The Women of Eden (3 page)

It was Henry, drawing near, appearing to view Burke with new respect. As the old man held his cloak, he whispered, "Good show, sir. It's been a long time since I've seen such forthright action. But as I told me mates, it's a shame a colonial had to do our fightin' for us."

Out on the dark rainy pavement, he saw his carriage waiting patiently. His driver hopped down from his high seat to open the door. "Quite a scuffle, was it, sir? According to the other blokes, it was rape, that's what it was."

"Nonsense," Burke scolded. "Just take us home the quickest way possible." He slammed the door behind him and settled back into the cushions, grateful for the dark privacy of his carriage.

So much for little Maria of the Mask. Of course she must have known that the drunken student would be stopped. So what was the risk? Convinced now that her innocence was as staged as everything else, Burke relaxed further against the cushions, his mind running in several directions: To the mansion in Mayfair, presided over by the madwoman; to the midday carriage departure tomorrow in the company of John Thadeus Delane and a fortnight's ordeal in the presence of that most offensive Englishman, John Murrey Eden; to the current column by Lord Ripples still in his typing machine, this time his target the hypocritical treatment of the Irish by the high-minded English Parliament; to that little five-year-old boy sprawled lazily in the corner of the broad cool portico, the Southern heat heavy upon

him, the complete confidence that his world of grace, of sultry nights and pungent magnoHas would last forever.

The discomfort of his injured hand increased, joined now by an ache at the base of his throat, his sense of homelessness growing.

The last image before he closed his eyes and gave himself completely to the rocking motion of the carriage was of a plume of lilacs nestling in the soft curve of two perfect breasts. . . .

It wasn't that Elizabeth hadn't known fear before; she'd known it plenty of times in her life. But apparently the security and peace of the last nine years at Eden Castle with John, where she was treated with as much dignity as the Countess Dowager, had made her soft.

Now eyeing Mary sitting calmly on the edge of her bed, chattering with Doris about the grim events of the evening, as though she had just returned from a fete, Elizabeth saw it again as though it were just happening. Then an image of John appeared before her, his reputation ruined, Mary's honor compromised, all brought on by-Elizabeth herself.

The perception was unbearable and she reached out for the mantelpiece in an attempt to steady her trembling hands.

Apparently Mary saw the weakness and smiled. "Doris, I think your mistress needs the tending. Look to her. I'm fine."

Incredulously Elizabeth asked, "Do you have no conception of what almost took place tonight?"

The question seemed to delight Mary, as though after the silent carriage ride home and the rapid ascent to her bedchamber on the second floor of the house at Number Seven, St. George Street, what she wanted most in the world was a chance to talk about the events of the evening. "Oh, nothing happened, Elizabeth," she soothed, one hand toying with the pearl clasps which held her long hair atop her head. She worried them loose; a shimmering cascade fell to her waist. She lifted her chin as though the weight of hair had pulled on her head. In the tumbling disarray the sprigs of lilacs fell into her lap. Gently she scooped them up. "Nothing at all happened," she repeated to the flowers, that maddeningly serene smile still on her face.

From the mantel Elizabeth watched the performance. And it was a performance. For the last nine years that she had known Mary Eden, and certainly for the last six when she had been assigned as her guardian, Elizabeth was aware that with the exception of a few

unguarded moments, everything the young girl did was a performance. Her only reahty was that of her imagination.

Through the gloom of the midnight room Elizabeth continued to watch her with a mixture of love and concern. And fear. At twenty-one the young woman was beautiful and growing more so. And more important than that, she was becoming aware of her beauty and even more aware of the mysterious power she could exert over people.

Averting her eyes from the object of her thoughts, Elizabeth was forced to confess that she too was a willing pawn. Had there been one occasion in the last six years when she'd pronounced a firm no to the young woman? Oh, in the beginning she'd seen to it that Mary accomplished her lessons, the demands of the various tutors, and broadly speaking she had taken that shy little animal of thirteen who had grown up without a mother's love or a father's and had converted her into a polished, finished, beautifully groomed young woman. But for all her efforts, what was the result? A polished, finished, beautifully groomed little animal.

As though all at once to rectify the indulgences of the past, Elizabeth stepped forward. "Get dressed," she commanded, puzzled that the sight of Mary clothed only in her chemise annoyed her.

Mary looked up. "Dressed?" she asked, still fondling the lilacs.

"Yes, dressed. We're leaving for Eden tonight."

It was an insane suggestion, though the first protest came not from Mary but from Doris, the plump little maid who had served Elizabeth for over twenty years.

"Are you daft?" Doris exclaimed, speaking with an ease which normally pleased Elizabeth. She had never wanted a classic mistress/servant relationship. Her own murky beginnings precluded that.

But in the face of the blunt question, Elizabeth found herself longing for the submission of a true servant. "Not daft, Doris," she said, leaving the mantel in an attempt to stir the lethargic room into action. "I made a simple command. We are leaving for Eden tonight. See to the trunks. I'll inform Jason that we will require the large carriage, and—"

"See to the trunks!" Doris exploded. "There's a good six dozen gowns in that dressing room," she sputtered, "and as many bonnets and boots. And those are just Mary's."

Retreating, Elizabeth murmured, "Well, when can you be ready?"

"Sunday mom as planned," Doris said patly, her fleshy arms folded over her breasts in a stance of pure stubbornness.

Annoyed, but conceding that the woman was right, Ehzabeth moved back to the mantel. It was while her back was turned that she heard Mary's voice.

"It's my fault, Doris," she said with mock contrition. "Poor Eliza-beth just wants to whisk me out of London while my virginity is still intact."

The vulgarity only served to fan the fires of Elizabeth's anger. "At the rate you were going tonight, that loss may come sooner than you think and under circumstances that you may not find very pleasing, I can assure you," she snapped.

From where she stood she saw the young woman leave the bed. Her manner altered, became playful. As she stood at the center of the room, half-naked, she shook her long hair off her shoulders and proposed, "We'll let Doris be the judge of the seriousness of the evening. Agreed?"

Without waiting for a reply, she dragged the large chair to the center of the room, then pulled Doris forward who, giggling, sat on the edge, enjoying her role in the theatrical.

Once everything had been arranged to her satisfaction, Mary folded her hands before her. "Now, Doris," she began, her voice filled with glee, "there I was, center stage with hundreds of men watching me, singing that silly song about the woman looking for her lover's grave. . . ."

Standing by the mantel, Elizabeth watched, annoyed, as Mary directed the entire theatrical, even commanding Doris to force her to her knees, which reluctantly the woman did, glancing back once at Elizabeth to see how the theatrical was being received.

But Doris was the only one concerned, for Mary apparently had fallen victim to the power of her own imagination and was now insisting that Doris tear her chemise.

"Right down the front, Doris—that's the way he did it, and I could feel his hands on my skin. Wet they were, and strong. Oh, tear it, Doris, just as he did."

Repelled though fascinated, Elizabeth had seen enough. "Stop it!" she commanded, reaching out in an attempt to bring Mary to her senses.

"No," Mary protested. "That's not the way it happened. The gentleman from the audience came next. He lifted the drunk and knocked him halfway across old Jeremy Sims' club. Oh, it was fun, Doris. You should have seen it."

"Stop it!" Elizabeth scolded sharply, sensing that the girl was on the thin edge of hysteria.

"And he was so nice/' Mary went on, determined to re-enact the scene in full, beads of perspiration glistening on her forehead, "He looked down on me," she whispered, "but not at me directly. Oh, no, Doris, his main interest was my torn gown. Like this it was then." And because no one would tear her chemise, she performed the act herself, baring her breasts. "Oh, for ever so long he stared at me." She smiled. "I prayed he would lift me up and carry me away." In a spinning, rising gesture of rhapsody she whirled about, the chemise dropping completely free of her body, her arms outstretched, unmindful of her nakedness.

Shocked, Elizabeth tried again to halt the mad whirl about the room, her eye in the process falling on Doris' colorless face as she beat a safe retreat to the corner of the room.

But when after three commands the young girl didn't hear, Elizabeth forcibly caught the whirling shoulders and delivered a stinging slap to the side of the flushed face.

The spell was broken, but something else had taken its place. In the watery, hurt eyes that looked slowly up, Elizabeth saw something she'd never seen before, a need that was painfully deep and a frightening degree of hate for the one who had brought her back to the chamber of that house filled only with females.

Then both expressions were gone and there was a strange life-lessness on Mary's face as though the shock of the slap had been too great. Slowly she looked down at her wrists where Elizabeth held them together.

"No need."

Elizabeth released her, beginning to feel remorse. In all their years together she'd never struck Mary. Why had she done so now? With the need for apology heavy upon her, she lifted her hand to comfort.

Slowly Mary backed away, three red finger marks blazing on the side of that smooth cheek. Elizabeth watched her progress back to the bed, her hands reaching out, as though she were moving blindly through her humiliation.

When the tears came, they were scarcely recognizable, merely a low panting as though she were reaching deep inside for her last breath.

Incapable of watching such grief, and convinced that she had contributed to it, Elizabeth hurried to the bed, hfted the sobbing girl

into her arms and held her close, the sobs not diminishing at the contact but increasing.

"Oh, I hurt, Elizabeth," she wept. "I hurt so much."

Elizabeth pressed Mary's head to her breast, understanding the hurt, but understanding as well the need for Mary to have the courage to face it. Yet how unfair. When Elizabeth had been Mary's age she had known dozens of men.

But Mary—

At the thought of her hopelessness, Elizabeth gathered the girl closer in her arms and with a nod of her head dismissed Doris, who already had seen too much. As the door closed, leaving them in private, Elizabeth commenced to rock gently, in an attempt to relieve the hurt and the emptiness.

"There," she whispered, kissing the nape of Mary's neck, smoothing back the long hair, wondering for both their sakes how long it could persist. How often she had spoken to John of the problem.

The girl is lovely. Men do look at her, and one day one will-Then would come John's slow-rising anger, reminding Elizabeth that he had entrusted Mary to her, that she was to "keep her busy, refine her, keep her safe."

As the memory of those foolish words filled Elizabeth's head, Mary's sobs served as an appropriate counterpoint.

Keep her safe I

How was Elizabeth supposed to do that? No, it could not persist. As far as she could see, John had two options: either find a suitable husband immediately, or else place Mary under lock and key.

With effort, Elizabeth stood and released Mary to the custody of the pillow. "You must sleep now," she said, drawing the coverlet up over her.

Exhausted, Mary lay back, her eyes searching Elizabeth's face. "I love you so much," she whispered.

"And I, you."

"I'm sorry for what happened tonight," she murmured, a residue of tears chnging to her dark lashes. "I didn't mean to cause trouble."

"No need," Elizabeth smiled, stepping away from the bed. "However will we explain those red, swollen eyes to John?" she added bleakly, convinced now more than ever that Mary must be given over to someone else.

The separation would be painful for both of them. But it must

come. With love and regret she looked down on the bed. Then, before her feelings incapacitated her, she left the room. . . .

Behind the red brick fagade of the Stanhope mansion in Mayfair, John Thadeus Delane looked about and realized with amusement that this London house probably was the only surviving island of Southern American aristocracy left in the world.

With the keen eye that had made him the great journalist and editor that he was, Delane sat in the elegant first-floor reception room, awaiting the late appearance of Burke Stanhope so that they might start their journey to Eden Castle. Tempering his impatience, Delane settled back in his chair, feeling fully his fifty-four years.

In the splintered peace of an uncertain future and a glorious past, he released his journalist's eye and surveyed this luxurious room. Through the opened door he saw the servants, American Negroes, in white jackets and white aprons, scrubbing, polishing.

Shifting his tall frame on the chair, Delane hoped that he would be spared the mad Caroline this morning. Now he mused anew over his affectionate relationship with this sad, exiled family.

He had met Jack Stanhope first—when had it been? Late forties, not long after Delane had taken over the editorial reins of the Times. That summer he had journeyed to America and upon his request to be shown a flourishing cotton plantation he had been escorted to the magnificent Stanhope Hall outside Mobile, Alabama, where Jack Stanhope and his then-beautiful CaroHne had greeted him with such hospitality that his intention to stay a fortnight had stretched on into a month.