The Women of Eden

by Marilyn Harris

  Mary turned about on the ledge, as though the mention of her mother had caused greater pain. "Don't come any closer," she warned, and obediently Elizabeth froze.

  Under the force of Mary's command, Elizabeth was obliged to drop her pretense of innocence. They both knew what was happening here, and gowns and hair styles were no longer viable subjects.

  "Why, Mary?" Elizabeth whispered. "Why didn't you send for me? I would have come." When she didn't speak, Elizabeth went on. "Nothing is worth this. Whatever the nature of our disagreement, it can be settled in more—"

  Was she crying? With her face averted it was difficult to tell.

  "Mary, please look at me," Elizabeth begged. "Please talk to me. If you'll just tell me—"

  She was crying. "I don't want to live anymore," she said.

  "Why? You, more than anyone I know, have everything to live for."

  "What?"

  Elizabeth tried to turn her attention to that difficult question and was at first tempted to list the obvious reasons: Mary's youth and beauty, her position in the world, John's adoring support. But something in that tear-streaked, bruised face suggested that if these reasons made any difference, she would not be clinging to a narrow ledge, contemplating a fatal leap.

  So Elizabeth abandoned the obvious reasons and said simply, "I need you, Mary. Words cannot express how you've filled my life these last few years. I didn't mean what I said to you in the carriage. I was—still frightened, alarmed by the incident at Jeremy Sims*. But-"

  She was aware of Mary looking at her, a look of disbelief on her face. With less than three feet separating them, Elizabeth extended her hand. "Mary, please, come back to London with me. We'll start

  afresh, I promise. Whatever the problems are, we can face them—'*

  To Ehzabeth's embarrassment, she heard her own voice break. She heard a rustle of movement and looked up to see Mary moving back from the edge, one hand lifting to Elizabeth, until their fingers touched, and in the next instant Mary was in her arms.

  Eagerly Elizabeth clasped her, not certain of the nature of her commitment or Mary's deep grief, but grateful for only one blessing, that Harriet's daughter had been drawn back from the edge and that now all they had to do was to find a future for her.

  Still with no words spoken they clung together, Elizabeth stroking the matted hair, her fingers once brushing across the bruised area on the side of Mary's face. Gently she sat with her on the edge of the bed, assessing close at hand the nature of the swelling. Though on the mend, it once had been painful.

  "What happened?" she asked quietly.

  Mary tried to speak through her tears and couldn't, and Elizabeth again enclosed her in her arms, doubtful if she could ever restore her to the point that she could make a public appearance in less than three hours. Scolding herself for such considerations, Elizabeth rocked back and forth with her, a gentle rhythm which ultimately soothed, and at last Mary leaned back into the pillow, making an effort at control.

  "I'm . . . sorry," Mary whispered.

  "No need. Everything is going to be well. You'll see—"

  "I. . . can stay with you ... in London?"

  "Yes. I said so, didn't I?"

  "John said-"

  With the sense of moving to the heart of the matter, Elizabeth urged the girl to speak. "John said what?"

  Mary closed her eyes. "He—said that I must go away, that you had spoken to him and—"

  Suddenly she heard a voice behind her. "I said nothing to warrant this, I can assure you." Elizabeth stood immediately and saw John only a few feet behind her.

  He moved to the foot of the bed and stared down on Mary with an expression of disappointment. "I came here this afternoon, hoping to escort you down to meet our guests—"

  Abruptly he turned away.

  In the new silence Elizabeth charted the expression on Mary's face, one of stunned recognition, as though at last she knew what the

  rest of them had known for years—that this man controlled her life.

  There was John to consider as well, looking groomed and handsome in his dress blacks, the slant of his jaw, his eyes stiU bearing a ghostly resemblance to his father.

  Distracted by the comparison of father and son, Elizabeth looked up to find Mary watching the man, whose steps had carried him to the open window. When at last he turned, Elizabeth was in no way prepared for his words or the expression on his face.

  "Do you—hate me so much?" he asked quietly.

  Ehzabeth looked down at Mary. The tears had commenced again. "I-don't-hate-"

  "What else am I to think?" he asked, moving back to the foot of the bed. "I try always to do what I think is best for you, as I try always to do what I think is best for everyone at Eden. You are my family," he went on. "Why would I want to do anything that would hurt you or cause you grief?"

  The performance was skillful. And effective. Mary's hand moved up, covering her face.

  Aware that she would have to pull this tearful creature into some semblance of unity, Elizabeth suggested quietly, "Not now, John, I beg you. Why don't you leave us alone, and I promise you a miracle in three hours, all of us at your side for the unveiling."

  In a despairing gesture, he lifted his hand as though he needed no reminder of what the evening held. He stared down on Mary and walked slowly to her side, removed her hands from her face and whispered, "You must understand, Mary, my only defense is that—I love you, perhaps too much. You're so very special to me that I want nothing to disrupt your life or hurt you in any way."

  It was a skillful performance, the weight of sympathy shifting in the room from the sobbing Mary to the meticulously groomed John. Even Elizabeth wondered who precisely was the injured party here.

  Elizabeth beckoned for John to follow her. Leading the way to the corridor, she steeled herself against that injured expression. It was her intention to say nothing except to reassure him that they would be down shortly and that his Festivities would proceed uninterrupted.

  Thus she was in no way prepared for the desolate question which he posed. "Would she—have jumped?"

  Fortunately, she couldn't give him an answer, and simply said, "She's high-strung. Something caused her to—"

  "All I suggested was Miss Veal's school in Cheltenham," he protested. "She hasn't even seen it, and even Richard thought it vs^ould be a splendid idea. If your female friends are right, and women are due the vote, then they'd damn well better know what to do with it."

  She started to respond. But better judgment intervened. Still, she was grateful for his sarcasm, for now it enabled her to step back to the door, certain in her mind that the injured party was Mary. "You go along," she said briskly. "There will be time later to discuss all of this. As you have pointed out countless times, our first responsibility for these two weeks is to our guests."

  "Damn the guests," John muttered and leaned against the corridor wall, his head bowed.

  At last she succeeded in closing the door, though her final glimpse of his face was a moving one, not a trace of that aggressive strength which was customarily at home on his features. It was a child's face now, painfully facing the consequences of his own actions.

  Well, she'd have to deal with the man/boy later. For now the real challenge was the young woman who lay curled and enclosed upon herself, her face a script of quiet grief.

  Vowing not to ask any questions that might provoke disturbing answers, Elizabeth drew a deep breath, tried to affix on her face a mask of serenity and started toward the bed, calling out with a cheerfulness she did not feel,

  "Mary, come. . . ."

  It was a significant testimony to the topsy-turvy nature of the last few days that John Thadeus Delane, editor of the conservative Times, was now engaged in a warm conversation v^th Charlie Brad-laugh, editor of the radical and freethinking Reformer.

  From where Burke sat in his position of relative obscurity in an upholstered corner of the Gentlemen's Smoker off the Great Hall, he watched in silent amusement the c
urious duo seated at the round table, both physically large and powerful, though there all similarity stopped.

  At least John Murrey Eden could be credited with one achievement—the union of these two disparate voices, one arguing for tradition and monarchy, the other publicly advocating the formation of an English republic with an elected president and constitution, similar to that which America enjoyed.

  Grateful to be excluded, Burke sipped at his brandy and felt satiated with too much rich food, too much ostentation, too much tension of the sort which suggested that beneath the expensive new veneer of Eden Castle were currents of feelings which as yet Lord Ripples had not been able to identify.

  Then perhaps he'd better be about the task that had brought him here, which was to find out all he could about John Murrey Eden. Thus far he'd learned exactly nothing, as the great man himself always seemed to be involved with others, a negligence Burke had determined was not altogether accidental. There was no possible way that he, an American exile, could serve John Murrey Eden, and he had the distinct impression that this was a financial and political gathering as much as a social one. Substantiation of this private theory was in the fact that Burke had yet to glimpse any of the beauties who supposedly formed that exclusive club known as the Women of Eden, They had been promised to the largely male gathering tonight, the living counterparts taking part in the unveiling ceremony.

  He drained his glass and started out into the crowd, moving toward the laughing threesome composed of Andrew Rhoades, Lord Richard Eden and Professor Nichols.

  While he was still a distance away, he noticed that Andrew Rhoades had observed his approach. Burke saw him place a restraining hand on Professor Nichols' shoulder, apparently halting the man in midstory, and calling out to Burke v^th warm cordiality, **This way. Stanhope—come and join us. We were just speaking of your country.'*

  Grateful that he had been remembered from that single luncheon, Burke drew near, smiling. "Then perhaps I'd best move on," he joked. "One seldom hears compliments for the Colonies from an Englishman's lips."

  "Now, that's not true, Mr. Stanhope," Professor Nichols soothed. "I was just telling Richard and Andrew about a young student of mine, an American lad, so bright, far in advance of his English counterparts."

  Burke nodded, though suspected that the man was lying. There was no aspect of that statement that warranted the earlier laugh which had first attracted Burke's attention. Still, it was a harmless deception, designed to put him at ease. Since his true host had not

  deigned to make that effort, Burke was grateful for the kindness, regardless of its nature.

  In an attempt to cover his well-meaning deception, Professor Nichols abruptly changed the subject, stepping back as though not to exclude Lord Richard, who was standing on his right.

  "I trust you are enjoying yourself, Mr. Stanhope." Nichols smiled, clasping his hands behind his back and standing at ease.

  Burke nodded. "It's been an—interesting few days," he replied safely.

  Lord Richard entered the conversation, a knowing look on his face. "I'm afraid you're not seeing us at our best, Mr. Stanhope," he said graciously. "In spite of its size, I've always felt that Eden was happiest with a limited population."

  Considering that at that moment they were being jostled on all sides by laughing, talking gentlemen, awaiting the stellar event of the evening. Lord Richard's claim held great appeal. "Still," Burke added considerately, "it's quite spectacular—the castle itself, as well as what Mr. Eden has done with it." His journalist's instincts began to surface. "Since everywhere I look I see new and major renovation, I can only assume that the castle had been allowed to—deteriorate."

  Lord Richard laughed. "That's a kind way of putting it." He stepped closer, a likable man, mild-mannered, very approachable.

  "You probably won't believe this," he went on, "but there was a time when, owing to certain harsh circumstances, we tethered our cow and several goats in this very hall."

  Andrew Rhoades now stepped forward with a fresh subject. "And where, may I ask, is your distinguished companion? I trust he is enjoying himself."

  "I can't speak for him," Burke said politely, "but I think he's found the occasion as—interesting as I have."

  Briefly he enjoyed a private amusement. If only the gentlemen knew that they were at this moment speaking with Lord Ripples!

  Lost in his own thoughts, Burke was not at first aware of the three men staring at him, as though someone had posed a question he'd failed to answer. "I—beg your pardon," he murmured, embarrassed, and sent Lord Ripples away—at least for a while.

  Andrew Rhoades laughed. "I asked if you knew of Mr. Delane's whereabouts. I believe we have a few moments before John—"

  Burke nodded. "He's in the Smoker, though you may be surprised at his companion of the moment. He's in deep discourse with Mr.

  Bradlaugh." He was prepared to say more, but the look of disbelief on the three faces around him canceled the need.

  "I don't believe it," Rhoades said flatly.

  "I saw it with my own eyes," Burke said, nodding, and entering into the spirit of fun. "And I heard it as well. Mr. Bradlaugh was giving him a detailed lecture on the nature of republicanism when I left."

  "My God," Andrew Rhoades marveled. "Well, I must see this for myself. Come, gentlemen," he said to Nichols and Lord Richard. "I'll need eyewitnesses. I have friends in Fleet Street who will say I've lost my mind."

  But Lord Richard begged off, claiming, "I must wait here, Andrew. Professor Nichols and I are awaiting a late-arriving guest. He should have been here hours ago, but—"

  Surprised, Rhoades looked back at them. "I thought everyone was here who was supposed to—"

  "He's an ex-student of mine," Professor Nichols interrupted apologetically, "a bright lad by the name of Parnell, coming all the way from Ireland. But knowing Charles, he's stopped at every inn and pub along the way."

  "Shall I alert the watchmen at the gate?" Rhoades asked.

  "I've already done so," Lord Richard told him. "No cause for worry. Charles follows his own timetable. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he didn't show."

  "Well, then," Rhoades said, backing away from the group, *'if John comes looking for me, tell him I'm in the Smoker."

  As he was about to turn away, his eye apparently fell on someone just descending the Grand Staircase. "Damn," he muttered beneath his breath.

  As all heads swiveled in that direction, Burke looked up and saw John Murrey Eden. To his right was the artist, Lawrence Alma-Tadema. The Dutchman had arrived in the company of the gentlemen of the Royal Academy only two days earlier and had been invisible since, putting final touches to his new masterwork, or so the rumor had been circulated.

  To Mr. Eden's left was a young man, dark-skinned yet garbed with equal fashion in classic Western black.

  "Too late," Rhoades muttered. "It looks as though the main attraction is under way."

  As the rumble of predominantly male voices settled into a low

  hum, Burke saw Andrew Rhoades signal Lord Richard. "I believe this is our cue," he said with a smile. "If you gentlemen will excuse us "

  From where Burlce stood he saw Lord Richard exchange a warm smile with Nichols, as though the one man were supplying the other with moral support.

  In spite of the glance, Lord Richard needed further reassurance. "Where will you be-"

  Professor Nichols stepped forward. "I'll be right here when it's over. With Mr. Stanhope's kind indulgence, I'll view the Festivities in his company. How fascinating it will be to glimpse our English pomp through his American eyes."

  Looking beyond their shoulders, Burke saw John Murrey Eden and the young man gazing out over the audience, clearly in search of someone.

  A pronounced hush fell over the vast room. Burke looked up to see Andrew Rhoades and Lord Richard disappearing at the top of the stairs. The young Indian lad was missing as well, though still standing at midstair was John Murrey Eden, while two steps behind him was Alma-Ta
dema, looking uncomfortable in the limelight.

  "Can you see?" Professor Nichols whispered thoughtfully and, without waiting for a response, he guided Burke to a position near one of the columns which afforded a perfect view of the Grand Staircase and the corridor leading to the Library and the scene where the unveiling would take place.

  All at once, when the tension of waiting could be stretched no further, Burke heard the musicians commence a waltz and he was conscious of all heads lifting in anticipation toward the top of the stairs. Still, nothing was visible but the elegance of the staircase itself. Behind him Burke felt Professor Nichols step close in soft alarm. "My God, no slipup, I hope."

  Then the waiting was over. The tempo of the waltz seemed to increase as at the top of the stairs appeared a pale, fair woman beautifully garbed in lavender silk, her long hair done up and softened with a fringe of curls framing her face, and carrying a small nosegay of violets. She was on the arm of a very tall, distinguished-looking older gentleman, who seemed almost to be supporting her, their arms locked together.

  "Who—" Burke began.

  "Mrs. John Murrey Eden," Nichols whispered. "A charming lady,"

  he added, "though of a weak disposition and not by nature, I'm afraid, designed for this occasion."

  Burke detected a tone of sympathy in the man's voice, as though it distressed him to see anyone uncomfortable. Feehng his fondness for the man increase, Burke asked further, "And the gentleman with her?"

  "Her father. Lord Harrington. You've not met him yet?" he asked, surprised.

  Burke shook his head.

  Again all talk ceased as the two at the top of the stairs started down. For some reason they seemed mismatched, one resembling a lion, the other a lamb.

  Suddenly at the top of the stairs and padding down softly behind her there appeared an enormous gray cat. At the cat's appearance a rustle of amusement arose from the guests, pleasantly breaking the tension.

  "Wolf." Nichols smiled. For Burke's edification he added, "The cat's name—an enchanted cat, or so Lady Lila claims—over two hundred years old."