The Women of Eden (10 page)

The man in the archway did not move. "What are you doing here?" he asked in a low voice, where anger was kept in check.

Andrew laughed and moved toward him, taking in all angles of his friend's face, his breathlesssness, as though he'd run a distance. "Chess," Andrew pronounced simply. "You may not believe this, but with Lord Harrington as my witness, I defeated this brilliant lady here."

If John heard anything, he gave no indication of it. The frown of

displeasure on his face grew until he commanded, "Get out! You have no business here, neither of you. Now get out!"

Before Andrew could respond to the shocking command, he heard Lord Harrington behind him, his voice calm. "We were Just leaving, John. I'm afraid insomnia was a general plague this night"

"Get outl" John shouted again.

In rapid order, Andrew felt anger, then resentment, then at last understanding. He knew John well enough to know what had happened. Clearly the marital bed had been a disappointment as always, and with his nerves stretched taut, he'd come to Dhari, only to find her—

"Get out!" he shouted a third time, and in the face of his anger, Andrew saw Lord Harrington retreat. At the sight of that nobleman bowed with fear at the small-boy tantrum, all understanding deserted Andrew and he was left with a rage as great as John's.

"Your rudeness is not warranted and does not become you," he said, striving for control, longing to look back at Dhari, who had yet to move from the sofa, aware that when he departed after Lord Harrington, she would be left alone with John.

"Surely you know," Andrew went on, "that we frequently pass evenings in this sitting room."

"You have no right," John said. "These are Dhari's private quarters."

"The lady invited us, John," Andrew replied. "I looked for you earlier, but you—"

"Get out," John repeated in witless refrain. "You're not even-dressed," he stammered, his outrage strong.

"Nor are you." Andrew smiled, sensing that the rational man who had created an empire had disappeared and had been replaced by a spoiled child. Based on past experience, Andrew knew that there was no reasoning with him.

"Good night, then," Andrew said pleasantly enough, and at last turned back to Dhari, saddened by her frozen state.

"Thank you, Dhari." He smiled. "And again I apologize for my victory, although I still suspect that you let me—"

"Get outr

"Good night, John." Andrew again smiled as he passed him, his concern splintered, a portion of it going to John, who undoubtedly would apologize to all come morning, and to Dhari, who would be left alone with him.

As Andrew closed the door behind him, he saw Lord Harrington standing a distance away, his head bowed in embarrassment. Coming from the other side of the closed door, Andrew heard the sliding of a bolt.

"Come," Lord Harrington urged. "A nightcap in my—"

But the invitation was drowned out by a torrent of curses coming from behind the bolted door, the specific words lost, but a continuous stream of anger, the voice diminishing as the footsteps moved away from the door.

Andrew listened, struggling to catch individual words, and failing. As the tirade continued, it was punctuated by a sharp short retort as though a blow had been delivered, the voice never ceasing in abuse, the words interrupted only by another slap, and then another.

With a suffering akin to physical pain, Andrew pushed against the door. "Damn him!" he cursed, and was on the verge of pounding on the door when he felt Lord Harrington's hand on his arm. "Leave them be," the old man counseled.

"Leave them be!" Andrew repeated, amazed. 'Tou can hear it for yourself. He's—"

"She knows how to handle him," Lord Hanington counseled. "She, better than anyone, knows what to do."

Still the voice spewed forth its anger, but though he listened carefully Andrew heard no more blows.

Then silence. The tension caused a cramp to knot in Andrew's right shoulder.

"Come." Lord Harrington smiled. "Nothing has happened here which should surprise or distress either of us."

In that calm acceptance, Andrew leveled an even greater indictment at John. How long would everyone permit him to work his will on them?

"Come, Andrew."

It was Lord Hanington again. "Every family has secrets and we're no different. We both will love him again come morning."

Andrew looked up at the voice. Of course he was right. With a tolerant half-smile, he walked with Lord Harrington down the corridor, though a portion of his heart remained behind in the closed and bolted room. . . .

Cambridge May 10, 1870

As Lord Richard Eden, Fifteenth Baron and Seventh Earl of Eden, sat waiting in his carriage outside his flat near Magdalene College, he felt a sense of well-being settle over him. How calmly God had taken his life and lifted it out of darkness, had given him a task to perform and a love to reciprocate. Now the only cloud in Richard's existence was the occasional suspicion that he was unworthy of such happiness.

God, or John Murrey Eden, had done all this, and smiling at his willingness to confuse the two, Richard leaned out the window and looked up toward the second-floor casement behind the green of fresh spring ivy to the study where Bertie was giving a student last-minute instructions in the translation of Homer.

The tutorial should have ended an hour ago, and worse, they should have been on the road to North Devon yesterday. In addition, they had yet to stop by Madingly Hall and pick up Aslam. Richard hoped that the boy was ready.

Well, no matter. John would understand, and Richard refused to spoil this glorious day with anxiety. According to John's letters, the Festivities would stretch on for two weeks. What matter if they were a day or so late?

Ah, at last, there they were, and eagerly Richard leaned forward, amused that though both Bertie and the young student were juggling a trunk apiece, Bertie was still talking, his strong face reflecting the intensity of his instruction.

Richard considered himself a dedicated don, but his dedication

paled in comparison to that of Bertie. At the end of the walk, they stopped again, Bertie, in his eagerness to make a final point, lowering the trunk to his feet. The student, a lanky, dark-haired young man named Todd, reluctantly did the same, as though it would have suited him better to transfer luggage rather than deal with the complexities of Homer.

Richard took advantage of the scene, confident that neither participant knew he was being watched, reveling in Bertie, seeing him as he'd first seen him years ago when Richard had been a terrified undergraduate.

What his fear had done to him then! It had rendered him mute, his face expressionless, his voice scarcely more than a whisper, a slim, petrified boy who considered himself unworthy to breathe God's air.

Small wonder, then, his transformation on that day with that miracle of a man, one Herbert Nichols, that ferociously alive son of a Norfolk rector, with no connections and httie money, yet fiHing the door of their Cambridge attic with a degree of love that had, incredibly, increased from that day to this.

In an attempt to retain the good memory, Richard closed his eyes. He had never known such a man and knew he would never know another. God did not create such men effortlessly or in quantity, filling their hearts with that rarest of commodities, an indiscriminate love for merely all mankind.

There Bertie stood now, still vigorous and handsome, a few strands of gray flecking his sandy-colored hair, his shoulders bent from the long hours spent over books, though still exhibiting a grandeur in spite of his unfortunate propensity always to look mussed.

Out of habit Richard lowered his head and gave a brief prayer of thanks for the world and all the people in it. When he looked up he saw Bertie with his arm about the young man's shoulder, giving him last-minute words of encouragement.

"You'U do well, Todd," he called out. "I know you will. Remember what I told you, and have confidence in yourself."

The last command was issued with mock fierceness, causing the boy to duck his head, walking backward across the small courtyard, his eyes fixed in adoration on Bertie.

Then the student was gone and Bertie was left alone at the end of the path. Richard thought he detected a weariness on his face. And why not? He had seen his readers last night until past midnight and

had risen before six this morning in order to prepare for the journey.

Richard left the carriage, summoning the driver to help with the trunks. He was less than three feet from him before Bertie looked up, his expression one of thoughtful repose. At the sound of Richard's steps on gravel, he glanced toward him with a soft apology.

"Ah, Richard, I'm sorry for the delay." He smiled, one hand brushing back his hair. "The boy will founder, I'm afraid, unless—"

"Unless you throw him a lifeline," Richard interrupted.

Bertie nodded and started to object as the coachman, a strapping lad from the town of Cambridge, effortlessly hoisted both trunks onto his shoulders and started toward the carriage. From experience, Richard knew that Bertie disliked the sense of being served or waited upon. When he started toward the coachman to lend a hand, Richard let him go.

As Bertie lifted the final trunk up, he turned about, in the process stripping off his black robe, his attitude still one of apology. "You can place the blame squarely on my shoulders, Richard. Or better still, I'll explain to John myself."

But Richard merely smiled, taking note of the rumpled suit beneath Bertie's black robe. It bore not the slightest indication that it had ever known a press. As Bertie flung his black robe through the carriage window, Richard stepped forward and straightened his neck scarf.

"Am la total wreck?" Bertie brooded, "And I dressed so carefully this morning!"

"You look fine," Richard soothed.

"Trunks secured, sir!" The voice came from the young coachman, who had just taken his seat, reins in hand. Suffering the excitement that always accompanies a journey, Richard took Bertie's arm and assisted him up into the carriage, the sense of holiday strong within him.

As Richard felt the carriage start forward, the shadows of Nevile's Court obliterated the sun on the handsome, bemused face across the way. In an attempt to control the love he felt for the man, Richard felt a compulsion to continue talking.

He did not take his eyes off the face he loved more than life itself. Nor did he alter his focus as he reached up and released the small window curtains on each side of the carriage. As the curtains slipped down, casting the interior into a shaded coolness, Richard gained the

opposite side, gently smoothed back the mussed sandy hair, grasped the steadying hand which Bertie had extended to him, and kissed him, the scent of the man, the feel of his arms enclosing him in a reciprocal embrace.

As Bertie drew him close, Richard gave himself fully to the embrace, finding in the shelter of those strong arms all he would ever need of love and closeness.

"A pair we are," Bertie whispered.

Richard settled under the sheltering umbrella of Bertie's arm, regretful that they were not making the journey alone, reminding himself that they would have to move with much greater care during the fortnight ahead. In their life at Cambridge they enjoyed a limited freedom, no one mentioning openly that dreaded word, submerging their love in an atmosphere of High Anglican sexlessness. The physical union that they enjoyed within the privacy of their upstairs bedchamber was their business, two highly respected dons merely sharing quarters for economy and convenience.

But now that they had left that secure womb, and particularly at Eden they both would have to exercise great care not to let their glances reveal too much, their whispered conversations, their early retirements.

In defense against the coming deprivation, as though both their minds had been moving on the same track, Richard felt Bertie's arms tighten about him, felt his lips again.

"I love you so much, Richard. How bereft my life would be without you."

Richard closed his eyes, the better to hear the treasured words, and silently thanked God for this richest of blessings He had seen fit to bestow upon his life. . . .

Aslam, grown tall and slim at eighteen, the great-grandson of the last Emperor of the Moghul Empire, but now more English than Indian, stood waiting outside his room at Madingly Hall, some three miles from Cambridge, and searched the road for Richard's carriage.

They were late, though in a way he'd expected it. In all the journeys he'd made back to Eden with Richard and Professor Nichols, not once had they departed at the appointed hour.

Although he'd been standing for over an hour, his valise at his feet, he continued to stand, his back erect, head lifted, paying no at-

tention to the parade of students who entered and departed the hall behind him.

In his two years here he had yet to make one close friend. It suited him, his aloneness, his awareness of his difference, which included the color of his skin, the vast wealth of his adopted father, John Murrey Eden, and the superiority of Aslam's mind, that natural isolation that a brilliant intellect always forces upon its possessor.

As a single bead of perspiration trickled down the bridge of his nose, caused by the high May sun and the heavy fabric of his dark wool suit, he made no move to brush it away.

He should have kept to his room until he'd seen the carriage from his window. But that would have only meant a further delay, another excuse for the boys to torment him, this time about his enforced ride with the "dear old Sodomites of Nevile's Court."

With relief he heard the Hall door slam behind him, the air quiet, and now he tried to concentrate on the days ahead, looking forward to a respite from the loneliness. How he longed to see John again, to try to convince him that he could read law as well in London as he could here, or better still, let Andrew Rhoades tutor him.

But to all his heartfelt entreaties, John had stood firm, insisting on the "respectability" of a Cambridge education.

For the first time since he had been waiting, his head inclined forward as though a weight of confusion had been lowered upon him, the mystery and contradiction that was John Murrey Eden, a man who had turned his back on respectability and who still operated largely with only one set of rules, his own, now foisting the appearance of respectability on Aslam.