This Other Eden (23 page)

"And
she was right," William agreed, "and you obviously were very
fortunate."

She
looked at him as though she doubted what he had said. But the doubt passed and
she proceeded to walk slowly down the pavement. He followed after her, amazed
at the transformation. It seemed as though that by removing herself physically
from the broom and dusty stoop, she was removing herself emotionally from the
mentality of a servant. Except for the severely high-necked black dress, she
might have been a privileged young lady out for an evening's stroll, merely
filling an idle interval between tea and dinner.

As
they passed the end of his property, he drew even with her, walked as an equal.
"So it was this Jenny who told you of Cromwell," he prodded.

She
nodded, stooping to pick a yellow buttercup from the edge of a field. She
looked at everything with the keenest interest, and when she seemed disinclined
to speak further, he probed more deeply, feeling a bit more relaxed, his own
worries of the day dissipated in her endless surprises. "And what did your
Jenny say of Cromwell?" he asked, his hands locked behind him, his eyes
focused on the shiny black toe of his boot and the small gray slipper which
occasionally was visible beneath the hem of her dress.

She
quickened her step and walked ahead of him and talked back to him. "She
said he was good," she began, as though it were something he should have
known. "She said there had to come a shift in power between the Crown and
the people." She spoke spontaneously, as though her thoughts had been bottled
up too long. "But it's different, what's happening in France. Don't you
agree? There the people have known true oppression, while the liberties of the
ordinary Englishman are well understood and have often been asserted." She
was walking backward, her face alive with excitement. Clutched in her hand was
the single yellow buttercup which she used now and then as a baton to stress a
point. "Of course, we can't lay claim to equality," she went on. "But
the lack is not a very serious grievance. The classes mingle together, don't
they, and transition from one class to another is, if not easy, at least
possible and quite often achieved."

He
stopped walking, the better to listen, the better to study her, the smile, the toss
of her hands, the wide eyes, the fair hair pulled loosely back, yet glistening
about her face, the absorption, the skill of perception, yet effusive, yet
gentle.

William
did well to speak at all, so great was his fascination. "And—what of
France?" he managed to say. "If you were the editor of the
Gazetteer
,
what stand would you take?"

She
blushed becomingly at his outrageous proposal, then fell instantly into the
challenge. She continued walking, but more slowly, obviously treating the
complex question with all seriousness. "England's revolution was entirely
a domestic affair," she pondered, as though thinking aloud. "France's
will not be. They'll probably involve everyone before they are done.
Still—" She broke off, deep in thought. He found himself leaning close,
waiting expectantly. "Still," she concluded, "I'd back the
people."

"Even
though it means war?"

"Oh,
there'll always be war, William. Surely you know that. Men love it too much
ever to do without it for long."

The
fact that she'd addressed him with great familiarity was not lost on him.
"Then you are suggesting," he called ahead to her, "that we
simply rush into every bloody conflict that—"

"No!"
She stopped and walked slowly back to him. "I simply mean that the cause
must be weighed, the impulse examined."

"And
the French cause is—"

"Just?
Yes." There was no margin in her opinion. She spoke firmly, without fear
of contradiction.

When
she seemed disinclined to speak further, he again began to shake his head. The
quietness of the evening, the distant bird calls in the willows and oaks lining
the fields, the sweet, refreshing certainty of her manner moved him deeply. She
was standing less than two feet from him, the expression of her eyes vivid
before him. He felt a peculiar draining of his strength, as though his brief
walk and talk with her had sapped his vitality. Yet, paradoxically at the same
time he felt alive and refreshed. She was remarkable, and it was wrong of Jane
to keep her confined to the Scullery and the constant companionship of Sarah
Gibbons.

An
idea occurred to him. The Masquerade at the Pantheon tonight Why not? She'd had
no recreation since she'd arrived over six months ago. Her excursions had been
limited to running errands down to the shops for Sarah. The rest of the time
she had been confined to the rear of the house, engaged in the endless tasks of
maintenance. Yet all the while, incredibly, behind the still eyes, the mind had
been working, racing Sarah for the paper, the personality and intelligence held
intact by some dint of will.

She
was off again, gathering more buttercups, stooping and bending as her fingers
searched for the prettiest.

"Marianne?"
he called out. She looked up from the edge of the pasture, an air of indifference
about her, as though he were simply a distraction.

"Come,"
he called. She obeyed, lingering a moment longer for three more blossoms.

As
she drew near, she extended the flowers to him. "For you," she said
with a smile.

He
shook his head. "You keep them. They become you."

For
an instant she looked distressed, and he was sorry he had not accepted her
gift. Still, there were other more pressing matters. "Marianne," he
began, aware that she was standing before him. It was difficult, very
difficult, to concentrate under such a relentless gaze.

"There's
a Masquerade tonight," he began, "at the Pantheon." He felt restless.
Perhaps he shouldn't. But he did. "Would you like to come?"

She
looked up at him as though he had struck her. She said in a voice not suitable
for a child because it was controlled with terror. "No. I couldn't."

"Why
not?"

She
looked flustered, a discernible redness rising in her cheeks. "I don't
want to," she murmured.

"Why?"
he persisted, astonished at her reaction.

"It's
not my place," she whispered, and would have turned away altogether. But
he reached out and restrained her, his hand on her arm.

"Not
your place?" he parroted. "You who just gave me a lecture on the
merits of English equality?"

He
had intended it as a joke. But as she pulled away from him, he saw that she had
taken the reprimand seriously. Clutching the buttercups in her hand, she tried
to move past him on the pavement, clearly seeking refuge in the company of her
broom.

In
some exasperation he blocked her passage. "It's only a dance," he explained.

She
tried to pass him on the other side. "I did not give you a lecture," she
said sternly. "You asked for my opinion. I gave it."

"I'm
sorry," he said, smiling, though still blocking her path. "Now I
am
asking for a lecture, a complete explication of why you will not—"

"Please
let me pass, Mr. Pitch," she begged, suddenly formal, her manner revealing
new tension.

Finally
he stepped aside. It had not been his intention to add to her distress. He had
thought the Masquerade would please her. Obviously it had not.

She
passed quickly by him, her head down. To his surprise, when she was only a few
feet beyond him, she stopped. Without looking at him, she asked softly, "If
I went to the Masquerade, who would I be?"

Encouraged,
he drew near to her. Close, this time, so close he could see her long-lashed
eyelids, see the movement of her shoulders as she breathed. "Yourself?"
he ventured tentatively.

She
looked up as though at last he had said something that appealed to her. "A
serving girl?" she repeated, clearly warming to the notion.

"Why
not?" He smiled. "I have a black mask that would suit your
dress." He stepped closer and took her hand.

She
permitted it only a moment. "Jane?" she asked, as though certain he
would understand the problems inherent in the name.

He
did. Still he said confidently, "She won't object. She worries about you.

The
idea had taken hold in her mind. He could see that.

And
it had clearly taken hold in his, the beauty and absurdity of a desire that was
in flower, a simple desire, the excuse of a dance, a legitimate reason to raise
his hand and touch hers in the simple complexity of a minuet

"Then
it's settled?" he asked eagerly. Her distress was still real. "Will
you stay with me?" she whispered.

Considering
that this was his only wish, he agreed readily. "I shall be at your side
all evening." She looked like a child who had lost her way home, an image
in complete opposition to the brilliant discursive woman of a few moments
earlier.

"No
further talk, then," he said, wanting only to vanish all uncertainty from
her mind. "You'll have a good time, I promise you. And you've earned
it" Lightly, almost paternally, he rested his arm on her shoulder, a
supportive gesture, or at least he tried to make it so.

She
permitted the contact, indeed gave into it. Slowly they walked back down the
pavement in the gathering dusk toward the red brick house, she moving easily
beside him, he thoroughly enjoying the closeness, the rich promise of the
evening ahead.

As
they drew even with the stoop, she bent over and placed the buttercups
alongside the lilacs, then reached again for her broom.

"No,"
he protested. "No more. Not tonight."

But
she insisted. "You'd better go in first," she suggested.

"Why?"
He was bewildered by the rapid change in her personality, one minute faltering
and weak, the next firm and in control. She was sweeping, in spite of his
orders. "Put it down, Marianne."

But
she refused. "You'd better go in first," she said again.

In
some anger, he demanded again, "Why?" Still not looking at him, she
said quietly, "
At
the window. Jane's watching us from the
window."

Quickly
he looked over his shoulder toward the fluttering curtains at the parlor
window. He saw the white disk of a face, then it disappeared.

He
looked back toward Marianne. He saw a faint smile on her Ups, the serene
muscular unit of someone who has set a goal for herself and achieved it. . . .

As
a good general always rides at the head of his troops, Thomas Eden, Thirteenth
Baron and Fifth Earl of Eden Castle, in the six months comprising winter and
spring of the year 1791, consistently rode at the head of his small band of
smugglers.

Clothed
in anonymous black and wearing a hooded cloak, he led them to adventure and
enterprise along the rugged North Devon coast, overseeing the delivery of the
booty himself and collecting the price minus excise from farmers and fishermen
who failed to recognize in the grim, sweaty visage and black-gloved hand the
Lord himself. Peer of the Realm.

Never
had he felt so alive. And in time, the dozen or so trusted fellows with whom he
rode and with whom he shared the majority of the profits came to look upon him
as their "equal," merely a workingman doing his best to survive the
heavy-handed and corrupt taxation of a government that was flirting with war.

Now,
from the serene standpoint of a successful man, Thomas looked out the window of
his private carriage at the passing London streets. Opposite him, old Ragland
dozed, his snores rising. Next to Ragland sat a very dandified Russell Locke,
looking quite the macaroni in his new crimson brocade waistcoat and matching
knee britches, continuously patting the oversized white wig on his head. He had
been poised on the edge of his seat since they had entered London, his sense of
excitement amounting almost to hysteria.