he must treat her as the lady she thought she was, must court and woo
her, and perhaps, with the help of Dr. Graham's magical bed, conquer her. He
looked again at the clipping in his hand, a sad little smile playing about his
features. If only she'd been high born. If only Fate had seen fit to let them
meet on equal footing.
"Milord,"
Russell interrupted behind him.
"Yes,"
he said, stirring himself out of his thoughts. "I have an errand for
you." He withdrew a piece of blank paper and scribbled the name and
address of Dr. Graham's establishment. He needed to know more, needed to know
the details of the bed itself. He must not, under any circumstances, make a
fool of himself. His prey was delicate and easily offended. If it was nothing
more than a bawdy house, it would not do at all. Therefore he had to speak to
the man himself.