She
nodded, feeling the old formality spring up between them. It was better this
way. Hurriedly they made their way back to the carriage, where she saw Russell
and the coachman, their legs propped up, enjoying a pipe and a morning's chat.
At their approach, both men hopped down and stood at attention. Again she
waited while Lord Eden whispered a few words to them. Then he dismissed them
and both men climbed aboard the carriage and urged the horses forward.
In
alarm, she stepped closer. "Where are they—"
But
he merely ordered, "To the Monument," pointing his finger in that
direction, then lightly taking her arm in assistance across the cobblestones.
The
street they now threaded was so narrow and shut in by shadows that when they
came out unexpectedly into the vast sky, she was startled to find the day still
light and clear. No words were spoken during the short walk through foot
traffic. Once safely on the pavement, he released her arm, though he still
walked protectively close to her, stepping forward at each oncoming pedestrian
and forcing him or her out into the street in order to make a clear passage for
her.
As
they crossed Gracechurch Street, he suggested, "Look up!" Following
his bidding, she lifted her eyes. It appeared that the tower was swaying.
Quickly
she stepped away and closed her eyes. When she looked back the tower was steady
again, a single pillar reaching two hundred feet into the air.
They
circled it once. Lord Eden launching forth again into his prepared travelogue,
more at ease now or so it seemed.
"Designed
by the great Christopher Wren," he intoned, "erected to mark the spot
where the Great Fire of London broke out in 1656."
Mentally
she corrected him, 1666, but said nothing. Jenny had told her about the Great
Fire as well. She felt a surge of belated appreciation for her old
schoolmistress. Her school had been unorthodox, a low stool by the fire of her
father's cottage, but Jenny had taken Marianne's blank female mind and had
tried to fill it.
Apparently
Lord Eden saw the distance on her face. "Are you well?" he inquired
earnestly.
"Very
well, milord," she replied. "Just thinking of home."
The
confession seemed to bewilder him. "Home?"
"Mortemouth,"
she replied, and as his bewilderment increased, she led the way to the small
door in the base of the pillar, from which several children were now emerging,
their faces flushed with exertion, their pretty locks plastered with
perspiration against their smooth foreheads.
"Is
it quite a climb?" she asked one young boy, a lad of about twelve with
black eyes and rosy cheeks.
He
grinned. "Not if you do it ever'day, maistress, like we'es do."
"You
make the climb every day?" she asked. "Why?"
Without
hesitation he replied, "From up thur it's like bein' a bird, a maistress.
If you stand thur long enow, you begin to think that all you have to do is leap
off and spread yer wings—"
Behind
her, she was aware of Lord Eden, listening with tolerance to the boy's
fantasies. "And if you could fly, boy," he asked, "where would
you go?"
Again,
without hesitation, his comrades pushing playfully about him, he announced,
"To Amurica, maister."
"And
what would you do in America?" Lord Eden demanded.
A
younger boy, with mischievous smile, answered for him. "Fight red
savages!" He grinned.
"No!"
Sternly the older boy corrected him. "I'd be a farmer, maister," he
said, with the seriousness of youth.
"Can't
you be a farmer in England?" Lord Eden persisted.
"Not
with a bloody tyrant on the throne, maister," the boy answered readily.
His mood lightened. He turned to Marianne with an offer. "If you and yer
father want to go to the top, I'll take you for a ha'penny."
Father!
Quickly she averted her face to conceal a smile. She heard Lord Eden shouting
angrily, "Be off with you now, all of you! Ruffians, that's what you are!
Be grateful I'm a kind man or I'd report your treason."
She
heard the boys scrambling off, then turned back to see a flush spread over Lord
Eden's face. "They're only children," she soothed.
"Impertinent
radicals," he answered, his anger seeming to increase. "The seed of
an English Robespierre."
"Children,
milord," she soothed again.
He
shouted once more at the retreating boys. "America is where you belong. With
the other rabble, and good riddance, I say."
As
passersby began to stare, she counseled, "Let them be, milord," and
guided him into the shaded interior of the monument. Looking up, she saw a
narrow turnpike stair running all the way to the top. "Shall we attempt
it?" she asked, still trying to soothe his wounded vanity.
Begrudgingly
he looked up at the narrow and steep ascent. "Dare we?" he snapped
sarcastically, 'lest we be tempted to leap like birds?"
Still
soothing, she suggested, "Then it will be our obligation to restrain one
another." Quickly she tied her bonnet loosely about her neck and let it
hang against her back, thus freeing her hands for the ascent. Lifting her
skirts, she started upward.
Abruptly
she broke into a run, longing to increase the distance between them. A short
time later, gasping for breath, she stepped out onto a circular balcony,
loosely confined by a single hand railing, while beneath her stretched all of
London, all the world, or so it seemed. Her first impulse was to press tightly
against the core of the column. But at length, adjusting both her vision and
her equilibrium to the extreme height, she dared to ease forward, her eyes
sweeping the world in half an arc, the wind blowing her hair and gown backward,
the sensation one of pleasure mingled with a degree of fear. By closing her
eyes, she easily imagined that she was standing on Eden Point.
Breathing
deeply of air, space, and memory, she was not at first aware of the heavy
footsteps behind her. When he did emerge beside her, his breathing was so
tortured that she was fearful of his collapse.
"Breathe
slowly, milord," she suggested, and was amazed when he wasted what little
breath he had left on a new burst of anger.
"Why
do you insist," he gasped, "upon addressing me by that stupid
epithet?"
While
he struggled for breath, she struggled for understanding. "What am I to
call you, milord, except milord?"
"My
Christian name is simple," he snapped, again trying to draw breath.
"Easily pronounced and easily recalled. Thomas," he pronounced. "Can
you speak it?"
She
watched him and loathed his patronization. "Of course I can speak it,
milord," she said, "but I don't wish to." She left his side and
walked around the column, seeing a different view of London, her mind furiously
occupied with his condescension. She closed her eyes and when she opened them,
he was standing close beside her.
"Will
you forgive me?" he murmured. "I wanted the day to be without events
save happy ones."
"No
apologies are necessary, milord. It was a harmless incident. The boy meant
nothing."
He
leaned closer, rested one arm against the pillar. "Look at me,
Marianne," he commanded.
Her
name sounded strange on his lips, as though he'd addressed her thus for years.
When she failed to obey, his hand started forward and lifted her chin. In the
close proximity of his face, her vision distorted. She saw the traceries of
fine lines around his eyes and at the comers of his mouth, saw the mouth coming
closer, felt his hand leave her chin and slip around her neck, catching her
hair, the mouth coming still nearer. She closed her eyes as his lips touched
hers, lightly, in a subtle testing.
It
lasted only a moment, a kiss more tender with protection than violent with
passion. At the conclusion, they stared at each other.
Lord
Eden stepped away first. "If—I offended you," he stammered.
She
considered making comment, then decided against it. Perhaps his wounded pride
had been healed. It amounted to nothing more. Moving slowly around the pillar,
she led the way down the spiral staircase.
The
descent was easier and silent, except at one point, midway down, he stopped for
breath. "Did I cause offense?" he asked.
"No,
milord," she replied, and turned her attention to the narrow staircase.
She
reached bottom first, then looked back and saw him a good ten yards behind her,
his face still dark with worry. With her feet once again on earth, the impact
of the recent embrace struck her. She should have resisted. In a delayed
reaction she felt a blush creep over her cheeks. As he drew even with her, she
led the way out onto the sunny pavement where they encountered a small group of
sightseers, three gentlemen in elegant dress, all looking up, apparently trying
to assess the wisdom of the climb.
As
Lord Eden emerged, blinking into the sunlight, one of the young gentlemen
called out in high spirits, "Is it worth it, milord?"
Standing
to one side, Marianne watched as he struggled for a reply. "It's a hard
climb," he said.
"But
is it worth it?" another persisted.
Lord
Eden looked to Marianne as though for help. Blushing under the weight of so
many male eyes, she murmured, "It's a good view if you're not bothered by
high places." Quickly she took refuge in adjusting her bonnet. When she
looked back the three gentlemen were gone and Lord Eden was watching her.
"Where
now, milord?" she asked lightly, trying to break the intensity of his
gaze.
They
made their way back across Gracechurch Street. He took the lead, walking a step
before her. The foot traffic was diminishing and the sun was bobbing in and out
between the buildings.
They
walked thus for several blocks, not speaking. She lost track of the exact
distance. The heat of the day at high noon was rising, but still she found the
excursion pleasurable, her eyes feeding themselves on remarkable sights—the
dazzling painted murals on the fronts of Guild Halls, a one-legged beggar
singing for alms in an appealing voice, a quaint old woman with three small
dogs tucked in her arms, a heavy black coal-wagon drawn by four white horses.
On occasions she forgot she had a guide, and lagged behind to examine a piece
of copper in a shop window, a young painter working at his easel, his brush
miraculously re-creating the timber-frame house opposite where he sat.
But
each time that she struggled to keep up, she saw there was no need, for always
he was only a few steps ahead of her, waiting patiently, watching over her
protectively, a kind of pleasure on his face.
A
few blocks farther and he stopped. Beyond him was a broad avenue, and beyond
that, a most magnificent sight
"St
Paul's," he said simply. "It seems to be Christopher Wren's
morning."
She
could not take her eyes off the magnificent cathedral before her, without
compare, surely, in the whole world, a triumphant arrangement of saucer domes
and grouped pillars, the large central dome making a solemn and imposing focus
for the whole cathedral. It rose like a miracle on the summit of Ludgate Hill,
perfectly proportioned to its site, so exquisitely fitted that the eye could
not conceive of an alteration.
"Would
you care to go in?" he asked, and apparently took her silence as an
affirmative answer. She was aware of his hand on her arm, guiding her closer to
the great building, leading her up the broad front steps and through the
cathedral doors.
Making
the quick transition from light to shadow, her eyes struggled to see. Even
after her vision cleared, she knew somehow that she would never see it all. She
was aware of small groups of people standing quietly about, looking upward as
she was doing into the interior of the dome.