If
Lord Eden had prepared a lecture for this particular sight, he withheld it,
apparently feeling that the masterpiece spoke for itself.
In
the course of the next hour, she examined it all, followed the line of wall
rising straight to the lofty elevation of towers, studied the immense windows
on either side of the lower aisles, the elegant pillars marching up the center
of the nave, and always returning to the dome itself, the work of a magician
instead of an architect. If the cathedral had a heart, here it was.
When
she was incapable of seeing more, they retreated to one of the pews and sat. He
seemed to be maintaining a guarded distance, as though still shaken by his
lapse atop the monument.
Without
warning he asked, "Do you believe in God?"
She
looked at him. "I have no reason not to believe in Him," she replied,
knowing that it was a simple answer, but hoping it would suffice.
It
didn't. He leaned forward, pursuing the matter. "What in your life gives
evidence of His existence?" he asked, something in his face convincing her
that he wanted to know.
She
replied simply, "I give evidence of His existence." She paused.
"As you give evidence of His existence."
"I
don't understand," he said, leaning back. "I was brought up to
believe, and I've certainly passed enough hours in chapel. As a child, I used
to fear God, but fear cannot be counted as belief, can it?"
She
sensed a distress deeper than what he was revealing. "I think belief comes
easier for the poor than it does the rich."
"Why?"
"A
poor man has nothing else to turn to," she responded.
He
muttered, "Then fortunate is the poor man, for the rich man turns to
phantoms for comfort. He is not without anxiety from the moment of his first
breath to the occasion of his last." His face grew darker, his eyes
staring straight ahead. "His wealth imprisons him," he concluded,
"and there is no escape."
She
watched him, the downward angle of his head, his hands kneading one another
between his legs, his posture slumped as though he were devoid of strength.
Faced
with such bleakness, she had no recourse but to lightly touch his arm in
comfort. "You stand in harsh judgment of yourself," she suggested. "At
the moment I find you good company, considerate and thoughtful."
"Then
why did you refuse to acknowledge my suit?" he demanded.
The
bluntness of his question took her off guard. "It was my right to do
so," she said.
"Without
explanation?"
"Did
I owe you one, milord?" she asked. "Do I owe you one minute of my
life if I do not choose to freely give it?"
Apparently
the question was unanswerable. A new weariness in his face, he stood.
"Have you looked your fill?" he inquired, the old formality back in
place.
"I
have, milord," she replied, equally as formal, and led the way to the end
of the pew and down the long nave aisle, standing to one side for an orderly
procession of schoolboys. Weary of the cross-purposes which seemed constantly
to plague them, she stared fixedly at the passing rosy-cheeked boys, then at
the first opportunity hurried down the aisle and out the magnificent door where
again the heat of the day slapped her in the face and she leaned against a near
railing. She was weary of the little games they had played all morning. She
wanted to go home. She longed for the cottage in Mortemouth. If she were truly
free, perhaps he would grant her this much, a small purse for passage and the
gift of her life.
She
heard his step behind her. "No more talk of God or the past," he
promised. "No more talk of debt or obligation. Let's return to the river. All
should be ready."
She
yielded to his authority, briefly wondering what was being readied at the
river, and at the same time surrendering her dreams of home, at least for now.
The
walk back seemed longer and hotter. The foot traffic had tripled. In spite of
his interference, she felt herself continuously jostled about, the passing
faces forming a bizarre parade before her eyes.
A
short time later she whiffed the fresh scent of river breeze, and as they
turned the final comer, leaving stone and mortar behind, she spied the river
itself, the embankment and a new sight. There on the soft green where they had
earlier strolled was a gold and white striped canopy, a tent shaped like
something out of the Arabian Nights, enclosed on three sides, the fourth flap
pulled back in open view of the river. Alongside the pavement, she saw his
carriage, joined now by two others. At least a half a dozen men in white
jackets were hurrying back and forth between the carriages and the canopy,
carrying trays covered with white linen.
Puzzled,
she looked up at him. But he said nothing and led her across the grass, past
the men who halted their labors long enough to bow. Russell came to greet him,
his canary yellow suit showing signs of wilting in the sun.
"All
is ready, milord," he said.
Still
Lord Eden said nothing, but guided her around to the front of the canopy, where
inside she saw a table covered with white linen, elegantly set with glittering
crystal and silver, a colorful Persian carpet under foot, and at the corners of
the canopy itself, four large silver urns filled with cream colored roses,
dozens of them, not merely bouquets, but entire gardens of flowers.
Finding
it overpowering, she did well to follow his suggestion that she take a seat and
refresh herself. He sat opposite her at table as one of the waiters filled
their glasses with cool white wine.
"A
picnic by the river," he said simply. She almost laughed aloud as she
looked around at the bounty, a golden roasted chicken on the table between
them, a bowl filled to overflowing with white grapes and peaches, a perfect
round of cheddar, and a basketful of white rolls, as buttery and as golden as
the sun.
"I
trust you are hungry," he said with a smile, seeing her hesitation. She
realized that she was and allowed one of the waiters to serve her plate,
whereupon all the men disappeared as if by magic, leaving them alone beneath
the canopy, the river ahead of them, the heat and noise of the city a safe
distance behind them.
He
lifted his glass and she followed suit, curious as to the nature of his toast.
"To you," he said simply.
She
kept still, expecting more, but slowly he lifted his glass to his lips and
drank, and she did likewise. As they commenced eating, she found it difficult
to keep her eyes off the surroundings. Everywhere she looked was beauty. A gentle
breeze blew over them from the river. She felt the anxiety and cross-purposes
of the morning slipping away.
By
mid-meal she felt quite relaxed. "We used to have picnics in
Mortemouth," she said laughing, "but they did not resemble
this."
"What
were they like?" he asked, eating heartily. "Tell me—I want to
know."
"We
ate herring for the most part," she began, "pickled in brine, and if
the catch had been good the day before, my father had cider, and occasionally
he would give me a sip." She shook her head. "I didn't like it, but
I'd always ask for a sip anyway. It made him laugh to see my face."
"Then
you did it just to amuse him?"
She
nodded, remembering those good moments. The food and wine were beginning to
have a mellowing effect on both of them. She watched as he leaned back in his
chair, fingering a handful of white grapes.
"Milord,"
she began tentatively. "What plans do you have for me?"
He
looked up from the grapes. "What plans do I have for you?" he
repeated. "I have no plans except to give you pleasure."
"Then
it would please me greatly, milord, if I might return home."
He sat
up. "So soon? We've scarcely begun. There's Westminster—"
"I
want to return home to North Devon."
He
stared at her as though disbelieving. "Why? What is for you there? I told
you your father lives at Eden Castle now, and is safe. I'm certain that your
cottage is newly occupied—"
"Then
I shall find another," she replied, "and take my father home."
Slowly
he stood up. "Have I displeased you?" he demanded.
She
hurried to reassure him. "Not displeased me, milord," she said.
"It's been a lovely day—"
"And
it's not over," he interrupted.
She
conceded as much. "But when it is, milord, what then? I can't stay forever
in that third-floor apartment, and I have little desire to return to Great
Russell Street. You have convinced me that I am not your prisoner. Then what am
I?"
He
stared at her as though contemplating the question. In the intensity of his
gaze, she sensed that a decision was being made, that within moments, perhaps,
she would know her fate.
But
she was wrong. He merely raised his hand with an arrogance which seemed to say
he owed her no reply and left the canopy and walked the short distance to the
river where he stood with his back to her.
In
his nonanswer, she found cause for alarm. Perhaps it was his intention that she
should go on occupying the third-floor apartment. Forever! But in what
capacity? If she was not his prisoner, neither was she his guest, and they both
knew that. His mistress then? Certainly he was not so stupid to believe that
she would sacrifice what was left of her good name for such sinful luxury as
now surrounded her.
Suddenly
she sat up on the edge of the chair, seeing a plan in everything that had
happened. His mercurial moods, his seeming kindness, his curious questions at
St. Paul's, his eagerness to comfort and protect atop the monument, all part of
his plan. She felt within herself a deep melancholy, the grim realization that
she had been an unwitting partner to her own entrapment.
Escape!
The single word struck against her brain. With his back turned and his mind apparently
lost in brooding, she might accomplish it, then once free, throw herself on the
mercy of the city. She was capable of employment and a good worker. Perhaps in
exchange for an honest fortnight's labor, an employer would grant her enough
wages for the journey home. And after that—
Then
do it! Now! On that resolve she stood up and took a final look at the man
brooding at the water's edge. Behind her she heard the faint traffic noises
coming from the city.
Moving
quickly, she stepped out and around the edge of the canopy, thinking that
perhaps if she could find the way, she would return to St. Paul's. Surely so
grand a house of God would offer her temporary refuge.
Without
a backward look, she increased her speed across the grass until she was running,
aware of several of the white-coated men watching her, but aware of little else
but the need to escape.
She
was on the pavement, skirting his carriage. Only a few steps more across the
cobblestones and she would be able to blend with the crowds. Looking ahead
across the thoroughfare, she failed to perceive the shadow just emerging from
behind his carriage. Suddenly she felt one strong hand descend on her arm, saw
a flash of brilliant canary yellow. Then Russell was before her, blocking her
passage, grinning down on her and at the same time shaking his head.
"You'd better think twice, lady," he said, scowling at her.
She
struggled as Russell's blank face loomed large above her. "Please," she
begged. "Let me go."
But
he showed no inclination of doing so and held her pinned against the carriage,
a curious expression of good humor on his face.
Coming
from the direction of the canopy, she heard a deep, angry voice of authority.
"Release her," the voice ordered.