This Other Eden (46 page)

For
a moment Billy seemed to be refusing to take an active interest in the prize
before him. He continued to rub his eyes and stretch. "What in th—"
he muttered, shading his eyes from the lamp.

Thomas
felt a cruel disappointment in the yawning, scratching, bleary-eyed young man.
Perhaps he didn't know what treasures were contained beneath the white
nightdress. Hurriedly he approached the girl and again slipped the garment from
her shoulders. There was no protest coming from her. In fact, she had the
softest of smiles on her face, as though once the bond of trust had been
established between them, nothing could jar it.

Billy
stopped yawning. He no longer appeared to be a childish figure of fun. Thomas
was no longer annoyed by his lack of response.

"For
you, Billy," Thomas murmured. "I promised. Remember?"

Apparently
Billy was remembering nothing. He moved, still on his knees, to the edge of the
bed, his eyes never leaving the body before him.

Thomas
stepped out of the confrontation. The girl endured admirably, permitting Billy
to encircle her, turning her head slightly as he passed behind her, a flush on
her face as he lightly touched her buttocks.

Standing
apart, Thomas noticed that it was Billy who was now trembling. Thomas knew the
feeling well, the increase of the pulse, the blood becoming suddenly hot as it
raced through the veins, a tightening like a knot in the groin, the entire body
aching with a sudden heaviness.

As
the unspoken excitement grew, Thomas considered exercising his right as Lord
and staying to witness the seduction. But no. Billy needed privacy. Then there
was nothing more to stay for, and Thomas slipped quietly to the door.

At
that moment, Billy spoke his first words, hushed, aspirate words in a voice
that Thomas scarcely recognized. "Is she—clean?" he asked, standing
directly before her.

Thomas
glanced back. "As clean as the snow falling outside your window," he
muttered. Before he left, he saw Billy's hands lifting, like the claws of a
small beast, coming furiously up, then stopping short of contact.

Hurriedly
Thomas opened the door and closed it behind him. He leaned against it, listening.
Nothing. He heard absolutely nothing. Debt paid, he thought. Account closed. As
he made his way back through the darkened upper extremities of his castle, he
considered summoning Jack Spade again, letting him fetch a willing female. But
no. Instead he decided to play Billy's game this night.

As
he let himself into his room, he glanced about at the emptiness. Quickly he
gulped down a glass of brandy. The heavy desire still coursed through his body.
He extinguished the lamp and removed his robe and laid down on his bed.

Amazed
by his feelings, he thought again of that other darkened room, that other
female, fair as sun, kneeling before him. His painful encounter in that room
was no longer repulsive to him. On the contrary, the suspense it produced in
his mind now relaxed into an agreeable sensation.

Slowly
he turned onto his stomach, as the mussed bed became a woman, not the silent
creature who was just here. But the other—

The
release was painful and explosive. Then all was quiet except for his blood and
pulse and his extravagant enthusiasm for the act he'd just performed in his
imagination.

In
an attempt to free himself from the grip of the hideous nightmare in which he
was being buried alive in some gray crumbling interior, Ragland dragged himself
upward from the pillow which had given him no solace and stared about at the
dark dawn in his room.

His
heart was beating too rapidly. He hugged himself, shivering. The fire was dead.
He was tired, yet could not sleep and lay back again on the pillow.

Was
it too much to ask, after three days of excruciating labor, for a peaceful
interim of sleep? Apparently it was, for he'd heard movement all night. In an
act of generosity, he'd sent the staff directly to their beds. And how had they
repaid him? By prowling the night, by punctuating his sleep with distant cries,
by tramping back and forth outside the corridor which led to the kitchen,
undoubtedly pilfering the stores.

He
turned in search of a cool piece of linen. Poor Elfie. He doubted if she'd had
a moment's sleep as well. At least he had the defense of the corridor between
himself and the disturbances. She, unfortunate girl, had only the pallet in the
comer of the kitchen itself.

Come
spring, he would retire from a lifetime of service at Eden Castle. He would
purchase a small cottage at the edge of Mortemouth. He'd had his eye on such a
place, a low white neat cottage with pleasant sunny rooms and a garden. There,
Elfie would have her own room. She could tend her flowers and tend him as well
and fix his tea in the afternoon and fill the lengthening shadows of his
twilight years with the radiance of her beauty and sweet nature. He would find
her a husband, a steady, reliable fisherman, and when Ragland went, finally,
uncomplainingly, to his grave, he would leave it all to her, to this one bright
spot in his otherwise tedious existence.

At
the height of his dream, something urged him away from it. It would come in
time, but for now there was the harsh reality of the cold January morning.

What
would it be today, he wondered? A ride out across the moors? A visit to the
sheep farm, an arrogant descent to the cobblestones of Mortemouth, or perhaps
this would be the day that Lord Eden showed the young man his smuggling
activities.

Whatever,
Ragland would be involved. In spite of his sleepless night and pounding head,
he would have to serve and function. "Yes, milord. No, milord. Of course,
milord."

With
utter weariness he fell back onto the pillow, his hands fanning out over the
rumpled bed. At the height of his agitation he considered the deeds that he had
performed at the command of Lord Eden. The night's Festival rose clearly in his
mind. Lord Eden summoning the new wine, then beckoning Elfie to come closer.
Ragland had recognized the look in his eye.

No!
Quickly he sat up as though under immediate threat. He would have to get the
child out of here. Perhaps he could send her to the village, to Jenny
Toppinger. Elfie could stay in Marianne's old room. She'd be no bother. Yes,
he'd do it. This very day in fact.

Having
settled such a practical decision with dispatch, he permitted himself a
moment's relaxation. He prayed briefly, not an extravagant request, merely for
divine help in making it through this day.

At
the conclusion of the prayer, he waited, as though listening for a response. But
he heard nothing, not even the sound of the grate in the kitchen fire, not even
old Dolly's footsteps, padding heavily about at her morning chores. At the time
when the entire staff should be awakening, he heard nothing, nothing at all.

Except—there
was
something, a faint knock as though a chair had fallen. He listened
more closely. A drunken porter, perhaps, stumbling to his bed in the servants'
quarters.

Oh,
God, but he was tired. If only he could sleep for a moment. He closed his eyes
and tried to court a deep and feelingless sleep. But nothing came of it. A half
an hour later he was still struggling, navigating back and forth across the
rumpled bed like a ship foundering in a storm.

It
was no use. He might as well rise and face the day. Perhaps there would be a
quiet hour or two this afternoon when he could slip away. On that small note of
self-comfort, he rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet and dressed hurriedly
against the chill of the morning.

As
he stepped out into the corridor, he saw the gray light slipping through the
high kitchen windows at the end of the passage. The room itself, normally bustling
and warm at this hour of morning, was quiet. He would have to do it all, lay
the fire, start tea.

He
moved slowly down the corridor, leaning against the wall for support, trying to
give his ancient bones time to adjust to the movement and weight of his body.
As he stepped inside the room, the sight that greeted his eyes did not
disappoint him. It was chaos. Soiled platters were everywhere, the partial
remains of a side of beef hanging cold on the spit, spilled and congealed cream
slipping down the sides of the Buttery. He shook his head. It would take the
better part of the day.

Still
moving slowly, he went to the woodbox. First, heat. As he bent over the logs,
his eye fell on Elfie s pallet. Empty. Curious. Where would she be about so
early in the morning? She loved to walk the headlands, but certainly not in the
midst of a snowfall on the coldest of—

Carefully
he raised up, bringing a log with him. His eyes were awake, searching the
disordered room. Not like her, unless Dolly had invited her to share her bed.
Still carrying the log, he moved rapidly toward the corridor along which he'd
just passed.

Something
drew his attention back into the room, his eyes moving to the high wooden
staircase which led up to the courtyard outside. He stopped, peering closer,
his attention attracted by something white beneath the stairs, a white smock
hanging, or so it seemed.

He
blinked, then blinked again, his eyes watering in his desire to see. One step,
then two. It was something hanging, something white, seen through the treads of
the worn wooden steps, something with—

He
dropped the log. It clattered to the floor as he ran toward the stairs, toward
the something white hanging, a rope clearly visible now, one end tied to the
planks of the landing, the other end—

Oh,
sweet
God
! His heart stopped. He brought his hands up to his eyes
as though to shield himself, his mouth open, lips working, recognition dawning
as he ran, stumbling beneath the opened staircase, and received the first clear
glimpse of the something white hanging.

It
seemed to him as though the whole room were spinning around, yet his own slight
legs were fixed. Still he looked up, his hands reaching toward the something
white hanging, then withdrawing in horror. What his hands could not bring
themselves to touch, his eyes recorded with painful clarity.

Her
head was bent rigidly to one side, the thin neck clearly broken. Her eyes were
half-opened, but only the whites were visible. From the right temple trickled a
small scar of dried blood which, passing over the cheek, lost itself in the
collar of her nightdress. Her teeth had bitten through her lower Hp. The rest
of her body hung motionless, red splotches of blood appearing beneath the white
nightdress, her hands like pink and white flowers limp against her sides, her
pale feet so close to him, crusted with blood, while around each ankle were the
knotted yet severed remains of ropes. Tears streaming, Ragland took it all in.
He reached up with one hand as though to comfort her and felt the flesh still
warm. Suddenly he felt pain in all parts of his body as he lifted his head,
howling, both hands clawing at her as though to pull her down if there still
were time. But her body merely danced grotesquely in the air. Ragland's howls
continued as he fell on his knees, embracing her legs, aware of footsteps
behind him, an old woman's piercing scream. There were other footsteps, running
from all quarters, people closing in, but none as dear as the something white
hanging with blood-matted, blue-black hair.

A
terrible feeling such as he had never known before came over him. He staggered
to his feet and pushed through the gaping faces. He was in total darkness, yet
he found a knife and, stumbling up the high steps, he fell upon the knotted
rope and slashed away at it until he heard a soft thud of something hitting the
floor.

Again
an old woman screamed and called out to him, but he couldn't hear. Looking down
through the planks of the landing, he saw Elfie crumpled beneath him, the
flower he'd worked so long and hard to cultivate now dead.

All
sound grew faint. He looked at the knife as though he longed to use it on
himself. But he was incapable of thinking anymore. He closed his eyes. The room
began to shake. He hurled himself toward the door and threw it open and ran,
stumbling out into the snow, still howling, the snow falling white and silent,
the only sounds in his ears his own screams.