In his mind's eye he saw it so clearly, and every other splendid detail of the new Eden, for every decision had rested with him, every command to carve, to chisel, to enlarge, to paint, had come from him. For over eight years he'd caused an army of artisans and craftsmen to move to the lift of his hand.
In the delirious excitement of his own accomplishment, he forgot about Lila and ran down the steps like a child, taking delight in each turned corner, aware of the beginning of the marble pavement, bracing himself for the magnificent new gilt staircase which took the place of the old wooden one, a single majestic descent to the Great Hall, the new gallery running out on all sides, its gilt ironwork glittering under the six massive chandeliers, each supporting two thousand candles.
At the far end of the Great Hall he saw eight watchmen standing guard near the door. They looked up in his direction and one took a step forward. But apparently a second closer look had revealed his identity and now all eight men made a respectful bow and turned
their backs, as though they knew better than to intrude into the privacy of their master.
Feehng a bit sheepish for having been discovered prowHng about in his dressing robe, John started to retreat back up the stairs. But again the problem confronted him. Where would he go? He had no appetite for the emptiness of his own chambers, and Lord Harrington was probably abed by now.
Of course there was Andrew, loyal Andrew, but if Andrew wasn't asleep he should be. Only that evening at table John had noticed the look of fatigue on his friend's face. And why not? John had placed heavy burdens on Andrew, had placed the full weight of his London operations on him while Eden was being completed. No, he would not disturb Andrew on this evening though it baffled him how the man could sleep, how any of them could sleep on the eve of such a momentous occasion.
He walked aimlessly about the Great Hall, stepping with his bare feet schoolboy fashion on only the white squares of marble, aware of how foolish he must appear to the watchmen, but uncaring.
At the exact center of the Great Hall he lifted his head and looked directly up into the dazzling chandeliers, their illumination momentarily blinding him and causing a stinging about his eyes, his emotions close to the surface, as without warning he thought of that rain-drenched young boy who had stood in this exact spot over twenty years ago, fatherless, penniless, announcing to Harriet that his name was John Murrey Eden and that he had come home.
The memory, so unexpected, led to others, and suddenly he looked up the staircase as though somone had called to him.
Of course there was no one there, and he shivered in the emptiness. If only Elizabeth were here. Well, she would be tomorrow, and Mary would be with her, his adored cousin, who would have to play the role of his daughter until Lila could—
The thought caused a small death, and aware of the watchmen's eyes upon him, he moved out of the Great Hall and took refuge in the library, an equally elegant and massive room, with walls of leather-bound volumes, a black marble fireplace at the far end, and resting before the fireplace the enormous shroud-covered painting of "The Women of Eden," where next week it would be unveiled and raised to a position of honor above the mantel.
Settling into a nearby armchair, John stared fixedly at the covered canvas.
The painting was remarkable. After his initial shock, John had been forced to concede the point, still seeing, in spite of the shroud, the revolutionary rendering of four women, all recognizable as Lila, Dhari, Elizabeth and Mary, But there the recognition stopped, as in various sensuous poses they gazed out over a white marble parapet at a vast blue Mediterranean sea below, their Roman garb merely an ephemeral film which scarcely covered their bodies, and indeed Dhari's breasts were visible beneath the yellow transparency which clung under the pressure of a mild wind. Precisely how the Royal Academy was going to deal with those bare breasts, John had no idea, but what sport it was going to be finding out!
Relying only on his memory, he stared at the concealed painting and saw Elizabeth. Oh, yes, Elizabeth was certainly present, or at least her Roman counterpart, a delicate matured beauty who, in spite of her small stature, seemed to control the other three.
Next to Elizabeth in the painting stood Lila, her bare arms resting on the parapet, her body angled in the same direction, but her fair, childlike head averted, a pose which seemed to say that in spite of the common focus of attention, there was something else, just out of sight of the canvas, which had caught and held her attention.
Still suffering from his recent encounter with her, John sank deeper into the chair, impressed anew with the accuracy of Alma-Tadema's perception.
Sharply he lifted his head, thinking he'd heard footsteps at the door behind him.
But the doorway was empty and he chided himself for his annoyance. Settling back, he again focused on the covered canvas, searching his memory for the last image, that of his beautiful Mary. Slowly he sat up as though drawn to the invisible image, her form and face predominant on the canvas, a breathtaking beauty who seemed to be searching the horizon with much greater intensity than the others, as though she alone would benefit from the return of her lover.
In the clarity of his recall, John felt himself suffering from a kind of inarticulate affection for her. She was a jewel, as innocent as the day she was born, a treasured temple of purity, as Lila once had been.
Without warning he found himself gripping the arms of the chair, dwelling on Mary's purity, unable to say why it held such an attraction for him. Many times it had occurred to him that he would have
been wise to leave Lila untouched. How ill-conceived society was. Every man should have the right to possess two women: one to worship and the other to use for baser purposes. What a felicitous arrangement that would be!
He sat quite still for several minutes, staring at the covered canvas. Suddenly his attention was caught by faint movement at the door behind him. He turned in that direction, ready to dismiss the prying watchman. Instead an apparition swung into the center of his vision and seemed immediately to become the focus of the midnight landscape.
A thin, darkly clad figure, a veil concealing her face, stood in the doorway, her hands reaching out in an attempt to clear unseen objects, her head beneath the veil lifting and turning as though after ten years of blindness, she still longed to see.
John stood immediately, as though an imperative hand had seized him by the shoulders and swung him around.
Harriet —
He tried to speak her name, but a strangling sensation rendered him voiceless and, as he stepped forward to speak it again, he saw behind her her constant shadow, her maid Peggy.
As Peggy came into view, John held his position without speaking, looking to Peggy, as did everyone in the castle, for guidance concerning how he should respond to Harriet's unexpected presence.
A ferocious watchdog Peggy was, who looked at him over Harriet's shoulder and slowly wagged her head from side to side, a wordless command that John was not to speak, was not to signal his presence in any way.
"Now tell me, Peggy, tell me all about this room. , . ."
At the sound of Harriet's voice, John suffered the painful shock he always felt at hearing her speak, her voice as lovely as ever, the only faculty about her that had remained unchanged during her crucible. Somehow he always felt that the mutilation of her face and eyes should extend to her voice, but of course it hadn't, and the woman who had just asked Peggy for a description of the library might have been the same woman who twenty years ago had lifted him out of the misery of the odd-boy cellar and into a luxurious bed and a treasured love from which his soul still had not recovered.
"The library, milady," Peggy began, "and here is a lovely lac-
quered cabinet. Come, feel for yourself." Lightly she pressed Harriet's hand against the smooth black enamel. "Can you feel it?"
"Of course I can," Harriet scolded good-naturedly. 'Tell me of its color."
For several minutes John watched as Harriet bent low over the cabinet, her
hands moving out in all directions, while Peggy stood silently behind her, her eyes fixed on John as though again she were warning him not to move or speak.
Still amazed that her soul was intact and as beautiful as ever, John found for a moment that he could not watch her and averted his eyes, his memory punishing him with a recall of the one and only time since her self-mutilation that he had seen her unveiled, the morning almost ten years ago of his triumphant return to Eden, when he'd thought her dead and Richard had informed him that she was alive. He had entered her chambers alone, the weight of emotion almost unbearable, as his eyes had fought the blackness for a glimpse of this remarkable woman who had been his first love, perhaps his only true love, and who had blinded herself upon learning the news from Morley Johnson's corrupt lips that she was indeed the natural mother of John Murrey Eden.
Seated on the arm of the chair, he crumpled forward, the ancient burden of guilt as powerful as ever, as though the ten years of penance for both of them had never taken place. The lamplight had caught on certain specifics, the eyeless sockets, two small ovals of white, the rough jagged scar tissue covering her cheekbones, extending over the bridge of her nose, the entire grisly script scarcely recognizable as a human face, except for the mouth and chin, which had escaped the stabbing thrusts of the forks.
He bowed his head into his hands, involuntarily shuddering. The faint sound caused a cessation in Peggy's voice behind him. Simultaneously he heard a gasp and looked over his shoulder to see Harriet raised up from her inspection, her head lifting, her hands reaching out as though seeking Peggy's protection.
"Who—" she gasped. "We're not alone!"
With an accusatory look, Feggy glared at John from across the room. "No, milady," she murmured. "Mr. Eden is present. I thought it best if—"
"John?"
A portion of her fear seemed to be receding, replaced by appre-
hension as she reached up to her face to make certain that the veil was in place.
John gave her all the time she needed, glad that she was aware of his presence, pleased by the scolding she delivered to Peggy. "Why didn't you tell me?" she murmured.
"You said you wanted to see the new halls, milady. You said nothing about visiting."
"Oh, Lord! Peggy, please don't take me so literally in the future. You should know that John—"
As she turned in his direction, he put the past behind him and went forward and grasped her hand. "You look lovely," he said, and lifted her hand to his lips. "If I'd known that you, too, were suffering from insomnia, we could have prowled together."
She laughed. "It's not exactly insomnia that I'm suffering," she said. "As I told Peggy, we'd better go and see Eden's new grandeur for ourselves before the hordes arrive tomorrow."
"I would have been happy to escort you."
"I didn't want to bother you. You've had so much—"
"It would have been no bother. You know that."
After this brief and self-conscious exchange, they stood silently, John aware of Peggy's hovering presence behind them.
"This is the new library," he began, trying to bridge the awkward silence.
"So Peggy told me."
"Have you visited the Great Hall?"
"I have," Harriet replied, "and Peggy's eyes didn't miss a thing."
At that moment the watchdog herself stepped forward, primly adjusting the collar of her black dress. "We've taken the complete tour, Mr. Eden," she said. "Now I believe Her Ladyship is fatigued and should be returned to—"
"Oh, Peggy, nonsense," Harriet intervened. "I'm not fatigued at all."
Encouraged, John suggested, "Then why don't you sit with me for a few minutes? You are right about tomorrow. Our daily visits may have to go by the boards for a while."
He suggested mildly to Peggy, "Why don't you retire? I'll see Her Ladyship back to her chambers."
But the protest on Peggy's face was nothing compared to the sharp "No!" which issued from behind the black veil. Harriet lowered her head and when she spoke again her voice was soft though
determined. "I'll sit with you, John. But, Peggy, you wait near the door. I'll only stay a few minutes; then we shall retire together."
Reluctantly, John agreed to the arrangement, privately loathing the look of triumph on Peggy's face. But it had always been thus. Not once since his return ten years ago to Eden had Harriet ever occupied the same room with him alone. Others did. She spent hours alone with Lila and the children. And Elizabeth, when she visited Eden, enjoyed endless teas with Harriet, and even Dhari could seek her out in private. Everyone enjoyed Harriet alone except John.
He should have accustomed himself to the ritual by now, knowing full well the point and purpose behind it. The passion that had brought them together in physical union years ago must not be permitted to flourish again. The first penance had been costly enough and was still not complete.
As Peggy retreated to the door, John guided Harriet toward the armchair and dragged a second chair into place until they were seated side by side, facing the shrouded canvas of "The Women of Eden."
For a moment neither spoke, as though the insignificant movements had drained them of all energy. Just as John was on the verge of uttering something witless in an attempt to fill the silence, she asked quietly, "Why couldn't you sleep? I should think that you would be exhausted, and certainly you will need all the rest you can get in order to face the ordeals which you've plotted for yourself."
He smiled and shrugged. "If only one could will sleep."
"I have an elixir I'd be happy to share with you, a wicked concoction, Peggy's private recipe."
"No, thank you!" He laughed. "More than sleep, I need my wits about me tomorrow."
The small intimacy moved him and gave him courage to speak more freely. "This once was the Banquet Hall, if you recall."
She nodded. "It always seemed misplaced to me, so far removed from the Kitchen Court."
"And the painting," John went on, "the Alma-Tadema painting, has Peggy told you about that?"
Harriet leaned forward, sharing his excitement. "No, and it was curiosity about that painting that led me here. Tell me!"
"Most scandalous, it is," John whispered, enjoying the new ease between them. "If you hear an explosion on Friday, it will merely be the gentlemen of the Royal Academy."
*Tell me all about it, John. Describe it in full. Is it in this room? Is it near?"
As her head turned in all directions, John soothed, "Yes, it's directly before you."
"You've seen it, then?"
"Indeed I have." As he launched forth into a detailed description of the large painting, she stopped him several times in order to "see" a precise color or posture. When John's narrative reached its conclusion, she sat as though wanting more.
"Will it hang here?" she asked.
John nodded. "Over the mantel. There they vi'ill reside forever, our four, caught in a pose of classicism, a perfect setting according to Alma-Tadema, who is quite skillful in viewing the English Empire against the background of the Roman—"
"Neither actually," she corrected quietly. "It's your empire. Dhari and Elizabeth, Lila and Mary, all belong to your empire."
"And you?" he asked, covering her hand, shocked at how rapidly they had moved from the objectivity of the painting to whispered intimacy.
"Of course."
"Then why did you refuse to sit for the painting?"
"Oh, Lord, John"—she laughed, shattering the intimacy—"I'm not questioning Alma-Tadema's genius, but how could he have worked a black veil into that stunning sea of color that you have just described?"
In a strong need to counterbalance her merriment, he suggested, "He would have painted you as you once were."
"That woman is dead," she said, and pulled away from his hand and called sharply over her shoulder, "Peggy, are you there?"
"I'm here, milady. Shall we—"
As Peggy started forward, John lifted his hand to halt her progress. "Give us a few additiona
l minutes," he commanded.
Peggy hesitated midway between the door.
Aware of the impasse, Harriet turned in that direction. "We'll sit a while longer, Peggy, but please stay close."
The words had been spoken in the manner of a reprieve. Loathing the feeling that he had been chastised, but grateful for her continuing presence, John sat well back in his chair and tried to change the subject.
"You know the guest list, of course," he commenced, his voice now befitting the room, formal and cold.
"Simply all of England," she said, "or at least all of influential England."
"The Lord Mayor is representing the Queen—'
"And Mr. Disraeli and Mr. Gladstone as well, I beheve you said."
"Representing themselves, as always."
"What if their paths cross?"
John shook his head. "Not likely. Andrew has had a staff working for months. I didn't go to all this trouble simply to have the arguments of Parliament transferred to the North Devon Coast."
"How clever of you," she murmured, "to be so considerate."
"It was Andrew's idea."
"Good Andrew."
"Yes."
It was as though they were pushing the words out, both of them insisting upon formality. He found it a source of pain, the realization that the once great love which had existed between them now lay impotent. If only there were a safe territory where they could meet and talk, as mother and son, safe from the storms of the past.
"And Richard?" she asked as though sensing danger in the silence.
"Due to arrive tomorrow sometime," John replied. "Late, I believe he said. And I have a surprise for Richard," he added, his mood lightening. Perhaps at last they had found a safe territory in Richard, Harriet's son and pride, who taught at Cambridge.
"A surprise?" she asked, "Our lives of late have been filled with nothing but surprises, thanks to you. Surely they must cease soon."
"A different sort of surprise, this, one he really should have seen to for himself, but then you know Richard . . ."
"Well, tell me," she demanded eagerly.
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