The Women of Eden

by Marilyn Harris

  Just as Eleanor was beginning to wonder if anyone would ever move again, she heard a chair scrape and looked up to see Elizabeth standing, the expression on her face one of hurt.

  Ehzabeth gazed steadily back at Mr. Eden, then murmured, "If you will excuse us—" and without another word she skirted the far end of the table, Mr. Bradlaugh behind her, the silence now punctuated by their footsteps.

  As the embarrassment continued to spread, Mr. Eden said in a forced voice, "Please, my friends, let's continue. And eat heartily. You will have the chance to dance it off later. The musicians are tuning their instruments and the ball will take place as scheduled."

  A ball? With less than twenty guests? But perhaps others are due later, Eleanor thought. Down the table she heard her mother make an attempt at conversation, and feeling a degree of pride in that dignified old woman who in younger days had served Queen Victoria as lady-in-waiting, Eleanor began to hear a steady hum of voices about her, the pulse of the party not exactly revived, but at least still beating, though Mr. Eden seemed to have sunk into new depths of brooding.

  Eleanor tried to think of something to say and realized that while her "finishing" lessons at her mother's knee might serve her well in most situations, there were forces in this Banqueting Hall tonight which were well beyond her. If fate decreed that she would become

  Lady Eden, she must remember that her true master would never be her husband, the man seated on her left whose head was bowed so low that he appeared to be at prayer, but rather the man seated on her right, London's premier master-builder, who now sat slumped in his chair, his head jerking imperceptibly like an angry bird of prey. . . .

  Later that evening, watching the sad spectacle of eight couples waltzing in isolation about the Great Hall, Eleanor glanced across the Hall and saw her father and mother entering the small Library in the company of John Murrey Eden.

  Just before her father disappeared into the room she saw him look back at her, his normally bland face set in a hard way. It was only a brief glance, but the message was clear. Fate was in the process of determining her future.

  No matter. She would make the best of it, for in her twenty-one years she'd learned one lesson well, that the world was gentlest with those who willingly played the role that the world had assigned to them.

  She had been trained from birth for this moment, to sit passively beside a man she did not love, aware that forces were being set in motion that would bind her to him forever, and not to whimper or complain, and certainly not to cry, but rather to smile pleasantly and flatter his ego with: "Lord Richard, tell me of your work at Cambridge. How important it sounds. . . ."

  By late Tuesday afternoon, the embarrassing script had been written large and clear for all to see. No other guests were coming. Out of the one hundred and fifty elegantly engraved invitations which had been delivered to England's titled families, less than twenty had appeared.

  Out of the habit of loyalty, Andrew Rhoades sat in one of those beastly Queen Anne chairs which John had chosen as decor for his office and watched apprehensively as the man himself gazed out the window into the empty courtyard below.

  Andrew had not been summoned. He had taken the initiative himself and had sought John out, though it had required massive effort to do so. That John was suffering, he had no doubt.

  Andrew looked up from his thoughts to the brooding man at the

  window, his hands clasped behind his back, his head tilted at an angle which seemed to personify his hurt and bewilderment.

  "John, it isn't the end of the world, you know," Andrew said. "It's time we got back to London. Alex tells me there are matters requiring our attention. What would you say to leaving tonight? Richard can take care of—"

  "Why didn't they come, Andrew?" came the mournful voice from the window. "How have I offended them?"

  Andrew pushed out of the uncomfortable chair, feeling the need for movement when confronted with such a difficult question. "I wouldn't say that you've—offended them, John," he began prudently, "although your success may be a bone of contention." No, that wasn't the right approach or the honest one. "For all the liberal rhetoric sweeping across England now"—he smiled—"there are still barriers between the classes."

  That wasn't much better. In fact, Andrew turned, expecting a fiery rebuttal. But to his relief he saw nothing but the man, fixed as a statue, still gazing out the window.

  A moment later John stepped back to the desk. "Where is Richard?" he asked.

  The rapid transition caused Andrew to falter. "I—don't know."

  "Is he with Lady Eleanor? If he isn't, I wish him to be so. Seek him out, Andrew, and inform him that it is my wish that he pass the entire evening in her company."

  Baffled, Andrew nodded, though he couldn't understand how the pretty young woman could provide Richard with any diversion.

  "And see to it that our guests have everything they require," John added, this last request even stranger than the first. The guests had at their command a staff of over four hundred. Surely they were being looked after in every sense of the word,

  "And tell Miss Samson that I will visit the nursery within the hour and that my sons are to be dressed and informed of my coming."

  Andrew smiled, amused at the thought of little Stephen and Frederick snapping to attention in their father's presence.

  "And tell Mary that I would like to see her at dinner tonight."

  Andrew stood alert. Trouble there. Mary had found a safe refuge in her mother's chambers and he doubted seriously if she would willingly comply with John's wishes—not after her recent humiliation. Still, he would try.

  He glanced across at the man standing stiffly behind the desk. "Anything else, John?"

  The direct question elicited no response, though a few minutes later he saw John come out from behind his desk and start wordlessly toward the door.

  "John? Where are vou—"

  "See to it, Andrew. Everything.'*

  "But I had thought that we might—"

  "I'll be back within the hour."

  "But where are you— May I—"

  "See to everything!"

  Andrew ceased his questioning. It didn't hurt so much to deal with this John.

  But he was in no way prepared for the scarcely audible voice now coming from the door. "I'm sorry, Andrew, if I've tarnished your reputation. It was not my intention to be a stigma to those I love most."

  Self-pity was there. But something else as well, the incredible realization that John was assessing his own worth in terms of those guests who'd spurned him.

  Andrew stared at the bowed figure. When at last he'd found his tongue it was too late, John passing through the door, impervious to Andrew's repeated calls of: "John—wait—"

  Mystified, the echo of that last ridiculous apology ringing in his ears, Andrew went immediately to the window, which gave a view of the courtyard below. A few minutes later John came into sight, walking at that same steady pace past the watchmen, who roused themselves long enough to bow before their master.

  But as far as Andrew could see, John was not even aware of their presence, and continued walking, head down, hands clasped behind his back, chained internally by some overpowering drive.

  It was alarm, coupled with curiosity, which suggested to Andrew that perhaps John should be followed. That he was caught in a deep depression there was no doubt.

  Hurriedly Andrew left the room and traced John's steps down the stairs through the Great Hall, past the servants, who tried to look busy, on through the doors and out into the late-afternoon sun.

  Fm sorry, Andrew, if I have tarnished your reputation—

  His thoughts took him the length of the castle, where at the northwest corner he stopped, his eyes scanning the gardens which

  stretched before him in colorful profusion. But there was not a sight of John.

  Whatever demons were at the moment grappling with his soul, Andrew suddenly felt generously inclined to let John deal with them alone. The mo
od would pass. They always did. Next week, when they were back on familiar London ground, rushing from one building site to another, then Andrew would find a way to tell John what was in his heart, that though there had been difficult occasions on which his love had faltered, that love was still very present, and, contrary to tarnishing Andrew's reputation, he considered his association with John to be the richest aspect of his life.

  He had just started back down the cool damp path when his eye fell on movement coming from an unlikely place, the graveyard, that cloistered area hidden behind high walls where every Eden for the last six hundred years had been buried.

  He moved stealthily toward the black iron gate, wanting to see but not wanting to be seen until—

  John.

  He was standing before the marble headstone of his father, Edward Eden. As Andrew's eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he stepped back behind the protection of the wall itself and peered around the gate at John, who appeared to be merely standing before his father's grave, not in the attitude of mourning or prayer, but rather a defiant stance, as though he were asking questions of the grave.

  It occurred to Andrew that he had never seen him here before. Elizabeth came often and on occasion Lady Harriet, but those were the only two who ever paid their respects to the Eden dead.

  In the chill evening, Andrew shuddered. Of all the haunts of Eden he would have thought this one the last that John would have sought out. Surely he would find nothing of comfort here.

  Feeling that he was intruding on an intimate moment, Andrew was in the process of turning away when he saw John take one step forward, his hands reaching out for the marble headstone bearing the inscription Edwaiid Eden 1798-1851, He seemed to grasp it, as though he wanted to rip it from its place in the earth. But at last his intent failed him and Andrew saw him go down onto his knees on his father's grave, his head bent low, a soft, childlike voice joining the sighs of waves coming from the strand, an almost soundless moaning which nonetheless Andrew heard clearly.

  "Papa-'*

  Andrew turned away, unable to watch any longer.

  Lord Liam Harrington, originally from County Kerry, Tully Cross, Ireland, sat back in his chair in his private sitting room, amazed that the long-dreaded public opening of Eden Castle should be so enjoyable and that the enjoyment was emanating from such an unlikely source—a tall, gaunt, attractive young Irishman who had kept them both captivated for the last several days with his humorous accounts of "Britishness."

  Though it was approaching midnight, the three of them having dined alone because of Lila's indisposition, and though Mr. Parnell had held forth nonstop for over four hours, still Lord Harrington was loath to let the evening end.

  To Mr. Parnell's thoughtful observation of, "It's late and you both look weary," Lord Harrington insisted, "No, not at all," though he glanced across at his daughter Lila, lying on the chaise in her dressing gown, and determined that while she didn't look particularly weary, she looked ill, her eyes darting to the clock. John would send for her soon, as he always did, and Lord Harrington would be forced again to witness her fear as her maid helped her to the door.

  Yet what can I do? She was the man's wife. She had her duties and no choice but to perform them. In addition, Lord Harrington was too deeply in debt to John Murrey Eden ever to take Lila's side against him. The man wanted more children, a reasonable Catholic desire, and Lila must be the bearer of those children, whether she fancied it or not.

  Strengthened by these thoughts, he redirected his attention to the irrepressible Irishman, Mr. Parnell, who had regaled them all evening with stories of his English classmates at Cambridge.

  "Tell us more, Mr. Parnell, I beg you," Lord Hanington pleaded, rising from his chair to fill both their brandy snifters, in the hope that the man would talk on until Lila was sent for, and then remain for that next ungodly hour when Lord Harrington was forced to dwell on what she was enduring.

  "I can't imagine what's left to tell, Lord Harrington," Mr. Parnell responded. "Suffice it to say that my Cambridge days were a disaster from start to finish. If it hadn't been for a few men such as Richard Eden and Herbert Nichols and my supervisor, G. F. Pattrick, my

  three and one-half years there would have been even more unproductive than they were."

  "Then you count the experience for nothing?"

  "Absolutely nothing." Parnell smiled.

  "Why did you go?"

  "My mother's idea," Parnell said, laughing. "God spare the world from ambitious mothers! She'd thought to make an English gentleman of me, but—"

  Abruptly the man broke off and stared into his brandy.

  As though hoping to guide the conversation away from that painful topic, Parnell asked, "Is it true. Lord Harrington, that your daughter has never seen Ireland?"

  Embarrassed, Lord Harrington leaned back in his chair. "I'm afraid it is," he confessed.

  "I don't believe it," Parnell said, standing. "I merely ask her when she'd last been home and she calmly replies that she's never been to Ireland!" He strode a few steps about the room, looking back at the two of them, only to conclude with a vigorous shake of his head. "I don't believe it; I really can't."

  "You must understand, Mr. Parnell," Lord Harrington began feebly, "I married an Englishwoman and dissolved all my Irish holdings many years ago." He placed his snifter on the near table and locked his hands before him in defense against the memories of that bleak past. "It was during the Famine, Mr. Parnell. I was unable to care for my workers and I wearied of watching them die."

  He closed his eyes against the assault of memory and guilt. Unable to face it, he'd run from it, had run as well from his Catholic faith. In a rush of grief he walked a distance into the shadows of the room and threw back a defensive, "No, Lila has never seen Ireland, and my last glimpse of it was not one that I would want her to see."

  Softly he heard Mr. Parnell say, "The invalid lived, Lord Harrington. Surely you received news of that. The Irish heart beats as strong as ever and will continue to do so, despite British greed. I can't imagine that you will be contented forever within the confines of this English fortress, nor Lady Lila."

  "She is an English wife now, Mr. Parnell," Lord Harrington re-phed, "as she was an English daughter."

  "And an Irish one," Parnell added. Then, as though he too had sensed that the conversation had taken a disagreeable turn, he sat on the edge of the chair, that irrepressible grin seeming to light all the

  dark corners of the room, and cordially invited, "Then you must both come and visit me at Avondale. Oh, beautiful it is, you wait and see. Lady Lila, comfortable but not grand, set in a park of ancient trees and rolling grassland."

  As Pamell rushed on in loving description of his home. Lord Harrington watched Lila, the changes on her face as Parnell talked about the small comfortable rooms, the cozy library, the three bay windows which afforded a breathtaking view of the lush parkland, every feature in direct contrast to what she inhabited here at Eden.

  As Parnell's enthusiasm mounted, keeping pace with his voice, he left his chair and sat on the edge of Lila's chaise, as though his words delivered close at hand would have a greater effect on her. Lord Harrington found himself drawn forward by the man's passion, his determination to make the dream happen, to work alongside his farmers, enjoying the dignity of labor, an experience not totally foreign to Lord Harrington, despite his ten years of pampered boredom here at Eden. In his youth he, too, had worked alongside his father and knew the feel and smell of Irish soil as well as any man.

  "Ah, glorious it is, and glorious it will be," Parnell concluded in a state of rapture, his hands clasped between his legs, his strong patrician features lifted toward the ceiling.

  Suddenly Wolf awakened and meowed plaintively. The animal sound, coming so unexpectedly after the torrent of human words, set them all three to laughing, Parnell claiming, "See? Even Wolf wants to come. Poor Wolf," he added, gently rubbing the cat's head, "condemned to a diet of English rats."

&nbs
p; There it was again, that coldness in his voice for everything English.

  Lord Harrington had a question, indeed had postponed asking it for several days. He drew near to the chaise and tried to speak diplomatically. "If I may ask, Mr. Pamell, why did you come here?"

  A look of surprise covered the man's face. "I was invited," he said, "by both Lord Eden and Professor Nichols. I was on my way to London to visit my brother John, and, if given a choice between the filthy roadside inns of rural England and the cornucopia of Eden Castle, which would you select?"

  Lord Harrington smiled. It was as he'd suspected. The man was a charming opportunist.

  "Money, great masses of it, has an incredibly strong odor." Parnell

  grinned. "And this poor Irishman couldn't resist a good glimpse at one of England's truly great cesspools."

  Aware that he'd said too much, Parnell delivered an apology to Lila. "I beg your forgiveness, milady," he murmured.

  "No need, Mr, Parnell," she replied, the expression on her face soft with reflective tenderness for the land of her ancestry which she'd never seen. "My husband is—"

  A knock came at the door, a light rap, not at all capable of eliciting the look of fear which covered her face.

  Lord Harrington saw Parnell glance toward the door and offer kindly to open it.

  "No," Lila whispered, drawing her dressing gown more tightly about her. In the next moment when Wolf jumped down from her side and darted into Lord Harrington's bedchamber, Lila cried out, "Wolf, please!"

  In defense against the cry and the dread in his daughter's eyes, Lord Harrington summoned strength from some remote source and ignored Pamell's offer to answer the door, going himself, knowing full well what he would find on the other side.

  There they were, precisely as he had imagined them, a strange party of executioners; Lila's maid, Molly, her expression in the dim corridor as fear-ridden as Lila's, and standing behind her, two strapping male stewards who had been sent to assist her with the completion of her duties.

  "Begging your pardon. Lord Harrington," Molly whispered, "but Mr. Eden-"

  "I know," Lord Harrington replied sharply and thought. How barbaric! Was the fault Lila's or John's, and how long could his daughter endure nightly rape, and why between husband and wife did it have to be rape?