This Other Eden (25 page)

He
lifted the bottle and drank with such force that the residue trickled down on
either side of his mouth. He wiped the waste with the back of his hand, his
brain blurring, not yet numb enough.

He
drank again. When would it come, the blessed paralysis? Outside he heard a
small band of street musicians, heading for the Pantheon, the annual
Post-Lenten Masquerade. A series of invisible shudders wrinkled his face. He
felt like something caged. He looked angrily at the diminishing light. My God,
didn't they have enough sense to bring him a lamp?

He
tipped the bottle again. Useless! The numbness would not come. He washed he
were back in his underground storeroom. He would dive headlong into a keg of
brandy and drink or drown. It mattered little either way.

Then
he remembered the purpose of this torturous trip, that the storeroom was empty,
that last week's cargo had been delivered within forty-eight hours, that he was
here to make new contacts, clog the entire Bristol Channel if necessary with
French vessels, all loaded with contraband.

He
couldn't very well make contacts sitting here gazing out over the city. All of
London, at least all of London that mattered, would be congregated in one place
tonight, French emigres mixing and blending with English aristocracy, the
gallery filled with commoners, all looking with rapture down on the
festivities.

How
he loathed even the thought of it. But it was the place to be. With luck he
could find what he had come looking for and tomorrow be on his way back to Eden
Point. If Locke and Ragland wanted to stay, let them. They were not his
responsibility.

He
stood, reeling for a moment, a belated but pleasant effect of the brandy. He
must eat something, if the lunatics lurking outside the door had thought to
prepare a meal. Then he would dress and while the others went about their
pleasure, he would go about his business.

A
second thought stopped him. A Masquerade! He'd brought no costume save for the
insanities of current fashion. What could he—

An
idea occurred to him, brilliant in its simplicity. He would go as himself, a
smuggler. He would wear the costume he wore on his night rides, his boots and
riding breeches, black shirt and full-hooded cape. Masked and thus obscured, he
could navigate the threats and hazards of the Post-Lenten Masquerade as easily
as in the past he had navigated the cliffs and jagged terrain of his North
Devon coast.

The
idea burst to full bloom in his mind. Smiling at the picture in his
imagination, he shouted at the invisible presences outside the door, "Light,
and food!" the tensions releasing themselves in a scurry of footsteps. At
least they had good ears.

Unfortunately
the new mood did not last. The meal, poorly cooked and sloppily served, sent him
into a new rage as he shouted at the women to leave the room. With Ragland
gone, he had to dress himself, a tedious process. The footman, having been sent
to fetch a mask, returned with a cheap cardboard sample, oversized, which
covered three quarters of his face.

Looking
less like a smuggler than a blackamoor, Thomas drew the long cloak about him,
new anger at the annoyances welling up inside him. The world was indefensible,
had always been indefensible, and his loathing for it sprang up afresh, so that
he hunched his shoulders against the fair, calm May evening as though it were
December sleet and set off toward the Pantheon.

Sarah
Gibbons was not blind. Neither was she deaf and dumb. Months earlier she had
seen the proverbial handwriting on the wall, the subtle but muted attraction
that Marianne held for William Pitch, the deep silences of the older sister as
she sought more and more to keep the girl confined, almost a prisoner in the
recesses of the house. Easier to confine the rays of sun or the scattering of
stars.

In
the back garden now, hanging wash, she heard the whish of Marianne's broom. The
girl was diligent, performing her duties with admirable dispatch, a very
pleasant companion for Sarah, certainly preferable to the simpleminded Millie.

As
she reached up to the line, she heard another sound over the broom, a man's
voice. She froze, listening. It was Mr. Pitch. Tom between wanting to hear and
the guilt of eavesdropping, she continued to hang the linen, hearing only a
soft hum of voices. Clearly Marianne had abandoned her broom. As well as Sarah
could tell, the two of them were walking down the pavement now; she could just
see Mr. Pitch's head over the top of the hedge. A few minutes later, unable to
bear the weight of her curiosity, Sarah abandoned the wash and took refuge
behind the thick hedge. She heard the girl talking, like a man she was talking,
of politics and war.

As
they passed beyond her range of hearing, she looked back toward the house. Pray
God Miss Locke wasn't watching. The girl had better be careful or she'd find
herself on the way back to Eden Point. Frustrated over her inability to hear,
Sarah followed after them to the end of the hedge, then had to content herself
with merely seeing them through the foliage, walking and talking quite easily
together.

A
moment later she saw them turn and start back toward the house. She really
shouldn't be listening. It was certainly none of her business. On this note of
morality she was about to turn away when the hum of voices became words again
and she heard Mr. Pitch invite Marianne to the Masquerade at the Pantheon.
Sarah held still, scarcely breathing. Good Lord, she hoped the girl had better
sense. And she did. Silently Sarah applauded Marianne's instantaneous refusal.
Then the burden of guilt was too much. What if they saw her, listening behind
the hedge? What if Miss Locke saw her? Quickly she slipped away and fled the
garden and returned to her kitchen, her heart beating too fast with the
excitement of the moment.

At
least the girl had good sense. She knew where she belonged. Such an evening
would be a calamity. She was surprised that Mr. Pitch had even considered the
notion. Secure in her sense of everyone in his place, Sarah hurled herself into
kitchen chores.

A
short time later Marianne appeared in the doorway, her arms filled with
flowers, her face as set and determined as Sarah had ever seen it. "Sarah,
I have a favor." She smiled. "Will you assist me with the creation of
a ball gown?"

Sarah
gaped. "A what?"

"It
won't be very difficult," Marianne assured her. "Mr. Pitch has
invited me to the Masquerade. I'm going as myself, a serving girl, but I
thought that we might—"

As
she launched forth into her description of a gown, Sarah could only shake her
head. Her instincts told her to put a close to the discussion immediately. But
there was something so touching about Marianne's enthusiasm, something equally
as interesting about the angry voices coming from the parlor, that Sarah nodded
and sent her for the sewing box.

To
the background of a violent argument which broke out between Mr. Pitch and Miss
Locke, Sarah and Marianne fell to work on one of her plain black serving
dresses. They turned under the high-necked collar and at Marianne's suggestion
unbuttoned a half a dozen buttons to reveal a provocative yet tasteful portion
of breast.

From
the parlor, Mr. Pitch shouted, "This is my house and you are under my
command." Miss Locke said something but it was inaudible, muffled in sobs.
Sarah glanced up at Marianne, who was standing on a crate in the middle of the
kitchen, examining closely the amount of cleavage revealed by the unbuttoned
bodice. If she was even aware of the battle in the parlor, she gave no
indication of it. Sarah shook her head. The girl was incorrigible. And irresistible.

Sarah
turned her attention back to the "ball gown." Something was missing.
Hurriedly she went into her room, fetched three of her best white silk
petticoats, and nipped them in at the waist to accommodate Marianne's slight
figure and to give the black skirt a bit of a flare. Marianne was delighted.
"Oh, Sarah, how perfect!" she exclaimed, to the unhappy sounds of
Jane weeping. Then they looped up the hem of the black gown at eight-inch
intervals, stitched it, and attached a sprig of lilac at each loop, the effect
lovely and graceful, the pale purple and green standing out beautifully against
the black gown, revealing the white petticoats beneath.

As
the battleground moved upstairs, as the entire house shook with two ominous
crashes as though a chair had been hurled and a chair returned, Marianne, still
standing on the upturned crate, preening in Sarah's own peer glass, serenely
suggested the lowering of two additional buttons on her bodice. Sarah objected
to the full cleavage. "It's indecent," she scoffed.

"Nonsense,"
countered Marianne. "It's the loveliest part of the female body. If I had
my way, we would wear nothing at all above our waists."

Sarah
gasped, feigning a bit more indignation than she actually felt, and suggested a
compromise. They left the buttons undone but inserted a small nosegay of lilacs
into the hollow between her breasts.

Shortly
before nine o'clock the two combatants from upstairs came down. Mr. Pitch was
dressed as a Scottish Highlander, his eyes stem and angry behind his mask. Jane
was dressed unbecomingly as a haymaid, in plain brown and carrying a delicate
rake, her white mask not large enough to cover her eyes, swollen from weeping.

Sarah
took a final look at Marianne. She was lovely, although she was certain she
would need more than looks to see her through this evening. Marianne hopped
down from the crate and hugged Sarah in passing. "Thank you," she
whispered, "for everything."

Sarah
watched from the door as the three of them, all keeping a safe distance apart,
trailed down the front walk toward the waiting carriage, Marianne bringing up
the rear, stealing a mischievous glance back at Sarah and waving gaily with her
plain black mask.

Sarah
smiled and waved back. The girl was impossible. As the carriage pulled away, the
clock on the mantel in the salon chimed half past nine. Sarah felt an almost
unbelievable weariness. She was not by nature designed for such dramatic
goings-on. After the tumultuous afternoon and early evening, all she wanted was
an interval of peace. To that end she fixed herself a cup of tea and liberally
laced it with whiskey from the cutglass decanter in the dining room. No guilt
She'd earned it. Thank Jesus, the house was quiet, thank Jesus the salon would
be empty this night. She needed a respite. The events of late afternoon had
been quite enough, thank you.

She
sipped her tea, savoring its hot spiked goodness. She didn't know whether to
pity Marianne or feel happy for her. She missed her, of that she was certain.
Over the last few months she'd formed quite an affection for the young girl of
mercurial moods.

But
Sarah understood. It had only been within the last few weeks that the child had
permitted her to view her back, to rub soothing camphor oil on the still-red,
angry-looking scars. Sarah, almost undone with compassion, had welcomed the
girl's trust and had treated her nightly in the back room, her fingers
following one by one the ten avenues of scarred flesh. She had longed to ask
Marianne about the ordeal, but she had refrained. In truth, what could Marianne
say that the flesh of her back had not already revealed?

Scattered
about her on the kitchen table were the remnants of the evening's effort: dying
lilacs, dead buttercups, black thread, a piece of lace, scissors. Wearily she
shook her head. Well, she'd done the best she could. A ball gown! She chuckled
softly.

The
front bell rang, a jarring sound, startling her out of her reverie. Alarmed,
she looked sharply up. "Who in the—" The ring came again, someone
pulling the bell cord with insistence. Cautiously she stood, reaching for the
lamp and a pair of scissors. A woman alone in this remote area of London
couldn't be too careful, although it occurred to her that the late night caller
was probably one of Mr. Pitch's drunken friends, seeking the warmth and plenty
of the nightly salon. Couldn't he see the house dark, the lamps extinguished?

Angry,
Sarah strode through the darkened front rooms, holding the lamp aloft, the
scissors clutched out of sight in the pocket of her apron. As she approached
the door, the bell cord rang still a third time. Sharply she called out,
"Who is there?"

Receiving
no answer, she placed the lamp on the table and cautiously opened the door. On
the other side, in the skittering light of the streetlamp, she saw a young man
standing stiffly before her, foolishly bewigged and garbed in shiny satin, the
features of his face obscured in shadow.