As Doris shifted her sewing basket to the opposite arm, Mary saw a look of annoyance on her face, as though to say that her day had been too busy to play games. And, to Mary's consternation, halfway across the no-man's land of the arch Doris announced, "I must be back by half past five, you hear? Them girls downstairs are dimwit-ted and don't even know how to—"
In spite of the chattering Doris, they had made it past the arch and were just approaching the front door when Mary heard a stern command.
With her hand on the doorknob, she held still, hoping that the command had not been aimed at her. But the hope was short-lived, for she heard John ordering, "Come back, please!"
The "please" in that voice meant nothing, and resignedly Mary motioned for Doris to hold her position by the door. She moved back to the arch and felt the weight of all those eyes, Andrew the nearest by the mahogany table near the window, a faint smile on his face, as though he welcomed any distraction. Across the room near the fireplace she saw Elizabeth seated, and near the opposite wall. Lord Harrington on the settee, trailing the gold chain of his watch back and forth between his fingers.
Alex Aldwell was there, too, his face as alert as any in the room, as though he felt it his task to monitor everything for his master.
At last there was John, standing near Elizabeth, his hands laced behind his back, a posture of suspect ease considering the flush on his face.
Would no one speak? He had summoned her. Wasn't it his place to—
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Riding, John," she said simply, hearing the echo of her mother's voice: Be patient and endure. "It's a lovely afternoon," she went on, smiling at the gloomy faces looking up at her. "Far too pretty to pass indoors."
But her smile was lost on the man, who started toward her with such speed that she was tempted to step out of his way. He stopped less than three feet from her and glared angrily down on her, as though she were the one who had written the article about the Demi-God of Eden.
**Whose idea was this?" he demanded. "Who takes my present distress so lightly that they willingly add to it?"
This self-pitying question was addressed to the room at large and, seeing the distress on all their faces, Mary decided to come to her own rescue. "It was my idea, John," she said. "I often ride in Rotten Row." Thinking to distract him from his anger, she added, "I'm a good rider, too, though I should be, for you taught me yourself. Remember?"
But the nostalgic recall was hers alone, for he continued to glare down on her as though the mere sight of her offended him. "You lide—where?"
"I told you. In Hyde Park, Rotten Row. It's quite a popular—"
At the mention of that name, as though delighted to have found a new target, John whirled about in the direction of the chair near the fireplace. "And you have permitted this?" he demanded.
From where Mary stood she saw Elizabeth try to meet both the question and his new shock. "It's a harmless sport, John," she said, "and a good form of exercise. Mary's right. I myself enjoy—"
"I don't give a damn what you enjoy!" he exploded, striding to midroom, his tone of voice seeming to alert Andrew Rhoades by the window.
But if John was aware of the slight movement by the window, he gave no indication of it. With new energy which dangerously resembled enthusiasm, he took several steps closer to Elizabeth, then stopped. "I don't believe it," he pronounced quietly. "I simply don't believe it."
As the confrontation between John and Elizabeth grew uglier, Andrew stepped into the fray. "I don't understand, John," he confessed. "What's the problem?"
At the sound of the voice behind him, John turned as though he were being attacked from the rear. "Well, if you don't understand, Andrew, I'll be damned if I can explain it to you."
"Try," Andrew insisted calmly. "I've ridden in Rotten Row many times myself. It's constantly patrolled and quite pleasant."
"And you're not my cousin, either," John countered, "a ripe target
for anyone interested in extortion. Nor are you a defenseless young woman. Nor are you aware of the numbers of whores who ride every afternoon in the park, soHciting."
"Oh, good Lord, John!" Andrew laughed. "Their activities take place in one small corner of the park, and Mary, I'm sure, stays well away—"
"Indeed she will stay well away!" John broke in. "As far away as her chambers on the second floor of this house."
At the sound of the edict, and no longer capable of hearing her mother's whispered advice to be patient and endure, Mary stepped forward, aware only that this last harmless pleasure was being denied her.
"I stay in my room all day, John, with the exception of these few hours, and I'm tired of it. And I'm equally sick of this foolish bickering. Surely you have a sizable enough audience for your anger. Why is my presence necessary?"
She'd not intended for her voice to be so sharp, and curiously in the ensuing silence she focused only on Lord Harrington, who had ceased to drag his gold watch chain through his fingers and who was looking at her in apprehension. Concentrating on Lord Harrington, she was not at first aware of the footsteps approaching her angrily from the left, and only at the last minute did she turn to see John reach out and grab her by the shoulders where he held her in a viselike grip, then began to shake her, a gesture of such violence that she felt her neck crack, her head wobbling back and forth like a broken marionette's, the drawing room growing blurred, though certain words reached her ears with painful clarity.
"You are never to speak to me in that tone of voice again. Is that clear? You will do what I say in all matters, and in this matter I command you to return to your room, take off that indecent costume and behave yourself in a manner befitting someone of your station."
"P-please," she stammered, trying to wrench free from his grip, dropping her gloves as she struggled to defend herself.
Frightened, and knowing from painful experience the damage he could do, she cried out, "Elizabeth!" and felt his hands leave her shoulders, the force of the separation whirling her about, where she collided with the table, seeing Andrew on one side of John, Lord Harrington on the other, these two men daring to drag him backward into the center of the room, impervious to Alex Aldwell, who took one step forward, then held his position.
Still frightened, Mary pushed herself up from the table and felt Elizabeth's arms about her, while over her shoulder she saw the curious tableau at midroom, John still being restrained by Andrew and Lord Harrington, though his face was stricken, as though belatedly he realized what he'd done.
Enfolded in Elizabeth's embrace, Mary heard Andrew's voice. "I doubt seriously, John, if Mary will encounter any threat on the lanes of Hyde Park as real or as potentially damaging as your own actions toward her."
She saw John bow his head. He tried to wrench loose, but sensing that his captors would not release him without reassurance or apology, Mary heard him mutter, "Let me go—I'm—sorry—"
At last the two men stepped away and watched as John retreated to the fireplace where Alex poured a brandy from the sideboard and offered it to him.
"I'm—sorry," he whispered to no one in particular and yet to everyone. "It was not my—intention to—"
How was she to deal with it? Was she to apologize to him? Nol Before the ludicrous thought took root, she hurried past Elizabeth and ran through the archway, past Doris' shocked face, stopping only long enough to whisper, "Come on, please!"
As she drew open the front door, she remembered belatedly that she'd failed to retrieve her gloves and her riding crop. No matter. Nothing could draw her back into that room, and she ran eagerly down the steps toward the waiting carriage, drawing sustenance from Jason's grinning face as he held the carriage door for her with a gen-tie scolding, "Old Bonaparte will be wondering—"
As she settied back into the cushions, she was vaguely aware of Elizabeth and Doris holding a brief whispered conversation at the top of the steps. Then she saw Doris settie laboriously into the seat opposite her, her face awash with conce
rn.
"Miss Elizabeth wonders if you are—"
"I'm fine," Mary replied, keeping her eyes straight, still feeling the violence of his hands on her shoulders. "We're ready, Jason," she called out of the window and, with relief, felt the carriage lurch forward, speed increasing, putting distance between her and the madhouse that was now Number Seven. . . .
Within the concealment of his carriage, Burke Stanhope had maintained a constant vigil on St. George Street for the last two
days, specifically on Number Seven, where the traffic passing in and out had been incredible, some of the faces recognizable from his brief stay at Eden.
Then yesterday at midaftemoon the front door had opened and he'd been rewarded with the appearance of a lovely apparition, the young woman herself, John Murrey Eden's cousin.
He had watched, fascinated, as she'd chatted warmly with the tall Negro driver, had seen her joined by a squat woman with the unmistakable air of chaperone about her, and had followed their carriage to the stables at the edge of Hyde Park, where he had seen the chaperone settle on a bench under a near tree, while the young lady had emerged from the stable on a magnificent black horse and had started off at a trot down the bridle path.
Frantically, Burke had tried to hire a horse from the arch old stablemaster, who had informed him that "This here is private stables for English gints and ladies." By the time Burke had run back to the bridle path, the young woman had disappeared into the sun and shadows, leaving him with the painful sense of having lost her again the moment he had found her.
In an attempt to walk off his disappointment, he'd strolled through the entire park, ending up on the corner where the horse-breakers plied their trade. Only the English would combine the two great national pastimes—forbidden sex and equestrian skill—into one colorful spectacle.
But today he was ready, had been up since dawn, visiting the daily horse auctions at the edge of Smithfield's, where he'd paid an exorbitant price for a handsome gray stallion with a wild look in his eye, though possessing the promising name of Rendezvous. With the horse tied securely to the back of his carriage, he'd then stopped off at Tyler and Sons Leatherworks in Castle Street, where he'd paid another small fortune for a fine, hand-tooled English saddle and bridle, and thus armed had proceeded on to the stables at the edge of Hyde Park, where he'd soothed the arrogant old stablemaster with a five-pound note and had successfully penetrated that "private domain of English gints and ladies."
Now, seated in his carriage at the end of St. George Street, Burke kept a steady eye on the broad front door of Number Seven, hoping the young woman would elect to ride two days in a row.
The family enclave was in session again, and Burke smiled as it occurred to him that he would give anything he possessed to hear what
was going on behind those broad front windows. With Delane in Paris, he'd had no report at all on Eden's reaction to Lord Ripples' words, though for the last several days the Letters page of the Times had been filled with a curious contradictory conespondence, a few writers outraged by the insults leveled both at Mr. Eden and the Empire, a few others, recognizable union leaders, in warm agreement. Burke had not expected to touch that social nerve.
He leaned forward as he saw the front door of Number Seven open, saw her descending with undue speed, her head down as though she were running from something.
Rapping lightly on the roof of his own carriage, Burke signaled his driver to make ready to move. The driver urged the horses forward, simply setting them in motion until the other carriage had passed them by, then gathering speed for the discreet pursuit. Earlier Burke had told him all he needed to know, and the man had grinned— "Done, sir."
As they entered Serpentine Road, the foot and horse traffic increased, requiring that they break their speed, but Burke continued to keep the caniage in his sights and did not relax until he saw it stop a short distance from the stables, saw the driver leap down and open the door, saw her in brief conversation with the maid.
In the interim of waiting, and confident that his scheme was working, he leaned out his window and took note of her graceful movements, most becoming in her pretty riding costume, the little beaver hat with flowing veil, the becoming nip of her waist, the fullness of her breasts. A more attractive young woman he'd never seen.
The conversation with her maid was completed now. Looking beyond her beauty, Burke saw the driver just emerging from the stables, leading the black horse toward her, trying to quiet him from the activity going on around him.
As she spied her horse, she ran eagerly forward, abandoning the maid who stood by the caniage door. With only slight assistance from the driver, she swung herself up and settled prettily into the sidesaddle position and started down the tree-shaded path of Rotten Row.
Then it was Burke's turn to move. He took the double doors of the stables running, found his new horse stomping impatiently in the stall and, with the help of the old stablemaster, who clearly liked the feel of five-pound notes, rapidly adjusted his saddle, swung up and felt the horse commence to spin beneath him.
"Whoa, there/' the old man soothed, keeping a tight grip on the bit. "I take it you ain't tested him yet." He grinned toothlessly. "Well, lead him gentle. He looks spooked, he does."
Burke nodded and thought belatedly that he should have broken in the animal in private and hoped now that he could pull it off, at least until he was safely out of sight from the old man's critical eye. As he entered Rotten Row he raised up in his saddle and looked the length of the bridle path, hoping to catch sight of that beaver hat with flowing veil.
He spied her at the far end of the path where it veered to the right and passed beneath a solid canopy of yew trees.
Urging the horse to greater speed, he passed the other horses on the path, striving to keep the beaver hat in view, but feeling beneath his boot now an ominous slippage, the stirrups easing further and further down, the entire saddle loosening. The horse, sensing trouble, began spinning. Several riders passed him by, giving him a wide berth, their English faces censuring a novice so amateur as not to take the time to make certain that the saddle strap was securely joined.
Sensing disaster moments before it happened, Burke relaxed his grip on the reins and was just attempting to swing his legs over for a quick dismount when suddenly the saddle slipped completely loose and, as he was in the process of jumping, the accelerated movement pitched him forward and down, where he landed unceremoniously on his backside in the soft mud and dead leaves of Rotten Row.
A ruddy-faced and rotund old Englishman rode close and grinned sympathetically down. "Really tough luck," he commiserated, failing to hide a smile. "I say—you're not injured, are you?"
"No," Burke muttered, lifting his hands gingerly from the damp mud and spying Rendezvous munching placidly on an unscheduled feast of summer grass across the way.
"Faulty strap would be my guess," the old Englishman added. "Can't trust the workmanship these days, you know. Everyone's giving short shrift."
Aware that his audience was increasing, Burke pulled himself up out of the soft mud, examined his backside with new embarrassment and bobbed his head at the gaping faces surrounding him.
"No damage." He smiled, lifting the saddle from the mud. He backed across the bridle path, relieved to see the small crowd dispersing.
The horse restored, he whispered, "Let's do it proper this time," and the animal lifted his head, responding beautifully to the reins, and started oflf down the long bridle path.
For almost an hour Burke rode up and down the paths of Rotten Row, straining his eyes through the sun and shadow, thinking. That's her! But it never was. Once he even returned to the stables on the possibility that she had completed her ride and had departed. But there was no sign of the black stallion in any of the stalls, and only the sly, slightly suspect smile of the old stablemaster, who sucked on his pipe and said nothing.
Where in the hell was she? Would she abandon the bridle path and take off into the heart of the par
k? If that were the case, Burke didn't stand a chance of finding her. There were hundreds of secluded walks and paths. He might as well return his horse to the stables and take up his vigil again on Number Seven.
Then that's what he would do, after one more brief turn about the path. There was always tomorrow and, in spite of his disappointment, he found himself enjoying the sport, this stately though leisured parade, surrounded by magnificent horses and graceful ladies and gentlemen, the entire ambience one of ripe summer luxury, a mild breeze blowing across him.
Amazed at the speed with which his spirits had risen, he looked up at the sound of voices and saw that he was approaching the place where the horse-breakers plied their trade.
Drawn forward by fascination and with nothing else to do, Burke guided his horse into the crowd of men, some on horseback like himself, others on foot, a solid line of waiting carriages stretching the length of the Serpentine. A marketplace, that's what it was, where gentiemen came to look and to buy.
Finding a good vantage point, Burke released his grip on the reins and settied back to enjoy the parade, the ladies in their ravishing riding habits and intoxicatingly beautiful hats, roguish wide-awakes and pretty cocked cavalier's hats with plumes.
From time to time he saw a gentleman step out of the crowd, walk toward a particular horse, exchange a few discreet words with the lady and, after a nod of her head, lead her animal to a waiting steward, assist her down, then walk a step ahead of her through the crowd toward one of the carriages.
Fascinated by this accepted form of bartering flesh, Burke watched
a moment longer, thinking that in some future column it might be a suitable subject for Lord Ripples.
Now he was weary, having been up since dawn, and disappointed at the futility of the long day. How doubly frustrating it was to have had her so close and lost her. No matter. He knew where to find her again.
Just as he was guiding Rendezvous out of the press of gentlemen, he heard a disturbance on the far side of the circle, a gentleman on horseback reaching aggressively forward for the reins of another horse, shouting something which sounded like "Whore!" Several of the ladies halted their march to draw closer to the altercation.
The Women of Eden Page 26
