At
the end of the corridor, Russell saw them stop, saw Lord Eden take his purse
from the pocket of his robe and hand her several guineas. "Go home,"
he counseled kindly. His voice rose. "Don't go back to Dr. Graham's. The
man means you no good. Go home to Canterbury where you belong, where you can
find an honest lad who wall love you decently."
The
girl took the money, her voice breaking as though under the pressure of tears.
"You're most kind, milord. No one has never talked like that to me."
Lord
Eden led her gently to the door and held it open for her. As the girl slipped
out into the night, Russell saw him close the door and stand for a moment, as
though he too had been moved by the encounter. Russell held steady until he
heard his footsteps diminish at the top of the stairs.
Still
amazed, he turned back to the preparations of his knapsack. In all the time
he'd been with Lord Eden, he'd never seen him behave thus.
Something
or someone had brought about an incredible change in him. Smiling, Russell
closed the knapsack and lifted his head. His sister, of course. Dear little
Marianne, who would shortly become Lady Eden.
A
constant stream of images, each more glorious than the one before, filled his
head as he walked the length of Oxford Road. Finally he spied a hired chaise
and waved it close to the pavement, informed the driver, a sturdy lad, of the
destination, promised he would be handsomely paid for the long trip, and after
a brief discussion concerning fresh horses, the lad agreed.
As
Russell climbed into the seat, it occurred to him that perhaps he should make
one stop before heading out into open country. He leaned out the window and
shouted, "Great Russell Street, driver, if you will."
As
the chaise rattled across the darkened cobbles, Russell smiled as he imagined
Jane's face when he broke the news. Yes, she must be told, for it was really a
matter of much consequence to them both.
Wife!
Lady Eden! With what astonishing shrewdness Marianne had brought it off! There
was mild regret that in the past he'd not been more tender toward her. But he
would remedy that in the future and become tenderness itself.
His
dear little sister, his dear, dear little sister. . . .
It
was a somnambulant twenty-four-hour period in the Tudor house on Oxford Road,
no one moving.
Thomas
slept most of the day. At dusk he took up his vigil at the window. Feeling
mellow, he gazed at the street below with its diminishing traffic, his eye on
the lookout for Locke's return. Slowly he looked up at the ceiling. His
"wife." My God, the thought had the power to stir him. According to
one of the serving women, Marianne had been placid all day, as though she too
were awaiting news, entertaining herself with a piece of needlework.
Damn!
Where was he? Again Thomas leaned far out the window, searching the street
below in both directions. The idiot had had plenty of time to make it there and
back. Was there a possibility that Billy had said no to the deception?
His
disquiet increasing, Thomas thought, he wouldn't dare. He didn't like the plot
himself, but what could he do? If it pleased the lady to think of herself as a
wife, why not let her? It was not his intention to abuse her or to treat her
with anything but respect. His spirit and heart were as large as his fortune.
He could and would accommodate her in either capacity, as wife or mistress. But
he must have her.
Suddenly
on the street below he heard a chaise drawing near. He leaned over. With a
shout of delight he feasted his eyes on the dusty, sleep-worn image of Russell
Locke. "What's the news?" he called out, scarcely able to contain
himself.
Looking
up, Locke smiled from the pavement, opened his coat, and revealed a piece of
parchment.
"Well,
man, speak!" Thomas demanded.
But
instead the rascal darted up the steps and disappeared inside the house. A
moment later his boots sounded in the corridor.
Thomas
was there to greet him. He took the parchment and hurried to the writing
bureau, where a lamp burned. Locke stood looking at him and smiling. Thomas
read the message written in exceptionally poor penmanship:
My
Dearest Thomas,
If
your scheme will bring you happiness, then I offer you my home, my cooperation,
my heart, and my loving trust—
Your
Servant,
Billy
Thomas
couldn't speak.
"Good
news, I hope, milord," Locke inquired, still grinning, as though he knew
full well that the news was good.
Still
moved, Thomas nodded. "The best, Locke, just the very best."
Recovering
himself, he reached for another sheet of paper and scribbled three names upon
it. "In the morning I want to see these three people in my chambers. Fetch
them if you must, but see that they are here."
Locke
took the paper and nodded. For the first time Thomas saw his fatigued face and
suggested, "Get some rest, Locke. You've earned it. And after a night's
sleep, make preparation to close the house. Within the fortnight we must be on
our way to Wiltshire."
"And
to the wedding?" Locke asked eagerly.
Thomas
smiled. "To the wedding." He sat in his chair as he heard Locke leave
the room. There was no question in Thomas' mind. He was "marrying"
the whole bloody family. Well, no matter. It was a small price to pay.
Curiously,
a cloud of depression settled over him. He remained in the chair, gazing fixedly
at the floor. Perhaps the deception was too cruel. If she ever found out—
Abruptly
he stood. She must never find out. For a moment he cursed the structure of
society that kept them apart. He had no objection to a legal ceremony but what
would his peers think?
On
that note of self-comfort, he bathed and shaved himself and dressed in dark
blue brocade. About a half an hour later he climbed the stairs to her
apartments, looking forward to seeing her again, as a man dying of thirst spies
a natural spring.
Before
the closed door, he paused, head down, feeling childlike, remembering how as a
child he used to stand before the closed door of his mother's chambers, hearing
laughter within, the gleeful high-pitched squeals of his older brother, who
always seemed to have gained easy access to the warm loving shelter of maternal
arms.
Through
his middle-aged eyes silence and sorrow stared into darkness, into something
unknown, to heart and mind inconceivable, the willing love of a desired woman.
Dear
God, how he needed her!
On
that urgent prayer, he lifted a hand, curled it into a gentle fist and,
pleadingly, knocked once.
All
day long she'd sat on the edge of her bed, waiting, feeling suspense in the
quietness of the house, keeping her mind busy and occupying her hands by
creating with white thread against a starched blue background a North Devon
gull. Now the poor creature, even complete with wings, looked strangely fixed
on the stiff needlepoint, the intimation of flight an impossibility.
Weary,
her neck aching from her futile effort, she tossed the lifeless square to one
side and fell backward across the bed. All during the day and even now at dusk,
she felt strangely detached, the same detachment she used to feel as a child
when, standing on the headlands of North Devon, she'd watch a storm out in the
ocean.
Then,
as now, she knew that sooner or later the storm would move inward and descend
on her. But for one blessed moment she could hold herself still and imagine a
clear-rising morning sun, and real gulls soaring in the glorious freedom of
flight.
She
heard a soft knock at the door. Alarmed, she sat up. The storm so soon? She was
on the verge of calling out when she saw the door open.
His
shadow entered first. "Am I intruding?" he asked politely, only his
head visible, a clearly groomed, shaved, and brushed head.
She
stood beside the bed, her nerves alert to the encounter. "No,
milord," she said. "I've passed the day sewing. I'm afraid I have no
natural inclination for the needle. I welcome company."
"If
I'd known—" he began and entered the room. He looked vaguely about.
"Have your needs been attended to?"
She
nodded. "They have, milord. I've been well looked after."
He
nodded as though pleased that she appeared pleased. Silence. Her eyes never
left his face. His scarcely met hers.
In
an attempt to break the silence, she stepped toward the table, took a seat, and
invited him to do the same.
At
first he hesitated, as though the purpose of his visit could best be
accomplished standing erect. But at the last minute he seemed to change his
mind and with a curious little bow, as though he wanted to do her bidding, took
the chair opposite her, drew it out a distance from the table, and sat, his
hands interlaced and lightly resting on his lap.
She'd
never seen him so uncertain, not even the night before, running down the
sunbeam corridor in that ridiculous white robe, clasping his garments to him.
Remembering the scene, she ducked her head to hide a smile. When she looked up,
he was still sitting, apparently content with the silence.
She
noticed his elegant dark blue jacket, white knee stockings, an expanse of white
shirtfront, his cheeks almost rosy. "And you, milord?" she asked,
finding the silence unpleasant. "Did your day go well?"
He
looked up, as though she'd summoned him back from some distant point. "Ah,
yes," he replied. "Yes, very well."
She
nodded and found something comic in the encounter, the two of them sitting so
close, yet their minds running is opposite directions.
Abruptly
he was on his feet before the table, a determined though distraught look on his
face. "Marianne," he began. "I'm not very good at this, having
never done it before in my life—"
She
sat up.
"What
I'm trying to say is—" His obstinate tongue seemed literally to refuse to
obey the dictates of his mind. He was pacing in short steps directly before the
table. Everytime he passed the lamp, the displacement of air caused by his
movements made the flame leap high.
In
an attempt to wait out his hesitancy, Marianne concentrated on the dancing
flame. Then he was seated again, this time the chair pulled close to the table.
He clasped his hands before him and blurted out a curious recital. "God
said He would make all things new. Do you think that's possible?" Before
she could even think on what he'd said, he rushed on. "How powerful is the
past for you, Marianne? What I'm trying to say is, well, how powerful is the
past?"
She
perceived the purpose of the question and postponed her answer. Finally she
took refuge in the abstract. "The past, for all men, is of vital
importance. It affects what they are, what they will become—"
"But
you
," he asked urgently, leaning closer, apparently seeing through
her subterfuge and, in a sense, pinning her with a direct question.
She
knew what he wanted her to say. He wanted reassurance that the brutality of
that hot August morning had never happened. But it had. True, the memory no
longer haunted her. She was capable of sleeping through the night without
seeing it re-created in nightmares. Still— "The past goes with me, milord,
as it does with all of us." She looked directly at him. "But there is
antidote to the past, and that's the future."
He
continued to stare at her as though piecing her words together in an attempt to
derive their ultimate meaning. Softly, he began to shake his head as though
overcome. "I've committed so many heinous deeds in my life," he
murmured. "Satan must have fair warning before my death, so he can bank
the fires high."