The Women of Eden (8 page)

"The library, milady," Peggy began, "and here is a lovely lac-

quered cabinet. Come, feel for yourself." Lightly she pressed Harriet's hand against the smooth black enamel. "Can you feel it?"

"Of course I can," Harriet scolded good-naturedly. 'Tell me of its color."

For several minutes John watched as Harriet bent low over the cabinet, her hands moving out in all directions, while Peggy stood silently behind her, her eyes fixed on John as though again she were warning him not to move or speak.

Still amazed that her soul was intact and as beautiful as ever, John found for a moment that he could not watch her and averted his eyes, his memory punishing him with a recall of the one and only time since her self-mutilation that he had seen her unveiled, the morning almost ten years ago of his triumphant return to Eden, when he'd thought her dead and Richard had informed him that she was alive. He had entered her chambers alone, the weight of emotion almost unbearable, as his eyes had fought the blackness for a glimpse of this remarkable woman who had been his first love, perhaps his only true love, and who had blinded herself upon learning the news from Morley Johnson's corrupt lips that she was indeed the natural mother of John Murrey Eden.

Seated on the arm of the chair, he crumpled forward, the ancient burden of guilt as powerful as ever, as though the ten years of penance for both of them had never taken place. The lamplight had caught on certain specifics, the eyeless sockets, two small ovals of white, the rough jagged scar tissue covering her cheekbones, extending over the bridge of her nose, the entire grisly script scarcely recognizable as a human face, except for the mouth and chin, which had escaped the stabbing thrusts of the forks.

He bowed his head into his hands, involuntarily shuddering. The faint sound caused a cessation in Peggy's voice behind him. Simultaneously he heard a gasp and looked over his shoulder to see Harriet raised up from her inspection, her head lifting, her hands reaching out as though seeking Peggy's protection.

"Who—" she gasped. "We're not alone!"

With an accusatory look, Feggy glared at John from across the room. "No, milady," she murmured. "Mr. Eden is present. I thought it best if—"

"John?"

A portion of her fear seemed to be receding, replaced by appre-

hension as she reached up to her face to make certain that the veil was in place.

John gave her all the time she needed, glad that she was aware of his presence, pleased by the scolding she delivered to Peggy. "Why didn't you tell me?" she murmured.

"You said you wanted to see the new halls, milady. You said nothing about visiting."

"Oh, Lord! Peggy, please don't take me so literally in the future. You should know that John—"

As she turned in his direction, he put the past behind him and went forward and grasped her hand. "You look lovely," he said, and lifted her hand to his lips. "If I'd known that you, too, were suffering from insomnia, we could have prowled together."

She laughed. "It's not exactly insomnia that I'm suffering," she said. "As I told Peggy, we'd better go and see Eden's new grandeur for ourselves before the hordes arrive tomorrow."

"I would have been happy to escort you."

"I didn't want to bother you. You've had so much—"

"It would have been no bother. You know that."

After this brief and self-conscious exchange, they stood silently, John aware of Peggy's hovering presence behind them.

"This is the new library," he began, trying to bridge the awkward silence.

"So Peggy told me."

"Have you visited the Great Hall?"

"I have," Harriet replied, "and Peggy's eyes didn't miss a thing."

At that moment the watchdog herself stepped forward, primly adjusting the collar of her black dress. "We've taken the complete tour, Mr. Eden," she said. "Now I believe Her Ladyship is fatigued and should be returned to—"

"Oh, Peggy, nonsense," Harriet intervened. "I'm not fatigued at all."

Encouraged, John suggested, "Then why don't you sit with me for a few minutes? You are right about tomorrow. Our daily visits may have to go by the boards for a while."

He suggested mildly to Peggy, "Why don't you retire? I'll see Her Ladyship back to her chambers."

But the protest on Peggy's face was nothing compared to the sharp "No!" which issued from behind the black veil. Harriet lowered her head and when she spoke again her voice was soft though

determined. "I'll sit with you, John. But, Peggy, you wait near the door. I'll only stay a few minutes; then we shall retire together."

Reluctantly, John agreed to the arrangement, privately loathing the look of triumph on Peggy's face. But it had always been thus. Not once since his return ten years ago to Eden had Harriet ever occupied the same room with him alone. Others did. She spent hours alone with Lila and the children. And Elizabeth, when she visited Eden, enjoyed endless teas with Harriet, and even Dhari could seek her out in private. Everyone enjoyed Harriet alone except John.

He should have accustomed himself to the ritual by now, knowing full well the point and purpose behind it. The passion that had brought them together in physical union years ago must not be permitted to flourish again. The first penance had been costly enough and was still not complete.

As Peggy retreated to the door, John guided Harriet toward the armchair and dragged a second chair into place until they were seated side by side, facing the shrouded canvas of "The Women of Eden."

For a moment neither spoke, as though the insignificant movements had drained them of all energy. Just as John was on the verge of uttering something witless in an attempt to fill the silence, she asked quietly, "Why couldn't you sleep? I should think that you would be exhausted, and certainly you will need all the rest you can get in order to face the ordeals which you've plotted for yourself."

He smiled and shrugged. "If only one could will sleep."

"I have an elixir I'd be happy to share with you, a wicked concoction, Peggy's private recipe."

"No, thank you!" He laughed. "More than sleep, I need my wits about me tomorrow."

The small intimacy moved him and gave him courage to speak more freely. "This once was the Banquet Hall, if you recall."

She nodded. "It always seemed misplaced to me, so far removed from the Kitchen Court."

"And the painting," John went on, "the Alma-Tadema painting, has Peggy told you about that?"

Harriet leaned forward, sharing his excitement. "No, and it was curiosity about that painting that led me here. Tell me!"

"Most scandalous, it is," John whispered, enjoying the new ease between them. "If you hear an explosion on Friday, it will merely be the gentlemen of the Royal Academy."

*Tell me all about it, John. Describe it in full. Is it in this room? Is it near?"

As her head turned in all directions, John soothed, "Yes, it's directly before you."

"You've seen it, then?"

"Indeed I have." As he launched forth into a detailed description of the large painting, she stopped him several times in order to "see" a precise color or posture. When John's narrative reached its conclusion, she sat as though wanting more.

"Will it hang here?" she asked.

John nodded. "Over the mantel. There they vi'ill reside forever, our four, caught in a pose of classicism, a perfect setting according to Alma-Tadema, who is quite skillful in viewing the English Empire against the background of the Roman—"

"Neither actually," she corrected quietly. "It's your empire. Dhari and Elizabeth, Lila and Mary, all belong to your empire."

"And you?" he asked, covering her hand, shocked at how rapidly they had moved from the objectivity of the painting to whispered intimacy.

"Of course."

"Then why did you refuse to sit for the painting?"

"Oh, Lord, John"—she laughed, shattering the intimacy—"I'm not questioning Alma-Tadema's genius, but how could he have worked a black veil into that stunning sea of color that you have just described?"

In a strong need to counterbalance her merriment, he suggested, "He would have painted you as you once were."

"That woman is dead," she said, and pulled away from his hand and called sharply over her shoulder, "Peggy, are you there?"

"I'm here, milady. Shall we—"

As Peggy started forward, John lifted his hand to halt her progress. "Give us a few additional minutes," he commanded.

Peggy hesitated midway between the door.

Aware of the impasse, Harriet turned in that direction. "We'll sit a while longer, Peggy, but please stay close."

The words had been spoken in the manner of a reprieve. Loathing the feeling that he had been chastised, but grateful for her continuing presence, John sat well back in his chair and tried to change the subject.

"You know the guest list, of course," he commenced, his voice now befitting the room, formal and cold.

"Simply all of England," she said, "or at least all of influential England."

"The Lord Mayor is representing the Queen—'

"And Mr. Disraeli and Mr. Gladstone as well, I beheve you said."

"Representing themselves, as always."

"What if their paths cross?"

John shook his head. "Not likely. Andrew has had a staff working for months. I didn't go to all this trouble simply to have the arguments of Parliament transferred to the North Devon Coast."

"How clever of you," she murmured, "to be so considerate."

"It was Andrew's idea."

"Good Andrew."

"Yes."

It was as though they were pushing the words out, both of them insisting upon formality. He found it a source of pain, the realization that the once great love which had existed between them now lay impotent. If only there were a safe territory where they could meet and talk, as mother and son, safe from the storms of the past.

"And Richard?" she asked as though sensing danger in the silence.

"Due to arrive tomorrow sometime," John replied. "Late, I believe he said. And I have a surprise for Richard," he added, his mood lightening. Perhaps at last they had found a safe territory in Richard, Harriet's son and pride, who taught at Cambridge.

"A surprise?" she asked, "Our lives of late have been filled with nothing but surprises, thanks to you. Surely they must cease soon."

"A different sort of surprise, this, one he really should have seen to for himself, but then you know Richard . . ."

"Well, tell me," she demanded eagerly.

"Lady Eleanor Forbes," he said, and waited for her reaction, which never came except in the form of a confused silence.

"I—don't understand."

"Of course you do, Harriet. You more than anyone should understand. I've arranged a marriage for Richard," he went on, his sense of accomplishment dampened by her obvious state of confusion. "I've already spoken to Lord and Lady Forbes and they are delighted and have assured me that—"

"You had no right!"

"No right?" he repeated. "I really didn't consider it a matter of

rights. Richard is of marriageable age and beyond it. With his head buried constantly in books, what effort will he make to find a wife?"

"If he wants a wife, I'm sure he's capable of—"

John laughed, amused at how quickly she'd forgotten how shy her own son was. "Then all I'm doing is placing an imminently qualified young woman on his immediate horizon, Eleanor is quite lovely. I've met her on several occasions in London and in her parents' home in Kent. She will produce healthy heirs."

When she seemed disinclined to say anything further, he tried to restore her good mood. "Regardless of what happens, it will be good to see him again, won't it?"

"Will Aslam be with him?"

"He will," John said, seeing in his imagination the eighteen-year-old Indian boy whom he loved like a son.

"Will Bertie Nichols be coming with Richard?" Harriet asked.

"Yes," John said, staring glumly at the colors in the carpet at his feet.

"Good!" Harriet replied enthusiastically, as though she were set-thng a score. "I'm very fond of Bertie, aren't you? A more thoughtful gentleman doesn't exist."

John kept silent. His opinion of Bertie Nichols was at odds with Harriet's. No, he did not care for Herbert Nichols at all, the Professor of Greek and Latin at Cambridge, who over the years had become Richard's dearest friend.

"I have a secret, John," Harriet said, keeping her voice down. "Please don't think me a silly old woman," she whispered, "but could you, without too much effort, see a relationship between our Mary and Bertie Nichols? I mean they did seem to get on quite well together last Christmas, don't you think? And it is time that Mary commenced thinking about—"

"Don't be absurd!" he snapped, at first not certain if she was serious or not. Then, seeing that she was, he stood and walked a distance away.

"Why are you opposed to the idea?"

"Because it does not become you to speak such nonsense."

"Why?" she asked. "Mary is twenty-one. It's time she—"

"She's a child, Harriet," he interrupted, amazed at the degree of anger he felt at the insane suggestion. Pacing around the bureau, he decided that now was as good a time as any to share his thoughts on Mary with Harriet. "I do have a change in mind for her," he began.

"I think it's time she left Elizabeth and London. From all I hear, Elizabeth is still deeply involved with her radical friends, and I don't think that's a suitable atmosphere for Mary."

Now Harriet rose, her hands reaching out for balance. **You must be careful," she warned gently, "not to hurt Elizabeth. She adores Mary. If she thought—"

"She knows I don't approve of her friends or their cause. Where is her concern for me?"

Haniet was at his side. "I'm sure it's over now," she soothed, referring, as John knew all too well, to the public embarrassment that Elizabeth had brought down on him last year when she had lent her name and large portions of her bank account to the insane cause of votes for women. The circus had even proceeded as far as the floor of the House of Commons, with the support of the jackal, John Stuart Mill, where they all had been laughed out into the streets.