This Other Eden (88 page)

First
Gentleman—"A fair whore."

Second
Gentleman, making a quick rhyme—

A
fair whore lives at Eden Point,

Her
bastard son she shall anoint.

With
gold and silver of ancient date,

With
Eden atop her as her mate.

First
and Third Gentlemen, laughing, applauding—"Very good, excellently well
done!"

Third
Gentleman—"Recall that tonight at Clifton's. It shall please the
company."

Second
Gentleman—"I shall compose more, an epic to the dangerous cunning female
and the weak beguiled Lord."

First
Gentleman—"It has promise."

Third
Gentleman, frowning—"Still, it's a regrettable business. I make one vow.
The tongue shall drop from my mouth before I address that prostitute as Lady
Eden."

First
Gentleman—"God forbid, yes."

Second
Gentleman—"A fisherman's daughter. Not even of the middle class, although
that would be as offensive."

First
Gentleman, shaking his head—"How did she do it?"

Third
Gentleman, coyly—"Need you ask? How do the whores in St James's Park do
it?"

First
Gentleman, indignant—"I'm sure I wouldn't know."

Third
Gentleman, laughing—"Come now. Obviously you've forgotten. Shall we go and
find one? The three of us can share. If Lord Eden gets a whore, why not all of
us?"

First
Gentleman, warming to the idea—"Discussing the lust of others has made me
feel lustful."

Second
Gentleman—"Then let's depart. If our Ladies have lovers and our Lords have
whores, debauchery is the rule of the day."

First
Gentleman—"We must be wary though, lest our whore connives and fleeces us like
the whore who sits on Eden Point."

Second
Gentleman, catching the unintended pun—"That's very good. "The whore
who sits on Eden's point! "

Third
Gentleman, laughing heartily, mindlessly repeating—"Very good indeed. The
whore who sits on Eden's point. Save that for Clifton's. That's a rare
jewel."

Laughing
uproariously, the three gentlemen left The Blue Bell and Crown.

The
cartoons were still spread across the table near their coffee cups. As a young
serving girl came to clear the table, her eye fell on the caricatures. Unable
to read, she studied the pictures. She bent closer over the cartoon of the
buxom young girl reeling in the smiling Lord.

Her
eyes were wistful.

Six
months after the bans of marriage had been published in Mortemouth, Exeter,
Salisbury, London, Norwich, York, and Newcastle-on-Trent, with almost all of
England as witness, on a dreary, rainy March afternoon in 1798, attended by a
grim-faced castle staff, in the small, dank, private chapel on the second floor
of Eden Castle, Marianne Locke, fisherman's daughter from Mortemouth wed Lord
Thomas Eden, fifth Earl and Thirteenth Baron of Eden Point. Again!

The
ceremony was performed by Parson Branscombe, the pudgy and fulsome local
minister. Now, however, he seemed intimidated by his surroundings and said only
what had to be said in a voice so low it could scarcely be heard.

The
groom wore a plain black suit, and was wigless and still considerably stooped
from his experience on the whipping oak. He spoke his vows, apparently did not
hear Parson Branscombe's invitation for him to kiss the bride, signed the
parish registry, and left immediately in the company of his manservant, Russell
Locke, on a day-long ride across the moors in an attempt to regain his strength
and dexterity.

The
bride wore a simple dark-blue gown and lingered over the certificate of
marriage long after the groom had left, making certain that Branscombe affixed
his signature in the proper place, that the seal and date were in order, and
insisting finally that the certificate itself be kept in the castle vault along
with her son's deed of possession to Eden Point.

After
the grim ceremony, which boasted neither flowers nor music, the castle staff
went back to their various chores. The bride retrieved her handsome
two-year-old son from Jenny and took him to her private apartments on the third
floor. There she placed him on the soft furl of Persian carpet. As the child
amused himself with the interwoven patterns of flowers and buds, Marianne
quietly closed the door leading to Thomas' chambers. She stared at the bolt as
though she were considering its reinforcement.

Then
she backed away, leaving the door closed but not locked.

As
the twilight came on, she watched her son. She may not have been his father's
wife at the time of his birth, but she intended never to let him forget that
she was his mother.

She
listened. The castle was so quiet. Where was everyone"? Jenny might have
come and brought her a cup of tea, or a visit from William would have been
pleasant. Apparently poor William had taken up permanent residence in the castle,
an isolated place where a one-armed man could hide from the world and his
disenchantment with it. Where was Jane, who, above all, knew the importance of
that grim little ceremony performed today under the dripping leaks of the
chapel?

But
they were all absent, and while she knew where they were, huddled about the
great fire in the kitchen, gossiping no doubt and sipping tea, she couldn't
quite bring herself to go and join them.

In
her loneliness, she looked up through the two windows with their bright
lattice-figure curtains. The light of late afternoon fell on the brilliant
carpet. Little Edward skipped and danced. She watched him closely, deriving
nourishment from him as she had since the day of his birth.

She
leaned forward in her chair, her loneliness diminishing in his exuberance. What
does he know? she wondered. He knows but little of the world as yet. He knows
he is small and is going to be big. He knows perhaps that he is two and will
soon be three, but he does not know what is meant by a "year." Nor
does he know that everything he views within this chamber and for miles beyond
is his.

He
skipped toward the fireplace. He seemed to consider the fireplace and white
marble screen carved with crusading knights as the most important and dignified
thing in the room. Now he pointed at it, as though insistent that she see it as
well.

She
nodded and laughed with him, and the child laughed back, laughed
uncontrollably. He was at the age when laughter was still only an utterance of
joy, not an appreciation for the ridiculous. In the warmth of his obvious and
nonsensical joy, her loneliness disappeared altogether. She slipped to her
hands and knees and started toward him and caught him shrieking and propped him
on her stomach and laughed with him, not because he was funny, but because it
gave her joy to see his bright face.

The
wedding feast was a simple repast of cold sliced beef and country soup served
in her chambers, with Thomas in his dressing gown, coughing continuously from
his exposure to the cold, damp day.

The
most animated their faces ever became was when young Edward was brought in by
Jenny to say goodnight to his parents. Almost shyly at first, Thomas approached
him, clearly ill at ease. But the boy's irrepressible charm won him over, and
at the close of the brief interval, Thomas lifted him in his arms and clasped
him to his breast with awkward strength.

The
boy was taken to bed. Shortly before midnight, Thomas bade her goodnight and
closed the door between their chambers.

On
April Fourth, she walked with him along the headlands, the brisk cool spring
wind blowing back her long skirts as she kept her eye on the man who kept a
step or two ahead of her. And said nothing.

On
the afternoon of April Twelfth, she went riding with him across the moors as
far as The Hanging Man pub. She was aware of the tenants' curious glances as
they passed, her stallion, the color of hot chocolate, taking the lead as they
raced over the stubbly dormant heather.

At
the edge of the moor they stopped for a rest. She gazed eastward toward London.
No messengers, no wedding gifts, no expressions of good wishes had come from
that direction in all the days since their marriage. As she felt the wind sweep
over the bleakness, she lifted her head. "Milord," she said, "I
suspect that we are quite alone."

He
looked at her as though trying to understand the meaning behind her words.
Quickly he reined his horse about and bent to adjust a stirrup. "The
condition is nothing new to me, lady," he said. "I have no friends
and need no enemies. London is a foreign country to me." He smiled at her.
"Be advised. There is your kingdom." He pointed back toward Eden
Point. "Come!" he shouted, spurring his horse. "A race!"

As
he shot forward, she lingered a moment, looking toward London regretfully, not
so much for her sake, but for his.

Then
she applied a gentle whip to her horse and started after him.

Later
that night she lay abed, one lamp burning on the table, her eye fixed on the
closed though not locked door between their chambers. She heard a knock and sat
up eagerly. "Milord?" she called out.

Thomas
appeared, boots off, shirt undone. He stood in the shadows. "I didn't mean
to disturb you, milady," he began.

"You
didn't."

"I
thought I would look in on you. The ride was hard today."

"I'm
well, milord."

He
nodded. "Then sleep," he murmured and turned to go.

"Milord?"

He
looked back. "Yes?"

She
hesitated. "You, too, milord. Sleep well."

Again
he nodded and closed the door.

She
stared at the spot where he had stood, then sank heavily beneath the bed linens
and buried her face in the pillow.

In
the days and weeks that followed, she busied herself with the design,
execution, and planting of formal gardens on the east side of the castle. Thomas
attended and assisted her on occasion, but mostly he rode out with Russell,
sometimes being gone the entire day, coming home at night, his cheeks ruddy,
his previous good health returning.

They
continued to treat each other with merciless politeness and formality, "Milord
this, and milady that," their true feelings never surfacing except in
those intervals when they were alone with their son. Then apparently neither
were capable of resisting the life force within the child, and for a pleasant
time they laughed and pursued him and almost forgot about their "business
arrangement" and the terms of their new life.

During
the early days of June, Lord Eden stayed in her chambers each night until late,
the two of them sitting like an old married couple, Marianne working
needlepoint, which she loathed, but which kept her mind busy, Thomas filling
his pipe. Once or twice she saw him looking at her. Generally, a short time later,
he would take an urgent leave, bidding her goodnight and closing though not
locking the door between them.

One
evening near the middle of July, he performed this same ritual, bade her a late
goodnight and left her staring at the closed door. In the throes of deepening
despair, Marianne hurled her needlepoint to one side, feeling as though she
were locked into a kind of double celibacy. Weary and shivering though the
evening was warm, she prepared herself for bed and crawled between empty
sheets.

Suddenly
behind her, the door burst open. She looked over her shoulder. He was standing
in the doorway, his dressing gown half undone, his hair mussed as though he'd
recently driven his fingers through it.

"Lady,"
he commanded, his voice stem, "I have decided that I have rights—rights of
the marital bed."