This Other Eden (11 page)

Ragland
ignored her, but received her words. She was right. The pale countenance across
the table did resemble a victim on her way to her own execution.

Uncomfortable
with this perception, Ragland lowered his head, lifted his mug, and ordered
gruffly, "Drink! It'll keep you warm."

At
the clear command, Marianne lifted the mug and drank, as Ragland knew she
would, never once inquiring what it was or what effect it would have on her.

His
annoyance increasing, he looked quickly out at the crowd gathered by the
waiting stage. If only he could find one kindly-looking face, one trustworthy
set of eyes. He'd pay him out of his own pocket to keep an eye on the girl. He
searched for such a face for several minutes. At least it relieved him of the
necessity of looking at her. But in the pushing crowd it was impossible to
separate the passengers from those who were merely seeing the coach off. Almost
overcome by his responsibilities, he ordered Marianne to finish her drink and
he did the same and quickly guided her back through the crowds and out into the
cold rain, which was falling harder.

Finally,
when he thought the stagemaster's cry would never come, it came, a hoarse
bellowing for "Passengers only, step forward and show their tickets."
A line formed and Ragland and Marianne fell in at the rear. Looking at her out
of the comer of his eye, she reminded him of an animal going down to drink, or
a child, looking in fright out a window, something ponderous in her mind,
clutching her valise as though it were a lifeline.

The
line moved slowly forward. In order to relieve his eyes of her, he concentrated
on the boarding passengers, there, just getting aboard, clearly a lady, swathed
in rich brown furs, the hem of her velvet gown mud-splotched, and with her, two
maids in gray, each bobbing nervously from side to side in loyal attention to
her Ladyship's comfort. The three together filled one side of the interior of
the coach.

Ragland
felt in his pocket for Marianne's certificate of boarding. The villagers had
only been able to raise sufficient coin for an outside passage. But when he had
purchased the ticket, the gentleman had informed him that if the interior was
not full, she might ride there.

As
he saw three dandies in brocade waistcoats and freshly set wigs climb into the
other side of the interior, he feared that Marianne would have to follow the
instructions printed on the certificate—one outside passage to London.

He
glanced up at the dark, glowering sky. No sign of respite. Clearly the rain had
set in. Again he looked over at the silent girl, trying for the last time to
cut through the frozen image. "Marianne, are you certain you
understand?"

She
did not look at him.

"Jane's
address," he persisted. "Where is it?"

She
was concentrating on a small black and white dog which was scrambling across
the muddy road, tail between his legs, trying to avoid being run down by the
thick commerce of wagons traveling in all directions.

"Marianne!"
he almost shouted.

The
dog safely across, she looked up at Ragland, her eyes mysteriously flat, almost
hard, as though he were the villain, he alone responsible for everything.
Ragland had not expected such an expression, particularly not after all he'd
done on the girl's behalf, not the least of which was the miserable trip that
morning across the moors driving a sheep cart and an ancient horse from Eden
stables, to say nothing of the coins which he had generously donated on her
behalf from his own pocket.

No!
He had not expected such an expression at all, although he was grateful for it,
for it enabled him to grab her roughly by the shoulder beneath the several
layers of garments, and certainly enabled him not to dwell on the scars beneath
the layered garments, scars he'd seen once when she was asleep, and he'd come
upon Dolly nursing them with applications of oil. It was true. He'd seen worse
whipping scars, but never on so small a back.

He
felt a wave of embarrassment and this too helped him to hand her over to a
burly red-haired porter who without so much as looking at Marianne, lifted her
up by the waist to the upper level and into the hands of a blackamoor who
roughly placed her in the center of the seat, facing backward, between two men,
one a fleshy, ruddy-faced farmer, and an old man, completely enshrouded by his
gray cape, peering out with bloodshot eyes at all that was going on.

Wedged
between these two, like a thin volume, sat Marianne, the valise in her lap, her
bonnet wet and askew from the rough ascent, her face gone suddenly white as though
for the first time she realized where she was and what was ahead of her.

In
a surge of guilt, Ragland stepped up to the high wheel and shouted, "Are
you all right, child?"

The
flat-faced farmer looked at him with dull eyes. He was shined, fairly neat; he
touched the scarf at his neck, stretching his throat muscles. He half-held up
his hands in a gesture which Ragland was unable to interpret. Perhaps it meant
he was not to worry. Yes, that was it He was telling Ragland not to worry. He
would look after her.

Ragland's
relief knew no bounds. He smiled his gratitude and shouted up, "Thank you,
sir," and carefully avoided Marianne's eyes.

All
passengers were aboard now, the luggage secured. A porter ran up at the last
minute and thrust a bouquet of red roses through the interior window; a
discreet white-gloved hand received them and whisked them inside. The stamp and
crush of feet around the enormous coach had turned the road into a deplorable
condition. Curious crowds had come from everywhere to see the departure of the
grand coach on its way to London Town. Adding to the confusion was a large herd
of sheep now being driven down Newgate by a farmer and two dogs. Their bleating
only added to the din and postponed the departure of the coach.

The
coachmaster shouted angrily at the fanner while the man did his best to corral
the frightened animals and keep them moving. Ragland watched it all, a
carnival, and thought that Marianne certainly had enough to keep her eyes busy.
But when he looked up, he was shocked to discover that those penetrating blue
eyes were fixed squarely on him. The intensity of her stare rendered him
momentarily useless.

Sternly
he shook his head, drew himself up, and raised a hand in farewell, although the
gesture carried with it a touch of defense, as though he had privately said,
"No more!"

Through
it all she watched him, never taking her eyes off him. When the sheep cleared
and the stagecoach started forward, she raised her head, leaned forward, and
said something—at least her lips moved—and her face bore the expression of a
thought.

But
Ragland couldn't hear. Everyone about him was shouting, a small crowd running a
few steps through the mud after the coach, dogs barking, children screaming in
excitement. So he had no idea what her final words were.

Probably
not important. At least this was how he comforted himself as the stage rumbled
down the street, its giant wheels struggling with the holes and deep ruts, the
passengers atop swaying dangerously from side to side.

Marianne's
face was a small white circle, her body lost in the press and push of the
farmer and the old man. Without warning, old Ragland felt tears. In this
strained moment he admitted honestly to himself what he had never been able to
admit during all the days of hectic planning and preparation. They were sending
her to her end. She would never survive. If a future in Mortemouth held little
for her, London held less. It was like throwing a wounded lamb to tigers.

The
coach was
out
of sight, having turned the corner for the road to
Honiton. Ragland stepped gingerly through the mud back to the pavement in front
of Church Inn. He was soaked through, his slippers scarcely recognizable as slippers.
His hands were trembling and the ominous tears still pressed close behind his
eyes. No need to hurry back. The cart was waiting for him at the edge of town,
the horse safely pastured with a friend. Lord Eden was sequestered with the
captain of a French merchant ship, setting up buys for his new hobby. The
secret tunnel and staircase were nearing completion, all was going well there,
so no need to hurry back. All that would greet him would be the excited
questions of Dolly and Jenny: "Did she get safely off?" "Was she
pretty?" "Did she speak and what did she say?" It would be an
endless interrogation in answer to which he could lie and be kind, or tell the
truth and be cruel. For the truth, as he had always known it, was that they had
just sent her to her end.

If
she survived the coach ride, she would be deposited thirty-six hours from now
in Piccadilly Circus, that cesspool for highwaymen, cutthroats, and thieves,
would be deposited alone in the early hours of the morning with no sense of
direction, no idea where to find the small outlying community of Bloomsbury on
the very edge of London, alone, without the wit of knowing how and of whom to
inquire, undoubtedly in panic revealing the purse of coin to the wrong eyes,
knowing nothing of London and its ways.

Ragland
shivered in the steady downpour. He felt a little mad, as though the events of
the morning had taken a toll of his own senses. He was getting too old for
feeling. It was a luxury the aged could ill-afford.

Increasing
his step, he pressed his hand inside his wet shirt against a roll of flesh. In
a last attempt to rid himself of her image, he prayed, "God be with
her," though it was less a prayer than an angry command. . . .

The
Banqueting Hall, the most magnificent room in Eden Castle, measured thirty-six
feet high, with finely arched and complex saddle-topped ceiling, sixty-eight
feet long and thirty-four feet wide. Built in the fourteenth century, but
within the twelfth century curtain wall, it was richly decorated with a fine
series of Brussels tapestries. The sixteenth-century screen at the end of the
Hall retained its original painted decoration. The three low-hanging pewter
chandeliers were ablaze with one hundred candles each, casting shimmering light
on the elegantly carved oak table where Thomas Eden sat alone, in a mauve-velvet
dressing gown, picking at cold mutton.

On
the plate next to him were the remains of Captain Girard's dinner, a
hard-driving oaf who had eaten with his fingers and then filled the air with
French gibberish. It seemed to Thomas that every time money had been discussed,
the man had lapsed into his native tongue. Not the Parisian French at which
Thomas was fairly skilled, but a rural, provincial, unintelligible tongue with
strains of Flemish and German mixed in.

It
occurred to Thomas that perhaps for future negotiations he should travel to
London where, so he had heard, the French population was increasing as
Frenchmen ran to escape the coming bloodbath. Perhaps in the future he should
be more selective in his choice of "business partners," try to find
one at least more compatible with his own sensibilities.

Well,
no matter. He had accomplished his purpose, the bargain made, dinner over, the
foreign rascal on his way back to his ship under the protection of night,
Thomas now sat awaiting a final visitor, this last caller not as important as
Captain Girard, but a man about whom Thomas was most curious.

He
stretched backward in his chair, reaching up toward the mahagony beams
overhead. A bit of port would suit him well, help to ward off the chill of the
vast room which persisted in spite of the enormous fire ablaze at one end.

With
a snap of his fingers he summoned the serving girl who stood at the edge of the
shadows. Without looking at her he ordered her to clear the table and bring him
a bottle of port.

"And
two glasses," he called, still not looking at her.

Alone,
Thomas stood up and stretched. He felt impatient. And bored. He missed Ragland,
though he knew the old man had gone on an important journey that day. His
stablemaster had reported the absence of a horse and sheep cart and even the
identity of the small baggage which had ridden in the back of the cart.

Standing
directly before the fire, Thomas stopped, his face glazed. He was mildly hurt
that Ragland had not told him where he was going and why. He would have been
willing to pay the girl's passage. He was most grateful to Heaven that God had
permitted her to survive. How many nightmares he had suffered since that hot
August morning!