As
she slipped to her knees, she heard chairs scraping, heard both men running
toward her. But beyond that she saw nothing and was conscious of nothing except
the pain and Thomas' pale face grieving over her, the look of anger still in
his eyes as though somehow she had inconvenienced him.
Off
in the distance, she heard a man shouting for Jenny. In those long moments when
her vision cleared, she found herself on the floor, half beneath the table,
William bent over her in concern, Thomas continuing to stare down on her, the
look of anger gone now, replaced by something else. Surely not regret, though
his mouth was partially open, his face drained of all color, as repeatedly he
sought William's reassurance, "It's not coming, is it?" he begged.
"It's not due for over a month. Is this merely—"
Jenny
was bending over her, asking foolish questions which she could not answer, her
attention, what little she could muster, still focused on Thomas. She felt
irritated by his curious stubbornness to accept the fact that birth was
imminent. Had she so totally misunderstood him? She had thought he had wanted
the child as much as she.
Fresh
waves of pain consumed her and she was conscious of nothing but the upheaval
within her, a flurry of footsteps, hands lifting her.
Through
it all she could make out nothing but a man's voice stridently protesting.
A
bastard!
The
word had haunted Thomas throughout Marianne's confinement. Now, during the long
agonizing days of her labor, the word surfaced in his mind with such terrifying
regularity that the corridor outside her chamber where he paced became a
Gethsemane.
A
bastard!
Repeatedly
he tried to enter her chambers and repeatedly a solid phalanx of women kept him
out. When he thought he could endure no more, he took refuge in the chapel
where, on his knees in an attempt at prayer, the word continuously assaulted
his mind.
A
bastard!
His
firstborn, no line of succession. To add to his torture was his last glimpse of
Marianne as they had carried her from table up to her chambers, panting and
perspiring, a countenance pitiful to behold.
Now,
on the third day, on his knees before the carved altarpiece, the sound of her
screams still resounding in his ears, he buried his face in his hands and wept.
He was deserving of no mercy, so why bother asking for it? How proud he had
been of the staged marriage! What a coup! Then, when indeed she had become his
wdfe in every sense save the legal one, he'd lacked the courage to inform her
of the deception for fear of losing her.
Prostrate
on the floor before the altar, he rubbed his eyes, trying to stop the flow of
tears. His hand brushed across the stubble of beard. He felt weak, yet he could
not take food or drink, had taken neither for three days as the attention of
the entire castle focused on the upper chamber and the woman enduring agony in
order to bring forth—
A
bastard!
Suddenly
he ground his forehead into the cold stone floor. Her labor was going poorly.
Jenny had told him that. Her small stature made her ill-equipped for birth. Her
suffering was acute and apparently there was nothing anyone could do but wait
and watch. She had endured with admirable courage until today when the screams
had started again.
Hearing
them in memory, a thought occurred to him. What if she were to
die
? He
stared unseeing at the altarpiece, his vision distorted by the sideward angle,
Christ on the cross, the spikes piercing His feet and hands, yet on His face a
benign, almost tranquil expression.
Angrily
Thomas averted his face. The poet-woodcarver had lied. One did not endure
intense suffering with tranquility. One railed against it, resisted it, sought
ways to defy it, but one did not smile at it.
From
a distance, he heard the sound of agony again, heard footsteps running, an old
woman crying for assistance. Quickly he sat up and clamped his hands over his
ears. It could not go on much longer. As the distant cries increased, he laced
both arms over his head as though to ward off physical blows and wept openly.
A
bastard! The word was darkly etched upon his conscience. Of course if the child
survived and was female, it would not matter so much. But a son-
He
heard footsteps at the back of the chapel. Without looking up, he heard William
Pitch's voice, soothing, "Milord, Jenny tells me it will be over soon. You
must look to yourself. Your wife will need you to comfort her. Won't you come
with me?"
With
his head down, Thomas was aware of the man standing directly before him.
Suddenly his self-hatred consumed him. He raised a ravaged face to William. His
voice was almost contemptuous. "The lady is not my wife, sir, and she is
at present enduring to bring forth a bastard."
In
spite of the dim light of the chapel he saw clearly the stunned disbelief on
William's face. "But—there was a ceremony," he stammered, "or so
I heard in London. At Fonthill."
Thomas
lifted his head as though in a last degrading agony. "A sham, sir, a fake
ceremony, performed at my insistence by an Italian itinerant."
Pitch's
face was before him like a huge condemning moon, disbelief giving way to anger,
anger to outrage. Thomas watched him, in a spasm of expectation, watched
hopefully the man's good left arm trembling at his side, still watching as
Pitch stammered his outrage, the hand lifting now, high into the air, Thomas
never taking his eyes off it, the fingers curling into a fist, the blow
delivered at last to the side of Thomas' head, a stunning blow which sent him
reeling backward, causing him to strike his forehead on the iron grillwork
which separated the smiling Christ from suffering humanity.
Thomas
lay stunned, tasting blood. His forehead was burning. Yet he experienced the
peace of punishment and cursed the Revolution that had taken the man's good
right arm and prevented him from beating him senseless.
Then
he heard nothing except angry retreating footsteps, the ringing in his ears amplified
though still inadequate to cancel out the piercing screams of the woman who had
yet to be told that for all her great effort, she was bringing forth a bastard.
On
the evening of the fourth day, with Jenny presiding over the canal of birth,
and five women including Jane, Sarah, and Dolly Wisdom holding Marianne rigidly
down on her bed, she pushed a son from her womb, an indignant, angry, squawling
infant whose lung power spoke of persistent life in spite of the difficult birth.
If
there was no question concerning the son's survival, there was considerable
question concerning Marianne's as, at the exact moment of birth, she went limp
upon the bed, the five women stepping quickly back as they no longer had
anything to restrain.
Quickly
Jenny cut and tied the cord and thrust the screaming infant into Sarah's arms,
then pushed the gaping women aside and held a potion of ammonia near Marianne's
face. Slowly she stirred, her eyes opening, breath resuming, though labored.
Checking once again on the well-being of the infant, Jenny gave the women
orders for cleaning up and, bone-tired and still trembling from the long
ordeal, the old woman went in search of Lord Eden.
She
found him in the chapel, where she knew he'd passed the last four days.
Stopping at the door and spying his bent, prostrate figure, she shook her head,
certain after years of presiding over the ritual of birth that the ordeal was
more difficult for men than for women.
Still,
it was over for both of them and she had joyful news which would shortly cancel
any lasting effects of agony. "Milord," she whispered, striving for
his attention.
When
he did not stir from his crouched position in the front pew, she walked to his
side. "Milord," she spoke again, then stopped short, seeing his face,
as ravaged and as bloodstained as the one she'd just left. There appeared to be
a small wound on his forehead.
She
knelt beside him, confident that her news would revive him. "Milord, you
have a son, a beautiful child with fair hair and dark eyes. Won't you come with
me? Your wife is well but spent. She would—"
He
stirred. The news, instead of bringing him comfort, only seemed to add to his
distress. Sharply he arose from the pew with such force that he knocked her
backward. As he ran from the chapel, she cried after him, "Milord,
wait-"
But
he didn't wait. As Jenny struggled to recover from the blow which he'd loosed
upon her, she heard his footsteps, not moving toward his wife's chambers, but
instead taking the stairs downward with great speed.
She
ran out into the corridor, hearing three floors below a slamming of doors, the
alarmed cry of one of the stewards. Running to a slit window, she saw him
stumbling across the inner courtyard, heading toward the stables.
Confused,
she clung to the window at a loss to explain his behavior. Had he understood
what she had said? In her own weary excitement, had she somehow failed to make
the message clear, to convince him that the danger was over, that all was well?
Suddenly
she saw a horse dart from the stable, a rider dinging to its back, a groom
running uselessly after it, the horse and rider accelerating to top speed,
approaching the closed grillwork of the gate as though impervious to the fact
that impalement was imminent
She
muffled a scream as, at the last second, the guards drew up the grille. Without
breaking speed, the horse and rider clattered beneath the gate and disappeared
into the night.
She
stood a moment longer, watching the confusion of torches in the courtyard below
as the watchmen on the walls hurried to the gate, apparently in search of an
explanation.
Behind
her she heard Jane's urgent voice, "You'd better come, Jenny," she
begged. "There's still bleeding. We can't stop it."
Jenny
closed her eyes. She understood exactly nothing.
"Jenny,
please!" Jane urged. "Come quick, she's—"
Jenny
drew a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and looked about her. Men! She
would never understand them. A useless breed, really, not fit to rule the
world. Cowardly! Self-important! Selfish! Did his Lordship really think that
his escape into the night would change anything here? The facts remained that
now he had a son and heir, and perhaps a dying wife.
With
the characteristic strength of one who was needed to keep things going, she
proceeded down the corridor with Jane following behind her, her head erect,
ready to meet and cope with the next ordeal.
Whatever
that may be.
Two
weeks after the difficult birth, Marianne was still abed, weak from loss of
blood, her physical condition made worse by the anxiety she suffered over
Thomas' mysterious disappearance.
On
a bright September morning, as Jenny bathed her, she felt a surge of annoyance,
more than the mere helplessness and isolation of an invalid. Why was it that
Jenny refused to look at her, and why was it that no one but Jenny ever came to
her room? Repeatedly she'd asked for William's company, and had been denied it.
She knew that William was still in the castle, for Jane had told her so, in the
days when Jane had visited her, although that had been over a week ago.
It
had been the same length of time since she had seen Sarah, who used to take
such delight in bathing her son and placing him on her nipple. And Dolly and
all the rest of them, where were they? And why did no one bring her news of the
search parties which reportedly were out looking for Thomas? And why did her
son still lie in his crib, unnamed, unchristened? And when would she regain
enough strength simply to lift her hand without it requiring major effort?
And—and this question hurt the most—where was Thomas? Why had he deserted her?
Suddenly
annoyed by Jenny's fluttering attentions, Marianne found enough strength to
hurl the small washbasin across the room. As Jenny stepped back, washcloth in
hand, Marianne saw a mixed expression on her face, anguish, then pity, then the
most annoying of all, understanding.