"It's
merely chaos," she had scolded him. "Let me turn my hand to it and
see what I can do."
He'd
agreed, feeling it would give her some occupation while he was busy with the
workmen and artisans. And, indeed, she had turned her hand.
For
many years, no Lord of Eden had thought it worthwhile to take much personal
interest in his own properties. The estates were merely a source of revenue and
since it was a very rich and extensive inheritance, all seemed well and no
questions were asked.
But
"Miss Locke" had looked around her and decided to ask questions. A
simple person herself, she quickly won the confidence of the simple folks
living round about. Many of them had dismal tales to tell—of long neglect of
land and buildings, of the absence of any kind of capital improvement and, as a
result, the continuing use of inadequate methods. Evictions were not unknown,
even though the tenant might have fallen on evil days more through his
landlord's fault than his own. Because there seemed to be no one else to do it,
Marianne set about the work that was crying to be done.
Thomas
was keenly aware of her remarkable progress, of the ease with which she fitted
into her new position in the countryside. Day after day, all during that
winter, when weather permitted she could be seen riding about the estates on
horseback. Thomas gave her a free hand so that she could plan improvements as
she saw fit, ordering new gates to be made, arranging for fences to be mended
and hedgerows planted, selling a field here and buying a plot of land there.
She
developed a strong business capacity, which in a very short time showed results
in the increased productivity of the estates. She instigated what she called
"Thursday Afternoon Tenant Day," and during this time she received
any tenant, any fisherman or villager, who had a complaint of any nature, from
a sick child to a broken piece of equipment to a boat in need of repairs. To
the best of her ability she satisfied them all, taking in her arms a colicky
child, signing over notes for repairs, reassuring everyone that if it were at
all possible, something would be done.
On
a Thursday afternoon in late April, concealed within a near doorway, Thomas
watched her, sitting in her straight-backed chair behind a desk as she received
a line of tenants, treating each of them to the warmth of her smile. He saw her
now send Jane, whom she had enlisted in her cause for hot tea, not for herself,
but for a faltering aged woman who was winded by the long climb up Eden Point.
Thomas
watched it all, falling even more deeply in love with her, wondering again how
he'd been so fortunate to acquire this jewel, more of an aristocrat than his
blue-blooded friends who had consistently shunned him in his new alliance with
the "fisherman's daughter."
Now
he felt impatience as he saw the woman, Sarah, usher new tenants through the
central arch, the line stretching almost to the door. It was midafternoon and
Marianne had been "receiving" since early morning. The only trouble
with her new involvement was that it robbed him of her company. Then, too, on
this particular afternoon, he had greater cause for impatience. The new
chambers were completed and she had yet to see them. The last of the workmen
had left the day before, and Jenny and Dolly were at this very minute filling
the urns with her favorite roses.
As
he watched her lean forward in concern toward the tenant of the moment, he saw
her small straight back clad in simple, almost servant-like navy blue, her long
hair done up in a knot as though she were aware of her youthful appearance and
taking all means necessary to counteract it. She looked pale, he decided as
well, and why not? She had hurled herself into a man's job, outworking the
servants on occasions, but still coming to him at night in his mother's
chambers, as happily and as giving as though she'd done nothing but lie abed
all day, as his mother had done, holding court with an army of servants, to
satisfy her slightest whim.
Softly
he shook his head, still unable to comprehend her, the source of her energy and
tirelessness. She was more his wife than any wife he had ever dreamed of
possessing, and one day he would find the courage within himself to rectify the
farce he'd performed on her at Fonthill Splendons. Not that a legal ceremony
required courage, but the thought of telling her, of seeing the hurt on her
face, that was the demand of courage, and he couldn't meet it now, not yet, not
when her obvious contentment was still so new, so precious to him.
In
his deep contemplation of her, he realized belatedly that he'd stepped too far
out from his concealment in the doorway. With a rapid turn of her head, as
though she'd sensed him long before she'd seen him, her face brightened, though
her cheeks were still pale. She called out, "Thomas, come! Meet the people
who make you rich."
For
a moment the old aristocratic bonds pinched at him. Never in its long history
had a Lord of Eden Castle sat openly at table in the Great Hall and
"received" his tenants. Tenants were not objects to be received. One
received guests of equality and played the gracious host. But tenants were
merely unseen faces who tilled the soil and ran the nets and earned their keep
by showing profit for the estates.
Seeing
his hesitancy, she called again, "Thomas, come, they're friends, really.
They wish us well."
Friends!
He didn't give a damn whether they were friends or not But then he did, seeing
the pleading in her eyes, an embarrassment really, as though in his hesitancy
she was afraid he might injure the feelings of the blank-faced old woman
standing before her at the table, holding a small basket in her hands.
Reluctantly
he emerged from the doorway, his feelings slightly assuaged by the deferential
bows now being offered him by the other tenants in line. A few of the men
swiftly removed their hats, seeing the appearance of his Lordship. He gave a
slight nod to all and drew close to Marianne, who looked extremely pleased with
herself.
"Sit
down, Thomas," she invited, "if you're not busy," indicating a
vacant chair beside her.
Again
he hesitated, possessing absolutely no appetite for what she was doing. For the
first time he noticed a foul odor in the Hall, a nauseating blend of cow manure
and body sweat. He had no quarrel with these people as long as they stayed in
their place and afforded him the right to stay in his. "I think not,"
he said, ignoring both her invitation and the vacant chair. "I wanted to
see when you might be finished here."
"Oh,
I'm afraid not for quite a while," she replied, as though it would have
been pleasant to have him at her side, but certainly not necessary.
She
turned her attention back to the old woman standing before her. She reached
across the table and received the gnarled hand. "You're Mrs. Gavin,"
she said softly. "I remember you when I was little . You brought us
gingerbread once. I've never forgotten it, and I've never tasted better."
A
radiant smile broke out on the worn old face. "Aye, and I remembered your
appetite for gingerbread, and I brun' you some to give you welcome."
Thomas
noted the joy on Marianne's face as, within the instant, she skirted the table
and fell into a warm embrace with the old woman, as grateful for the gift of
gingerbread as though it were a priceless jewel. Behind the warm embrace, he
noticed the selfconscious though pleased smiles on all the faces who watched, a
maudlin scene really, overemotional and unnecessary.
Feeling
excluded, Thomas turned and, without a word, strode across the Great Hall.
Marianne called after him. Without looking at her, he called back, "Later,
when you're not busy." As he reached the far door, he slackened his pace
and stole a glance at her, pleased by the hurt expression in her face. Beyond
the door, in the loneliness of the passage, his pleasure diminished. Perhaps he
should have stayed. But what a waste! Her so-called Christian concern would
come to nothing but further bilking of his purse. The lower classes of tenants
were notoriously exploitive. Give them a pence and they would demand a guinea.
He paid overseers to listen to their endless complaints. It was not Marianne's
job, and he would tell her so this very night.
He
went through the passage with the assurance born of an easy conscience. As he
started up the steps, he passed Jane and Jenny Toppinger coming down. Jane, as
unrouged and simple-appearing as he'd ever seen her, curtsied stiffly and
extended him an invitation. "We're having tea in the dining hall, Lord
Eden," she said, smiling. "Won't you join us?"
He'd
attended their teas before and had marveled how the lot of them could instantly
convert that grand room into a chattering cottage kitchen. "No, thank
you," he said, almost archly. "I will have tea in the new chambers.
Jenny, would you fetch it for me?" he added, ignoring the look of
familiarity on Jane's face.
Indelicately
Jane argued. "Lord Eden, if Jenny's having tea herself, how can she bring
it to you? How much simpler if you'd just—"
Mildly
he exploded. "Damn it, I want tea alone in the new chambers. Is that clear?"
Jenny
was already scurrying down the corridor. Jane stayed a moment longer, as though
trying to assess her position of authority as Marianne's sister. Apparently a
stray wisp of wisdom intervened. She turned and lifted her skirts and scurried
after Jenny.
"Damn
it!" he muttered. Was he never to know peace and the order of servants who
knew their place? His gaze followed after the retreating women. Yes, he'd have
to talk with Marianne that very evening. Certain adjustments would have to be
made. Although he'd planned a private celebration in honor of her new chambers,
at some point he'd have to lay down the law. No more Thursday-afternoon tenant
receptions, no more easeful coming and going of her family. There were adequate
apartments near the kitchen. Thanks to his generosity, they were all fed,
clothed, and housed. Surely his Christian duty did not entail socializing with
them as well.
On
that bleak note he trudged wearily up the stairs, nearly colliding with two
serving girls in the process of moving her clothes from the old chambers to the
new. In spite of the weight of gowns and hatboxes, they bowed low and gave him
passage. As he was just starting down the corridor, he heard a cry, sharp, like
an alarm. As he turned toward the sound of distress, the two young girls
flattened themselves against the wall. He froze, waiting for the cry to come
again. Then it did, old Jenny, or so he guessed, her voice splitting the solemn
quiet of the upper corridor.
"Lord
Eden!" she cried, "come quick. Marianne—"
Then
he was running, past the frightened girls, taking the steps downward, three at
a time, Jenny crying out again, just out of sight on the first-floor landing.
He saw her finally, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide in
alarm. She was pointing toward the Great Hall, where, beyond the door, he saw a
cluster of people—Jane, Sarah, Dolly—bent over a fallen figure.
Quickly
he pushed his way through the frightened tenants, where at that moment Jane had
loosened the collar about Marianne's throat while Sarah, praying aloud, tried
to warm her hands.
"Move
back!" he shouted. As the crowd obeyed, he shouted again in greater anger
for the stewards to clear the room. As the tenants shuffled out the door, he
knelt in concern beside the extremely pale and lifeless figure on the floor.
"What happened?" he demanded as he lifted her in his arms, alarmed by
the dead weight of her body, cradling her close so that her head rested against
his chest.
When
no one moved to answer him right away, he demanded again, "I asked what
happened?" glaring at the little semicircle of faces as though they were
responsible.
Dolly
Wisdom found her tongue and nerve first. "Milord," she sniffled, "she
was returning to her chair and simply fell to the floor."
Again
the foul odor of retreating tenants filled his nostrils. "The damned place
smells diseased," he cursed. "Air it!" He carried her back
through the Hall, commanding only Jenny Toppinger to follow after him, but
aware a few moments later of the entire female parade trailing behind him up
the stairs.
She
looked pale, so terribly pale, her mouth opened slightly, the dark blue eyes
usually so alive closed as though in death. Suddenly he felt terror at her
stillness.