The Women of Eden (25 page)

From the far end of the table came the unexpected sound of laughter. Longingly, Eleanor looked in that direction and saw a warm foursome consisting of the woman named Elizabeth, who earlier that day had greeted her kindly in the company of the notorious freethinker Charles Bradlaugh, Eleanor's father later claimed to have recognized him and had sunk deep into new brooding over the "propriety" of the Eden household.

But as her mother had pointed out, they had not come to Eden for propriety. Propriety would not pay the French dressmaker or satisfy Mr. Soames, the solicitor for White's, who had been sent to collect just a gentleman's portion of Percy's twenty-seven-thousand-pound gambling debt.

So propriety had never been mentioned again, not even when Mr. Eden's silent Indian mistress had appeared on the arm of a gentleman named Andrew Rhoades. And Eleanor knew she was his mistress. Who in London did not know it after relentless caricatures in Punch?

Now these four—Elizabeth, the Indian mistress, Bradlaugh and Mr. Rhoades—as though impervious to their ovra scandals, seemed to be the only pocket of merriment in the entire hall.

There was more laughter, sharp and precise, and again Eleanor peered down the table to see that a young man had joined the fun. He was Indian as well, though the cut of his dress blacks was English.

As though aware of themselves as spectacle, Elizabeth and the man named Andrew Rhoades glanced toward the end of the table, where Mr. Eden was glaring back at them. A few moments later, while the distant conversation did not cease, it fell, the little group all bending in toward one another, as though a wordless edict had been issued.

Eleanor was aware that she was feeling tense, realized that she'd been sitting with her shoulders hunched. Silently she scolded herself and sat up straight. She was glad that the people laughing were enjoying themselves. But it did not concern her. It was her task to please only one man, the brooding John Murrey Eden.

To that end she adjusted the pearls about her throat and filtered through her mind the proper subjects on which a lady could speak without causing male offense. She settled at last on, "Your castle is beautiful, Mr. Eden. I'm certain you know that it's the talk of all of London. And how sad that so few can see its beauty firsthand."

*'Have you had the opportunity to see all the castle as yet, Lady Eleanor? No, of course not. We'll remedy that tomorrow. I will take you on a personally conducted tour. Would that please you?"

A peculiar offer, she thought, like a small boy wanting to show off his possessions. "Yes, thank you," she murmured.

The fourth remove was before them, smoked turkey and an enormous roast beef. And, gratified, she saw Lord Richard and Mr. Eden preoccupied with eating, the latter insisting with his mouth filled that the stewards give generous portions to all. Strange, but she did not remember the man being so cloddish.

There was a sudden burst of laughter coming from the far end of the table, sharper this time. Since there was nothing else happening at the table except the consumption of food, it was difficult not to look in that direction and wonder about the source of amusement and wish to be a part of it.

She was aware of Mr. Eden returning his fork to his plate, his eye leveled at the small group, most of whom were dabbing at their eyes after the last outburst of laughter.

She saw him lean back in his chair, his fingers folded over his mouth, only his eyes visible, an expression just barely containing anger.

"Elizabeth!" His voice, razor-sharp, cut through the residual laughter, and all heads turned first in his direction, then to the offenders at the end of the table.

"John?" The woman smiled back, something challenging in her smile, as though she knew him too well to be intimidated by him.

Then Eleanor heard Mr. Eden, his voice rife with suspect goodwill, say, "I was just wondering if it would be asking too much for you to share your amusement with the rest of our guests."

Unfortunately, the invitation seemed to provoke fresh hilarity, and as the others took refuge behind their napkins, Eleanor saw Elizabeth straighten herself. "It was nothing of great importance, John, I promise," she said smiling. "Mr. Bradlaugh was just relating a tale of-"

"And your friend could not share it vdth the entire company?"

"Hardly," Elizabeth murmured.

"Let us be the judges of that."

"John, please," Elizabeth begged.

"No, I mean it," Mr. Eden persisted. "Since the meal commenced the rest of us have been forced to witness your vulgarity. Now I

think the least you can do is to inform us of the source and nature of your amusement."

Eleanor looked down into her lap, aware of the heat on her face, doubly aware of the other guests all frozen in their respective positions, as though if they only held still, the ugly scene would diminish.

But it didn't, and now into the stubborn silence came a new voice, strong yet apologetic. "I meant no offense, Mr. Eden, I swear it."

Eleanor looked up to see Mr. Charles Bradlaugh on his feet behind Elizabeth's chair, his hands on her shoulders in a protective gesture.

Hoping that this would be the end of it, Eleanor glanced up to hear Mr. Eden say, "Elizabeth, kindly tell your friend to take his seat. He is a guest in this house only under your auspices and I want the present company to know that and thus spare me any responsibility."

To her left she heard Lord Richard murmur, "John, please—"

Just as Eleanor was beginning to wonder if anyone would ever move again, she heard a chair scrape and looked up to see Elizabeth standing, the expression on her face one of hurt.

Ehzabeth gazed steadily back at Mr. Eden, then murmured, "If you will excuse us—" and without another word she skirted the far end of the table, Mr. Bradlaugh behind her, the silence now punctuated by their footsteps.

As the embarrassment continued to spread, Mr. Eden said in a forced voice, "Please, my friends, let's continue. And eat heartily. You will have the chance to dance it off later. The musicians are tuning their instruments and the ball will take place as scheduled."

A ball? With less than twenty guests? But perhaps others are due later, Eleanor thought. Down the table she heard her mother make an attempt at conversation, and feeling a degree of pride in that dignified old woman who in younger days had served Queen Victoria as lady-in-waiting, Eleanor began to hear a steady hum of voices about her, the pulse of the party not exactly revived, but at least still beating, though Mr. Eden seemed to have sunk into new depths of brooding.

Eleanor tried to think of something to say and realized that while her "finishing" lessons at her mother's knee might serve her well in most situations, there were forces in this Banqueting Hall tonight which were well beyond her. If fate decreed that she would become

Lady Eden, she must remember that her true master would never be her husband, the man seated on her left whose head was bowed so low that he appeared to be at prayer, but rather the man seated on her right, London's premier master-builder, who now sat slumped in his chair, his head jerking imperceptibly like an angry bird of prey. . . .

Later that evening, watching the sad spectacle of eight couples waltzing in isolation about the Great Hall, Eleanor glanced across the Hall and saw her father and mother entering the small Library in the company of John Murrey Eden.

Just before her father disappeared into the room she saw him look back at her, his normally bland face set in a hard way. It was only a brief glance, but the message was clear. Fate was in the process of determining her future.

No matter. She would make the best of it, for in her twenty-one years she'd learned one lesson well, that the world was gentlest with those who willingly played the role that the world had assigned to them.

She had been trained from birth for this moment, to sit passively beside a man she did not love, aware that forces were being set in motion that would bind her to him forever, and not to whimper or complain, and certainly not to cry, but rather to smile pleasantly and flatter his ego with: "Lord Richard, tell me of your work at Cambridge. How important it sounds. . . ."

By late Tuesday afternoon, the embarrassing script had been written large and clear for all to see. No other guests were coming. Out of the one hundred and fifty elegantly engraved invitations which had been delivered to England's titled families, less than twenty had appeared.

Out of the habit of loyalty, Andrew Rhoades sat in one of those beastly Queen Anne chairs which John had chosen as decor for his office and watched apprehensively as the man himself gazed out the window into the empty courtyard below.

Andrew had not been summoned. He had taken the initiative himself and had sought John out, though it had required massive effort to do so. That John was suffering, he had no doubt.

Andrew looked up from his thoughts to the brooding man at the

window, his hands clasped behind his back, his head tilted at an angle which seemed to personify his hurt and bewilderment.

"John, it isn't the end of the world, you know," Andrew said. "It's time we got back to London. Alex tells me there are matters requiring our attention. What would you say to leaving tonight? Richard can take care of—"

"Why didn't they come, Andrew?" came the mournful voice from the window. "How have I offended them?"

Andrew pushed out of the uncomfortable chair, feeling the need for movement when confronted with such a difficult question. "I wouldn't say that you've—offended them, John," he began prudently, "although your success may be a bone of contention." No, that wasn't the right approach or the honest one. "For all the liberal rhetoric sweeping across England now"—he smiled—"there are still barriers between the classes."

That wasn't much better. In fact, Andrew turned, expecting a fiery rebuttal. But to his relief he saw nothing but the man, fixed as a statue, still gazing out the window.

A moment later John stepped back to the desk. "Where is Richard?" he asked.

The rapid transition caused Andrew to falter. "I—don't know."

"Is he with Lady Eleanor? If he isn't, I wish him to be so. Seek him out, Andrew, and inform him that it is my wish that he pass the entire evening in her company."

Baffled, Andrew nodded, though he couldn't understand how the pretty young woman could provide Richard with any diversion.

"And see to it that our guests have everything they require," John added, this last request even stranger than the first. The guests had at their command a staff of over four hundred. Surely they were being looked after in every sense of the word,

"And tell Miss Samson that I will visit the nursery within the hour and that my sons are to be dressed and informed of my coming."

Andrew smiled, amused at the thought of little Stephen and Frederick snapping to attention in their father's presence.

"And tell Mary that I would like to see her at dinner tonight."

Andrew stood alert. Trouble there. Mary had found a safe refuge in her mother's chambers and he doubted seriously if she would willingly comply with John's wishes—not after her recent humiliation. Still, he would try.

He glanced across at the man standing stiffly behind the desk. "Anything else, John?"

The direct question elicited no response, though a few minutes later he saw John come out from behind his desk and start wordlessly toward the door.

"John? Where are vou—"

"See to it, Andrew. Everything.'*

"But I had thought that we might—"

"I'll be back within the hour."

"But where are you— May I—"

"See to everything!"

Andrew ceased his questioning. It didn't hurt so much to deal with this John.

But he was in no way prepared for the scarcely audible voice now coming from the door. "I'm sorry, Andrew, if I've tarnished your reputation. It was not my intention to be a stigma to those I love most."

Self-pity was there. But something else as well, the incredible realization that John was assessing his own worth in terms of those guests who'd spurned him.

Andrew stared at the bowed figure. When at last he'd found his tongue it was too late, John passing through the door, impervious to Andrew's repeated calls of: "John—wait—"

Mystified, the echo of that last ridiculous apology ringing in his ears, Andrew went immediately to the window, which gave a view of the courtyard below. A few minutes later John came into sight, walking at that same steady pace past the watchmen, who roused themselves long enough to bow before their master.

But as far as Andrew could see, John was not even aware of their presence, and continued walking, head down, hands clasped behind his back, chained internally by some overpowering drive.

It was alarm, coupled with curiosity, which suggested to Andrew that perhaps John should be followed. That he was caught in a deep depression there was no doubt.

Hurriedly Andrew left the room and traced John's steps down the stairs through the Great Hall, past the servants, who tried to look busy, on through the doors and out into the late-afternoon sun.

Fm sorry, Andrew, if I have tarnished your reputation—

His thoughts took him the length of the castle, where at the northwest corner he stopped, his eyes scanning the gardens which

stretched before him in colorful profusion. But there was not a sight of John.

Whatever demons were at the moment grappling with his soul, Andrew suddenly felt generously inclined to let John deal with them alone. The mood would pass. They always did. Next week, when they were back on familiar London ground, rushing from one building site to another, then Andrew would find a way to tell John what was in his heart, that though there had been difficult occasions on which his love had faltered, that love was still very present, and, contrary to tarnishing Andrew's reputation, he considered his association with John to be the richest aspect of his life.

He had just started back down the cool damp path when his eye fell on movement coming from an unlikely place, the graveyard, that cloistered area hidden behind high walls where every Eden for the last six hundred years had been buried.