"It is in my head, isn't it, Florence?" he heard her plaintively ask as they passed through the door.
"Of course it is, Miss Caroline. You trust old Florence, you hear. After all, who dressed you on your wedding day?"
"You did."
As the two female voices, one strong, one weak, drifted out into the entrance hall, Burke closed his eyes. Perhaps it was time to write to his father again, though a hell of a lot of good that would do. Gazing at the distorted reflection of the dining room on the side of the coffee service, he saw Charles step forward on the opposite side of the table.
"Will you be in this morning, Mr. Burke?"
"For a while, yes."
"To callers?"
"Depends on who they are, Charles. I have work."
"Mr. Delane, sir. He's waiting in the library."
Abruptly Burke turned. "My God, why didn't you tell me?"
"You were breakfasting, sir, and you need one good meal a day."
But Burke didn't wait for the rest of the boyhood lecture. He suffered a brief mental confusion. Who precisely had been "freed" in the recent hostilities? No matter. The one man he wanted to see more than any in the world was John Thadeus Delane. They had had the opportunity to exchange only a few words that last night at Eden before the watchmen had escorted Burke out. Burke had assumed that Delane would be staying for the entire second week of the Eden Festivities.
He moved out of the room at a rapid pace, and a few seconds later pushed open the library door, where he saw his friend standing in solemn scrutiny of the pavement beyond the lace curtains.
At his entrance, Delane turned and on his face Burke saw the same gloomy expression which he'd last seen at Eden.
Burke smiled, a little amazed that Delane had not enjoyed the theatrical as much as he. "You're certain you weren't seen entering this house?" Burke joked. "I suspect that Mr. Eden will see to it that I become a social leper."
Ignoring the joke, Delane took his outstretched hand and earnestly inquired, "Are you well? Have you seen a physician?"
"Oh, Lord, Delane—you're not serious."
*'It was a considerable blow.'*
*'It was nothing, and I enjoy my bruised jaw as a soldier enjoys his battle wounds, with the sense of danger past and hard-eamed dignity."
Up close he saw that Delane was still reeling from the incident. In fact he looked worse than Burke, his eyes buried in hollows, his clothes mussed.
"Come," Burke oflFered kindly, 'let me summon Charles. You look as though you could use—"
"No, no. I require nothing," Delane said. "Nothing, that is, except the ability to comprehend."
It was as Burke suspected. The foolish incident was weighing more heavily upon Delane than it was on him.
As they settled into the sofa before the dead fire, Burke asked quietly, "When did you arrive, and why did you leave Eden?"
With a half-smile, Delane said, "I arrived late last night in a carriage borrowed from the madman himself, and I left the next day after your departure because no civilized man would—"
"Oh, civilization has nothing to do with it, Delane. The man felt compelled to protect what was his. I was the interloper."
"You bear him no ill will?" Delane asked in amazement. "My God, man, you were publicly humiliated!"
Burke laughed outright. "You obviously suffered greater humiliation than I did, my friend. In fact I thoroughly enjoyed it, wouldn't have missed it for the world."
Delane cast him a glance which suggested that he was in the presence of another madman. Confronted with such an expression, Burke tried to explain his feelings. "Ah, now you see we come to one of the basic differences between the English and the Americans. As tools of arbitration, a man's fists are hard to beat. There's something very honest about a good blow delivered in righteous anger. Of course, it seldom solves anything, but it does have a way of clearing the air and defining the game."
Delane shuddered. "Barbaric. And you're no better-"
"Nor am I worse." Burke smiled, saddened to see that the man had lost his sense of humor someplace along the road back from Eden. "Oh, come, Delane, it was great sport and you know it, and the prize was certainly worthwhile."
"The-prize?"
"Lady Mary! Surely you don't think I'd engage in battle without a prize."
Delane looked directly at him, a slow dawning on his face. *Tou're not—surely you don't mean—you're not going to try to see her again?"
"Of course I'm going to see her again," Burke replied expansively.
Aware that Delane was staring at him, he left the sofa, feeling momentarily weakened, as though the mere thought of her was capable of draining him. His steps took him to the window where, for the first time, he realized the incredible obstacles in his path. If she remained at Eden, he would have no chance at all of contacting her again. But if she returned to London in the company of—
"Delane, where did you say your friend lived?"
"My-"
"Elizabeth."
Delane turned around in the sofa, the confusion on his face mounting. "In—London."
"Where in London?"
"St. George Street. Number Seven, I believe."
"Thank you."
"You are mad," Delane pronounced with conviction. "I expected to find you this morning in the company of your solicitor, preparing to bring suit against Eden. You have grounds, you know-unprovoked assault."
"There you're wrong again, Delane," Burke said from the window. "I worked very hard to provoke that assault, even threw a punch of my own."
"Why?"
"There are one of two ways you can come to know a man," Burke said. "Either through his love, which I'll admit is the most desirable, or through his hate." He approached Delane with the sofa between them. "From the manner in which we were being ignored, I determined early on that there was a strong possibility that John Murrey Eden was capable of loving no one but himself." He shrugged and leaned against the back of the sofa. "Then what was left?"
"Yet, you intend to take no action?"
"No, there will be no charges. Burke Stanhope will do nothing. But Lord Ripples—"
All at once the mystery left Delanc's face and was replaced by a smile of astonishment. "Then you'll write something?"
"Write something!" Burke parroted. "Ripples is already hard at work, Delane, and if you'll get out of here, I can promise that he'll deliver copy to you that will cause Shockwaves which will be felt all the way to Eden Point."
Delane grinned, as though in the heat of the melodrama he had forgotten the entire point of the trip to Eden, though he prudently warned, "No libel, Burke, nothing that will enable him to drag us into court."
As the man came around the sofa, Burke rested his arm affectionately on his shoulders. "Have you forgotten that I learned the libel laws at your knee, Delane, and forgotten as well the words of your predecessor, Thomas Barnes . . ." He lifted his head so that Delane might hear again the full quote on which he'd based his entire professional life.
"The first duty of the Press is to obtain the earliest and most correct intelligence of the events of the times, and instantly, by disclosing them, to make them the common property of the people. The Press lives by disclosures. . . ."
Delane listened carefully. At the end of the quote, he made a strange comment. "Then why do I feel like a traitor?" he asked softly.
Taken aback, Burke withdrew his arm. "I don't know. You're far better equipped to answer that than I." When doubt still raged across his face, Burke reminded him, "You are not obliged to print everything that Lord Ripples writes."
"No!" Delane said, as though enjoying a sudden resolution. "The man is arrogance itself, the worst combination of aggression and righteous zeal, which has left us with enemies all over the world. No," he repeated, "tell Lord Ripples that all I ask is that he write the truth as he saw it during those few days at Eden."
"He has never done less."
The two men stared at each other, as though in that instan
t they both were aware of the incendiary nature of their profession.
"Well, then, be about it," Delane concluded, hurrying toward the door. He stopped and turned back. 'Tour—mother?" he inquired politely.
"The same."
"I'm sorry."
Burke saw a look of sympathy on that weary face. How good it was to have at least one friend.
**And you're sure you're not injured?" Delane inquired further.
"A badge of honor." Burke smiled. "I will nurse it with pleasure.**
There was another pause. "And you will try to see the young lady again?"
"As soon as possible."
Delane shook his head, then he was gone. Burke stood on the closed side of the door, effortlessly seeing her face in the spill of morning sun at his feet.
Why the attraction? Because from the beginning, when he'd first seen her months ago at Jeremy Sims' and when he'd last seen her at Eden Castle, the one quality that she'd tried to keep hidden, and which even her beauty and sweet voice could not mask, was her own soul-shattering loneliness. For Burke it had been like looking into a mirror. . . .
Eden Castle May 16, 1870
Lady Eleanor Forbes, daughter of a penniless English peer, knew precisely what she had to do. She'd been trained from birth to "marry well."
Seated in the Banqueting Hall of Eden Castle with Lord Richard on her left and John Murrey Eden on her right at the head of the table, she glanced about at the magnificent hall and decided with admirable pragmatism that there was money here, if nothing else.
A peculiar evening, she thought further, the vast table set for over seventy-five guests, yet less than twenty seated awkwardly about, their eyes never lifting to their host, strangers all as far as she was concerned, with the exception of Lord Richard, whom she'd met briefly at their arrival that afternoon. Of course she knew John Murrey Eden, that remarkable gentleman with whom she'd danced repeatedly during the London season and who was a friend of her father's and a frequent visitor at their country home in Kent.
She knew he was married and had looked forward to meeting his wife. But she was not present at this evening's meal. Only old women sat at this table, like her mother seated opposite her, more Grandmama than Mama. Both her parents were approaching seventy, Eleanor a "late mistake."
Preceding her had been three brothers, the eldest dead and buried in a place called Sebastopol in the Crimea; the second, Peter, a gentleman sailor at Osborne; and the third, Percy, a charming though hapless gambler who had come close to exhausting the already depleted family coffers.
So it was left to Eleanor now, the "mistake," to please the Edens
and convince at least one of them that she was '^suitable*' and would "breed well."
"Lord Richard," she said quietly, for the silence about the table seemed to forbid speaking aloud, "I noticed from my window upstairs a narrow path which appeared to lead down the side of the chffs. Where does it go?"
"Mortemouth," the man replied, politely enough, though not raising his eyes to her, which she considered a waste, for with the help of her maid she had groomed herself carefully and knew that she was pleasing, and knew further the precise points of her attraction: a flawless white complexion complemented by coal black hair, lavender eyes the color of heather, and a full body which had been carefully sculpted by many missed meals. Her gown was white, French silk, fit for a bride, as her mother had hopefully pointed out.
"Mr. Eden—" She smiled, trying again to her right this time, the handsome bearded countenance of the man about whom all of London had gossiped at one time or another. "Forgive me if Fm forward, but I had hoped to have the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Eden. Is she-"
"111," the man replied, steadily eating as though the consumption of the lobster mayonnaise on his plate were the most important thing in the world.
"I'm sorry," she murmured and looked up, pleased to see Mr. Eden staring at her.
"Forgive my preoccupation this evening," he said, touching her hand where it rested on the table. "I'm certain that you did not travel all the way from London to be cast into gloom. Come, Richard, we're both failing as hosts and, in the presence of such beauty, that is unforgivable."
"I propose a toast," Mr. Eden pronounced, full-voiced with a suddenness which caused heads to snap the length of the table. "To all our guests who have done us the honor of journeying to Eden!"
He held his glass until the others followed suit and, to an uneven chorus of murmured approval, Eleanor tipped her glass and merely tasted the vi^ne, aware that there would be other toasts and, if she were to accomplish her goal, she needed a clear head and a steady eye.
But she was wrong on the first count. There were no further toasts, and she watched Mr. Eden sit back in his chair, the gloom about him deep and spreading.
From the far end of the table came the unexpected sound of laughter. Longingly, Eleanor looked in that direction and saw a warm foursome consisting of the woman named Elizabeth, who earlier that day had greeted her kindly in the company of the notorious freethinker Charles Bradlaugh, Eleanor's father later claimed to have recognized him and had sunk deep into new brooding over the "propriety" of the Eden household.
But as her mother had pointed out, they had not come to Eden for propriety. Propriety would not pay the French dressmaker or satisfy Mr. Soames, the solicitor for White's, who had been sent to collect just a gentleman's portion of Percy's twenty-seven-thousand-pound gambling debt.
So propriety had never been mentioned again, not even when Mr. Eden's silent Indian mistress had appeared on the arm of a gentleman named Andrew Rhoades. And Eleanor knew she was his mistress. Who in London did not know it after relentless caricatures in Punch?
Now these four—Elizabeth, the Indian mistress, Bradlaugh and Mr. Rhoades—as though impervious to their ovra scandals, seemed to be the only pocket of merriment in the entire hall.
There was more laughter, sharp and precise, and again Eleanor peered down the table to see that a young man had joined the fun. He was Indian as well, though the cut of his dress blacks was English.
As though aware of themselves as spectacle, Elizabeth and the man named Andrew Rhoades glanced toward the end of the table, where Mr. Eden was glaring back at them. A few moments later, while the distant conversation did not cease, it fell, the little group all bending in toward one another, as though a wordless edict had been issued.
Eleanor was aware that she was feeling tense, realized that she'd been sitting with her shoulders hunched. Silently she scolded herself and sat up straight. She was glad that the people laughing were enjoying themselves. But it did not concern her. It was her task to please only one man, the brooding John Murrey Eden.
To that end she adjusted the pearls about her throat and filtered through her mind the proper subjects on which a lady could speak without causing male offense. She settled at last on, "Your castle is beautiful, Mr. Eden. I'm certain you know that it's the talk of all of London. And how sad that so few can see its beauty firsthand."
*'Have you had the opportunity to see all the castle as yet, Lady Eleanor? No, of course not. We'll remedy that tomorrow. I will take you on a personally conducted tour. Would that please you?"
A peculiar offer, she thought, like a small boy wanting to show off his possessions. "Yes, thank you," she murmured.
The fourth remove was before them, smoked turkey and an enormous roast beef. And, gratified, she saw Lord Richard and Mr. Eden preoccupied with eating, the latter insisting with his mouth filled that the stewards give generous portions to all. Strange, but she did not remember the man being so cloddish.
There was a sudden burst of laughter coming from the far end of the table, sharper this time. Since there was nothing else happening at the table except the consumption of food, it was difficult not to look in that direction and wonder about the source of amusement and wish to be a part of it.
She was aware of Mr. Eden returning his fork to his plate, his eye leveled at the small group, most of whom were dabbing at t
heir eyes after the last outburst of laughter.
She saw him lean back in his chair, his fingers folded over his mouth, only his eyes visible, an expression just barely containing anger.
"Elizabeth!" His voice, razor-sharp, cut through the residual laughter, and all heads turned first in his direction, then to the offenders at the end of the table.
"John?" The woman smiled back, something challenging in her smile, as though she knew him too well to be intimidated by him.
Then Eleanor heard Mr. Eden, his voice rife with suspect goodwill, say, "I was just wondering if it would be asking too much for you to share your amusement with the rest of our guests."
Unfortunately, the invitation seemed to provoke fresh hilarity, and as the others took refuge behind their napkins, Eleanor saw Elizabeth straighten herself. "It was nothing of great importance, John, I promise," she said smiling. "Mr. Bradlaugh was just relating a tale of-"
"And your friend could not share it vdth the entire company?"
"Hardly," Elizabeth murmured.
"Let us be the judges of that."
"John, please," Elizabeth begged.
"No, I mean it," Mr. Eden persisted. "Since the meal commenced the rest of us have been forced to witness your vulgarity. Now I
think the least you can do is to inform us of the source and nature of your amusement."
Eleanor looked down into her lap, aware of the heat on her face, doubly aware of the other guests all frozen in their respective positions, as though if they only held still, the ugly scene would diminish.
But it didn't, and now into the stubborn silence came a new voice, strong yet apologetic. "I meant no offense, Mr. Eden, I swear it."
Eleanor looked up to see Mr. Charles Bradlaugh on his feet behind Elizabeth's chair, his hands on her shoulders in a protective gesture.
Hoping that this would be the end of it, Eleanor glanced up to hear Mr. Eden say, "Elizabeth, kindly tell your friend to take his seat. He is a guest in this house only under your auspices and I want the present company to know that and thus spare me any responsibility."
To her left she heard Lord Richard murmur, "John, please—"
The Women of Eden Page 19
