The Women of Eden (2 page)

At first it had started as a lark, something to relieve the tedium, to amuse editor Delane, who had been kind to the entire Stanhope family on their difficult passage through the American Civil War. But three years ago both Burke and Delane had become aware of the interesting fact that thousands of readers were buying the Times just to read and become outraged by Lord Ripples' writings.

In fact, the public had named him. An angry Englishman had written a letter to the editor after a particularly vitriolic column in which Burke had dared to criticize the length and intensity of the Queen's mourning for Albert. The letter-writer had demanded the immediate identity of the scribbler who dipped his pen into the placid, superior English landscape, causing ripples.

The very next morning, with a journalistic instinct that amounted to genius and with a wisdom of human nature that informed him that the public loved to hate at least as much as they loved to love, editor Delane had christened Burke Lord Ripples, had given him a free journalistic hand and had instructed him to seek out and graphically describe every boil, sore and tumor on the English national body.

To this day, no one but Burke and John Thadeus Delane knew Lord Ripples' true identity, that he was a displaced American whose father had sent the family to England in the early sixties for the dual purpose of escaping the carnage of the Civil War and in an attempt to plead with the cotton mills of the Midlands to lift their barricade

on Southern cotton, a sympathetic gesture against slavery which had threatened to do greater economic damage to the South than the marauding armies of the North.

Again Burke drained his glass of port. What matter now? It was all ancient history, the South defeated, his father trying to salvage what he could after commanding Burke to remain behind in London v^th the mad Caroline.

Sunk in thought, Burke was scarcely aware of the cessation of noise from the pianoforte. The first sound which summoned him back was the drunken laughter of the four young students, which echoed over the now quiet club. He cast a quick glance in their direction. Why was Jeremy Sims permitting such behavior? Then he looked toward the stage and caught a flare of a pale blue gown, as though someone had started out from behind the stage curtain only to be restrained.

He sat up in his chair. What in hell was going on? Would she appear or not?

Then she did. The flare of the pale blue silk gown grew and became a full apparition, the young woman pausing beside the stage curtain as though the weight and expectancy of men's eyes had disarmed her. But it didn't last long, for then she was moving, a picture of grace, the gown fully visible, light blue very fine silk wreathed with ropes of seed pearls, while in her golden hair floated two soft plumes of lilacs, another fortunate plume nestling between her breasts.

In that peculiar way that the imagination will seize on trifles, Burke found that he could not take his eyes off the lilacs, the way they moved with each delicate inhalation of breath.

He was aware of the applause increasing about him, the gentlemen responding with delight to the vision on the stage. And once again he was struck by the phenomenon known as Maria of the Mask. There were any number of establishments in London where these gentlemen could even glimpse a thigh, the hundreds of music hall entertainers whose every song was an open invitation for seduction.

Then what was the attraction of this rather shy young girl who conducted herself more like a noblewoman than a music hall entertainer? And why the mask unless to conceal an identity which, if revealed, could cause embarrassment, or worse?

Now she was looking back at the audience with the greatest serenity, all traces of the earlier timidity gone, as though at last she had found her natural habitat. And Burke was aware of the silence in the

room, a quiet so intense that he closed his eyes and imagined the large club empty except for a pulsebeat of longing and expectation.

Opening his eyes so as not to miss a moment, he saw her incline her head to the pianist. The melancholy musical introduction only enhanced the mood. She stood with such ease that she might have been a beloved daughter merely performing for a doting family at a Sunday-afternoon musicale.

It was that innocence, and yet— There! Notice that gesture, her right hand, passing over the blue silk bodice, cupping briefly about her breast as though offering it to the gentlemen.

At some point in the remarkable performance Burke was no longer witnessing the needs of others. His own were sufficient to keep him occupied, the tension building as the song reached its climax, all the ugliness of the world disappearing before the beauty of her voice and face, the promise that with her the act of love would not be carnal sin but rather an ethereal flight to paradise.

She was moving in time to the sorrowful melody, informing them of unrequited love and a broken heart. Slowly she walked to the front of the stage and looked sorrowfully out, as though pleading with the stunned gentlemen to take the place of her dead lover.

Burke began to wonder how much they all could endure. Impulses were churning within him, the young woman shining through his secret fantasies. All men dreamed of such a woman, the temptress concealed within the lady, the unspoken promise of sin issued through the lips of an angel.

Suddenly there was a disturbance on his far right, merely a scuffling at first, then a stumbling upward, an impatient figure rushing the stage, one of the drunken students, his hands reaching out.

It was several moments before Burke could bring himself out of his spell, and when he did he saw the student mounting the stage, looming large over the young woman, who apparently was so surprised by the approach that she made no move to withdraw.

Then he was upon her, his hands planted on those small shoulders, his body obscuring her. Burke heard the shocked protest of the audience, the gentlemen still not believing what they were seeing, their dream obscured by pawing hands.

The pianist screamed, and Burke thought he heard another female scream, though he was certain that it had not issued from the lips of the young woman. From where he sat, she seemed to be indulging her attacker, whose hands were now moving over her breasts, and ap-

patently finding the fabric of her gown an obstacle, he gathered the silk in one angry fist and jerked downward.

At last aware of her predicament, the young woman commenced to struggle and, as Burke started toward the stage, he saw old Jeremy Sims rush out from the wings, his fleshy face ruddy with shock. Accompanying him a few steps behind was a petite graying lady, whose eyes reflected the horror of the ugly scene.

"I say!" Jeremy blustered, approaching the drunken youth, one pudgy hand reaching out to dislodge him from his position over the young woman, who in the attack had been forced to her knees.

Now Burke commenced running toward the stage, confident that Jeremy Sims, overaged and overweight, would be no match for the young man. Just as he stepped over the row of foot-candles he saw the student turn from the young woman kneeling at his feet, draw back his fist and drunkenly take aim at Jeremy Sims. A lucky first strike sent the old publican stumbling backwards, crashing into a set piece of forest scenery.

Burke had seen enough, as had everyone else in the club. He was aware of all the gentlemen on their feet, a few rushing toward the stage, all shouting instructions, none of which he needed. To the continuous siren of the pianist's screams, he approached the scene with confidence and lifted the student by the collar of his coat, angled him into position, then delivered a blow to the side of his jaw which sent him sailing over the foot-candles and crashing into the front row of tables.

Burke looked down on the young woman and in the process caught a glimpse of one lovely breast. But it was not the breast that held his attention. Rather it was the look of excitement on her face, as though she were pleased vdth herself for having brought the young man to such a fit of passion.

Burke's scrutiny did not last long, for shouts from the audience informed him that the student was rising again, and within the instant Burke jumped down from the stage and met the belligerent while he was still in the act of coming up. Again he lifted him by the collar of his coat, drew back his fist and sent it shooting forward with such force that he heard his knuckles crack against front teeth, saw two small white objects fly out of the young man's mouth, accompanied by a flow of blood.

Flattened and senseless at last, the young man's friends came to re-

trieve him, and with the alarmed waiters holding back the outraged gentlemen, they lifted him and carried him from the club.

With the crisis safely past, the indignation of the gentlemen knew no bounds, and for several minutes Burke found himself surrounded by congratulatory and wrinkled faces, a few assuring him that they had been more than ready to back him up in the event that he had required their assistance.

Rubbing his bruised knuckles, Burke assured them that all was well, dismissed their congratulations and noticed unprecedented flushes on their pallid cheeks.

But at this moment the rejuvenation of senile old men was not uppermost in Burke's mind. Still haunting him was the image of self-satisfaction on that beautiful young face. If she had thanks to give, these he would gladly receive along v^th her name and perhaps her card and permission to call on her.

As he turned to receive her grateful thanks, to his disappointment he saw the stage empty except for the still sprawled though recovering figure of Jeremy Sims. With a feeling akin to panic, Burke ran back up on the stage and looked into the wings, confident that the pianist and the older woman had merely led her to a position of safety.

But the wings were empty, the backstage door afar, letting in a cool draft of the early May night as well as the sound of a rapidly retreating carriage.

Still suffering from the irrational feeling that thanks were due him, Burke ran through the opened door where a weak spill of fog-encircled gas lamps spread before him. He saw the carriage just turning the far corner, departing rapidly.

Suffering anew that peculiar sense of loss over something that had never been his, he turned back into the dimly lit wings. As he reached the edge of the curtain he was aware of his bruised knuckles bleeding. Pulling a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, he was in the process of v^nrapping the damaged hand when he heard his name.

"Mr. Stanhope?"

He looked up to see a wobbly Jeremy Sims being helped to his feet by two waiters. Once up, the large man insisted that he needed no support and started toward Burke, rubbing the side of his face and instructing the waiters to see all the gentlemen out to their carriages, then to lock the doors of the club for the night.

His duties of proprietorship completed, he stumbled past Burke

and sat in a straight-backed chair, the disaster that had befallen his

respectable club clear upon his face.

"My God," he muttered, shaking his head. "Never in twenty-seven years has such a scandal befallen Sims," he moaned, his words muffled by the swelling of his jaw. "Ruined," he pronounced melodramatically, looking up at Burke for the first time.

"Not ruined, Sims," Burke countered, amused. "I predict your membership will increase threefold, particularly if you can lure your masked beauty back."

"Oh, no," Sims replied, shaking his head, his triple chins waggling like aspic, "I'm afraid we've seen the last of little Maria. They'll never permit her to return, not after—"

On an impulse of hope, Burke asked, "Whom do you mean by

'they'?"

"Oh, list them as you like," Sims said despondently. "Her cousin for starters, her brother, her mother—"

The fog cleared and the old man realized what he had almost done. Abruptly his manner changed. He stood with dispatch. "I want to thank you, Mr. Stanhope, for your intervention, I'm afraid most of Sims' patrons are beyond the art of physical defense. I shudder to think what would have happened if you hadn't—"

Burke dismissed his gratitude and considered probing again for the identity of the young woman. The reference to a cousin and a brother and a mother were of no help whatsoever.

Just as he was ready to pose another question, he saw Jeremy Sims move past him as though to avoid the unasked question. "Please, Mr. Stanhope, I insist that you seek medical attention for that." He pointed toward the bruised knuckles, which were showing blood through the white handkerchief. "And I insist further that you send the bill to me."

"It isn't necessary," Burke declined, following after the man, wanting only one gift as long as the man was in a giving mood. "Mr. Sims!" he called out, halting the man in his laborious progress down the narrow stage stairs. "There is one favor you might perform for me, if you will. The young woman—I had hoped to inquire about her well-being—but she departed so rapidly. If you could supply me with her name and place of residence, I'd be most grateful."

Only then did he turn to confront the ashen face of Jeremy Sims, whose supply of gratitude apparently had just run dry.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly do that, Mr. Stanhope. It's quite out of the question, totally impossible, not to be considered."

His protest seemed excessive, and still he wasn't finished, his manner growing even more flustered as he commenced backing away. "No, no," he repeated, "not possible, not at all possible. You see, the terms of the agreement were—oh God, no. You must understand that it is not possible. Now, if you will excuse me, one of the waiters will fetch your carriage."

With that he was gone, making his way through the crowded tables as quickly as his girth would permit.

In astonishment, Burke watched the whole performance, amazed at the speed with which the normally blustery old proprietor had gone from a position of generosity to one of—what? Fear?

Why would the identity of the unique young woman cause fear, unless she was performing without someone's knowledge, a very important someone who could cause trouble for—

"Mr. Stanhope, your carriage, sir."