The Women of Eden (9 page)

Even now John found it difficult to believe that Elizabeth would ally herself with such madness. Yet his spies continued to report to him the number of radicals, both male and female, who could be seen entering and leaving the house in St. George Street.

No, he wanted Mary out of that environment and said as much. "I will find an opportunity during the next two weeks to talk to Elizabeth," he said firmly. "Mary will not be returning to London with her."

"Where will she go?"

"She will remain at Eden for the duration of summer, and come autumn she will leave for Cheltenham." Not wanting to upset her further, John simply said, "A suitable place for a young lady."

But something about Harriet's stance suggested that she knew. "The school, the one you've mentioned before?" she asked.

He really didn't want to answer. But she was insistent and finally he said, "Yes," and moved away from her torrent of protest before it spilled out. "It's for the best, Harriet," he said. "She's still a child, you know."

"You have no right," came the cold voice from beneath the veil. "She'll refuse to go. She will simply—"

"On the matter of rights, Harriet, I see no margin for discussion. I have taken on full responsibility for this family and I feel a perfect right to insist upon certain courses of action.

"She must be protected," he said finally. "A few years in an isolated situation will—"

"—destroy her/*

"Not likely. It will teach her discipline, the one attribute which according to Elizabeth she lacks entirely."

"She's a young woman, John. She needs—"

"The matter is closed. If she continues to enjoy my protection, she will do as I say."

Suddenly Harriet moved back from him. He followed a step after, regretful that these difficult subjects had come up.

"Harriet, I had not intended to—"

"It's late," she said, moving too rapidly through the crowded furnishings. Twice he saw her collide painfully with chairs, and he saw Peggy hurrying to her aid.

"Wait!" he called out as the two women met near the door.

Only Peggy looked up as he drew near, her sharp eyes as accusatory as ever. Uncertain what he was going to say now that he had their attention, he faltered. "Will you—" he commenced, regretful that he had angered her. "Can I count on your—assistance in welcoming our guests?"

"No."

"Why not?" he persisted, recalling the debate which had flared between them for the past several months. "As Countess Dowager, your proper place is—"

She lifted her head, the veil doing little to conceal her anger. "What is proper for me is for me to decide, John."

In the face of her anger he retreated, sorry that their time together had gone badly. "I only thought—"

Then, when he least expected it, she stepped close to him and lifted her hand to his face, her fingers tracing the outline of his features in a most intimate gesture. "I suspect," she said quietly, as though she had put all anger behind her, "that tomorrow will be a beautiful day, the road to Eden clogged with important people trav-ehng in elegant carriages to see your beautiful castle. I'm afraid," she concluded, stepping back, "that I do not belong to such a day. How would you explain me, John?" She laughed. "Oh, I can just hear it now. 'Lord So-and-So, allow me to present my mother, the Countess Dowager, who once long ago was my—'"

Sharply John looked up. In all the intervening years they had never mentioned it. Now she was about to reveal all to Peggy.

But she stopped short, though the echo of that one unspoken word seemed to shriek about the room.

Sensing her fear at what she'd almost done, and feeling it blend with his own, regretful that he had angered her, John went down on his knees and clasped her to him, his arms about her waist, clinging like a child.

At first he was certain that she would reject him. But she didn't. Instead he felt her hands stroking his hair, drawing him closer. "There," she soothed, as though he were an injured child, "you're merely tired. We both are. You must realize that."

But he was realizing nothing except her simple act of locking him in her arms, reminding him of that night years ago when still innocent of their kinship they had fled the castle and in the seclusion of the woods she had shared with him his first act of love.

Then it was over. As she pulled free of his embrace, he looked up, sensing the broken bits of his personality scattered about him, still unable to determine why at this particular moment she'd granted him such closeness.

"Good night, John," she said from the door. He saw Peggy take her arm and lead her away.

Still on his knees he watched them.

"Harriet-"

But he was alone in the elegance of his new library. The echo of the guardsmen calling the hour reached his ears from a distance. He felt a breath of icy air and shivered as he rose, her features still before him as she once had been, the straight nose, the finely arched brows, dark eyes which looked back at him with the willful yet beseeching expression of a lover. . . .

He could no longer support the realization, and he made his way like an invalid to the chair where he sat heavily, his head fallen back against the cushion, and tried to deal with it, the awareness that in spite of what he had become, in spite of all his success, he was still the sixteen-year-old boy who loved her, who had known even then with premature wisdom that he would never love any other as he had loved her, and who now would willingly create new hells for both of them if he could have her just once more.

The thought dragged him to his feet. Directionless, he glanced around the room. He needed something, someone. Lila? No! Dhari? Yes, Dhari would kindly give him what he needed.

He hurried forward, gaining the door, breaking into a run, seeing nothing of the elegance as he took the steps of the Grand Staircase,

aware of nothing but the perception that all his victories could collapse into defeat unless he could outrace the sixteen-year-old boy running behind him. . . .

"Checkmate!" Andrew Rhoades exclaimed with weary though undisguised glee. He couldn't believe it. After a full evening of suffering defeat after defeat at Dhari's hands he'd finally achieved victory.

"Aslam won't believe itl" He grinned across at her, delighting in her dark silent beauty.

"Nor would I," Lord Harrington said, lounging to one side of the comfortable sitting room of Dhari's private apartment. "If I hadn't witnessed it for myself," he added.

Andrew saw him look up over the heavy parchment invitation which he'd been studying for the last hour.

"You let me win, didn't you?" he accused good-naturedly, ignoring Lord Harrington, concentrating instead on the serene female presence which during the last few hectic months had brought him such pleasure.

Silent, as always, she smiled at him, her attractive rose-velour dressing gown knotted loosely about her waist, reminding him that she'd been abed when he and Lord Harrington had knocked on her door, seeking a relaxed chamber in which to pass this last night before the crowds descended.

"You did!" he accused, and watched as she left her chair and stood behind him, massaging the tightness out of his neck, the sensation so pleasurable that he closed his eyes and felt gooseflesh on his arms.

To his right he heard Lord Harrington at the sideboard, refilling his brandy snifter. But Andrew concentrated on nothing but the skillful manipulation of Dhari's fingers, her silence working an increasing magic on him. In spite of his pleasure, he took care to guard his feelings and keep them in check with a reminder of who she was and whom she belonged to.

She was companionship, that was all, bearing the cross of her own tragedy with a nobility of spirit which dazzled all who came in contact with her. Leaning into her gentle massage, Andrew thought what ancient history it all seemed. Dhari was more an Englishwoman now than an Indian, with a brilliant son at Cambridge and a protected position within Eden Castle as John's—

Slyly his mind canceled the word before it took shape, and reach-

ing behind he caught her hand and lightly kissed it in thanks for the massage and pushed out of his chair, feeling it best to move away.

On his right, he saw Lord Harrington studying the invitation which, come morning, would convert the rural idyll that was Eden into a thronging social event.

"Have you studied this carefully, Andrew?" Harrington asked, doing nothing to mask his distaste.

Hiding a smile, Andrew took refuge at the sideboard, pouring two snifters of brandy and carr}'ing one to Dhari where now she sat close to Lord Harrington on the sofa.

"I've not only seen it," Andrew confessed, "I plead guilty to having assisted with its creation. Not only did I assist with its creation, but I suggested many of those lunatic activities which you see listed there."

As always. Lord Harrington was invincibly polite, trying to conceal his shock in diplomacy. "Well, I'm sure you had your reasons, Andrew," he said, flipping through the invitation, which months ago had been hand-delivered by special couriers to two thousand EngHsh-men.

Of course it was tasteless. Andrew was the first to admit that. But in his opinion this entire public display was tasteless, and for the past year he'd tried to argue John out of the whole foolish conception.

But to no avail. Eden had been the dream and goal of his life. Now that he had accomplished it, nothing would do but that he throw open the castle gates and invite what he hoped would be an envying world in for a look.

Taking delight in Andrew's involvement, Lord Harrington sat up on the edge of the sofa, his distinguished features glowing with good humor. "Umbrellas, shawls, fans, sketching materials and embroidery frames will be provided for the guests"? he read with a smile of incredulity.

"In addition, there will be walking, boating, sketching, picnics and, for the energetic, archery contests, riding, bowling and lawn croquet."

His sense of humor overcame his sense of incredulity and he leaned back, laughing heartily.

Feeling the need for a mild defense, Andrew sipped at his brandy and asked, "Well, what choice do I have? If John insists on dragging

two thousand people out here, we'd damn well better give them something to do."

Then Dhari apparently had found a mysterious item on the invitation and leaned close to Lord Harrington, pointing to a specific page, wanting edification.

Even before he spoke. Lord Harrington was regaled with fresh waves of laughter. "Milord," he gasped, "you can't be serious! A nigger minstrel show?"

Andrew lowered his head in embarrassment. "John's idea." He winced. "Nothing I could say would talk him out of it. He saw one at Brighton some months ago and paid them a fortune on the spot to appear here next week."

As Dhari's question concerning the nature of a nigger minstrel show still had not been answered, Andrew said with a laugh, "You tell her what they are, Lord Harrington. For myself, I think I need another brandy."

"They make jokes, Dhari," he heard Lord Harrington explain, "and sing popular ballads and plantation songs from America and play banjos and concertinas."

Obviously one mystery was leading to another and as she looked questioning up at the word "concertina" Andrew turned to the sideboard, his eye falling on the opened door which led to her bedchamber, a pretty room, the corner of the rosewood four-poster just visible from where Andrew stood, the pink and lavender brocade coverlet mussed from where she had been abed.

Suffering undue fascination with the bedchamber, Andrew only half heard the laughing voice of Lord Harrington, and a moment later the voice faded altogether as Andrew concentrated on the chamber where John took his mistress and worked out the frustrations of his marital bed in Dhari's dark and receptive beauty.

The thought was extraordinarily unpleasant, and forcing his attention away from the bed, Andrew looked back at Dhari. He felt a need to go to her, and abandoning his need for brandy, he stepped past the clowning Lord Harrington, sat beside Dhari on the sofa and drew her near.

At first, surprised by his nearness, she merely glanced up at him. Then one hand rested lightiy on his knee.

"Enough," Andrew begged of Lord Harrington and retrieved the invitation and proceeded to thumb through it, although he knew it

by heart. "Come, Harrington," he invited gruffly, "sit on the other side and we will study our coming ordeal together."

"It must be costing him a fortune," Lord Harrington muttered, studying the menus now, the lavish banquets which would be served four, sometimes five times a day.

Andrew nodded, though said nothing. Long ago he'd ceased trying to keep accounts and had simply turned the ledgers over to three of their London bookkeepers. Any suggestion of economy on his part had been met with outraged protest from John. So let him have his party, Andrew had concluded, get it out of his system in the hope that a portion of his normally good disposition would return.

"Well, there is some compensation," he said quietly. "Aslam will be arriving tomorrow, as well as Richard."

The reminder caused a smile to break on Dhari's face.

"And sometime tomorrow," Andrew went on, "Elizabeth and Mary will rattle across those double grilles."

As Dhari's smile broadened. Lord Harrington gave voice to her anticipation. "The family all returned for the great occasion." He sat up, resting his arms on his knees. "Lila is excited as well," he said. "I think she views Elizabeth as the mother she lost."

Andrew nodded, aware of the silence around him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a portion of Dhari's leg where, in her curled position on the sofa, her dressing gown had fallen open.

Quickly he pushed himself up from the sofa and was on the verge of suggesting that they all turn in, when he heard footsteps outside the door. The other two heard them as well, and in the next moment the disheveled man filled the archway.

"John!" Andrew exclaimed, his voice a bit too loud, as he struggled to hide a curious sense of embarrassment.

On his feet between the two who were still seated on the sofa, Andrew lifted the abandoned invitation. "We were just talking about—"