She
rose heavily and bowed her head into the wind and went to his side. "A
renewal of vows," she chided him gently. "My vows need no renewal,
Thomas. I'm more your wife now than I was on that cold October morning at
Fonthill." She ran her hand lightly across his chest, her fingers stopping
at the opening of his shirt for a tender examination of flesh. "Then,"
she went on, T had great misgivings. Now I have none."
She
was standing close to him, her face raised, wanting very much for him to kiss
her. Instead he moved away and whispered petulantly, "We didn't even have
a wedding feast."
Wearily
she shook her head. "And how could we have one now with the second
ceremony performed in secret?"
They
stared at each other across the blowing wind. Suddenly he seized her arm.
"If I make the arrangements, will you speak your vows again with me?"
"Sir,"
she protested softly, "I see no reason—"
"Then
see no reason," he replied. "Humor me. Grant my request."
Suddenly
the child within her throbbed. A sharp pain started in her lower stomach and
shot upward into her breasts. She clung to his arm.
Angrily
he scooped her up. "I told you," he scolded. "This is not good
for you."
For
a few minutes she had to endure his anger until the spasm passed. As she felt
herself being carried back over the headlands, she insisted, "It was
nothing, Thomas. I swear it. Your son has set his own timetable. That's all.
Please. Let me walk."
Begrudgingly
he put her down as though he knew that she would have her way. He continued to
lend her a supportive arm and carefully monitored each step as they walked back
toward the castle.
They
walked in silence. She wondered if the foolishness of the second marriage had
been forgotten. But unfortunately it hadn't. As the castle gate came into view
and the path became even, he released her and walked alone, his eyes downcast
as if speaking words printed on the smooth cobblestones. "We shall repeat
our vows within the week," he said, as sternly as though he were issuing a
command.
A
rebuttal was on her lips, but her attention was drawn to the open castle gates
and beyond, where a small black carriage was just raiding to a halt
"Milord," she murmured, her eye still fixed on the carriage. "I
believe we have a guest"
Thomas
squinted ahead, apparently trying to make out the identity of the carriage and
the unannounced caller. Quickly he increased his step. He called to the
watchman at the gate. "Who is it?"
The
man shook his head. "He refused to give his name, milord," he
replied. "Said he was a friend of—Miss Locke's."
Marianne
saw the confusion on the poor man's face. Then her attention was drawn back to
the carriage, standing before the Great Hall, no sign of life yet, the horses
stamping at the ground.
As
they passed beneath the gate, Thomas muttered, "It's a hired chaise. The
guards are getting careless. It should have been stopped for
identification."
Moving
ahead of him, Marianne kept her eyes focused on the small black carriage. She
saw now, just coming out of the Great Hall, her brother Russell in the company
of three stewards. She saw several watchmen near the wall move forward. At the
angle at which she stood, the whipping oak was blocking her view. Quickly she
moved to one side, still keeping her eye on the carriage.
The
door was opening. The coachman jumped down from his high seat and extended a
hand into the chaise. A moment later, a man awkwardly emerged, his upper torso
falling heavily against the door as though lacking support for the short
descent to the ground.
Marianne
stopped. She tried to draw deep breath and couldn't In spite of the distance,
she recognized him. She stood rigid, remembering the last time she'd seen him,
on the sun-drenched pavement of Great Russell Street
Then
she was moving toward him as fast as her bulky body would permit, her sole
desire to see him closer. He. Her excitement increased as now he turned in her
direction. His body seemed peculiarly off-center, one arm hidden behind him. Or
gone
.
"Oh,
William," she whispered, an angry flush spread over her face at the sight
of him mutilated. There was a look of shock on his face now as apparently he
struggled to digest the changed state of her person. The two of them met at
last in a warm, though limited embrace, her hand moving instantly to his tucked
sleeve, where beneath the roughness of fabric she felt a short protruding
stump.
She
was aware of nothing and no one save him, the face, the warmth, the tenderness
of William Pitch. It was as though time had not passed at all.
He
stepped away from her, his face struggling for control, his eyes focused darkly
on something over her shoulder. "Lord Eden," he said softly.
She'd
forgotten about Thomas and now quickly brushed the tears from her eyes. She
took his arm and led him forward. "Milord," she said, "you
remember William Pitch, I believe."
Closely
she watched Thomas' face. At first she thought she saw anger, the memory of bad
blood between them, the near tragedy of that night in the second-floor bedroom
still a fresh wound. Then blessedly his face seemed to relax. Curiosity,
perhaps compassion, replaced the anger as his eye fell on the absence of
William's right arm.
"Welcome,
Mr. Pitch"-he smiled-"to Eden Castle."
William
took the extended hand with his left, a stiff movement which seemed to cause
him embarrassment. "Milord," he said, "I apologize for my
unannounced arrival. If it's an inconvenience, I shall leave immediately."
He faltered, looked briefly about, his eye stopping on Marianne. With utmost speed,
his vision moved back to Thomas. "I came to extend my greetings and best
wishes, and—" Again he faltered. He seemed weakened, unsure of himself.
Marianne noticed his left hand trembling violently and stepped closer as though
to assist him.
But
a moment later he continued speaking. "I've just returned from France,
milord," he went on, "and in my absence I seem to have lost the only
family I ever knew."
With
admirable grace, Thomas replied, "If I can assist you in finding that
family, sir, I'll be most happy to do so."
William
bowed his head. "I was told they came here, milord."
Marianne
looked closely at his face, now an emaciated visage, with damp locks sticking
in vvdsps on the brow. She wondered, mournfully, how many more times in her
life she would have to say good-bye to him. The one on the pavement had been
hard enough. She stepped forward, and in essence told him good-bye again.
"Jane is here, William," she said. "And Sarah is with her."
Their
eyes met and held, as though the good-bye had been confirmed. How she longed to
speak with him in private, to explain. Then she heard herself asking Russell to
fetch Jane quickly, as though her sister's presence were required on many
counts.
There
was a terrible silence about the company. Thomas appeared tired, William stood
awkwardly at the center of attention, his eyes periodically inspecting the
inner courtyard, staying rigidly away from Marianne. To fill the painful
interim, she said, "You will stay, of course, William. There's so much we
want to hear about. I'm afraid that news reaches us very slowly here at
Eden."
"It
is not my desire to intrude."
"I
assure you, it will be no intrusion," she replied. "Will it,
Thomas?"
Apparently
the direct question stirred him out of his lethargy. In a rather pointed
gesture, he placed his arm around Marianne and drew her close. "No
intrusion at all, Mr. Pitch. I meant what I said before—you are welcome here
for as long as you wish to stay. And Marianne is right. You must give us news
from the continent. The only wayfarers here are the gulls, and they are
scarcely equipped to bring us news."
Inside
the shelter of his arm, Marianne felt peculiarly weak. Beneath her gown she
felt another pain, sharper than the one before. But fortunately no one noticed,
for at that moment Jane appeared at the top of the steps, her face a contortion
of joy, then agony, as seeing his mutilation, she burst into tears and ran down
the steps and embraced him.
Marianne
noticed William's face as he received her, his one arm holding her close,
though his face was scowling into her hair, his eyes suddenly hard as though to
shield himself.
Sarah
appeared through the same door, the hem of her apron pressed against her mouth.
Marianne was grateful that the woman kept her sobs to herself. One such scene
was enough for all of them.
With
the sobbing Jane still clinging to him, William looked desperately about as
though for direction.
Marianne,
still recovering from the last spasm of pain, suggested weakly, "His
trunks, Thomas. Have the stewards take his trunks."
As
the trunks were being lowered from the top of the chaise, William singled out
one large carton and ordered the stewards to hand it to him.
The
men obeyed. It was only at the last minute that both stewards realized that
William was incapable of taking it. Marianne noticed a flair of anger at his
helplessness. Sharply he ordered the stewards to give it to Marianne.
"A
gift," he explained, still not looking at her. "I have little of
value left, but you admired it once. I hope it will give you pleasure in your
new life."
As
the steward placed the carton near her feet, Marianne asked him to open it for
her. The lid was scarcely raised, the first layer of straw removed when she
knew what it was. The tiny golden orb of the sun caught the reflection from the
real sun, momentarily causing her eyes to blur. The Orrery. How much pleasure
it had given her once.
As
Thomas bent over in examination of the small globe, Marianne found William's
eyes and forced them to stay with hers. In that instant she was transported
back to the front parlor in Bloomsbury, a hideous time, made palatable by the
kindness of the man who had taken the effort to explain the heavens to her.
"Thank
you, William," she said simply. In spite of her increasing weakness, she
issued a spate of orders, sending the stewards with the trunks to second-floor
chambers, asking Russell to send Dolly Wisdom to her so they might plan a
banquet for the evening befitting the arrival of an old and dear friend.
If
Thomas had any objections, he did not voice them aloud. As the company
scattered, she waited by the chaise to see each of them on his or her appointed
task. Jane had regained enough control to take full command of William, and was
leading him up the stairs. The grooms came for the weary horses and led them
off to the stables. Russell took the coachman to the kitchen for lodgings and
refreshment, and ultimately there were only two standing in the courtyard.
"Thank
you for receiving him," she said to Thomas, who stood a distance away.
"He's
no threat to me now," he said, as though with genuine compassion for the
man who once had leveled a pistol at him. "He looks quite pathetic, I look
forward to hearing where he left his arm."
He
looked pointedly at her. "And you, milady?" he asked softly.
"What is he to you?"
She
waited, taking care with her answer. "He was land to me," she said
simply.
Apparently
the answer sufficed. Gently Thomas put his arm around her shoulder and drew her
close. "Then I shall be kind to him," he promised.
Jenny
appeared at the top of the steps, looking in Marianne's direction.
"Dolly
is with your father," she called out "Will you entrust me with the
menu?"
Marianne
laughed. "You do more than that, Jenny. I'll let you arrange it." She
turned back to Thomas. "What are your plans, milord?" she asked,
moving toward the steps.
He
followed after her, keeping his voice low. "I would like to speak further
with you on the subject we briefly discussed on our walk."