The
young women still hovered about her. A sickeningly sweet odor filled her
nostrils. Their hands caressed her body as they had caressed their own. She struggled
once in an attempt to move away, but she continuously lost her footing on the
soft white surface. As their hands moved over her and as the sweetish odor
increased, she was on the verge of crying out. Suddenly the organ music
subsided. The young women withdrew. As they moved silently through the
sunburst, the door closed behind them. The white room went totally black. She
stood in darkness, her heart beating too fast. "Milord," she
whispered. "Are you there?"
Receiving
no answer, she pushed backward into a near comer, feeling the floor here grow
more solid beneath her feet.
"Milord?"
she begged. "Please answer."
A
sudden rattling drew her eyes forward. She saw one of the white velour walls
beginning to part, saw a blinding white light, and for a moment saw little else.
She pressed closer to her safe comer, wondering what had prompted him to bring
her to this madhouse.
She
lowered her head to wait out the blinding light, then looked up. Before her on
a raised platform was an enormous bed, made entirely of white fur, or so it
seemed, a monstrous structure, standing on high glass legs and completely
surrounded by walls of mirrors, ceilings of mirrors, mirrors everywhere,
enlarging and distorting the size of the bed itself. The four posts which extended
above the bed were lit by torches of fire, and these four eyes of fires were
caught in the reflection of mirrors and amplified and multiplied until it
seemed as though the high white surface was caught in a conflagration of flame
and light.
As
her eyes slowly adjusted to the incredible spectacle, she saw a familiar figure
on the far side of the room opposite her.
"Is
it you, milord?" she whispered.
When
he did not respond, she stepped tentatively away from her safe comer, lifting
her skirts slightly, the better to manipulate the soft spongy surface. As her
eyes adjusted to the illumination from the torches, she saw that it was him,
though a strange him, seated calmly at a table of sorts, a low white bench,
backless, with a raised shelf before it like a student's desk. As she drew
nearer, she noticed that he appeared surprisingly relaxed, a tall decanter of
some sort placed before him on the bench out of which he poured himself a glass
of amber-colored liquid, drank it down, filled a second glass, and extended it
to her.
She
watched these insignificant movements, trying to read some sense into them.
"Lord Eden," she began, standing a safe distance away. "I
must—"
"Not
now, Marianne," he scolded her in a curious tone. "Come. Sit down
beside me."
As
he patted the bench, indicating where she was to sit, she noticed that he had
changed his garments, was no longer wearing the gray coat and dark breeches. He
was now clothed in a loosely fitting white robe, gathered at the waist by a
limply knotted cord, revealing a V-shaped expanse of naked chest covered with
tight coils of black hair. Apparently, as they had become separated upon
entering the room, he had taken advantage of the moment of blackness to
disrobe.
Again
she saw him patting the bench beside him, his voice and attitude most peculiar,
a foolish grin fixed as though for all time upon his face. "Come,
Marianne," he repeated in a husky melodramatic voice. "Come and
drink."
"Drink
what, milord?" she asked, still wary.
He
lifted the decanter as though to display its harmless quality. "A relaxing
elixir for the conclusion of a full day, that's all." He urged again, more
forcefully, "Come! Sit!"
In
view of the enjoyable day and because he had generously offered to take her
home, she indulged him and slid along the bench, stopping about two feet from
him.
"Closer,"
he urged. "Here!"
Again
she obliged until she was seated close to him, the glass of amber liquid in her
hand, the absurdity of the moment almost overwhelming, so that at the last
minute she sipped in order to hide a smile.
He
seemed very pleased. "Marianne," he murmured, said it twice as though
testing its sound in the quiet room, that silly grin still stitched to his
face.
She
bobbed her head as though confirming her identity and found it difficult to
look at him, but found it equally as difficult to look anywhere else in the
room.
She
sipped, then asked, "What is this place?"
He
was drinking more rapidly than she, and once again filled his glass. "This
is a place of miracles," he said, gesturing with his glass.
"What
kind of miracles?"
He
pointed with his glass to the high bed. "You see that?" he whispered,
leaning close.
She
nodded, finding the question absurd. She would have to be blind not to see it.
"It's
attached to the center of the earth as well as the cosmos," he went on,
his voice low.
She
looked again, wondering if she'd failed to see something the first time. As she
lifted her eyes, she was aware of him slyly refilling her glass. "It's a
handsome bed, milord, to be sure, but I see no heavenly connection—"
"You
can't see it," he scolded. "You must feel it!"
The
foolishness he was so soberly speaking caused her a moment of alarm. Perhaps
there was something in the air, or in the "elixir" they were
drinking.
"I
still don't understand, milord," she protested lightly. "What are
we-"
He
pushed close, so close she could feel his body next to hers. "You're so
full of questions, Marianne. Be at ease. There's nothing here to harm you, I
promise."
"I
am at ease, milord. Just curious."
He
lifted her hand and examined it, separating her fingers, studying the palm and
thumb, his eyes half-closed. "What a remarkable hand," he whispered.
She
looked close. Perhaps she'd overlooked something in this limb which had been
attached to her for life.
Still
holding her hand before him, he spoke softly, as though to her hand. "Do
you remember this morning atop the Monument?" he began, "when you
granted me the rare gift of a brief kiss?"
"I
remember, milord."
"How
did it strike you?" he asked of her hand.
"As
kind and protective, not unpleasant."
Slowly
he turned on her, the foolish grin spreading. "Not unpleasant? A peculiar
way to put it."
She
shrugged. "I thought nothing of it at the time. Nor do I now. Your pride
had been injured. My response was an offer of comfort. Nothing more."
Suddenly
he was on his feet beside her, his arms around her. She was startled by the
ease with which he swung her clear of the ground and held her half-suspended,
her body crushed against the solid bulk of his chest. "Then comfort me
now," he pleaded, hoarsely, burying his face in her neck.
"Milord,"
she gasped. "Are you mad?" As he loosened his grip, she struggled
free and retreated to the far end of the bench. She looked back, aware for the
first time of what he had hoped would transpire in this ghastly room.
Gasping
for breath and undone by his strength, she announced, "Milord, I would
like to leave now. May we go?"
He
followed after her. "You—feel nothing?" he inquired.
"What
am I supposed to feel?"
He
spied her half-empty glass and moved it nearer. "Here," he urged.
"Drink
some more."
"I
don't wish to drink more."
"But
you must."
"Why
must I?" she demanded, meeting his authority and, in a way, topping it.
Before
her small flare of anger, he made a curious retreat. As though bewildered, he
shook his head. "Dr. Graham said—"
"And
who is Dr. Graham?" she demanded, wondering how long she could blunt his
advances. When he failed to answer, she made her own assumptions. "I
assume that Dr. Graham is the silly man who led us into this madhouse, and I
earnestly hope, milord, that you did not give him too large a purse, for if you
did, you are a greater fool than he. But I'm the greatest fool of all for
staying here a moment longer."
On
that note of resolution she started toward the door. Then he was running after
her, the ridiculous white robe flapping open to reveal bare and bony knees, his
feet also bare, a comic figure save for one thing, the expression on his face.
They
reached the door simultaneously. He pushed her backward with one hand, the
other hand tightening on her arm. There was a confidence in his expression
which alarmed her. As she attempted a subtle retreat, he held her fast, his
eyes staring down, his voice low. "We came here for a purpose, lady, and
now we shall see it through."
Her
protest, as he lifted her bodily into his arms was a single sharp cry, her arms
flailing out against his face and shoulders, her feet kicking, heart
accelerating in horror, her struggle impressive but futile against his strength
as he carried her steadily toward the high Celestial Bed and finally dumped her
unceremoniously onto its white fur surface. In that instant of freedom, she
tried to scramble away, whereupon he threw himself on top of her, pinning her
arms with one hand, his breathing shallow as his mouth covered her face with
kisses, his free hand moving down the front of her gown, fumbling with the long
line of buttons, then finally ripping the pale blue fabric and peeling it back,
revealing her breasts.
Until
that moment it had been a poor humor practiced upon her. But suddenly it ceased
to be a joke and took on a different aspect, exorcising the memories of all the
anguish she'd suffered at his hands. She was aware of a terrible compelling
regret both for herself and him as well. It seemed blasphemous not to inform
him of the thoughts in her mind.
As
his hand continued in its exploration, she ceased struggling and lay still
beneath him. As apparently he sensed her lack of resistance, he looked down on
her as though mystified, holding his passion in check, giving her time to
speak.
"Milord,"
she whispered, "you are making love to a dead woman, for as soon as the
act is completed, I shall find the first means at my disposal for concluding my
life."
The
threat, delivered as soft as a benediction, hung on the air between them. He
looked intensely down at her, his hands stilled. The expression on his face creased
into an angle of pain as slowly he drew backward.
At
the first sense of freedom she scrambled upward, pulling the torn fragments of
her gown together and buttoning the three remaining buttons. She did not at
first comprehend the degree of her fear or the sincerity of her whispered
resolution. But as she caught a glimpse of him standing a short distance away,
she wondered how long they could torture each other without death being the
natural conclusion, for one or both.
Then
she ran from his presence, with what little strength she had left, intent only
on fleeing the place, her hands shaking as though palsied, aware of him calling
after her, "Marianne, wait! Please, wait!" his voice sounding more
like an animal's wail than a man's.
Still
running, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him following in the white robe,
though clutching his other garments, dropping a boot in his haste.
The
corridor was blessedly empty, free of sunburst men and nubile, half-clad young
women. She led the way through the golden door, beyond which she longed for a
glimpse of the carriage, the means by which she might flee this place.
And
there it was, the coachman drowsing aboard the high seat. Lord Eden still in
desperate pursuit. Without waiting for assistance or explanation, she flung
open the carriage door and took hasty refuge in the far corner, her arms
clasping her body in an attempt to hold her gown together, pressing tightly
against the cushioned interior as though she were trying to push through the
carriage walls.