This Other Eden (7 page)

But
he covered his omission with a finesse and artistry based on years of
experience. " 'Tis done," he said, with a confident bob of his head,
knowing that it probably was done, that the crew in charge were trustworthy.

This
seemed to satisfy his Lordship. He lay back on the pillows in an obvious state
of exhaustion. His hands pressed against his eyes as though to black out the
bright sun. "Providence sent us rain, I see," he muttered.

Ragland
nodded. "Yes, milord."

"When
this thing is over, we'll go to the cove," Lord Eden added, his eyes still
covered. "I want to see for myself."

Still
a third nod from Ragland. Outside the window he heard the crowd gathering, the
curious, the sympathetic, the vindictive, the bored for whom a public whipping
was merely a morning's passable entertainment. Ragland shifted restlessly at
the door. "Will you come down to the courtyard, milord?" he asked,
his head bent forward in an air of deference.

Lord
Eden looked sharply up at him. "I'll watch from my room," he
muttered. "I can see all. Enough." Then he rolled to one side,
plumping the pillow about his head, clearly closing the conversation.

There
was nothing for Ragland to do but carry out the order. Softly he closed the
door behind him. The handsome, thickly beamed ceiling of the Morning Room
caught his eye, the rich red and green Brussels tapestries depicting the story
of Isaac and Rebecca and Sodom and Gomorrah, the pewterware and silver lined in
the lavishly carved wooden cask, the marble fireplace, a vision of luxury, like
all his Lordship's personal chambers. For an additional moment, Ragland fed on
the beauty, as though to fortify himself against what was to come. Ah, Jesus,
the gulf between the two.

As
he moved toward the staircase, he felt his joints fret with the morning
dampness, a sharp pain in his left ankle, a catch in his back. He remembered
with an acceleration of his heart his madness at the whipping oak the night
before. He grasped the hand-railing. He must have taken leave of his senses,
like poor Hartlow.

He
moved quickly toward the bottom of the stairs and saw Jack Spade standing
there, hat in hand, obviously come to find him. The man looked up hopefully as
Ragland descended the staircase. He was an enormous man, his leg muscles
bulging beneath his hose, dressed quite grandly this morning in knee trousers
and scarlet plaid as though for a fete, a custom of the whipman, a kind of
homage to the victim. But his finery did nothing to mask the obvious distress
in his face. "What's the word, Ragland?" he whispered, his normally
dull eyes alive with apprehension.

Ragland
had never seen him thus, this simple man who had whipped scores of men into
bloody pulps, and whipped others into their graves. He was known to have the
most powerful swing in all of Devon, plus the largest assortment of whips,
singular beauties with hand-tooled leather handles of varying length,
ten-thong, ffteen-thong, their slivers of leather bleached and hardened
knife-sharp, some knotted to cause greater agony, others with miniature spikes
tied carefully into each knot, capable of grating a man's back like a piece of
Cheddar cheese.

But
what made Jack Spade the premier whipman of the West Country was not his
amazing collection of whips, but rather his apparent and insatiable appetite
for his job, an appetite which Ragland saw now had clearly diminished.

At
the bottom of the steps Ragland delivered a simple, terse message, "See it
finished!" Then he pushed quickly past, not wanting to concentrate on the
man's clear distress.

But
Spade merely followed after him, protesting. "I have no urge to see it
finished, Ragland!" he shouted. "I ain't never whipped a child
before. Never whipped a woman. Something in me says no, I tell you. So I've no
urge to see it finished." He almost danced from one side to the other,
trying to keep up with Ragland, who was moving with great speed toward the
inner courtyard. His thick face flushed as he added, hurriedly, "What's
she done?" then almost plaintively added, "What's her crime?"

At
the doorway Ragland swung around, his face hard. "Her offense is of no
concern to you," he said, sternly. "You are carrying out the explicit
command of Lord Eden. It is not necessary that you know more. Now, go and
select a simple toy, no knots, no spikes, then deliver yourself of ten strokes
across the main of her back and be done with it."

The
big man faltered under the weight of Ragland's authority. He continuously
creased and uncreased the soft-brimmed hat in his hand. He muttered a stubborn,
"'Tisn't right," and as Ragland stepped forward, still glowering, the
man retreated, not contrite or resolved, simply trapped. He was fed, housed,
and clothed to perform a certain duty, and perform he must.

Standing
in the doorway, Ragland heard a hush fall over the waiting crowd at the sight
of the whipman. They knew that at his appearance, the performance was about to
start. Ragland lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and surveyed the
faces a distance away. Most of them were familiar. A few were not. On one side
of the whipping oak stood the castle servants, keeping apart from the villagers
as though they were elevated in rank. In their midst he saw the bulky figure of
Dolly Wisdom, a piece of linen pressed against her mouth. He predicted to
himself that at some point in the proceedings the linen would be covering her
eyes.

There,
in the front circle, he saw the grinning facsimile of Hartlow Locke, supported
on one side by Parson Branscombe, and on the other by Digby Bell. Ragland
stared fixedly at the poor man. Obviously the night had failed to have a
medicinal effect on him. He looked mussed, soiled, like a child, clutching at
something, a stuffed animal perhaps, although it was difficult to tell from
that distance. Ragland noticed that both men kept a firm grip on his arms,
while to one side Jenny Toppinger wept openly, a small female circle supporting
her, trying in vain to comfort her.

Quickly
Ragland pushed his vision on. He was like a man arming himself. There were
threats and hazards everywhere, in the cluster of small children playing idly
in the loose gravel, skimming stones over puddles left by the rain, in the
unhappy faces of the women, the fortified faces of the men, the blank grin of
Hartlow's face, and Jenny's endless supply of tears.

Ragland
muttered, "God, let's get it over with." He lifted his hand in signal
to the two guardsmen waiting nearby. On the command the two men turned smardy
and marched in step toward the door of the Keep. At the same moment Jack Spade
appeared, coming up the small wind from the Servants' Hall, a thin whip hanging
limp at his side, his hat squarely on his head.

A
silence went over the inner courtyard. Parents hastily gathered their young
about them. A vdnd whistled over the castle, the sea breeze that always played
about the edge of the high cliffs. There was no other sound save the crunching
of gravel as Jack Spade approached the whipping oak, standing at attention,
clearly resigned to the duty at hand.

As
the two guards disappeared inside the Keep door, all eyes focused in that
direction. Ragland maintained his position of authority on the central
staircase. In the painful interim, he once more surveyed the crowd. Suddenly he
realized that Russell Locke was missing. The orders had been clear. Father and
brother both were due as witnesses. He looked sharply up toward the windows of
Lord Eden's chambers. No one in sight. With a surge of resentment, it occurred
to Ragland that his Lordship probably had gone back to sleep, his customary
habit in the face of unpleasantness.

So
be it. The brother was missing and Ragland was clearly in charge. He would not
postpone the grim proceedings a moment longer. He felt stretched, his nerves
resisting the terrifying memory of his charade at the whipping oak. He looked
quickly about. Where was Elfie? He did not want Elfie to see this. He had given
her instructions to walk the beach this morning. As witless as she was, it was
difficult to know if she understood anything. Apparently she had understood his
early morning command, for she was no place in sight.

He
gripped his unsteady hands together, closed his eyes against the foul odor
creeping out from the opened door of the Keep. With his eyes closed, he felt
dizzy and moved to the handrailing, leaning against it for support When he
opened his eyes, he saw a sea of white linen, all the witnesses covering their
noses against the odor which completely conquered the rain smells left on the
air. The silence of the courtyard persisted, interrupted by coughings as the
poisonous air spread. But no one turned their backs on the door of the Keep.
Was she still alive?

What
was taking them so long? Ragland squinted impatiently across at the Keep
doorway. Again he glanced up toward Lord Eden's window. He tried to look closer
when suddenly a sharp gasp from the waiting crowd drew his attention back to
the doorway.

There,
hanging limp between the two guards, fairly collapsed on her knees, her long
fair hair obscuring her face, the folds of her dress hanging loosely about her
feet, was Marianne.

She
had
survived. There still was life. Perhaps God would be merciful and
permit her to stay passed out. But he heard a sharp collective intake of breath
like the wind rising and saw the girl standing erect, pulling away from the
rough hands of her guards, her face upturned, the attitude of one preparing the
audience for a miracle.

Erect
and standing on her own strength, she led the way down the stairs. She did not
smile, but there was something in her step which defied the occasion, a
straightforwardness as though she knew precisely what she must do, and was now
presenting herself to the spectators as a "picture" forever arranged.

Ragland
watched with the others as she made the long walk, knowing with them that he
was witnessing something unusual. He saw her approach the whipping oak as
though it were little more than a Maypole and this was the most incredible of
all—approach Jack Spade with a small white extended hand.

She
spoke, her voice light as the breeze though carrying effortlessly in the
enclosed courtyard. "Good morning, Jack. I hope you are well."

Under
the duress of the moment, Ragland saw the large, greatly feared man turn away
and throw his whip to the ground.

Then
Spade must have seen something at the window of the upper bedchamber, for
within the moment Ragland saw him straighten himself, retrieve his whip, and go
about his business for which he was fed, clothed, and housed. . . .

In
all her careful planning, she underestimated one small matter—the oceanic
distance, under certain circumstances, between one and ten.

Everything
else was exactly as she imagined it, precisely as she rehearsed it. She knew
the sun, after the dark night's confinement, would be blinding. And it was. She
knew that the first breath of clean air would be painful in her lungs. And it
was. She knew she probably would experience a moment of weakness. And she did.
But she knew too that she would recover, and that in order to execute the long
walk around the inner courtyard and the approach to the whipping oak, she would
have to prevent her vision from making direct eye contact with anyone in the
arena. And this she did by merely lifting her head and concentrating on the
high stone wall finding in the stone the colors of potpourri, dried rose petals
mixed with the gray of lavender. She knew she would greet Jack Spade and that
the greeting would undo him, knew too that he would recover and go about his
task with admirable dispatch.

She
knew and thus was ready for the guards when they pressed her against the oak,
obliged them readily when they ordered her to embrace it, was completely
prepared when the hemp was twisted about her wrists, then her ankles. She
turned her face to one side in the close bondage and could smell the pungent
tar, could feel the bark cutting into her skin. But she had prepared herself
for the smell of pitch and the scrape of bark and was in no way surprised or
shocked.

Further,
she knew that Jack Spade would feel badly about tearing her dress and baring
her back, and she comforted him with a whispered, "It's all right. Do it
quickly, a clean tear that can be mended." He obliged, as she knew he
would, cursing beneath his breath, sniffing as though he were suffering a cold.

Thus
too she had prepared herself for the coolness of air rushing over her flesh,
the torn dress split to her waist and pushed backward by rough trembling hands.
What she then said was merely the shortest way to a quick dismissal. "I
forgive you. Jack." The big man groaned as though he were the one tied to
the oak, and within the instant she heard him step back, heard the whip whistle
upward into the air.