The Women of Eden (29 page)

Mary smiled. How pleasant it was, this new alliance which existed among them. Outside the door she heard a footstep, the sound of boots, then Peggy's voice protesting, "She's occupied, sir."

There was another voice, more familiar. "Occupied, hell! I have news—" The door burst open and she saw an incredible sight: John

smiling, filling the doorway, hands on hips, a lightness to his manner not at all consistent with the sullen man who had brought disaster down on his own house.

At last he spoke, his voice as expansive as Mary had ever heard it. "Ah, here you are!" He grinned, "All the ladies of Eden in hiding from me."

"Not hiding, John," Elizabeth conected gently. "Just keeping out from underfoot."

"But that's precisely where I want you," he said laughing, closing the door behind him.

"I'm sorry, John," Harriet interrupted quietly, "about the—"

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Harriet," he said. "And now that I've found you all," he continued, stepping further into the room, "no one may leave this chamber until I've made my announcement."

Mary looked up to see him moving about the room like a small boy, dutifully delivering kisses to one and all, though he stopped short of where Mary sat and turned away, leaving her the only one in the room who had not received the gift of his affection.

Abide and be patient.

"All right. My news is this, and you are the first to know." He lifted his head. "New life," he murmured. "My announcement concerns new life, a new Eden, my third child!"

Elizabeth was on her feet, a look of joy on her face. "Oh, John, that is marvelous news! But are you—certain? It would be too cruel if-"

"I'm certain," he pronounced. "Old Cockburn has just examined her, and while he may not be much of a physician by his own admission, he claims that he does know a pregnant woman when he sees—"

Mary moved to one side, belatedly aware of Harriet trying to stand so that she might deliver her congratulations. "How happy I am for you, John," she said, grasping the arm of her chair. "Is Lila—"

"Well," John beamed, "I just left her. She is as delighted as I am.

"I must go to her," Elizabeth announced. "I must—"

"No!" The grinning man disappeared and was replaced by a face that Mary had seen before too many times.

"No," he repeated, the smile back in place, though not as broad as before. "She's—resting now. Cockbum's with her. He has informed me that she needs complete quiet."

**But is he—capable, John?" Elizabeth inquired. "I hear the servants gossiping about him. They say that he is—"

"He will serve for a while," John replied. "In time I will bring out a London physician. But for now—"

As his voice drifted off, Mary was aware of her mother settling back into her chair, the entire room suffused with the softening projection of a new baby. In spite of her own apprehension, Mary found herself smiling. A new child was what John had wanted more than anything in the world. Perhaps now he would not focus so harshly on her.

"I'm happy for you, John." She smiled, at last throwing her congratulations in with the others.

"We all are," Harriet repeated, "though I hope this one goes better than—"

"It will," John cut in. "According to Dr. Cockburn the secret is complete bedrest and quiet."

"Do the others know?" Elizabeth asked. "Richard and Andrew?"

John shook his head. "But I'll tell them before they leave."

At last Mary saw Dhari look up, her attention caught by something that had been said.

Elizabeth asked, "Are they leaving? So soon?"

John nodded. "Richard and Aslam will depart tonight, Andrew first thing in the morning." He stretched his arms and clawed toward the ceiling. "The ill-fated Festivities have at last come to an end," he announced broadly. "I've neglected my duties long enough. We all have."

With his hands laced behind his back, he walked slowly to where Dhari sat at the table, her hands manipulating the needles through the red yarn. "In fact," he began, stopping behind her chair, "my second announcement concerns us all. We all will be leaving Eden come Monday."

Elizabeth looked up. "I had thought to stay for a few additional—"

"No. I want no distractions for Lila, no late-afternoon tea parties like this—" He gestured about the room, the censure clear on his face. "You know as well as I that if you remain Lila v^all seek you out, and the stairs are the worst of all, according to Cockburn. No, I want everyone in London with me for a while."

He seemed to assess the female faces about him, then again a grin splintered those strong features. "I'll impose no hardships on you.

Quite the contrary. Indulge yourselves to your hearts* content. Concerts, art galleries, dressmakers—"

From where Mary sat she saw his hand make its way down the side of Dhari's neck, an intimate gesture. For the first time the knitting needles went silent.

"You have no real objection, do you, Dhari," he asked, "to leaving Eden for a while?"

There was no response at first. Slowly the woman shook her head and the needles commenced a slowed but steady clicking.

"And you, Mary?" he asked. "Surely there's no objection coming from you."

"No," she replied without hesitation. "I'm happiest in London."

"Of course you are," he agreed, approaching her and extending his hand. As he lifted her to her feet she went willingly, seeing nothing in that generous countenance to cause her alarm.

"I tell you what we'll do," he said, putting his arm around her shoulder. "We'll entertain more often. Yes, we will. That monstrous house of mine has never known a decent ball. Elizabeth, you can help us," he added, drawing Elizabeth close beneath his other arm. "We'll dust off those chandehers, polish the floors and give the most lavish balls that old London has ever seen."

In view of the recent disastrous Festivities, it seemed a generous offer and yet one which pleased Mary. Perhaps at last he would grant her just a portion of her own life. Still, based on experience, she knew that he was capable of saying something and not meaning a word of it.

"Are you—serious, John?" she asked.

"I've never been more serious."

He seemed determined to hold her in his gaze, as though aware of her doubt and his need to dispel it.

"If I've made you unhappy, Mary, I'm truly sorry. But you must understand that my impulses are weighted with love for you and nothing else."

His manner, his voice, the expression on his face were as honest as any she'd ever seen. She did love him very much, this strong, handsome cousin.

Without warning she found herself in his arms. In the quiet embrace she heard nothing but his own labored breathing close to her ear and the click of Dhari's knitting needles, and for a moment longer she luxuriated in his tenderness, like all deep feeling, con-

cealing a melancholy strain. She must remember this lesson as well, that it was much easier to love than to hate.

"Then it's settled," he said at the end of the embrace. "We'll all return to London and leave Lila in the solitude she needs to properly nurture my child. Is it agreed?"

It was as far as Mary was concerned, though with surprise she heard a protest coming from Elizabeth. "But Dr. Cockburn, John," she murmured. "Now more than ever Lila needs expert professional—"

"I said he would serve for a while," John snapped. "Of course I'll be returning periodically to Eden. If I feel she needs more assistance, then I'll certainly provide her with it."

"Still, she's not well, and we are all aware of how—"

"What precisely is it, Elizabeth?" he demanded, confronting her where she sat on the chaise. "I thought that you, more than anyone, would look forward to an early return. Don't you miss your menagerie of friends? I assure you, I'd much prefer that you entertained them in your own house in London than here. I wouldn't be too surprised if you singlehandedly and your associates were not responsible for this last disastrous week. What gentleman or lady in their right minds would—"

The shocked look on Elizabeth's face silenced him. Fresh from loving him, Mary was astounded by his outburst. Never had she heard him speak like that to Elizabeth.

"I'm—sorry," she murmured. "If you'll excuse me, I have much to do."

Not until she reached the door did he find his voice and the will to use it. "Elizabeth," he called out, a desolate quality to his voice. "Elizabeth-wait—"

But she didn't and, stunned, Mary watched her depart the room. In sympathy Dhari commenced gathering up her work and silently left the room without a glance at the man who stood near the chaise, his initial high spirits obliterated in the small death for which he was totally responsible.

Mary looked toward her mother and saw her seated erect in her chair, though her veiled head was turned several degrees to the left, away from the place of hurt feelings, as though in spite of her blindness she still saw too clearly.

When no one seemed inclined to move, Mary plunged her hands into the pockets of her skirts to hide their trembling and kissed her

mother through the veil and whispered, "Fll come later and say goodnight."

Having decided that it might be best to pass John by, she drew even with him, and changed her mind. He appeared so pathetic, devoid of strength and consumed with regret, and with the intention of offering comfort, as he recently had comforted her, she touched his arm and whispered, "Elizabeth has a miraculous capacity for forgiveness. I know, for I have offended her many times."

He looked away. Then, with a sharpness which warred with the grief on his face, he said, "The offense is hersj not mine. I do not seek her forgiveness."

Then there was nothing more to stay for, except to try to sort out in her own mind the enigma named John Murrey Eden.

At the end of the corridor she looked back and saw Peggy just starting into the chamber. A mistake that, Mary thought, though in the next minute she saw John leave the room. He paused outside the door as though he wanted very much to return. But Peggy closed the door forcefully and left him standing alone in the corridor.

Quickly Mary slipped out of sight around the corner, not wanting him to see her. At the top of the landing she stopped, debating with herself whether to turn right toward Elizabeth's apartments or left toward her own. Dhari would be with her by now, and perhaps Dhari's silent presence was all she desired.

Later she would seek her out, when they both felt stronger. For now she longed for a closed and bolted door behind which she could still the turmoil of hurt and harsh words in that most healing memory of all. No fantasy this time, but a specific face, a specific form and a specific sensation of an arm about her.

Of course she would have to fill in the music out of her imagination, but what a simple task that would be, compared to the demands she had placed on her imagination in the past.

London June Ir 1870

"Still reading?"

From the window of Delane's home in Sarfeant's Inn, Burke looked across at the man bent over the desk, the sheaf of papers in his hand angled toward the small lamp, nothing on his face to give the slightest indication of how he was reacting to Lord Ripples' latest offering.

Satiated with the delicious meal provided by Delane's French cook, Burke sipped at his brandy and looked out at the night beyond the window, the street emptied of all traffic, as well it should be at three in the morning.

Smiling in spite of his satiation and fatigue, he recalled Delane's absurd melodrama in setting up this meeting. In the past Burke had strode midmorning into Delane's office in Printing House Square, deposited Lord Ripples' column on his desk, then strode out again, greeting personally the assistant editors, most of whom he knew by name.

But this time it had been very different. At Delane's insistence Burke had been instructed to stay clear of his offices and not to come to his home until well after midnight, and then to leave his carriage at least a block away and come on foot, keeping his portfolio concealed under his coat and with every step making certain that he was not being followed.

Well, he had followed those instructions to the letter, though it had been a damned inconvenience to do so. Now, having overeaten because of the late dinner and consumed too much brandy while

Delane deliberated over every bloody word, Burke abandoned his vigil on the window and walked about the comfortable study.

Distracted from his prolonged waiting, he amused himself by reading several framed letters, one from the war correspondent Sir William Russell thanking Delane for his courageous reportage of "the truth." Another from Gladstone commending a liberal stand which the Times had taken on some matter close to his heart. And a third addressed coldly to "The Editor of the Times/' in stiff, blocklike handwriting on black-edged stationery, chastising the Times for daring to criticize her "protracted seclusion" as a widow, the scant though heated four lines signed, "Victoria R."

That Delane was a man of courage, Burke had no doubt. Then why was he faltering under the slight weight of Lord Ripples' justified attack on John Murrey Eden?"

Beyond the column heading. The Demi-God of Eden, Delane had read in silence, as though in the locked privacy of his home there might be listening ears. In truth, Burke had not thought his material that incendiary. In past Lord Ripples' columns he'd indulged in much greater irony and sarcasm. Not that his words were truly objective. The readers of the Times could get their objectivity from the financial section. They read Lord Ripples for different reasons. He gave them permission to hate, and only lately had Burke come to realize what a rare gift that was.

To be true, the opening paragraph was strong:

A guilty conscience was never betrayed by a more superior sniff than that witnessed at Eden Castle, North Devon, a fortnight ago. Under the guise of fellowship, London's master-builder, John Murrey Eden, opened his castle gates, hoping to humble the world with a display of riches unrivaled since the halcyon days of Roman decadence. The stench of poor taste could be whiffed across the Channel and into Wales-Yes, a bit heavy, that, though taken all together and not set apart,