This Other Eden (9 page)

She
grabbed up the ends of her apron and once again started downward, her shoulders
drawn up around her neck, with renewed purpose in her step, a wash to arrive on
the scene and assess the girl's chances for herself.

Several
arduous minutes later, her head like a broken puppet, she felt the safer
footing of cobblestones beneath her feet and started off down the wind in the
direction of the Lockes' cottage. There still were clusters of quietly talking
people standing about in front of the shops, idle fishermen who had been robbed
of the day's catch, first by the early morning rain, then the public whipping.
She knew them all, there Kerry, there Williams, and Wotten and Tim Clarke and
Bob Duncan. She received the quiet bobs of their heads with dignity,
considering that her own head was bobbing continuously. The medicines in her
apron jangled together, a kind of melody proclaiming her arrival, the only
medicinal expert this side of Exeter.

Ahead
she heard someone calling to her. She looked up and saw Parson Branscombe
running toward her, his fat little stockinged legs flying.

"Ah,
Dolly," he cried. "I was just coining to fetch you. She needs more
than my prayers. Hurry! Please hurry!"

She
lifted her head in search of air. "I'm coming," she snapped, drawing
away from the pudgy little fingers which reached out for her arm. "Can't a
body stop for breath?"

With
her mantle of authority clearly in place, she brushed past Parson Branscombe,
holding her ladened apron aloft. As she caught her first sight of the Locke
cottage, she stopped, appalled. She had passed perhaps a half a dozen people on
her way here. Now it looked as though the other ninety-four inhabitants of
Mortemouth were all pressing to get into the cottage, their appetites for
suffering insatiable.

"My
God," she cursed, impervious to Parson Branscombe still hovering at her
elbow. "They must be cleared," she ordered.

Parson
Branscombe, obviously grateful that someone else had arrived to take charge,
ran ahead of her, shouting in a voice that resembled a woman's. "Make way,
please. Go back to your homes. Please, oh, please, make way!"

The
people standing at the outer edges of the circle looked at him as though he
were little more than a honey bee. From where Dolly stood, still a few yards
removed, it was not apparent to her that anyone had even so much as shifted
their feet.

A
residue of anger left over from the entire miserable morning flared within her.
She stepped closer to the edge of the garden, which was being trampled into
oblivion, drew herself up to her full five feet, and shouted, "In the name
of God, go home! The lot of you. This isn't Tyburn or Newgate. There will be no
head on a pike to amuse you. Haven't you seen enough? If you want more, go home
and beat your wives, or yourselves. It matters little to me. But clear this
place.
Now!"

A
stillness fell over the faces, all turned in Dolly's direction. She took the
weight of their stares and in spite of her furiously bobbing head, shouted
again, "Go home, I say! The entertainment's over."

She
began to move slowly through the parting crowd. At the door of the cottage she
stood on the stoop, a helpful elevation of almost a foot, permitting her to
look out over the faces. With a surge of emotion, she added, more softly,
"Go home and pray. For Marianne, for her father, for Thomas Eden."

Parson
Branscombe murmured, "Amen," and pushed through the crowd in an
obvious attempt to align himself with Dolly.

But
Dolly was in no mood to be aligned with anyone. She took a last glance over her
shoulder at the backs of the departing crowd. Then she stepped over the sill
into the darkness of the tiny room, her failing vision temporarily rendered
useless by the transition. Somewhere she heard weeping.

"Is
that you, Jenny?" she called out, her eyesight beginning to clear. "Jenny,"
she ordered, recognizing the weeping. "That's enough. I need help."
When the woman weeping in the comer could not or would not respond, Dolly
hastily emptied the contents of her apron out onto the table, and watched with
dwindling patience as again the woman buried her face in her hands. Through
this wet strangle, Dolly heard dreaded words. "She's gone, Dolly. She's
passed."

Dolly
struggled to digest the simple words. She blinked in the semidarkness, her eyes
focused on the weeping woman slumped on a low stool. Then as if by sheer dint
of will she hoped to alter the flat pronouncement, she snapped, "Nonsense!
She isn't dead!"

Leaving
her medicines where they lay tumbled on the table, she tried to steady her
furiously bobbing head. As she passed the door which led out into the garden,
she spied Hartlow sitting placidly beneath a beech, holding the toy in his
hands, an awesome vacancy in his face. Quickly she dismissed the grinning giant
in the sundrenched garden and proceeded on through the low doorway to
Marianne's room.

One
small window on the back wall was the only source of illumination. But it was
enough. What lay facedown on the bed scarcely resembled a human being. Still
bared to the waist, her back a mass of glistening wet red, one arm, its wrist
scraped and bleeding, her lovely face bruised from repeated contact with the
whipping oak, was Marianne. Her eyes were closed, mouth opened, no sign of
life.

Dolly
moved toward the low couch, and dropped laboriously to her knees. Without
touching the girl she leaned her face close to the opened mouth, pressed her
cheek against the lips caked with dried blood. In that awkward position she
held perfectly still.

Nothing,
not even the faintest hint of breath.

With
an energy born of fury, Dolly pushed to her feet and bodily lifted the girl,
turned her over onto her back, feeling the wet blood coat her hands. She pushed
the blood-soaked hair away from the face and in rapid order delivered two
stunning slaps to the sides of her face. The echo of the blows resounded
through the still house.

She
hesitated to see what response she had elicited and seeing none, she did it
again.

A
voice cried out behind her, "Stop it!" and she turned to see Jenny,
clinging to the door, her face shocked.

But
her attention
was drawn back to the lifeless head on the pillow. It stirred. The chin tilted
upward, the thin, purple lips parted. Dolly froze, afraid that her vision was
playing tricks on her. But when the lips moved a second time, and when she
leaned over the face and felt the softest of breath, she raised up, crying,
"Jenny, she's alive!" Not waiting for the woman at the door, Dolly
ran back into the front room, retrieved the flask of brandy, came hurriedly
back, gently lifted the girl's head, and forced the liquid down her throat.

No
matter that it came up again. The strong spirit had accomplished its purpose.
Marianne's eyes fluttered open, then closed immediately, but at least they had
opened and the soft breath was increasing along with a restlessness in her body
as her nerves responded to the damage done to her back.

Again
Dolly shouted for Jenny's assistance. The woman in the doorway looked up as
though toward a miracle, then flew into action. While Jenny supported the limp
head, Dolly forced the entire flask of brandy down Marianne's throat. Wise
enough in the ways of medicine, Dolly knew that total inebriation was the
girl's only hope. There was a vast amount of work to be done, repairing this
body, and it would be best if Marianne suffered it all in a semi-blissful state
of complete drunkenness.

When
the flask was emptied, Dolly ordered Jenny to find more, and a moment later,
the now-smiling woman returned with Hartlow's full keg.

About
three-quarters of an hour later Marianne lay back on the pillow, her eyes
fluttering open, her lips moving wordlessly, a sufficiently glazed look on her
face.

The
two women worked steadily for over four hours. Dolly lost count of the number
of times she sent Jenny for a bucket of fresh water, only to return it to her a
few moments later blood red with orders to fetch more.

She
used an entire bed sheet of linen, tearing small strips, dabbing gently at the
lacerated back, then applying a thin coat of camphor to staunch the bleeding.

It
was approaching six o'clock when at last she stepped back from the couch, her
work done. Marianne lay stripped on fresh linen, again on her stomach, her long
hair freshly washed and pinned up on her head, clean bandages on her scraped
wrists, her back a lacework of strips of camphor-soaked muslin, each following
the contours of a single lash.

Dolly
dragged a low stool close to the bed, and sat wearily. Jenny hovered behind her.
Gently she patted the thin arm crooked about the silent face.

"Marianne?"
she whispered.

There
was no response. The wide blue eyes simply stared sideways out of their pain at
the small room.

"Marianne?"
Dolly tried again—"Can you hear me?"

Concerned,
Jenny asked, '"Why won't she speak?"

But
Dolly lifted a finger and shushed her. Softly she ordered her to "Prepare
some broth. Hot, Jenny, if you don't mind."

As
soon as she was gone, Dolly again leaned close to the silent face. Carefully
she moved her hand before the wide-awake eyes. They did not Wink. Puzzled, she
sat back. There was discernible rising and falling to the pitiful back. Breath
was moving through her lungs. She was alive. And yet-

In
the room beyond, Dolly heard voices, some neighbor no doubt, inquiring for the
village. She heard Jenny's whispered reply, comforting, for Dolly had permitted
Jenny to believe that all was well.

Dolly
tried a third time. "Marianne?"

About
ten minutes later, Jenny appeared with a steaming mug. Carefully the two women
lifted Marianne, held her upright, trying to avoid reopening the cuts on her
back. Jenny held her head while Dolly placed the mug to her lips. Marianne
drank, not all of it, but enough, her head still dragging and heavy.

With
tenderness they returned her to her stomach, arranged her arms beside her head,
denied her a pillow for fear of suffocation, and throughout it all, the opened
lips made no attempt to form words, the eyes mere shadows, recording nothing,
revealing nothing.

Apparently
Jenny could not tolerate the frightening emptiness. "Will she be all
right, Dolly?" she whispered.

Dolly,
experiencing a state not unlike total exhaustion, assured her that she would.

The
interminable night began. Dolly stayed on, impervious to whatever duties might
be awaiting her at Eden Castle. She lit candles and tried to avoid the vacant
stare in Marianne's eyes. She agreed with Jenny that perhaps if Hartlow could
see his daughter, the sight of her might bring him back to his senses.

While
Dolly covered the girl with a light quilt, Jenny fetched the big man, who had
passed the day and evening sitting in senseless oblivion in the garden. But the
confrontation accomplished nothing. Hardow, still holding the stuffed elephant,
merely stood in the doorway, announced proudly, "Marianne's gone to
London"—and here the smile deepened— "gone off to London in lace and
roses she's gone, in lace and roses." Clutching the elephant to him, he
announced that he was sleepy and was going to his own couch, which he did. Jenny
removed his boots, still mud-encrusted from the walk to Eden Castle earlier
that morning, loosened his shirt, and sat with him until sleep overtook him.

There
was one other interruption that night, from a sweating, angry Dan Trigg, who
informed them that his prize horse. Daybreak, had just returned to the bam,
hungry, thirsty, its sides bleeding, clearly abused.

Tied
onto the saddle was a drunken Russell Locke, passed out cold, a note pinned to
his back from the publican at The Hanging Man, listing the amount of his bill
for a solid night and day of food and drink, mostly drink, and that he would
send a man on the morrow for payment in full.

Dan
Trigg, a good man, glared down at Dolly and Jenny. "The bastard never went
near Exeter," he cursed. "He left it all for his father." Then
shaking his head as though doubting that such a scoundrel could exist, he
added, "I've locked him in my bam for the night." Seeing the blood-splotched
aprons of the two women, he added kindly, "You don't need him here. Let
him sleep off the demon on a pile of manure." He stayed a moment longer to
inquire after Marianne, thanked God aloud upon the news of her survival, then
quickly bobbed his head and left.