The Women of Eden (46 page)

He'd remained at the Sporting Club until almost dawn, placing several large bets so he'd be remembered, even winning one hundred and forty quid, to the envy of the gamblers around him.

Then he'd gone straight home and had encountered a steward dozing in the entrance hall, as though he'd waited up to deliver a message. But as he was fast asleep and as John already knew the nature of the message, he'd walked silently past him and retired, uninformed.

Of course when he'd awakened earlier this morning, the message had been delivered by a distraught Alex Aldwell, who apparently had

stopped off at the house in St. George Street for a generous portion of Doris' turned eggs. But, according to the man himself, he'd found the table unset, the stove cold, and Elizabeth weeping.

So! The pursuit had been successful. More than rats had been smashed against the side of the pit last night, though when John tried to quiz Alex as to the specifics, the man merely urged haste, pleading, "It's something awful, John, you must come!"

At least giving the impression of speed and trying to quiet the small flames of remorse, he left his bed and dressed, sternly reminding himself that it was too late for remorse.

"Hurry, John, I beg you!" Alex called from the door. "Elizabeth could hardly speak. She's in need of—"

A lesson there as well, John thought as he adjusted his neck scarf. For long ago he'd reached the conclusion that Elizabeth was in large measure responsible for Mary's defiance and disobedience. Then let her suffer, let them both suffer, as he had been made to suffer, seeing again the shadowy garden, Mary entwined in male arms, as wanton asa—

"The carriage is outside," Alex called out. "I'll go ahead and tell him you're coming. Hurry—please—"

"You do that," John said softly to his reflection in the glass. As the door closed, he took advantage of the moment's privacy to remind himself that harsh problems called for harsh solutions.

Not until he saw his hands trembling in the glass did he realize the full extent of his unspent rage. But he reminded himself that rage was not negotiable this morning. He must see the episode to its conclusion, then turn his mind to other matters. There was Lila, for one. He must travel to Eden soon and check on the progress of his unborn child, enduring the hostile womb of a reluctant mother. And there was Richard in Cambridge and that whole sordid business. With luck, there would be two causes for celebration at Eden come spring, a christening and a wedding. Oh, there were so many things to attend to, in order to create the world as it ought to be.

Dressed now, and firm in his convictions, he lifted his head and for a moment saw his father staring at him from the glass.

"Poor Papa." He smiled at the familiar weak reflection. "How pleased you would be with your son now."

Feeling lighthearted, he turned away from the image and went to attend to Mary. . . .

As he bent over to lay a fire in the grate, Andrew Rhoades found the juxtaposition of events almost too cruel.

Selfishly he and Dhari had left London late yesterday afternoon with the thought only of driving as far as the Heath. But the high autumn sun had lured them farther and farther beyond the noise of London and, with typical perversity, a rainstorm had gathered over them in the vicinity of Maidstone and, as they were riding in an open gig with only one horse, common sense had dictated that they take shelter.

The small, simple country inn and hospitable innkeeper had proved an even greater allurement than the unusual day. Yet more had been accomplished. Confronted with her healing serenity, Andrew had pledged his love, asked her to be his wife, and she had agreed.

He adjusted the kindling around the larger logs, sprinkled several drops of oil from the pitcher and thrust a lighted candle into the well. The flames commenced burning well, and hurriedly he raised up to see how else he could be of assistance.

Just entering the door, he caught sight of Dhari, a white apron tied hurriedly over her dark green traveling suit, a tray of steaming coffee and biscuits in her hands. Shortly after their arrival, after Elizabeth had incoherently informed them of Mary's ordeal, they had found Doris, still shaken, in her room off the kitchen, clearly unable to function. Dhari had taken over.

Still keeping an eye on the fire, Andrew watched as she placed the tray on the center table and commenced serving, first Elizabeth, who lay prone on the sofa, one hand covering her eyes, her exhaustion and despair finally taking a toll.

As Dhari offered her coffee, Elizabeth shook her head and, suffering a rush of old love for this remarkable woman, Andrew urged, "Please, Elizabeth, you must eat something. It will serve no purpose for you to fall ill as well."

Finally she sat up, with Dhari's help, and accepted a cup and one biscuit, though made no move to eat.

As Dhari offered a second cup to Lord Harrington, who was seated by the window, the tall, distinguished man grumbled, "Where is John? Why is he never where he should be?"

Andrew considered responding, then changed his mind. It was his opinion that they all had better enjoy the silence while they could.

for with John^s arrival a storm more awesome than any they had ever weathered would break about their heads.

Rape.

It dawned on him that that obscene word had been avoided by everyone in the drawing room. Elizabeth had wept out something about an assault, had informed them as precisely as her state of mind had permitted the specifics leading up to the tragedy.

It had been a complete rendition, but that one word, rape, had been missing, the only word that John would hear.

Andrew gazed unseeing into the flames, trying to gather about him his most objective frame of mind, knowing now more than ever that his difficult friend would need the leavening effect of calm and rationality.

Then Andrew heard it—the ratding approach of the carriage. In this last moment of privacy, he hurried to Elizabeth's side. "Do you feel up to it or do you want me to—"

"No," she whispered. "I've lived with it all night. I will repeat it once more and then never again," she added fiercely, though Andrew felt her arm trembling.

He'd never seen her so undone, and what she felt would be nothing compared to what John would suffer and, as though feeling the need to keep the man in his sight, he hurried to the window beside Lord Harrington and saw John alighting his carriage, saw Alex Aid-well already on the steps, the large man urging haste.

But, curiously, Andrew saw John hesitate, say something to his driver, one reaching up, the other leaning down in a prolonged exchange.

"Does he know?" Lord Harrington muttered, sharing Andrew's bewilderment.

"Obviously not as much as he will soon," Andrew replied, and left the window and saw Dhari and Elizabeth standing close together. He started to say something of reassurance to both, but heard the front door open and went forward to greet the storm.

From where he stood, he saw Alex taking John's cloak and hat, heard John inquire, "Where in the hell is Doris? I pay her enough. One expects—"

"John," Andrew called out and was not at first prepared for the coldness in John's eyes as he turned toward the door.

As though suspicious of everything, John ignored Andrew and

strode through the drawing room arch to a position of confrontation about ten feet from where Elizabeth stood.

At the moment she commenced to speak, John spoke first in a curious calm. "Andrew, I waited for you yesterday. I want news on the hearing with John Thadeus Delane. I assume that you've been at work on the matter. I believe those were my instructions. Of course, if other matters"—and here he lifted his eyes to Dhari—"are occupying too much of your attention, I can easily send for Aslam at Cambridge and relieve you of certain duties."

Lord Harrington stepped forward. "John, please," he muttered, obviously feeling the need to serve as arbitrator. "There are other, more pressing—" he commenced and never finished.

"Ah, it's you." John smiled, craning his neck about, as though just now aware of the man's presence in the drawing room. "And you've been busy as well, or so I hear. Your Irish friend, I believe, wasn't it? And what was his news?"

Lord Harrington nodded, losing track of the tragic issue at hand. "He had news, John, disturbing news."

"I daresay. The Irish love hysteria. They dote on it."

"He had stopped at Eden—"

"He had no right," John interrupted.

"—thinking to find me there. Instead he saw my daughter."

From where Andrew stood he saw John turn slowly in the chair. "He—did what?" he demanded.

"His report was most disturbing," Harrington went on, casting an apologetic look toward Elizabeth, who continued to stand at mid-room, suffering the weight of her own undelivered message. "He tells me that my daughter is very ill," Harrington murmured. "I was wondering—if I might have permission to return to Eden, only for a few days, to see—"

"Of course she's ill!" John snapped, leaning back in his chair. "She's pregnant, and a reluctant pregnancy at that. But she will bear the child and she'll do it best if we all leave her alone." He glanced up at Lord Harrington, his anger either dissipated or held in check. "I'll send word immediately, reminding the guards at Eden that the gates are to be barred—to everyone. Is that clear?"

Lord Harrington lowered his head. "I'm—her father."

"And I'm her husband."

Waiting by the arch, Andrew had heard and seen enough. Elizabeth seemed to be on the verge of collapse.

"John, I beg you," he called, moving toward the fireplace. "Elizabeth must talk with you. We sent Alex to get you because—"

But he could not continue and was further undone by a strange look of amusement on John's face. "Andrew. What precisely is it that you are trying—"

"It's Mary." The voice, or what was left of it, belonged to Elizabeth.

"Go on," he heard John invite. "What about Mary?"

The suffering coming from the center of the room was intense. Although Andrew would have preferred to stay out of it, nonetheless he stepped forward. "John, she's suffered a dreadful—"

"Why don't you let Elizabeth speak?" John interrupted. "You weren't here. She was. I prefer a firsthand account."

"Do you know what has happened?" Andrew persisted, in an attempt to end this game of cat and mouse.

"I know enough."

"What do you know?"

Incongruously, John smiled. "I know that her foolhardiness has led her astray, as it were. And I know further that lack of supervision on the part of certain people has contributed to it, and I know that deception and dishonor will always reap a bitter harvest."

"She did not deceive you, John," Elizabeth protested, "or any of us, and she was always carefully chaperoned by both Jason and Doris."

"Not so carefully, I'd say," John replied, and sat back into the chair, propped his elbows on the arms and invited coldly from behind this barrier, "Now tell me what happened. You, Elizabeth, only you, from the beginning."

Andrew retreated back to the window, abandoning all hope of helping Elizabeth. Apparently the fact of her punishment was unalterable.

For several minutes she talked. Andrew had never heard her so shattered. Blessedly the account was brief and she concluded with her first glimpse of Mary in the arms of the policeman, a form which did not even resemble Mary, as her clothes were soiled and torn, and her hair—

For the first time she faltered. Andrew heard John's voice prodding. "What about her hair?"

"It has been—shorn, barbarously, by someone who—"

Obviously she had reached the limits of her endurance, for An-

drew heard a rustle of skirts and looked back to see her seated upon the couch, the handkerchief pressed against her mouth.

There was no sound in the drawing room. From where Andrew sat he saw John in profile only, a man who appeared to be deep in thought, though when he spoke his voice sounded remarkably like Elizabeth's, as though he, too, were approaching the limits of endurance. "Her hair will grow back," he murmured. Then, on renewed strength, he asked, "And that, I assume, is the extent of the damage?'^

Weeping, Elizabeth did well to shake her head. **No, John, she was assaulted."

All at once the man lounging in the chair was on his feet. "She was—what?" he demanded, staring down on Elizabeth and, in the face of that countenance, Andrew knew that John had not known, that Aldwell had told him little or nothing.

"That's not true!" he insisted over and over again. "I don't believe it. I won't. How do you know?"

"It is true, John."

"No!"

"The physician was here last evening. He examined her."

"He's mistaken. She was not—"

As suddenly as the outrage had commenced, it ceased. He straightened up from his hunched position and strode back to the fireplace.

For the first time Andrew felt a wave of pity for him. "John, I beg you," he began. "Consider the blessings. Mary did survive and so frequently women do not. She has suffered and will continue to suffer for a long time, but that only means that she needs us more.'*

He wasn't certain if his words were being received. Though he was standing close to John, he saw not one indication of what he was feeling. Still with the intention of offering comfort, Andrew added, "We'll launch our own investigation. We're sure to find—"

John shook his head. "There will be no investigation," he said, staring doggedly at the mantelpiece. "I'll handle the matter myself."

"Youl But you have no idea where—"

"Take me to her," he commanded.

Andrew saw Elizabeth rise wearily, as though eager to play out this last grim act. "She has not—spoken," she warned, "not since they brought her home."

This last information seemed to halt John in his forward move-

ment, as though for the first time he was aware of what he would shortly be forced to look upon. He glanced about the room. Almost shyly he asked, "Andrew, would you please come with me?''

Every nerve in Andrew said "No.*' But he'd heard that tone of voice many times before, the mask of the empire builder stripped ofiE to reveal the reality behind it, a frightened young boy, as though at some point in John's life his emotional growth had stopped while the great engines of his intellect had forged ahead.