Embarrassed
by her childish behavior, and unable to control her emotions, Marianne turned
her face to the pillow and wept. "I'm—sorry, Jenny."
Then
Jenny was there, holding her, smoothing back her hair, telling her again as she
had told her every day for the last two weeks about the peculiarities of men
and their responses to childbirth, the frustration of their helplessness, how
she'd seen many men run away, and every one of them had returned.
Once,
several days ago, when Marianne had been too weak to lift her head, she'd been
willing, even eager, to believe it.
Not
now. Thomas was no ordinary man, no fisherman from Mortemouth or tenant of Eden
Point. He was Lord Eden, Peer of the Realm, in need of an heir and she had
given him one. Then why?
For
a few minutes, Marianne let Jenny talk, let her believe that her words of
comfort were being received and understood. But when she released her to the
pillow again, Marianne felt a death of her spirit as acutely as she'd ever felt
it before.
As
though in an attempt to revive that obviously flagging spirit, Jenny placed the
baby in her arms. Marianne bared her breast and gave him her nipple, and as the
child began hungrily to suck, she closed her eyes to the sensation, which was
not unpleasurable, her loneliness mounting until she was no longer able to hold
back the tears.
It
was late that evening when she was awakened out of a light sleep by a loud
disturbance in the corridor outside her door. Several women were protesting
something, their protests apparently falling on deaf ears.
She
held still in the bed. Some instinct told her that this was not Jenny
approaching. At the exact instant she turned her head on the pillow, the door
burst open.
Admittedly
the room was dimly lit, only two lamps burning. Still, it wasn't the lack of
illumination that hampered her recognition. It was the man himself, or more
accurately the condition of the man.
As
he came to a sudden halt in the doorway, she saw Jenny hovering alarmed
outside. "Milord," Jenny begged, "cleanse yourself first. I beg
you."
Without
looking to the right or to the left, Thomas reached out for the door and
slammed it behind him, isolating himself in the room with her.
At
first she thought he was drunk. As he continued to stand before the door,
unmoving, she decided he was ill as well, and incredibly filthy, his eyes
glittering strangely from behind a growth of several weeks' beard, his clothes
scarcely recognizable and foul-smelling, his hair tangled and unkempt.
"Thomas?"
she ventured weakly, raising herself on one elbow, bewildered by his strange
condition, yet thanking God that he had safely returned.
He
continued to stare at her, his eyes swollen from lack of sleep, his face
scratched as though he'd run through brambles. There was a tension about his
stillness.
Her
alarm increasing, she threw back the covers and swung her legs over the bed.
"Milord, please," she murmured. "Come closer so that I—"
"Keep
your place, lady," he ordered. His voice was as changed as his appearance,
without inflection, a ghost voice.
Sitting
aside the bed, shivering, trying to understand, she said, "I've missed
you. I've been worried. Where were you?"
Suddenly
he stirred. His head lifted. The light from the near lamp caught his features.
His voice was as cold now, as though she were his enemy. "Lady, I owe you
no explanation."
He
moved toward her, stopping short of the bed by several feet, but still close
enough for her to detect his foul odor, see something in his face that
frightened her. She drew back into bed and pulled the covers up. "I want
no explanation, milord," she said. "I'm only grateful for your
safety."
Suddenly
he grew expansive. He looked about the room as though seeing it for the first
time. "You live in considerable luxury, lady," he said, "compared
to my recent habitation."
"I
did not ask for the chamber, milord. You provided me with it."
He
pointed a stained finger at her. "But you did not turn it down, did
you?"
"For
fear of offending you, no."
"Offending
me?" he parroted.
She
watched him closely. Something was terribly wrong. When the light fell just
right so that she could see his face, she wished not to see it. When shadows
enveloped him, she longed to see more clearly, confident that sight would
enhance understanding.
Roughly
he dragged a chair across the floor and positioned it near the bed. Wearily he
stretched out in it, extending his legs, deliberately raising one
dung-encrusted boot for her inspection. "You asked where I've been,
lady?" he inquired. "I've been in every barnyard from here to St.
Ives. I've ridden three horses to ground and drunk myself senseless every
night. I've washed with pigs, slept with horses, dined with gypsies, and smiled
at ladies." He pushed back the unruly hair from his eyes. "What do
you say to that?"
She
said nothing, was capable of saying nothing.
He
leaned forward now. "Whores all, madame, under the guise of ladies. Like
all females."
"I
am not a whore, milord," she whispered. "I am your wife."
"Wife?"
Suddenly he leaned back in the chair, a look of agony on his face.
"Wife?" he mourned. "Is that what you think?"
She
placed a hand over her lips to keep from crying out. "I was led to believe
so, milord."
"Then
you were misled, lady." He pushed himself from the chair and stood
directly over her, one soiled hand on her face, forcing her to look at him. "You
said your vows before an Italian itinerant. The ceremony was a sham." He
faltered and briefly looked away. "I—had no choice, I thought, I—"
When he looked back, his eyes were pleading with her. "Your understanding,
lady. Is it too much to—" But before she could answer, his face stiffened.
Defenses in place, he repeated, "An Italian itinerant, lady, gone now from
the face of this earth."
She
closed her eyes, her sense of horror overpowering. "Once, milord," she
gasped, "you convinced me of your love."
The
infant in the crib on the far side of the bed whimpered. Thomas raised his eyes
in that direction as though aware for the first time of the existence of the
child. As he started toward the crib, she cried out. Helpless, she watched him
scoop up the child as a bear scoops up a lamb.
"A
pretty bastard," he commented. "What do you call him?"
Marianne
shook her head, her hands covering her face, still trying to keep back the
sobs, which were dry and burning in her throat
"No
name?" Thomas scolded. "A true bastard then."
He
placed the infant back in the crib. The child's whimpering grew into shrieks. Thomas
looked down into the crib. "A true complainer as well." He cursed.
"The fisherman's blood within him, no doubt."
She
watched with a strange listlessness, convinced that she was going mad. There
was nothing about the man that she recognized, no angle of his face, no tone of
voice. It was as though a stranger had invaded her chambers.
When
he started back toward her, she cried out again. Before such a cry, he
retreated. In spite of her own terror, she saw pain on his face, a death mask
of his own.
Someone
was knocking violently on the door. The infant was screaming. He stared at her
a moment longer. She thought he might say something else. One hand extended
toward her as though beseeching. When he lifted his head, she thought she saw
tears on his face. Then, as the knocking and the wailing increased, he grabbed
for his jacket, his face covered with the peculiar moisture. "Lady, it's
best that I leave you," he said.
He
ran from the room and burst through the knot of people outside who'd been
aroused by her screams. Someone was asking her questions, but she could neither
hear nor understand them, so how could she possibly answer them?
Yet
her inner mind was curiously calm and at peace. She had no great pain. But she
was wet through with sweat, worn and weary. Greedily she drank down a soothing
drink that Jenny held to her mouth.
So
it was over. She'd have nothing more to do with it. She was a whore, her child
a bastard. She had paid, her account was settled.
She
lay back on the pillow and remembered all that had happened.
Suddenly
she grew restless, her hands fumbled under the folds of linen.
"What
is it, Marianne?" Jenny asked, concerned.
What
was it? For a moment, Marianne couldn't remember. It had come to her mind that
something had to be removed. But she had no possessions on earth anymore. She
owned nothing, so what needed to be removed?
Then
she remembered. She withdrew a hand from beneath the cover. Her bridal ring.
She wore that on her finger still. She drew it off and gazed at it. She shut
her eyes and held it out to Jenny.
"What
am I to do with this?" Jenny asked. As Marianne did not answer, Jenny
added, "Shall I keep it for you?"
Marianne
shook her head, her eyes tightly closed.
"He's
not in his mind, child. Be patient."
She
opened her eyes and looked at the ring where it lay in Jenny's hand. It seemed
to her that never before had she understood what it betokened. The life that
ring had falsely wed her to, that she had loathed at first, had raged at and
defied—nonetheless, she had loved it, joyed in it, both in good days and evil.
The
room was clearing. She heard a soft rustle of footsteps. The last clear thought
that formed in her mind was that surely God would not abandon her, would not
hold her responsible for a covenant made for her without her knowledge.
Three
weeks later, taking only the dark blue gown she wore on her back and carrying
her infant son in her arms, Marianne passed through the Great Hall and stepped
out into the bright September sun of the inner courtyard.
She
had said her awkward good-byes, all of them that mattered. Her family had
elected to remain in the castle, and why not? She didn't blame them. Never had
they enjoyed such plenty and security. Only Jenny was going with her, dear,
good Jenny who had gone ahead to clear the air in her father's cottage down in
Mortemouth.
In
the doorway out to the inner courtyard she stopped short. At the bottom of the
steps, she saw William Pitch. Several stewards were standing to one side
watching her, their faces mirroring the confusion that had swept through the
entire castle over the events of the last few weeks. She nodded politely to
them, renewed her grip on her sleeping son, and proceeded down the steps,
washing that William were not there, for she'd said her good-byes to him as
well.
Only
the night before William had told her that at Lord Eden's request, he was
taking up temporary residence in the castle. She'd been a little surprised,
but in a way it had been predictable. William's crucible in France had taken a
terrible toll. In every conversation she'd had with him, he'd made it clear
that he was done with life. All he wanted now was a place of peace and
isolation away from pitying eyes and a world without hope of solution.
In
spite of his new cynicism, there still was a decency to William, an honor that
Thomas would not be beyond exploiting. Marianne knew all too well that under
pressure Thomas could be eloquent and most persuasive. What a tale of pity he
must have woven for William in an attempt to enlist his aid!
She
looked with regret at the brilliant man who once had been the "Mind of
London." Now he was reduced to the empty role of go-between, a bearer of
messages in a hopeless cause.
She
thought that everything had been said. As she drew near the bottom step, he
moved toward her. His face looked stem though sad. "This isn't necessary,
you know," he began. "Lord Eden says you're welcome here for as long
as you wish to stay."