The Women of Eden (86 page)

Delane. What would Burke have done without the man? Generously Delane had offered to take charge of all the loose ends which Burke was leaving in London, and there were several, such as the disposition of the house itself. The man had been simply a bulwark during these hectic weeks, a curious reversal of position, considering that during the past year he had challenged Burke in every step of his pursuit of Mary.

Now look at them. Of course, Burke knew precisely what had happened. Delane had fallen under Mary's charm, like everyone else who met her. After devoting his full energies to their departure for several days, Delane had insisted upon journeying with them to Liverpool and seeing them off in proper fashion.

Then Burke rested his eyes on his bride, still not quite able to believe that she was his. How he wanted to be alone with her, to erase that distance that had grown up between them since the night of the fight at Eden, a distance which had been compounded by his injuries and by the frantic activity of the last few days!

His eyes blurred under the intensity of his vision and the weight of his emotion. Gowned in deep rose velvet with fur trim and clasping the bouquet of red roses which Delane had presented to her upon their arrival at the dock, she resembled a living portrait, high color in her cheeks, her hair once again her crowning glory. Pray God their destination did not destroy her, as it had destroyed his mother.

Submerged in a depth of old emotion and new, he was only then aware of them coming toward him, Mary clasping Delane's arm, laughing over something he had just said, and Delane responding with all the flushed enthusiasm of a schoolboy.

"Do you know what Mr. Delane told me, Burke?" Mary said, laughing. "He said there would be concerts on board, and all sorts of games and theatricals, like a small London."

Confronted directly by her beauty and excitement, Burke drew her close under his arm as though to reclaim her, and in the manner of a mock threat said, "And we shall attend none of them."

"Why?"

At that, Delane laughed heartily, understanding, his old face ruddy with sea air and rising good humor. Then at last a deep blush

595 on Mary's face told them both that she had understood as well. She buried her face in the roses and left them all standing about in a muddled silence.

"Perhaps I should see how Florence is faring, and the others," she said hurriedly and moved away, leaving Burke with mild regret for having spoken so intimately. There was a limit, however. He'd had a wife for almost three weeks, yet they had occupied separate rooms in the Mayfair house, his wounds from the fight still taking a toll. Then, too, there was that regrettable distance, as though she were angry with him for having challenged John Murrey Eden.

"She is so beautiful," Delane murmured, watching along with Burke as the vision in rose velvet made her way toward the group of servants near the gangplank. "Do you think she'll take to America?" he added, looking back toward Burke.

"She'll probably take to it better than I will," Burke said honestly, still following her with his eyes, seeing her safely delivered to the servants, who were greeting her warmly.

"Do I hear doubt in your voice?" Delane asked.

"Yes."

Burke had hoped for quick reassurance from this old friend. Instead he watched closely as Delane walked a few steps past him, then turned back, his face reflecting his apprehension. "I wrote to your father some weeks ago," he said. "I sent the letter to his last known address, and—nothing. No response at all, I'm afraid."

While Burke appreciated the tone of apology, he was not surprised at the response. Still focusing on Mary, feasting his eyes on a positive vision, he muttered, "Well, we shall soon find out, won't we?"

Respectful of this mood, Delane nodded sympathetically. "I'm sure it's only a matter of—" But then he, too, broke off, obviously unable to present any logical explanation.

At that moment the door to the Customs House opened and a parade of porters streamed through with trunks hoisted atop their shoulders. Burke stepped forward and gave the man in the lead the numbers of the various accommodations on board ship.

When the last porter had passed them by, heading toward the gangplank, Burke turned back to Delane for the farewell he'd

dreaded for days.

In an attempt to disguise his emotions, he smiled and said, "What's to say?" In a low tone, he answered his own question.

"Simply that I could not have survived without you during these difiBcult years."

"Nonsense," Delane replied gruffly, apparently not faring any better than Burke. "You served me as I served you, which is the true mark of friendship. Did you know," he added on fresh breath, as though to lighten the mood, "that circulation of the Times has dropped since the demise of Lord Ripples?"

Burke laughed, grateful for the new mood. "Well, if you get really desperate, let me know and I'll send you columns from America."

Delane's face brightened even more. "Not a bad idea," he exclaimed, as though the foolish notion had actually taken root in his imagination.

"Enough!" Burke laughed. "If I do any critical vmting, I'm certain I'll find plenty of material in my own garden. I'll give England respite for a while, and you as well."

For a moment his laugh hung between them, the old man's face cast in shadows of sorrow. Moved by such an expression, and aware that this stern stubborn man might have been the only true father he had in this world, and remembering his childhood when the long days of summer tedium had been so pleasantly broken by a visit from this Englishman, Burke at last succumbed, and without embarrassment reached out and drew Delane to him.

"Thank you, my friend, for caring," he murmured.

He gave them both a moment to restore their faces. Then he looked toward the gangplank, surprised and pleased to see Mary closely watching.

"Come," Burke said, taking Delane's arm, "There is someone else who would like to say goodbye."

As they drew near to where Mary stood, he saw a becoming blush on her cheeks, as though she, too, were aware of the occasion. "Thank you, Mr. Delane/* she said, "for being such a good friend to my husband."

Then old Delane had had enough. "What in the hell are you using past tense for?" he bellowed. "You just give me word when you are ready to receive an aging and very tired Englishman and I'll be on your doorstep sooner than you can imagine."

The promise seemed to please Mary immensely. Without warning, though quite predictably, she leaned forward on tiptoe and kissed the old man lightly on the cheek.

The three of them exchanged a final awkward embrace. Then,

with the captain's call to board echoing in their ears, Burke grasped Mary's arm and guided her carefully up the gangplank.

When they reached the upper deck, they went immediately to the railing and looked over and down. Burke observed that the chaos on the dock was clearing, most of the passengers aboard, the only ones left those who were saying goodbye.

Wordlessly he watched Mary in profile, still saw the high color in her cheeks, one strand of hair wonied loose by the wind falling softly across her brow.

Privately he dealt with his last anxiety. How would she fare when she saw her homeland slipping away? She must have brooded on it at length, the realization that quite possibly she would never see England again, or Eden, or her mother, or her brother, or Elizabeth.

As the great engines built up a solid head of steam and the bow lines were withdrawn, he saw her gently remove a single rose from her bouquet and toss it lightly back onto English soil. She closed her eyes, grasped the railing, then lifted her face to the wind.

He leaned closer, trying to read her expression. Was it sadness? Would she pass the entire voyage in premature homesickness?

^'Mary?" he inquired, concerned.

But there was no answer.

She was aware of Burke's concerned inquiry, but she simply could not answer in the excitement of the moment. Then, too, she was a bit disturbed that she felt so little distress. She'd feared once that she might weep, but now there was not a single inclination toward tears, not tears of grief, at any rate.

As the ship got under way, the excitement mounted even more, and she found her attention torn in so many directions that she scarcely knew where to look. Behind them and all around them were promenading passengers, the dock of Liverpool almost gone from sight now.

Curious, her lack of regret. No sense of loss, either, but rather the simple realization that she was embarking on the greatest adventure of her life.

Looking up, she saw old Florence hurrying toward them across the deck, her stern black face peering neither to the right nor to the left. In her hand she clutched a sheaf of white envelopes.

As she drew near, Burke went forward to meet her and, before she could speak, he inquired thoughtfully if everyone was settled in.

She nodded in her typically efficient manner, as though to say. Of course, and why shouldn't they be? "I thought I'd better bring you these," she said. "I was in your stateroom unpacking your trunks and these were waiting for you."

Still standing by the railing, Mar}' saw Burke take them, a dozen envelopes, at least, all bearing the ominous look of invitations.

"Damn," she heard him mutter, after having opened one or two.

"What is it?" she inquired, drawing near, trying to see for herself.

He held one up with clear contempt. "An invitation to join the captain for dinner." He held up another. "An invitation for tea tomorrow with Lord and Lady Haldane; an invitation for sherry later that evening with Mr. and Mrs.—"

She watched with patient amusement as he thumbed angrily through the various social invitations, understanding both his mood and lack of patience.

Suddenly she took the invitations from him and handed them back to Florence. "Dispose of these," she said quietly. She ignored the old woman's shocked expression. "And leave the rest of the unpacking to me. I can handle it."

"But-"

"Thank you, Florence," she said, smiling.

Puzzled, the old woman retreated and left her with the weight of Burke's surprised expression. Gently she took his arm and without words guided him toward the main deck, where the foot traffic was dense. She stood a moment looking out over all the ladies and gentlemen, many of whom had penned those loathsome invitations. Then, with the innate cunning of an actress who carefully chooses her audience, she whispered to Burke, "In honor of the skill which I acquired during my days at Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club, I'm about to faint. All I ask is that you catch me."

Without further warning, and greatly amused by the confused look on Burke's face, she feigned a most effective swoon, and only at the last minute as the dock was rising up did she feel the reassuring support of his arms about her, heard as well the rustled concern as people rushed from all directions.

Safely "unconscious," she rested her head against his chest and tried to conceal a smile as she heard his sputtering explanation to the shocked voices around them. "It's—nothing serious," he faltered. "Just let us through, please."

Then she heard another voice, a ship's ofEcer, "I will fetch a physician, Mr. Stanhope. There's one on board. I'd be happy to."

"No, I don't—think that's—necessary," Burke said nervously. "Just give us passage and I'm certain that—"

Whatever he w^as certain of, he failed to say, and again Mary buried her face in his coat to hide a giggle, hoping he didn't whisk her away too soon, before all those people could clearly see the indisposed Mrs. Stanhope and thus eliminate them from their various guest lists.

All the way down the narrow corridor which led to their stateroom she was aware of a trailing parade of excited and concerned voices.

As she heard Burke's stammering attempts to get rid of them, her repressed hilarity grew to dangerous proportions and, none too soon, she felt herself being carried over a high threshold, felt his awkward movements as he tried to close the door behind them, aU the while cradling his "ill wife."

When she heard the sliding of the bolt she slipped from his arms, almost doubled over with laughter, as amused by his puzzled expression as anything.

At last the fog lifted from his face and was replaced by a look of loving amazement. "Wicked, that's what you are," he scolded gently.

"Did you really want to attend all those dreary functions?" she gasped, still laughing. "If so, I can effect a miraculous recovery."

"No!"

"Well, then—" She smiled and looked about at the lovely wood-paneled room, complete with enormous bed with red velvet curtains, a bouquet of spring flowers on the table and two small, curtained dressing rooms on either side.

She was aware of him waiting, watching, not knowing quite how to approach her after the last difficult days. Almost shyly, she approached him. With one hand she reached up and loosened his neck scarf. "It's all behind us now, Burke," she said quietly. "Everything," she added, confident that she'd said enough, that at last the time for words was over.

He stared down on her. As if by mutual consent they parted, each taking refuge in their private dressing room.

A few minutes later they returned to the bed without the bother of dressing gowns.

"Come," he invited, a compelling intensity in his face and manner as he drew her toward him and lay back with her on the bed.

Still plagued by the nightmares of the past and the question mark of the future, she hesitated. Her world had been annihilated so many times before. But as Burke approached her in love and need she felt a new strength, a new hope that, although in the future her world might be severely shaken, it would never again be destroyed.

With a certain pride, she looked back on her share of outlived sorrows. Then she drew her husband to her.