But
as she bent to put him in the crib, Marianne sharply protested, "No! Give
him to me."
As
Jenny did as she was told, Marianne took her son and clasped him to her. Long
after Jenny had retired, Marianne continued to sit before the fire, rocking
Edward back and forth, shivering in spite of the heat from the blazing logs.
Christmas
morning dawned clear and cold, a light scattering of snow over Mortemouth. They
had no tree, no gifts, but from somewhere Jenny had begged, borrowed or
stolen—Marianne was never quite sure which—a plump tender chicken, and that was
now stewing in a pot on the stove, filling the cottage with a delicious odor.
As
Jenny puttered about in the kitchen, promising additional surprises, Marianne
knelt on the floor by the fire, Edward on his blanket before her. She exulted
in his beauty, the way he was filling out. He had a rich bawling voice and clearly
a will of his own, and Marianne delighted in both, sensing that perhaps the
child was becoming for her a passion and power that should be checked, but she
refused to check it.
As
he cooed and giggled and kicked his chubby legs in the air, she saw him growing
up healthy and strong-willed and intelligent and handsome. "He
will
be good-looking, Jenny, don't you think?" she called out, burying her face
in the child's round belly, giggling with him.
Jenny,
a dripping spoon in hand, stuck her head around the comer of the kitchen,
entering into the spirit of the occasion. "He will leave a wake of broken
hearts, I promise you," she said, grinning.
Sobered,
Marianne looked up. "I'm not certain I want him to do that"
Almost
breathlessly, she asked, " Jenny will you teach him everything you know?
He must be schooled. He must be intelligent. I don't want him to stay in
Mortemouth."
Jenny
laughed. "Shall we start now? You come peel the spuds and I'll give him
his figures."
For
a moment, both women stared down on the child. He was beautiful with his golden
hair and dark eyes, evincing even at that tender age a charm of manner as he
grinned back at the women, as though pleased with himself.
"Good
Lord," grumbled Jenny, returning to the kitchen. "You'd think you were
the only mother in the world."
"I
am," Marianne smiled, lifting the baby and kissing him. She pressed his
smooth face to hers. It felt cool as moonlight, and when she released him her
head swam and she was torn between wanting to see him grown and wanting to keep
him forever a babe, totally dependent upon her.
Shortly
before noon, there was a knock at the door. Marianne, stretched out on the
blanket with Edward, looked over her shoulder. As Jenny started to the door,
Marianne sat up, warning her, "See who it is first."
Jenny
peered out of the near window, then grinned, "It's Mr. Pitch."
Cautiously
Marianne sat up. "Is he alone?"
Jenny
looked again. "As far as I can tell."
She
opened the door. For a moment, blinded by sunlight, Marianne saw nothing but
the outline of the man himself. She went to him and kissed him lightly on the
cheek. "Happy Christmas Day, William," she smiled.
He
returned her kiss. His face was ruddy with cold, a residue of snow on his
boots. "The Devon cold is worse than London." He shivered. "Do
you remember there, on occasion, we'd have roses on Christmas Day?"
She
remembered. "Come in," she urged, pleased to see him, but concerned
with the draft rushing across the floor toward the baby.
As
Jenny went to close the door, William stepped back out onto the stoop. Grinning
like Father Christmas, he dragged a heavy sled across the threshold.
"What's Christmas without gifts?" He smiled. Awkwardly, with his good
arm he continued to jockey the bulging sled laden with gifts toward the center
of the room.
"Good
Lord," Jenny gasped, closing the door, then hurrying back for a closer
examination of the various riches. "Look! A goose," she exclaimed,
lifting a plucked leg. "And a plum pudding!" Grinning, she lifted the
wrapped cake and studied it lovingly. "Dolly's, I bet. She can make them
fit for angels."
During
this time, Marianne had scooped up the baby and wrapped his blanket around him
as protection against the chill. Quietly she sat in the chair and watched both
of them as they pored over the various gifts, foodstuffs for the most part,
luxuries unheard of in the village of Mortemouth. She watched as long as she
could, then decided she had better speak. "We can't accept any of it,
William. You know that. I'm sorry for troubling you, but you must take them
back."
A
stunned silence filled the room as she took on the burden of both William's and
Jenny's staring eyes. "For heaven's sake, why?" Jenny demanded. "I
for one know that Lord Eden had nothing to do with this plum pudding. This came
from Dolly, and—"
"It
doesn't matter," Marianne said. "They must all go back."
William
stepped forward. "It's only food, and a few baubles for him."
"They
must go back," she repeated a third time, wanting to close the
conversation.
Sternly
Jenny scolded her. "You're being very proud and foolish, Marianne."
Angrily
Marianne replied. "I'm doing what I must do and if you can't understand,
I'm sorry."
Jenny
stared at her, then mournfully placed the plum pudding back on the sled and
retreated to the kitchen.
Marianne
lowered her head, regretful that she'd spoken so sharply. William was still
there, trying to play the diplomat. He laughed. "If you knew the trouble I
had getting it down the cliff, you wouldn't send it back."
"I'm
sorry," she said, "but I didn't ask for it and I don't need it."
Awkwardly,
William shook off his cape and adjusted a chair close beside hers. "And
what about him?" he asked, motioning toward the baby.
Marianne
drew back the blanket and revealed her plump pink child. "Does he look
neglected, William?" She smiled. "Does he really look as though he
needs anything?"
William
shook his head. The conversation died. For several long moments he stared into
the fire. "I know someone who
does
need something," he said,
finally.
Marianne
looked at him, clearly understanding the innuendo of his words. The Christmas
day which had dawned with such simple promise turned bleak. Abruptly she stood
up and walked a few steps beyond the fire. "William, I long for news of my
family. If you've come to tell me about my father, or Dolly, or Jane, you're
most welcome to stay. But—"
He
followed after her. "You must hear me out, Marianne," he begged. "He
is suffering intensely."
"He
enjoys suffering."
"Not
this kind. He walks about late at night and returns and sits alone in your
chamber beside your bed. He talks to the empty room on occasion. I know. I've
heard him. He sees no one, answers no correspondence. He's grown quite pale and
suffers intensely from the cold."
She
stared incredulously at him. "You loathed him once, William. How has he
seduced you?"
He
stood still, his hand rubbing the stump of his arm. "He hasn't seduced me,
Marianne. He has over the last few months revealed large portions of himself to
me. I've seen every angle and shade and degree of remorse known to man. I
admit, he has blundered brutally and ruthlessly. He has deceived and contrived
and inflicted enormous pain. But he has paid, is paying more than either of us
can imagine."
She
listened to his heartfelt plea. Off in the kitchen, she heard a strained
silence, Jenny clearly eavesdropping.
"Please,"
William begged softly. "He wants only an audience with you. He will come
here if you give him permission."
Then
she was furious. "He wants an audience?" she repeated, amazed. "There
will be no audience, not in this life or the next. You may convey that message
to him. There-will-be-no-audience!" she repeated, stammering in her rage,
"save when I am in my grave and helpless to protest it."
Bewildered,
William stepped toward her as though to comfort.
"No,"
she warned. "Don't come near me."
"Marianne,
please—"
"I
beg you leave us alone," she said, lifting her head.
When
he refused to obey, she took the child and left the room, retreated into her
back bedroom where she closed and bolted the door.
Beyond,
she heard the murmur of voices as apparently Jenny reappeared. She listened
closely, but couldn't hear what they were saying. It didn't matter. Her son was
hungry. She sat on the edge of the bed and as Edward nursed, she heard the
front door open, heard the sled being dragged out. The cottage grew silent. She
looked out the back window. As her eyes grew accustomed to tears, she made out
the dim sheen of the withered snow-covered leaves on the path, and the faint
light from the sky above the tree tops.
The
roll of waves on the strand below the cottage came to her in dull heavy sighs.
On
countless occasions that winter, she saw Thomas Eden, hooded, his face
obscured, standing a distance away, watching the cottage. When spring came, she
saw him even more frequently when she was in the garden with her son, saw him
standing across the cobblestones at the edge of the path, always watching, just
watching her in a kind of stubborn silence. Each time she saw him, she quickly
gathered Edward to her and whisked him into the cottage, where she locked and
bolted both doors and did not go outside again until he disappeared.
From
December to March, she was visited weekly by someone from the castle, mostly
William, but on occasion Jane and Sarah. No matter how skillfully they
contrived to make the visits innocent, sooner or later, each in his own way
revealed his true role as messenger, filling her ear and bespoiling the air
with news of the man she loathed.
In
time, and in a rather hard way, she made it dear to all that no one would be
welcomed in the cottage so long as a certain name passed his or her lips. By
April, the weekly treks down the side of the cliff had stopped altogether, and
she now enjoyed an isolation not quite as splendid as she'd hoped it would be.
As
always, she found her only comfort in her son, who sat beside her in a blaze of
sunlight as she pulled weeds from the long rows of carrots and cabbages in the
back garden, laughing at her as she tickled him beneath the chin with a delicate
frond of fern, listening to her intently as though he understood every word she
spoke lovingly to him. He was growing quite sturdy, reaching out with eager
fists to grab handfuls of her long hair, the exact color of his own.
In
spite of the ban on the mention of Thomas Eden's name, she still heard of him
from various sources, from the gossiping women down on the quay cleaning fish.
"Ready
for Bedlam, or so I hear," announced an old woman as, one day, Marianne
passed close with Edward, taking the air.
And
another, "Jack Spade told my man that Lord Eden parades about in a
bedsheet, and the only wagon permitted through the gate is the weekly load of
spirits from Exeter."
Quietly
Marianne propped her son up on the stone wall, gazing out to sea, listening.
"Jack
Spade says it's terrible," another went on. "One night the stewards
found him naked at the gate. It took six men to lock him in his chambers."
As
the tongues clacked, Marianne bent her head low over her son, feeling ill.
Quickly she hurried around the wall and onto the beach. There she placed Edward
on clean sand and walked a distance away to the water's edge, trying to clear
her head of the gossip.
Behind
her she heard Edward whimpering. Quickly she returned and went down on her
knees and lifted the little boy, still crying because sand had spoiled the good
bun she had given him for sitting quietly.