This Other Eden (10 page)

Dolly
and Jenny exchanged a quick look, a tacit admission of the disintegration which
surrounded them. Wordlessly they each took up the vigil on their respective
patients, Jenny dragging the stool close to the placidly sleeping Hartlow,
Dolly returning to the small bedroom at the back of the cottage.

She
felt old beyond her years, a nocturnal hag with a broken head who looked down
on Marianne. There she saw the traces of something new, the thinnest of
moisture escaping from the corners of the girl's eyes, salt brine of repressed
pain and humiliation.

The
sight was almost more than Dolly could bear. She longed to lift her into her
arms, but knew she would only cause greater pain. She thought again of the man
who had watched the proceedings of the morning from his high, safe window clad
in a white nightshirt, a grave mistake of nature. If there was any justice in
Heaven, he would be required to pay for the havoc he had wrought.

If
there was any justice in Heaven. . . .

The
body mended; it was young and had no choice. The spirit was another matter.

For
days Dolly and Jenny watched her, hoping to catch some glimpse of the spirited
young girl they had known before. But there was nothing.

Even
old Ragland kept his promise and always took time from his busy schedule
overseeing the excavation of the secret staircase to make daily trips down the
steep cliff walk. Usually he appeared at the Locke cottage shortly after dusk
with an urgent inquiry, "Any change?"

But
Jenny was always forced to reply with a mournful shake of her head. The only
comfort that she could pass on to Ragland was the meager comfort that Dolly
gave to her. "When she is able to sit up, we're certain it will make a
difference."

It
didn't. Three weeks after the Public Whipping, Marianne was sitting up. But she
was as silent as ever, her eyes down as though suffering fresh pain and
humiliation.

On
September 3, a month after the terrible ordeal, she was walking with a slight
limp, moving in a spiritless path which never took her farther than the garden
in one direction and the low front door in the other.

Thoughtful
neighbors came daily in loving attempts to coax her out of her silence. Mrs.
Wotten brought hot spice buns, once Marianne's favorites; they were not
acknowledged and were eaten by others. And old Bob Duncan brought his fiddle,
thinking music might make a difference. But nothing worked. In fact people
seemed to terrify her and at the first sound of a knock she always moved
rapidly back to her small room where Jenny found her sitting on the edge of the
bed, her hands trembling and folded tightly in her lap.

When
after two months, there still was no discernible change, when her silence
seemed to vary little from that of poor demented Hartlow, when Dolly soberly
expressed the opinion that if she did not rejoin the living soon, the death of
her spirit might become permanent, they held a council.

"New
airs," was Dolly's prescription.

"Where?"
Jenny asked. "She has no money. Bath or Weymouth would be nice, but—"

Ragland
sat to one side of the table, listening to the two old women. Through the
opened door he could see Marianne, sitting on the edge of the bed, the same
position and attitude, head down. He looked away in a spirit of disgust born of
frustration. Frankly he was getting a little weary of it all, his daily trips
down the side of the cliff, the smelly little cottage, old Hartlow, lost
forever, his once strong and familiar features replaced, apparently for all
time, by a grinning clown face. And the girl. No difference really. A living
zombie. No, someone had to do something. He'd left matters to the women long
enough. Now it was time for a wise, superior male voice.

He
sat up straighter at the table and with authority smoothed back his hair, a
gesture he'd picked up from Thomas Eden. "What of her sister Jane?"
he asked quietly, as though he'd had the solution in his back pocket all the
while. "I hear she's married well. If you ask me, I'd say it's time for
the sister to come to the aid of her unfortunate family."

Both
Dolly and Jenny looked up. Clearly the idea had never occurred to them before.
Dolly smiled broadly. "My Lord, I never even gave Jane a thought—"

"We'd
have to write first," Jenny warned.

"Then
write!" scolded Ragland. "Do something. None of us can go like this
for much longer." Again he looked back into the small bedroom, thinking perhaps
that a discussion of her future might make a difference to Marianne.

It
didn't. If she heard anything at all, she gave no indication of it and
continued to sit on the edge of the bed, listlessly rubbing her right arm, a
peculiar gesture that seemed to soothe her.

Jenny
had another doubt and voiced it. "Is she strong enough to make the journey
to London?"

Dolly,
who had warmed instantly to the idea, put her fears to rest. "There's
nothing wrong with her. I've told you that. She's healed, and miraculously too.
She's almost as good as new."

"Then
write the letter," Ragland commanded. "Let Jane tend to her for a
while. If London fails to revive her, then there's no hope for her. None at
all."

By
the following afternoon, the letter had been written and posted. Immediately
Dolly and Jenny turned to sewing a simple wardrobe for the girl. And when by
mid-November no reply had been received from Jane in London, they decided to
send her anyway. Another two weeks and the roads would be impassable with winter
snows.

Ragland
convinced the two old women of the prudence of this course of action and took
it upon himself to raise a small purse among the sympathetic neighbors.

The
night before the scheduled departure, he sat with Marianne at the table and
told her in plain language what was ahead of her and where they were sending
her. Midway through his speech, the girl stood up and walked slowly to her
room. There she closed and, for the first time, locked the door behind her.

Old
Ragland was left with his mouth open. Jenny brooded. "It's not going to
work." Dolly still felt confident. "She'll come around in time."

Privately
Ragland sided with Jenny. Publicly he soothed, "She'll be fine. London is
a proper medicine. I assure you, she'll be fine."

He
glanced back at the closed and locked door. Oh, Jesus, but he was weary of the
whole thing. And how he looked forward to the morrow when he could say good
riddance to the corpselike young girl who had survived and yet not survived
Thomas Eden's barbaric punishment. . . .

The
miracle that was the Exeter Stagecoach carried six passengers inside and six
outside, with up to two tons of luggage. Seven miles an hour was the average
speed, and the journey to London took about thirty-six hours, allowing for
pauses at the toll gates, short stops for rest and refreshment, and for the
fact that passengers had to walk up all hills and sometimes down as well. The
inside travelers considered themselves quite superior to the outside, who paid
only half fare; no outside passenger could change to an inside seat without the
consent of one person at least of those already within, and then had to sit
next to that person.

The
coach left Exeter from the Church Inn in Newgate Street and, taking the usual
route by Honiton, Sherborne, Sahsbury, Reading, and Maidenhead, it reached its
terminus at the White Bear in Piccadilly Circus in the early hours of the
morning.

Ragland
stood in the push and crowd of people, trying to keep track of his young charge
and her one valise, trying to shield her from the cold drizzle which had
obscured the light of day and had turned Newgate Street into one vast, muddy
slough.

A
most unpleasant duty, his, seeing Marianne off, making sure she took her proper
seat on the outside of the coach, that she understood the meaning of the
address printed primly in Dolly's handwriting tucked inside her purse. Also he
had to make certain that she understood the value of the small bag of coins
which Dolly and Jenny had pinned to her under-petticoat near her waist, the
generous sum of two guineas, raised by friends for the purpose of this journey.

As
the porters were still loading the luggage, there was nothing to do but wait
for the stagemaster's call to board. Ragland bent over, trying to get a glimpse
of the pale face, trying as everyone had tried for the last three months to
find a meaning in it

He
leaned closer, feeling a chill from the wet drizzle. "Mariann?" he
suggested kindly, "would you care to wait inside the Inn? It may be a
while."

She
looked up at him as though seeing him for the first time. "If you wish,"
she murmured, without inflection or expression.

Wearily
Ragland took her by the arm and steered her through the crowds of people. He
noticed, as she walked ahead, the slight limp which still plagued her. That,
and a faint numbness in her right arm, were the only visible traces of her
ordeal at the whipping oak. The rest of the wounds, under Dolly's and Jenny's
care, had healed. Her back still bore long, puckering, still reddish scars and
would, according to Dolly, for as long as she lived.

As
Ragland pushed open the door of the Inn, he noticed that Marianne was looking
at him like a child searching for further instructions. "There," he
said, hastily pointing toward a small table by the window where they could sit
comfortably and still keep an eye on the coach and the wet cold day. Politely
he drew back the chair for her and watched as she sat, gingerly, out of habit,
holding her back a distance from the slats. Ragland spied several bits of straw
caught in the coarse fabric of her shawl, mute reminders of her unceremonious
ride across Exmoor to Exeter in the back of a sheep cart.

Quickly
Ragland removed the straw and hid it in the pocket of his coat. It had been the
only available means of transportation, as both Dolly and Jenny had doubted
seriously Marianne's ability or strength to sit a horse for the long ride to
Exeter.

Again
Ragland looked across the table at her. Nothing moved in her face. She simply
sat there, her eyes fixed on the rough wooden windowsill, her hands folded
primly in her lap, her lips slightly open.

A
persistent voice close by brought Ragland back to the moment. A serving girl
with a rouged face was asking what was his pleasure. "You cain't sit
withut' orderin'." She grinned. "Rules of the maister."

Distractedly
Ragland nodded. He considered asking Marianne if she had a preference, but knew
he would get no response. Finally he ordered, "Two wassails, hot and
strong."

The
girl bobbed her head prettily and departed, leaving him alone again with the
ever-silent Marianne, who sat staring blankly out the window of the Inn, her
eyes obviously not focused on anything beyond the raindrops which shed in
rivulets through an accumulation of coal dust.

"Marianne?"
he spoke softly, feeling the time had come to deliver himself of all the last
minute advice which had been heaped upon him by Dolly and Jenny and the score
of neighbors who had contributed to the small purse pinned to her waist.
"It's for the best," he began, reaching for one small gloved hand
resting lifeless upon the table.

"Now,
when you reach London, you are to go immediately to your sister's house. The
address is in your purse. Do you remember?"

Finally
she dragged her eyes away from the window and to his face. Still there was no movement
or light in her expression.

"In
your purse," he repeated, louder this time, searching her eyes for a sign
of comprehension. He moved on without it. "There is coin if you need it,
but use it sparingly. Do you understand?"

Her
eyelashes were gray-black, long and curled. Motionless. "Marianne?" he
scolded. "Do you hear me?"

The
serving girl reappeared, bearing two mugs of steaming wassail. She placed the
cups on the table and eyed Marianne while Ragland fished for the coins in his
pocket.

"Wisht
it was me goin' to London Town," she said, grinning. "I'd smile me
pleasure for you right enough. Your daughter here looks like she's agoin' to a
hangin'." Again she giggled prettily and slipped the coins into her apron.
"Her own," she added, turning back to the busy commerce of the Inn.