The Women of Eden (63 page)

The splintered need he saw on that face was awesome, the pain of regret, his expression suggesting to Andrew that he, too, had suffered the same backward excursion into memory.

Breathing heavily from his recent rage, John stood alone by the fire, the red glow shimmering in the prespiration on his brow. ^'Are you—really leaving?" he whispered, a moving, childlike quality to his voice.

Andrew nodded, for he did not trust himself to speak. At the first invitation he would have been willing to retrace his steps back to that suffering man and clasp him in his arms one last time.

But the invitation never came. "Then I—wish you well," John said. Abruptly he turned away, grasping the mantel with both hands.

Was he weeping? Andrew couldn't be certain and now discovered that his own strength was rapidly diminishing. It was over. He had made his announcement and his wife was awaiting him.

In a final shifting of loyalties, he turned his back on John Murrey Eden, placed his arm about Dhari and walked slowly through the door.

He did not look back again, and no one stopped him.

Richard knew.

He was the only one in that Dining Hall who knew precisely what had happened this night. A friend had been lost and, in spite of his own pain that had persisted since Bertie's death, he was the first to recognize and respond to the grieving man leaning heavily against the mantel.

Feeling his first selfless instinct since Bertie's funeral, Richard rose slowly and looked about at the faces frozen in shock.

A cross is no longer a cross when there is no longer a self to suffer its weight.

John needed him, but first he must clear the room. "Alex," Richard whispered, "would you please take EKzabeth to her chambers? And Aslam, why don't you go and tell your mother goodbye? I'm certain she would appreciate it."

Amazed at how effectively the blind could lead the blind, Richard watched, grateful as everyone followed his directions. Unfortunately, long before he was ready for it, he found himself alone with John, and wondered briefly how he could offer solace when he was in such need himself. As though to further weaken his resolve, he suffered a clear image of Bertie's face, not distorted as he'd found him in death but whole and clear and full of love.

Grasping the table for support, he walked toward the man by the fire and placed an arm about his shoulders. "Come, John," he murmured. "We're alone now and I'm with you as I've always been with you. Come, sit. We'll talk for a while as we used to when we were boys. Do you remember?"

Though he was pleased with John's submission, he was most alarmed by his face. He continued to lend him the support of his arm until he was seated. Then he withdrew his handkerchief and commenced wiping John's brow, aware from his own experience with death and loss that the first step was to distract the mind.

"You've done this often enough for me in the past," Richard said, his voice gentle. "Herr Snyder used to say that you were better than Clara Jenkins when it came to playing nursemaid."

In the hope that the two references to their shared childhood would provide the necessary distraction, Richard continued to wipe the moisture from John's face, finding healing for himself by ministering to another.

Experiencing relief for the first time in many weeks, Richard drew a chair close and placed the handkerchief in John's hand. "Here, you do it. Remember, that's what you used to tell me. After you had cleaned me up and set me on the straight and narrow, you alwaj^ said, *A man must be responsible for himself.' Remember?"

To Richard's pleasure John took the handkerchief, his eyes fixed upon the table. "Herr Snyder," he murmured, and shook his head, recalling the old German tutor who had kept them both on the straight and narrow. "Were we—ever that—young?" he asked.

"Of course we were."

Suddenly John looked up and Richard saw something he had never seen before in that face, a massive self-doubt, as though destiny were on the verge of defeating him. "Fm afraid, Richard," John confessed, "I no longer—see the point—to any of it."

It might have been his own thoughts of the last few weeks coming back at him. Stalling in a search for more than platitudes, Richard pushed back in the chair. The music coming from the pianoforte had started again. When had it ceased?

Abruptly John stood, tossing the handkerchief on the table as though to put that stage of his grief behind him. "My God, what a muddle," he muttered, striding past Richard.

Relieved that he was at least speaking and moving again, Richard closed his eyes. He was far from ready to oflfer significant solace to anyone. "We've lived through muddles before," he said quietly to the man pacing behind him.

"Who would have thought it?" John went on. "Canadal" he repeated, his mood now one of bewilderment.

Richard nodded. "I must confess I was as surprised—"

"It's madness!"

"To us. To Andrew it makes—"

"And what am I to do?" John demanded, reappearing on the opposite side of the table. "Andrew knows more about the John Murrey Firm than I do myself. He is the only one who is intimately acquainted with all the projects in progress as well as—"

It seemed a weak argument, and Richard said as much. "You have a large staff of solicitors, John. Surely one will be able to—"

"No! No! He will leave a vacuum that it will be impossible to fill" —he faltered—"in more ways than one."

There it was again, that uncharacteristic helplessness. Richard looked up at the man who was leaning heavily over the back of the chair where Andrew had been sitting. His face was disconsolate. "Oh, how I shall miss him. What would I do without you, Richard?" John whispered. "All my life, what would I have done without you?"

Because the moment required it, Richard found himself in John's arms, the two boys inside the grown men brushing aside their manhood and clinging to each other, children again, trapped in a world of grown-up terrors.

At the end of the embrace, John lifted his glass, half filled with

port, and carried it back to the fire. "To our good memories." He smiled.

He drained the glass and seemed to study the empty crystal for a moment. "I—am so sorry for what I said earlier, to Andrew, to Dhari."

Richard nodded. "I think it would help all of you if you made a point to see them before they left, to wish them well."

"I will," John agreed. "I most certainly will."

"As for your business affairs, I'm certain that there are capable men who can fill Andrew's shoes. After all, you have Aslam now, and he's very gifted."

Then a small mystery occurred to Richard. He remembered how eagerly both he and Bertie had been awaiting John's arrival in Cambridge. But of course the visit had never materialized. Obviously John had come to Cambridge to fetch Aslam, but it was equally obvious that he had not lingered.

Richard looked up at John, who had again taken refuge by the fire. "Bertie and I had hoped for the pleasure of your company a few weeks ago. In Cambridge, I mean. We had quite a feast prepared."

Slowly John stood erect. He glanced once at Richard, then looked again into the fire. "I had—planned to stop," he said, "but I'm afraid that time did not permit it. I had lingered too long in Cheltenham seeing to Mary's well-being, and I had pressing business awaiting me in London."

"I understand," Richard murmured.

"Will you be going back to Cambridge, Richard?"

An easy question, an easier answer. "No, not for a while."

"Your duties there?"

"I asked for an indefinite leave, and it was granted."

There was silence between them, a silence altered only by the soft strains of the pianoforte coming from the Great Hall. As though the music reminded him of the musician, the new look of restoration on John's face faded. "Dear Lord, what will I do with her?" he moaned.

For the first time, Richard found himself ill-equipped to offer assistance. Trying not to be too blunt, he posed a blunt question. "Why did you invite her, John? You knew this would be a difficult time, in mourning for Lila and—"

"I invited Lady Eleanor here out of Christian charity, Richard," he explained, "for her sake as well as ours. I know her parents well, particularly her father. He was one of the few men in London who

was land to me after my return from India. Of course, he was in the process of systematically losing the remains of his inheritance. The old man has absolutely no business sense," he added critically.

"So, in exchange for certain introductions I tried to rally his fortunes and did to a certain extent. But unfortunately he has a son who has a talent for accumulating gambling debts."

He gestured toward the distant refrain coming from the pianoforte. "She always struck me as having had such a lonely childhood. Born late in life, she seemed more the granddaughter than the daughter—"

Abruptly he dismissed what he was saying. "But none of these are valid reasons, are they, for thrusting her into this household at this time. No, the truth now." He smiled wearily. "I invited her for a very special reason. I knew better than anyone the condition of Eden, the fresh grave—" His voice broke. "Lila gone, Mary absent. I thought it would be good for all of us to witness youth and beauty and warmth. I'm sorry. I was wrong."

"No need for apologies," Richard begged. "Not with me at any rate. I understand now and I agree. Your intentions matched your needs."

"No," John disagreed. "I had no right. It isn't fair to her or the family. No one here is capable of maintaining the charade of society. No," he said again, "I'll go this minute and apologize to her and kindly suggest that she—"

"You will do no such thing!" Richard said. He was on his feet, not at all certain of what he was saying. It was simply that he could not abide the expression of silent grieving in the face opposite him. "I'll go to the young lady," he offered quietly, a bit amazed at his own words. "I'm not certain that my company will please her, but—"

He had his reward in the look of gratitude on John's face, even though it was accompanied by protest "I—can't let you do that," John argued.

Richard smiled. "I have enjoyed her music; I'll tell her so," he said. "And why don't you go and speak with Dhari and Andrew, tell them what you have told me, that you love them both and that you wish them well?"

"I am grateful."

The two men gazed at each other. Richard felt stronger than he had in weeks. As he started through the door it was not his intention

to look back. But concern made him do so, and love for the bowed man he'd left at the table.

He only glanced at first, then looked quickly back, amazed at what he saw. No longer was John slumped at the table. Now he stood erect, watching Richard as closely as Richard was watching him. Was that a smile on his face?

Surely not, though John turned instantly away, and Richard closed the door behind him and started off toward the music.

She knew that if she waited long enough someone would come.

Who, she had no idea. All of them had looked bereft, the tension in the Dining Hall so acute that she'd had to leave, suspecting in a way that she was contributing to it.

As she had taken refuge in the Great Hall, she had spied the lovely old pianoforte and, thinking to play softly enough to disturb no one, she'd settled herself before the keyboard and quite soon had lost herself in its mellow tones.

Unfortunately she had now played her entire repertoire twice and the thought had just entered her mind that perhaps she should retire, let this night pass, and wait for morning and hopefully an improved mood within Eden. With dispatch she concluded the Beethoven sonata, amazed at how much richer it sounded here than in the hmited Music Room at Forbes Hall.

"You play beautifully."

The voice, so unexpected, came from behind. Quickly she turned, pleased that perhaps there would be no early retirement tonight after all.

"Lord Richard," she murmured, amazed at how quietly he had come up behind her. "I—hope I was not bothering—"

"Bothering!" he repeated, coming around beside her. "I can't remember when this old instrument has been played last. My Uncle Edward bought it for my Aunt Jennifer and she was the last to play it."

"Did you know her? Your aunt, I mean. So many of my relations were dead before I was even born." She lowered her head and hoped that she wasn't saying too much. "I'm always a Httle envious when I hear words such as 'Aunt' and 'Uncle.'"

"I knew her very well," Richard replied, crossing his arms on the pianoforte. "She was—ill most of her life."

"I'm sorry."

For a moment it was as though the gloom of the Dining Hall had merely followed him here to the Great Hall. Eleanor considered trying to alter the mood but changed her mind. Let him set the pace and she would willingly follow.

She watched as he moved around the pianoforte, one hand caressing the highly polished rosewood cabinet. There was a tenderness about him that appealed greatly. Her brothers were rough and boisterous sportsmen. Even her father enjoyed a good hunt, coming home with flushed cheeks and bloodied gauntlets. She would have been most surprised to learn that this gentle man had ever killed anything in his life.

At the far end of the pianoforte he looked back at her. "I'm sorry for speaking so personally. You must think we—"

"I think nothing and see only a family that has suffered a tragic loss."

"How kind you are—and will you please play for us again tomorrow?"

"Of course I'll play."

She was embarrassed by the silence. It occurred to her that perhaps he had been sent to "see to her." In that case she must relieve them both of this awkwardness. To that end she walked a few feet away, looking ahead to the Grand Staircase.

"Lord Richard," she began, "I'm certain that you have other things to do. Please don't feel as though you must—"

"I assure you, I have nothing to do," he said. "In fact, I came to tell you that I am at your disposal. What would you like to do? I'm afraid that Eden can't offer much in the way of diversion. But there is always the Game Room and of course the Library."

"I remember the Library—" she smiled—"and that lovely painting of'The Women of Eden.'"