She glanced toward Burke. "Mr. Stanhope is here," she went on, addressing the silent face. She leaned close. "Don't turn your back on us, Mary. We are all dealt suffering for a purpose. To strengthen us, to make us more compassionate."
Still there was no response, yet Elizabeth went on. "Of all the people I met at Eden so long ago, you and you alone impressed me as possessing that degree of courage which life demands. Of course, I could have been wrong, but—"
All at once the head on the pillow stirred. Delane looked closely, fully expecting Elizabeth to respond to the movement, but she did not. She held her position on the side of the bed and watched, along with everyone else, as the eyes opened and moved directly to the face of the woman who had just accused her of cowardice.
"Eliz-"
The half-formed word was scarcely audible. Then Elizabeth reached out and lifted her into her arms, and the last Delane saw before he turned away was the two of them, Elizabeth's face buried in young Mary Eden's hair, her arms locked about her, holding her. . . .
March 15, 1871
Four weeks later Mary sat by the rain-swept window and wondered how many more resurrections w^ere due her. Like a cat with nine hves, did she have several to go? She hoped not. Not that she wasn't grateful. It was just that, surrounded by love as she had been for the past month, she doubted seriously if she could survive its loss.
Feeling the need to confirm the reality of that love, she glanced across the room toward the two who had drawn her back from the recent nightmare. They were like bears, the three of them. Burke, Elizabeth and herself inhabiting this small chamber in the house in Mayfair as though it were a safe cave against the chill of winter and other less easily identifiable threats.
Lovingly, her eyes focused on Elizabeth, who had, for all intent and purpose, moved into the house and now occupied the small chamber adjoining Mary's. Seeing her bent over her needlework in studied concentration, Mary smiled. She knew that Elizabeth hated needlework and undoubtedly had taken to it only in defense against the idle hours that always accompany recuperation.
From there Mary looked across the room toward the fire, to the true font of her rebirth, Burke, his legs stretched out toward the warmth of the fire, the London Times propped before him.
As the rain outside the window turned to stinging sleet, she drew the coverlet up about her and wondered how long it would be before they talked openly of his mother's death. She closed her eyes. She'd never told Burke about his mother's last words. She would have to one day, but not now.
"Mary?"
It was Elizabeth, her keen eyes missing nothing, in spite of the compHcated needlework in her lap. "Are you certain it's not too cold for you there by the window? Why don't you return to bed, a brief nap before tea."
"I'm tired of bed," Mary murmured.
She was just reaching out for the nearest support when she saw Burke drop his newspaper and come to her aid. As his strong arms lent her support, she leaned against him, marveling at how appealing that hollow was beneath his chin.
"You're not ready to dance yet," he smiled, sitting with her on the edge of the bed.
"I'd just like to be able to walk."
"You will be soon," he soothed, lifting her hand and kissing it. In the manner of a loving father trying to deal with a bored child, he glanced back toward his abandoned newspaper. "Shall I read to you? I'm afraid it's dreary news for the most part—riots in France, Canada fears an invasion from America . . ."
"No," she said, neither willing nor able as yet to deal with the problems of the world.
Without warning, she thought of Eden, her mother, the headlands, those familiar corridors of her youth. "How long must we remain here?" she asked, gently forcing her fingers between his.
"Until you are stronger."
"And then?"
He shrugged. "Whatever you want."
She looked at him, this warm and handsome man who had pursued her with such zeal. How her mother would adore him! And suddenly how very much she wanted to show him Eden. Not just the pretentious castle he'd half-glimpsed almost a year ago, but all of Eden Point, the headlands, the tiny blue coves hidden at the foot of the steep cliffs, the carpet of wild flowers in the spring, the dramatic convergence of the channel with the ocean, a consummation of such force that the waves leapt high in a shimmering cascade of silver water. . . .
She bowed her head, overcome with remembrance of her home. "I—want to return to Eden," she announced tentatively.
"No!"
In the silence of the room she was aware of Elizabeth behind them listening. No matter. They had no secrets.
"Why not?" she asked, drawing free of his hand.
"It isn't safe/' he said, his manner softening, though not his decision. "The risks are too great. I have no legal claim to you. Your cousin could—"
"He needn't know," Mary protested.
"How would we keep it from him?"
"My mother is there. Can't I ever see her again?"
"Not until—" He stopped speaking, his hands cupped about her face. "Marry me first."
She covered his hands with hers, an idea occurring, so right that she wondered how long it had lain in her subconscious. She leaned forward and lightly brushed his lips with hers. "I'll marry you at Eden."
He looked down at her, the indecision clear on his face. "Elizabeth?" he murmured, a soft cry for help, his love fighting a difficult battle with his better judgment.
As Mary turned she saw Elizabeth put her needlework aside, her face a neutral mask. Burke was looking toward her, the battle still raging. "The risks are too great," he said, even before she had spoken.
As she drew near to the foot of the bed, Mary saw her nod and feared that they would join sides against her. To her surprise, she heard Elizabeth say, "Still, it is her home."
"And John Murrey Eden's as well."
"But, as I told you, he knows that we are aware of his hand behind the conspiracy."
Burke shook his head. "Just because he has taken no action doesn't mean that he won't."
As the voices moved back and forth, Mary tried to keep up. Obviously they'd held long conversations, had explored all aspects of the hazardous situation.
"No," Burke said with renewed conviction. "The risks arc too great, and we would have no protection there. The guardsmen would act on his command."
"Only if he were there to command them."
"And how do you propose to keep it a secret?"
"As I told you, he's quite involved here for now, has launched himself into a dozen building projects simultaneously. I can't imagine what would draw him back to Eden."
"No!" Burke said with greater force. "Here at least we have the safety of the city, the concealment of our position."
Elizabeth nodded. Then she added, "But at Eden you would have the support of the Countess Dowager, Mary's mother." She drew near, a smile on her face. "And a spring wedding at Eden would be lovely, good medicine for all of us."
Mary listened, daring to hope, not wanting to make things difficult for anyone but desperately wanting to see her home again, her mother, to share all with this man who occupied her heart.
"May I make a suggestion?" Elizabeth asked, a dispatch to her voice as though a decision had been reached.
"Please do," Burke muttered.
"I propose that we wait about three weeks, for the roads to clear, for Mary to regain her strength. Then I'll journey to Eden alone, talk with Lady Harriet, sound her out, try to determine if we can count on her loyalty and support. If I find out that all is well, then I'll send word back to you and you both can proceed to Eden,"
Mary gave a brief prayer of thanks. "You will love it!" she exclaimed, reaching for Burke's hand, trying to ease this new mood.
"I have no doubt," he replied, "but I love you more and will do nothing to jeopardize—"
Elizabeth intervened. "If I don't feel that it's safe, I'll return to London immediately."
"Then we'll wait for word," he concluded, not
wholly pacified but at least no longer objecting.
"It shouldn't be leisurely waiting." Ehzabeth laughed. "Look at you," she added, pointing to Mary. "Not a decent gown to your name, at least not one that fits. And now, in addition, you need a wedding gown."
Silenced by joy, Mary smiled up at the two looking down on her. Through the muss of bed linens she found Burke's hand and felt it close about hers.
"Come," Elizabeth ordered, reaching for his arm, moving effortlessly from the role of arbiter to that of mother hen, "Mary needs her rest and we have plans to make."
There was no arguing with her. As Burke bent over to kiss her, she wrapped her arms about his neck and held him fast.
Then he was gone and she was alone.
Eden—
In spite of the chill gray day, that one word warmed her. Never had she felt its pull so strongly. She saw in her mind's eye an image of the family chapel filled with flowers, saw herself in a white gown,
Burke waiting for her at the altar rail, her mother there, and Elizabeth and perhaps Richard as well, and—
Suddenly she lost the image in a sudden chill. A door someplace slammed shut.
John—
Tightly she closed her eyes and drew the coverlet up over her head and tried to obliterate the faceless premonitions with happier visions.
If Burke were with her, it might have been easier. But alone, it was impossible.
Eden Castle April 15, 1871
Lady Harriet lifted her head and mourned the end of winter and solitude, and addressed the man who by her best estimate was standing about five feet in front of her.
"Then you have done all you can do, Lord Harrington," she said, wishing that the still grieving man had not involved her in his problem.
"Do I have your permission?" Lord Harrington asked, that same urgency in his voice that she'd heard for the last two days.
"You have it," she replied, "though I'm not certain that it's mine to give."
"What more can I do?" he demanded. "As I told you, I tried every day, sometimes three, four times a day, to see John. I even waited outside his house on occasion, like a spy. But I was always told that he'd either just left and would not be returning soon, or that he'd just come in and was in conference."
"Did you see Elizabeth?" she asked, vowing to keep her mind on the problem at hand. Not that it was a severe problem for anyone but poor Lord Harrington, who had returned from Ireland a fortnight ago for the purpose of reclaiming his two small grandsons and taking them on a grand tour of the mother country. He had journeyed to London in an attempt to find John and seal the promise which had been vaguely made immediately following Lila's death.
"Elizabeth?" Harriet asked. "Surely she would know."
"Gone," came the man's voice.
"Where?"
"Her maid couldn't or wouldn't say. I was simply told that she couldn't be reached."
Good, steady Elizabeth beyond reach? Well, undoubtedly Harriet would know all in time. The Eden family had a way of disappearing during the fierce North Devon winter months, only to come trailing back one by one with the first warming rays of the spring sun, presenting Harriet with their various failures and victories.
"Take them with my blessing. Lord Harrington," she said, recalling the first and last time several months ago when she asked Miss Samson to bring the children to her chambers. Never had she been aware of two more spiritless little ghosts. Obviously she had frightened them with her black veil, and the entire afternoon had culminated in disaster, the boys weeping. Miss Samson scolding Peggy for serving them ginger cookies.
"Take them. Lord Harrington, and enjoy them, please, for their sakes as well as yours."
"John-"
"Leave John to me." She paused, other considerations following her first judgment. "You have help, of course."
"Yes. My friend Mr. Parnell will accompany us. And Lila's maid, Molly-"
"Good," she broke in, having heard enough.
While the boys were no longer infants, Stephen was now five and Frederick three, still they needed a woman's hand. There was one other question and she raised it, her mind running ahead to the day when she might have to answer John's questions.
"Your—destination. Lord Harrington. I should know that as well."
"We are going first to Mr. Parnell's home, Avondale in Wicklow. He says it is a perfect place for children—broad meadows, four new colts by his last count, and several sisters who have a tendency to view all children as their own."
"It sounds like paradise."
"I agree."
"Then take them with my blessing, Lord Harrington."
"Tell John that I tried to see him," he murmured. "And tell him that his sons will be protected by my life."
She felt his lips pressed against the back of her hand and he was gone, his steps sending back a good positive echo, like those of a man who was moving toward a desired goal.
It was approaching nine o'clock that same evening, and Peggy was preparing Harriet for bed, after having read to her Mr. Wordsworth's long, autobiographical poem. The Prelude, when Harriet heard the sound of a carriage in the inner courtyard below.
Peggy heard it as well and abandoned the hairbrush in Harriet's lap and hurried to the window.
"Who is it?" Harriet asked. Lord Harrington's party had departed around seven o'clock. Had something happened to force their return?
"I can't see, milady," Peggy called from the window.
"Then go immediately and find out," Harriet commanded.
She heard steps outside in the corridor.
"Milady," the old maid gasped, winded from her sprint down and up the stairs.
"Who is it?" Harriet demanded.
"It's Miss Elizabeth."
As the name registered, and the face of the loving soul behind it, Harriet felt relief.
A new fear surfaced. "Is she alone?"
"Quite alone."
"Come," Harriet requested in rising good spirits, "help make me presentable. I must—"
"No, milady," Peggy said. "She said she'd not disturb you this evening. The hour is late and she's exhausted. She said that a good night's sleep would serve you both for your reunion come morning."
"How I shall look forward to it," Harriet murmured. Oh, what a chat they would have—about everything.
"Good night, milady," Peggy said lovingly as she adjusted the blanket a final time.
"Good night, Peggy," Harriet replied. Then she added, "Tomorrow will be a glorious day."
Earlier that morning in the privacy of her chambers Elizabeth had prayed for strength, fully aware that she was facing one of the most difiEcult ordeals of her life.
God had generously obliged and had given her strength to climb to Harriet's third-floor chambers, to receive her loving greeting, to share breakfast with her, then, when she had deemed the time right, to ask for Harriet's attention.
God had sustained her throughout all of this, had even given her
the power to speak succinctly yet honestly, omitting nothing, as she'd felt that for the sake of Mary's future Harriet must know all.
Unable to determine the effects her words were having on Harriet, the woman's face obscured, as always, by the black veil, Elizabeth had left nothing out. On and on in a steady voice she had catalogued the tragedies of the winter. It was approaching noon when she finally talked herself out and felt for the first time the departure of that strength which earlier had sustained her.
"Harriet, I felt you must know everything—for your children's sake, for your own."
For the first time in over three hours there was movement coming from the chair, one hand lifting as though to hold at bay any more words. She rested her head against the back of the chair. "Poor Mary."
Elizabeth was on the verge of telling her the joyous news, the impending wedding, the love which she shared with Mr. Stanhope. But before she had a chance, Harriet grasped her hand. "I must ask, Elizabeth. Have you—spoken the truth in all respects?"
; "Yes."
"And the notes, the forged ones, are you certain that John—"
"Yes. On the occasion of his last visit to me he confessed as much."
"Where is he now?"
"Still in London, though I haven't seen him since—" She broke off. "I must confess, Harriet," she said wearily, "I don't understand. I've tried. Oh, how I've tried! But all I can see is Mary as she was brought home to me that night after—"
Harriet spoke softly. "In all of us, our creative urge is always linked to our self-destruction mechanism. In John, as in all great men, that link is even more insistent." She bowed her head. "How-unhappy he must be."
In that moment, Elizabeth felt for the first time the comfort of understanding. Having built his empire in London and his world at Eden, the incredible force known as John Murrey Eden had to turn his energies elsewhere. Unfortunately he'd tried to remake human beings in his own image, and had found flesh and blood to be less malleable to his will than iron and brick.
Now there was the future to consider, the remains of those shattered lives. To that end, Elizabeth raised up and posed the single question that had brought her to Eden. "Will you receive them?"
she asked. "Mary and her young man? They want to be married. Here at Eden. Yet they are fearful that John will—"
"Of course I'll receive them," Harriet said without hesitation. "And tell Mary I'll give her the most beautiful spring wedding in the history of Eden." She paused. "This—American," she whispered. "You know him, of course."
"Yes, I know him. I lived in his house during Mary's recuperation."
"And?"
"And I found him to be one of the most remarkable gentlemen I have ever known. And most remarkable of all is his deep love for your daughter."
"And it's reciprocal?"
At that Elizabeth laughed, recalling the light in Mary's eyes each time he'd entered the room. "Oh, yes." She smiled. "I assure you it is reciprocal."
"Good!" Harriet said briskly, her mind moving ahead to the future. "Then tell them to come, as soon as possible. I long to hold my daughter."
Confronted with the joy that once again had triumphed over tragedy, Elizabeth clasped Harriet to her. At the conclusion of the embrace, Harriet touched her cheek. "I am forever in your debt. Mary might have—"
The Women of Eden Page 61
