Theodoros gave a disgusted shrug.
'He must have been rich then! He doesn't seem to have much left.'
'More than you might think,' said Athanasius with a smile, 'but it is not good to tempt the enemy's greed. The master has known that for a long time. Indeed, it is the only thing he does remember clearly. And now,' he finished, beaming at Marianne, 'I am going to the Ursulines for a gown. It would be best if you came with me. No servant worthy of the name would remain with his mistress when she desires to rest.'
But the giant's patience was evidently at an end. With a furious gesture he flung the faded silk counterpane, which he had just taken off the bed, across the room.
'I was not made for this!' he shouted. 'I'm a klepht! Not a lackey!'
'If you shout like that,' Marianne observed coolly, 'every soul in the place will soon know it. You not only agreed to play the part – you actually asked for it. Personally, I should be very glad to part with you. You are a thorough nuisance!'
Theodoros glared at her from under his bushy brows, like a dog about to bite. She expected for a moment to see him bare his teeth, but he only growled:
'I have a duty to my country.'
'Then do it quietly. Did you notice the motto carved over the entrance as we came in? Sustine vel Abstine.'
'I don't know Latin.'
'Roughly speaking, it means: Stay the course or stay out. It's what I have been doing myself and I'd advise you to do the same. You are forever grumbling. Well, fate's not a matter of choice; it's something you put up with. Think yourself lucky if it offers you something worth fighting for.'
Theodoros flushed darkly and his eyes flashed.
'I've known that long enough,' he boomed, 'and no woman is going to teach me how to act!'
Under the shocked gaze of Athanasius, who clearly could not believe that anyone could be so rude to a lady, he rushed from the room, slamming the door thunderously behind him. The little steward shook his head and made his own way to the door but, before going out, he turned and bowed and there was a smile in his eyes.
'Your highness will agree with me that servants nowadays are not what they were.'
***
Marianne had been half afraid that Athanasius would come back with a monkish habit, but when he returned he brought a cloth-wrapped package, with the compliments of the Mother Superior, containing a pretty Greek dress made of a natural woven stuff embroidered in multicoloured silks by the nuns. With it, there was a kind of shawl to go over the head, and several pairs of sandals of various sizes.
It was all very different from Leroy's elegant creations, packed away in Marianne's trunks and now sailing somewhere in the hold of the American brig, destined to be sold for the benefit of John Leighton, along with the ancestral jewels of the Sant'Annas, but by the time she was washed, brushed and dressed, Marianne felt much more like her real self.
Furthermore, she felt almost well. The sickness which had made her suffer so horribly on board the Sea Witch had virtually disappeared and, but for the pangs of hunger which consumed her almost incessantly, she might almost have been able to forget that she was expecting a child and that time was not on her side. For, unless she got rid of it very soon, it would soon become impossible to do so without grave risk to her own life.
The room was afire with the glow of the setting sun. Down below, the harbour had come to life again. Boats were putting out for the night's fishing, and others returning, their decks armoured in shining scales. But they were all only fishing boats. There was no 'great ship worthy to carry an ambassadress', and as she leaned on the stone mullion, Marianne was conscious of a growing impatience, like that which devoured Theodoros. Him she had not set eyes on since his tempestuous exit a little while before, and she guessed that he was down by the waterfront, mingling with the people of the island – the island on which Theseus had abandoned Ariadne – scanning the horizon for the masts and yards of a big merchant vessel.
Would it ever come, this ship which a white pigeon had sped away to summon for her, to carry her to that almost legendary city where waited the golden-haired Sultana, on whom, unconsciously, she had begun to fasten all her hopes?
A hundred times over, since her reawakening to life and awareness in Melina's house, Marianne had told herself what she would do when she got there. She would go at once to the embassy and see Comte de Latour-Maubourg, and through him obtain an audience with the Sultana. Failing that, she would, if necessary, batter down the doors to carry her complaint to someone with the decency and power to scour the Mediterranean for the pirate's brig. The people of the Barbary coast were, she knew, great seamen; their swift-sailing xebecs and their means of communication were almost as efficient as anything possessed by Napoleon's highly-valued Monsieur Chappe. If they acted quickly, Leighton might find himself arrested off any port on the Mediterranean coast of Africa, hemmed in by a pack of hunters who would make him sorry he was ever born, while his unwilling passengers might yet be saved – if only there was still time.
Marianne's eyes grew moist at the remembrance of Arcadius, Agathe and Gracchus. She could not think of them without a deep sense of loss. She had never realized, when they were with her every day, how fond of them she had become. As for Jason, whenever he came into her mind – which was all too often – she exerted every ounce of will-power she possessed to drive him out again. How could she think of him without giving way to grief and despair, with all the torments of regret tearing at her heart? She no longer blamed him for his cruelty to her, or for the hurt that he had done her, admitting loyally that she had brought it on herself. If she had only trusted him more, if she had not been so terribly afraid of losing his love, if she had dared to tell him the truth about her abduction from Florence, if only – if only she had just a little bit more courage! If 'ifs' and 'ans' were pots and pans…
She ran her slender fingers caressingly over the warm stone, as though it could bring her some comfort. It must have seen so much, this old house with its austere device proclaiming the acceptance of suffering. How many times must the setting sun, going down flaming into a sea splashed all over with its golden spume, have shone on this same window; on what faces, what smiles and what tears? The solitude about her was peopled suddenly with faceless shadows, with insubstantial forms wreathing in the amber dust raised by the evening breeze, as though to comfort her. The departed voices of all the women who had lived, loved and suffered between those venerable walls whose glory had now crumbled into ashes whispered to her that this was not the end, here in an ancient palace perched like a melancholy heron on the rim of an island, a palace which had wakened for a moment but would soon fall back into the nothingness of sleep.
For her there were days yet to come when Love might have its say.
'Love? Who was the first to call it Love? Better to have named it Agony…'
Marianne remembered hearing those lines somewhere once and they had made her smile. That was a long time ago, in the first flush of her seventeen years, when she had thought herself in love with Francis Cranmere. Whose were they? Her memory, usually so reliable, failed that night to give her the answer, but it was someone who knew…
'If your highness would be good enough to step downstairs, his lordship will do himself the honour of dining with you.'
Athanasius had not spoken loudly but Marianne started as though at the sound of the Last Trump. Brought abruptly back to earth, she smiled at him vaguely.
'I'll come… I'll come at once.'
She left the room, while Athanasius remained to close the window and shut out demoralizing fantasies behind thick wooden shutters. He caught up with her at the head of the stairs, when her hand was already poised on the white marble balusters polished by years of contact with innumerable human hands.
'If I may warn your highness, do not be surprised at anything you may see or hear during dinner,' he murmured. 'The Count is very old and it is long now since anyone came here. He is sensible of the honour done him tonight but – but he
lives with his memories. He has done so for so long now that – that they are to some extent a part of himself. They are with him always. Your highness may have noticed his use of the plural form… I don't know if I make myself clar…'
'You need not worry, Athanasius,' Marianne said gently. 'Nowadays I am not easily surprised.'
'But your highness is so young—'
'Young? Yes… perhaps. But older than I look, I daresay. Don't worry. I shan't hurt your old master – or drive away his familiar spirits.'
Yet, for all that, the meal left her with a curious feeling of unreality. This was due not so much to the old-fashioned suit of green satin which her host had donned in her honour, and which he must have worn long before at the doge's court in Venice, as to the fact that he spoke hardly a word to her.
He greeted her gravely at the door of a large room where suits of rusty armour stood guard round the walls beneath the flaking frescoes, and led her down the whole length of an endless table set with old silver, to a seat placed on the right hand of the chair of state at its head, where he took his own place.
Another place was set at the foot of the table, before a chair identical to that of the master of the house. Only there a half-opened fan of painted silk and mother of pearl lay on the plate of old blue Rhodian ware, and beside it a rose in a crystal vase.
Throughout the meal, it was to the invisible mistress of the house rather than to his youthful neighbour that the old gentleman addressed his remarks. Occasionally he would turn to Marianne, exerting himself to conduct the conversation as if it were actually being directed and initiated by the ghostly countess, and he gave to it a turn of delicate and outmoded gallantry that brought tears to his young guest's eyes. She was overcome with emotion at the sight of a love so faithful that it could transcend the grave and recreate the loved one's presence with this touching persistence.
She learned that the countess's name was Fiorenza, and so strong was her husband's evocation of her presence that he almost made it seem an objective reality. Twice Marianne thought she saw the silken fan quiver delicately.
Now and then she let her eyes wander past the crested back of her host's chair to meet those of Athanasius, standing there in his everyday black suit with the addition of a pair of white gloves. She was not much surprised to note that they seemed abnormally bright.
The food was good and plentiful but in spite of the appalling hunger that was always with her these days, reminding her very much of Adelaide's, Marianne could not do justice to the meal. She nibbled a little, forcing herself to maintain her part in the ghostly conversation and uttering anguished mental prayer that it would soon be over.
When the Count rose at last and, bowing, offered her his arm, it was all she could do not to sigh aloud with relief. She allowed him to lead her back to the door, suppressing a crazy urge to break into a run, and even went so far as to smile and curtsey to the empty chair.
Athanasius followed three paces behind them, bearing a torch.
At the door, she begged the Count not to accompany her further, insisting that she had no wish to disturb his evening, and it wrung her heart to see how he brightened and hurried back into the dining-room. As the door shut behind him, she turned to the steward who was looking at her absently.
'You did right to warn me, Athanasius. It's frightening! Poor man!'
'Your highness must not pity him. He is happy so. For many, many evenings, now, he will talk of your highness's visit, with the Countess Fiorenza. To him, she is still living. He sees her come and go, take her seat facing him at table and sometimes, in the winter, he will play for her on the harpsichord that he had brought here once, at great expense, from a town called Ratisbon in Germany, for she loved music.'
'Was it long ago she died?'
'Oh, she is not dead, or if she is now, we shall never know. She left here, twenty years ago, with the Ottoman governor of the island, who had seduced her. If she still lives, it must be in a harem somewhere…'
'She ran away with a Turk?' Marianne gasped with amazement. 'Was she mad? Your master seems such a good man, so gentle… and he must have been quite handsome at that time…'
Athanasius made a little movement of his shoulders which precisely expressed his opinion of the logic of the female mind, and confined himself to a vaguely apologetic statement which excused nothing:
'Mad, no. She was only a pretty, feather-headed woman for whom life here was not very amusing.'
'I daresay she must have found it infinitely more amusing in a harem,' Marianne said with sarcasm.
'Bah! The Turks are not such fools. There are plenty of women who were made for that kind of life. And there are others who cannot bear to be put on a pedestal. It makes them lonely and afraid. Our countess belonged to both kinds at once. She adored luxury and idleness and sweetmeats, and thought her husband a poor kind of man because he loved her too much. It was after she left that something went wrong with him. He's never accepted the fact that she's gone away, and he has gone on living with the memory of her as if nothing had happened. And what with wanting so much to see her, I think in the end he really came to it, and now he's reached a kind of happiness that's greater, maybe, than he would have had if she'd stayed with him, because the years have not changed the thing he loves… But I'm boring you. Your highness must wish to retire.'
'You aren't boring me, and I'm not tired. Only a little upset. Tell me, where is Theodoras? I haven't seen him.'
'At my house. Since he can't tear himself away from the harbour, I thought best to send him there. My mother will look after him. But if you require his services…'
'No, thank you,' Marianne said, smiling. 'I think I can manage without the services of Theodoros. Let us go up, if you please.'
The first thing she noticed on entering her bedchamber was a small tray placed near her bed, on which was bread and cheese and fruit.
'I thought,' said Athanasius, 'that madame might not have much appetite for dinner, but that perhaps a little something during the night…?'
This time Marianne went straight up to him and, taking his plump hand in both of hers, shook it warmly.
'Athanasius,' she said, 'if you weren't about the only thing your master has left to him, I'd ask you to come with me. A man-servant like you is a gift from heaven!'
'I love my master, that is all… I am sure your highness has the capacity to arouse a devotion as great, or greater than mine. May I wish your highness a good night – and no regrets.'
The night might well have proved every bit as good as the worthy man had hoped, if only it had been allowed to run its proper course. But Marianne was still in her first sleep when she was shaken vigorously awake by a rough hand on her shoulder.
'Hurry! Get up!' said Theodoros' hurried voice. 'The ship is here!'
Marianne peered through half-open eyes at the big man's face, tense in the wavering light of a candle.
'What?' she asked, sleepily.
'You must get up, I tell you. The ship is here and waiting! Get up!'
By way of extra encouragement to her to hurry out of bed, he laid hold of the covers and flung them back, discovering what had evidently been the last thing he had thought of in his haste: a female form clad only in a tumbled mass of dark hair and touched to warm gold by the candlelight. He stood literally rooted to the spot while Marianne, wide awake now, flung herself on the sheet with a howl of rage.
'How dare you! Are you mad?'
He stirred with difficulty and passed a shaking hand over his bearded chin, but his eyes still stared at the place in the now empty bed where the girl's body had lain an instant before.
'I'm sorry…' he managed to say at last. 'I did not know – I didn't think—'
'I'm not interested in what you thought. I gather you have come in search of me? Well, what is all this about? Are we leaving now?'
'Yes – at once. The ship is waiting. Athanasius came to tell me.'
'This is ridiculous! It's the middle of the night! What time is
it?'
'Midnight, I think – a little after.'
He was still standing in the same place, speaking like a man in a dream. From her refuge behind the bedcurtains, Marianne watched him uneasily. He seemed to have forgotten his haste. Almost he seemed to have forgotten why he had come there, but there was a softness about that ferocious countenance which Marianne had never seen there before. Theodoros was in the process of succumbing to a kind of witchcraft that must be dispelled at once.
Without quitting her refuge, she reached out towards a small brass bell that Athanasius had left with her in case she should need anything in the night, but she was still reluctant to wake the echoes of the sleeping house.
'Go back to bed,' she advised. 'It is an excellent thing that the boat has come, but we can hardly leave like this, without telling anyone.'
Before the Greek could answer, even supposing that he was going to, Athanasius crept softly round the half-open door. He took in the scene before him at a glance. It was certainly an unusual one: the Princess huddled behind the bed curtains with only her head and her bare shoulders showing, and Theodoros staring at the bed as though about to fall into it.
'Well?' Athanasius said in a reproachful whisper. 'What are you doing? Time is short.'
'Then it's true what this man says?' Marianne asked, not moving. 'We are leaving now?'
'Yes, madame, and you must do so quickly if you would avoid serious trouble. The risk we run here, with the Turks, is nothing compared to it. The master of the polacca sent from Hydra has heard that three vessels belonging to the Kouloughis brothers, renegade pirates, are on a course for Naxos. If they sight the island before you have left it there is a good chance that you will never reach Constantinople but end up in Tunis, where the Kouloughis' sell their slaves.'
'Sla—! I'm coming! Only get Theodoros out of here so that I can get dressed. He seems to have been turned into a pillar of salt!'
There were some words capable of making Marianne rise above herself, and slavery was one of them. When Athanasius had dragged Theodoros bodily out of the room, she dressed herself hurriedly and joined the others on the dark landing outside the bedroom. By the time she appeared, carrying the candle, Theodoros seemed to have recovered his wits. He threw her a smouldering glance, suggesting that it would be a good while before he forgave her for being the cause of his moment of weakness, or what he regarded as such.
Marianne and the Rebels Page 32
