The Women of Eden (37 page)

"Mrs. Eden, can you hear us?"

It was the doctor again. "Yes," she murmured, and tried again to blink the stranger into focus.

"This is Mr. Parnell, milady. And I beg you to inform him that you are being well looked after, as that is the message he will convey to your husband."

Bewildered, Lila stared back at the two, who seemed more than willing to stare down on her.

"Leave us!" Mr. Parnell ordered. When at first the doctor did not move, he said again, louder, "Leave us, I say," in the tone of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

"Only for a few minutes," the doctor said, retreating to the door.

Alone with a man she hardly knew, Lila suffered embarrassment and, fearful that the lump growing in her belly was visible beneath the linen, she lightly drew up her knees and for her efforts suffered pain as excruciating as any she'd ever experienced. She clutched at her stomach and pressed her head back into the pillow.

A few moments later it blessedly receded and left her gasping. Glancing to her right, she saw that it was Mr. Parnell. "Please." She smiled, wanting him to come closer.

Out of that shocked face words evolved. "Mrs. Eden," he questioned, as though he, too, were having problems of recognition. "I was told you were ill, but—"

"Please come closer, Mr. Parnell," she said. Her energy was limited and she wanted desperately to speak with him before the doctor returned,

"Did you—come from my husband?" she asked, extending a hand toward him, which he kindly took and enclosed in his own.

"No," he told her, truthfully. "I've been in London, but I did not see your husband and, forgive me, but I had little desire to see him/* He leaned closer. "Does he know that you are—ill?"

She shook her head. "He thinks that I am—"

"Then he should be informed. Obviously all is not well with your confinement. You need skilled attention if a healthy babe is to be—"

She closed her eyes. "There is no babe, Mr. Parnell," she whispered. "I've tried to tell them all that, but they won't believe me."

"But I was told that—"

"There is no babe," she repeated, wasting precious energy. She'd long since given up trying to convince the women and the doctor. But Mr. Parnell was different. Why didn't he—

"Then—you are not carrying a child?"

"No," she repeated, and felt her energy dwindling and realized that she had to make her request while she still could.

"Please, Mr. Parnell," she whispered, "you must listen to me. Would you—find my father for me, and tell him—I need him?"

"Lord Harrington?"

She nodded. "He went back to London with John. I want to see him—before I die, and there's not much time. . . ."

"Before you die?" Parnell smiled, trying to lighten her mood and lift her spirits. "You've produced two healthy babes, Mrs. Eden. There is no reason why—"

"Find my father, please, Mr. Parnell," she begged. "Tell him I must—see him."

Something in her voice sobered him. He nodded, though she couldn't tell if he meant it or not. The pain was increasing again. She tried to lie still, but there was no position of ease, and ultimately she had no choice but to flatten her legs, the protuberance visible now beneath the sheet, her hands supporting it, trying to cover it, to rip it from her body, anything to bring her ease.

Throughout this new agony she was aware of Parnell calling for the doctor. A short time later she felt her head being lifted, was aware of a vial pressed to her lips, the sweet, dark brown fluid which normally she refused because it plunged her into an endless sleep.

But now she welcomed it, swallowed deeply, uncaring of the trickle which ran down the side of her chin.

As the substance burned into her throat, she opened her eyes to see the doctor raising up from bending over her, his white hair seeming to float about his head. He was saying something to someone, but all she could hear were unrelated words.

"She doesn't want the babe, you see—denies it constantly—Mr. Eden fears she will destroy it—must keep her—quiet—"

"She appears to be in great pain."

"Imaginary—an interesting case—a woman refusing to perform her duty."

"Then-she's-well?"

"Not well—a complicated delivery, I'm sure—but no need to alarm Mr. Eden."

"She spoke of—dying."

"She won't die."

Then she had no more desire to listen. The elixir was beginning to take effect, a pleasant lassitude extending to all her limbs, obliterating the sensation of feet and hands, numbing the pain.

Her last clear thought was one of sadness. Mr. Parnell would not relay the message for her. No one would come until it was too late. She would be forced to enter that distant realm alone. If only she knew for certain-Sad, too, was her realization of how ill-equipped she'd been for this world. Wolf had tried to warn her, but she hadn't listened, and now he, too, had abandoned her.

Someone was crying within her, but she was certain that the tears were deep and would never be visible to anyone in this world.

Everyone dies, she thought, and that simple perception eased her fears. If only she could see her garden one more time.

The numbness was almost complete, only one small portion of her brain still speaking to her, kindly reminding her that surely on the other side there would be flowers. . . .

Relieved that it was almost over, Cockburn walked to the carriage with the gentleman, lying with every breath to assure himself of a good report to Mr. Eden.

"It's a c-classic case, really, Mr.—"

"Parnell."

"Yes. A classic case of a reluctant wife. Not a very pretty one, I

concede, as you have recently seen for yourself, but nothing to concern y-yourself with."

Unfortunately there still was a predominant expression of concern on the intruder's face which had to be eased before Cockburn could send him on his way.

"She appears to be suffering so," the man said falteringly, his head down as tiiough trying to rid his vision of Hngering images of the sickroom.

"All concocted, I assure you," Cockburn reassured him. "You see, it happens every time. I saw Mrs. Eden through her first two confinements and it was the same then, refusing to admit to her swelling belly, totally bedridden the last few months, r-refusing to eat. But"— and soundly he shook his head—"here is the paradox: once the babes have emerged from her womb, I've never seen a more loving m-mother. Dotes on them, she does, refuses to let a wet-nurse come near them." He shook his head for emphasis. "M-most curious it is."

The gentleman looked down on him, still undone, wiping his forehead with a large, mussed handkerchief. "I don't think I'll return to London," he called down from his carriage door. "I'm sure I'm needed at home, and I'll send my report in writing."

Excellentl Cockburn couldn't have asked for more. How calm a written report would be, nothing of the gentleman's undone expression to give himself away.

Now, as the man gave his driver the signal to start, Cockburn called out, "A safe journey, Mr.—" Why couldn't he remember the name? Then it made no difference, as the carriage was picking up speed, rattling through the Gatehouse, veering sharply to the right, heading toward the channel road, London safely in the opposite direction.

Cockburn waved, though it was a perfunctory gesture. Feeling the need to stretch his legs, he walked the short distance to the Gatehouse, where Just over the castle wall he saw the dust stirred by the departing carriage.

He nodded to the watchmen, who were just lowering the grilles, then he looked back at the immense fagade of Eden Castle and felt a flair of pride that his long and generally undistinguished career had led him here. God saves the best for last, he mused, and decided to forgo his final check of the day on Mrs. Eden. Like the gentleman who had recently departed, he'd had enough of her suffering for one day. The elixir would see her through the night, and come morning

he would examine her again, see if he could discern any changes in her swollen belly, try to determine how much life was left in her.

Just as he started up the Great Hall stairs, he heard a curious noise, the sound of a carriage traveling at a tremendous rate of speed down the channel road. He glanced back toward the Gatehouse and saw the watchmen peering through the grilles, their faces turned in anticipation of the rising dust cloud.

What in the— At that moment a carriage traveling at an unsafe speed rumbled past the Gatehouse, its specifics blurred under the duress of speed, the dust clouds billowing through the grilles, causing the watchmen to turn away.

Curious, Cockburn stood at the top of the steps and listened to the carriage as it rattled out across the moors, heading toward the turnpike road and London.

"Did you see who that was?" he shouted at the watchmen.

"No, sir, not clearly," one replied. "Looked like the gint who just left."

Cockburn stared down through the shimmering heat waves of the unseasonably hot September. It wasn't possible. Why should the gentleman change his mind and inconvenience himself with a prolonged trip to London?

No, it probably was just a traveler, lost, trying to make up time.

Satisfied, he turned back into the shade of the Great Hall, reminding himself that before long he must go down into Mortemouth and check on the progress of the whore's belly.

My Gawd, what a lot his was, for all his new wardrobe and fancy chambers! While other men went about important business, he was forced to mark time by the swellings of female bellies. If he had it to do all over again, though pray God no, he'd go to sea, he would, where there were no such embarrassments as suffering females. . . .

London Late September 1870

From where Andrew Rhoades sat, John resembled a storm which had at last raged itself out. Suffering an uncomfortable mix of sorrow and annoyance for his friend, Andrew stood by the fire in Elizabeth's drawing room and watched the man slump in the chair, his legs extended before him, his fingers forming a tent before his face, his eyes lost in shadows created by sleepless nights and misplaced fury.

After an obsessive three months, during which time John had neglected everything, at last the rage had exhausted itself, though Andrew knew from experience that a brooding John was frequently worse than a raging one.

Since luncheon and shortly after Mary had left for her daily ride along Rotten Row—the young woman was becoming an obsessive horsewoman, riding daily, rain or shine—John had sat in brooding silence, listening to everything Andrew had said but not responding in any way.

Elizabeth had gone out a short time ago, seeking refuge at Charlie Bradlaugh's. And Lord Harrington had not even bothered to appear today, though where he had sought refuge Andrew had no idea.

The only person in the drawing room with him enduring John's silence was Dhari. Andrew glanced in her direction, feeding on her beauty.

Busily engaged in her needlework, she was not aware of Andrew watching her. Then she was and, as her needle came to a halt, she looked at him, her communication clear, her eyes filled with their secret, the love which had so unexpectedly flowered between them.

Having sunendered to it for the first time just since their return

from Eden, Andrew suspected that he had loved her always, since that first night years ago when she had appeared out of that cold December night at John's side, starved and half-frozen.

During all those intervening years he'd mistakenly interpreted his love as pity. But after the initial shock, pity had faded in importance. There was nothing pitiable in that living portrait of serenity, nothing pitiable in her courage and passive strength. And though once she had been John's, now she belonged to Andrew by her own consent, and as soon as a degree of equilibrium could be restored to all their lives, it was Andrew's intention to speak openly to John, ask him to release Dhari from whatever bondage bound her to him, so that he might make her his wife.

The thought rendered him numb with happiness. It had merely been the dream of his life to acquire the stability' of his own home, children, a woman who loved him in spite of his many faults.

So engrossed was he in this dream and the soft reciprocal smile on Dhari's face, Andrew at first was not aware of the man slumped in the chair, his position unchanged except for his eyes, which were now watching them.

Jarred back to the present by the intensity of John's gaze, Andrew faltered, pushed away from the mantel and tried to address himself to the matter at hand.

Not too difficult, that. The "matter at hand" was the same as it had been for the last three months and, although he loathed himself for his idiotlike repetition, he said again, "So, as I've pointed out, John, it would serve no purpose, except do further damage to yourself and surely we don't want that."

He wasn't certain whether or not John had made the transition with him. They had, minutes before, been discussing the possibility of bringing charges against the Times, thereby forcing the editorial staff to reveal the true identity of Lord Ripples, which if successful would lead to a new round of suits aimed at Lord Ripples himself, charging among other things slander and character assassination. For the last several weeks John had insisted that Andrew, as his solicitor, launch such proceedings. Andrew had tried to point out the folly of such a step.

First he was not certain that there were grounds. Similar cases in the past had been leveled at the Times, as well as other London papers, more severe cases than this one, charges leveled at certain statesmen and even members of the Cabinet. A few weak efforts at

restitution on the part of the injured parties had resulted in making them look like greater fools, while the editorial staff of the Times had emerged stronger than ever. The magistrates, while sympathetic^ seemed to have greater respect for a free and unencumbered press.

In Andrew's opinion, any thinking magistrate would throw them all out of court on their ears, but not before other journalists had resurrected the entire affair in the current press, thus rekindling the fires of embarrassment, which after three long months had almost burned themselves out.