The Women of Eden (72 page)

He stared glumly down at the letter in his hand which had just been delivered by a road-dusty courier all the way from Cheltenham, or so the bloke said. In consideration, Alex had sent him down to the kitchen for food, and now peered out at Lord Richard's rapidly departing carriage.

Something was going on, but what in the hell he had no idea. First, about ten minutes ago, that young lady—what was her name? Lady Eleanor—had come running down the stairs without a goodbye, hello or thank you, and had disappeared into the night. Alex had tried to stop her but she'd not even taken time to fetch her cloak.

While he'd still been pondering that mystery, here came Lord Richard, almost knocking down a couple of stewards in his speedy exit.

A moment after that Aslam had appeared, looking like something passed over, though unlike the other two who had raced out the front door, the boy's goal had been at the top of the house, for he'd taken the steps upward three at a time.

Just as Alex had started up the stairs after him, a steward had summoned his attention to the front door and the courier, who had in-

formed him in rural dialect that "This here were to be placed direct in the hands of Mr. John Murrey Eden."

As he started again up the stairs, he wished that John would release him from all these "socializing" duties. He didn't do them well, and they exhausted him. He was best suited by nature and training to be a foreman of men and he was never happier than when he was watching the giant shovels break virgin ground for some new building project for John Murrey Firm.

His thoughts took him all the way up the stairs to the fourth floor, where behind the closed door he heard John's voice raised in anger. Alex lifted his hand, knocked once and peered in to see John in his dressing gown hovering over Aslam, who was seated on the sofa with bowed head.

"You idiot!" he shouted. "Dolt!"

"I—thought—he knew," Aslam stammered.

"Get out!" John commanded. "The sight of you sickens me. Get out!"

As the young man stumbled upward, then past him, Alex moved to one side, and his heart went out to him. He looked bereft. Alex made a mental note to seek him out later and remind him that John's rages frequently meant nothing.

"What do you want?" John demanded, summoning Alex's attention back to the chamber.

Experienced enough not to be intimidated by this complex man, Alex smiled. "How did the lad err, John?" he asked.

"That's none of your business!" John snapped. "What is it?"

He was testy tonight. "This was just delivered," Alex said, approaching the fireplace and the man brooding before it, "by special courier. I was told to place it in your hands direct."

John looked up. "What is it?"

"From Cheltenham it is. Do you want me to read it?"

John stared at the letter as though it were a curse from God. "Please do, Alex," he murmured and pushed away from the mantel and made his way to the sideboard, where he poured a brandy, dovmed it in one gulp, then leaned heavily forward.

Considerately Alex waited, thinking that the brandy would fortify him. But when he continued to stand in that stiffened manner, Alex slipped his finger beneath the seal, withdrew a single piece of paper and read the brief message for himself.

Dear Lord—

He glanced back at John. What were the fates trying to do? Destroy him? "It's from that—Miss Veal," he said, wishing that he'd sent a steward up with the letter. "She says she is compelled to inform you that—Lady Mary Eden has run away from the school and, while she is exerting every effort to locate her, the search thus far has been fruitless and she wishes for you to release her from any further responsibility."

Alex braced himself for new outrage, suspecting that this time it would be aimed at him. There was always a point of confusion between the message and the messenger. Thus armed with understanding, Alex continued to wait. Well, where was it? The outrage?

But it never came, though what did occur was worse. John lifted his head to the ceiling, as though he were silently entreating the Divinity to have mercy. "I'll leave for Cheltenham tomorrow. See that my carriage is ready."

That was all. He walked slowly into his bedchamber and closed the door behind him, and Alex was left alone, staring at the closed door, searching his memories of his long association with John Murrey Eden trying to recall a similar reaction.

But he couldn't. The fury of a lifetime apparently had been depleted and in its place was—what?

Though weakened by shame, Eleanor had retained enough strength and presence of mind to know that she must flee the house, and accordingly she had run cloakless out into the night and had taken refuge in one of the waiting hansom cabs.

Shivering from cold and her recent humiliation, she had drawn the fur rug up about her and had just been on the verge of giving the driver the address of her father's town house when, looking back, she had seen Richard leave the house.

In desperate need, she'd dared to hope that he was coming after her. But no. Something in his manner suggested a crucible at least as great as her own and, motivated by love, she'd waited until his carriage had passed her by, then had given her driver instructions to follow after.

For over an hour the carriages had cut an aimless path up and dovm the London streets and, just when she had despaired that he would ever select a destination, she saw his carriage roll to a stop on a high plateau on the outskirts of London overlooking the Heath.

Certain that he had seen the cab and must know that he was

being followed, she waited about twenty yards away. When there still was no sign of life coming from within the carriage, she left her cab and walked across the brown stubble of grass, the wind even sharper up here, until she stood at his carriage door, trying to see him through the darkness.

"Richard?"

Then she saw him and saw too much, saw a face which resembled a dead man's, his eyes staring at her as though in his mysterious grief he didn't recognize her.

Unable to abide such a look, and forgetting her own recent ordeal, she climbed up into the carriage and was instantly rewarded with the most treasured gift of her imagination, his arms about her in embrace, the two of them clinging to each other, comforting and being comforted.

For several moments they held each other with no words spoken. It was clear to her that tv^dn nightmares had brought them together and, while the specifics of his were still unknown to her, all that mattered was that they were together.

"Let's leave London," she whispered, and while there was no positive response there were no objections either.

In spite of everything that had happened, with the practicality and strength that was basic to her nature, she took control, sensing that he would always let her take control.

"Let's go to Forbes Hall," she murmured, smoothing his brow as though he were an injured child. "You'll like it there, I know."

Still, when there was no objection coming from the drawn face, she took matters into her own hands, extended her purse out the window to his driver with instructions to pay oflF the cab, then, with a daring which left her breathless, gave him directions to her childhood home in Kent.

"Make an easy drive of it," she called out. "Noon tomorrow should see us safely there.**

As the carriage rolled forward she drew up the fur rug over both of them and looked again at his face.

"Oh, my darhng," she whispered and drew him close and felt his hand tighten on hers beneath the rug.

Giving herself wholly to the rocking motion of the carriage, she closed her eyes, impressed with the ability of the world to transform itself so rapidly from a nightmare to a dream.

Oxford January 17, 1871

For three days and two nights Burke maintained a constant vigil at her bedside, never once leaving the small room, never leaving his chair except to receive fresh linen and a bit of food now and then from Giffen at the door. Approaching the third night, his hope diminishing in exhaustion and fear, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared down on her, searching for the slightest change in the premature death mask.

But there was nothing, even less today than yesterday when she'd passed through a restless period, cr^'ing out several times in her delirium. It could not persist. The old physician had said as much. Tonight, tomorrow at the latest, the fever would either break or kill her.

"No," he whispered and shook his head, as though to postpone the inevitable. Fearing the night, he turned up the lamp and, as it flared brightly he allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes and tried to remember the circumstances which had led him here to this death watch.

In need as acute as any he'd ever experienced, he stretched out his hand in another direction, toward her, and let it rest on her arm. He prayed silently that if Death came for her, let it take him as well.

How long he remained thus he had no idea. He must have lost consciousness, though it could scarcely be called sleep. Now what was that dragging him back from that safe darkness?

With his face pressed against her hand, he felt movement, so slight as to be hardly discernible, some force moving her hand, the fingers extending . . .

He raised up. Had he imagined it? Had he wanted movement so desperately that he had conjured it up by himself? He continued to stare with such intensity at her hand that it grew blurred before his eyes and, as though viewing it under water, he saw it again, the fingers straightening, the entire hand lifting.

On his feet, he pressed his head against her heart. It beat faintly but evenly. In spite of his own thunderous pulse he called quietly to her. "Mary? Can you hear me?"

He held his breath, then cautiously smoothed her cheek. First he kissed her closed eyes, then her lips, then he drew back and waited.

Her hand was moving again, as was her head, a faint shifting on the pillow.

"Mary, look at me, please," he begged. "I'm here. Can you—"

Slowly her eyes opened and moved unfocused about the room and at last stopped on him. "Burke—"

He lifted her to him and felt the back of her nightdress wet from the breaking fever.

So there was to be a path beyond this simple country inn! Then Burke ceased thinking and listened to the voices that seemed to be talking joyfully within him.

Two days later, though still weakened to the extent that it was an effort to hold her eyes open, Mary lay back against the pillow and tried to make sense out of this heaven into which she had awakened.

Beyond the foot of the bed a blaze of bright winter sun cast a glow on the specifics of the unfamiliar chamber. She'd never been here before, but she confessed to herself that she would be content to pass the rest of her life here so long as one face remained constant.

His-

Slowly she turned, wanting confirmation of his presence, though not needing it. He was always there, seated in that worn chair, looking equally worn, frequently dozing like now, rising to tend to her or receive a few necessities which were brought to the door by the man named Giffen. She had met him only that morning and he'd seemed so pleased to find her awake.

She gazed upon Burke's sleeping face and tried to recall the incredible story he'd told her in patient repetition, once yesterday, twice today. It was like the stories old Aggie Fletcher used to tell her when she was little, repetitious fairy tales, so familiar that Mary

knew those parts of the narrative that would please her, the parts that would frighten her.

With only one or two exceptions, Burke's story in its entirety had frightened her. She liked the part where he'd posed as a London journalist to gain admission to Miss Veal's school and, though it made her cry, she always enjoyed hearing about Frieda's efforts and loyalty on her behalf.

But the rest of it terrified her: Burke's account of his visit to Elizabeth, the discovery of the second note, John's hand behind it, behind everything.

As the specifics of the nightmare pressed against her, she opened her eyes and found Burke again. Though he'd talked long and hard, he'd never once asked about her ordeal and she'd never mentioned it. If it had mattered to him, he'd shown no indication of it.

She looked toward the chair and the man sleeping and offered up a simple prayer, that she never again be separated from him, that for the duration of the days God had allotted to her she be allowed always to move around him, to look upon him, to touch his hand and care for him, to comfort him, to love him in all the ways that it was ordained for a woman to love a man.

Was it asking too much?

As she wiped away tears she saw movement, his head twisting from the awkwardness of his position. While she was trying to restore her face, he came up out of the chair and hovered over her in alarm, having seen the tears and assuming that they meant distress.

"Mary? May I fetch—"

She shook her head and reached for his hand. "No."

He sat on the edge of the bed. "Giffen promised beef broth today." He smiled. "He said it would give you strength of an ox. Perhaps I should go and see—"

"Not yet," she begged.

"Did you sleep?"

She shook her head. "According to you, I've been asleep for the last five days. That should serve for a while."

"It wasn't sleep. You were ill."

As he talked, she lightly caressed his face, tracing with one finger the line which stretched across his brow and down the bridge of his nose, then his lips, where gently he kissed her fingertips.

Moved by the tender inspection, he bent over and kissed her.

Without warning she thought of the nightmare in the park. "Burke-"

But she found she couldn't speak, and in the silence her ordeal became clearer, sensations she thought she'd banished forever, the heavy weight, the odor of which she would never cleanse herself.

Unable to say how it happened, she was crying and in his arms, aware of his fear as he held her, begging, "What is it, Mary? Please tell me-"

Then he knew. Without a word from her he knew, for he held her even more tightly. "It's over, Mary, It doesn't matter."