This Other Eden (19 page)

As
she moved in and out of the kitchen, bringing Marianne more dishes, she was
amazed at her efficiency. Unlike Millie, who had to be told everything,
Marianne seemed to know without question the location of each utensil. She said
nothing as she worked. There were times when her eyes became sad, but for the
most part she reminded Sarah of someone who had spied the target and was taking
careful aim.

It
was after five when Sarah heard the first telltale pressure of footsteps on the
staircase. She looked up from the sink where she was scraping carrots. Marianne
sat at the table, folding linen, a job which Sarah had insisted upon after
seeing the girl lean weakly over the pan of hot water. Sarah started to say
something, then changed her mind, for Marianne too had looked up, her face
suddenly grave, a small but recognizable apprehension spreading through her
eyes.

"No
need," Sarah soothed, keeping her voice down. "No need—"

The
footsteps were moving through the dining room. Sarah saw Marianne straighten
herself as though she knew she would need all her wits about her.

Then
the kitchen door opened and Jane appeared, dressed in a lovely gown of dark
sapphire green, her hair hidden beneath an overlarge wig, a strand of pearls about
her neck. Sarah thought wryly, "In her battle clothes, she is, come to do
battle."

From
her viewpoint at the sideboard she watched carefully as Jane glanced briefly at
the girl, averted her eyes, then looked back again. But whatever was forming in
her head never had a chance to materialize. Marianne was on her feet. She
rushed to Jane, embraced her warmly. "How good to see you!" she
exclaimed, kissing the startled woman lightly on both cheeks. Then she stood
back as though really seeing her for the first time. "And how beautiful
you are," she added, her left hand not quite touching the green silk, as
though she didn't want to spoil it.

Clearly
flustered by this warm greeting, Jane blushed. Obviously she'd expected
something altogether different.

Marianne
backed away, her face suddenly sober, her voice low, rich, and seemingly
sincere. "I can never thank you enough, Jane," she began, "for
your hospitality and kindness." Her voice was a precise and harmonious
blend of proper chords. "I had no right to descend on you like I did last
night, unannounced, unexpected. It was not my idea, but Dolly's. You remember
Dolly, don't you, a mistress of everyone's business." She laughed softly. "You
might have thrown me out. Yet you received me with love, and I'm very grateful."

Still
disarmed, Jane watched, the same glazed effect in her eyes as Sarah felt in her
own, as though both were watching a skillful actress. Marianne was now saying
something about the misfortune that had descended on their family, the words
coming faster and faster, almost as though she were afraid to stop talking.

She
moved gracefully about the table, bringing Jane up to date on the last few
hours, as though she had a right to know, heaping praise on Sarah for her
assistance and promising finally, "I'll be no trouble, Jane. I'll work in
the kitchen and earn my keep, and strive only to see that you regret neither
your kindness nor your generosity."

Jane
appeared dumbfounded, her eyes still searching for something threatening and
finding nothing. Even after Marianne had stopped talking, Jane continued to
stare at her, as though there were another knowledge deep within her, a
knowledge that did not match in the least the specifics of this new apparition.
In spite of Jane's elegant gown and powdered wig, she looked limp, tattered
somehow.

Finally,
as though she knew she must behave well, she murmured, "I'm glad to see
you've recovered. You were quite senseless last night."

Marianne
smiled. "It was a wretched ride, in a pouring rain all the way. Only the
grace of God and the thought of seeing your face again saw me through it."

Jane's
small gray eyes looked beyond Marianne to the opened storeroom door. Almost
pouting, she said to Sarah, "I see you found a key."

Sarah,
who had been watching the confrontation, decided this was not the moment to
bring William Pitch into the awkward matter. She took full blame upon her own
shoulders. "Yes, Miss Locke," she said. "I heard her awake and
thought she might be hungry." She looked at Marianne, hoping the girl
would not refute the story. She didn't, though it seemed to Sarah that her
strength was dwindling. Marianne grasped the back of the chair, apparently
uncertain whether she should sit or continue to stand. Then, as though it were
her kitchen, she invited warmly, "Come, sit, Jane. Let's chat while I
work. We've so much to catch up on." It was a clever ruse, still playing
the servant, though free now to sit as though her strength were ebbing.

Sarah
watched, incredulously, as Jane obeyed, hesitating a moment, then sweeping
forward and taking the chair opposite Marianne where she now sat folding
linens.

Sarah
knew that she ought to turn to her own chores, but the fascination was too
great, the two sisters sitting in a state of apparent calm, but a calm as suspect
as that which precedes a summer storm.

As
she worked, Marianne looked admiringly at the woman opposite her. Again she
repeated, "How lovely you are. And how successful your husband must be. I
can only assume that nothing but good fortune has smiled on you since the day
you arrived in London."

The
key word "husband" caused a slight tremor in Jane's face. She looked
down, then readily agreed. "He is. Just the most successful editor in
London."

Marianne
continued to play her part skillfully. "I look forward to meeting him. I
really do. And how fortunate he is to have found you."

Again,
confusion covered Jane's face. Torn between wanting to accept the generous
words and clearly suspicious of them, she was reduced to the nervous gesture of
fingering her pearls. She seemed incapable of taking the lead and was at the
complete mercy of the self-possessed Marianne.

As
the girl's hands moved skillfully in and out between the folds of linen, her
tongue seemed to be keeping pace with her fingers. "I love your
house," she was saying now. "It's charming, what I've seen of it.
What a pleasure it wdll be to help Sarah keep it neat and in order. Believe me,
there's nothing so grand in all of Mortemouth. You must feel like a
princess."

Poor
Jane could only nod.

"And
you're not to bother about me," Marianne said. "I can sleep
anywhere."

Jane
blushed. "The storeroom was only temporary," she apologized. "You
were quite soaked and mud-covered. If you wish, you may take Millie's room next
to Sarah's. When she returns, we'll find somewhere else."

Marianne
smiled, the light of true gratitude in her face for the vague arrangements.
Again she left her chair and hugged her sister. "I'm so proud of you and
have so much to learn from you."

The
tableau held, the two sisters locked in close embrace. Finally, as though she
didn't want to embarrass her further, Marianne took her seat again.

All
this unexpected love seemed to have an infectious result on Jane. For the first
time since she'd entered the kitchen, she smiled, her stem mood somewhat
undermined. "We'll go shopping tomorrow if you wish," she suggested,
almost shyly. "You need everything."

Marianne
agreed. "What fun it will be to go together. Like old times," and
commenced folding linen again, keeping her eyes down.

Jane
watched her closely. As far as Sarah could tell, there was one enormous
unresolved question on her mind. Was the girl to be a guest or a servant? Apparently
there was no plausible solution at hand. Jane dismissed the dilemma with a
light "Then I'll leave you in Sarah's hands."

Marianne
appeared the picture of gratitude. "She's been most kind. I don't know
what I would have done without her."

Now
Jane stood up, still in search of a battle. "We entertain guests every
evening, Marianne," she said, too sweetly. "But nothing shall be
expected of you tonight. You must rest and regain your strength from your
horrible ordeal. How dreadful it must have been for you."

Sarah
saw Marianne's hands freeze in their activity. She looked suddenly smaller
somehow, less contained, as though an arrow had found its target

Jane
spied the weakness and with the instinct of a predator moved closer. "I
shan't ask you any questions now. But later we must talk. You must tell me
everything. Perhaps I can help you to see your mistakes."

The
hands were still frozen atop a damask cloth. Sarah, in a surge of pity, came to
her rescue. "You must excuse us now, Miss Locke, if tea is to be on
time."

Jane
nodded good-naturedly, the decision obviously resolved in her mind. A servant,
clearly. The girl was to be a servant. She drew herself up, fully restored.
"We'll take tea in the parlor, Sarah. William is due shortly. You might
allow Marianne to serve so that she can meet him. But don't work her too hard
in the beginning. She's gone through a dreadful ordeal. We must give her time,
all the time she needs to forget."

"And
with you there every step of the way, forcing her to remember," Sarah
thought angrily, still unable to take her eyes off the bowed head. "She's
outworked me this afternoon, Miss Locke. I think she has enough strength for
both of us."

The
clearly shifting loyalty displeased Jane. At the door she frowned. "I'm
counting on you Sarah, to teach her what obviously in the past she has failed
to learn, which indeed has brought her to her present unhappy state. Wouldn't
you agree, Marianne?"

Sarah
watched with aching heart as Marianne tried to withstand the onslaught. Her
hands were trembling perceptibly, her face a deep red. But incredibly she
managed to lift her eyes, managed the warmest of smiles. "You're right,
Jane," she murmured, almost breathless with effort. "I have known
misfortune and I am here to learn at your feet."

Jane
listened, a look of supreme pleasure on her face. "There, you see,
Sarah?" She smiled. "She's willing to mend her ways, but we must help
her." Then she made a ridiculous effort, sweeping the gown about her as
she turned, calling back regally over her shoulder, "Tea at five thirty,
Sarah, in the parlor. Don't forget."

Sarah
waited for the footsteps to diminish, then she went back to where Marianne sat
at the table. Perspiration was visible on her forehead although the sun was
going down and the room was cool. "Pay her no mind," she whispered.
"Someday I'll tell you of the success she's made of her life."

Still
Marianne did not move or respond. A powerful spell seemed to have descended
over her and Sarah had not the faintest idea how to go about dispelling it.

"Would
you like to go to Millie's room and lie down?" she offered kindly.

But
there was no response, and weary with futile effort Sarah turned back to the
preparation of tea. A few moments later she heard movement behind her, saw
Marianne push forward in her chair and move quickly down the narrow hall and
out into the garden.

Sarah
followed after as far as the door. The clouds had finally won their day-long
battle with the sun, and beyond the garden the rows of houses were sinking in a
gray light. Higher up on the hill toward the British Museum Library a veil of
smoke from evening fires had drawn a charcoal curtain across the sky. The
shouts of children at play came to her from lower down Great Russell Street.

Where
is she? Sarah wondered. She searched every shadow.

At
the back of the garden she saw her, silhouetted against the sky, her head down,
as though weeping, or at prayer. . . .

In
truth, it was neither. She simply had felt the need for air. Unable to find it
in Sarah's kitchen, Marianne had taken momentary refuge in the garden. She
thought she had slipped out unobtrusively. But then she spied Sarah at the back
door, watching her.

No
matter. The woman was kind, clearly suffering from some private agony which
Marianne could only guess at. She could think of a hundred worse companions
than Sarah Gibbons.