She
walked past him a few steps, lowering her head from the sun, unaccustomed to
its brilliance. From somewhere in the upper regions of the castle she had the
sensation of eyes watching her. She straightened her back and adjusted the
swaddling blanket around her son. "I don't want to stay, William,"
she replied, not unkindly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must hurry. Jenny
can't do everything."
But
he merely fell in beside her, keeping pace with her across the courtyard. "What
will you do?" he asked, peering closely at her face.
She
laughed lightly. "I have a son to raise, William. That should occupy about
twenty years of my life." Out of the comer of her eye, she saw the
whipping oak and increased her step, head down.
"You
can't do it alone," he protested.
"I
shan't be alone," she replied. "I have Jenny and all my friends in
the village."
"Still,
it isn't necessary."
"You're
welcome there yourself, William, if you choose to stay in Devon. I used to
enjoy our long chats."
He
hurried in front of her, blocking her path. "Please, Marianne. Lord Eden
begs you to reconsider."
She
looked at his urgent face and discovered with a pang of regret that she felt
nothing for him, felt nothing for anyone except the small bundle in her arms.
"Let me pass, William."
But
he held his ground, clearly playing his role as go-between. "I spent the
evening with Lord Eden," he began. "He said he is suffering deep
regret, said it was never his intention for you to leave the castle. He said he
wishes that you would—"
"He
owes me nothing," she whispered fiercely. "Tell him for me that all I
wish now is to be left alone in peace. Tell him further that there was feeling
once, deep and genuine, but it's gone now without leaving a trace. Tell him
that I have fully grasped my situation, and wish, indeed demand, to face it in
my own way."
Quickly
she sidestepped him and hurried on toward the gate, where the watchmen looked
at her with varying degrees of pity and recognition.
William
called after her, "Marianne, wait—"
But
she had no intention of waiting. Beyond the second grille was freedom, the
magical new beginning, a sun sparkling on the turquoise waters of the channel
and the shrill scream of gulls exulting in their freewheeling antics. She had
passed through a crucible and with God's help, she had survived. There was
nothing in the name of Eden to threaten or harm her anymore.
As
she took the gate running, she saw the watchmen bow to her, a thoughtful
gesture generously given and generously received. In her brief though false
tenure as Lady Eden, she had made friends. She was not alone and she had
nothing to fear.
These
thoughts passed through her mind like quicksilver as she approached the
headland and the narrow path leading down to Mortemouth. Safe beyond the castle
gate, she stopped breathless from her sprint. She drew back the blanket and
looked lovingly at her son. A fair, sturdy infant. With her help he would grow
to fair, sturdy manhood. What fun they could have together exploring the coves
and crannies of North Devon! He was all she wanted, all she needed.
Gathering
him close to her breast, she hugged him with such force that he whimpered,
stirred in his blanket, and reached one tiny fist up to her face.
"Why
Edward?" Jenny laughed, lifting the child from his bath as Marianne put the
finishing touches to his christening gown.
"Why
not?" replied Marianne, a bit defensively. "Two of our greatest
monarchs were Edwards."
"With
one rotten apple in between," commented Jenny. As she placed the child,
wriggling and fat at three months, on clean linen, she mused, "He doesn't
even look very much like an Edward."
Then
it was Marianne's turn to laugh. "And how does an Edward look?" she
asked, taking over the drying process. "In my opinion, he could be
anything he wants to be." Slowly she wrapped the child and carried him to
her father's old chair. She drew back the top of her dress and gave him her
breast, still full with milk. As the child sucked contentedly, she felt that
contentment spread, and looked about her, pleased.
In
three short months she and Jenny had worked wonders in the small cottage. She
found the low-ceilinged rooms comforting after the vast emptiness of Eden
Castle. The walls were freshly whitewashed, neat white curtains hung at the window.
Before December's cold had set in, she and Jenny had turned the garden for
spring planting. Jenny had commenced tutoring again, her true love, and while
her ten students could pay little, the grateful parents always seemed able to
manage a wagonload of firewood, a tub of fresh butter, a line of herring, or a
side of pork.
They
were surviving, not easily, but come spring with the garden and a few chickens
of their own, they could manage very well. What few hardships they had to
endure were made palatable in the kindness of the villagers, as, with one
accord they had welcomed Marianne and her son back into their midst.
In
the narrow kitchen, she heard Jenny emptying the bathwater. In a rush of
affection, Marianne wondered what she would do without the woman. Her expert
eye saw everything, not only the domestic needs of the cottage, but saw deeper,
saw those occasions when Marianne would lapse into a dark depression, thinking
on all that had happened, and how helpless she was to alter any of it. On these
occasions, Jenny would lovingly revive her with suggestions for walks to the
quay, searching for shells on the beach, taking the child with them and
introducing him to the feel of salt spray, the onmipresent and comforting roar
of the ocean.
As
Jenny appeared in the low doorway, drying her hands on her apron, Marianne
studied her. "Jenny," she said, and held out her hand.
Jenny
looked mystified at her, though she finished drying her hands and took
Marianne's. Neither woman spoke, the light of understanding dawning in Jenny's
face. She smiled. "The Lord looks after us," she said. "Our
mutual thanks should be to Him."
"They
are," said Marianne, "but I will reserve for all time an
exceptionally tender place for you."
Jenny's
eyes were fastened on Marianne. "You are the daughter I never had,"
she whispered. "I could more easily abandon my own life than I could
abandon you."
Gently
she reached over to kiss Marianne on the forehead. Quickly Marianne's arms went
around her neck. Even though she was locked in a close and reciprocal embrace,
Marianne's thoughts moved heavily to the top of Eden Point, to the pain of
betrayal.
Abruptly
Jenny disengaged herself and stood back, all business. "We'd best hurry.
Parson Branscombe said eight o'clock. We must get this Edward named in the eyes
of God."
Marianne
glanced down at her son. "He's hungry." She smiled. "You run
along and dress. It won't take me long."
As
Jenny disappeared into Hartlow's old bedroom, now her own, Marianne leaned back
in the chair, closing her eyes against the slight discomfort of her son,
drawing on her nipple. The Lord looks after us, Jenny had said. Marianne smiled
wryly. It seemed to her that once or twice the Lord had closed His eyes. What
was ahead for her, for her bastard son? Jenny was old. She worked hard. There
was a limit to physical endurance. How many times had William Pitch been sent
down the cliff with a packet of guineas? She'd lost count, but as many times
she'd sent him right back up again. She doubted seriously if Thomas' conscience
was bothering him, for she knew, based on experience, that he had none, was
blessedly bereft of that single sense which so sternly dictates the actions and
responses of most people.
Still,
the child was growing. What was to become of him? A fisherman in Mortemouth?
One of the rough jacks who inhabited The Hanging Man pub? She didn't know, had
no idea.
"Come
along," she whispered to her son. "Surely you've had enough." A
few minutes later the child released her breast and smacked contentedly, his
dark eyes, Eden eyes unfortunately, growing heavy with sleep.
Marianne
placed him on the couch and dried her breast. She dressed him in the
christening gown of white muslin, with a small lace trim taken from Jenny's
best shawl. Then she dressed herself in brown muslin which old Mrs. Malvina had
given her in exchange for teaching her granddaughter to write her name.
At
a quarter to eight, both women left the cottage, inadequately clothed in their
shawls against the biting cold December evening. They hurried down the narrow
cobblestones, heading toward the Chapel of the Fishermen, a plain one-room
stone structure, built in the last century by the fishermen of Mortemouth.
There,
at ten minutes after eight, in the presence of a dozen or so villagers, with
Parson Branscombe presiding in his best black coat, without benefit of
godparents, the child was christened Edward Hartlow Eden.
In
the registry of Baptisms of the parish, these words were written:
27
August, 1796
Edward
Hartlow Eden, son of
Thomas
Eden, Earl of Eden, by
Marianne
Locke.
At
the conclusion of the brief ceremony, the villagers gathered around to admire
the child. There were thoughtful gifts; a warm blanket, freshly washed
hand-me-downs from other children now grown too large to wear them, and a delightful
stuffed toy puppy.
Marianne
received them all with gratitude, embracing the women, allowing the men with
their rough hands to self-consciously tweak the child beneath his chin.
The
fellowship at the front of the chapel was close and warm, the candlelight
playing off the ruddy faces of the fishermen. Parson Branscombe beaming as
though he'd had something to do with it.
At
one point, when old Mrs. Malvina insisted upon holding the baby, Marianne
released him to her and turned away to straighten herself and try to hide the
spreading milk stain on her dress. At that moment she saw movement at the rear
of the small chapel, in a secluded comer on the back pew where no light fell.
She squinted her eyes into the darkness, trying to see who it was who was
holding back from the warmth at the front of the room.
Feeling
that no one should be excluded on this joyous occasion, she called out,
"Won't you join us? It's warm here."
Suddenly
the black-hooded figure stood. He held his position for a moment, then quickly
slipped out of the door, closing it behind him. The sharp draft made the
candles flutter. Marianne stared at the empty darkness at the back of the room.
Her heart accelerated.
Jenny
was at her side, whispering, "Who was it?"
Slowly
Marianne shook her head. "I don't know." She stared a moment longer,
her sense of disquiet increasing. She remembered that terrifying night when
Thomas had returned and entered her chambers, remembered how he had crushed the
boy to him. Behind her, her son was crying at being passed from hand to hand. Urgently
she whispered to Jenny, "We must go home now."
Taking
their leave as gracefully as possible, Jenny gathered up the small gifts,
Marianne retrieved her son and, staying close together, they hurried back
through the night toward the safety of their cottage.
The
dark evening was all about them, the sea was calm. Constantly Marianne turned
her head, searching out each moving shadow, breaking finally into a run at the
sight of the cottage itself, windows rosy with the promise of the fire they'd
left burning in the fireplace.
Once
inside, Marianne locked and bolted the door. Jenny sensed her apprehension.
"Do you think it was—"
Marianne
shook her head. "I don't know."
The
wind was increasing, rattling at the windows. Quickly Jenny took the baby from
her and led her to a chair near the fireplace. "You mustn't imagine
things," she soothed. "Here, now, Edward's asleep. Let's do the
same."