This Other Eden (73 page)

The
five miles which stretched between Fonthill and the turnpike were passed in
silence. Marianne's own misgivings were lost in Thomas' agitation. With an
unprecedented air of concern, he felt compelled to check on everything. Was the
luggage atop secured? Were the horses fresh? Was the steward at the rear armed
against the threat of highwaymen? Had the axles of the carriage wheels been
checked for the rough ride across the moors? All these questions and countless
others were shouted out the window, full-voiced, by Thomas, the coachman
responding over the rush of wind.

It
wasn't until they approached the turnpike itself that he finally gave up his
shouting match and withdrew his head, hair wind-tousled, back into the
carriage. Marianne noticed a flush to his cheeks, the result of his exposure to
the cold wind. The carriage interior was chilled from the lowered window.
Shivering, she suggested, "Milord, might we close the window?"

He
looked at her with peculiar detachment as though seeing her for the first time.
Apologetically he leaned forward and raised the window. "I'm sorry. I
didn't realize—" From beneath the seat he removed a fur lap rug and
thoughtfully placed it over her. "Better?" he asked, the flush still
on his face.

She
nodded, mystified by his new agitation. She asked bluntly, "Do you have any
regrets?"

Again
he looked at her as though baffled by the question. "Regrets? About
what?"

She
smiled and shook her head, indicating that perhaps neither the question nor the
answer were important. Beneath the lap robe she felt of the small goid band
which he'd placed on her finger during the ceremony. If he had already
forgotten, perhaps she could forget as well. But she knew she couldn't and
whatever the nature of his present facade, she would accept it, and learn to
live with it, for marriage in her eyes, even an enforced one, was a matter of
utter seriousness, a commitment to the grave.

She
heard movement opposite her, saw him bend over and retrieve a second lap rug
from beneath the seat, spread it over his legs and lean back comfortably, his
head resting against the cushions, his eyes closed.

She
watched, amazed at the rapidity with which sleep came, although a few moments
later he surprised her by speaking softly, his eyes still closed, 372

"It's
a full day of riding we have, Marianne," he murmured. "Make yourself
comfortable."

He
burrowed deeper beneath the lap rug, turned his face into the comfort of the
cushion, and instantly fell asleep.

She
looked again at the man opposite her. Sleep transfigured him. If he knew how
harmless and impotent and worn he looked, he would never sleep again. She made
a quick judgment and tucked the realization away in the back of her mind. He
was a mere mortal, nothing more, a strongwilled, selfish mortal, but mortal all
the same. The thought pleased her, provided her with a fleeting feeling of what
might be called tenderness toward him.

She
adjusted her lap rug, curled into her own comer, and gave herself over to the
rather violent but rhythmic lullaby of the carriage. Within moments the fatigue
and rush of the last few days took their toll and she too fell asleep.

She
awakened once to a midafternoon sun and saw him staring at her. But again there
was nothing in his eyes to cause alarm, and within the moment she returned to
sleep.

The
sun was just setting, though enough gold and rose was left in the sky to see as
they approached Eden Castle. While they were still about a half a mile distant,
the lead carriage stopped and permitted the second carriage to go ahead, a
tradition, enabling his Lordship to make a triumphant entry.

Both
Thomas and Marianne were awake, had been awake for some time, since they'd
entered Exmoor, the peculiar silence within the carriage not as noticeable
under the excitement of home. Both windows were down, Marianne luxuriating in
the perfume of salt breeze, at times scarcely able to contain her joy. Her eyes
hungrily devoured the carpet of purple heather outside the carriage, her senses
filled with the sights and sounds and smells of her childhood.

"There
it is!" Thomas shouted as, leaning out his window, he caught his first
glimpse of the towers of Eden Castle.

From
her side, Marianne saw it as well, that fortress which had loomed over her like
a gigantic shadow and which was now to be her home.

With
boyish enthusiasm, Thomas insisted, "Do you see it? Look! Look! There it
is!"

Although
she was perfectly capable of seeing it on her side, he insisted that she share
his window. Sitting so close to him and sharing his sense of homecoming,
Marianne felt for the first time the full impact of the centuries, the ancient
fortress dominating the countryside.

In
his enthusiasm he took her hand. The worn look of age which she'd noticed on
his face while he slept vanished. It was as though slowly, by degrees, and
because of his close proximity to his birthplace, he was assuming once again
the mantle, manner, and attitude of Lord Eden.

As
though in an attempt to curb his mounting excitement, he pressed back in his
seat and tried to draw a deep breath. "Every time I return home, I vow
never to leave it again," he said, smiling, as though unable to account
for his own feelings. "Why is it?" he asked, "that this is the
only place in the world where I feel joined with myself, with nature?"

Suddenly
there was a great shout from the four watchmen who had ridden out on horseback
to escort them through the gates. Marianne gave her full attention to the
incredible scene outside the window, the horsemen Banking the carriage, two on
each side with torches held high, Thomas shouting good-naturedly to first one,
then the other, the carriage swerving into the main gate, both iron grilles
being raised with speed, the horses' hooves clattering over the wooden planks,
then the sight of the inner courtyard, watchmen holding torches stationed at
intervals along the top of the wall, at least seventy-five men, lanterns strung
in gay profusion from arch to arch, a dazzling spectacle of light and color, as
from each man there arose now a cheer, welcoming his Lordship home.

Through
the gate the carriage started a majestic turn around the inner courtyard. At
least a hundred people lined their route, villagers from Mortemouth, women
tossing bouquets of flowers and autumn leaves into the paths of the horses.

Marianne's
head bobbed from one side to the other, trying to take it all in, seeing
firsthand a great nobleman's establishment, remembering the days when she too
had gone up the hill, flowers in hand, to take her place in the welcome of the
moment with the other villagers.

Without
warning, not thinking about it, certainly not expecting it, she saw it. At
first she tried to drag her eyes away and send them in the opposite direction.
But she could not. Her eyes, as though they had minds of their own, stayed
focused on the thick black finger of oak rising in the center of the courtyard.

She
did not see the man sitting opposite her anymore. With her head turned rigidly
in one direction, she was aware of someone taking her hands, pressing them to
his breast in urgent concern.

"Marianne,
I'm sorry," he whispered quickly. "I should have had it removed. I
will tomorrow, I promise."

With
all her might she tore her hands away from him and tore her eyes away from the
whipping oak. "No," she said, on diminished breath, "leave
it." Fiercely she repeated, "Leave it!"

Once
more she looked up. The carriage was just coming to a halt before the Great
Hall, where the staff was lined up on the bottom step, strangers to her, all
strangers except—

"Jenny,"
she gasped, spying one beloved face at the end of the line. Without waiting for
the aid of a steward or the company of Thomas, she was out of the carriage and
into the open arms of the old woman who had raised her, who had, as much as
anybody, formed her.

In
the closeness of the embrace, Marianne broke. How long it had been since she'd
sniffed Jenny's peculiar fragrance, a faint mix of cinnamon and lavender. How
long it had been since she'd seen that mock-stem old Devonian face crack and
break under the pressure of her own vast reserves of love and caring.

Feeling
again the familiar contours of the woman's body, Marianne snuggled her face
into the soft shoulder and realized how much she'd missed the supportive love
of this saint.

"Oh,
Jenny," she murmured, holding the woman at arm's length, trying not to
cry, but crying anyway. There was another quick embrace as though Jenny herself
needed a moment's recovery before she could form words.

Then,
"Child," she said, shaking her head, moving back a step as though the
better to see. "Let me look at you." She added sternly, "Let me
see if I can find the taint of London on you."

Under
her close scrutiny, Marianne felt self-conscious. Jenny wasn't the only one
assessing her. She was now acutely aware of all eyes on her. The two dozen
staff members stood at attention, but their heads and eyes swiveled clearly in
her direction. To one side she saw a half a dozen waiting stewards, and beyond
them, Thomas, one hand still on the carriage door, and beyond him, the now
silent villagers and watchmen with torches, the entire spectacle a frozen tableau,
all eyes on her.

Under
such a weight, Marianne tried to stand erect, to sustain herself with a quick
assessment of her own worth. But as the silence expanded, inevitably she
remembered that other morning in the inner courtyard.

Remembering
all, she lowered her head and struggled for something to cling to. Then she
felt a strong arm about her waist, heard Thomas' voice, in answer to Jenny's
question about the taint of London, say, "She's quite unchanged, Jenny.
It's London that profited from the gift of her presence."

Looking
up, Marianne saw the rapid transitions on the faces before her, the traditional
mask of reverence which all servants wear for all masters. The women, including
Jenny, curtsied low, the men bowed. On the second step, obviously in a position
of some authority, she saw her brother Russell, his hair freshly powdered,
looking very elegant in a rose brocade suit with lace front.

Russell,
grinning broadly, pushed his way through the line of servants to make the
traditional welcoming speech. "Milord," he pronounced, bowing low.
"We welcome you home and rejoice in your good health and well-being. Eden Castle
languishes in your absence, and like God in His Heaven, nothing is greater
cause for celebration than the return of our Lord to his birthplace."

Marianne
lowered her head to keep from smiling. Poor Russell. How long it must have
taken him to compose his speech. Unfortunately he was not yet finished.

"As
the gentle breezes caress the rose," he went on, with appropriate
gestures, "so we, your staff, welcome you with all the obedience and
homage that nature herself pays to the circling gull, our affections
surrounding you like—"

Predictably,
Thomas had had enough. "We thank you," he said, interrupting. Then he
turned to face the villagers and tenants. He raised his voice to a shout and
repeated, "We thank you for this warm welcome. Now you must excuse us. The
journey was long and uninterrupted. We hope to be in residence for some time.
And it will be our pleasure to see you all personally within the next few
weeks."

There
was a mild shout of approval and a soft scattering of applause. Marianne
thought, how many times before they had heard those empty words. And in the
meantime tenant roofs leaked, broken equipment stayed broken. The fishermen and
farmers and all their families knew that the next time they saw Lord Eden would
be in the departing Procession, the entourage of carriages passing back out of
the gates on their way to London or Weymouth or some other pleasure spot.

All
speeches over, Marianne felt Thomas' hand on her arm, heard him giving the
stewards directions as to the disbursement of the baggage, then heard him
announce to Jenny that they would dine alone in his private chambers. Jenny
nodded quickly and turned to see to his command.

Marianne
called after her. "Wait, Jenny. I'll go with you. I would like to see my
father."