"Hurry!"
he shouted, increasing his step, uncaring anymore who followed so long as they
might help. Once in the new chambers, he placed her gently on the handsome bed
of carved rosewood, elegantly canopied with purple velvet brocade. Within the
moment, the women closed in and took custody of her. He retreated back to the
door, helpless to penetrate the feminine circle, not really wanting to, so long
as they revived her and gave her back to him, whole and restored.
For
an agonizing time, he had to content himself with pacing in his own chambers.
He imagined the worst, that she had contracted some dread incurable tenant
disease, a fever perhaps, or worse, pox. As his despair grew, he tried to
listen to the voices coming from the other room. But he heard little, a splash
of water, the woman, Jane, quickly departing, then returning with a bottle of
salts clutched in her hand. But there were no words at all, causing his terror
to increase. He sank into a chair, feeling unwell himself. It was as if
something of his soul had flowed into her and now he was sharing her illness.
What
was taking them so long? Why couldn't they give him a word at least? Surely he
had never suffered so much. In an attempt to ease that suffering, he moved to
the near window. Beyond the balcony was the inner courtyard, gray and ominous
in the early evening light. A few tenants were still straggling toward the
gate. Then, the whipping oak. His eyes moved past it and came back. The burden
was so heavy he did not think he could bear it. If anything happened to her, he
would have himself bound to it and lashed to death, an easy parting compared to
life without her.
Softly
into his devastation he heard a voice, Jenny, saying, "You may go
in."
He
turned eagerly. "Is she—"
But
the woman merely bobbed her head and retreated, joining the other women in the
corridor, giving him access to her room.
She
was in bed, her long hair loosed about her face, a strong smell of oil of clove
hanging on the air, her eyes still closed, her face as pale as the linen upon
which she lay. He approached her hesitantly, still fearful. Had they summoned
him to view her corpse? Where was life? The grand chamber which he'd hoped to
share with her now resembled a burial vault, the urns of roses funeral flowers.
Then
there was life, her eyes opened, the beauty of a smile on her lips.
"Thomas,"
she whispered, and lifted a hand and drew him close.
He
responded not with words, for he was beyond speech. She drew him closer and
kissed him. "Poor Thomas," she murmured. "You look so
frightened."
"And
why shouldn't I be?" he responded with mock gruffness. "I leave you
one minute fawning over gingerbread, and the next minute—" He broke off as
though he had no desire to describe the scene of her collapsed on the floor.
She
laughed softly. "It was not the gingerbread that made me ill, Thomas—"
He
sat on the bed beside her, still clasping her hand. He considered speaking to
her about certain alterations in the running of the castle. But he decided
against it. She seemed to be looking about her, aware for the first time of
where she was.
He
watched her carefully for the least sign of pleasure as her eyes moved slowly
over the white marble fireplace, the tapestries, the magnificent wood carved
panels, the urns filled with roses. Instead of pleasure, he thought he saw
exhaustion on her face. After her limited inspection from the bed, her eyes
closed and she drew the velvet brocade coverlet closer to her chin.
When
she seemed disinclined to make comment, he leaned over her, prompting, "Do
you like it?"
With
her eyes closed, she said, "It's far too grand, Thomas."
"Why
don't you let me be the judge of that?"
"There
are so many others who get by on so much less."
"I'm
not concerned with the others."
Her
eyes opened. "You should be. Your world would collapse without them."
Feeling
minor disappointment, he stood up from the bed. "My world collapsed today
because of them," he said pointedly.
She
looked at him as though unable to comprehend what he was saying.
"Thomas,
this has nothing to do with the tenants."
"How
can you say that?" he scolded. "They reek of disease and filth, and
you receive them as though they were—"
Smiling,
she motioned him back to the bed. Without a word, she took his hand and guided
it beneath the coverlet, under her nightdress until it was resting, palm down,
on her bare stomach. "There is the problem," she said playfully.
He
felt of her flesh, warm beneath the covers, exploring a bit on his own as long
as he was there, fondling the curvature of her hips. "I don't
understand—"
"By
Jenny's estimate, it should be an October child."
He
said nothing. He looked at her as though his ears had deceived him.
"I
hope you are not displeased, milord," she said, smiling. "I shall
lose my figure and become lumpen and misshapen, but—"
Awareness
dawned. His hand lightened on the precious area where beneath her flesh a part
of him was growing. "A—child?" he repeated, as though wanting
confirmation.
She
nodded. Quickly he withdrew his hand as though her abdomen had become suddenly
hot. "Are you—well?" he asked, concerned. "Is there any—
"I'm
well, milord, and in excellent hands. Jenny had delivered every baby in
Mortemouth for the last twenty-five years."
"A
baby," he thought again, still stirred. A son, the continuity of line, the
best of Marianne, the best of himself. Tenderly he enclosed her in his arms and
lifted her to him as the thought kept him fascinated.
"Come,
Thomas," she invited, a slightly wicked glint in her eye. "Come, lie
beside me."
Immediately
he rejected the idea. "It wouldn't be safe," he said, rising from the
bed.
"Nonsense,"
she scoffed. "The seed is anchored. We need pay it no mind for long
months. Please—" she whispered again, turning back the coverlet. "I
want you."
But
again he refused. "No. For your own sake, no."
She
raised up on her elbows, defiant. "I will not be denied you, Thomas, for
seven long months."
"And
I will run no risk," he replied firmly, "that wall deny me you for
the rest of my life." As long as the subject had been launched, he thought
he might as well complete it "You must cease all your activities,
Marianne."
She
sat up straight in bed, but he continued anyway despite the look of shock on
her face. "I forbid you to leave these chambers without either myself or
Jenny at your side. There will be no more long rides across the moors, no more
visitations from the tenants. We shall take our meals here so that you might
avoid the steps, and, on fair days, I shall carry you out to the headlands, so
that you might take the air and sun. Beyond that, there will be no activity
except that which I personally approve of—"
Throughout
his little speech, he was aware of the change of her face, from mild annoyance
and surprise to what appeared to be rage. Suddenly, without a word, she threw
back the covers and left the bed, padding barefoot across the floor toward the
outer door.
"Marianne?"
he called sharply after her. "Where are you going"?"
She
turned angrily back, appearing childlike in her long white nightdress. "I've
been a prisoner once, milord," she said, her voice even. "I have no
intention of becoming one again."
As
she flung open the door, he ran after her and caught up with her in the
corridor. Angrily he picked her up and carried her back into the room, enduring
her screams and calls for help. Twice he placed her on the bed and twice she scrambled
free. The third time, as he overtook her in the hall, he saw Jenny hurrying
toward them, apparently alarmed by the screams. When Marianne saw her, she
cried aloud, quite melodramatically, as though for her life, "Jenny, help
me! Please help me!"
Embarrassed,
Thomas released her and watched, helpless, as she ran into the old woman's
arms. He stepped aside as the two women made their way back to her chambers,
Jenny's arm protectively around her shoulder, her sharp eyes looking accusingly
at Thomas. He started after them into the room only to have the door slammed in
his face. In a rage, he considered breaking it in. But instead he retreated,
weary and confused.
He
paced outside her door, trying hard to understand and understanding nothing. It
was merely her well-being that he had in mind, hers and the child's. She was
not strong enough for childbirth. She must rest and preserve all the strength
at her disposal. Why couldn't she understand this?
Bewildered,
he continued to pace. A few moments later, Jenny appeared. She looked at him,
only a token glance, started to pass him by, then stopped, head down. "I
beg your pardon, milord. A word if I may?" she asked softly.
Without
waiting for his permission, she spoke. "When Marianne was a child, she
took to wandering out of the back garden against my express orders. Two or
three times every day, I would have to stop my work and go and fetch her
wandering about the quay, or up on the headlands. And everytime I brought her
back, I spanked her, each time a little harder." For the first time she
looked up at him. "I broke two rods on her and drew blood, but each time
she would be gone again. Finally I gave up, turned her over to God. If harm
befell her, so be it. I was doing more damage in an attempt to keep her
safe."
She
stepped away from him. "She's wandered ever since, milord, and always
returned safely, and the only harm that has ever befallen her is what you
inflicted on her."
He
looked away.
"I
mean no offense, milord," she murmured quickly. "But she's healthy,
and the babe secure, and not even you possess a rod strong enough to make her
obey."
Almost
plaintively he asked, "Then what do I do?"
She
smiled wearily and shrugged. "Do as I did. Turn her over to God. He's the
only One who can even come close to handling her."
She
went off down the corridor, leaving him alone to try to fathom the new silence
coming from behind the closed doors.
Quietly
he knocked and, receiving no reply, went in. She was back in bed, staring up at
the canopy overhead, eyes open. If she was aware of his presence in the room,
she gave no indication of it.
He
crept close, uncertain of her response to him, not wanting to anger her again.
Clinging to the bedpost, he said softly, "Jenny tells me you were an
obstinate child."
No
response.
"She
said you ran away repeatedly against her express orders."
Still
no response.
"She
said she broke two rods on you."
Still
not so much as a glimmer of response,
"She
said that even I do not possess a rod strong enough to force you to obey."
With
tenderness, she smiled at him. "She's mistaken about that, milord."
He
looked at her intently, in an attempt to read both her smile and her words. If
the message was muddled before, it wasn't now as she laid back the coverlet,
again inviting him into the warmth of her bed.
Disbelieving,
he shook his head, and with a laugh, sent his eyes heavenward, as though to the
only Source rumored to understand her. As he sat down on the bed and commenced
pulling off his boots, he thought that perhaps it would suffice merely to lie
beside her, to hold her, to talk of their coming child. Surely in the name of
good sense, he thought, and out of respect for her condition, she would expect
nothing of him except his presence and his pledge of devotion. But he was wrong.