S T A V E
XLIII
She looked out the window like a maid in a tower. Drifts to the shoulder and the city Shut Down. So it appeared. Would Dalrymple come? And why should he? Did she even want him to? A reprieve? An obtrusion from on high?
The storm was the kind to scrap a day, a set piece forcing heads out of windows to Marvel, to hem in adults and pull children out to play. A day one thinks they might never see again, though through a lifetime, they’d see it again and again with unabashed wonder. For the Lucky Ones, the Privileged Ones who had, it was a day to make of it what they will, for the Unlucky who had not – a day to do them in.
Obedience would not be done in.
He was to take her to church. On this they’d agreed, an offering to ease a tension when together for more than an hour, one that had built in the guise of friendly banter, until Obedience, for one, took it all too seriously. “From Molly to Diva,” Dalrymple would quip. “Tis a duet at Mount Morris, not the Theatre Royal, Mrs. MacEachran. I doubt Von Knyphausen will notice a particular sweep of the hand.” And mimic her gesture. “Is this how she effects a Come?” He’d smirk to Tildon and launch into the bawdy Walking In A Meadowe Greene.
Obedience without response, but would sing over him in the duet. Dalrymple would not have it and she sang all the louder until he would stop and laugh. Tildon became Referee, but more on Dalrymple’s side she thought. “Mrs. MacEachran, tis a duet, not a competition – you are supposed to be lovers. You’ve already won him and need not throttle him with the song. You are his conquest, not the other way ‘round.” “Yes, Obedience,” Dalrymple would add, “do try to quiver.” “I will try, Captain, although it will require a deal of acting.” “Yes, it will – How fortunate you’re pretty. At least you have that.” She could’ve trounced him, but to her chagrin, he Undo her. “Why Mrs. MacEachran don’t know Latin? ‘Da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille altera, dein secunda centrum, deinde usque altera mille, deinde centrum.’ (Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then straight on to another thousand, then a hundred).” She’d flush, hearing her lame response . . . whatever it was . . . come out of her like a bystander. “‘Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo’,” his retort. (I’ll bugger you and make you fuck this). She turned to Tildon fuming. “What’s he saying?” Tildon would shrug, “Catullus.” “Catullus? What’s Catullus? Some filthy Latin act?” And then to Dalrymple, “Very smart, you sneering Spark.”
Make peace Tildon warned or he’d report it to Colonel Howard. To her surprise Dalrymple stepped in. “No need for that, Maestro. Mrs. MacEachran and I can mend our differences. I cannot battle her all this time to see her punished. I’m as culpable.”
So she agreed – Sabbath and church as neutral ground – Truce of God the Medievals called it. But now with the storm she doubted it happening.
She waited. Would he even try to make it? Or forget? Or never intended upon coming? That would be like him. A planned offense . . . “He hasn’t the skill,” she thought aloud. His is one of blundering – male preoccupation with no mal intent – all the more irritating. A toad. A stone. A clod. And no one seems to mind. I mind, every bit – his intrusions, his observations, the manner in which he kidnaps a room . . . I’ll break off his coaching. If he comes, I shall do it. Today, after church, when I’m calmer. Thank God she’d insisted the Italian coaching occur downstairs and always within G’s hearing. He’ll be surprised and offended . . . Will he care?
An object appeared, coming down the lane like a Cóiste Bodhar. She pressed the window, the cold pane needling her cheek, a horse and sleigh with bells jingling, pushing the children out of the way as they laughed and tossed handfuls of snow at the driver. The snow drifts burst from the horse’s churning legs and filled the air with a fine light powder.
What for it then, she thought, that the man can get through. She grew more irritated – he’s late and she’d been up waiting and he, no doubt, been sleeping it off.
The horse and sleigh halted and Dalrymple jumped off with a bound; snow speckling his fine beaver hat and dusting his shoulders like flour. And Obedience, before she came off the window, heard the knock.
“Mrs. MacEachran,” Grisham called, always using her married name in Dalrymple’s presence.
“You’re here,” she said, Dalrymple in the front room in his black great coat like a Beadle come to arrest her. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”
“We’d agreed. You’re not ready?”
“I am ready,” she said and went to the wall pegs to put on her mantelet and plisse, which she topped with a heavy cloak. She eyed him head-to-toe. “You look like a footman.”
“Indeed, Madame.” He bowed theatrically. “Your servant.”
“Surprised you made the effort. And who will be at church in such weather?”
“People are about. Fine weather. It begs participation.”
She raised her hood and stepped for the door, which Dalrymple hurried to open. Cold stole her breath; no wonder the snow was powder.
Before her, a heavy black sleigh with a draft horse, black himself with a white blaze down his face and white feathering at the forelocks. A monster with high shoulders and thick neck. Elliot – her instant thought and shook it away. “Where did you get this?”
“Captain Peebles found it and bequeathed it to me before going south.”
“And what’s that thing before it?”
“Ain’t he a wonder? Pluto I call him. His ancestor was wood and left before the walls of Troy. Come into winter’s chariot and he shall take us to the Underworld.”
Before he could finish a black phallus as long as her arm emerged under the horse and pissed the snow.
“Right,” she said. “To church and nowhere else.”
“That’s the plan, Madame – to a great cathedral.”
”I’ve never ridden in one of these.”
“That’s right – a London girl. It’s marvelous. A field is a highway. It can move across ice and snow. The Hudson’s frozen. We can fly in danger’s face and dash up the river to see what few might see. They say Marie Antoinette goes sleighing about Paris on such winter days. She wears a mask. Quite a scandal.”
“Are we to create scandal?”
“Not in the least. We shall be in plain view.”
“We shall be cold in plain view.”
“Not to fear.” He stepped up to the bench. “I’ve blankets and brandy and this.” He held up a bearskin. “The cold shall not touch you. I won’t allow it.”
He reached out his hand. Obedience looked at it with a broad blank stare and her hand rose as if drawn by a magnet. He pulled her up next to him; the seat was small and Dalrymple, in his thick great coat smelling of lanolin and tobacco, pressed her tight against the end. He covered their knees with the army blanket and topped it with the bearskin. She looked at Grisham’s front door, tempted to dash back to her room, and with a sideways glance at him: why are you here?
“Reach into my pocket,” Dalrymple said, fiddling with the reins.
Her hand down his side, not wanting to touch him, pulled a black bottle.
“A swallow,” he said, “to make you warm.”
“Thank you, no.”
He drank and shoved it between them. “It’s here when you want it.” And looked at her curiously. “An odd peace you make, Mrs. MacEachran,” he said and flicked Pluto’s withers. “Via da Andiamo.”
The sleigh lurched, bells ringing. Hooting children formed a gauntlet. Obedience hunched, imagining eyes from the windows as they went by. Snowballs flying, cold bits on her cheeks – her punishment. Up she sat. Who should care?
Before them, Broad Street under a snowy mantle and the Town, the burned out ruin pretty in a macabre sort of way, like an old churchyard demanding you hold your breath lest the spirits suck it out to join them.
“Like Edinburgh,” Dalrymple said as they stared. “Old Town and New Town.”
“Dead Town, Live Town,” Obedience corrected. “No Town at all.”
“Not dead by any means. It teams; squatters on mansion grounds. Over there life is green. Can’t be seen from here. You must be in it. Just what the old city needed. The Whigs have it right, I think.”
“With you everything ‘teams’.”
“It does. ‘Tis a wonderful Age – Science and Rebellion.”
“Science and Rebellion,” she scoffed. “Look to your Colours, sir; what side are you on?”
He chuckled, his breath steaming past his face as Pluto quickened. “Sides? My mother’s arse. The side one is on is immaterial. Participation, Mrs. MacEachran – this is life’s demand. I’d not miss this adventure whatever side I’m on. Why, I’d fight for the Rebels if a Polack count. The zest of life is new beginnings, I should think you’d know this more than most.”
“Should I?”
“A meteoric rise, don’t ye think, a Guard’s colonel in your pocket, and a Woman-On-The-Ration . . .”
She’d have slapped him, but her hands under the blanket. Woman-On-The-Ration – she should’ve socked him in the head and pissed on him when he’s down – she’d seen it done. “Take me back.”
Dalrymple laughed again. “Mrs. MacEachran –
“Take me back.”
“For what?”
“I said, take me back.”
“I will not,” he said unperturbed.
“You will.”
“I am to church.”
“Stop this thing and I’ll walk.”
“No, Madame. We’re going to church to ask God to forgive our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
“So you insult me?”
“Did no such thing. I praised you.”
“As some baggage.”
“No.” His nose crinkled and he flicked the reins.
“That I cuckold my husband with Colonel Howard.”
“No,” he declared again. “I thought nothing of the kind. You won him with your voice. You have no device, Mrs. MacEachran. You need none. That’s your charm. You’re a rare and natural talent. Se il vostro umore perché dovrebbe essere così volubili a volte è oltre me.”
“What?” Impatient.
“Parlare in Italiano.”
“Che? Non capisco.” Speak English, she wanted to say.
“Se – il – vostro,” he repeated as her tutor, “unmore – perché – doverbbe – essere – cosi – VOLUBILI – a volte è oltre me.”
“‘Volubili’?” she puzzled. “Ah.” She nodded. ‘Fickle’ “Sì, sì, sì.”
“It does not serve you,” he said before she could reply. “You’re better than this.”
“Do not presume to tell me what I am and am not,” her anger recovering though not to the same degree.
“I am not the enemy, Mrs. MacEachran.”
Pluto pounded through a drift, showering them with powder.
“Not my enemy? You wouldn’t know it. What are you then?”
“Your artistic partner.”
“You’re a pompous prat. A Man ‘O ‘th Town.”
“I am.”
“You are. Do not deny it.”
“I do not.”
“You provoke me deliberately in front of Tildon.”
“I do.” Again he flicked the reins.
“You admit it.” Silence save for the ringing sleigh bells. “Why?”
“What’s the good of discussing why?”
“It’d give me comfort.”
“Well, I am all for providing you comfort from this day forward.”
“Will you stop then?”
“I may, when I no longer have the need.”
She shook her head, avoiding the next question.
“Mrs. MacEachran,” his voice plaintive, “regardless of my actions, know I am your friend – your good friend.”
“Oh, so you’re my friend now is it?”
“A better one than you know. You’re on display, Mrs. MacEachran and over your head. Everyone sees it but you. These officers and gentlemen – you parade through their ranks like Bo-Peep among wolves. The day will come when one or more will eat you. I’ve seen it done. I’ve done it. And after you’ve been passed around if you’ve not made a fortune, you’re done. You don’t strike me as a jilt, so you’d be a victim.”
“And why so generous on your part? Remorse? I am the Object of your repentance?”
“Everyone is in need of repentance.”
“And I must be everyone’s Object,” she huffed.
“Your curse.”
“I don’t see why.”
“That is disingenuous,” he said.
“Disingenuous?”
“You put yourself out there. You know you do. What would you do if you could not stand out? Your whole design is on being special . . . You are special . . . Even when you hide away. You can’t help it. You are the great Obedience. You never need trumpet it, but demand its discovery. You’re the treasure that refuses burial and pushes up until someone trips over you.”
“‘And he stuck in his thumb. And pulled out a plum.’”
He laughed. “My good partner.”
“Do not try it.” She crossed her arms.
“Try what?”
“I know it a thousand times.”
“Intrigue me.” He tightened on the reins.
“Now who is disingenuous? You want to swive right now.”
He fell back into the bench and Pluto dropped from his canter. “I do,” he said like an urchin starving for food. “Oh yes, I do since you put it so crudely.”
“And this is how you would win my charms?”
His smile waned. “No, this is how I avoid the act to protect us both.”
“Of course – ” Her turn to guffaw. “I must now swoon into your arms.”
“No, the other way ‘round,” he said candidly, “and you’d refuse me. Then where will I be, a rake, a Man ‘O ‘th Town? But there are those of power who’ll put designs on you. For them there’ll be no ending, no start. You’re a flower to be plucked, whiffed, and discarded.”
“I’ve handled the like.”
“Mrs. MacEachran, you think you have skill because you’ve bumped with soldiers and merchants. You’re out of your league.” He lifted a hand before she could speak. “No – no stain on your virtue. All this pretence, you are fond of your soldier husband for whatever he can do for you . . . What little he can do for you.”
“Do not speak that way of Geordie.”
“A safe harbour, I think, and what he lacks in capacity, he makes up in devotion.”
“A better man than you,” she said.
He nodded. “You trust him with your secrets.”
“I do,” she said more to herself.
“But not all . . . Maybe all except one.”
“You presume too much, Captain.”
“I’m compelled. We’ve sung our best together. One cannot do that without bearing one’s soul. We make love in the music. Don’t deny it. The intimacy makes it Art. We fight because we draw too close. It has given us sight into one another. You’ve granted me . . . knowledge.”
“And what knowledge is that?”
“You are wicked.” She turned her shoulder. “And burn with temptation . . . and have a tender heart.”
“And I have knowledge of you,” she said. “You will fool yourself into any sincerity to pluck what you cannot have.”
He grinned. “La.” Then looked at her. “Meaning no disparagement, you’re my equal in that.”
They glided in silence. Church bells rang, their echo muffled by the snow. Dalrymple guided Pluto to the curb.
“We are going to church?” Obedience said surprised.
“As I told you.”