Now
she looked over at Lord Eden opposite her. He sat erect, his hair lightly
dressed, clean-shaven, his arm resting on the cushioned support His eyes were
open, but appeared to be unseeing. It was precisely the position of the dead.
She
saw Russell peering in through the window, awaiting the command. Lord Eden gave
it and Russell scurried around and climbed up on the high seat beside the
coachman. With a flick of the reins, the carriage lurched forward.
Something
about the seating arrangement amused her. "Doesn't my brother usually
accompany you inside the carriage?" she inquired politely.
"Not
in the presence of a lady," he replied, still not looking at her.
She
took the reply for what it was, a foolish attempt to flatter her, and
concentrated on the passing sights of Oxford Road, one of the busiest streets
in London and, she thought ruefully, surely one of the ugliest Commercial shops
were wedged in between large houses, their little signature boards hanging limp
in the airless mom, a few weak displays of late August geraniums looking
parched and dried, mostly a gray-black-brown scene, the larger houses appearing
prosperous though uninhabited. And there, just ahead, the majestic and slightly
pretentious Pantheon. She leaned up for a better look at the now-dosed portals.
A few old men sat on the great staircase, taking the sun.
Apparently
he saw her interest in the building. "It seems a long time ago, doesn't
it?" he commented softly.
She
looked back at him in the dark interior of the coach.
That
evening which had caused her such distress now produced a smile. "You were
dressed as a smuggler, I remember," she said.
"I
was
a smuggler," he replied.
"I
know."
"And
you were dressed as a serving maid," he said.
"I
was
a serving maid," she said with a smile.
"I
know," he replied.
The
exchange produced an agreeable warmth on both their faces. When she looked out
of the window again, the Pantheon was gone, and they were approaching a broad
avenue lined on both sides with tall yew trees, a lovely boulevard skirting a
broad green park. It was a beautiful vista, like a painting, with people
lounging about on the soft green grass, children rolling hoops, and there she
saw a small brown and white spotted dog chasing a squirrel.
"lf
you'd care to stop, we can," he offered kindly. "But there's much to
see.
She
shook her head. "You're the captain of the day. I'm in your hands."
The
expression of such a gift seemed to bewilder him. "It's your pleasure I'm
concerned with," he murmured.
She
believed him and tried to imagine their relationship without the weight of
memory behind it, merely a man and a maid abroad on a lovely sun-drenched
morning. It required an effort of some imagining, but she accomplished it. And
when, a few moments later, spying a flower stall at the edge of the park, he
leaned out and ordered the coachman to stop and quickly left the carriage and
returned with an incredibly beautiful bouquet of pale cream-colored roses and
presented them to her, she thought that the most remarkable thing about
miracles is that they do happen.
"To
go with your gown," was his brief, almost self-conscious explanation.
Smiling,
she accepted both the flowers and the compliment and nestled her face to the
soft velvet petals and sniffed their fragrance. In spite of her unexpected
happiness, she warned herself that wisdom should reckon on the unforeseen.
They
rode in silence into the heart of the city, then out again, the coachman
apparently taking his directions from Russell, who obviously had conferred with
Lord Eden. Everyone knew where they were going except Marianne, and she liked
it that way.
The
past was losing its grip on her. This repentant man sitting opposite her was
not the man who had ordered her public whipping, or who had abducted her in the
dead of night. She didn't know who this man was, but he was not the same man.
The
carriage pulled over to the pavement and came to a halt. Beyond the window, she
saw a broad river.
"The
Thames," he announced. "Here I thought we would take the air." He
leaned forward and pointed, "There's London Bridge, and there"—he
gestured behind her—"is Wren's Monument to the Great Fire."
She
found herself looking excitedly in both directions, delighted at last with the
opportunity to stretch her legs and feel grass beneath her feet. Russell was
already at the door. Lord Eden alighted first and strangely this time did not
extend his hand in assistance. Carefully she placed the pale creamy roses on
the seat, chose one to accompany her, and looked regretfully at the others.
"I'm afraid they'll die," she said.
"Then
we shall buy more," he promised.
She
stepped from the carriage and adjusted her bonnet. While Lord Eden was
conferring in private with Russell and the coachman, she turned her attention
toward the silvery Thames and the springy bosom of the surrounding hills and
fields. The air seemed fresher here, closer to the water, and she thought how
long it had been since she'd seen her home at the edge of the water.
She
was in the act of starting forward when he came up beside her. He seemed so
much taller standing than sitting, quite overpowering, his birth and breeding
showing in every angle of his face.
He
was silent beside her, his eyes assessing the best approach to London Bridge.
When he spoke, he said simply, "Let's go to the river's edge first. It's
said that to touch the Thames is to bring one good fortune." Without
changing his attitude or voice, he added, "Perhaps the river will be more
considerate of you than I have been in the past."
At
the approach to the banks of the river, there was a gentle slope which she
could have managed easily. Nonetheless, seeing him descend first and extend his
hand, this time she accepted it, and felt it lightly close around hers.
It
lasted only a moment, then he withdrew a safe distance to the edge of the river
and stood with his back to her, staring out at a barge which was being poled
against the current by the three bargemen, shirtless, their back muscles
glistening in the heat of the day.
He
began to speak, a queer little speech, rigid with formality as though he'd
taken it word for word from a guide pamphlet. His hand lifted toward the upper
river and his voice came out as measured as a schoolboy reciting Beowulf.
"The
old town of Cirenchester," he began, his brow knitted in the direction in
which he was pointing, "known as Corinium in the time of the Romans, is in
the Cotswolds. In a field near the town reclines a statue of a bearded old man.
By the statue a spring feeds a small stream." He looked quickly over his
shoulder, not directly at her, but at a point over the top of her head.
She
stiffened to attention and somehow felt as though she were a child again, and
old Jenny Toppinger was drilling her on the names and dates of the Monarchs.
"This
statue and springs," he went on, sending his attention upriver again,
"are in themselves unremarkable, but this little stream, gathering other
waters as it flows along, is the accepted source of one of the most famous
rivers in the world." Here he spread his arms wide as though to embrace
the vision before him. "The Thames," he pronounced, almost
reverently.
He
looked back at her, as though for her impression. Quickly she bobbed her head,
duly impressed.
"The—Thames,"
he muttered under his breath, searching for the next line. A Eureka light
dawned on his face. 'Whilst still a gentle river," he went on laboriously,
"making its way through some of England's most beautiful lands, it wanders
past many places where England's history has unfolded—Windsor, home of the
Monarchs, and Runnymede, where King John's Barons saw the signing of the Magna
Carta, over five hundred years ago—"
All
at once she saw him lift his head, as though the stiff prepared text had become
a source of pride.
He
repeated, "Over five hundred years ago," and she saw a light in his
eyes, a simple pride, available to all Englishmen, the certain knowledge of who
they were and the unique richness of their island country. She'd seen it in her
father before, had on occasion felt it in herself. She'd thought it was merely
the balm the lower classes used to soothe the abrasive effects of poverty.
She'd not expected, and was therefore surprised, to find it in one high born.
"It's
a lovely river," she murmured, in appreciation of his words and apparent
effort, as well as of the mighty river itself. She took a final whiff from the
perfect rose which she'd separated from the bouquet and stepped forward to the
edge of the water and lightly tossed out the flower; it floated prettily on the
water, the tide carrying it gently downward toward the channel.
The
gesture seemed to please him. "Once," he began quietly, "I saw
the Venetian Ambassadors arrive in a grand barge, bedecked with flowers, the
entire river a carpet of flowers. But," he concluded, "it wasn't as
lovely as that single blossom tossed by your hand."
She
felt herself blushing both from the compliment as well as from the weight of
his eyes. They walked easily along the embankment, his hands clasped behind his
back, his head bowed. She walked beside him, taking two steps to his one.
Feeling
a desire to contribute to the moment, she said, "Jenny Toppinger told me
the story of Elizabeth Regina, as a girl, coming down this river to her
imprisonment and sitting on the steps of the White Tower, refusing to go
in."
He
nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps our greatest Monarch."
"Yes,"
she agreed. "At least Jenny said so, and Jenny knows everything."
The
sun had risen high, almost a position of noon. Gulls swooping over the river
attracted her attention. At the end of the promenade there was a small open-air
gallery with an arrangement of wooden benches from which one could have an
uncluttered view of London Bridge. Beneath the central span, the barge which they
had seen earlier was now passing. They watched as the bargemen lowered their
long poles, one muscular lad reaching up in a spirit of play as though to grasp
the span directly above him. They heard all of the men shout at the bargemen,
an easy sense of fellowship apparent between them.
As
the barge slipped out again into the sun, she glanced at Lord Eden and saw the
most remarkable expression on his face, an incredible longing, as though if the
bargemen had called to him, he would have eagerly swum out and joined them,
become one with them, and willingly done his share of work.
"Milord,"
she said, summoning his attention back to the bank. "You wouldn't like it.
Oh, perhaps for a day or two it would be sport, but on the third day your back
muscles would ache, the muscles in your arms would swell up, the palms of your
hands would be bleeding, the sun would bum, and you'd jump off^ the barge at
the first landing and flee back to Eden Castle."
He
laughed, conceding her wisdom, his eyes lingering on her face. The laugh died
but his eyes were still there. "You are so beautiful," he whispered.
She
walked the short distance to the wooden bench and sat down. Such intimacies did
not belong to the day. When she looked up to find him still staring at her, she
rose quickly and started off down the embankment, calling over her shoulder,
"There's more to London than the river. We must hurry if we're to see it
all."
Some
moments later she heard his step behind her. "I apologize—" he
started.
Quickly
she shook her head. Feeling the heat of noon, she loosened her bonnet and
removed it. "Where next, milord?" she asked, trying to recapture the
tourist mood.
He
pointed straight ahead toward a high-rising obelisk. "Wren's
Monument?" he inquired. "It's only a short distance. If you like, we
can walk."