The Women of Eden (75 page)

Deriving strength from these thoughts, Mary leaned against the windowsill and, as she'd been thinking on mothers, she thought on her own and her heart ached for that remote woman who resided in the third-floor chamber of Eden Castle. She felt a second surge of homesickness even more painful than the first, for Eden, for her mother, for the place of her childhood. Perhaps in time they might return there. Surely the threats of London would not extend to North Devon. How her mother would adore Burke and how pleased she would be for both of them in their newfound love!

She heard a knock on the door, heard a familiar voice call, "Mary?"

In a rush of love, as though they had been separated for days instead of hours, she hurried to the door.

"Burke, come in," she invited, grasping his hand, feeling that lovely surge that accompanies all love, the sensation of being needed. "Your mother—" she whispered, the top of her head just touching his chin, his powerful arms wrapped about her, providing the only shelter she would ever need in this world.

"—is expecting us." He smiled down on her and kissed her forehead.

"Is she—well?" Mary inquired, reluctantly stepping away from his embrace, aware of more pressing matters.

"Surprisingly, yes."

She took his hand. "Then come," she urged, "I look forward to meeting her."

In the corridor she saw they were not alone, saw Florence just departing through the double doors at the top of the stairs. The woman glanced in their direction, then wordlessly descended the stairs.

Taking his arm against the sudden chill, Mary leaned against him and whispered, "Any last-minute advice? Shall I be talkative or demure? Aggressive or passive?"

He drew her beneath his arm. "I've told her everything. Who you

are, the circumstances under which we met, and that I've asked you to be my wife."

"Perhaps you told her too much."

"No. I wanted her to know everything."

Then he drew open the doors and stepped back to permit her passage and, as she moved forward, she took note of an immense and lovely chamber, a sitting room-bedchamber combined, a massive four-poster dominating one end of the room, while to one side near four large windows was a comfortable arrangement of furniture, a dark green velvet sofa flanked by wing chairs, the walls on either side of the windows covered by enormous tapestries. Her initial impression was that of an oversized room filled with oversized furnishings, yet void of any human being.

A moment later that impression was obliterated. She saw at the far end of the room a small figure, dwarfed by the size of the chair in which she was seated, garbed in a dressing gown of ivory velour, her head surrounded by a halo of thin, fly-away white hair, her attention focused on what appeared to be a large ripe pear, all her concentration angled downward on the silver paring knife which she was guiding expertly around and around the fruit, producing an unbroken tail of peeling which was falling into a small silver bowl nestled in her lap.

Burke seemed content to hold his position just inside the doors, considerately giving Mary time to adjust to the setting and to give his mother time to look up and acknowledge them.

But this she never did, and continued to guide the knife around and around the fruit, holding it up at an angle, as though her fading eyesight were making the simple task difficult.

When after several minutes there still had been no direct invitation to come forward, and when the pear had been completely peeled, and after she had gazed upon the paring knife as though it were a miracle of invention, and when the tension of waiting had become embarrassing, Burke took matters into his own hand, grasped Mary's arm and with a look of annoyance started them both moving across the distance which separated them from the woman sitting placidly in a spill of sun.

"Mother, this is—"

"Do you have any idea who sent this lovely fruit, Burke?" she asked, holding up the pear as well for his inspection. "They arrived yesterday without so much as a card. Now who do we know who

would be so thoughtful?" she went on, her voice striking the silence like something soft and boneless, her words a liquid stream, each connected to the other.

"If you ask me," she said, "it was that nice Mr. John Thadeus Delane. Yes, that's who, Fm certain. Did I tell you he called twice during your rude absence? He did. Quite an attentive gentleman, even though he is foreign."

Mary held her place several steps removed from the woman, aware that she was being ignored, yet fascinated by the remains of what once must have been a dazzlingly beautiful woman. All the evidence was still there in the high, classic cheekbones, the curved angle of the jaw, the violet eyes imbedded in equally violet shadows that continued to study the pear as though it were the most fascinating object in the world.

In a rapid movement she lifted the pear and sliced it in half, the sun catching on the fast-moving knife.

"Here." She smiled sweetly, extending half of the pear to Burke. "You look wretched."

Taken aback by the offering, Burke started forward, then stopped, retraced his steps, grasped Mary's hand, this time taking her with him.

"Mother, this is Mary Eden," he said, his voice forceful, as though trying to cut through the foolish subject of fruit.

Those violet eyes were upon her, though they appeared to have gone blank. Struggling against a temptation to turn and flee the awkward encounter, Mary ventured forward until she stood less than three feet before the woman.

As the reciprocal inspection stretched on, she was on the verge of retreating when the woman motioned for her to come closer and, without hesitation, Mary did so, only to see that blue-veined hand which still clasped the knife reach up for her face, two bony fingers possessing surprising strength holding her fast.

"Forgive an old woman, my dear"—she smiled, their faces only inches apart—"but my failing eyesight makes this rude inspection necessary. I have a right, don't you agree, to see the face of the woman who has stolen my son."

Embarrassed, Mary did well to murmur, "I hope I didn't steal anything, Mrs. Stanhope, I—"

"No, of course not!" The woman laughed lightly, at last releasing her and turning her attention back to the fruit, slicing off a smaller

portion and popping it into her mouth. Everything in the room seemed to wait upon her chewing. Mary felt herself almost mesmerized by the ugliness and the tension.

"No, of course you didn't steal anything/' Mrs. Stanhope repeated. "From what Burke tells me, he's the thief. He's the one who kidnapped you and—"

"Mother, we would like tea," Burke interrupted. "Will you pour, or shall I?"

Waving the knife before her, Mrs. Stanhope murmured, "You do it, my dearest. My hands are unsteady of late. I'd more than likely spill it and embarrass you."

As Burke moved toward the table, she added not unkindly to Mary, "And do help yourself, child. You both look as though you forgot altogether to eat during your escapade."

Wordlessly Mary accepted a cup of steaming tea from Burke and read the message of encouragement and love in his eyes and selected a small sandwich from the platter and stood, as self-conscious as she'd ever felt in her life.

With the half-eaten pear still suspended in one hand, Mrs. Stanhope seemed to sit in a state of suspended animation, her eyes fixed on Mary. "You were pretty once," she said, "and you might be again, though it's hard to tell.

"Come, sit here near me," Mrs. Stanhope said, pouting. "I must see who has stolen Burke from me."

There it was again, that pouting, small-girl quahty. And, to Mary's distress, she saw Burke arrange a second chair directly in front of the old woman.

As she sat in the appointed place, Mary felt a hot flush on her face. Burke offered her another cup of tea, but she said "No" and felt his hand close about hers in reassurance.

His mother saw it, as well, and from where Mary sat she saw the facade drop, the old woman looking as stricken as though someone had driven a knife into her breast. Not wanting to inflict hurt, Mary withdrew her hand and searched her mind for a safe topic of conversation. Her eyes fell on a small basket of needlework half-concealed beneath the skirt of the table. "Yours?" Mary smiled, pointing toward the basket, convinced that it was a harmless topic.

But the woman failed to respond. She seemed to be studying the knife, the delicate ivory handle, the joint which connected the handle to the blade.

"How long will you be here?" she asked.

Burke replied, "I told you, Mother. She's here for purposes of recuperation, as my guest."

"She doesn't look ill."

"I assure you she has been very ill. She needs rest and peace and—"

"Why does she have to come here? Has it ever occurred to you that her family may have good reasons for not taking her back?"

As the voice rose it became less soft and musical. Mary bowed her head. She'd never known such mortification. It was not working. It might tomonow, or the day after, but not now.

"Burke, may I be excused?" she asked, starting to her feet.

"No!"

The harsh word, so unexpected, slammed against her. Shocked, she looked up to see the full weight of his anger directed at his mother.

"No," he repeated, softer this time, sitting on the edge of his chair, reaching for Mary's hand. "I want to say something and I want you here when I say it."

He renewed his grasp on her hand, as though fearful she might flee the room prematurely. "Look at us!" he commanded his mother.

When at first she did not, he repeated: "Look at us. Mother, and grow accustomed to the sight. I mean what I said earlier. I intend to marry her just as soon as possible and, while I would like your blessing, I do not require it."

He paused, as though giving the words a chance to register with that wandering mind.

"Did you hear me. Mother?"

Then she did, for she looked up, her face contorted with grief, and suddenly the handkerchief was pressed into service, covering her eyes, as the tears came.

The sound and sight of grieving resurrected other memories within Mary and represented all the losses she had ever suffered and, much to her surprise, she felt a bond of affection for the old, half-mad woman. Without knowing what she was going to do, she went down on her knees before her and grasped her hands.

"Mrs. Stanhope, please," she begged. "There's no need. Burke's love for me does not in any way affect his love for you. You must understand that and believe it. I have no desire to displace you in his affection or come between you in any way. Instead of cutting off his love for you, please let me contribute to it. I would very likely be

dead by now if it weren't for him and, since you gave him life, then my debt of gratitude is to you as much as it is to him. Do you understand what I am saying?"

She wasn't certain whether the woman had heard or not. Then the tears seemed to subside. The old woman looked down on her, an expression on her face which was impossible for Mary to read.

"You are—ver>' kind," she said. Then she looked at Burke. "'When —will you marr}'?" she asked.

"As soon as possible."

She stared at him for ever so long. "Then it shall be." Her head fell back against the cushions of her chair. "You both must forgive a very rude and thoughtless old lady. If I've inflicted pain, I'm sorry. If I've caused—"

"No need," Mar}' said, trying to relieve her of the need for an apology. "I'm certain that in time we will become fast friends. I would like that very much and I would hope—"

All at once that thin hand lifted and began another inspection of Mary's face. No longer weeping, Mrs. Stanhope viewed her with quiet melancholy.

"You will be beautiful again!" She smiled sadly. "Under the effects of my son's love you will become ravishingly beautiful."

In spite of the blush on her face, Mary held still, something within her suggesting that it would be best to let the woman talk herself out.

"Leave me now, both of you," Mrs. Stanhope whispered, "I'm not fit company. Perhaps tomorrow I'll make a fresh start. I'm good at fresh starts, aren't I, Burke?"

"Yes, Mother." He smiled, lifting the bowl from her lap.

Mary moved back, weakened by her kneeling position and the tension of the occasion. She watched as Burke bent over and kissed his mother. "Sleep now. Tomorrow we'll talk some more."

"No more talk," she said. "I'm tired—so tired—"

As her voice drifted, Mary watched, amazed at how rapidly sleep had descended. Neither spoke until they were in the corridor outside. Then, as alwa}^, words were not as effective as the closeness of an embrace. "I'm so sorry," he murmured. Sensing new weakness in her, and in a way apologizing for the recent ordeal, he lifted her into his arms and carried her back down the corridor to her chamber.

Inside the room he placed her on the bed, remained bent over her

long enough for a kiss, then almost paternally he counseled, "You sleep, as well. I'll send Florence to you. If you need anything—"

"I need only you," she said, wishing that he would sit on the side of the bed forever. Then she saw the fatigue in his face and remembered the countless nights when he'd not closed his eyes at all.

"Oh, my dearest," she whispered, and he was in her arms again, the nature of their closeness changing rapidly. She felt his hand on the small of her back, as though he were trying to lift her to him, his face buried in her neck, his breath warm against her flesh. As his hand commenced a loving caress of her breast, she shut her eyes. Though close, they were not close enough and, in spite of their mutual fatigue, or because of it, she drew him yet closer, cursing the barrier of their garments, unmindful of anything but the need vvdthin her.

His suffering was as acute, she was convinced of it, and with night breathing peace on all sides, he raised up and stared down on her.

He had just loosened the top buttons of her dress when suddenly a knock came at the door. Their eyes met in a moment of shared desolation. "Who is it?" he called out.

"It's me, Florence. I thought the young lady might enjoy—"