Free This Other Eden by Marilyn Harris

lifted her chin for respite from the heat
and the nightmare of the morning. Dolly was a spinster approaching old age. She
had risen in service at Eden Castle from a scullery maid at twelve to the
awesome position at sixty-seven of House Warden, a breathtaking climb for
anyone, but an extraordinary ascent for a woman of low and questionable birth
and no education.
     
    She
was admired and respected on both sides of the castle wall. She had a beaked
head, a body fleshy and growing feeble, but still ferocious, that somehow made
her resemble a plump gaming cock. While she frequently talked about everything
being the "death of her," it was accurately assumed by all who knew
her that she would survive intact forever, along with the ancient and sturdy
cliffs upon which she was now standing.
     
    As
the sea wind blew through her prim black skirts, she listened to the surf
below. Upon seeing again in her mind's eye the bloodied figure of Marianne
Locke, she felt her emotions rise with unprecedented fury. There was no excuse,
no excuse at all. This was 1790. She had thought that the English mind and
sensibility had exhausted itself of such barbarism.
     
    As
she moved quickly toward the narrow path which led down the cliff, the movement
of her head was as jerky as though a nerve had broken. She should have
intervened on that day when it happened, should have insisted that Lord Eden
give the girl over to her. She had been aware of the child's arrogance and
airs. It wasn't that Marianne was a bad girl. Her indulgent father had simply
given her her head too soon.
     
    She
grabbed up the ends of her apron and once again started downward, her shoulders
drawn up around her neck, with renewed purpose in her step, a wash to arrive on
the scene and assess the girl's chances for herself.
     
    Several
arduous minutes later, her head like a broken puppet, she felt the safer
footing of cobblestones beneath her feet and started off down the wind in the
direction of the Lockes' cottage. There still were clusters of quietly talking
people standing about in front of the shops, idle fishermen who had been robbed
of the day's catch, first by the early morning rain, then the public whipping.
She knew them all, there Kerry, there Williams, and Wotten and Tim Clarke and
Bob Duncan. She received the quiet bobs of their heads with dignity,
considering that her own head was bobbing continuously. The medicines in her
apron jangled together, a kind of melody proclaiming her arrival, the only
medicinal expert this side of Exeter.
     
    Ahead
she heard someone calling to her. She looked up and saw Parson Branscombe
running toward her, his fat little stockinged legs flying.
     
    "Ah,
Dolly," he cried. "I was just coining to fetch you. She needs more
than my prayers. Hurry! Please hurry!"
     
    She
lifted her head in search of air. "I'm coming," she snapped, drawing
away from the pudgy little fingers which reached out for her arm. "Can't a
body stop for breath?"
     
    With
her mantle of authority clearly in place, she brushed past Parson Branscombe,
holding her ladened apron aloft. As she caught her first sight of the Locke
cottage, she stopped, appalled. She had passed perhaps a half a dozen people on
her way here. Now it looked as though the other ninety-four inhabitants of
Mortemouth were all pressing to get into the cottage, their appetites for
suffering insatiable.
     
    "My
God," she cursed, impervious to Parson Branscombe still hovering at her
elbow. "They must be cleared," she ordered.
     
    Parson
Branscombe, obviously grateful that someone else had arrived to take charge,
ran ahead of her, shouting in a voice that resembled a woman's. "Make way,
please. Go back to your homes. Please, oh, please, make way!"
     
    The
people standing at the outer edges of the circle looked at him as though he
were little more than a honey bee. From where Dolly stood, still a few yards
removed, it was not apparent to her that anyone had even so much as shifted
their