But the memories persisted, some luminous and full of sunlight, others filled with misshapen images, and at last he stumbled upward, barefoot, heading toward the sideboard and the decanter of brandy.
As he was approaching the bottle he heard a knock at the door and before he could reply he saw the door pushed open, saw a chambermaid carrying an armload of wood.
"Forgive me, Mr. Eden," she murmured, "but Mr. Rhoades sent me, said a fire would suit you. If I may—"
He nodded, embarrassed to be caught in this state, bootless. "Yes, a fire."
As the girl approached the firewell in the outer chamber, he redirected her. "Not there, please. In my bedchamber."
She raised up, precariously balancing the wood in her arms. He stood motionless by the sideboard, his hand on the decanter, ready to pour. Slowly he returned it to the tray and followed after her.
She was kneeling before the grate. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her. She was new, like most of his ever-changing staff. He was certain that he'd never seen her before. Fairly young, not yet twenty was his guess, as he assessed her slim waist and fleshy upper arms straining against the fabric of her dress.
Clever Andrew! Good Andrew! To send him such an unexpected gift. Would Aslam have been so thoughtful? He doubted it, though the boy only lacked experience.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Nora," she said, expertly laying the fire, inserting kindling at key points.
'*Nora," he repeated, fascinated by the manner in which her breasts pressed against her knees as she leaned into the firewell. "How old are you, Nora?"
"Eighteen."
"Eighteen-year-old Nora," he repeated, pleased to see the fire catch with the first spark. She stood back and fanned it with her apron until the flames were blazing well.
She turned to him, a becoming blush on her cheeks. "Mr. Rhoades said I was to see if I could do anything else for you."
John smiled. Dearest Andrew. He would have to think of some suitable way to repay him. Slowly he stood up from the bed and commenced removing his garments.
Her face showed neither pleasure nor displeasure. She merely smiled back at him as her fingers brushed magically down the long row of buttons, leaving a track of white flesh in their wake.
A moment later the black uniform was in a circle about her feet and she stood before him in the firelight, a vision of shoulders and breasts and prettily plump legs.
He had thought to move on her immediately. Certainly there was a clear invitation in her eyes. But he hesitated and slipped beneath the cover to hide his inadequacy. It was only the circumstances, that was all, the damnable sense of death that still permeated this room, his recent thoughts of Mary, all the teary females with whom he'd been surrounded of late.
"Come," he invited, and held the coverlet back, certain that the doseness of that young body would make a difference.
Without hesitation she nestled in beside him, her hands moving instinctively down to the source that hopefully would bring her pleasure.
He gasped at the first contact. She leaned over him, her eyes wide with astonishment. "Poor you," she giggled, and disappeared beneath the coverlet.
He shut his eyes as he felt her lips close about him. It would only be a matter of seconds. The need was suffocating him, and with all his senses at the ready he followed her skillful hands and lips as she manipulated, caressed, massaged.
But after several minutes he was aware of nothing but the perspiration which covered his forehead and the emerging face of the girl, cheeks flushed, hair mussed, as she smiled sadly down on him.
Nol TTiere had been enough death this day, and since the future
promised more, he would have to confront all death now and defeat it. With a violence that brought a look of alarm to her face, he pushed her down and flattened himself on top of her, forcing her legs apart and with a massive effort thrust against her, his hands kneading her breasts continuously, the perspiration from his forehead rolling down his neck, blending with hers as she lifted her legs about his waist, trying to make it easy for him.
Still he persisted, his actions growing more violent, his need keeping pace. But it was no use. There was nothing with which to penetrate her, and he suffered a severe pain in the side of his head.
"No more, sir," she begged, and tried to struggle free. "Maybe later. I'll come back—later—"
Panting from his effort, he looked down on her, and in his confused state saw Mary beneath him, then Lila, then Harriet, her veil removed, her sightless eyes streaming blood.
"No," he groaned and clung to the opposite side of the bed, waiting for the horror to pass.
A few moments later he heard the door close, but he did not look in that direction or protest her departure.
He couldn't. For the time being all his energy was focused elsewhere, not on the tears which slid down his face. He'd wept before and would weep again.
But there was something else moving across and through him, impaling him.
Fear.
For the first time in his life, he was afraid.
London, Mayfair December 8,1870
Obeying an instinct so ancient that it required no interpretation, Caroline Stanhope, sensing that her offspring was in pain, had completely thrown off the veils of her madness and now viewed him with crystal clarity as he sat slumped in his chair at the far end of the table.
Her second instinct told her that the cause of his pain was a woman, and her third instinct was the most powerful and primitive of all. It simply commanded her to identify the interloper and destroy her.
"Burke, my darling," she called out to him, "talk to me, please. I was absent from you for so long, I'm afraid you've acquired the habit of silence."
At last he looked up, though in a way she was sorry. Never had she seen him so distraught. His beautiful eyes lay in dark shadows, mute testimony to many sleepless nights. His hair lay mussed about his head, as though he'd risen from the ordeal of his bed to join her for dinner. And the heavy stubble about his chin suggested that he'd not paid serious attention to his grooming for several days.
In spite of this ruination, she was rewarded with a smile. "I'm sorry, Mother," he said, and concentrated with undue interest on the hem of his napkin.
"Burke, we must talk," she urged. "I'm still recovering from my Alness, but I'm well enough to determine that you are falling into one, perhaps more painful than mine."
But he shook off her concern. "It's nothing. Mother, I assure you," he said, and pushed back in his chair.
Remembering a lesson that she'd learned early in his childhood, that the surest approach to her son was a circuitous one, she tried to relax. "Burke, I've been thinking," she began. 'Why don't we entertain?" Before the protest on his face grew into a verbal one, she hurried on. "Listen to me, Burke," she urged. "I'm quite serious. And the servants would love it. Wouldn't you, Charles?" she called over her shoulder, trying to rally support for an idea which she had no idea of carrying out.
"Yes, Miss Caroline," the old man repKed, "if it pleases you."
"There, you see!" she announced triumphantly, pleased to see that at least a portion of Burke's attention was hers.
"You have been ill," Burke said, reminding her of the embarrassment of her own madness.
"I suggest that we continue as we always have. Mother," he said. "You are not well enough for an active social life, and consider it a blessing, for I'm afraid you'll find the English an indifferent people."
"Burke, wait—"
But he didn't, and she heard the front door close and she was left alone with Charles hovering behind her.
"Follow him," she ordered quietly. "Keep him in your sight. He's not himself."
"Yes," the old man murmured, and a moment later she heard the door open and close again. . . .
Burke knew he was being followed.
At the end of the street, he saw Charles just descending the steps. It was a simple matter to slip into the narrow alley which ran betw
een Number Eleven and Twelve, and wait.
A moment later he saw the tall black man loping down the street in pursuit of nothing. Burke re-emerged in the night, not certain of his destination, but simply feeling the need for movement to counteract his deep anxiety.
Two intersections later he flagged a passing hired chaise, shouted up at the driver, "Number Seven, St. George Street," and climbed into the narrow compartment, aware for the first time that he'd come out without a coat and the night was cold, and what in the hell was he going to do at Number Seven that he had not done before, which was nothing except stand in the shadows and stare, as though if he stared long enough she would materialize.
A short time later he shouted, "This is fine," tossed up a few coins
and waited on the pavement until all was quiet. As he approached Number Seven he moved into the shadows of the house across the way, his habitual stand near the black iron fence.
The house appeared different tonight, dark and closed. Through the windows on either side of the door he saw a faint gleam as though a single lamp were burning deep in the interior. But for the rest of it, it was solid black, the drapes drawn on every window, not a trace of smoke coming from any of the chimneys.
He stared, shivering. He couldn't go on like this. He felt as though he were being hunted, that fate was tracking him down. He had to know if he would ever see her again. He had to know—everything.
On that note of determination, fully aware that he was throwing caution to the wind, he left the shadows and started across toward Number Seven, trying to clear his mind, at least to the extent that he could be coherent. He was cold and shaking so badly that his teeth rattled.
He paused at the bottom of the steps, his determination not faltering but merely a last-minute attempt to pull himself together so that he did not wholly resemble the madman he felt he had become.
He knocked, timidly at first, though the slight sound seemed to reverberate through his frozen ears. He waited. The darkness did not alter in any way.
He knocked again, louder, so loud that the sound seemed to echo up and down the street. He looked behind him. If a watchman were to pass— But the street was empty.
Then he saw it, that slight alteration in the darkness, the light shifting, drawing nearer. He murmured an indistinct prayer. "Dear God, please—" Then he heard the sliding of a bolt and the door was pulled open a crack, where on the other side he saw a middle-aged maid, her nightcap tied about her double chin, one hand grasping her dressing gown about her neck, the other thrusting the lamp directly into his face.
"What do you want?" she inquired. "The house is closed. You must have the wrong—"
Sensing that the door was about to be shut, he stepped forward and with one hand grasped the outer door frame. If she closed it, she would be forced to crush his fingers.
"Please," he commenced,
"You got no business here," she snapped. "I don't know you," and
she peered closer at him, revealing eyes that were red and swollen, as though she were suffering a cold, or had been weeping.
In an attempt to offset her impatience, Burke tried to speak calmly. "I was wondering if I might speak with—Elizabeth?"
The intimate use of the name made a difference, though she continued to study him, searching for a clue. "Do you know Miss Elizabeth?" she demanded.
"I do. I was wondering if I might—'^
"Gone," she pronounced flatly. "Not here—"
"Could you tell me where—"
"Gone to Eden," the maid answered, "the lot of them, for the funeral."
The single word fell like a weight upon his head. He tried to repeat it, but found that he could not draw sufficient breath into his lungs. Fearful that he had received the message for which he had come, he continued to stare doggedly at the mournful maid, another word forming in his head. "Mary—"
Suddenly a torrent of tears spilled down over the plain face. "Gone," she wept. "Please leave us alone, that's all we ask. This is a house of mourning-"
Even as she spoke she was in the process of closing the door. Now he did nothing to prevent it. How blessed his state of ignorance had been.
They have gone to Eden for the funerd. Gone. Ml gone—
Though the door was closed, the bolt slid, he continued to stare at it, hoping for a refutation of everything he'd just heard.
But there was nothing. He shut his eyes, only vaguely aware that it had begun to snow. At last he turned away, unable to make out anything on the street before him.
Gone. This is a house of mourning—
He walked on, not knowing where he was going, seeing her clearly in memory, her lovely hair, the forehead, the slant of eyes and nose, the mouth, the pretty manner in which she twisted her head slightly when puzzled, the lilt of her laughter.
Once or twice his reason tried to intervene. The message had been vague. Yet he remembered the ominous word "funeral." There was nothing his reason could do about that. It was as unalterable as the night and the cold.
He was conscious of a silent thankfulness, that he had known her.
had shared just a moment of her life, stolen to be sure, and perhaps ultimately contributing to her—
No, he could not think on that and increased his steps. A short time later he looked up to find himself on the edge of Hyde Park.
At the top of the path he stopped. There was their bench, there the exact spot where they had first kissed, and over there on the opposite path the place where they had first discussed the need for a winter refuge.
Suddenly the reality of the night narrowed about him. She was gone. There was no need for a place of winter refuge, and never again would he see her approaching through the sun and shadow, and never again would he enjoy that look of trust in her eyes as she looked up at him. Never again any of it. He had found and lost her within the same stroke of time.
It could not be borne. Blindly he stumbled forward and sat on the bench and extended his arms on either side, as though to gather to him any residual memories which might be surviving beneath the blanket of snow.
But he found nothing except the hardness of the bench itself, winter's frozen dampness, and the deep conviction that his true state of loneliness had just begun. . . .
It was approaching midnight when, wept out, thought out, and dreamt out, he made his way like an invalid back to the house in Mayfair. During the last few blocks of this endless frozen walk he had counseled himself that from now on he must neither ask too much nor expect too much of life and fortune. He had been blessed with one brief interval of paradise, the reciprocal love of an adored woman. If from now on he were less greedy, fate, perhaps, would be more kind.
To that end, all he asked for was a quiet and warm chamber, free of all intruders. He wanted to luxuriate in her memory, to recall specific occasions and write them down, record everything that he could remember about her as a safeguard against the day when, as an old man, his memory would fail him, and he would run the risk of forgetting that one beacon which had shone so brightly in his life for such a short interval of time.
Thus armed with this simple request, he turned the comer which led to his house, his feet inside his boots as numb as his mind and
heart, and noticed angrily that even this small request was too much for fate.
On the pavement before his house he saw a familiar carriage, the driver buried under a mountain of fur rugs. He saw the drawing room ablaze with lamps.
Too weary for anger, he closed his eyes with a sense of letting fate do with him as it would, and slowly climbed the steps and knocked once and waited for the next ordeal to commence.
A moment later the door opened and Charles appeared on the other side. "Master Burke!" the old man gasped and extended a supportive hand, which Burke moved past, heading toward the drawing room and the voice of his mother, who called out, "Who is it, Charles? Please tell us that the prodigal has—"
His mother, catching sight of him, stood immediately. "Sweet Lord, Burke, have
you lost your senses? Charles, hurryl Fetch him his dressing gown and a linen for his hair. Look at him, he looks like a ghost."
He stood in the doorway, giving them both all the time they needed, returning the close scrutiny of John Thadeus Delane, who apparently had broken his own rule by coming here.
"Delane," he muttered.
In what appeared to be sincere concern, Delane started across the room toward him. "My God, Burke," he scolded, "you're frozen."
Burke brushed past him on his way toward the fire. There he stood for several minutes listening to tiie chattering voices behind him. Curious how, with his first contact with warmth, the sensation of freezing seemed to increase.
What was his mother saying? He must pay attention, at least for a few minutes more until he could take his leave and retreat into the comforting darkness of his own chambers.
"Caroline." The voice was firm but kind. "I—was wondering if you might leave us alone for a few moments. I must talk business with Burke and the hour is late."
Without averting his eyes from the fire, Burke listened to the voice, grateful to the man, who obviously had seen something in Burke's face which suggested that he was not altogether interested in reminiscences of his childhood.
Grateful for one small intercession on the part of fate, Burke heard his mother withdraw with characteristic Southern wile, some-
how leaving the impression that withdrawal had been her idea all along.
"Well, I do agree, John Thadeus, the hour is late and I should have been in bed long ago. The doctor says I need my rest if Vm to complete my recovery.'*
"And a remarkable recovery it has been, CaroHne," Delane said gallantly. "I can't tell you what pleasure it gives me to see you looking so well and beautiful."
Through it all, Burke continued to stand before the fire. How effortlessly he found her face in the flames, as it had once appeared before him in a fiery sunset, crimson and amber.
Mary . . .
He would never see her again, and in defense against the pain of that thought he leaned against the mantelpiece, amazed that there were tears left within him.
The Women of Eden Page 44
