Listening to the lovely song, he felt his spirits lift at the realization that he had found her again. Or had he? Confined behind the protective barrier of John Murrey Eden's affection, she could very well be even more unapproachable than she had been at Sims' club. No matter! He had no intention of letting her disappear again.
As the beautiful song approached its conclusion, he found himself transported back to Sims', old rotund Jeremy slyly presenting to his clients the bluest of bluebloods behind the mask of a music hall entertainer.
Smiling at this sudden understanding of Sims' secret, he determined that what he needed now was a go-between who could bestow upon him a formal introduction. What was so unreasonable in that request? He was a guest and he wanted simply to meet the four
women whose respective beauty had been fixed for all time by Alma-Tadema's vision. And if, after having met the four, one attracted him more than the others-He glanced over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Delane. But instead his eye fell on a much more likely candidate, a man who, by his own confession, had watched her transformation from duckling to swan. Standing with him at the door was the late-arriving guest, Charles something. He couldn't remember.
No matter. Burke did not intend to intrude on their society for long. He wanted one simple, proper introduction, then it would suit him perfectly if everyone would just disappear and leave them alone. To that end, and over the burst of applause which erupted at the conclusion of the song, Burke pushed his way back to the door, calling out with a degree of enthusiasm which shocked even himself^ "Professor Nichols, a favor, if you will. . . "
It had not been her intention to remain with the company beyond her song. She felt she owed Elizabeth that much, and how pleasant it was to be back in her good graces. But now that her song was over and had gone well, now that the silly painting had been unveiled, the ball just under way, it seemed incredible to her that a few hours ago she had been perched on a window ledge, contemplating the end of her life. She must remember this lesson in the future, that a dark vista in one direction does not necessarily mean that the entire world has been plunged into darkness.
Standing at the edge of the Great Hall, she watched the gracefully twirling ladies and gentlemen, the lights from the multicandled chandeliers overhead catching on jewels and rich fabrics, the doors at the far end flung open, the mildness of the fragrant May evening filling the crowded hall.
To one side and standing behind her were Elizabeth and Andrew. They had been dancing until a few moments ago when they stepped out of the circle and rejoined her here, not paying the slightest attention to her, however, but rather engrossed in a lighthearted conversation.
To her left and seated in a chair which had been provided for her by John was Lila, poor dear Lila, who looked so uncomfortable in her gown, though Wolf was curled comfortably enough on her lap, impervious in his arrogant feline way to the human antics about him.
And Dhari was dancing with Aslam, the boy towering above his mother now, though Mary could remember well when it had not been so.
And John? Quickly she looked about, as though feeling a need to keep him forever in her sights, and found him near the door of the Smoker in the opposite arcade, still in close huddle with Alma-Tadema and the gentlemen from the Academy.
Beneath her gown her foot kept time with the music. She felt like dancing, would have settled happily for Andrew Rhoades, who perhaps was the worst dancer in the world, with the exception of her brother Richard.
She looked out over the crowded hall. Where were they, Richard and Professor Nichols? She'd seen them earlier and then they had just disappeared. She would have no objection to dancing with Professor Nichols. She adored him and, for a large man, he moved well on his feet.
But they were no place in sight and, since none of the male guests seemed to want to approach her, she had to content herself with merely standing on the side, imagining the sensation of an arm about her waist, a man leading her into the tempo of the waltz.
About twenty minutes later, when still no one had approached her, her foot beneath her gown ceased its tapping. Perceptions of the sort that recently had caused her such pain swept over her. She would not be asked to dance tonight. With anyone. As always, dressed and groomed, she was waiting for someone's permission.
As all of this combined with an irrational awareness that she was standing alone and therefore was surely an object for gossip and worse, pity, she turned and started up the stairs, at a slowed pace in the beginning but finally breaking into a run, convinced that the privacy of her apartments would be better than this humiliation. At least in her chambers she could close her eyes and conjure up the sensation of a man's arm about her.
"Mary!"
The voice, so sharp, yet distant, surprised her. Approaching the top of the stairs, she wasn't certain whether or not it had been a part of her fantasy.
"Mary! Wait!'*
From the top of the stairs she looked down upon her brother Richard, and standing behind him was Professor Nichols, and behind him were two gentlemen she'd never seen before.
This was no fantasy. They were real enough and she felt suddenly shy, for all were looking up at her with intense interest, all except one, and he looked as though he were in pain.
She saw Richard whisper something to the others, then start up the stairs toward her. As he drew near, she reached out and stroked the side of his face. How she adored him, this brother who all her life had consistently loved her, no matter what she did!
In response to this affectionate gesture, he caught her hand and kissed its palm, and the expression in his eyes seemed to mirror her thoughts.
"You look lovely," he whispered. 'Tve been told that for the last few days you were not feeling well."
Beyond his shoulder she saw the other gentlemen in a huddled conversation. The third continued to stare up at her as though she were a ghost.
"Are you well now?" Richard asked.
"I was never ill," she admitted, fascinated by the intensity of that gentleman's stare. She looked back at Richard. "I quarreled with Elizabeth, or she with me." She shrugged. "At any rate, we've reconciled now."
Thinking that that would be the end of it, she was surprised to see the concern on his face. "You're not retiring so soon, are you?"
"I had thought I might," she said, and did not bother to explain her aloneness.
"Poor Mary," he murmured and gained the top step and put his arm around her. "Might I impose upon you for just a moment longer? There is a gentleman who would like to meet you. He's a friend of Mr. Delane's and I'm afraid we've done a poor job of making him feel welcome these past few days. Stay for just a short while longer and help me to welcome him to Eden."
"He—wants to meet me?" she asked, amazed at this turn of affairs.
"Come," Richard urged. "Just a few additional moments, please?"
She'd never been able to resist Richard. Aware now of all three men gaping up at her, she took Richard's arm and started down the staircase.
As they drew near the bottom, Professor Nichols stepped forward and gave her a light kiss, a familiar gesture based on an old friendship. "I trust that we are interrupting an errand of no great importance?" he asked, smiling.
"No. I was just retiring."
"So soon? Oh, come—you can sleep any time. Now you have admirers."
To one side she saw Richard smiling, though taking no active part in the encounter, as though having delivered her to Professor Nichols he had performed his duty.
She looked back to see Professor Nichols guiding a tall, lean man toward her. His face was quite gaunt, his chin fully bearded in a luxurious growth of red-brown beard.
"Lady Mary," Professor Nichols began, "allow me to present Mr. Charles Parnell. He only just arrived, having traveled all the way from Ireland, the dust of the road still on his boots, as you can see, but he insisted on joining the Festivities."
"Mr. Parnell," she repeated.
By way of further introduction Nich
ols added, "He was a student of mine at Cambridge last year and I'm afraid he doesn't have very much love for English—"
"Is that true, Mr. Parnell?" Mary asked politely. "How have we offended you?"
Gallantly the man bowed. "You have not offended me at all. Lady Mary. I think Professor Nichols has reference to my fellow students at Cambridge, who fancied themselves country gentlemen and who succeeded in behaving like stableboys."
She was in no way prepared for this stern indictment and had no idea how she should respond to it. Fortunately there was no need, for Mr. Parnell stepped back, thus clearing the way for the second gentleman, who was equally as tall though not nearly so gaunt, the man who had viewed her so soberly at the top of the stairs and who, even now on the verge of introduction, was looking at her with a degree of intensity that caused the heat of a blush to rise on her cheeks.
"And this gentleman," Professor Nichols went on, "is Mr. Burke Stanhope from America, though now residing in London."
"Mr.-Stanhope," she repeated and could think of absolutely nothing further to say.
Apparently neither could anyone else and when the awkward silence stretched beyond the point of embarrassment, she was on the verge of bidding them all goodnight and retreating to her chambers.
"Lady Eden," the strange gentleman finally managed, "I just wanted to tell you how—lovely your portrait is. . . ."
His voice, so un-English, and his faltering manner caused her to
smile. It was reassuring to see that someone else suffered as she so often did.
Buttressed by this thought, she asked, "Where in America is your home, Mr. Stanhope, and are you on holiday here?"
Two harmless questions, or so she had thought. Thus she was in no way prepared for the rude manner in which he ignored both and posed a question of his own. "I have not yet enjoyed a waltz, Lady Eden. Would you do me the honor of becoming my first partner?"
No! All her instincts resisted the invitation, although earlier it had been her most ardent wish.
"I—was just on the verge of retiring, Mr. Stanhope. . . ."
"Nonsense," Professor Nichols interrupted with characteristic bluntness. "Give the man at least one dance, Mary. After all, he specifically requested an introduction."
Behind her she heard Richard's voice urging, "That gown was designed for the waltz, Mary. Treat us all to your beauty in movement."
It was a gracious compliment delivered with affection. More to please Richard than anyone, she gave Burke Stanhope a smile and lifted her gloved hand. "Then come," she invited, "one is just commencing. I've never danced with an American before."
"The waltz is universal. Lady Mary," Burke Stanhope said, smiling —a very pleasant smile, she observed, altering his face, warming it.
As he led her forward, she glanced back at Professor Nichols and saw a self-satisfied smile on his face, as though he'd kept a promise or won a wager. She looked back again and saw Professor Nichols and Richard leading Mr. Parnell toward the chair where Lila sat. Suddenly Mary felt that they had purposefully set out to provide diversion for all the unoccupied women of Eden.
Sensing that she had been manipulated, or worse, "seen to," she felt Mr. Stanhope's arm about her waist, hands raised and, in her preoccupation, missed the first beat and would have stumbled had it not been for his immediate support.
He smiled down on her. "Shall we try again? I'm afraid it's been a while since I've—"
"The fault was mine, Mr. Stanhope," she murmured, grateful for his willingness to take the blame.
All at once they moved forward into the large circle of the waltz, and within the instant found the tempo of the music and matched it to their own, and a few moments later she felt herself swept along in
a glorious whirl of gowns and graceful movement, always feeling his support about her waist, the subtle guidance of his hand in hers, the same sensations that she had planned to enjoy in fantasy in her chambers but now enjoying the reality more.
For the first complete circle neither spoke, as though both were concentrating on doing well. In the blur of passing faces she caught sight now and then of a familiar one, Ehzabeth in the arms of Mr. Bradlaugh, who passed her by with a look of pleased surprise. She saw Andrew Rhoades and Dhari, though neither saw her, their attention locked on each other.
Once or twice, buoyed by the tempo and the delirious feeling of lightness, her smile grew into a laugh and she looked up at Mr. Stanhope to see him sharing her pleasure.
"The portrait is lovely," he said at last, as though feeling certain enough of himself to indulge in conversation.
"I'm glad you like it," she replied, "though speaking for myself, I'm afraid I find it rather silly." "Why silly?"
"Have you ever seen a vista like that in England? Elizabeth tried to convince Alma-Tadema that the background of Eden Point would have been much more realistic." "I'm not certain that his goal was realism."
"Then he succeeded admirably." She smiled. "And if the painting pleases John—and others—then my opinion is insignificant."
At first she thought he would refute her words, but he didn't and proceeded to stare down on her with the same intensity. And when he showed no signs of speaking, she rephrased one of her earlier questions which he'd left unanswered.
"What part of America is your home?" she asked, finding him most attractive, a quality of warmth and interest which she'd failed to notice during their awkward introduction. "I live in London now," he said, again avoiding the question. Well, she certainly would not force the issue. She was enjoying herself too much to spoil it with awkward questions.
Amazed at how lovely the evening had become, she closed her eyes and gave in to the glorious sensation of their bodies moving together, the flow of others around them, the enticing floral odors which permeated the Great Hall.
It was with a sense of regret that she heard the music come to a
halt. She opened her eyes to find him staring down on her, as though he, too, regretted that it was over.
"Would you care to—sit down?" he asked, as the couples shifted about them.
"Not really." She smiled, hoping that she wasn't being too daring.
"Shall we try again, then?" he asked, laughing, his arm still about her.
"Yes," she agreed, finding his face a continuous source of pleasure, a rugged face with a few fine lines about the corners of his eyes, a face quick with intelligence and something else, a sober quality that spoke of—what? Sorrow?
Then the music commenced again, the tempo slower this time, and she felt him draw her closer and did not object and discovered that by looking straight ahead her eyes just cleared his shoulder, and by concentrating further she was aware of his breath caressing the right side of her forehead.
"Lady Mary," he asked, his voice soft over the slowed tempo of the music, "may I—ask you a question?"
She looked up, amused by his formality. "Of course."
"Have you—ever seen me before?"
She thought at first that he was teasing. But she saw not a glint of humor on his face.
"Seen you before?" she repeated. "Where would I have seen you before?"
"Do you—know London?"
"Know it!" she exclaimed. "I hve there most of the time when I'm not at Eden."
"Do you know of—an establishment called Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club?"
The words approached her steadily over the music. It was several moments before she realized that they had stopped dancing, hearing not the music but Elizabeth's fearful warning. "What if someone should discover who you are, and tell John?"
"Mr. Stanhope, I think I should retire now."
"No, please, wait," he begged. "I did not mean to cause you distress." He led her toward the center of the Great Hall and out of the flow of dancers. "I simply wanted to tell you how much pleasure you have given me. Earlier I thought it was you, but wasn't certain until I heard your lovely voice."
Embarrassed, her mind turning on all the aspects of trouble he could c
ause for her, she tried to retreat.
But he protested a second time and held her close, and with no option except to make a public spectacle of them both, she remained in his arms.
"Please listen," he begged, as though he'd known beforehand that the announcement would upset her. "I have enjoyed your performances for the last six months, refusing to let anything interfere with my Thursday evenings at Jeremy Sims'." He drew so close that his face disappeared from her view and she was left with the sensation of his whispered breath in her ear.
"If your appearances there are a secret, then I swear that it will be my secret as well. All I ask is that you let me know in advance so that we can guard against a repetition of what happened."
She looked at him, recalling the gentleman who had come to her rescue. "It—was you."
He nodded. "I had hoped to gain an introduction that night, but when I returned to the stage, you were gone."
"Elizabeth was—"
"I know. Alarmed, as well she should have been."
"How did you recognize me?"
"Your voice, although I was fairly certain when I first saw you. I simply couldn't make a connection."
"And you've told no one?"
"No."
She continued to gaze up at him, only vaguely aware of the couples passing behind them. She softly laughed. "I had thought that the mask would—"
"It did, for a while. But you must remember I've studied you closely every Thursday night for months."
Flattered, she blushed. "Why?"
He paused. "Because I found you the most fascinating woman I had ever seen."
It was as though the rest of the Great Hall had gone dark about her and the only light available was that of his face.
"Mr. Stanhope, I-"
Though he had not interrupted her, she broke off, finding that she lacked suflEcient breath to form words. All that mattered was this remarkable man, who continued to stare down on her with a degree of adoration she'd never seen in a man's face before. She had the most
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