This Other Eden (91 page)

Marianne
nodded, although in truth her mind was already firm in its decision. They would
go, of that she was certain. What she was less certain of was what would happen
once they arrived. As she followed after Thomas and the boys across the inner
courtyard, one thought only interposed between her and peace. By this time next
year, she told herself, she would know what her future would be, whether she would
be free to venture beyond the boundaries of the moors as Lady Eden, or as
Thomas Eden's whore.

For
the first time, she realized how safe it had been not knowing.

As
the months passed with alarming rapidity, there were so many worries in
Marianne's mind that she scarcely knew which one to attend to first. Her
wardrobe for one, after years of neglect needed refurbishing, and since she was
loath to leave her sons for a trip to London, the dressmakers came to her,
bearing bolts of elegant satin and brocade and silk. In the rush of excitement
and fittings, she sometimes managed to forget the specifics of the ordeal ahead
of her. But on certain evenings, after the tradesmen, the fitters, the furriers
had retired for the night, and she was left alone amid the trunks and pacldng
cases, she stared at the image in the pier glass, looking back at her, and
thought, "How old she looks at twenty-six, how plain, how undistinguished."
In such despairing moments, she wondered why she had forced him into the
decision, staking everything on a foolish Christmas Masque, sallying forth into
the enemy camp without weapons or defense, a witless maneuver.

On
this particular night, the first of December, with the date of their departure
less than two weeks away, she sat alone in her chambers, listening to Thomas
grumble in the next room. The tailors had now turned their attentions to him,
had convinced him that the comfortable and worn black jackets he was accustomed
to wearing were not suitable for such a grand occasion.

Apparently
he was protesting everything from the cut of the new fashions to the material
itself. Listening, she smiled, hearing in his honest outburst a resentment as
deep as her own. What a big to-do about absolutely nothing! The magnificent
wardrobe, the presence of three lady's maids, the elegant new coiffure, would
not alter her in the slightest.

Suddenly
she was too tired to care one way or the other. As male voices continued to
rise and fall in the next room, she half-closed the window on the cold December
air, shrugged herself out of her dressing gown, and slipped between cool
sheets.

She
had always survived, would always survive.

It
was understandable that Billy Beckford was determined to entertain his guests,
particularly his special guest, the Hero of the Nile, in the grandest manner
possible. And the great attraction was of course to be the Abbey, as it had now
come to be called. James Wyatt, the architect, was to be of the party and thus
needed no extra goad to persuade him to see to it that the still uncompleted
building was looking its best with no sign of work or workmen when the time
came.

But
the Abbey was to be kept well in the background until a grand finale on the
last night. Before then, the guests would find it no hardship to be confined to
the grandeur of Fonthill Splendons and to tours of the demesne, carefully
planned so as to keep the new toy as much out of sight as possible—not an easy
task.

Very
early in the dark hours of a cold snowy mid-December morning, an entourage of
three carriages left Eden Castle. Li the lead carriage were Lord and Lady Eden,
behind them their servants, and in the third carriage their trunks. Late that
afternoon the entourage pulled into the private lane which led to the isolation
of Fonthill Splendons.

Marianne
stared bleakly out of the window, remembering the last time she'd traveled this
road, the morning of the false marriage. The same man was sitting opposite her
now, yet how they both had changed. Apparently Thomas saw the look on her face
and misinterpreted it. "Shall we turn back, lady?" He smiled.

She
shook her head. "No, William would never forgive us."

He
laughed outright. "I could have sworn that William would have appeared at
the castle gate in time to stow away atop the carriage."

Inside
her fur muff, Marianne felt her hands trembling. She missed her sons, the warm
familiarity of Eden Point. The coming ordeal rose vividly before her mind. Her
brain felt disordered. As Thomas, now leaning out of the window, shouted,
"There it is!" her heart stopped.

Not
knowing what to expect on arrival at a Great House, she was apprehensive to
find only servants about her. Neither their host, Billy Beckford, nor any of
the guests were in sight. Within moments of their arrival, they had been
ushered up to private chambers, the door had been closed, and they were as
alone as they had been in the carriage.

Instantly
she took it as a bad omen. But Thomas reassured her that it was standard, that
the guests and the host always kept well out of sight until the entire company
met that night for the first ball. Somewhat reassured, Marianne settled
uncomfortably on the edge of a stiff unused bed and watched awkwardly as the
maids unpacked her trunks. She longed to help, but with a discreet shake of his
head, Thomas told her no. To add to her feeling of isolation, he left their
chambers a few moments later and did not return until it was dark, with brandy
on his breath and a flush of excitement on his face as he informed her that
he'd met Nelson and that Billy sent her his warmest welcome.

He
seemed so at ease, so sure of himself, while she was not faring well at all.
"I don't understand," she complained.

Behind
her, Thomas stretched out across the bed as relaxed as she'd ever seen him.
"Understand what?" he mumbled, looking as though he were tired and on
the verge of sleep.

"What's
the point?" she demanded, confronting him at the foot of the bed. "We
go to all of these absurd preparations and travel all this distance to spend
the first hours in complete isolation."

"Only
the ladies," he said, smiling sleepily up at her.

"Why
the ladies?" she demanded.

"To
rest. To prepare for the evening."

"And
why not the men?"

Slightly
annoyed, he grumbled, "Oh, for God's sake, Marianne. It's always been like
this. I don't know why. The ladies appear at a certain time."

"Like
trained dogs?"

He
raised up on his elbows. "Would you have wanted to go with me to the
clubroom?"

"It
might have been better than what I did, which was nothing." Her boredom
and nervous tension were taking a tremendous toll. Before his calm expression,
she felt her anger vault. In a rush of emotion she began to suspect that only
she had been isolated, that someplace in the grand palace the ladies had met in
similar fashion as the gentlemen. Only she had been left out, Eden's whore, the
fisherman's daughter who undoubtedly still smelled of fish.

Although
she was perfectly aware of her foolishness, there was nothing she could do to
control it As the dangerous feelings increased, she turned away from his
smiling face and took all of her misery with her to a far windowseat.

She
was not aware of him near her until he touched her, lifted her face revealing
tears. "I've never seen you cry thus," he murmured.

"I've
never felt this way," she wept. "I don't want to stay here, Thomas. Please,
let's go home."

Gently
he lifted her to her feet and held her close. "You have nothing to be
afraid of."

"You
don't understand," she cried. "I don't belong."

Quickly
he scolded her. "You are my wife."

"In
North Devon, perhaps," she replied feverishly. "But not here." Struggling
free, she ran to the far side of the room. He started after her when there was
a knock on the door, the maids bringing a light supper. Thomas retreated at
their intrusion.

They
ate in silence, or more accurately, he ate. She touched nothing. A short time
later, the maids returned, like executioners, to "prepare her," or so
they said. As they led her into the little dressing room off the sitting room,
she looked back at Thomas. There was a peculiar expression on his face.
Disappointment? Regret?

She
was certain of both, and like a prisoner under sentence of death, she submitted
to the cleansing and dressing process, confident that within an hour it would
make no difference.

Fonthill
Splendons was a massive, overgrand palace filled with a network of vast marble
corridors, most of them lined with oil portraits of past London officialdom.
The grandest of all was a pink marble corridor called the "Avenue of Lord
Mayors," a cavernous rosy-tinted hall lined on both sides with bronze
busts of all the past Lord Mayors of London.

Down
this corridor now, preceded by two pages carrying torches, passed Lord and Lady
Eden. The walk had been endless from their chambers on the fourth floor to the
lower reception rooms. Marianne, beautifully gowned in white satin cut low in
the fashion of the day to reveal her breasts, a single strand of pearls about
her neck, her own hair simply done up and curled lightly about her face,
shivered as she walked, one hand resting lightly on Thomas', which seemed to be
rising higher and higher in the air. Gently she pushed it down to shoulder
height. She wished she'd brought her cape and hoped fervently she'd stop
shivering before they joined the company—wherever they might be.

The
mood from which she had suffered earlier in the day had now diminished. It was
still there, though now it had solidified into a kind of numbness. The image of
the condemned continuously came to her mind.

The
marble corridor was empty save for the fixed and frozen busts of rather
pompous-looking gentlemen and, of course, the two young pages who hurried along
before them, always keeping a discreet distance in front.

"Are
you as well as you look, madame?" whispered Thomas, scarcely moving his
lips, keeping his head erect, eyes straight ahead.

"I've
never been worse, milord," she whispered back. "It reminds me of a
hot August morning when I was a girl—"

Suddenly
the hand which supported hers curled tightly around her arm. She knew he
disliked any reference to that morning. Now he stopped, the echoing sound of
all footsteps ceasing, as the two pages halted, keeping their faces tactfully
averted.

He
stared sternly down on her. "Then we shall turn about," he said
firmly.

But
she held her ground. "No, milord. Let's proceed. We've come this
far."

Finally
he lifted his hand again into the air, she placed her hand atop it, and once
again the dreary little procession was moving forward, the two pages walking
more slowly now.

There
was a sharp turn at the conclusion of the pink marble corridor. Marianne found
herself in a massive Rotunda with black and white checkerboard marble floor and
gigantic Greek statuary lining the walls, virile young men, naked, in various
positions of athletic prowess, their empty marble eyes blank and unseeing in
spite of the effort on their chiseled faces.

What
a convenient infirmity, Marianne thought. Since the faculty most revealing of
terror was the eyes, how marvelous for a while to be without them.

As
they crossed the Rotunda, she heard the first signs of life, musical
instruments being tuned and, more ominous, the continuous roar of human voices,
thousands of voices, or so it seemed. Her hand no longer rested atop Thomas',
but now it grasped at it as though that single support were all between her and
collapse.

Beyond
the Rotunda, they entered another small corridor, two rows of uniformed
stewards on both sides, their eyes as fixed and sightless as the Greek
Athletes. Beyond the corridor was a small reception hall. The music and voices
were overpowering in her ears. She saw Billy Beckford, standing in the center
of a high arched door, looking out over the most immense ballroom she had ever
seen.