He'd not looked at her during this explanation, and now that he had completed his confession, he found that he dreaded doing so. What if she misinterpreted his intentions?
At last he found the courage and looked slowly up to see her returning his gaze.
"I'm—not certain I understand—"
"I had to see you again," he replied simply. "Since Jeremy Sims' is now a barren place and since our waltz was interrupted at Eden and since I was fairly certain that I would not be granted the honor of calling on you formally"—he smiled and shrugged—I took matters into my own hands."
"Then you did not appear by accident this afternoon?"
"Not at all."
"And what do you intend to do with that handsome horse which you have ridden only once?"
"Ride him daily, if you'll be here."
He was being very forward and he knew it, and knew further that she had a perfect right as a lady to walk away and not address him.
Stopping by the bench to retrieve her hat, she seemed unwilling to speak further.
How foohsh of him. He'd spoken far too bluntly. Inexperienced and out of touch with matters of the heart, he'd forgotten that the pursuit must be delicate and subtle.
He watched as she adjusted her hat, ready to rejoin her maid and driver, who must not know or even suspect that she had just spent the last half-hour in questionable isolation with an American gentleman.
Praying that she would speak and somehow cancel out his blunt confession, he saw her walk wordlessly beyond the arbor to the tree where he had secured their horses. He followed after her, keeping his distance, convinced that he had caused her offense.
On the verge of calling "Wait," he saw her stop, a look of concentration on her face as she studied the reins in her hands.
"I thank you again, Mr. Stanhope, for your timely appearance," she said with disheartening formality, as though nothing at all had passed between them.
Apparently she'd said all she wanted to say and now led the black stallion a good ten yards farther before she stopped and looked back in his direction. "Tomorrow afternoon, then, Mr. Stanhope, about half-past three, here in the garden?"
She didn't smile, nothing so warming as that. Then she was gone, a small determined figure making her way through the park, leading her horse behind her, as self-possessed as though nothing at all unpleasant had occuned that afternoon.
Tomorrow afternoon. Half-past three-He stared as though someone had forbidden him to move, and watched her progress across the expanse of the park, moving toward the late-aftemoon light of the street, where the carriages awaited the riders, one carriage in particular which would take her back into the "unpleasantness" of Number Seven, St. George Street.
A sharp regret there. Foolishly it had never occurred to him that Lord Ripples' pen would cause her grief, and he was sorry for that.
He looked up as though in need of one last reassuring glimpse. But she was gone, and her absence pressed against him like a major deprivation, as though something that his soul had not even known it required had been taken from him.
He tried to find a direction, something worthy of his attention.
But there was nothing significant enough to distract him from the curious feehng of weakness which now crept over him.
In this mood and with no other options before him, he turned back into the garden and, in an attempt to re-create her presence by sheer force of memory, he commenced walking slowly along the gravel path, head down, holding himself very steady, as though he were an invalid recovering from a long and serious illness. . . .
There was a disturbance opposite her in the carriage, an annoying disturbance which shattered the quiet newly risen within her.
"Where were you? I sent Jason twice in search of you. If you think it's easy accompanying you here every day, you are very mistaken."
Mary tried politely not to listen. Somehow she had the feeling that, like John, the disturbance demanded an audience but not a response.
She wouldn't mind obliging the screeching voice, except that all her thoughts and feelings were actively involved with that most incredible revelation, that he had sought her out, had gone to great trouble and expense to follow her here, and that they would meet again the following day.
EflEortlessly she conjured up his image. The only word that accurately described his face was beautiful. Something about his eyes, or more accurately the way he had looked at her, something very steady. She had never met anyone who had looked at her so—agreeably.
"There! That's a much more suitable expression," the disturbance pronounced, the voice less shrill. "What you must understand, Lady Mary, is that, what with all the present trouble, the two of us don't want to add to it, now do we? Poor Mr. Eden. I know he treated you badly today, but then he has his grief, too, now don't he?"
That was better, a pleasant tone of voice, sorrowful and compassionate.
He wanted to see me, went to great trouble to do so.
Mary closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her lips, fearful that she would laugh aloud, some irrational behavior which would alert Doris and cause her to lecture again.
No, joy must be concealed, as though joy were not a respectable emotion. But no matter. Tomorrow would come, and she would see him again.
Near the end of the Mall, Mary glanced out the carriage window.
amazed at how beautiful the world had become. Suddenly she shivered, unaccustomed to such perceptions. Then, as though fate were trying to remind her that happiness was the exception not the rule, she suffered a devastating thought.
What if he doesn't return to the park tomorrow?
"Are you well. Lady Mary?" Doris inquired, leaning close as though she'd seen something that alarmed her.
"Yes," Mary whispered, fighting off the hideous possibility. "Just tired, that's all," and wondered how she would survive until tomorrow.
Eden Castle September 1870
"What did you say your name was?" Dr. Cockburn called from the top of the Great Hall stairs to the tall, arrogant-looking young gentleman who stood beside the carriage.
Damn! The watchmen shouldn't have let him in without first establishing his identity.
"Your name, sir?" he called again, aware of a few idle stewards watching the confrontation from the shade of the castle wall.
When still the young man did not deign to answer, Cockburn was on the verge of calling a third time, when the man shifted his position and shouted back up the stairs, "Pamell, sir. Charles Parnell. I've come to see Mrs. Eden, Lady Lila—"
"Not possible," Cockburn said, with a wave of his hand, feeling a bit arrogant himself. And why shouldn't he? In the remarkably short time of three months he had risen from the Servants Hall to a position of respect at Eden Castle, now occupying comfortable guest chambers on the second floor, at Mr. Eden's insistence, with a brand-new wardrobe, again at Mr. Eden's insistence, who had kindly said that all he wanted in return for Cockburn's rise was a whole and healthy babe some months hence.
Inevitably that thought dampened his smug feelings and left him gaping down on that strong face, that refused to go away and that also refused to take no for an answer.
Now the knave dared to threaten him. "I think you'd better reconsider, old man," he shouted up. "Mr. Eden sent me," and v^dth that blunt announcement caught Cockburn's attention.
He looked steadily down on the intrader. "Mrs. Eden—is ill/' he pronounced, falteringly, sensing a breach in his wall of authority.
But the brash young stranger was feeling no such breach. "Fm aware of that," he said, nodding, daring to start up the stairs, "Not only aware of it—indeed it is the very purpose of my mission."
Dr. Cockbum knew he was lying. With that infallible recognition that one liar has for another, he knew instinctively that the man was lying. But most accomplished in the art was this gentleman who now stood before him at the top of the stairs, his eyes never lifting from Cockburn's face.
"I realize that I'm intruding unan
nounced," he said, a hint of apology in his voice. "I was here for the Festivities at the first of the summer, then attended to some business in London. As Mr. Eden knew that I was returning to Ireland, and as circumstances are keeping him occupied in London, he asked me if I might not stop off at Eden and visit with his wife, and send a report to him immediately.'*
"I—s-send him w-weekly reports," Cockburn stammered.
"Yes, but he finds them too technical." Parnell smiled. "He desires the simpler report that only a friend of the family might deliver."
If the man were telling the truth, then Mr. Eden would be furious if Cockburn refused him admittance to Mrs. Eden's chambers. If he were not telling the truth, then Mr. Eden's rage would be—
Gawd, I don't want even to think on ihatl "Credentials, Mr.—"
"Parnell."
"Yes, M-Mr. Parnell. Did y-you bring any papers, a letter of—"
"Great God, man, are you totally senseless?" The man's outrage was awesome. "I did not ask Mr. Eden for a letter, nor did he offer one. I'm certain that he assumed you would take a gentleman at his word. Of course I see now he was mistaken, and I'll trouble you no further. However, you can be certain that I will send a courier with a special message immediately, reporting in detail my reception here." Lord, what am I to do now? The man was retreating down the steps, taking his offended outrage with him. If Mr. Eden had indeed—
"Wait!" Cockburn called out. "Forgive my—caution, Mr.—"
"Parnell."
"Y-yes, Parnell. But y-you must understand the r-responsibility that Mr. Eden had placed on my—"
"I understand."
"She is ill."
**The purpose of my unscheduled stop/'
"Her confinement is not going well."
The man seemed to look up at this, as though surprised. "Her— confinement?"
Cockburn nodded, relieved that the man was climbing the steps again, giving him another chance. "The b-babe is not securely anchored, I fear, and s-she's proving a most difficult patient."
"Take me to her," the man demanded, and strode past Cockburn as though to say he'd find his way with or without his assistance.
Trotting after the tall, forceful figure, Cockburn welcomed the shade of the Great Hall and felt the need to warn the man in advance of what he shortly would see for himself.
"She's—changed, sir," he panted, struggling to keep up. "Forgive the n-nature of this crude subject, but there is almost c-constant bleeding. And n-naturally she's considerably weakened."
"Is no one here with her?" the man demanded over his shoulder.
"Oh, yes, we're all here with her."
"I mean one of her family."
A strange question, Cockburn thought. If the gentleman has indeed seen Eden recently in London, wouldn't he know that all the family have returned to London with him? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
"This way, sir," Cockburn said, directing him to the right at the top of the second-floor landing, his anxiety rising. Was he doing the right thing? What if the gentleman were able to determine that the lump growing in Mrs. Eden's belly was not a babe?
Because, if he could determine that, then all was lost, Cockbum's carefully worked out scheme all for naught, his intention to keep the woman alive as long as possible, at least for another month or two, then have God intervene and take her, replacing the dead lump which would go with her to her grave with a fresh, newly born, blood-coated and squalling infant. There were several such womb-bound infants now down in the village, one in particular due to emerge shortly before Christmas, a whore's conception, a well-worn tart who had already given birth to seven bastards. For a pretty handkerchief and five pounds Cockburn was certain he could talk her out of this eighth excretion, and thus could he pacify Mr. Eden in the death of his wife with the gift of a child. In Cockburn's opinion, that was all Eden wanted anyway, the child. Wives could be easily replaced.
Approaching her chamber door, Cockburn called out to the
stranger still striding ahead of him, "You must wait while I announce you. The lady herself may be unwilling, in which case—"
"Just tell her Mr. Charles Parnell from Ireland is here to take her home."
Alarmed, Cockbum blocked the door. "Take her—" he gasped.
"I don't mean literally, you idiot!" the gentleman exploded. "You take an Irishman home when you talk about the mother country. Now I command you, give me passage or that courier will be on his way to London by—"
Shaken by the man's words, Cockbum unlocked the door and backed through it, warning, "Hold your position. I'll summon you in a few moments."
Quickly he closed the door behind him and bolted it. Just emerging from the bedchamber, he saw two of the women who now sat in constant guard on his patient.
"Is she-"
"Not well."
He brushed past the expressionless face and gained the doorway and looked down on the woman in the bed.
Gawd! How can I ever explain that to anyone? . . .
What precisely had drawn him back to this dreary place he had no idea. A compulsion perhaps, a fascination with the delicate little Irishwoman who had never laid eyes on her native land, who had seemed more a prisoner than a wife in her own castle.
That, and the all-pervading boredom with his brother in London and the peculiar sense that fate was making him wait offstage, husbanding his powers until the right moment in history came. In a way he didn't mind the waiting. At least it was peaceful. When the storm broke, whatever its nature, his instincts informed him that he would not know peace again.
Now he paced restlessly in the gloomy corridor outside the bolted door, a bit regretful that he'd lied his way into this place. He had thought to spend a placid day with Lord Harrington before catching the ferry for Wales at Kewstoke. Then an additional four days would see him home, where he would have to deal with his mother's disappointment over his failed life.
Thinking he'd heard something, he looked back at the closed door and saw two large, flat-faced Englishwomen emerging. They gave
him a brief glance, then strode down the corridor, one carrying what appeared to be a bundle of soiled linen.
God, but he loathed them—all aspects of them! Not just the two waddling down the corridor, but all their countrymen as well, their dull, self-righteous faces, their frozen souls locked for eternity in the illusion of their superiority.
There was one exception, and he was forced to deal with it—his affection for Lord Richard Eden, who, along with Herbert Nichols, had been the only two civilized voices he'd encountered during the ill-fated Cambridge days. Thinking that Lord Richard's simple kindness was representative of the entire family, Parnell had accepted the fortnight's invitation several months ago, and had discovered too late that he had been sadly mistaken. If it hadn't been for the hospitality of Lord Harrington and his daughter, that miserable fortnight would have been even more miserable.
It was with the sense of returning that kindness that he'd stopped off at Eden and, in the process, had learned for the first time of Mrs. Eden's confinement.
Well, he'd only stay for a few moments, long enough to wish her well, then he'd follow the channel to the ferry, shake the dust of England from his boots forever and start the last leg of his journey home.
Momentarily lost in the anticipation of his departure, he looked up at the sound of his name to see the idiot doctor standing in the door.
"She's f-f eeling poorly today, Mr.-"
"Parnell."
"Yes—Parnell. But she said if I would apologize first for her appearance and warn you—"
"Consider it done!" Parnell snapped, impatient to get the visit over with.
"Then this way, please, and only a few moments. Both she and the babe need all the strength—"
For the first time Parnell faltered. There was an odor in the room which alarmed him, and a sense of suffering so great that it had become a thing of substance.
Steeling himself against these irrational feelings, he straightened his shou
lders, cleared his head of all other matters and strode to the bedchamber door.
And stopped.
Dear God, he whispered, confident that no one had heard, not even the Deity to whom his prayer had been addressed. . . .
In the beginning only Wolf had been there, and he was questionable company, having over the years grown fat and passive on the diet of Eden mice.
Then the pattern of the four women had evolved, two standing watch by day, two by night, tending her not cruelly, but not lovingly either, viewing her from time to time as though she were simply part of the bed linens, placing her under light restraint when she tried to sit up in an effort to accommodate the searing pain in her stomach.
Daily the old physician came to see her and prodded and poked, causing greater pain and fresh humiliation. And from time to time, when the pain caused delirium, she called out for everyone, but no one had answered, and one day one of the women had sternly suggested that she was merely doing penance for having been a reluctant wife. At that moment it had made sense and in a way still did, though she earnestly prayed that her penance would end soon.
Drawing substance from hope, she tried to breathe deeply, the better to accommodate the next wave of pain which seemed to start in her lower abdomen and cut through to her spine. At some point she was aware of voices around her.
"Make her presentable. Can she sit up?"
"I doubt it, doctor, but we can try—"
As the activity in the room whirled about her, she knew that something was different, and she tried to be cooperative, lifting herself as much as possible for a fresh nightshirt and fresh linens, sorry that she could no longer control her kidneys, thus adding to the burden of those about her.
As the two women lifted her soiled nightdress, the old doctor told them to wait and stepped closer and bent over her swollen belly, distended as though in midpregnancy.
Lila held still, submitting to his examination, hoping that he would see what she knew to be the truth, what her hands told her each night as she grasped the lump in an attempt to ease the pain. There was something growing within her, but it was an evil something, not the babe that John expected, but rather something that must be dealt with before it destroyed her.
The Women of Eden Page 28
