This Other Eden (30 page)

If
the place held little appeal for him earlier, it held none for him now. As for
Billy, he would look him up tomorrow at his club, perhaps invite him to dinner,
make his contacts there in the sedate, businesslike atmosphere of an all-male
establishment. What in God's name could men of goodwill hope to accomplish with
women about? Vain and coquettish one minute, grieved and frightened the next,
the extremes of the species deprived them of all depth, dignity, and sincerity.
Their only appeal was in their base desires, which they never admitted to, yet
which hardly ever left them.

Standing
alone on the darkened pavement, Thomas felt incredibly weary. He took a final
glance in both directions. No sight of her. Gone.

Slowly
he started walking toward his house. A strange evening! He walked heavily, his
hands laced behind his back. The pavement here, midway between the confusion of
the Pantheon and the dark refuge of his house, was quiet. The only sound was the
rhythmical tap of his boots striking the pavement.

And
then—

Which
individual sense responded first, he was unable to say, but suddenly he smelled
dying lilacs, and at the same time he heard breathing, and an infinitesimal
passage of time after that, his eyes fell on a small figure sitting on a stoop,
her head buried in her lap, hair falling in a cascade around her face, her mask
lying on the pavement beside her.

Oh,
high fine hand of Heaven, he thought, as stepping forward, he stood looking down
on the bent head, sensing her wretchedness as clearly as though it were his
own. He knelt before her, his hands moving uselessly about, as though they were
awaiting direction from his mind on the manner in which they were to offer
solace.

If
she was startled by his presence, she gave no indication of it. She wasn't
weeping. She was sitting quietly, her face hidden by her hands, as though in
fear that the horror of the "milkmaid" would follow after her and
engulf her.

Thomas
longed to soothe her, but, lacking words, kept quiet and let his presence speak
for itself. She was stirring, though her face was still concealed. Thomas stood
up and stepped away, not wanting to prohibit any movement on her part. Still he
watched her closely, saw in the faint light a double shadow as though she were
multiplying. Thinking perhaps that she was ready to speak, he inquired,
"Are you well?" and was not answered.

Then
he saw emerge from the darkness, as she lifted her face, the light of her eyes,
the luminosity in them developing until, by the intensity of their double
regard their eyes met. They gazed at each other, as if that gaze had power to
avert what they both dreaded. Although Thomas fought the image, he saw the body
of another woman suddenly attach itself to that staring face, a body whipped
and bleeding, her arms bound to the whipping oak.

Unable
to turn away, incapable of speech, experiencing a sensation unlike any he had
ever luiown, Thomas stepped back. The muscles in his face alive, he thought,
"It is not possible," feeling that if he turned away, she would
disappear and take him with her and they both would melt back into their mutual
memories. He closed his eyes and the blindness only caused the sensation to
increase while the girl, Marianne Locke, for he remembered her name, seemed
protected by knowing him in advance, perhaps having known him all evening, in
spite of his mask.

As
he opened his eyes again, he said, "Ah," with the slightly shuddering
automatism of the last gasp in a body struck at the moment of its final breath.

Marianne
sat quietly in the front parlor, reading the latest edition of
The
Bloomshury
Gazetteer
, awaiting the entrance of her sister, Jane, who had finally
insisted on speaking to her about the "problem at hand."

The
parlor windows were opened at midafternoon and the room was filled with May
fragrance, predominantly lilacs, reminding Marianne of that night, safely in
the past

What
she knew and what no one else knew was that she had recognized him
instantaneously. There was not a mask in all of England capable of hiding the
man behind the face.

She
gazed beyond William's newsprint toward the Orrery, the golden orb of the sun
ticking its way around the cosmos. She smiled as she recalled the moment of
recognition. She had merely stood up and murmured, "Excuse me, sir,"
and had hurriedly made her way back to the Pantheon, where her sister was
waiting. The man in the artist's smock had summoned their carriage and, leaving
William behind, the two women had gone home, passing slowly down Oxford Road,
passing the tall smuggler, who had continued to stand, as shocked as though he
had seen the dead.

As
far as she was concerned, it was over. But the house had buzzed about her for
almost a week, William and Jane whispering, then falling silent as she entered
the room. Even Sarah had taken to looking at her as though she'd grown an extra
head.

William's
editorial was before her again, the words fairly leaping off the page in anger.

Future
schemers of Masquerade Balls should beware. When a company dresses as peasants,
they have a tendency to perform as peasants, as witnessed by the brutal episode
which took place in the gardens of the Pantheon between Lord and Lady Haldane,
respectively disguised as a highwayman and a milkmaid, his Lordship choosing
this propitious moment to punish his wayward wife, attacking her brutally
whilst a company of drunken fellows cheered him on, a scene worthy of Rome in
all its decadence—

The
smile of detached amusement faded from Marianne's face. It had been unspeakable
and terrifying, the woman's screams punctuating the delicacy of the minuet. She
had not intended to bolt. It was just that she had felt forces loosed that she
couldn't control, like an ambush in waiting.

Quickly
she lifted the newsprint where she found William quoting Diderot:

"Certainly
there are barbarians," stated Diderot in his play
Le Fils Nature!,—
When
won't there he? But the time of barbarism is past, the century has become
enlightened. Reason has grown more refined."

Fortunately
the great French writer was not present at last week's Pantheon Ball. There he
would have found little to substantiate his high expectations for mankind. The
company was filled with peasants disguised as peasants, peers of the realm too
busy or too disinterested to sit in their inherited seats of Parliament and
assist with the running of this country from which they derive so many
benefits, an upper class clearly turning their backs on their responsibilities,
yet grabbing with both hands all their privileges of passage and class.

Such
a society cannot last. It's only a matter of time before the vacuum is filled
with "world pain," the self-serving interests of the few destroying
all. Our peasant disguises clearly reveal our peasant mentalities. Such a
society does not deserve to stand. In the name of Justice, the people will take
over and make of it what they will. In the very act of Revolution, Justice will
be served. . . .

Marianne
stared at the newsprint although she had ceased reading. So! He'd at last taken
a stand of sorts. It lacked true conviction, but that would come later. Slowly
she rose, feeling a surge of emotion for the man behind the words. Incapable of
giving herself warning, she'd already fallen a little in love with him. Yet,
pacing restlessly about the parlor, she found herself diminished by such a
thought. She would not return Jane's goodness with that deception. And in spite
of all, Jane had been good to her.

She
listened, hearing Jane's step on the stairs. She returned to the chair and
tried to make herself receptive to the "problem at hand," whatever it
may be. Behind her and across the hall, she saw Sarah listening from the dining
room. The whole house had been a collection of ears for the last few days,
everybody eavesdropping.

The
footsteps were outside the door, the soft rustle of taffeta halting suddenly,
as though the wearer felt the need to draw a deep breath. Still Marianne
waited, head down, wishing she could bridge the gulf between herself and her
sister, establish a mutually beneficial atmosphere of trust and understanding.

Jane
entered the room. Marianne's heart sank. She recognized Jane's "battle
clothes," a state of overdress, her wig freshly set, a dot of artificial
color on her cheeks, and the gown, a rich red wine color, elegant for midnight,
but at midaftemoon ridiculous and clearly deceptive. Whatever wish that
Marianne might have had for a relationship of trust and honesty with her sister
vanished. The costume itself was powerful enough to force both of them into
roles, actresses playing parts.

Jane
paused in the doorway, clearly making an entrance. Her lower lip drooped a little,
her mouth looked bored and sulky. She hunched her shoulders most unbecomingly.
She looked at Marianne, then bobbed her head stiffly and with a sigh sank down
on the couch and piled two small pillows to one side.

Since
she seemed to be awaiting a comment, Marianne obliged. "You look
lovely," she lied, the deception underway.

Jane
dismissed the compliment. "It's such a chore, dressing four or five times
a day." She shook her head. "William doesn't understand. If he had
his way, I'd change clothes every hour, as proper ladies do, or so he
says." She giggled. Instead of demure, she looked silly.

There
was a pause during which Marianne tried to think of a suitable reply and, failing,
the silence expanded. She couldn't quite bring herself to believe that William cared
how often Jane or anyone else changed their garments. But she kept quiet, her
curiosity mounting.

Jane
asked, "Would you like tea?"

Marianne
sat up, confused. Was this an order for her to go and fetch it, or an
invitation for her to partake of it? Half-rising from the chair, she murmured
something about only being a moment.

Quickly
Jane ordered her back in the chair. "Sarah will bring it," she said.
"I didn't mean for you—" She broke off nervously. "I mean, you
are—" Apparently Jane was suffering from a degree of confusion of her own.
She pointed to the bell on the small table near Marianne. "Ring,
please," she ordered.

Marianne
did as she was told, hearing the familiar little tinkle that in the past either
she or Sarah had responded to immediately. Sarah appeared instantly. She
listened, eyes down, while Jane ordered tea, high tea, no less, requesting an
arrangement of caraway cakes and cucumber and cress sandwiches, a company
ritual usually and an extra chore as Marianne knew from experience.

She
started to protest, for Sarah's sake, but again held her tongue. The theatrical
had to run its course, complete with costumes and set pieces and, apparently,
high tea.

When
Sarah was out of earshot, Jane asked, "Do you get along well with
Sarah?"

Without
hesitation, Marianne replied truthfully, "Oh, yes. She's a remarkable
woman. I don't know what I'd do without her."

Jane
seemed to digest the words as again she leaned back listlessly into the
cushions. "You're the first one," she murmured.

"The
first one what?" asked Marianne.

"To
get along with Sarah. She's driven away seven maids since I've been here."
Her eyes focused downward as her voice followed suit. "I think she'd like
to drive me away as well."

Marianne
smiled. "Nonsense. She's very fond of you."

"But
you know how to handle her," Jane said, almost in a pout.

"I
don't handle her at all," Marianne protested. "We work well together.
I try to do my share. Generally she does more than hers." It seemed a
foolish, almost witless conversation. Marianne sat back and tried to relax,
still bewildered.

Jane
made no further attempt to explain anything. She sank deep into the couch, with
her head lying on a cushion and her eyes half-closed. Once or twice she raised
her eyelids and pronounced a few ironical words, some jest at the expense of
provincial people, although, watching her, Marianne saw clearly the Jane of her
childhood, the fisherman's daughter, tall, slightly awkward and gangling,
perennially unhappy.