The Women of Eden (69 page)

She only had time to make that single warning when the familiar figure framed in the back door started toward her. Frieda held still, her arm clasped about her lifeless cargo, feeling her heart in her mouth.

"I thought you said she was ill," Miss Veal challenged when she was about ten yards away. "If so, I shouldn't think—"

Remembering the skill with which the gentleman had played his false role earlier, Frieda, rigid with fear, launched into a theatrical of her own. "Oh, she's better, she is, Miss Veal," she called out. "No cause for alarm. This fresh air will make her right as a fiddle soon enough."

The old woman stood directly before her, her stern face a map of suspicion. "She doesn't look none too well," she accused.

"Sleeping is all," came Frieda's breezy reply. "She was up half the night, you know, trying to get me to do special favors for her. Well, I told her right off that I wasn't here to fetch and carry for her."

How much longer Frieda could sustain the pose she had no idea. At last Miss Veal moved back a step, the suspicion on her face replaced by begrudging admiration. "You're a good girl, Frieda," she pronounced coldly. "You continue to serve me well and you'll always have a place here. And you should get down on your knees every night and thank God for making you ugly. Look what happens to them with fair faces—" And she jabbed her finger toward Mary Eden.

"Aye, Miss Veal," Frieda whispered, amazed at the stinging tears in her eyes, provoked, no doubt, by the bitter wind. She watched as the old woman made her way back to the door.

At last she disappeared, the door closing behind her, the dead garden silent except for the wind. Frieda bowed her head. Thank God for making you ugjy. . . .

The grief did not last long. Somewhere behind her was the gentleman, still waiting to receive his precious cargo. And it was up to Frieda to transfer that cargo from this bench to the concealment of bushes without attracting undue attention. She began whispering, "Come, Mary, help me walk you to freedom. There's someone waiting who—"

Laboriously she lifted the girl to her feet and realized that she would have to support her wholly and, as the expenditure of energy increased, she concentrated on the ten or twelve yards ahead, spying the gentleman crouched down into a place of concealment, his face colorless as though he were aware of their recent danger.

"Has she gone?" he whispered.

"For now," Frieda replied, still struggling to support the young girl.

Seeing her effort, he stepped forward and lifted Mary into his arms, cradling her close as though perfectiy willing to carry her forever.

Moved by the sight and pleased at her involvement in the escape, it required all the discipline at Frieda's command to urge, "Go now —and hurry! Take her away while there's a breath of life left in her. And remember, I can only ^ve you till four o'clock, and then I'll have to sound the alarm."

He stood before her, the intensity of those remarkable eyes focused on her instead of Mary. "And you," he asked, "what will you do?"

"My duty." Frieda smiled. "Like I've always done."

"Will things go hard for you?"

"They've gone hard all my life, sir." As the sense of urgency pressed down upon her, she whispered, "For Gawd's sake, we ain't got time to chat! Get out of here, both of you, and I'll pray for you, and if she—survives," she added softiy, "tell her that Frieda Lang-ford had a hand in it. I'd like her to know."

The gentieman continued to stare down on her as though seeing her for the first time. "Here," he said, fishing something out of his

pocket and pressing it into her hand. "If there's hell to pay, this will make the paying easier."

He leaned closer and kissed her on her cheek, a lightning-fast movement which caught her unaware.

It was several moments before she recovered, and even then she looked up in a blur to see him running through the cold afternoon, his head bent low over Mary, carrying her as though she were the most treasured object in the world.

For a few minutes longer Frieda stood, literally paralyzed by the strangest feelings she'd ever experienced. Only as an afterthought did she look down at the note in her hand.

Fifty pounds!

Thus she suffered her second shock of the day, though even that paled in comparison with the first, a memory she would carry with her for the rest of her life.

No longer would she have to bow her head in embarrassment before anyone. She had been kissed by a handsome gentleman and, though no one else had seen it, she would guard that memory and feed on it and thank God for it.

She looked down the frozen path. Gone!

"Pray God go with them," she whispered, and secured the note in the pocket of her dress, and wiped away the tears, lest the young ladies see them and think her weak.

Once Burke had entertained the foolish notion that the}' could make it all the way to London. But by nightfall, and on the outskirts of Oxford, he took another look at Mary and drew down the window and shouted, "Stop here! At the first decent public inn,"

Hurriedly he raised the window and cradled her close, as he'd done all afternoon, alternately thanking his good fortune for having found her and cursing the obvious abuse which had been dealt her, and suffering a degree of hate for John Murrey Eden that left him breathless.

If she dies . . .

But he could not even think on such a thought, and concentrated on that beloved face, studying all aspects of it, as he'd done all afternoon. It was thinner, the eyes lost in black circles, the cheeks pale, the once luxurious hair short and jagged about her head.

Still, it was the only face in the world that held any meaning for him, the only face for which he would plot a future.

But the only future that made any sense now was one of pressing need. He must find a warm chamber for her, a comfortable bed and the services of a physician.

To that end he looked frantically out the window, his eyes skimming over the outskirts of Oxford, the low cottages, lamplight burning within, a scattering of commercial shops, and finally—

"There! Stop there, please!" he shouted, spying a small country inn, a neatly lettered sign hobbling in the wind, which read the new

HOPE.

"There's better up ahead, sir!" his driver shouted.

But he didn't want better. If Miss Veal launched a pursuit, as she was sure to do, or worse, if she sent word by fast courier to London to inform John Murrey Eden that his cousin had escaped her prison, then he hoped they would not think to look in a small, plain country inn.

"No—here," he called out, having allowed the carriage to pass the inn by for a closer inspection.

As Burke was crawling down, shielding Mary from the wind, he called back to his driver. "See to the horses, then come inside. There will be a room for you."

Bending low over Mary, he pushed through the door and saw half a dozen men on his right seated before a roaring fire, pints in hand. Burke realized what a spectacle he presented, his hair windblown, a woman in his arms. In an attempt to ease the shocked faces before him, he launched forth into what he hoped would be a succinct explanation.

"My—wife is ill," he began, feeling that perhaps that piece of information was the most important. "We were traveling to London from Scotland and she took ill. I was wondering—"

But a few minutes later he realized that something was causing them even more distress as they whispered among themselves. Then he realized what it was—his voice, distinctly un-English, causing their suspicions to vault.

Angry that nothing he had said had made the slightest difference, he demanded, "Where is the publican? If you would be so good as to-"

"Behind ye, mate, if you'd open your eyes and take a look."

He whirled on the deep voice and turned to see a giant, partially concealed in the shadows at the end of the pub, only his white apron and a massive bald head visible from that distance.

Startled by the apparition and convinced that he would be met with further opposition, Burke strengthened his grasp on Mary and wearily started speaking. "We only seek a chamber. As I was saying, we were traveling back to London after holiday in Scotland, and my wife took—"

"What's she got?" the publican demanded, coming steadily forward, though stopping about ten feet away.

Burke blinked at the giant. A more massive man he'd never seen. In answer to his question, he replied, "I'm—not certain. It's congestion of some sort. She's having difficulty breathing. She needs—"

"Wait a minute," the man commanded, drawing closer. "You— ain't English, is you?"

"Oh, God!" Burke cursed, hoping that his driver had not found a stable, for he was certain they would be leaving here immediately. "No, I'm not English," he said, doing nothing to disguise the sharp edge in his voice.

"Then what are you?" the giant asked.

With a sense of nothing to lose, Burke confessed to his lack. "I'm an American," he announced, loud enough for all to hear, and was just turning about when he heard an explosion of laughter and looked back to see the publican drawing nearer, wiping his broad hand on his apron and extending it to Burke in what appeared to be sincere warmth.

"Then you're most certainly welcome at the New Hope." The man grinned, revealing missing front teeth. "And your wife there, she'll have the best chamber in the inn, which ain't saying much, but we can make her comfy, we can."

He saw the look of shock on Burke's face and shoved his beefy hand even closer. "Giffen's me name, guv, Giffen Radcliff, and I never thought I'd live to host an American, but right proud I am, so take me hand and let's make a bond, then we'll get your angel there up to bed where she belongs."

Stunned by such hospitality, Burke took the hand as best he could and, disarmed by the man's grin, he almost spoke his true name but caught himself in time and invented a second one, as "Mr. Robert Stow" was no longer viable. "I'm Mr. Peter Bennett," he said, "and this is my wife—"

"Whether she is or ain't"—the man winked massively—"she does look a bit the worse for wear. So bring her along, Mr. Peter Bennett, and we'll tuck her in, then I'll send around for old Dr. Thatcher. He

ain't much, you understand, but he's all we got and he charges fair."

The man led the way up darkened, narrow steps and looked back down on Burke. "Here, let me help you with her," he offered.

"No!" Burke said and saw hurt in the man's eyes. "I'm—sorry," he added. "It's just that I'm so—"

"—worried. Of course, you are, mate, and I apologize for intruding. Whoever she is I can tell she means the world to you. So old Giffen will just keep his hands off and his tongue still if, as soon as you're rested, you'll tell me all about your gorgeous country."

Burke nodded, his arms beginning to tremble with fatigue, his attention torn between the voice ahead and the lifeless face in his arms, and his increasing fear that she would not survive.

As Giffen led the way into an even darker corridor, Burke glanced ahead, wondering if he shouldn't have followed his driver's advice and proceeded on to a more respectable place. But Frieda's words still echoed in his ear- "I can only give you till four o'clock, and then I'll have to sound the alarm."

Well, the alarm had been sounded for almost four hours and, if a pursuit had been launched, it wouldn't be too far behind him, and it would not be too difficult for the most simpleminded rural authority to establish that Burke Stanhope had no legal or moral right to the woman in his arms. Since he would not give her up short of death, then concealment was the only alternative.

"Too many sacred cobwebs, mate, that's what we have here," Giffen was saying, as he stopped before a low door at the end of the passage. He removed a lamp from the wall standard and, in his anger over what he was saying, waved it about with such force that the flame was momentarily extinguished. "A dying bitch, she is, England. You know? Any which way a man turns he bumps his head against a law that says you can't do that, or you can't do this."

He shook his head, then laughed heartily. "As you can see, Mr. Peter Bennett, I'm a man who needs space, I do." He pushed the low door open, still talking, casting the lamplight ahead. "So I'm saving me bob, I am. And when the time comes, I'm shaking this miserable dust from me feet forever and joining up with me brother Harry in that Boston town."

Burke tried to appear sympathetic and impressed, but all the time he was taking grim note of the small chamber, not much larger than a storage closet, with one bed, one chair, one washstand and one table.

In addition to this bleak inventory he felt chill in the air which varied little from the one he'd just left outside. Giffen saw his look of distress and moved to dispel it. "Never you mind, sir. It's clean, it is. I can vouch for that, and in no time I'll have a fire going and a pot of tea, or something stronger if you wish, and I'll send one of me mates to fetch the doctor, and before you know it, you and your lady will be cozy and warm. And anything you want, all you'll have to do is ask old Giffen and he'll come running." He grinned. "How could he do anything less for a fellow American?"

Before such an infectious smile, Burke had no defense. "Then be about it," he said softly and moved past the man and gently placed Mary on the bed, her face unchanged, eyes closed, only that terrible rattling which sounded in her chest with every breath.

The voice came from behind him, an aggressive yet gentle voice. "She'll be all right, mate. You just have to tell her that you love her and that you got more to offer her than old man Death's got on the other side."

The sympathetic voice, the long and tense escape, the uncertain future, all these things conspired against Burke and, impervious to the watchful eyes of the innkeeper, he gathered her in his arms and held her close and tried to hide his tears in her soft hair.

"That's it, mate," Giffen whispered. "Love the sickness away. It can be done. ..."

It was approaching midnight and, though weary beyond description, Burke could not sleep. Through dimmed eyes he looked about at the small, though now warm, chamber and felt curiously as though they were not even on this earth but had been isolated on some distant galaxy where beyond the low door he would not find one point of identity or relationship.