The Women of Eden (47 page)

"Of course I'll come with you, John," he agreed. "I love her as much as you."

They left the room, John leading the way, Elizabeth waiting for Andrew to catch up, then grasping his arm as though without his support she could not accomplish the stairs.

In this manner, and leaving the others behind, John led the way by a good twenty feet. But as they reached the top of the landing, Andrew saw him stop outside Mary's door, his hand on the knob but lacking the will to turn it.

Elizabeth pushed open the door, then stood back to permit them passage. Even then Andrew preceded John, though he caught a glimpse of that once strong face which now appeared to be drained of color.

Then Andrew was no longer concerned with John or any other aspect of the room, though he did take note of how dark it was, the drapes drawn on the window, shutting out the morning sun, one lamp burning low beside the bed, but that was enough, providing Andrew with all the illumination he needed to see the young woman lying on the bed, a coverlet drawn over her nightshirt, two raw and purple rings about each wrist, the signature of the bondage which had rendered her helpless, her head resting on a pillow, her once-lovely hair lying in short, jagged disarray about her face and, worse than all else, the face itself, so small and white and drawn, like an injured child's, as though her soul, in an attempt to run from the ordeal, had taken refuge in her childhood.

He heard Elizabeth, her words controlled as though she knew that the last thing Mary needed was her tears. "Look, my dearest," she whispered. "Look who has come to see you. It's John. He wants very much to—"

But the man standing beside Andrew did not move, and at last Andrew found the courage to look in that direction and was instantly sorry for he saw John's face as he'd never seen it before.

In an attempt to escape that face, Andrew moved to the side of the bed opposite EHzabeth. "Mary, can you hear me?" he asked softly. "As soon as you are able, will you talk to me, tell me what—"

"Leave her alone!"

The voice came from the foot of the bed and bore no resemblance to the man himself.

Elizabeth protested. "No, John, let him speak. Perhaps he can—"

"I said leave her alone, both of you." Without moving from the foot of the bed, and without lifting his eyes from Mary's face, he said, "The future is clear for her now. She must go away."

"No!" Elizabeth protested.

"She can't stay here," John said. "What is there for her here but a constant reminder of her ordeal?"

"She needs us," Elizabeth begged. "Can't you see? She mustn't be shut away—"

"She needs nothing that we have to oflFer," John countered, "neither our sympathy nor the idle and permissive atmosphere of this house, which led her into trouble in the first place."

For a moment Andrew thought that Elizabeth would retreat. The accusation had been clear.

But instead, with an anger which matched John's, she rallied and offered an eloquent defense. "This is my house, John, not yours. The atmosphere is to my liking and one of my own choosing. I know it does not please you and, if you will recall, I have begged you repeatedly to take Mary out of it."

Dangerous wordSy those, Andrew thought, glancing down at the wide-open eyes. The silence on Mary's face was not so deep as to prohibit a listening ear. What she did not need now was the announcement from the woman whom she adored as much as her own mother that she had never been wanted.

"May I suggest—" Andrew began, and was interrupted.

"I beg you, John," Elizabeth went on, "do not try to place the blame on me. For Mary's sake, let's not talk of blame at all. She needs our love and support now more than—"

"I repeat," John said, "she needs nothing from us. She needs seclusion and isolation in new surroundings. She needs discipline."

"Discipline!"

"Yes. For her mind. The discipline of studies to fill the void of memory. She needs the association of decent people who know nothing of this, who will be capable of looking at her and not seeing—"

"What are you suggesting?" Elizabeth asked cautiously, as though she already knew the answer.

^'It's clear," he said, "a step which should have been taken years ago perhaps. I will make arrangements for her in Miss Veal's school in-"

"No!"

"There, in a safe environment, controlled and guarded, she can rechart her life along more responsible lines."

Though Andrew had vowed not to speak, his incredulity matched Elizabeth's. "You make it sound as though it were Mary's fault"

"It is," came the calm reply.

"You have no right," Elizabeth murmured.

"I have every right," John countered. "I am responsible for this family."

"On whose authority?" Elizabeth challenged.

"On my own, for there is no one else even remotely capable, as that pitiful specimen demonstrates."

Again Andrew suffered misgivings. Far too much was being said, damaging words, as though they were in the room alone. "John, please," he begged, "it doesn't have to be settled now."

"It is settled, Andrew. As soon as she is able to travel, I will personally escort her to Cheltenham, see her safely ensconced in that institution and—"

Andrew saw Elizabeth coming slowly around the bed. "It's what you've wanted, isn't it?" she accused softly. "You've always wanted to lock her away someplace, away from all hfe, from all—"

"That's enough," John commanded.

Indeed it was. Andrew was beginning to feel as battered as though he'd suffered the assault along with Mary. Yet as the two voices continued to hurl accusations at each other he looked back down on Mary and saw her lips, dried, trying to form words.

"Wait!" he called to the two beyond the foot of the bed and heard a cessation of their voices and was aware of them returning to the bed.

He saw Elizabeth enclosing Mar/s hand in hers. "Oh, my dearest," she murmured as the eyes from the pillow struggled to bring her into focus.

The lips were still working. "I—want—" Mary commenced and closed her eyes under the duress of effort. "I—want," she whispered, "to go—away. Please, I want to—"

The words, though barely audible were plain enough for all to hear and provided John with the victory he needed. "Of course you do/' he smiled, brushing past Andrew and taking her hand in his. "And you shall. You'll find it to your liking, I swear it. And in a few years, perhaps no more than two, you'll emerge from this ordeal stronger and lovelier than ever. And it will have been forgotten."

As the voice droned on, Andrew listened, amazed at John's stupidity, to think that what she had endured would ever be forgotten.

"Rest now," he heard John whisper. "I'll return tonight with all the roses in London. We'll have dinner here together, just the two of us, and speak only of the future. Is that to your liking?"

But there was no further response. Apparently she'd expended what energy she had left in her single announcement. "I want to go away" Now her eyes were closed, and with tenderness, John kissed her hand, his fingers lingering in examination of the bruises about her wrists.

Like a man renewed, he stood up from the bed and strode to the door, not acknowledging Elizabeth in any way, calling back, "Come, Andrew, we've work to do. I want to speak to you about the hearing with Delane, and there are other matters as well."

But Andrew held his position in sympathy for the woman who stood alone beside the bed. No longer weeping, she resembled an abandoned husk.

Andrew was on the verge of going to her side when John reappeared in the doorway, his monstrous confidence almost an obscenity in this room- "Are you coming, Andrew?"

Andrew was tempted to say "No," but his reliable voice of reason calmly informed him that no one in this room was capable of clear judgment, and on that thought alone he said simply, "I'm coming, John."

In passing he placed a hand on Elizabeth's shoulder, though she did not respond. The last image he had of the room was of two abandoned women, each having been stripped of some essential Hfe force, each left on her own to deal with the vacuum. . . .

On the following evening, almost insane with worry, Burke Stanhope paced the darkened pavement opposite Number Seven, St. George Street. How simple his disintegration had been.

He'd taken his mother for her second carriage ride in as many

days. Then he*d returned her to the Mayfair house at midday and gone immediately to Hyde Park.

He'd saddled his horse himself as the old stablemaster had been busy with a group of novice riders. Then, with a sense of anticipation, he had ridden immediately to the garden, his need to see her after a single day's absence acute and his own curiosity mounting over why she'd been unable to keep their appointment the day before.

At two-thirty the garden had been deserted and had remained that way until shortly after eight p.m. His concern increasing, Burke had returned to the stables to the toothless old stablemaster, who had viewed him with curious sympathy and had asked an equally curious question.

"Your young lady, sir—how is she?"

His young lady! Had they been that obvious? If the stablemaster had been able to link them, what would prevent—

Then the nature of the inquiry itself had dawned on him and, though that had been the beginning of his apprehension, still he'd managed to inquire. "I'm not certain I know what you are talking about."

But the old man had not answered him. Instead he'd shaken his head and pushed the wheelbarrow full of oats ahead of him on the rough dirt floor, methodically proportioning out a lot for each horse, talking nonsense. "They should brush off Tyburn Hill, they should," he grumbled. "Nothing like a public spectacle of a man's execution to put the fear of Gawd into faint hearts."

Burke halted his pacing on the darkened pavement of St. George Street, recalling how many times he'd begged the old man to speak clearly, then, unfortunately, he had.

"Pitiful, she was, your young lady, and the ruffians who done it ought to be—"

Without warning, Burke felt weak and reached out for the iron fence behind him, turning his back on Number Seven and the vigil he'd maintained for the last three hours.

Something had happened, he knew that much. But what? Earlier that evening in his frustration he'd backed the old stablemaster into one of the stalls and not until he'd seen the fear in the old man's face had he moved away. Obviously the man had told him all he knew, that a young woman had suffered injury, that the police had been involved and that he couldn't talk any more because he didn't know any more.

Suffered injury—

The words beat an assault across his brain, the depth of his worry drawing his attention back to the house across the way, an establishment which seemed to reek of disaster with its drawn curtains, its single lamp burning in the entrance hall, the wagon which had arrived about an hour ago with dozens of roses, as though for a funeral.

If only he knewl Then he suffered the most irrational of instincts, to simply cross the street and demand entrance. Countless times during these difficult hours he'd almost succumbed to this foohsh action, which would only succeed in alerting the entire household to his presence and, worse, jeopardizing their secret, perhaps putting an end to all future meetings.

It was that thought which had prevented him from bridging the short distance from where he stood to the door itself.

What had she been doing in the park alone after she'd sent the note informing him that she could not meet him on that day? And what precisely had befallen her? Had she taken ill? No, ruffians had been mentioned, the need for the restoration of public executions, as though a crime had been committed.

In this tortured manner he continued to pace, searching each passing carriage, as though foolishly hoping that someone would give him the news he so desperately needed.

It was shortly after midnight when the first rational thought penetrated his mind. He needed access to the house and, lacking that, he needed the assistance of someone who would not be barred at the door, someone who could intervene on his behalf and ask questions with the hope of receiving answers.

The name was in his mind even before he posed the question.

]ohn Thadmis Delam, Surely EHzabeth would not bolt the door to him.

On that note of hope, uncaring of the hour and impervious to Delane's strict command that they not be seen together, Burke took a last glance across the street and tried not to dwell on the phantoms plaguing his mind. He ran toward the end of the street and his waiting carriage, calling out, "Printing House Square," to his driver even as he swung precariously through the small carriage door. , . .

Though the hour was late and he was approaching exhaustion, John Thadeus Delane sat behind his desk in his editorial house in

Printing House Square, rereading the ofiBcial parchment spread before him.

Delivered by special courier earlier that evening, neither his repetitive reading nor the added illumination of another lamp had done anything to ease his sense of incredulity.

It was signed by Andrew Rhoades, solicitor to John Murrey Eden, and signed as well by Sir Henry Aimsley, a prominent though not wholly respected magistrate in the Temple. The script informed Mr. John Thadeus Delane that on the tenth of December, 1870, he was requested to appear in the capacity of editor of the London Times in Lord Aimsley's chambers for the purpose of interrogation regarding recently printed material in the above mentioned newspaper.

Interrogation?

He shoved the document across the desk. How dare they? Were they all asses, including Lord Aimsley, whose official seal had given legitimacy to the farce? Well known in the Temple as a magistrate who would perform any judicial service for a price, it was obvious that Eden had bought him for his own petty purposes.

With his thoughts gaining momentum, he moved around his desk and walked halfway to the door, where he stopped, gazing up unseeing at the large map of the world which covered the wall to his right.

But it wasn't the world that interested him, but rather his awareness of the disaster that could descend upon him in that hearing on the tenth of December. If Aimsley put him under oath—and he would, otherwise why involve a magistrate? And if Eden's solicitor forced him to identify Lord Ripples, then Delane would have no choice but to answer. And Eden would then have precisely what he wanted. And God help Burke Stanhopel