This Other Eden (56 page)

Suddenly
she heard it again, the sound as of a heavy footstep. Alarmed, she opened her
eyes. She looked at Jane who, curiously, was not looking toward the
disturbance, but rather staring almost mournfully at her.

"Did
you hear—" Marianne began. But that was as far as she got, for suddenly
the front door was flung open with a resounding crack. Sarah screamed, and in
the next instant two men rushed into the room, dressed in black with black
gloves, their faces obscured by flat, low, crushed, black tricorns.

Marianne
tried to rise. The two ruffians moved quickly toward Jane, who continued to
sit, white-faced, on the couch. Horrified, Marianne watched as they grabbed
Jane roughly by the arms and lifted her violently to her feet. Jane was
struggling now, her head flung backward in terror, the men twisting her arms
behind her in an attempt to subdue her, the whole room filled with nightmare
sounds, Sarah screaming continuously, Jane struggling against the brute
strength, one of the men shouting out that they were spunging agents.

"Ladies
pay their debts," the other grinned, "or else it's debtors' prison. If
you have four hundred guineas, we shall pass on and not bother you."

"Oh,
sweet God," Jane moaned, her eyes showing white, her body struggling
against her captors. "Please, I beg you—"

Marianne
started forward. She tried to wrest her sister loose from their grip.
"Please," she begged, "leave her be."

But
the men merely looked at her as though she were invisible, and turned their
attention back to the struggling, terrified Jane.

There
was one single piercing cry. Marianne looked up to see a set of black gloved
hands holding Jane rigidly while the other hands ripped the wig from her head.

"No
need for such finery in the spunging house," the man said. In further
indignity, one agent held her firm while the other commenced to unbutton the
front of her gown.

Jane's
screams rose louder. Feverishly Marianne glanced about for a weapon and found
nothing. Again she hurled herself at the men, who were now pulling the gown
from her sister's body, Jane crying pitiably, "Help me, oh, dear God, help
me!" As they dragged her roughly into the entrance hall, Marianne started
after them, her head light, knees weak, the never-ending cries for help ringing
in her ears. She saw Sarah flattened against the far wall, paralyzed with
terror. She took another step and fell and feared she would lose consciousness.
The ruffians turned and watched her, still holding their prey between them,
stripped to her chemise, her hair outflung as she continued to struggle
futilely against their hands.

The
nightmare increasing, Marianne saw one of them withdraw a length of rope and
twist Jane's arms painfully behind her, her sister's fate sealed with her
bondage, her face scarcely recognizable in its contortions.

How
great seemed the distance from the drawing room to the entrance hall. It
occurred to Marianne that she'd been running forever, and finally her breath
went and she came to a halt, unable to move further. The bonds were being
twisted about Jane's ankles now, tears streaming down her face, her plea for
help a demented refrain, "Please, dear God. Please, no. Please, no.
Please—"

From
her collapse in the entrance hall Marianne looked toward the open doorway
through which the men had dragged Jane. Her own eyes were glazed, her
wretchedness beyond description. She looked up slowly. Then her head jerked
rigidly forward as though it had been snapped by a noose. There, before her,
filling the doorway, she saw the figure of a man.

In
spite of her semiconscious state, recognition was instantaneous. She knew every
feature, every line, the stance of the body, the voice. All stood directly over
her now, kindly offering her a hand.

"Milady,"
he said. "I was passing by and heard the disturbance—"

Marianne
stared at the face. In the distance she heard her sister's screams, increasing
as though the worst were yet to come. Struggling to keep back tears and memory,
Marianne pulled herself to her knees, her hands so cold she could scarcely feel
them.

As
from a great distance, her sister cried out, "Oh, God, Marianne, Help
me!"

On
her knees before the man, Marianne begged, "Please, milord. I fear they
will kill her."

Thomas
Eden seemed to hesitate as though he were doing his best to appear a reasonable
man. "They're spunging agents," he said gently. "I have no right
to interfere with a lawful arrest."

Slowly
Marianne lifted her face to him. Her flesh felt frozen, meeting his eyes. An
atrocity of words was forming in her mind. "Pay them," she whispered,
"and I shall be in your debt."

Their
eyes held. Slowly a smile formed on his lips. He extended a hand to her which
appeared to be trembling.

Outside
the screams had ceased. The silence was even more terrifying. She ignored his
hand and whispered fiercely, "Pay them!"

He
stood a moment longer, looking down on her, then turned with dispatch and
disappeared into the night

She
remained on her knees, her thoughts so intricate that she could no longer keep
them separate. How peculiar, that at the moment of greatest happiness— She was
vaguely aware of movement behind her, of Sarah creeping up, still sobbing. A
hand rested lightly on her shoulder, as though in comfort.

The
old woman wept. "You sold yourself."

Marianne
pressed her lips together to keep from crying out. "So I have," she
thought. She heard voices on the pavement outside the door, was aware of Sarah
collapsed and still weeping in a near chair, heard and recorded everything, but
refused to respond. She recognized only one thought as valid, that by dawn it
would be over.

A
short time later there was movement in the doorway. It was Jane, her arms
wrapped protectively about her body, her eyes strangely dry. She exchanged only
a brief glance with Marianne, then darted quickly to Sarah's outstretched arms,
her face turned away.

Thomas
Eden was there, too. In his hand he held a piece of parchment He preserved a
gloomy silence, something in his expression that was shy and ashamed. Then,
finally, with a certain haughty distinction, he placed the parchment on the
near table and announced, "A clean slate. They should not bother you
again."

There
was not a sound in the hall or from the world beyond. The rooms and walls,
which only moments before had known such dreadful shrieking, now resembled a
tomb. In her wretchedness, Marianne waited, still on her knees. She wondered,
with a curious wave of objectivity, if the tableau would hold throughout
eternity.

She
received her answer as, almost politely, Lord Eden held out his hand, clearly
bidding her to accompany him.

Trembling,
she stood. She gave the two women still intertwined in the closest embrace only
a token glance. Sarah was muttering to Jane in a kind of absentminded way. As
for Jane herself, she was still clinging to Sarah, her face averted, as though
she could not bear to look.

A
painful series of thoughts cut through Marianne's despair. Why had the front
door been so conveniently left unlocked? Why had Lord Eden just happened to be
passing by? What a stroke of good fortune that apparently he'd had the vast
amount of four hundred guineas on his person! Perhaps Sarah had been wrong.
Perhaps she'd not sold herself as much as she'd been sold as any lamb that goes
to the shambles.

"Milady,
come," ordered Thomas Eden from the doorway. "A bargain's a bargain."

At
the first step, she felt faint, the lingering effects of wine commingling with
new terror. As she leaned against the wall, he went to her side and offered her
his arm.

She
said nothing, but pulled quickly away from his nearness and proceeded under her
own power to the doorway. One comforting thought gave her strength, the
realization that by dawn it would be over.

Behind
her, all remained silent. At the door, the night breeze greeted her. In the
spill of light from the entrance hall she saw the walkway, the pavement beyond,
and the waiting carriage. A man stood by the open carriage door, a footman sat
watching from his high perch. She saw not a sign of the spunging agents.

She
went down the walk almost serenely. At the edge of the pavement she looked up
at the man waiting. With no great surprise she recognized her half-brother.

"Our
father?" she inquired. "Is he well?"

Russell
ducked his head. "Well enough," he said with a smile.

She
thought he would say more, but he didn't. Instead he placed a firm hand on her
elbow, an insistent hand lifting her upward without delicacy or grace into the
velvet interior of the coach.

As
she settled herself in the far comer, she saw Lord Eden exchange a whispered
word with Russell. Then Lord Eden climbed in after her. She saw Russell secure
the door and give the signal to the footman. As the carriage lurched forward,
she leaned back and stole a final glimpse at the house on Great Russell Street.
To her surprise she saw the door closed, the entrance hall darkened, as though within
a few short moments the two women had extinguished the lamps and retired.

The
suspicion that she had been betrayed continued to press against her. Her
present circumstances were almost palatable compared to that painful thought.
In spite of her earnest resolve not to feel, she felt that pain with such force
that she bowed her head.

Opposite
her came a deep, yet soft voice. "Milady, there is no occasion for you to
be afraid. It is not my desire to harm you in any way."

She
looked up at him. "I fear no man, milord," she said, struggling to
maintain a steadfast gaze.

They
looked at each other fixedly, with a spark of defiance in their eyes.

It
was as if, at that instant, they both realized that they were worthy
adversaries.

Having
thus secured his prey, Lord Eden housed her in the very comfortable third-floor
apartments which had belonged to his grandmother.

The
most spacious chamber in the entire house, it was a matter of subtle
architecture and a statement on marital trust as it existed in the sixteenth
century when the house had been built, that the grand rooms were marked by only
one entrance and exit, a narrow, winding, wooden staircase which could easily
be guarded or blocked. Likewise the windows in the rooms themselves were high
casements of leaded glass permitting little  more than a bird's-eye view of the
towers and spires of London. Here the wife of the moment could reside in utter
splendor, scarcely aware of the imprisoning nature of her surroundings.

Unfortunately
for Thomas Eden, it was not a wife who resided there now, but merely a woman,
incredibly lovely and desirable, whom he had purchased fairly and who by rights
should be his for as long as she amused him.

But
the success of his ruse brought him little  satisfaction. Marianne seemed
utterly dazed, and within the first week her distress made her seriously
unwell. From that first night when he'd led her gently, or so he'd thought, up
to the newly aired and redressed apartments, she'd refused everything, had
refused his offer of a female servant, claiming that she'd tended herself since
she was a child and she was capable of doing it now, had refused the new gowns
which he'd ordered sent around, had even refused food and drink, falling at
last into a silent misery.

Now,
ten days after her imprisonment, seeing her lying lifeless and pale upon the
bed, still wearing the wrinkled black gown of her capture, Thomas summoned a
physician.

Russell
Locke brought the doctor to Thomas' chambers, and Thomas led him the rest of the
way up the narrow staircase and through the small doorway which was kept locked
and into the bedchamber itself, where the old man grasped melodramatically at
his throat and cried out, "Air!"

While
Thomas was throwing open the high casement windows, the physician peered down
on the pale woman. Slowly, with the effort of age, he bent over and took from
his case a small wooden box. Thomas watched as he lifted the lid, revealing a
black crawling foam of leeches.