room, a quiet so intense that he closed his eyes and imagined the large club empty except for a pulsebeat of longing and expectation.
Opening his eyes so as not to miss a moment, he saw her incline her head to the pianist. The melancholy musical introduction only enhanced the mood. She stood with such ease that she might have been a beloved daughter merely performing for a doting family at a Sunday-afternoon musicale.
It was that innocence, and yet— There! Notice that gesture, her right hand, passing over the blue silk bodice, cupping briefly about her breast as though offering it to the gentlemen.
At some point in the remarkable performance Burke was no longer witnessing the needs of others. His own were sufficient to keep him occupied, the tension building as the song reached its climax, all the ugliness of the world disappearing before the beauty of her voice and face, the promise that with her the act of love would not be carnal sin but rather an ethereal flight to paradise.
She was moving in time to the sorrowful melody, informing them of unrequited love and a broken heart. Slowly she walked to the front of the stage and looked sorrowfully out, as though pleading with the stunned gentlemen to take the place of her dead lover.
Burke began to wonder how much they all could endure. Impulses were churning within him, the young woman shining through his secret fantasies. All men dreamed of such a woman, the temptress concealed within the lady, the unspoken promise of sin issued through the lips of an angel.
Suddenly there was a disturbance on his far right, merely a scuffling at first, then a stumbling upward, an impatient figure rushing the stage, one of the drunken students, his hands reaching out.
It was several moments before Burke could bring himself out of his spell, and when he did he saw the student mounting the stage, looming large over the young woman, who apparently was so surprised by the approach that she made no move to withdraw.
Then he was upon her, his hands planted on those small shoulders, his body obscuring her. Burke heard the shocked protest of the audience, the gentlemen still not believing what they were seeing, their dream obscured by pawing hands.
The pianist screamed, and Burke thought he heard another female scream, though he was certain that it had not issued from the lips of the young woman. From where he sat, she seemed to be indulging her attacker, whose hands were now moving over her breasts, and ap-
patently finding the fabric of her gown an obstacle, he gathered the silk in one angry fist and jerked downward.
At last aware of her predicament, the young woman commenced to struggle and, as Burke started toward the stage, he saw old Jeremy Sims rush out from the wings, his fleshy face ruddy with shock. Accompanying him a few steps behind was a petite graying lady, whose eyes reflected the horror of the ugly scene.
"I say!" Jeremy blustered, approaching the drunken youth, one pudgy hand reaching out to dislodge him from his position over the young woman, who in the attack had been forced to her knees.
Now Burke commenced running toward the stage, confident that Jeremy Sims, overaged and overweight, would be no match for the young man. Just as he stepped over the row of foot-candles he saw the student turn from the young woman kneeling at his feet, draw back his fist and drunkenly take aim at Jeremy Sims. A lucky first strike sent the old publican stumbling backwards, crashing into a set piece of forest scenery.
Burke had seen enough, as had everyone else in the club. He was aware of all the gentlemen on their feet, a few rushing toward the stage, all shouting instructions, none of which he needed. To the continuous siren of the pianist's screams, he approached the scene with confidence and lifted the student by the collar of his coat, angled him into position, then delivered a blow to the side of his jaw which sent him sailing over the foot-candles and crashing into the front row of tables.
Burke looked down on the young woman and in the process caught a glimpse of one lovely breast. But it was not the breast that held his attention. Rather it was the look of excitement on her face, as though she were pleased vdth herself for having brought the young man to such a fit of passion.
Burke's scrutiny did not last long, for shouts from the audience informed him that the student was rising again, and within the instant Burke jumped down from the stage and met the belligerent while he was still in the act of coming up. Again he lifted him by the collar of his coat, drew back his fist and sent it shooting forward with such force that he heard his knuckles crack against front teeth, saw two small white objects fly out of the young man's mouth, accompanied by a flow of blood.
Flattened and senseless at last, the young man's friends came to re-
trieve him, and with the alarmed waiters holding back the outraged gentlemen, they lifted him and carried him from the club.
With the crisis safely past, the indignation of the gentlemen knew no bounds, and for several minutes Burke found himself surrounded by congratulatory and wrinkled faces, a few assuring him that they had been more than ready to back him up in the event that he had required their assistance.
Rubbing his bruised knuckles, Burke assured them that all was well, dismissed their congratulations and noticed unprecedented flushes on their pallid cheeks.
But at this moment the rejuvenation of senile old men was not uppermost in Burke's mind. Still haunting him was the image of self-satisfaction on that beautiful young face. If she had thanks to give, these he would gladly receive along v^th her name and perhaps her card and permission to call on her.
As he turned to receive her grateful thanks, to his disappointment he saw the stage empty except for the still sprawled though recovering figure of Jeremy Sims. With a feeling akin to panic, Burke ran back up on the stage and looked into the wings, confident that the pianist and the older woman had merely led her to a position of safety.
But the wings were empty, the backstage door afar, letting in a cool draft of the early May night as well as the sound of a rapidly retreating carriage.
Still suffering from the irrational feeling that thanks were due him, Burke ran through the opened door where a weak spill of fog-encircled gas lamps spread before him. He saw the carriage just turning the far corner, departing rapidly.
Suffering anew that peculiar sense of loss over something that had never been his, he turned back into the dimly lit wings. As he reached the edge of the curtain he was aware of his bruised knuckles bleeding. Pulling a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, he was in the process of v^nrapping the damaged hand when he heard his name.
"Mr. Stanhope?"
He looked up to see a wobbly Jeremy Sims being helped to his feet by two waiters. Once up, the large man insisted that he needed no support and started toward Burke, rubbing the side of his face and instructing the waiters to see all the gentlemen out to their carriages, then to lock the doors of the club for the night.
His duties of proprietorship completed, he stumbled past Burke
and sat in a straight-backed chair, the disaster that had befallen his
respectable club clear upon his face.
"My God," he muttered, shaking his head. "Never in twenty-seven years has such a scandal befallen Sims," he moaned, his words muffled by the swelling of his jaw. "Ruined," he pronounced melodramatically, looking up at Burke for the first time.
"Not ruined, Sims," Burke countered, amused. "I predict your membership will increase threefold, particularly if you can lure your masked beauty back."
"Oh, no," Sims replied, shaking his head, his triple chins waggling like aspic, "I'm afraid we've seen the last of little Maria. They'll never permit her to return, not after—"
On an impulse of hope, Burke asked, "Whom do you mean by
'they'?"
"Oh, list them as you like," Sims said despondently. "Her cousin for starters, her brother, her mother—"
The fog cleared and the old man realized what he had almost done. Abruptly his manner changed. He stood with dispatch. "I want to thank you, Mr. Stanhope, for your intervention, I'm afraid most of Sims' patrons are beyond the art of physic
al defense. I shudder to think what would have happened if you hadn't—"
Burke dismissed his gratitude and considered probing again for the identity of the young woman. The reference to a cousin and a brother and a mother were of no help whatsoever.
Just as he was ready to pose another question, he saw Jeremy Sims move past him as though to avoid the unasked question. "Please, Mr. Stanhope, I insist that you seek medical attention for that." He pointed toward the bruised knuckles, which were showing blood through the white handkerchief. "And I insist further that you send the bill to me."
"It isn't necessary," Burke declined, following after the man, wanting only one gift as long as the man was in a giving mood. "Mr. Sims!" he called out, halting the man in his laborious progress down the narrow stage stairs. "There is one favor you might perform for me, if you will. The young woman—I had hoped to inquire about her well-being—but she departed so rapidly. If you could supply me with her name and place of residence, I'd be most grateful."
Only then did he turn to confront the ashen face of Jeremy Sims, whose supply of gratitude apparently had just run dry.
"Oh, I couldn't possibly do that, Mr. Stanhope. It's quite out of the question, totally impossible, not to be considered."
His protest seemed excessive, and still he wasn't finished, his manner growing even more flustered as he commenced backing away. "No, no," he repeated, "not possible, not at all possible. You see, the terms of the agreement were—oh God, no. You must understand that it is not possible. Now, if you will excuse me, one of the waiters will fetch your carriage."
With that he was gone, making his way through the crowded tables as quickly as his girth would permit.
In astonishment, Burke watched the whole performance, amazed at the speed with which the normally blustery old proprietor had gone from a position of generosity to one of—what? Fear?
Why would the identity of the unique young woman cause fear, unless she was performing without someone's knowledge, a very important someone who could cause trouble for—
"Mr. Stanhope, your carriage, sir."
It was Henry, drawing near, appearing to view Burke with new respect. As the old man held his cloak, he whispered, "Good show, sir. It's been a long time since I've seen such forthright action. But as I told me mates, it's a shame a colonial had to do our fightin' for us."
Out on the dark rainy pavement, he saw his carriage waiting patiently. His driver hopped down from his high seat to open the door. "Quite a scuffle, was it, sir? According to the other blokes, it was rape, that's what it was."
"Nonsense," Burke scolded. "Just take us home the quickest way possible." He slammed the door behind him and settled back into the cushions, grateful for the dark privacy of his carriage.
So much for little Maria of the Mask. Of course she must have known that the drunken student would be stopped. So what was the risk? Convinced now that her innocence was as staged as everything else, Burke relaxed further against the cushions, his mind running in several directions: To the mansion in Mayfair, presided over by the madwoman; to the midday carriage departure tomorrow in the company of John Thadeus Delane and a fortnight's ordeal in the presence of that most offensive Englishman, John Murrey Eden; to the current column by Lord Ripples still in his typing machine, this time his target the hypocritical treatment of the Irish by the high-minded English Parliament; to that little five-year-old boy sprawled lazily in the corner of the broad cool portico, the Southern heat heavy upon
him, the complete confidence that his world of grace, of sultry nights and pungent magnoHas would last forever.
The discomfort of his injured hand increased, joined now by an ache at the base of his throat, his sense of homelessness growing.
The last image before he closed his eyes and gave himself completely to the rocking motion of the carriage was of a plume of lilacs nestling in the soft curve of two perfect breasts. . . .
It wasn't that Elizabeth hadn't known fear before; she'd known it plenty of times in her life. But apparently the security and peace of the last nine years at Eden Castle with John, where she was treated with as much dignity as the Countess Dowager, had made her soft.
Now eyeing Mary sitting calmly on the edge of her bed, chattering with Doris about the grim events of the evening, as though she had just returned from a fete, Elizabeth saw it again as though it were just happening. Then an image of John appeared before her, his reputation ruined, Mary's honor compromised, all brought on by-Elizabeth herself.
The perception was unbearable and she reached out for the mantelpiece in an attempt to steady her trembling hands.
Apparently Mary saw the weakness and smiled. "Doris, I think your mistress needs the tending. Look to her. I'm fine."
Incredulously Elizabeth asked, "Do you have no conception of what almost took place tonight?"
The question seemed to delight Mary, as though after the silent carriage ride home and the rapid ascent to her bedchamber on the second floor of the house at Number Seven, St. George Street, what she wanted most in the world was a chance to talk about the events of the evening. "Oh, nothing happened, Elizabeth," she soothed, one hand toying with the pearl clasps which held her long hair atop her head. She worried them loose; a shimmering cascade fell to her waist. She lifted her chin as though the weight of hair had pulled on her head. In the tumbling disarray the sprigs of lilacs fell into her lap. Gently she scooped them up. "Nothing at all happened," she repeated to the flowers, that maddeningly serene smile still on her face.
From the mantel Elizabeth watched the performance. And it was a performance. For the last nine years that she had known Mary Eden, and certainly for the last six when she had been assigned as her guardian, Elizabeth was aware that with the exception of a few
unguarded moments, everything the young girl did was a performance. Her only reahty was that of her imagination.
Through the gloom of the midnight room Elizabeth continued to watch her with a mixture of love and concern. And fear. At twenty-one the young woman was beautiful and growing more so. And more important than that, she was becoming aware of her beauty and even more aware of the mysterious power she could exert over people.
Averting her eyes from the object of her thoughts, Elizabeth was forced to confess that she too was a willing pawn. Had there been one occasion in the last six years when she'd pronounced a firm no to the young woman? Oh, in the beginning she'd seen to it that Mary accomplished her lessons, the demands of the various tutors, and broadly speaking she had taken that shy little animal of thirteen who had grown up without a mother's love or a father's and had converted her into a polished, finished, beautifully groomed young woman. But for all her efforts, what was the result? A polished, finished, beautifully groomed little animal.
As though all at once to rectify the indulgences of the past, Elizabeth stepped forward. "Get dressed," she commanded, puzzled that the sight of Mary clothed only in her chemise annoyed her.
Mary looked up. "Dressed?" she asked, still fondling the lilacs.
"Yes, dressed. We're leaving for Eden tonight."
It was an insane suggestion, though the first protest came not from Mary but from Doris, the plump little maid who had served Elizabeth for over twenty years.
"Are you daft?" Doris exclaimed, speaking with an ease which normally pleased Elizabeth. She had never wanted a classic mistress/servant relationship. Her own murky beginnings precluded that.
But in the face of the blunt question, Elizabeth found herself longing for the submission of a true servant. "Not daft, Doris," she said, leaving the mantel in an attempt to stir the lethargic room into action. "I made a simple command. We are leaving for Eden tonight. See to the trunks. I'll inform Jason that we will require the large carriage, and—"
"See to the trunks!" Doris exploded. "There's a good six dozen gowns in that dressing room," she sputtered, "and as many bonnets and boots. And those are just Mary's."
Retreating, Elizabeth murmured, "Well, when can you be ready?
"
"Sunday mom as planned," Doris said patly, her fleshy arms folded over her breasts in a stance of pure stubbornness.
Annoyed, but conceding that the woman was right, Ehzabeth moved back to the mantel. It was while her back was turned that she heard Mary's voice.
"It's my fault, Doris," she said with mock contrition. "Poor Eliza-beth just wants to whisk me out of London while my virginity is still intact."
The vulgarity only served to fan the fires of Elizabeth's anger. "At the rate you were going tonight, that loss may come sooner than you think and under circumstances that you may not find very pleasing, I can assure you," she snapped.
From where she stood she saw the young woman leave the bed. Her manner altered, became playful. As she stood at the center of the room, half-naked, she shook her long hair off her shoulders and proposed, "We'll let Doris be the judge of the seriousness of the evening. Agreed?"
Without waiting for a reply, she dragged the large chair to the center of the room, then pulled Doris forward who, giggling, sat on the edge, enjoying her role in the theatrical.
Once everything had been arranged to her satisfaction, Mary folded her hands before her. "Now, Doris," she began, her voice filled with glee, "there I was, center stage with hundreds of men watching me, singing that silly song about the woman looking for her lover's grave. . . ."
Standing by the mantel, Elizabeth watched, annoyed, as Mary directed the entire theatrical, even commanding Doris to force her to her knees, which reluctantly the woman did, glancing back once at Elizabeth to see how the theatrical was being received.
But Doris was the only one concerned, for Mary apparently had fallen victim to the power of her own imagination and was now insisting that Doris tear her chemise.
"Right down the front, Doris—that's the way he did it, and I could feel his hands on my skin. Wet they were, and strong. Oh, tear it, Doris, just as he did."
Repelled though fascinated, Elizabeth had seen enough. "Stop it!" she commanded, reaching out in an attempt to bring Mary to her senses.
"No," Mary protested. "That's not the way it happened. The gentleman from the audience came next. He lifted the drunk and knocked him halfway across old Jeremy Sims' club. Oh, it was fun, Doris. You should have seen it."
The Women of Eden Page 2