Confronted
with such anguish, she had no choice but to offer solace. "You've affected
good deeds as well, milord. You've given my father refuge, you've helped my
sister, you've taken in my brother—"
Her
listing of his good deeds seemed to have a curious effect on him. He shook his
head and lifted a hand as though to hush her. "Done for a purpose,
lady," he said harshly, leaving the table. "Done with nothing but
self-interest in mind, the accomplishment of my own selfish purposes."
She
asked a question to which she already knew the answer. "And what was that,
milord?"
He
looked back at her. "You," he said simply. "The avenues of my
kindness to them, I was certain, would lead directly to you."
Blushing,
she lowered her head. "It seems as though you were right, milord."
He
rushed back to the table. "But not as I want you, not under duress, not
confined to your rooms, not frightened of my very step on the stairs."
With
held breath she asked quietly, "Then how, milord? Tell me, so that I may
please you, and relieve your suffering."
His
face went calm as though at last they had approached the turning point. Slowly
he came around the table until he stood at her side. His face, so close,
blurred in her vision, but she forced herself to look up, meeting him as an
equal.
"Would
you—" he began, faltered, cleared his throat, then tried again. "Would
you do me the extreme honor of—becoming—my wife?"
Her
heart accelerated, then seemed to stop. She remembered, curiously, the dead Cornwellian
at the bottom of the pit in the charnel house. This memory caused her to feel
an instant's lightheadedness. Peculiar. She'd waited all day, no, longer than
that, had waited for years, since her last lucid moment on the whipping oak.
Only now that it had come, she felt the same detachment she'd felt all day, as
though there was another Marianne and another Thomas Eden in the room.
She
looked up at him and saw that he was willing to wait for her reply. His face no
longer appeared perplexed or troubled. Rather it seemed as though a bell of
silence had sunk over him, that he was held suspended in the quiet land between
his question and her response.
It
mattered little whether or not he was in a hurry. She fully intended to take
all the time she needed. She stood and walked a distance away from the table
toward the bed, where her eye fell on her amateur needlework, the dead gull
anchored by thousands of knots. She'd believed that she had, over the years,
burned out the last vestige of vanity from her consciousness. But in that
moment, when her eyes searched his face and the grand contours of the room, she
felt herself carried away by personal hunger, the benefit of title by marriage,
the triumphant return after her humiliating exile, the temptation of riches,
acceptance and entry into the very world which had ordered her punishment. A
wave of self-loathing burned itself into her head. The need for revenge was
over. If she intended to join her life with this man's, then it had to be free
from tyranny, both his and hers. They were both guilty, although not of those
deeds of which they accused themselves.
She
looked up, surprised to find that her thoughts had taken her around the bed and
deposited her beneath the high casement windows. Still he was waiting. She
thought briefly of William Pitch. If she had gone with him, where would she be
now?
Her
thoughts, taking such unexpected turns, left her confused. She took a step
backward to the window and breathed deeply. "I thank you for the honor,
milord," she began, "and if it is your true wish, then I
accept."
At
first he seemed not to hear, but stood, blinking at her. Slowly he was moving
toward her, his arms extended. In the next moment she felt those arms go around
her, not with any degree of violence, rather a tender, grateful gesture,
drawing her close, his hand pressing her head lightly to his breast, his other
hand flattened against the small of her back.
It
was a shelter from which she felt no compulsion to run. He towered over her and
rested his cheek lightly atop her head. She discovered that she was nearly
blind with tears, as though a long battle had come to an end and another was
commencing.
It
was a prolonged embrace with neither feeling the need for words. It came to an
end when, gently, he turned her face and lightly kissed the tears from her
eyes, apparently impervious to the ones which glistened on his own cheeks.
Moved by the sight, she submitted to the kiss, then moved slowly with him back
to the table where he returned her to the chair, as though she were precious
cargo.
Taking
the chair opposite her, he appeared to become very businesslike. "I've
made plans," he began. "We will leave here within a fortnight and
travel to Wiltshire, to Fonthill Splendons, the home of William Beckford, whom
I believe you know."
She
nodded.
"We
will be married there and proceed on to Eden Point."
She
smiled. "Home."
"Home,"
he repeated. As his hand went out to her across the table, she took it, and in
that moment was contained the promise of enormous possibilities.
As
their hands met and enfolded, he whispered fervently, "Marianne, I shall
do everything within my power to make you happy."
"And
I, you, milord."
His
face clouded. "Speak my name," he begged, "my Christian name, as
a wife would speak it."
She
lowered her head. "Thomas," she murmured. "Again?" he
pleaded.
"Thomas."
A
dazzling smile broke across his face, as though his pleasure knew no bounds. He
lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, assessed it as though it were a
chaste bloom. Suddenly the tenderness in his eyes changed, flared into
something more tortured.
"For
Christ's sweet sake," he whispered. "I must leave you or else—"
As though making a desperate effort at self-control, he walked rapidly to the
door.
She
watched, fascinated by his apparent illness, incredulous that she should be the
cause of it. At the door he stopped and looked back, control returning. "I
must ask one favor, Marianne," he began, his voice apologetic.
She
looked closer. 'What is it, mi—" She stopped, corrected herself. "Thomas,"
she concluded.
"For
a period of time, we must, I'm afraid, keep our union secret."
She
started to rise. He moved back to the table, his manner patient but firm, as
though he wanted very much for her to listen closely and believe him. "We
are," he went on, "breaking all rules of society. Ordinarily your
situation in life would prevent our union altogether. But more important, and
please understand me, is the disgraceful household of your sister Jane, with
which the name of Eden cannot be openly allied."
There
were heated protests forming in her brain, but before his calm, authoritative
presence, she kept still. Distasteful as it was, she knew he spoke the truth.
To openly publish bans on the coming marriage of Miss Marianne Locke,
fisherman's daughter, and Lord Thomas Eden, Ffth Earl and Thirteenth Baron of
Eden Point, would cause tidal waves of embarrassment and a cacophony of
clacking tongues for both of them. She was forced to admit that he was right.
Besides, what did it matter? She would know the truth, and he would know it,
and perhaps in time—
"And
in time," he said, coming closer as though keeping pace with her thoughts,
"when everyone comes to see you for what you are, my heart, my breath, my
life, then we will inform all the world that this man"—he stood before
her, arms outstretched—"and this woman"—gently he clasped her by the
shoulders and lifted her upward—"are one," he concluded and bent low
over her face, his eyes fading from her vision as once again he kissed her, far
different in nature from the first kiss, his lips, his tongue feeding on her
mouth, while she, with lost breath, responded, feeling an unprecedented current
rising within herself.
With
effort he disengaged himself and made a hasty retreat back to the door. He
stayed a moment longer to inform her, "You are my dearest
possession." Then he was gone, leaving her standing beside the table, the
moisture from his kiss still on her lips.
She
stared after the closed door. She felt alternately calm, then agitated. At the
moment when she needed it most, the comforting sense of detachment deserted
her. She longed for company, an objective face with eyes, mouth, and most
importantly ears, someone who would listen to her and reassure her.
But
there was no one. She was alone. Against this assault of aloneness, she prepared
herself for an early bed, and burrowed deeply beneath the linens as though for
protection against the doubts in her mind.
Of
all her feelings, the most puzzling of all was a peculiar sense of defeat. Why
at the moment of triumph should she feel defeated?
The
following morning at nine o'clock there was a line of three carriages parked
before the pavement in front of the house on Oxford Road. Elegant embossed
emblems on the sides of the carriages identified each-Mr. Roger Maybole,
Jewelers; Mr. John Chetwynd, Furriers; and Madame de la Rouchard, Dressmakers,
The
transformation had begun. The fisherman's daughter was to disappear and in her
place they would conjure up a lady.
Overseeing
it all was the glowing Thomas, smiling broadly throughout the confusion, on
occasion even directing foot traffic up the stairs to the third-floor
apartments. At the same time, he managed to shout a few orders to his own
harried staff, commanding them to open and air the Grand Dining Hall, which had
been closed since the death of his grandfather, commanding further that it be
filled with her favorite roses, the cream-colored blossoms that had so
delighted her on their day abroad in the city, and ordering a banquet to be
laid for just the two of them that evening, a celebration dinner, though he
stopped short of telling them specifically what was being celebrated.
At
ten o'clock that evening, Thomas stood in the entrance hall in his best dress
blacks, gazing with anticipation up the stairs in the direction of the third-floor
apartments. He felt envious. He had not seen her once during the long day while
a never-ending stream of trades-people had had the pleasure of her company.
Now, blessedly, his house was empty save for his own staff, who'd worked
miracles.
He
looked around. It reminded him of the old days of his grandfather, every lamp
lit and gleaming, the hundred-candle chandelier in the Grand Dining Hall
shimmering above the long table, his grandmother's magnificent French porcelain
and crystal laid in a simple setting for two, every cream-colored rose in
London affixed in elegant bouquets, the entire house smelling of roses.
Again
he looked up the stairs, hearing something. My God, he was like a schoolboy in
his eager anticipation, or, more accurately, a "bridegroom." Without
warning his heart contracted with sadness, from a feeling of despair at the
ruse he would shortly work upon her. Why couldn't Fate have seen fit to plant
her in the womb of a duchess, or better, a queen?
No
matter. He would have her anyway. He banished the feelings of despair and felt
his inside pocket wherein rested a green velvet case. He hoped it would please
her, although on closer examination the diamond had suddenly struck him as too
large and garish for her delicate beauty.
At
the top of the third-floor landing, he heard a door open. He held his position
in the center of the entrance hall, amazed at his turbulence of feeling. She
must be good for him. Never had he felt his blood race so.
It
was while his head was down that he first became aware of a soft step on the
stair, a rustling of silk and a delicate odor, like lavender on a summer morn.
Slowly
he raised his head. Before him on the first-floor landing stood an apparition
which lent a new dimension to the definition of beauty. In a cloud of pale pink
silk she stood, traceries of seed pearls extending from her white breasts to
the hem of the gown, around her fair neck a strand of matched pearls, the gown
itself exquisitely tailored, following the gentle natural slope of her waist down
over hips, then billowing outward, her golden hair done up, a soft spray of
ringlets around her forehead, the length of hair knotted and intertwined with
additional pearls. And triumphant over all the artifices of dressmaker and
jewelers was the magnificent gift of nature, that face, that alabaster skin,
those dark lavender eyes profoundly framed with black feather lashes, the mouth
partially open, like a morning rosebud, a goddess, a queen, the crown of
nature, her unearthly peace and strength intact in spite of her new garb.