Thomas
tried to speak and failed. Weakly he reached out for the banister, unable to
take his eyes off her.
It
was she who spoke first, her voice wafting down and settling over him like a
benediction. "Milord," she smiled. "I trust your silence does
not mean displeasure."
"Displeasure?"
he murmured incredulously, and extended a trembling hand, beckoning her to come
close so that he might test the apparition for its substance.
Unfortunately,
as she drew nearer, her beauty merely increased, and he noted features he'd
never seen before, a precious inventory promising riches to come—a small black
mole at the base of her neck, her shell ears previously covered by her hair,
the graceful arch of her throat.
Apparently
his silence alarmed her. "Milord, please speak. Do I suit you?"
An
expression like pain crossed his face. He lifted her hand to his Lips and
kissed it. "Milady," he whispered gallantly, "you would please
God's angels." Slowly he withdrew the jewel box from his inner coat.
"To plight our troth." He smiled, lifted the diamond for her
inspection, then placed it on the third finger of her right hand.
He
watched her reaction closely; it seemed very subdued. He thought he heard her
say, "It's lovely," but he couldn't be certain. She did lift her bare
left hand as though wishing that the ring might be transferred to the proper
finger. But he was grateful that she said nothing and in an attempt to comfort
her, promised that a single gold band to be worn in the privacy of their
chambers would ease the nakedness.
There
was a moment's silence during which time he thought he saw a blush creep up the
sides of her face. To dispel any anxiety she might have concerning the
"marriage bed," he took her by the arm and led her toward the Grand
Dining Hall, claiming a tremendous appetite, eager to see her face as she
beheld the splendid room, the bouquets of roses in her honor.
But
as far as he could tell she noticed nothing and took her seat at the end of the
table as though she'd been residing in that place of honor all her life.
Before
her quiet acceptance, Thomas felt himself sinking into misery. For the first
time in his life, he wanted to give happiness to someone. And he seemed
incapable of doing it. Was the lack in him or her? And how could he remedy it?
Perhaps
he'd know more after he'd made her his "wife." Perhaps in the moment
of sublime intimacy, she'd give him the precious gift of her trust and love.
For
now, all he could do was be patient and wait, and learn to live with her
indifference, which cut into his soul and left it bleeding.
On
a crisp cold October morning in 1794, two old crones with bent backs and
scruffs of white hair poking out from beneath their tattered kerchiefs stood on
the northwest comer of Leicester Square hawking the last of summer's posies.
Their gloves were stained and fingerless, their sagging breasts two dead lumps
about their waists. They were cold and hungry and toothless, and dreading
winter.
"Oye,
Posies!" one shouted, lifting a faded clump of violets to a stream of
uninterested passersby.
"Roses
red for kissing cousins!" shouted the other, her bewhiskered chin thrust
forward in defiance.
Nearby
a chestnut vendor warmed his hands over red coals. The first crone took note
and muttered, "I wish the Devil would set me on fire. That one peddles
warmth. We peddle garbage."
"
'Tis out of season," agreed the other. "As true ladies of commerce,
we should go with the wind."
"Piss
on the wind," said the other. "To a luvverly pub, that's where we
should go."
"Not
empty-pocketed," scolded the other. "Elves and fairies don't know the
likes of us. Come, lift your voice. Cry 'Roses,' cry 'Violets,' cry 'Heaven for
a ha'penny.'"
Again
they lifted their posies to the crowded intersection.
Suddenly
one gasped, "Lord, look! What a vision is that?"
The
other focused her eyes in the appointed direction. "Good Gawd, 'tis the
King?"
The
first crone shook her head. "Wrong shape, but look and stop
prattling."
Before
them, stopped by the traffic of the crowded street, was an entourage of five
carriages, clearly trying to make their way to the western edge of the city.
For the moment, however, they were hopelessly stalled by the convergence of
farm wagons, the congestion made worse by a herd of sheep being driven up
Charing Cross.
The
first crone stepped close to the pavement and waved her sister to follow her.
The dim eyes squinted at the emblazoned coat of arms on the side of the first
carriage.
"Ed-den,"
she read.
The
other giggled. "On my soul, 'tis Adam and Eve, and the snake's bringing up
the rear."
As
the coachman sitting high atop the first carriage waved them away with the tip
of his whip, they retreated back to their carts, but continued to peer closely
out. Inside the lead carriage bearing the Eden coat of arms and drawn by four
black stalKons, they saw the figure of a man, warmly wrapped in a dark cloak.
Sitting opposite him they saw the pale lovely face of a young girl, the ermine
collar of her cape turned up about her neck in protection against the autumn
chill.
In
the second and third carriages, they saw an assortment of servants, several of
the males passing a flask back and forth, obviously electing to ward off the
chill in their own way.
Following
behind the third carriage, they saw the fourth and fifth, containing no person
at all save watchmen, but packed high with trunks and valises, clearly a royal
house on the move to winter quarters.
They
took it all in, then returned their attention to the lead carriage. In their
old faces were hard expressions of longing and question.
The
first crone muttered enviously, "Heaven's smiles are fair on some."
The
second protested. "Look how they sit, sister, his poor eyes staring like a
dead man's, and hers—"
"Shhh,"
whispered the first. "Now she looks at us. See!"
As
the young woman stared in their direction, they lifted their soiled skirts and
performed an awkward curtsy, one sticking her finger beneath her chin, smiling
toothlessly, the other lifting her sagging breasts as though offering the young
girl a tit.
"She's
scarce a babe," murmured the second. "Look! Not a track of time on
that smooth brow."
"What
'tis, you suppose?" mused the first. "Father and child? Husband and
wife?"
"Man
and whore," snapped the second.
"No!"
objected the first. "No ronyon, that. I know the look of a virgin.
She's
never known a man's boneless part"
"Then
what?" demanded the second. "She's pampered, clearly, a virtuous
creature in ermine."
"Quick,
look how she stares at us, a pretty child, though saddened and ill at
ease."
The
first tightened her kerchief about her straggly hair, musing, "One's the
cuckold there. Maid or man, I know not. But they do not sit in honesty."
"Look
at the hinds in the second carriage," one said. "They've known
stinking clothes that fretted in their own grease." Then mournfully she
shook her head. "Oye, an arm and a leg I'd give for their bottle."
Suddenly
the first one gasped. "By your mercy, she's beckoning to us."
As
they started off the pavement, they looked warily up at the coachman with his
whip in hand. "Hold your distemper, sir!" cried the first. "Your
lady summons us."
The
coachman, a brash-looking young man, leaned out and over as though to confirm
their claim. At that moment they saw the young girl draw down the window, the
trace of a smile on her pretty face. "Your violets are lovely," she
called. "May I see them?"
At
first the gentleman sitting opposite her seemed to object. The old crones saw
his hand move forward, then slowly withdraw.
Quickly
they fetched their trays of posies and lifted them high for her inspection. The
first crone smiled sweetly. "Are you a princess, milady?" she asked.
The
young woman shook her head, laughing. "I'm a woman, same as you."
The
second crone snickered. "A shallow likeness, I'd say, save where God
divided us and left a hole."
"Shhh!"
scolded the first, clearly appalled by her sister's crudeness. To the young
woman she smiled, "Are you abroad for long?" she asked, a wheedling
tone in her voice.
"Forever,
I hope," the young woman replied, closely examining the blossoms before
her. "I'm going home."
The
gentleman scolded, "Be quick, Marianne. The traffic's clearing."
If
the young woman heard him, she gave no indication of it. Rather deliberately
she continued her close examination of the flowers.
The
first crone, growing brave, whispered, "Are you married to the gentleman,
milady? You look not a wife."
A
small cloud crossed the pretty face. She stared fixedly at the violets in her
hand. "I am won, but not wed," she said.
The
old crone sternly shook her head, keeping her voice down. "Be warned,
milady. Many a flower vendor started out in a gentleman's bed, then,
deflowered, banked the fires of winter with a few wilted posies."
Again
the gentleman leaned forward, his voice softened. "Marianne, we must move.
May I purchase a bouquet for you?"
She
nodded, selecting two. As he handed over a half a penny, she urged, "A
guinea, Thomas. Give them a guinea."
He
hesitated, then reached for his purse and rather stiffly thrust the money into
the gnarled upraised hands.
The
old crones could scarcely contain their joy. "May heaven send you good
fortune," they called after the carriage moving slowly forward now through
the clogged street.
"A
guinea, sister. Look!" whispered the second crone. "Come, no more
posies today. A toasty afternoon in a toasty pub beside a toasty fire with a
pint or two—"
But
the first crone continued to stand on the pavement, staring after the
entourage. "A kind heart, she has," she murmured.
The
second crone joined her. "Aye. A man should run through fire for such a
kind heart."
The
first crone smiled. "I think he has, sister. He bears the scars of
fire."
"Then
come," urged the second crone. "Let's drink to their cooling."
But
the first seemed loath to leave until the carriages had disappeared. "If
she were my daughter," she whispered, "I'd pray for her."
"Come,"
commanded the second. "We'll pray for both and pity both and lift pints
and be happy sisters to balance the world for their rich misery. Then we'll fly
to the Gates of Paradise on our own high spirits. God sent her. Let it go at
that."
The
carriages were gone from sight, though the first crone whispered, "Blessings
on your heart." Eagerly she waddled back to the pavement, gathered up her
remaining posies, and cried exuberantly, "To the Thame-side, sister, there
to be senseless and warm by nightfall!"
"Aye,
we'll do it," said the other with a grin. "What an errand! Lead the
way!"
It
was after midnight when the horses, winded from the speed of their unbroken
journey, turned off the central turnpike and headed down the narrow lane which
led to the elegant isolation of Fonthill Splendons.