This Other Eden (15 page)

Jane
adjusted the wick of the table lamp. The flame sprang too high, leaping
dangerously near the sleeve of her robe. She jumped back, cursing softly.
William stirred, looked sleepily up at the light. "What in hell—" he
muttered, lifting the pillow, then squashing it down again, his eyes briefly
opening.

"Go
back to sleep," Jane soothed. "It's probably just one of the
gentlemen come back in search of a lost glove." She stood still to see if
William had obeyed her. Thoughtfully she shielded the light with her hand until
she saw that he had returned peacefully to his sleep. In spite of the apparent
emergency at the front door, she lingered, staring down on him, this handsome
bright man who had rescued her from the trials and degradation of service and
had set her up in her own fashionable two-story house in Bloomsbury just off
Southampton Row.

William
Pitch was the successful editor of a paper
The Bloomsbury Gazetteer
. All
that he asked of her was that she run his house smoothly and provide him with
an attractive and safe place to bring his wide assortment of unique and
occasionally infamous friends each night.

It
was a good arrangement, and while Jane might have preferred that marriage be
included in the bargain, she was confident that would come later.

She
was a tall, full-breasted woman, and though her skin was still young at
twenty-four and her hair black, there could be seen coming, early in her life,
the design that was to be the weather-beaten grain of her face, an undocumented
record of time. Four years ago she had fled the stifling provinciality of her home
in Mortemouth, and had also fled the painful competition of a more attractive,
pampered, and far wittier younger halfsister.

During
her first year in London she had endured backbreaking labor in service at Lady
Groveton's grand palace off Regency Park, the endless chores of underhouse
parlor maid, unendurable for someone who could both read and write, and who
knew the ways of the world and was hoping to find her place in it. Then one
night, in the company of a friend, in the back room of The Mitten and the
Mermaid, she had met William Pitch.

She
had been smart enough to know what he wanted of her and smart enough not to
turn down any of his requests. She knew that he had been attracted by her
unsophisticated good looks and knew also that he had been equally attracted by
her obvious efficiency, her ability to manage a household.

So
it was a good life, though a mildly scandalous one. But here in London, she was
above scandal. Each evening her salon was a gallery of the brightest faces in
London, gentlemen who could safely bring their mistresses for a discreet
evening's relaxation. She possessed a closetful of lovely gowns, had two women
in service to her, and counted lords and ladies and authors and artists among
her acquaintances. If William was in no hurry to make their personal
arrangements permanent, she was smart enough not to rush him. It would all come
in time. All she really wanted now was a gay life away from the old hurts and
poverty of Mortemouth, from the constant and unfair competition of her younger
sister.

Thinking
on all this, her face became set, as though in the passing of a moment another
year had crept over her. She drew the light farther away from the bed where
William lay sleeping. Millie was still at it, a continuous howl for "Miss
Jane! Miss Jane!" She scolded herself for even thinking about the past. It
always depressed her. She tightened the cord of her dressing gown and hurried
toward the top of the stairs.

The
lamp threw a weak light ahead of her and, halfway down the stairs, joined the
faint illumination from Millie's lamp. Jane also noticed a flickering candle
held by Sarah Gibbons, the stem, reliable cook and housekeeper who'd been in
service to her during her three years with William. Both women, in a state of
considerable agitation, hovered over something in the open doorway.

"Good
Lord," Millie gasped. "Come and look." She stepped back, but
Sarah's portly rump still blocked Jane's view. For some peculiar reason, she
thought it might be a dead animal, although such explanation made no sense.

Millie,
a thin girl with a strident voice, talked on, waving her lamp excitedly through
the air. "He just drove off," she exclaimed, "just drew up and
drove off. Sarah saw it, too. Ask Sarah if you don't believe me."

Still
annoyed at the waste of candle and lamp, Jane pushed the gibbering girl aside
and drew even with the door. Sarah straightened up painfully. A sharp wind
suddenly extinguished her candle, leaving the door darkened save for Jane's
lamp.

"What
is it?" she demanded. "Almost dawn it is, and the two of you standing
about like—"

As
she spoke, she lowered the lamp to the front stoop, still nursing the curious
but macabre idea that someone had left a dead animal on her doorstep.

At
first the faint illumination from the lamp caught nothing but the vague outline
of a wet lump, a curled heaped something resembling a pile of discarded
clothes. Sarah, all her quiet self-reserve intact, continued to reach down, her
long white nightdress blowing backward with the wind. From her bent-over
position, she looked up at Jane. "It's a girl, Miss Locke," she
announced calmly. "Half-dead she is."

Jane
scowled at the pointed "Miss Locke." Sarah knew all too well that she
preferred to be called Mrs. Pitch, even if it wasn't true. Quickly she handed
Sarah the lamp and called for Millie to assist her. Reaching down gingerly to
avoid brushing her rose-velvet robe against the wet muddy figure, together the
two women dragged the limp girl into the entry hall. The body stretched out in
the process, revealing hands, two thin white arms, a thoroughly drenched head
of long fair hair, and a crude brown rain-soaked dress.

Millie,
still suffering from an almost hysterical excitement, ran back for the valise.
Jane lifted the frozen shoulders and turned the figure over.

Sarah
gasped and wheezed, "Lord have mercy, it's no more than a child."

Jane
held the lamp lower, her hand suddenly trembling. The recognition was
instantaneous, reminding her of the unanswered letter from Dolly Wisdom
upstairs on her bureau a letter which it had been Jane's intention to leave
unanswered, finding the nerve and nature of the request almost more than she
could bear.

Jane
turned away in anger, taking the light with her, her pulse racing. What right
did they have to do this? She was sorry about her father, about the humiliation
suffered by her brother, poor dear Russell, who had wanted so to come with her.
It had been her intention to send for Russell as soon as she legally became
Mrs. Pitch. But this? This "child" as Sarah had called her—

Her
breath caught in her throat as her thoughts came in rambling fragments. She
knew that both Sarah and Millie were watching her, waiting for her reaction,
for orders. She also knew, though the thought gave her a start, that if it
weren't for the two women watching her, she'd drag the wet baggage back out
onto the pavement and leave it where she'd found it and close and lock her door
against its threat forever.

But
she knew further that if she were to become the future Mrs. Pitch, she must
behave with a degree of civility and decorum in front of the servants. While
she knew all this, she was capable of replying to Millie's whispered question
of "Do you know her. Miss Locke?" with a calm, contained, "I've
never seen her before in my life."

Sarah's
voice cut in. "If you don't know her. Miss Locke, why did she come
here?" The voice probed on. "Millie said the cabbie gave her a piece
of paper. With this address."

Jane
continued to stare down at the small figure. She felt defeated. The fact was
that the girl was here, apparently half-dead, but here. Jane could not keep
either her presence or her identity a secret. That knowledge added to an
already great burden of fury.

There
was
one difference, though, and a major one at that. Now it was Marianne
who was alone, Marianne on foreign territory, Marianne without the nourishment
of everyone's love, Marianne the outcast Jane stared down at the long-lashed
eyelids as if she had become belatedly aware of the safety of her own position.
Here the girl would be totally dependent upon her.

She
smiled warmly at Sarah's puzzled face. "I was wrong," she began. "I
do know her. She's my sister."

Sarah's
bewilderment increased. "Your—what?"

"My
sister," Jane repeated, as though it were a common fact that everyone
should have known. She smiled graciously. "My half-sister, really. We had
different mothers."

While
both Sarah and Millie struggled to digest this information, Jane bent over to
examine more closely the still face. Her distress was diminishing. She could
easily play the role of gracious older sister, all the while keeping the girl
in her place. Upon close examination, she saw that certain changes had taken
place. The child-face was gone, replaced by something older, pale and drawn.
The nails on the fingers, once so smooth and pink and polished, were now jagged
and quite dirty. And there were scars on her wrists, rough bands of flesh,
souvenirs no doubt of the whipping oak. For one bewildering moment Jane felt
something like pity stir within her. How painful it must have been!

"Well,
enough," she said, quickly dismissing the puzzling emotion.

"Here,
both of you, help me with her."

"Where
do you want her?" Sarah asked, still looking about suspiciously.

"For
tonight, we'll put her in the small storeroom off the pantry. There's a couch
there. She'll be warm."

"The
storeroom?" Sarah parroted.

"Just
for tonight," Jane snapped. "We certainly can't carry her upstairs,
and I have no intention of disturbing William."

She
thrust the lamp into Millie's hand. With no effort, the two women lifted the
girl and carried her back through the labyrinth of rooms, Millie leading the
way with the bobbing lamp, opening doors for them, still gasping softly,
"My Lord, oh. My Lord!"

It
was a windowless cell lined on one side with sacks of flour and sugar, a barrel
of oil for the lamps, and an assortment of cast-off furniture. The storeroom
was at the rear of the house behind the kitchen. The couch, banished from the
drawing room two years ago, when Jane had redecorated in the Chinese fashion,
was a lumpy green velvet brocade vomiting its horsehair stuffing at one end.
They placed her there. Jane stood back breathless, brushing bits of mud off her
robe, her face calm, having come to terms with her new guest.

Sarah
continued to look intently at her as though questioning her about everything.
Shocked, she scolded, "You can't leave her here. Miss Locke. It's not fit
for an animal."

"I
said it was only temporary," Jane replied.

The
girl on the couch was beginning to stir. One small white hand lifted, bobbed
uselessly through the air, then fell back against the couch.

"Leave
me alone with her," Jane ordered. "Millie, fetch me one of your
nightgowns. Sarah, bring us a bottle of brandy and a blanket. Then both of you
go to bed. I'll see to her."

Millie
deposited the lamp on the floor and left immediately to do as she had been
told. Sarah lingered, her plain English face seeing more. "What do you
intend to do with her. Miss Locke?" she inquired casually.

"Do
with her?" asked Jane. "I don't understand."

Sarah
looked down on the small figure. "What I mean is," she added, "why
did she come here?"

Jane
stared at the woman, feeling a slight hostility toward her subtle probings. It
occurred to her to tell her the truth. Perhaps it would remove the great
sympathetic cow eyes, would help to inform Sarah that they were taking in an
exile with no place to go.

Coldly,
Jane ordered, "Bring the lamp closer, Sarah." As the woman did as she
was told, Jane began to unbutton the wet dress, then the undergarments,
carefully pulling them back to reveal thin white shoulders. She pushed the girl
toward the wall and slowly drew the dress away from her back.