This Other Eden (89 page)

Her
heart quickened. Slowly she turned beneath the sheets to face him. "I—don't
understand, milord."

"How
much clearer need I make it? On my word I swear to live within all the terms of
our arrangement save this one."

"But,
milord-"

"I
apologize in advance for any discomfort I may cause you," he went on,
standing over her, "but I find I'm incapable of brotherly
coexistence."

"Milord,
you said-"

"Damn
what I said!" he exploded. "It's gone on long enough."

Meekly
she lay upon the bed, her fingers, out of sight, already undoing the ties of
her nightdress. As he approached her, she was ready. With remarkable speed, he
threw back the coverlet and was on her and then into her with one sharp hungry
thrust.

As
he busied himself with her breasts, she pressed her head gently backward into
the pillow, her eyes closed.

At
last, at long last.

Eight
months and twenty-three days later, in the middle of an early March snowstorm,
with Thomas in constant attendance to the displeasure of the females in the
castle, Marianne, after an easy labor, gave birth to a red, wriggly,
delicate-faced, dark-haired son.

Throughout
the short interval of bearable pain, Thomas never left her side, refusing this
time to be banished to the chapel. The moment that Jenny cut the cord, he
insisted that he hold the child, still wet with birth blood. With Marianne's
agreement, they named him James, after his dead brother buried in America.

Marianne,
a little amazed at the ease of it all after the four agonizing days spent
bringing Edward into the world, endured the cleansing process and realized
somewhat belatedly that now she was the mother of two sons. As old Jenny and
Sarah fussed over her, she watched Thomas by the window, still cradling the
child, a look of soft quizzical love on his face that she'd never seen him give
to Edward. In a spasm of weakness, she turned her head to one side and closed
her eyes as though suffering a premonition of the future—the eldest son
illegitimate, the second, favored son, the legitimate heir.

As
she looked back, she saw Thomas begrudgingly relinquish his son to Jenny for
the purposes of cleansing. As his eye fell on her, she tried to dispel her
gloomy glimpse of the future. Gently he sat beside her on the bed and lifted
her into his arms.

His
expression pleased her. Perhaps their tumultuous past was over. Tenderly she
fingered his graying beard, which he had cultivated since his illness. "Milord,"
she suggested, "perhaps we should create our own England, in lieu of the
one that fails to recognize us."

For
just an instant a cloud marred his brow. Then he laughed. "I'm in
agreement, lady, and perfectly willing. What population shall we aim for? Two
dozen sons? Three dozen perhaps, and as many daughters to break the hearts of
all those who have spurned us?"

Wearily
smiling, she shook her head. "Not tonight, milord. Perhaps later-"

He
took her hand and pressed it to his lips. She looked at him closely, feeling
the need to hear the truth from him. "Do you have any regrets,
Thomas?" she asked.

"None."

"Do
you miss your London friends?"

"I
have no London friends."

"You
did once."

"They
were not friends."

"And
what of Billy Beckford?"

Slowly,
without answering, he released her hand and walked to the window. She watched,
feeling a depression in his hesitancy. After several moments when he still had
not replied, she turned her face to the pillow, feeling peculiarly weak and
weeping. Why had she not been wise enough to see what an empty victory it would
be? In their union they had cut themselves off entirely from the rest of the
world. Suddenly the years stretched ahead like bleak and endless winters. The
castle would be their prison, and beyond that, the larger prison of the moors.

"Are
you crying, Marianne?" It was Jenny bending over her with her new son.

Before
she could reply, Thomas answered for her from the window.

"She's
tired, Jenny. Leave her be. I'll take my son."

With
her eyes half-closed, Marianne saw the exchange, the bewilderment on Jenny's
face as she relinquished the infant to Lord Eden and left the room. Marianne
saw Thomas fold back the blanket to examine his placidly sleeping son, saw him
carry him to the fire where he sat with him, the loneliness on his face
increasing as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

The
room was silent, a peculiar mood, a tomb bearing new life, the only sound the
crackling of the fire.

In
the manner of true exiles, their exile was never mentioned again. If they did
not
exist for the world, then the world did not exist for them. For the next year
and a half, they hurled themselves into the rearing of their sons, the
dominant, willful Edward always seeming to occupy more of their time and
energies than the pale, sweet-natured James.

Their
only links with the outside world during this period were the weekly dispatches
sent down from London from
The Bloomshury Gazetteer
for the benefit of
William Pitch. While he had not as yet relinquished ownership of the
once-flourishing paper, he had long since ceded all editorial duties. And while
he never exerted any power, still he insisted that he be "kept
informed." Pitch was the only one in the castle who seemed to thrive on
the exile. If the rest of the world chose to go mad, that was none of his
concern. But while he did not particularly care to witness it, he still had a
hunger to hear about it, once a week, through the articulate editorials of the
Gazetteer
.

So,
generally late on a Saturday afternoon, a rider would appear at the gate, dusty
from the road, and the watchmen would grant him immediate entrance, knowing the
pattern by now. The small portfolio of news would be delivered to William's
chambers—Jane's now as well, though still a marriage had never taken place. And
that evening, at table, William would share with them as much as they cared to
hear. During this period the
Gazetteer
was full of one particular name,
England's newest hero, the greatest naval commander she had ever produced, one
Horatio Nelson.

According
to William, Nelson could do no wrong. Every encounter he had with the French,
while hopeless appearing on the face of it, led to greater glory and greater
victory. However, he was paying a price for his notoriety. The conflict seemed
to be devouring him a piece at a time.

According
to the weekly dispatches, he was wounded at Calvi, on the Corsican coast, and
lost the sight of his right eye. Next he distinguished himself at the Battle of
Cape St. Vincent by leading a landing party in an attack on the strongly fortified
port of Santa Cruz de Tenerife. The attack was a bold gamble and unlike the
others, it failed. The British were driven off with heavy losses and Nelson's
right arm was badly mangled up to the elbow. The arm had to be cut off in a
crude amputation in a pitching boat, and Nelson was invalided home to England
in great pain.

After
that, William's fascination with the man became an obsession, as though he were
trying to chart the progress of his own life against that of a man who had been
similarly mutilated. If every issue of the Gazetteer did not carry at least one
account of Nelson, William flew into a rage and spoke of returning to the
editorship, feeling certain that he was needed again.

But
his rages were few, for word of the dramatic man and his exploits seemed to be
the only nourishment that all of England required. Soon the messenger was given
instructions to bring not only the Gazetteer, but every pamphlet, every piece
of newsprint he could find which bore the name of Nelson. Through this means of
communication, Eden Castle was kept well informed of Napoleon's movements, for
where Napoleon's fleet was, Nelson was not far behind. When the French fleet
set out on an expedition to conquer Egypt, Nelson was at Toulon. When the
French escaped under the cover of a storm. Nelson followed it in a long and
exciting pursuit, finally cornering the entire fleet in the Bay of Aboukir and
totally destroying it. All the papers proclaimed him "the Hero of the
Nile." An adoring nation gave him a large sum of money.

One
night at table, Marianne noticed a new gravity to William's manner. He had not
lifted his eyes during the entire meal. The Gazetteer which had been delivered
that afternoon was beside him on the table.

Near
the end of the mostly silent meal, Marianne sensed something wrong. "I
take it the news is not good, William?"

Thomas
looked up from his plate. "No Nelson tonight?" He smiled. "I
thought something was missing. My digestive tract scarcely knows how to
function on a Saturday evening without news of Nelson to aid it."

When
William did not immediately respond, Jane smiled and said, "He's in
trouble, milord."

Thomas
looked at her in mock surprise. "Nelson in trouble? Impossible. God,
perhaps, even St. Peter, but never Nelson."

As
Jane smiled again, Marianne turned her attention back to William, who seemed to
be brooding unnecessarily. "What is it, William?" she urged.
"Tell us. We rely upon you to remind us that we do still inhabit this
earth."

Suddenly
William stood. With his good arm he pushed the paper toward Marianne.
"Read for yourself," he suggested, "then judge for yourself
whether or not you want to inhabit this earth."

Bewildered,
Marianne picked up the paper and flattened it on the table. Before she could
start to read, William spoke again, his head down. "I will never
understand this country," he muttered. "Never! The man has given
service beyond any reasonable definition of duty. And yet our noble monarch has
the audacity, the nerve, to—"

As
his outrage overtook him, he ceased talking and channeled all his energy into
rapid pacing.

In
the interim Marianne glanced down at the paper. The banner read, NELSON
CONDEMNED FOR HIS CONDUCT.

At
the end of the table, Thomas was urging her to "Read it loud, Marianne.
What is it? Has he failed to walk on water?"

William
turned on him. "Milord, the jest is not well taken. Such ingratitude is
shameful and must be treated as such. Sooner or later this country must face
the truth of what she has known all along, that a madman now resides at Windsor,
and while he toils in his carrot patch removing his weeds,
he
is the
most insidious weed, choking the life breath out of every Englishman."

Marianne
looked up, pleased. This was the old William, assuming a steady posture of
outrage, speaking the truth as he saw it with conviction.

Thomas,
reprimanded and obviously impressed with William's anger, again suggested,
"Well, for heaven's sake, read it, Marianne. The exploits of the Royal
Farmer have always fascinated me. What could he possibly have done to top his
other insanities?"

Quickly
Marianne scanned the account. 'It seems that HRH has proclaimed a Royal
Condemnation of Lord Nelson," she began.

As
William cursed, Thomas demanded, "For God's sake, why?"

Marianne
tilted the paper closer to the candles. "It seems that there is a woman,
milord."

"Isn't
there always?"

"Emma
Hamilton," she said, ignoring the remark and reading on. "Wife of Sir
William Hamilton, British Ambassador to Naples."

Thomas
sat up, clearly relishing someone else's scandal. "Don't tell me. Lady
Emma nursed Nelson's wounds, then Nelson nursed hers."

In
spite of the somberness at table, Marianne smiled. "Something along those
lines, milord." She read on. "Apparently her influence over Nelson is
so great that he has disobeyed the King's orders to leave Naples and has been
summoned home."