But
Thomas objected. "Not now. After we've supped, Jenny will bring him to the
chambers."
"
No
,
milord," Marianne insisted with gentle firmness. "I want to see him
now."
A
look of annoyance crossed his face. "It's not necessary, only a delay of a
few hours."
"You
needn't come, Thomas," she soothed. "You go along. I know the
way."
Then
he was close at her side, whispering fiercely for her ears alone. "He's
kept in the basement kitchen," he said, as though that explained all.
"I
know"—she smiled—"I know the room well."
"It
won't do for you to be seen there," he added, his eyes pleading, as though
trying to make her understand. She was aware of the departing servants, their
heads down, obviously listening. She was also aware of Jenny, waiting a short
distance away, her face made rigid by the conflict
"Miss
Locke," she said now, with strange formality. "He's having his supper
anyway. Dolly's with him. Let us prepare him and bring him to you.
But
Marianne's thoughts had stopped on "Miss Locke." For the first time
she wondered how her presence had been explained. With the marriage to be kept
a secret, was she viewed as nothing more than one of his passing mistresses?
Angry at her belated realization of this problem, she held her ground. "I
wish to see him now," she announced to all who cared to hear. "I need
no one's assistance, or guidance, or counsel," she added pointedly.
As
she hurried off, she heard Thomas' undisguised curse, heard Jenny's ridiculous
apology. She was aware of the servants ahead of her parting to give her free
passage. Looking neither to the right nor the left, she walked steadily toward
the ground-level door which led down into the kitchen of the castle.
As
she walked rapidly along the familiar path, head down, she caught sight of the
hem of her gown, amber in color, trimmed in soft, dark-brown fur. She
remembered that other young girl who'd worn her same skin but quite a different
gown, a plain black coarse muslin with white apron. Suddenly she was filled
with a ferocious hatred, a burning desire to destroy the elegant gown. Under
the duress of such feelings, she flung open the kitchen door and stopped to
assess the large room below. It was empty except for two in the far comer
beside a low burning fire, an old woman whom she did not at first recognize,
and an old man, sitting slumped in a tattered cushioned chair, his head
inclining forward on his chest, his hair white and unkempt, his eyes, even from
that distance, fixed and blank and staring.
Her
heart accelerated painfully, then seemed to stop. She'd known the man in better
days. He had been a threat to no one. He'd loved freedom, a pint of ale now and
then, a good catch as frequently, the feel of sun on his face, companions at
the close of day, a bit of soft-boiled food, warm clothes and a clean bed. What
would it have cost the world to have given him these?
As
Marianne stared down at the old man, she was aware of the bent, white-haired
woman moving as though frightened toward her. Obviously age had dimmed her
sight. She stopped at the bottom of the steps, a half-filled bowl of porridge
still in her hand. "Who is there?" she called up, Marianne felt
helpless. But such weak despair would serve no one. Out of the habit of
discipline, she pushed aside the deep pain of the scene before her, as she
begged Dolly Wisdom, "Don't you remember me? Has it been so long?"
There
was immediate light on Dolly's face. Quickly she thrust the bowl of porridge
behind her, aimed for a near table, and missed. As bowl, porridge, and spoon
clattered to the floor, she hurled herself into the embrace.
"Dolly,
dear Dolly," murmured Marianne, thinking how blessed she was to have known
the love and care of two mothers.
As
though embarrassed, Dolly pulled herself free of Marianne's arms and made a
feeble attempt at grooming. Her gnarled hands smoothed back the tufts of white
hair, then moved down the front of her apron stained with dried porridge.
"I wanted to come up," she murmured, "but someone has to stay
with him." She indicated the silent old man in the chair by the fire.
Again,
Marianne found herself staring at him. Behind her, at the top of the landing,
she was aware of a confusion of footsteps, the curious servants no doubt
Then
she was moving past the large serving table cluttered with remnants of meal
preparation, the main force of her concentration focused on the man himself.
Quietly
she knelt before him, lifted one useless hand to her lips. "Papa?"
she whispered. "It's Marianne. I've come home." She felt her voice
begin to break and tried to seize control. "Papa, can you hear me?" She
looked closely for the slightest hint of recognition and saw nothing. The eyes
were glazed, the mouth open, a thin stream of saliva mixed with porridge
cutting a path down the side of his chin.
Suddenly
she could look at him no longer. As she bowed her head, her eyes caught sight
of something yellow, very tattered, soft and plump wedged between the side of
the chair and his leg. Gently she pulled it forward.
In
this room of faulty recognition, she recognized it instantly, stained and
broken beyond repair, like the man himself. It was her childhood toy, the small
calico elephant who'd never known a jungle save the flower garden behind her
father's cottage.
"I
will not go to sleep, Papa, without my elephant. He's beneath the lilacs.
Please fetch him for me."
Without
warning, her eyes filled. "Papa, I love you," she said, weeping,
knowing the words would not be understood, but feeling a need to say them anyway.
Behind
her she heard a kind voice. "Marianne, please," Thomas begged.
"You're distraught from the journey. You need rest."
She
permitted him to lift her to her feet, made no attempt to assign blame, for
what good would blame do? She was aware of his command for Jenny to follow shortly
and help with "Miss Locke's" luggage. She was aware of little else
except their passage through the dark interior of the castle, up the steps, his
arm firmly about her, leading her to the suite of rooms in the east wing, now
flanked on either side by two serving girls with lamps held aloft.
As
they pushed open the door, Thomas led her through into the lovely interior, the
warm wood tones and tapestries glowing in the light of the fire, her trunks
placed to one side, bowls of fresh flowers everywhere. With a wave of his hand,
he dismissed the two girls, told them to wait outside. When the door had closed
behind them, he led Marianne to a chair, gently relinquished her to it, then
stood, staring down on her. His voice sounded strangely weak. "You may not
choose to believe my words," he began, "but my suffering is as great
as yours, for I am the cause—"
Quickly
she shook her head. If either of them were to survive the ties that now bound
them together, they would have to forget the past. When she spoke, she knew she
was lying. "I'm only tired, Thomas. Give me a few moments alone and I
shall try to live up to your expectations."
"Then
I'll leave you, madame," he said courteously. She heard the door close
behind him, heard his muffled command to the two young girls not to enter the
room until they were summoned, then heard nothing but the diminishing tread of
his footstep.
Slowly
she looked about her at the grand room. Beyond the bed, she saw two large
French doors, solidly glassed with tiny mullioned windows. Beyond that, she saw
night.
A
few minutes later she heard a soft knock at the door, then a beloved voice,
"Marianne? It's me, Jenny. I've come to help."
In
a rush of affection, remembering how Jenny's miraculous caress could ease all
hurt and banish all fear, Marianne called out, "Come, Jenny, please. I
need you."
At
half past eleven, having dined lightly on cold sliced beef and winter salad,
Thomas and Marianne sat before the fire in her chambers. They appeared
tranquil, though Marianne was learning to suspect the reliability of
appearances.
It
was true. She felt better. She'd passed a healing interval with Jenny, the two
of them chattering over those aspects of the past that were safe and
nourishing. Marianne had prepared herself for the wedding bed, had bathed
carefully in lavender water, had been grateful when Jenny refrained from making
any comment on the scars on her back, had felt extreme gratitude when Jenny
refused to question her about anything. Obviously, her new capacity, whatever
that was, was unimportant. Marianne was here and they were reunited, and that
was all that mattered.
Marianne
had brushed free her long hair, had dressed herself in a silk lavender robe,
then, after having kissed Jenny lightly on the cheek, had told her that Lord
Eden was awaiting her word and would she please inform him that she was ready.
Without
question, the dear soul had obeyed. A remarkably short time later, Thomas had
appeared, freshly groomed and shaved, Russell following behind with an
assortment of servants bearing trays.
They
dined alone and in silence. The servants cleared away the remains of the meal.
Thomas took a pipe from the pocket of his robe, lit it, while she watched in
mild fascination, having never seen him smoke before.
Thoughtfully
he asked, "The fumes, I trust, will not bother you?"
Quickly
she reassured him. "No, milord. William Pitch enjoyed a pipe. I find the
odor pleasing."
She
noticed a small tremor on his face at her mention of William Pitch and
momentarily regretted it. That, too, was part of the past that needed burying.
They
sat before the fire, resembling two statues, content and respective of each
other's silences, studying the fire as though it were a captivating theatrical.
"It
burns brightly," Thomas commented foolishly.
"It
does, milord," she replied, equally as foolish. "What's the
wood?"
His
brow furrowed as apparently he turned his thoughts sincerely to the empty
question. "Oak, I believe. Of course. What else? Good solid English
oak."
"We
burned some pine when I was a girl," she went on, mindlessly pursuing the
subject. "But it had a tendency to pop, particularly if it isn't
cured."
He
nodded in serious agreement. "It's all in the curing. All in the
curing."
Silence.
The pitifully weak subject was at last exhausted.
With
a start he inquired, "Are you comfortable here?" motioning to the
large chamber.
She
followed with her eyes the direction of his hand. "It's very grand," she
commented.
"It
was my mother's," he said. "She always found
it—quite—comfortable."
"And
I'm sure I will as well."
The
senseless exchanges went on, the most mundane and pedestrian sort of idle
chatter, punctuated by expanding silences.
He
asked suddenly, "Would you care for wine? Brandy?"
She
shook her head, then on a considerate afterthought, said, "Help yourself,
though."
"No,
no, I think not."
Although
she was too warm already, she leaned forward as though to warm her hands by the
fire. She tried to act with a degree of calmness in spite of the agitation she
felt within. "Milord," she began, "if you wish—"
Abruptly
he cut her off, as though not wanting her to give voice to what he wished. He
too leaned forward in his chair, alternately rubbing his hands, then examining
them. "You're very fond of Jenny Toppinger, aren't you?" he asked, as
calmly as though they'd been discussing the topic all evening.
Bewildered,
she nodded, "I am. Very." When he seemed inclined to say nothing
further, she added, "She raised me, you know, the one reliable female face
from my entire childhood."