The Women of Eden

by Marilyn Harris

  "I'd like to know. Who would that be?"

  "They're not around for long," Delane said. "There was an old solicitor, Morley Johnson, whom Eden accused of embezzling large portions of the Eden estate. Instead of bringing the case to trial, Eden systematically set out to ruin the man." Delane bowed his head. "The last I heard his family was in the workhouse near Croyden. About six years ago, unable to earn a living, Morley Johnson committed suicide."

  The grim recital cast a new mood inside the carriage. "But there are others who enjoy the protection of Eden. For one, there is a most mysterious Countess Dowager, Lady Harriet Eden, the wife of Lord

  James Eden, now dead, who was brother to John's father, Edward. . . ."

  As the confusion of relationships filled the carriage, Burke took a brief respite by gazing out of the window, enjoying the clear fresh air. He was aware of Delane talking on, but it was not until he heard the incredible words, "She's blind now, the result of self-mutilation," that Burke turned his attention back to the grisly announcement.

  "She's what?"

  "Blind."

  "Why?" Burke stammered, trying to deal with the macabre image of a noblewoman blinding herself.

  But the answer was predictable. "No one knows," Delane admitted. "And there's more. There is an Indian woman whom Eden freely flaunts as his mistress, who, according to gossip, lacks a tongue."

  Burke felt an element of disbelief sweep over him. Surely Delane was inventing all of this. "I don't—believe—"

  "And that is truth, as well," Delane insisted. "Eden himself has told the story many times, in the presence of witnesses, about how the woman and her son helped him escape the Mutinies by lying to her own people. They cut out her tongue and sent her back to him, and as a debt of gratitude he has vowed to care for her and her son for the rest of her life."

  As the bizarre story filled the carriage, Burke leaned forward, not wanting to miss a word. It was clear that John Murrey Eden had passed through crucibles which would have destroyed a lesser man. As a thousand questions filled his head, he found that he could only give voice to one. "A son, you say?"

  "Indeed. A bright lad, about eighteen, on whom Eden dotes. He has seen to his education and has publicly proclaimed that the Indian boy will be his heir, or at least one of them."

  Burke shook his head.

  "And there's more." Delane grinned, pleased with the effect of his story. "Eden has two cousins, the offspring of Lady Harriet and Lord James Eden; a young woman, Lady Mary Eden, about whom we know absolutely nothing, and the present Lord of Eden Castle, Lord Richard, Fifteenth Baron and Seventh Earl, who for the last few years has served as Professor of Theology at Magdalene College, Cambridge, a brilliant and respected scholar who has published two books."

  Burke smiled wryly. "The white sheep of the family."

  Delane shared the joke. "He lives in Cambridge, though I'm certain he'll be present for the Festivities."

  "He exerts no control over his own inheritance?"

  "There was no inheritance," Delane said, "except for the title itself. After the death of his father, the estate fell into the questionable hands of the solicitor, and by the time John Murrey Eden had amassed his first fortune, the estates were gone except for the castle itself, the Eden family facing bankruptcy."

  Out of the particulars of the tale, a fascinating conclusion was beginning to take shape inside Burke's mind: the bastard son returning triumphantly with enough coin in his pocket to rescue the family seat and restore the castle. What a debt they all must owe to him!

  But before he drew any conclusions, he looked across at Delane in an attempt to discern if there were any other chapters to the story.

  Delane shook his head. "That's all I know, Burke. There is, of course, a vast army of devoted staff, and a solicitor named Andrew Rhoades. And there is an ox of a man named Alex Aldwell, who serves as Eden's bodyguard."

  Again he leaned back, shifted to the center of the cushion and braced his hands on either side. "All that the public knows now is that Eden Castle has been renovated and restored, that the labor has occupied the better part of his energies for the last eight years, and that for the first time the gates of Eden will be thrown open to the most distinguished guest list of the century, including a representative of every titled family in the kingdom, large portions of both the House of Lords and the House of Commons, the Lord Mayor, who will appear as emissary from the Queen, and several members of the Royal Academy, whose interests will focus not so much on the castle as on the highly secretive Alma-Tadema painting of 'The Women of Eden.'"

  " 'The Women of Eden,'" Burke mused. "All of them?"

  Delane shook his head, "According to my spies, only four. The Indian woman named Dhari; Elizabeth; Lady Mary, Eden's cousin; and Lady Lila, Eden's wife."

  "Are they beauties all?"

  "Under Alma-Tadema's brush I'm sure they will be," Delane replied. "And I understand the canvas is immense, the pose most unorthodox."

  Burke started to inquire how unorthodox, but changed his mind.

  He would see soon enough, and now found himself impatiently looking forward to their arrival at Eden Castle. Whatever the coming fortnight would be, it would not be dull. Burke smiled. "Then I'm to snoop—"

  "—to your heart's content."

  "—without causing offense, of course."

  A sly smile crossed Delane's face. "You won't cause offense. Americans are expected to snoop. The English view it as part of their basic lack of breeding."

  Again Burke refused to rise to the bait, although coming from anyone other than Delane he might have been tempted to do so.

  As Delane described the beauties of the West Country, Burke leaned back into the cushions, his head spinning with certain specifics.

  She's blind as a result of self-mutilation.

  They cut out her tongue.

  He closed his eyes and felt a curious unease, as though the torment of John Murrey Eden's life had invaded his own. Surely the man suffered from a battering isolation and loneliness. In this unexpected perception, Burke felt that at that moment he understood John Murrey Eden better than any man had a right to understand another.

  "Burke?"

  It was Delane, searching for a way into his silence.

  But for a few additional moments, Burke kept all the doors locked, sensing falsely—he knew that much—that John Murrey Eden was in his power now. The scale of balance had been tipped in Burke's understanding of Eden's lonehness.

  The advantage was all his. . . ,

  Eden Castle North Devon May 10, 1870

  Suffering a deep dread, Lila Harrington Eden prepared herself to receive her husband. Seated before her dressing table, she glanced up at the clock on the mantel. A quarter to ten. Fifteen minutes to clear the maids from her chambers, to loosen her hair and conquer the fear which plagued her.

  As her blond hair tumbled about her shoulders, she tried to soothe herself with rational thoughts. He wanted another child. Otherwise he would not impose himself upon her. The only times in nine years of marriage when she'd had to endure this hideous act had been when John had approached her politely and asked for a child.

  "There, milady. The bed is prepared. Anything else?"

  Struggling, she brought her eyes into focus on the reflected image of Molly, the lady's maid, who had seen her through two births and four miscarriages, and who knew better than anyone what John's repeated late night visits to these chambers meant.

  The sympathy that Lila saw in Molly's eyes almost undid her. She reached behind her and felt Molly grasp her hand.

  "It's a wife's duty, milady," she whispered. "And think of the pretty babe that you will give to Mr. Eden to go with those two handsome little boys.'*

  Lila nodded and thought of her two sons, ages four and two. Stephen and Frederick, the most beautiful children she'd ever seen. How she loved them, and what joy she had felt when she'd

  witnessed the pride in John's eyes! And she didn't object to the swelling pregnanc
ies; she didn't even object to the pain of childbirth.

  There was only one fear, when her maids would leave her, when she would wait for the sound of that footstep which at any other hour of the day was capable of filling her heart with joyful anticipation.

  As she bowed her head against the realization of what was ahead of her, Molly leaned closer. "Be strong, milady," she whispered. "Close your eyes and think on God."

  Embarrassed, Lila refrained from telling Molly that she had followed her advice every night for the last two months and that God, instead of seeing her through it, had deserted her altogether.

  She lifted her head in an attempt to demonstrate to Molly that she was well, although the moment the room was empty she felt ill. There was a knife turning within her. She grasped the edge of the dressing table and held on until the room grew steady.

  Seated alone, the lamps turned low, she tried desperately to fall back on her imagination, the flights of fantasy that had saved her from madness when John had first led her to the marital bed several years ago.

  Without warning a deep shudder ran through her and she wrapped her arms about her in an attempt to warm herself against the coming ordeal, sick with the knowledge that she was no more prepared for it now than she had been when John had first approached and filled her with terror, with the literal fear that he was trying to kill her.

  Of course she knew better now, knew perfectly well the point and purpose of the act, knew that it must be performed nightly until she conceived. She gave in to a soft moan and left the dressing table and went to the window, which in daylight afforded her a view of the headlands, but which at night spread before her like an abyss.

  "Wolf?" she called, hearing the trembling in her voice. She looked about in the shadowy room for her cat, generally a source of comfort, but she couldn't find him and knew that he'd probably run out of the room with the maids.

  In increasing desperation she thought of her father so far away in the west wing, undoubtedly content in a game of cards with Andrew Rhoades. Once, after the third miscarriage, she had turned to him with a plea to talk to John. But her father had scolded her, had informed her that she was no longer a child, that she was a wife now.

  and that instead of trying to avoid wifely duties, she should go down on her knees and thank God for sending her a husband as generous as John Murrey Eden.

  The remembrance of that paternal reprimand caused her to bow her head in an imitation of prayer. She was grateful and God knew that, but why was God withholding another child from her? Why after two months had she not yet conceived?

  Suddenly she could bear it no longer and went down on her knees, trying to control the fear which was building within her. She did love him; she did adore her children; she did revel in her life here at Eden. Then what was the matter with her? Why could she not endure this most basic act between husband and wife? According to Elizabeth some women enjoyed it as much as the male.

  At this incomprehensible thought, she tried to wipe the tears from her eyes and slowly pulled herself to her feet. She didn't want him to find her weak and weeping.

  This show of bravado sustained her as she went about the chamber, extinguishing the lamps. He preferred that the room be black. She heard his step in the corridor.

  Outside the door the footsteps stopped. Poised by the side of the bed, she fought down a rising nausea. "Please help me!" she prayed quickly.

  In blackness she sat on the edge of the bed, aware of the pain increasing. She mustn't let him see, mustn't let him know, and she shut her eyes tightly, creating a double darkness, and tried to send her mind away to the edge of the ocean, to that beautiful vista of salt spray and sunlight that she'd seen only this afternoon in the little cove at the bottom of the cliff.

  With a surge of joy she realized that it was working. For the first time in months she felt herself leave the bed and run along the headlands, searching the tall grasses for her private path which led down to the ocean. Even Wolf was with her again, the high May sun shimmering across his gray fur.

  "Lila-"

  Who had spoken her name? Whose hands were moving down the front of her dressing gown?

  "Wolf, look," she called, ignoring the hands. Quickly she scrambled over the side of the cliflF, pointing out for Wolf's benefit the fishing boats just making their way back to the safety of the harbor.

  "If we hurry," she whispered, "they will throw you a fat herring. Run, Wolf-ril catch up."

  As she slipped down the side of the chff, she felt a sudden chill, as though her body had been laid bare. Someone was speaking to her out of the darkness, but she preferred to listen to the whistle of the wind, to feel the feathery sensation of the grasses blowing against her ankles.

  Someone was coming closer, the dark of the room alternating now with brilliant sunlight.

  "Wolf, please wait," she called, trying to retain the sunlight.

  "Lila-"

  No, that voice had not been with her on her afternoon walk, and it had no place here now. She would have to outrun it, and outrun as well the rustle of a robe being discarded, the sensation of hands touching her breasts.

  "Wolf, be careful; you'll get wet!" she cried as the massive cat chased the waves that broke on the beach near the small cove. "I'll race you to the quay."

  What was that weight crushing her? There had been no weight on the beach this afternoon.

  There! She was almost to the bottom of the cliff now, feasting her eyes on the clean, wave-swept little cove that was her private domain. No one else ever came here except Wolf.

  "Wolf, find a seashell for me, one that contains the ocean—"

  Oh, it hurt, the pressure inside her.

  "Run, Wolf, run while you can. I'll try to catch up."

  "Lila, please—"

  Her breathing stopped. She felt crippled, her legs useless, the weight on her midsection increasing, something drilling into her flesh, the entire weight jerking involuntarily from time to time while she, with a desperation bom of terror, tried to follow after Wolf down the long, clean, white expanse of sand.

  But she couldn't move, and as the pain increased, she opened her eyes to the blackness of her bedchamber, and in an attempt to keep from crying out, she pressed her fist against her lips until she tasted blood. . . .

  John completed the act as quickly as possible, aware as always that he was causing pain. After one convulsion he separated himself from her, drew on his robe, fumbled in the dark for the lamp and looked

  down on the sight which had greeted him every night for the last two months.

  My wife, he thought angrily. What wife? It was getting worse, leaving him with the guilty feeling that he had raped a child.

  In spite of his disappointment he drew the folds of her dressing gown over her and tried to focus on her face.

  "Lila . , ." he began, trying to ease her fear. But with the exception of the tears rolling down into her hair, nothing moved. She might have been a statue, sculpted in a position of consummate terror. With tenderness he tried to withdraw her hand from her mouth, but she was rigid to his touch, as though at some point during intercourse death had occurred.

  In despair, John turned away and sat on the side of the bed. He did love her, reveled in her sweet beauty during the daylight hours, counted her gift to him of two sons to be among his most prized possessions. But he wanted more, and he wanted Lila to bear them. Then what was he to do?

  The question only served to increase his despair, and he pushed away from the bed and paced a distance away. How could women be so different? Dhari submitted joyfully to his approach, deriving as much pleasure from the union of their bodies as he did, while Lila—

  At the thought of her, he looked back toward the bed to see her watching him, her breathing coming in sharp spasms. Then he could watch no longer and fled the room which unintentionally he had converted into a torture chamber. Outside the closed door he paused, thinking that perhaps he should return and see that she was well.

  But he cou
ldn't bring himself to do that. After the Festivities were over he would take her to London, where a qualified physician could examine her, perhaps determine the cause of her repeated miscarriages.

  He knew from past experience that such an examination would simply cause her more grief. Last year after the physician from Exeter had examined her she'd been ill for a week. Still, it must be done. He wanted more children, and while he regretted the pain he caused her, he intended to impregnate her as often as possible until there were ten filled cribs in the nursery, every room of Eden exploding with the laughter of well-fed, rosy-cheeked offspring, all his own.

  For a moment he stood without direction or compass, lost in the elegance of new Eden Castle. Slowly he looked about him. So! It was

  finished. Suffering that anguish of accomphshed goals, he sat wearily on the top step and drew his robe about him.

  He bowed his head, his mind turning on what tomorrow would bring—the first carriages rattling across the moors, bringing journalists for the most part, representatives from every major newspaper in England and a few from France and Germany as well, the first act of the fortnight Festivities, during which time the world at last would get a glimpse of the paradise he had created on the North Devon headlands.

  He had created it, and with a self-satisfied smile he leaned back against the step, his eyes falling on beauty wherever he looked. Even the once crude stone corridors of the old castle had been transformed into passages of expressive beauty, tapestries everywhere, shimmering brass lamps fixed in permanent standards every four feet along the wall.

  As the eye scanned the surrounding illumination, his hand caressed the thick scarlet carpet which covered every stone floor with the exception of the Great Hall, which boasted Italian marble in parquet squares of black and white. And the walls and ceilings of that magnificent room were now covered with the gigantic painted murals done by the French artist Ricard, depicting early scenes of English history.