The Women of Eden (66 page)

He dropped to his knees and placed the lamp on the floor beside him, its flame casting grotesque shadows over the limited cubicle. He pulled open the cupboard door and bent low, his hands exploring the dark recesses until at last they stopped.

The garments had not been burned.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. She needed a respite, both from the appearance of the clothes, as well as from the man who knelt on the floor cradling them.

Then there it was, the second note, exactly as he had predicted, though she thought she detected an expression of regret on his face as he handed it up, as though all along he had hoped that he would be wrong.

She took the note and angled it down toward the lamplight and saw what she knew was there all along, the identical handwriting, the salutation, "My Dearest Mary," the message itself short and as cryptic as the first, mentioning an unexpected delay and begging Mary to wait for him, no matter how late.

"Elizabeth?"

It was Mr. Stanhope again, still kneeling. "Fm so sorr^^," he murmured, grasping her hands as though to assist her with the burden of her new knowledge.

If only she could understand. But even if John had his reasons, no reason in the world would be acceptable to—

"I know that you—love him," Mr. Stanhope went on, speaking intimately.

Love! Elizabeth thought on the word and felt herself grow cold.

"You must listen to me, Elizabeth," Mr. Stanhope said urgently. "You've helped me thus far. Help me to the very end. Where is she?" he begged. "Tell me so that I may go to her. Is she at Eden?"

"No. She's not at Eden. She's—in a school outside Cheltenham, an establishment called Miss Veal's." She closed her eyes. "John took her there."

"One last favor," he whispered. "Perhaps the most diflBcult. Say nothing to Mr. Eden. Do nothing that might sound the alarm. Give me at least a fortnight to find her and transport her to a place of safety. I beg you."

She nodded to everything. "When—will I know?"

"I'll keep you informed."

She had hoped that he might say more. But without another word he ran from the room, the clatter of his boots in the corridor bespeaking the urgency of his departure.

She listened carefully to his descent down the stairs. Then silence.

Everything in that cold room seemed to whirl about her. Looking down, she noticed that he'd placed the note in her lap and, though her first impulse was to brush it aside, instead she read the deceiving

words, seeing clearly John's handwriting, the very message that had lured Mary into the park and had kept her there until—

She pressed her head back against the cushion.

Had he staged Mary's crucible? Had he placed those assailants in the park, fully aware of what they would do, perhaps even acting on his instructions?

But the thoughts were insupportable, and she bent over until her forehead was resting on her knees, her hands laced over her head, as though to ward off unseen blows.

Mayfair January 8, 1871

Aware of the need for haste, Burke gave his driver instructions to fetch the large carriage and four fresh horses, to pack what belongings he would need for a fortnight's trip and to have carriage, horses and himself waiting outside the house by midnight.

Hoping to arouse no one, Burke fetched his own valise from the storage beneath the stairs and carried it up to his chambers, grateful that his mother and the servants were sleeping soundly.

Stealthily he bolted his door and moved to the task at hand. A short time later his valise was packed with a minimum of garments, four hundred pounds and a letter of credit from his bank. He hurried to the sideboard, poured a glass of brandy as fortification against the chill evening and took a final look around his room, seeing the two letters he'd left which would explain his absence, one to Charles and one to his mother.

As all was ready, and the need for movement strong with him, he gathered up his cloak and valise, extinguished the lamp and started out into the darkened corridor. In a way it had been easier not knowing where she was or what had happened.

He was halfway down the stairs when at the top of the landing he saw a flicker of candlelight and heard a drifting, familiar voice.

"Burke? My darling, is it you?"

He glanced ahead. He could easily make it to the door before she reached the top of the stairs. In an attempt to outrun the voice, he

took the carriage running, secured and bolted the door and pressed back against the seat.

As the carriage started forward he realized that he had yet to give his driver instructions. He drew down the window and suffered a blast of cold January wind. "Make for the North Road and High Wycombe!" he shouted. "I'll give you directions from there."

As his driver turned in the appointed direction, Burke drew the heavy fur rug out from beneath the seat and arranged it over his legs.

Cheltenham. In school. Her hair had been cut. . . .

Slowly he bent over and tried not to see the image of that pale white cheek, those dark blue eyes which once had looked up at him with such trust and love.

How would he find her? Would she even remember him? Would she come with him, or would she remain blindly loyal to John Murrey Eden? And if she did come with him, where would he take her, to what location of safety beyond the reach of the madman's grasp?

As the questions, all unanswerable, continued to assault him, he sat back in the seat, pressed his head against the cushion and offered up one startling prayer.

His request was simple. He entreated God never to let him come within close physical proximit}' of John Murrey Eden, for if he did, he would surely kill him.

Cheltenham January 13, 1871

At thirty-six, she was an old maid and likely to remain one. God had seen fit to give her a set of features so ugly that childhood companions had laughed at her. Then He had sent a plague of smallpox, which kindly had taken most of those cruel childhood friends, but He had let her survive and had covered those already ugly features with a mask of pockmarks which still on occasion ran pus and scabbed over.

As though this weren't enough. He had given her an adult form which resembled the local blacksmith's and He had crowned the entire grotesquerie with the crudest gift of all, a degree of intelligence so that she knew precisely how ugly she was and how barren her life would always be.

Small wonder, then, that on occasion Frieda Langford looked about at Miss Veal's collection of unhappy females and selected one as a pet. Kindness was in short supply in this establishment, and if now and then, in exchange for a moment's kindness, one of the girls was prompted to give Frieda a crust of love, she would grab it eagerly, knowing full well it might be the last she would receive.

Now she stood in the dead winter garden behind the crumbling Tudor mansion, well bundled in her thick black cape, and looked out over the fiercely cold winter day at her fifteen charges, all moving like spiritless ghosts up and down the paths.

No one spoke. It was too cold for speaking. Their daily ritual of an hour's fresh air was another of Miss Veal's trident commands and, like the weekly enemas and physical examinations, it was there to be endured.

Not that Frieda had any real quarrel with old Miss Veal. She'd taken Frieda on, hadn't she, when no one else in Cheltenham would have anything to do with her. Hired six years ago as a "helper," Frieda had passed what possibly had been the happiest years of her life. No one here seemed to mind that she was ugly and, while on occasion her heart went out to the young ladies who were imprisoned here, still she agreed with Miss Veal's philosophy, that life was hard and only those survived who knew how to accept their daily dose of pain.

Like that one. Frieda lifted her head and stared down the length of the garden at the samll solitary figure seated on the stone bench, wrapped in the heavy black cape that was standard issue for all the young ladies.

For some reason that one appealed to Frieda, had from the beginning when the London gentleman had deposited her several months ago. Oh, it had been clear even then that someone had gone over her with heavy boots on. From her butchered hair to the lingering bruises on her legs, it had been painfully apparent that someone had taken what he wanted without a thank you.

In those first few weeks Miss Veal had warned Frieda to look for telltale signs of pregnancy in Mary Eden. But, blessedly, there had been nothing and her cycles were regular and, while she didn't have to contend with a growing seed, there was still grief aplenty plaguing the young woman, and Frieda would give anything to ease it, to cause just a semblance of a smile to color those pale lips.

Well, what harm in trying again? There was still about twenty minutes left of the enforced hour. Her other charges were behaving themselves right enough, moving at a steady pace up and down between the dead flowers, rubbing their hands to keep warm.

Only little Mary Eden was seated and alone, and this was a legitimate reason for Frieda to approach her. On Miss Veal's orders, all the young women had to keep moving. Thus armed with a reason to speak, Frieda drew her own cloak more tightly about her and walked in a steady line down the garden path.

"You there," she called out, bridging the few feet that separated them and, though she stood directiy over her, she was alarmed to see that the girl had yet to look up.

"Mary?" she said, her voice softening, and as she sat on the bench she bent forward in an attempt to see the face that was almost obscured by the hood.

Then she saw too clearly, the small face drawn and colorless, a stream of old grief which apparently was so powerful it required no sound.

"Here, now," Frieda comforted. She reached into the folds of her pocket and withdrew a handkerchief and lifted the girl's face. All the time she worked at restoration, she was aware of Mary's eyes on her, was aware of the girl's hands like two blocks of ice, while her forehead-Frieda stripped off her glove and placed her bare hand against Mary's forehead. Dear Lord, she is on firel

"Mary? Are you feeling well?"

The girl nodded and with the back of her hand wiped away the last of the tears.

Distracted from the feverish brow, Frieda counseled, "You know it doesn't pay to think on bad things. How many times have I told you that before?"

"I wasn't thinking on the bad, Frieda," she murmured. "I was thinking on the good. They are the hardest."

"Well, good or bad, you're letting something do damage to you, and it's my advice to—"

"Frieda, how long have you been here?"

The question caught her off-guard. "Well," she began, lifting her head to the sky, "to the best of my recollection, going on six years. Yes, about six."

She looked back at the young girl and didn't like what she saw there, the pupils of her eyes glittering unnaturally, a rigidity to her chin as though she were trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

"Come on," Frieda urged brusquely, "let's get you up and moving. You'll be warmer."

"Six—years," Mary repeated as though awed by the number.

"Aye, come—"

"Will you—stay here all your life?"

Half-risen from the bench and beginning to shiver herself, Frieda sat back down, amused by the question. "I suppose I will 'less something better comes along, and since that's not likely—"

All at once she noticed fresh tears on the girl's face. "Here, now, I thought I told you to keep your mind off those ghosts."

Slowly Mary shook her head. "I don't mean to cry. I really don't, and I wasn't thinking of anything."

In an attempt to stop the tears, Frieda announced, "It's letter-

writing day,'* remembering that in all the months since Mary had been here she'd never written a letter to anyone. The young ladies were permitted one correspondence a week, and most of them considered it a high point.

Of course, what they didn't know was that all those letters containing such private thoughts to loved ones provided Miss Veal and her staff with a full evening of jolly good entertainment. The letters containing any sort of complaint were read and burned. A few were sent on, those claiming contentment, and certainly those which praised Miss Veal or any aspect of her institution.

But not once had Mary felt compelled to use her single piece of writing paper. Now Frieda felt it was time she made contact with her past.

"Your—mum," Frieda prodded gently. "Let's write to your mum this afternoon. I'm sure she worries—"

"No," Mary said, returning the handkerchief. "She—wouldn't read it, anyway."

"Now, why?" Frieda chided. "If you were mine, I'd—"

"She's blind."

Silence. The bough of the old tree overhead creaked in the pressure of the wind.

"I'm sorry," Frieda muttered, thinking that she'd take her scarred face any day if she could keep her eyes. "Then the gentleman that brought you here," she said. "Surely he would like—"

All at once the young lady stood. She took one step toward the end of the bench as though to put distance between herself and the suggestion when suddenly she faltered, one hand reaching out for support.

"Mary? Are you ill?" Frieda demanded.

"No, I'm fine." But as she started to her feet again, her head seemed to lift as though she couldn't draw enough breath. Frieda stepped forward, her alarm increasing at how suddenly pale that face had gone and, just as she was reaching out to lend her the support of her arm, she saw the young woman collapse.

Lord-Frieda stared down, shocked at the lifeless figure. "Fetch Miss Veal!" she shouted ahead to the other young ladies, who had just noticed the unconscious girl in Frieda's arms. "Hurry!"

As she carried Mary up the path, she bent over and placed her

cheek against that pale forehead and immediately withdrew. It was as though she'd pressed against an oven.

As the girls reluctantly parted to make way, Frieda grimly remembered the time—when had it been, two, three years ago?—when one of Miss Veal's young ladies had died. In order to avoid a fuss, late one midnight Miss Veal had taken the body away. What she'd done with it, to this day Frieda had no idea, though she had been within earshot the day the alarmed family arrived, had overheard Miss Veal's lies, the old woman informing them convincingly that the young lady had simply run away.