Confident that his mistress was under way, the cat disappeared into the Library, where shortly the unveiling would take place.
"He'll be assured of a ringside seat," Nichols added, laughing with the rest of the guests.
With the comic appearance of the cat over, Burke heard the audience fall into silence as the pair on the steps drew even with Eden. Burke saw the woman hesitate again and it appeared as though she would speak to her husband. But no words were exchanged and again her father seemed to tighten his grip on her arm and lead her steadily to the foot of the stairs, less than twenty feet from where Burke and Professor Nichols stood.
From this close proximity she looked as though she were just recuperating from an illness or on the verge of succumbing to one, though probably it was just the tension of the occasion.
With their disappearance into the Library, the musicians commenced a second waltz, and as the top of the stairs was again devoid of life and movement, Burke listened closely to Professor Nichols' succinct explanation of Mrs. John Murrey Eden.
"She has produced two sons and lost four in miscarriages. Richard fears for her health."
As would any sane man, Burlce thought, consciously aware that he was storing up any excuse to disHke John Murrey Eden.
Then there was movement again at the top of the steps, a very diflFerent pair this time, Andrew Rhoades smiHng out over the gaping faces, not only making eye contact with Eden but winking massively as though to say, "We two at least know what a colossal bit of rubbish this is."
On his arm was Delane's friend, the charming older woman named Elizabeth whom they had rescued from her near-tumble out of her carriage door on that first day. This woman looked as though she were quite at home at center stage, was never happier than when admiring eyes were assessing her.
Burke looked closer, suffering again that twinge of recognition. Had he seen her before?
He now saw her pull free from Andrew Rhoades and draw near to Eden where, standing on tiptoe, she delivered a kiss to his bearded cheek. For the first time since Burke had witnessed that glacial man, he saw him respond to the affectionate gesture, his hand caressing the side of her face, their mutual love displayed for all to see.
In spite of the public nature of the event, the moment was good because it was honest. Burke had the feeling that it would have been beyond her to suppress that kiss and now saw that her affection was spilling onto the artist, Alma-Tadema, who with courtly dignity accepted her hand and kissed it.
As Andrew Rhoades and the woman started down the corridor toward the Library, Burke stared closely after her, that mysterious recognition still plaguing him. He had seen her before; he would swear to it.
There was no time for further questions as a new pair had now appeared in the arena at the top of the Grand Staircase, a dark, lovely beauty who was being escorted by the young man whom Burke had seen earlier in the company of Eden.
Was it his imagination or were the musicians playing more loudly as though to mask the new silence which had descended over the guests? From where he stood, he saw heads leaning forward, as though the majority of those present knew all too well the relationship of this woman to John Murrey Eden, knew her tragic history as well.
Now, unlike Mrs. Eden, who had appeared shy to the point of collapse, and the woman named Elizabeth who had, with warm-hearted
abandon "performed" her way down the lengthy staircase, this woman stood with remote serenity, as though she neither dreaded nor enjoyed what she'd been asked to do.
"Can you imagine?" Professor Nichols whispered, "the courage it requires for her to appear here tonight?"
When Burke didn't respond, Nichols went on. "Eden's mistress, you know," he said.
Then Burke's attention was drawn back to the stairs, where mother and son had just reached bottom after navigating their way past John Murrey Eden. Their pace seemed to increase as they hurried down the lines of stewards, apparently eager to join the others who had preceded them.
Leaning against the column, he turned away from the stairs and looked out over the guests. As he turned back toward the stairs, he caught a glimpse of Professor Nichols' face, amazed to see a tender smile as the large man focused on some new sight at the top of the stairs.
He followed the direction of the man's gaze back to the top of the stairs, where he saw Lord Richard, looking vastly uncomfortable, his arm about the waist of a—
Dear Lord!
Suddenly he froze in an incredible aspect of recognition. No, it couldn't be! No! Of course it couldn't.
Gowned in pink she was, this gown more elaborate than that other one. In an attempt to regain a degree of control, he closed his eyes to clear the curious image which had just appeared before him.
When he looked up again the two were moving, Lord Richard's arm still about that slim waist, the flawless shoulders the same, the neck the same, the full breasts the same, the hair the same, the mouth the same, the nose— Of course, the eyes had been masked. Still-No/ It was impossible.
Struggling for composure, he was aware that the normally talkative Professor Nichols had become peculiarly silent.
Unable to resist a closer look, if for no other reason than to confirm his faulty recognition, Burke glanced toward the stairs again. What he saw made no sense at all. That fair image did not belong here, but back in Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club.
As the two reached midstep, Burke talked himself out of his
foolish recognition. Little Maria of the Mask, who had captured his heart and moved him so, belonged to London.
No, the closer she came, the more convinced he was that his recognition had been a false one. For one thing, this young woman was painfully shy. Most of the time her eyes were either down, concentrating on her passage on the stairs, or lifted in furtive glances at John Murrey Eden, who appeared to be paying closer attention to these two than the others who had preceded them.
"Now there's a portrait, don't you agree?" It was Professor Nichols again, his voice still bearing the stress of his emotional involvement with the participants on the stairs.
Burke looked up to see the three poised at midstep, Eden on one side, Lord Richard on the other, and between them—
"Who is she?" Burke whispered.
Nichols laughed softly. "You have been ill-treated these last few days, haven't you? Although in truth Lady Mary has been absent. Ill, according to Richard."
"Lady Mary?"
Nichols nodded. "Richard's sister, Lady Mary Eden. Once the ugly duckling who has now become the beautiful swan."
As Burke focused on the stairs, he saw Eden presenting a bouquet of roses to Lady Mary, saw a blush forming on those pale cheeks as she accepted it without lifting her eyes.
Damn! The resemblance was incredible—the stance, the carriage, the angle of the head. Of course those all-important features, the eyes, had always been masked and were masked now, in that she had yet to lift them. But the most overwhelming argument came in the form of a hard question. What would Lady Mary Eden be doing performing in a public arena such as Sims' Song and Supper Club? Since he could not even begin to conceive of a reasonable answer, he contented himself with watching them descend the staircase, where John Murrey Eden stepped forward to include Alma-Tadema in the entourage. Then the four proceeded down the corridor, followed by the gentlemen from the Royal Academy and ultimately by the guests themselves in an excited mood, as though all were aware that they were approaching the highlight of the evening.
"Come, Stanhope, let's fall in with them. I wouldn't miss this for the world."
But as they started off toward the corridor a breathless, red-faced steward gained their side.
"Professor Nichols," the man called out, and Burke looked back to see the man still trying to elbow his way through the crush of guests.
Coming up alongside them, the steward delivered a terse message. "There's a gentleman at the gate, Professor Nichols, without an invitation, who insists that he is a guest of Lord Richard's. When I
told him that His Lordship was occupied, he asked for you."
"Charles," Nichols sighed in annoyance. "The man is a master at poor timing." He glanced toward the crowded corridor, a look of longing on his face. "Well, you go ahead, Stanhope," he suggested. "I'll go and identify the black sheep and we'll rejoin you."
Before joining the others, Burke looked toward the Smoker in the far arcade. Should he summon Delane? He, too, had expressed curiosity about the painting. Apparently Bradlaugh's company had proved a prolonged distraction.
No, Burke must at least inform him. He could hold a discussion any day with Charlie Bradlaugh in any Fleet Street pub. But the unveiling of "The Women of Eden" would only happen once and was more or less the sole purpose for their lengthy journey to this remote spot.
As he hurried toward the Smoker, he glanced back and saw the last of the guests just entering the corridor.
"Delane?" he called out, sending his voice ahead, hoping to rouse the two from their new fascination with each other. "The painting is about to be—" But as he gained the open doorway and peered inside, he found the room empty.
Damn! They had joined the company, and now probably were en-jojang front row seats while he-Turning about, he retraced his steps and saw an army of maids and stewards moving into the Great Hall, arrangements of tables and chairs being placed around the edge, baskets of flowers being arranged in the corners, several hundred men and women working silently for the pleasure of one man. Even in the halcyon days of the South, visiting at the large plantations such as Four Willows and Surrey Hill, Burke had never seen so large a staflp. Of course these faces were white and those had been black, but the degree of servitude varied little.
His thoughts carried him to the door of the Library, where he realized that the crowded room was silent, over two hundred guests standing at attention, all focused on something at the far end of the room, a massive shrouded painting which sat on a slight elevation,
Alma-Tadema holding forth, saying something about the juxtaposition of empire, Roman and EngHsh, and their differences, which were few, and their similarities, which were many, and the universal appeal of beautiful women to both.
As the man talked on, Burke tried to ease as far into the Library as he could. But there was little room. The rows of seats had been taken, with half the company forced to stand in any spot available to them. After murmuring several apologies, he found a relatively good vantage point on the west wall and found a bonus as well, a small stepladder which was used to fetch books from the upper shelves.
Not wanting to call too much attention to himself, he stepped up on the first elevation and discovered an uncluttered view of the Library, and was pleased to hear Alma-Tadema winding down, interested to see John Murrey Eden step forward, as though it were his turn now.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he commenced, sending a strong self-confident voice ringing out over his guests, "let me thank you for visiting Eden. The walls of this ancient fortress are happiest when they are filled with the companionship of good friends. I trust that you have enjoyed yourselves and that there will forever be a warm spot in your hearts filled with the memories of your stay at Eden. Now—"
As his brief comments came to an end, he turned back toward the group on his right. "Now you've seen the living women of Eden. It gives me great pleasure to present their portrait for your approval and enjoyment."
Alma-Tadema drew the canvas shroud to one side, and there before all, larger than life, in a most remarkable setting were "The Women of Eden," the faces the same but their garb and locale Roman, four languorous beauties gazing out over a blue sea from a high marble parapet, their attention focused on some spot beyond the frame of the painting, all recognizable as the four who had just descended the Grand Staircase—the pale fair beauty of Mrs. John Murrey Eden and the more aggressive Elizabeth, and next to her the dark beauty and scandalously bared breast of the Indian woman, and next to her—
There it was again, that first-glance recognition which informed him that he'd seen the young woman before, under vastly different circumstances.
Upon the instant of unveiling Burke heard a collective intake of breath. The crowd seemed to push forward, then hold still, as
though it required a moment to assimilate both the beauty as well as the shocking nature of the painting.
And it was both. The colors were dazzling, the marble parapet elaborate in its veined detail, the elements of sky, sea, sun and architecture dramatic, though unobtrusive, supports for the four central characters, those lovely women, two frankly sexual, all portrayed with that dewy silkiness of a woman's flesh.
Then how to account for the stunned silence coming from the company? All at once he saw the reason, saw the gentlemen from the Royal Academy step slowly forward in close inspection of the large painting, taking their time before issuing a judgment, the reaction of the entire company hinging on theirs.
In the tense waiting, Burke made his own Judgment. It was a remarkable painting but not a great one, the work of a good artist but not a genius. Still the painting would be a joy to live with. How fortunate the generations of Edens to come who would enter this Library and feast their eyes on those four, the wind breathing gently over their gossamer robes, the honesty of that one dark, clearly defined breast, four unique female wills all focused on something beyond the vision of the viewer, and that stroke alone, in Burke's opinion, raised the painting above mediocre.
What were they waiting for? A communal lover? A stem master? There was tension in those faces, the same tension he'd seen paraded in the flesh on the Grand Staircase. Someone was coming who united them in a common focus.
With increasing enthusiasm Burke studied the large canvas, his eyes forever coming back to the young woman, almost a child's face on a woman's body, as though Alma-Tadema had seen through her chronological age and had chosen rather to paint her emotional age, the same paradoxical attraction which he'd felt for Maria of the Mask, a beautiful child out of the element which society had assigned her, full of life and daring.
As the gentlemen from the Royal Academy kept everyone waiting, Burke looked over at the four living counterparts. The embarrassment of three seemed to have increased. The only ones standing at ease were Andrew Rhoades and Elizabeth. The others stood in half-turned positions, heads down, as though they longed to flee the crowded room.
Torn between the painting and the reality, Burke glanced away from both and observed John Murrey Eden standing by Alma-
Tadema in silent support, their attention focused on the gentlemen still studying the painting with maddening deliberation. Burke had the feeling that a judgment would have been announced long ago were it not for that one bared breast. The austere gentlemen were obviously trying to convince themselves that the breast was "classical" rather than pornographic.
Then, their decision was made. After a final hurried conference among themselves, one gentleman stepped forward and motioned for Alma-Tadema to join them before the canvas. All at once the gentlemen were shaking his hand, while one announced to the waiting company, "I present a new light on the horizon of English art—Lawrence Alma-Tadema."
At last given permission to express their admiration, the company broke into warm applause. Those seated rose to their feet and lifted their applauding hands high into the air.
Sensing that the drama of the evening was over, Burke looked again at the partially visible pink gown of Lady Mary Eden, amazed at her resemblance to the little singer at the Sims' Song and Supper Club. And it was just that, a unique similarity and nothing more, for not even by the wildest stretch of his imagination could he conceive of Eden granting the young woman the freedom to perform in such an establishment.
Having recently read a piece of romantic nonsense about everyone in the world possessing a double, he let it go at that and stepped down from the small ladder, determined to avoid the crush of departing guests, all hurrying toward the next entertainment, the ball which was scheduled to take place in the Great Hall. It was his
intention to find a safe harbor until the Library was emptied, then quietly return and allow Lord Ripples to study the painting close at hand.
As he moved across the back of the crowded room, he heard Eden's voice again, self-confident, as though he'd known all along that the painting would be a success.
Why did the man annoy Burke so? No answer except an honest one, which suggested that his hostility might be based on envy as much as anything. John Murrey Eden, at approximately Burke's age, had created an empire for himself. He had not inherited it or married it or in any way stepped into it ready-made. In Godlike fashion he had created it out of nothing, from the ashes of destruction.
In his movement through the congestion of guests, Burke saw in
his mind's eye a clear image of Stanhope Hall as it once had stood. It didn't last long and was replaced by new applause. Apparently some new activity was taking place on the elevation at the far end of the Library.
Whatever it was, it held no interest for him. His moment of honesty had left him with a need for privacy. The past seemed to be staring at him with dead eyes, the present reminding him of the uselessness of his existence. As those two specters combined, he increased his step until he caught sight of the door, and he was just on the verge of passing through it when he heard a female voice raised in delicate song, the tones of such crystal clarity, the upper reaches so sweet and vulnerable, a voice he'd heard before, the same voice that—
There was the possibility that he'd made a mistake again. And there still was no explanation for it. Why should— But the question never had a chance. With his eyes closed, he saw that other scene re-created perfectly, all pieces of the puzzle save one falling into place; the drunken student leaping over the stage, the young woman watching his approach from behind her mask, the sound of a woman's scream, not hers but someone else's.
The woman! Elizabeth!
That's where he had seen her before, in the wings of Jeremy Sims* Song and Supper Club.
With his eyes still closed, he felt lightheaded. The mystery was solved and yet not solved. It had been the two of them; he was certain of it now. But why? What had brought them there, and did John Murrey Eden know?
The Women of Eden Page 14
