The Women of Eden (35 page)

"I'm sorry." He smiled. "You first."

She lowered her head as though embarrassed. "I—just wanted to apologize again—"

"No need-"

"—for your recent embarrassment at the hands of my cousin."

He'd not expected this. Still he felt touched by her need for apology.

"It was a pleasant evening, in spite of all," he said.

"How could it have been?" she demanded. "He purposefully set out to humiliate you."

"I don't think so. We simply were at cross-purposes, that's all."

Suddenly her mood changed, became businesslike. "I don't mean to detain you, Mr. Stanhope," she said, starting to rise.

"You're not detaining me. Please. Rest a bit longer. You had quite a scare."

She laughed. "Oh, not really. I knew the gentleman would come to his senses sooner or later. It was just a harmless afternoon's sport, that's all, to counterbalance the—"

She stopped speaking and closed her eyes. He sensed a new emotion in her, very close to the surface.

"To counterbalance what. Lady Mary?"

"I'm afraid that the household where I reside is not a very pleasant one at the moment," she confessed quietly. She gazed out at the sun on the riotous flowers. "Have you ever felt, Mr. Stanhope," she asked, staring at the flowers, "that you have no true place in the worid, that in spite of its vastness that, just when you think you've found a niche that might suit you, someone comes along and says, 'No, you can't stay there,' or, 'No, that's mine,' or, 'No, that won't do for you at all. . .'"

Her voice drifted off into the sun, taking Burke's attention with it.

Slowly she went on. "Of course Elizabeth says it's just because I'm young, that in time—"

"Time has nothing to do with it," Burke said quietly.

She looked up at him. "Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Yes."

Never had he seen such a look of soft sympathy in any eyes, particularly not in such beautiful ones.

"How selfish of me," she murmured. "How far away from home you are and—"

"No farther than you, Lady Mary." He smiled. "As age has nothing to do with it, neither has geography."

"Then what is it?" she asked earnestly.

He faltered. Although he knew precisely what she was talking about, he'd never analyzed it thoroughly. Part of the natural human complexity he'd assumed, something to do with one's expectations of life, with memories, with love. Yes, one's capacity to love and be loved certainly had something to do with it.

"I'm sorry I asked such a foolish question," she said, returning her handkerchief to her pocket.

"It wasn't foolish," he said, fearful that her movements signaled her desire to end the conversation. "It's just that I have no ready answer—at least not an infallible one."

She glanced over at him, something in her expression which suggested that each time she looked at him she saw something new. Under this close scrutiny, he felt as self-conscious as a schoolboy. In an attempt to break the mood yet retain the intimacy of the conversation, he walked a few feet away, resting his boot on the brick border which surrounded the flowers.

"Forgive me. Lady Mary," he began, not looking at her, "but earlier you said that the house in which you are residing is not a very pleasant one. Is there anything that I can do . . ."

For a moment she looked as though she would not speak further and sat worrying a loose stone with the toe of her boot. "You met my cousin, Mr. Stanhope. Surely in that one unhappy meeting you saw him to be a man who does not like to be challenged or offended."

"And someone has offended him?" Burke asked, knowing better.

She looked up from the loose stone. "You haven't heard?" she asked, surprised. "Or, more accurately, read—"

Not wanting to lie, Burke retained an interested silence and hoped that she would speak further.

And she did, seeming to warm to the subject. "A journalist," she began. "An anonymous journalist wrote a column several days ago which appeared in the London Times. From his writing it was obvious that he'd been a recent guest at Eden, The article is—"

She hesitated and he waited, anxious to hear her opinion of Lord Ripples' words. "The article is—what. Lady Mary?"

"Devastating to my cousin," she replied, concealing her own opinion.

"And the words of—this anonymous journalist have upset him?"

"Upset him?" she repeated, rising from the bench and following after him to the edge of the flowers. "He has done nothing but rage since it appeared. He seems to demand an audience. Everyone must be present to hear and see him, and yet he listens to no one. Poor Andrew has been talking his head off for over a week, but John won't hear. And in the meantime life for all of us has come to a standstill."

She was very close to him now, less than a foot away, her hands relaxed at her sides.

"And this—Andrew," he commenced, under duress. "Does he suggest a course of action?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "His advice is to ignore it, that to do anything else would merely call more public attention to the affair and make it worse."

"And I take it your cousin does not agree?"

"No," she said and walked a few steps beyond. "No, not John," she repeated, her voice fading as she walked away.

Abruptly she bent over to caress a long stalk, heavy with royal blue delphinium. "In Lila's garden there is a dark purple variety, so lovely . . ." she said to no one in particular, her fingers gently studying the design of the flower.

Burke watched her, hypnotized, each gesture, no matter how small, appearing like a miracle before him.

"Poor Lila," she said mysteriously, her mood shifting from admiration of the flower to one of compassion. "Poor everybody." She smiled, lifting her eyes to Burke. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stanhope. I must sound as senseless and deranged as an old—"

"Not at all," he reassured her, and bridged the distance between them and, with a daring born from the need to be close to her, he suggested, "Would you care to walk?" and extended his arm.

"For a while," she agreed, though she looked apprehensively over her shoulder toward the bridle path.

As they strolled along the graveled path, Burke was aware of how small she was, barely topping his shoulder, not petite, for her figure was full. How attractive she must have appeared to the old gentleman who mistakenly believed he had bought her for the afternoon.

He had thought to guide her back to the subject of John Murrey Eden, but instead he spoke in a different vein. "No chance, I suppose, of your gracing old Sims' stage again in the near future?"

Abruptly she stopped and disengaged her hand from his arm. "No," she murmured, "and please, never say anything to—"

The walk so recently commenced was brought to a halt. Looking down he saw new fear on her face and felt a surge of anger, questioning the right of any human being to cause such a look on another human face.

"Your cousin?" he asked, knowing it was none of his business and knowing further that she was perfectly within her rights to tell him so.

But she didn't. "Were you at Jeremy's every night, Mr. Stanhope?"

"Every night that you were there." He smiled. "The pattern seemed to evolve into Thursdays, if I recall."

"The safest night, according to Elizabeth. The night when Jeremy's place was bound to be half-empty."

"It wasn't half-empty when you were there."

"No," she replied in quiet self-satisfaction. She began to walk ahead of him, her head down as though lost in lovely though dim memories.

He followed after, content to watch her from all angles, and took careful note of new riches: the soft white canal which ran the length of her neck and disappeared into the ruffle of her jacket; the curious

manner in which she took a step, then rose up on her toes as though she would have preferred, if it had been ladyhke, to skip; the tiny shell of an ear just barely visible beneath the hair drawn loosely back into a knot.

As they were approaching the place where they had started, having encircled the garden once, he saw her glance toward their horses, placidly munching on summer grass.

"Do you come here every day, Mr. Stanhope?*' she asked.

He shook his head, laughing. "I've never been here before in my hfe."

"I—don't understand—'

"You brought me here today, Lady Mary. Surely you were aware of that." It had not been his intention to make this confession, but as long as the explanation was partially launched, he might as well complete it.

He drew close. "With your forgiveness, I determined some days ago that you rode here in the afternoons. I went out at dawn this morning to Smithfields, purchased that creature over there, who with one exception has served me well, purchased in addition all the necessary equipment to mount him properly, followed you along Rotten Row and promptly lost you, only to rediscover you a short time ago."

He'd not looked at her during this explanation, and now that he had completed his confession, he found that he dreaded doing so. What if she misinterpreted his intentions?

At last he found the courage and looked slowly up to see her returning his gaze.

"I'm—not certain I understand—"

"I had to see you again," he replied simply. "Since Jeremy Sims' is now a barren place and since our waltz was interrupted at Eden and since I was fairly certain that I would not be granted the honor of calling on you formally"—he smiled and shrugged—I took matters into my own hands."

"Then you did not appear by accident this afternoon?"

"Not at all."

"And what do you intend to do with that handsome horse which you have ridden only once?"

"Ride him daily, if you'll be here."

He was being very forward and he knew it, and knew further that she had a perfect right as a lady to walk away and not address him.

Stopping by the bench to retrieve her hat, she seemed unwilling to speak further.

How foohsh of him. He'd spoken far too bluntly. Inexperienced and out of touch with matters of the heart, he'd forgotten that the pursuit must be delicate and subtle.

He watched as she adjusted her hat, ready to rejoin her maid and driver, who must not know or even suspect that she had just spent the last half-hour in questionable isolation with an American gentleman.

Praying that she would speak and somehow cancel out his blunt confession, he saw her walk wordlessly beyond the arbor to the tree where he had secured their horses. He followed after her, keeping his distance, convinced that he had caused her offense.

On the verge of calling "Wait," he saw her stop, a look of concentration on her face as she studied the reins in her hands.

"I thank you again, Mr. Stanhope, for your timely appearance," she said with disheartening formality, as though nothing at all had passed between them.

Apparently she'd said all she wanted to say and now led the black stallion a good ten yards farther before she stopped and looked back in his direction. "Tomorrow afternoon, then, Mr. Stanhope, about half-past three, here in the garden?"

She didn't smile, nothing so warming as that. Then she was gone, a small determined figure making her way through the park, leading her horse behind her, as self-possessed as though nothing at all unpleasant had occuned that afternoon.

Tomorrow afternoon. Half-past three-He stared as though someone had forbidden him to move, and watched her progress across the expanse of the park, moving toward the late-aftemoon light of the street, where the carriages awaited the riders, one carriage in particular which would take her back into the "unpleasantness" of Number Seven, St. George Street.

A sharp regret there. Foolishly it had never occurred to him that Lord Ripples' pen would cause her grief, and he was sorry for that.

He looked up as though in need of one last reassuring glimpse. But she was gone, and her absence pressed against him like a major deprivation, as though something that his soul had not even known it required had been taken from him.

He tried to find a direction, something worthy of his attention.

But there was nothing significant enough to distract him from the curious feehng of weakness which now crept over him.

In this mood and with no other options before him, he turned back into the garden and, in an attempt to re-create her presence by sheer force of memory, he commenced walking slowly along the gravel path, head down, holding himself very steady, as though he were an invalid recovering from a long and serious illness. . . .

There was a disturbance opposite her in the carriage, an annoying disturbance which shattered the quiet newly risen within her.

"Where were you? I sent Jason twice in search of you. If you think it's easy accompanying you here every day, you are very mistaken."

Mary tried politely not to listen. Somehow she had the feeling that, like John, the disturbance demanded an audience but not a response.

She wouldn't mind obliging the screeching voice, except that all her thoughts and feelings were actively involved with that most incredible revelation, that he had sought her out, had gone to great trouble and expense to follow her here, and that they would meet again the following day.

EflEortlessly she conjured up his image. The only word that accurately described his face was beautiful. Something about his eyes, or more accurately the way he had looked at her, something very steady. She had never met anyone who had looked at her so—agreeably.

"There! That's a much more suitable expression," the disturbance pronounced, the voice less shrill. "What you must understand, Lady Mary, is that, what with all the present trouble, the two of us don't want to add to it, now do we? Poor Mr. Eden. I know he treated you badly today, but then he has his grief, too, now don't he?"

That was better, a pleasant tone of voice, sorrowful and compassionate.

He wanted to see me, went to great trouble to do so.

Mary closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her lips, fearful that she would laugh aloud, some irrational behavior which would alert Doris and cause her to lecture again.

No, joy must be concealed, as though joy were not a respectable emotion. But no matter. Tomorrow would come, and she would see him again.