Suddenly there was a movement, though not from Eden. This time it was the lady who, sensing his presence, looked over her shoulder and was struggling to her feet, ready to flee again.
Then Burke saw Eden moving. She had just started down the steep embankment when he gained her side and held her fast, both of them partially concealed by the thickness of bushes.
Words were exchanged, Burke was certain, though all he could detect was the struggle. Then, without warning, Eden slapped her, a silent pantomime of violence, his hand shooting forward, the woman reeling under the force of the blow, her body crumpled awkwardly to one side, her arm still held rigid by Eden.
Burke continued to stare down on the drama rising noiselessly from so far below. Suffering a surge of witless chivalry, he considered leaving his vantage point, and going to the woman's aid. In all seriousness he was fully prepared to do this if Eden lifted a hand to her again.
But to the contrary, the only movement taking place now was one of reconciliation, Eden drawing the woman into his arms, the two of them from that distance blending into one.
Under the duress of his gaze, Burke closed his eyes, confounded as to the true nature of this strange domestic drama. Slowly he looked back down, confident that after the reconciliation he would be
treated to a full glimpse of the two as they emerged arm in arm, the drama over.
Therefore he was in no way prepared for the emptiness which greeted his eyes as he looked back toward the clifiE. Nothing. Not a sign of life or movement. He leaned further out over the sill. Where could they have gone?
Suffering a keen sense of disappointment, Burke raised up from the windowsill. Who was the woman? He had no idea and, having failed to get a good look at her, perhaps would never know. But of this he was certain: for all the elegance and surface polish of Eden Castle, there were forces loosed here that certainly begged for closer scrutiny.
Suffering a twinge of conscience, it occurred to him, who better to uncover a man living a lie than a man hving a lie? As though he were suffering actual deprivation at not being able to witness the two beyond his vision, he leaned dangerously far out the window and searched the emptiness.
"My God, Burke, I apologize for the tastelessness of this occasion, but it does not warrant suicide."
As the sound of Delane's voice, rife with black humor, filled the room, Burke drew back from the window, sad to see that expression of hurt still on his friend's face.
He smiled in an attempt to ease the hurt. "If, after the events of my life, Delane, I've resisted suicide thus far, I doubt if anything I find here will—"
Though Burke's attention was still splintered between the events which he'd witnessed on the headlands and the grim look on Delane's face, he sat in a near chair. "Well, what now, my friend?" he asked, deciding at the last minute not to share the specifics of the little drama he'd seen.
Delane shrugged. "Join the others, I suppose," he muttered.
Burke stood and took his arm, turning him about with a cheerful suggestion. "Then come. Let's find the bar. Surely in the midst of all this wealth our host has been thoughtful enough to provide us with an open bar."
Delane glanced up at the invitation. "I'm sorry for involving you in this—circus, Burke," he said. "I fear that we have nothing but boredom ahead of us."
Burke started to reply but changed his mind, secure in the knowledge that the fortnight ahead might be many things, but boredom
would not be one of them. Unwittingly he*d seen enough from his window to know that John Murrey Eden wore many masks. What sport it would be to try to glimpse behind one or two of themi
Also it occurred to him that he had better enjoy the bounty of Eden while he could, for he knew that when Lord Ripples finished writing about the Eden Festivities, he would not be welcomed in any part of North Devon, or the West Country, or in England herself, for that matter, , , ,
He had not intended to strike her. It was just that coming upon her so unexpectedly, suffering concern for her and being repaid only with her stubbornness, he had tried reason first, and that failing, he had struck her.
As she'd fallen forward into his arms, he'd held her close and had apologized. But with his apology her tears had increased and, as she'd clung to him, he'd looked up and for the first time it had occurred to him that they were visible to anyone who might be peering out the upper windows of the castle. Cursing the congestion of visitors that he himself had invited, he had escorted her down the in-chne to the secluded beach, where now he knelt in the sand at her feet, where she sat on a piece of shipwrecked timber.
In spite of her tears, he realized that she'd grown even more beautiful since he'd last seen her.
"Mary, don't," he begged, finding her tears unendurable. He'd caused enough unhappiness within the castle the last few days. He'd counted on Mary's irrepressible joy and youthful spirit to set a new tone, one more in keeping with the occasion.
"Please," he whispered, trying to remove her hands from her face, seeing between her fingers dull red marks caused by his blow. My God, what possessed me?
"Mary, look at me. Nothing is worth this. You'll make yourself ill."
He heard the first break in the racking sobs, saw her bend her head even lower, as though the vanity of the woman were equal to the grief of the child. As she commenced to search for a handkerchief, he provided her with his own.
In the quiet interim filled only with the soft lap of waves on the beach and an occasional spasm of her leftover grief, he rested his elbows on his knees, mystified by the effect that female tears had on him. Without a doubt it was their most effective weapon.
"Better?" he whispered.
But she gave no response and he put his arm around her, their foreheads touching. "Shall we talk?" he asked. "We must talk. Here I look forward for weeks to seeing you, and what happens? Elizabeth arrives alone, telling me some absurd tale about your bolting."
Both his voice and manner were light, as though he were speaking to a child instead of a young woman. Gently he pulled back the long strands of soft hair that had fallen loose during her tears. Suffering a mix of brotherly/fatherly love, John found himself desperate to know the cause of her grief.
"Now, what happened?"
"We . . . quarreled," Mary murmured.
"Who quarreled?"
"Elizabeth . . ." She lowered her head as though she had been newly defeated.
John laughed at the simple explanation that had caused such grief. "You—quarreled?" he stammered. "My God, Mary, people quarrel every day."
"I don't," she said, looking up. "And Ehzabeth and I have never—"
"All right," he conceded. "What was the nature of your quarrel?"
"She said that she was going to talk to you, that she could no longer—care for me in London and that you must make other arrangements."
From where he stood he saw her bow her head, as though the rejection hurt deeply.
"She said what?" he demanded. Although it was the subject which he himself had considered, he resented the fact that Elizabeth had initiated it.
She faced him. "She said . . . she has her own life, and that I must be sent , . . somewhere else. She's never spoken like that before, John. I try very hard to do as she says, and I thought that she loved me."
As new tears spilled down her cheeks, he was there to receive her, enclosing her in his embrace, his attention divided between her softness and his growing anger at Elizabeth. If only she'd left everything to him. He could have handled it with much greater diplomacy. "No need. Elizabeth will do as I say. If London suits you so, then you shall have it."
Slowly she looked up at him, a smile on her face. "Oh, John, how much I love you!"
Pleased by her new mood, he kissed her lightly on the forehead, seeing up close her dark blue eyes—Harriet's eyes before—
"Come." He smiled. "Let's return now. I have guests to greet and you must look your most beautiful."
He was aware of her watching him, though he had the se
nse that she was not listening to what he was saying.
She hfted a hand to his face, her fingers moving across his flesh, a feathery sensation which caused the skin on his forehead to tighten. "We're—cousins, aren't we?" she asked, moving closer.
He nodded, knowing better, but the secret was his. And Harriet's.
"Cousins sometimes fall in love, don't they, John?"
With her face so close, he saw his reflected image in her eyes. What was she doing? And how could he stop it, for stop it he must, and soon.
"Some do," he said, trying to move away. "But it would be impossible for me to love you more than I do now," he added, still bewildered.
She seemed pleased by this declaration and, before he could object, she was in his arms again, the most incredible words filHng his ear. "Then let me stay with you at Eden, John," she whispered. "Let me be with you always. I promise I'll make you happy."
"Mary, don't-"
Shocked by her sudden change of mood, he pushed her away, seeing the innocence of that face corrupted by the conniving expression of a flirt.
She didn't know what she was doing and, convinced that the intensity of her emotions was simply residual, the need for closeness after Elizabeth's rejection of her, he tried to deal calmly with the awkward situation. "Of course you may return to Eden if you wish," he began, "but there's nothing for you here."
"You're here."
"A few days out of each month. The rest of the time I'm in London."
"We never see you there anymore. You used to come every evening."
"I—have no appetite for Elizabeth's new friends."
"Nor have I."
He smiled back at her, striving to maintain the objective conversation between them. "Well," he began, "perhaps the truth of the matter is that you have outgrown both London and Eden. Perhaps
you need a new environment, one which will offer you more of a challenge.'*
A look of suspicion crossed her face. "Where?"
"There's no need to discuss it now."
"Where, John?" she demanded.
Gently he took her by the hand and led her back to the timber where he sat, and thought that she would follow suit.
But she didn't. She stood before him, that guarded expression on her face.
Glancing up at her only once, then addressing his words to the sandy beach, John commenced speaking, with as much diplomacy as he commanded.
"Do you know"—he smiled—"that I've had nothing but good reports from your tutors? They tell me how quick you are."
"Of course they would say that."
He looked up. "Then am I to understand that it's not true?"
"I can read and write and do figures," she said. "Little more."
"I find that hard to believe. Look at how Richard has risen, a full professor at—"
"I am not Richard."
"You share the same blood."
"Nothing else."
She was making it difficult for him. In the new silence he looked up to see her hands trembling. "Where are you sending me, John?"
He disliked the tension between them. "I'm not sending you anyplace," he said. "The decision is yours, as is the choice—"
"That's not true. You know as well as I that I have never made one decision in my life. Others have done it for me."
"Well, then," he commenced, aware of her standing before him, her manner like a prisoner awaiting sentence. "Oh, for God's sake, Mary!" he exploded, disliking her martyred stance. "It's for your own good."
"What is?"
He drew a deep breath. "There's a school, newly established. For females. Near Cheltenham. I've visited it," he lied. "It's lovely, tucked away in a secluded valley in the Cotswolds, run by a Miss Veal."
At last he dared to look up. "A school for women, Mary. Imagine. A place where you can pursue your education, where you can—"
But all the time he was talking she was shaking her head. "No,"
she begged, crouching before him, her earher grief nothing compared to this new fear, the most incredible words filhng the quiet beach. "No. Please, John, don't. I beg you," she wept, "don't send me away. Let me stay here with you. I'll do anything you ask. I'll be good to you; I swear it."
She was approaching hysteria, her hands moving down the front of her gown.
John tried to move away, but she reached out for his hand and placed it on her breast, pushing closer between his legs. "John, please," she whispered. "Let me stay with you. It can be our secret."
Coming to his senses, though reeling with shock and outrage, convinced that Elizabeth and her sordid past were responsible for this clawing young woman, John could only stare at her, seeing nothing of innocence now.
Without looking at her, he commanded, "That's enough. Get up! If only you could see yourself."
"I have seen myself," she wept. "You're the one who refuses—"
"I said, 'Enough!'" In anger he looked down to see her. Shocked at what might have transpired, he dragged her to her feet. "Have you any conception of your actions?" he demanded, amazed at how ugly her face was now, mucus from her nose blending with tears and spittle. Suddenly he grasped her arms and shook her, a violent motion which left her suspended in his grasp like a puppet.
Without warning a thought occurred to him so grim that it almost rendered him silent. "Look at me, Mary," he commanded, and when she refused he reached for her face, grasped her jaw with such strength that she moaned softly.
Anchored in his grasp, he forced her attention. "Are you—" he began and could not finish. "Have you—received a man before?" he asked, keeping his voice down, as fearful of the question as he was of the answer.
In spite of her suffering, she smiled. "H-hundreds," she stammered, the smile increasing. "Thousands!"
Although he knew she was lying, something in her manner enraged him—her stupidity, if nothing else, her ignorance, the manner in which she had toyed with him, exhibiting no fear. What if he had lacked the control? For both of them? It was this awareness of what might have happened that caused him to lift his hand and bring it down across the side of her face with a force that spun her loose from his grasp and caused her to cry aloud, half falling to her
knees, then immediately struggling upward, looking back at him with an expression of fear.
As she commenced running up the steep incline, he called after her, "Mary, come back!"
But she didn't, and the last he saw was the hem of her gown disappearing at the top of the incline. Wearily he sat on the timber, suffering deep remorse. He closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands, still seeing her before him, the Hngering sensation of his hand on her breast.
Not cousin, his thoughts raged. Sister, half-sister. What penance he would have to pay for that, in addition to the one he was still payingl
But the thought was too difficult and he moved directly to the edge of the water. He'd struck her too hard. Why had he struck her at all? He'd not intended to force-As his thoughts whirled through his head, he looked up, struggling for control. He'd have to make his apologies later. For now, for the duration of this important fortnight, he'd place a discreet guard on her, two loyal stewards who would watch every move and report back to him. Then, when the last guest had departed, he would personally escort her to Miss Veal's school in Cheltenham.
Breathing with relief, he strode back to the steep incline. At the top he brushed the sand from his trousers, smoothed back his hair, straightened his neck scarf and walked with confidence the length of his headlands, around the west wing of his castle, past his watchmen, who bowed respectfully, and into his courtyard, where straight ahead at the foot of his Great Hall steps he saw new guests waiting eagerly for his reception. ...
On Friday afternoon, only hours before the unveiling of "The Women of Eden," Elizabeth sat on the window seat of Lady Harriet's private apartments, the chubby two-year-old cherub named Frederick cuddled in her arms, watching Lila as she coached four-year-old Stephen in a sweet, piping nursery song for the enjoyme
nt of Lady Harriet, whose veiled head kept time with the melancholy refrain.
To one side knelt Dhari, her dark eyes alive with shared love, the entire sitting room bathed in a diffuse golden glow of midafternoon sun.
Elizabeth kissed the crown of Frederick's curls and smiled as Lila
helped Stephen with a low note, the little boy's face a solemn mask as he endeavored to perform well for Harriet.
Curious, Elizabeth mused. Though both boys were fair like John, they bore a much greater resemblance to Lila, their complexions hers, like fine porcelain.
As the nursery song rose with sweet clarity, Elizabeth contented herself with Frederick, his chubby fist wrapped around her finger. How peaceful it was here; how different from the crowded public rooms below!
All at once she heard two voices joined in the song. Looking across the room, she noticed Harriet had drawn the child close, her voice in perfect harmony.
The duet pleased all. Stephen grinned at his mother but never lost a beat, and Lila sat back on her heels, her pretty rose taffeta skirt spread out about her, and clapped her hands in undisguised glee. With a smile she glanced across at Elizabeth, as though wanting to include all.
Moved, Elizabeth tightened her grasp on Frederick and thought sadly, here was John's painting. Here were the Eden women, with one notably absent, but here in their true domain. How much more appropriate this, as opposed to that ridiculous canvas concealed beneath the shroud in the library.
As they were approaching the last stanza of the nursery song, Elizabeth thought that all they lacked was Mary's voice, and the thought shattered the peace of the room and dragged Elizabeth's attention back to the problem with which she'd arrived at Eden.
Mary.
She'd not seen her since their arrival. The first evening she'd managed to steal a moment with John, and tersely he'd informed her that he'd located Mary on the headlands, had found her distraught and had personally assisted her to her chambers.
Two days ago, bewildered by Mary's prolonged absence from all public rooms, Elizabeth had climbed to her private apartments in the family wing, only to find two stewards outside her door who had informed her that Lady Mary was not feeling well and had asked not to be disturbed.
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