peculiar feeling that what was happening would have happened anyway, that no force in heaven or on earth could have prevented them from standing here at the center of this crowded hall, at a time approaching midnight, on a mild May evening in the year 1870.
Still no words from him, only that tender expression on his face, a look of relief, as though a long search were over.
"Is anything wrong?"
The voice came not from him but from behind her and belonged to Andrew Rhoades, who had interrupted his dance with Dhari long enough to make inquiry of the two who stood so still at the center of the dance.
"No," she murmured. "We—were just—"
"—trying to find the tempo," Mr. Stanhope said with a smile, gently covering for her. "Come, Lady Mary," he invited. "Practice makes perfect."
Without warning he swept her away from the inquiring face and back into the waltz, Mary enjoying a sense of abandonment she'd never felt before, as in the rush of color, light and music, all of her old fears vanished, along with the past, and were replaced by the quiet strength and contagious optimism of the most remarkable gentleman she'd ever met.
"Mr. Stanhope," she gasped as his tempo increased, not really wanting to say anything but merely to speak his name. In the warmth of his smile, then his open laugh, she had no choice but to cling to him and follow after, and secretly pray that the dance would never end. . . .
"Who is he?" John demanded of Andrew Rhoades, peering out over the crowded Great Hall from the door of the Smoker, where he'd emerged for a breath of air unpolluted by the pedantry of the Royal Academy.
"He's Delane's friend," Andrew replied.
"The American?"
Andrew nodded.
"How long have they been dancing?" John demanded, amazed at Andrew's laxness. John had left him in charge of the women. Shocked anew by the sight of Mary enclosed in the arms of a stranger, he glanced across the hall to where he'd left Lila to find her in conversation with her father and—
Another strangerl
"And who is that?" he demanded. "My God, Andrew," he muttered, "I asked you to see them both to their chambers by midnight."
"It's a special occasion," Andrew replied quietly, though John thought he detected that hint of condescension in his voice that he'd heard repeatedly during this past year.
He felt a surge of resentment at such an attitude, and this, combined with the sight of Lila laughing as warmly as he'd seen her laugh in months, caused him to stride away from Andrew as though the man did not exist.
"John, wait," Andrew called, and caught up with him. "His name is Charles Pamell," he said in the manner of an apology. "He's a friend of Richard's and Professor Nichols', an ex-student, I beheve, from-"
"I don't remember seeing his name on the guest hst."
"It was there; I can vouch for it. Would you like to—"
John again cut him off by walking away, this time into the quiet arcade which encircled the hall. He was tired, his nerves stretched taut by the constant society around him. There were other problems, as well. The Academy was now in the process of withdrawing their initial praise of the painting by pointing out flaw after flaw to poor Alma-Tadema in the Smoker. The man had ceased even trying to defend himself or his vision.
There was one other overwhelming anxiety plaguing John, which as yet he'd not found the courage to share with anyone. Though his Great Hall was filled, these guests were cut from an inferior fabric, business associates, members of financial boards who had supported and encouraged the John Murrey firm in the days before his stock had soared.
But there were notable absences, as well. Earlier in the day he had ordered the banners raised for Lord and Lady Minden, for Lord and Lady Oreford, for Lord and Lady Berkely, for Lord and Lady Forbes and their daughter Eleanor.
Yet where were they? All he knew for certain was that they were not present, and he'd wanted desperately for them to be here. And the worst of it, those famihes were to have been only the beginning. More were scheduled to arrive on Monday.
Would they come? How dare they not?
The conclusion of the dance brought his attention back to the
Great Hall, and through the crush of dancers he caught sight of Mary and—
"What did you say his name was?" he demanded of Andrew, who stood beside him.
"Charles Parnell. He's Irish and I suppose Richard thought that—**
"No. I mean the other."
"Stanford, I believe," Andrew muttered, "or Stanhope. Something like that."
His vagueness and lack of concern enraged John. "Really, Andrew, I'm disappointed in you. I had thought I could trust you."
"What have I done?" Andrew demanded, laughing. "And what have they done? It is a festivity, John, one of your own planning. I doubt seriously if Lila or Mary knew that they had been forbidden enjoyment. Otherwise they might as well have stayed in their chambers."
"Which is now their immediate destination," John muttered, trying to restrain his anger.
As he started off, heading toward Lila, Andrew said, "What do you intend to do?"
"What you should have done hours ago. See that they are safely retired where they belong. I don't know why I must point certain facts out to you, but you know that my wife's strength is limited. She does not even possess the fortitude to carry a child to term. Am I to stand by and watch her deplete what little stamina she has left in a flirtation with—"
"She is not flirting, John. She is merely enjoying the company. As you can see, her father is present."
"And Mary," John went on, staring at the two who were commencing the next dance, their eyes locked on each other, "Mary is a child, an undisciplined, overemotional child. She would be amenable to the suggestions of anyone, even a fortune hunter."
Andrew laughed. "The gentleman does not look as though he's in need of a fortune, John."
Weary of talk and aware that he couldn't abandon Alma-Tadema forever in that lion's pit with the Royal Academy, John turned his back on Andrew's amusement and strode around the arcade until he was approaching the table where Lila sat laughing with her father and the tall Irishman.
"John . . ." She smiled, looking up. "I'm so glad you've joined us. Allow me to introduce—"
But he allowed her nothing and quietly commanded, "Come with me."
He saw the blush on her face, saw Lord Harrington lean forward as though to intervene. "John, I was just telling Mr.—"
"Come with me," John repeated.
From behind he felt a restraining hand on his shoulder and heard Andrew Rhoades offer courteously, "I will escort her to her chamber, John. You return to the Smoker. I suspect that you are needed."
The combination of the restraining hand and Andrew's voice blocking his will, and the sight of Lila pulling away as though fearful, all these things conspired against him, and he turned with a suddenness that dislodged Andrew's hand and was in the process of removing him further when another voice cut through his anger.
"John, I've been looking for you."
He glanced over his shoulder to see Richard rising from a near table where he'd been conversing with Nichols. He, too, was smiling, though it was a taut smile, full of warning.
As Richard drew near, John closed his eyes, belatedly aware of what he'd almost done. Oh, what a tale that would have been for the journalists to take back to London—John Murrey Eden engaging in fisticuffs with his solicitor on the night of—
In the manner of an arbitrator, Richard put his arm about John's shoulder. Before directing him back to the gaping company he whispered, "Your nerves are talking for you. Don't let them spoil a triumphant evening."
He led John back to the small table, where John saw Mr. Parnell on his feet, a look of anogance on his face.
"Charles"—Richard smiled—"it gives me great pleasure to present my cousin John Murrey Eden, your host and Eden's benefactor."
Still shaken by his eagerness to attack Andrew, John held himself in rigid control. He stared at Mr. Parnell's outstre
tched hand, then took it briefly, only half-listening to Richard's explanation of who the man was.
Beyond Richard's shoulder he saw Aslam and Professor Nichols looking his way. Had Aslam abandoned him as well?
"Now," Richard concluded, having said everything he'd wanted to say, "it is late. Lady Lila." He smiled. "Do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to your chambers. There is always tomorrow and—"
Suffering annoyance that Richard was doing so well what he had done so poorly, John stepped back from the table, thinking that per-
haps after all this foolishness were over he'd go away for a while. The Continent, even America, Let them all see how they could get along without him.
He looked back to see Lila whispering to Mr. Pamell. While her invitation was muted, Mr. Parnell's reply was clear. "Tomorrow at noon, yes, I'd be delighted."
He saw her accept Richard's arm, stop and deliver a warm kiss to her father, summon her cat Wolf and, without a word in his direction, start up the stairs, her head bent close to Richard, as though they were talking about him.
It wasn't until they had disappeared into the second-floor corridor that he came back to himself and observed that, where before all had been gaping at him, now ever}'one had turned about. Professor Nichols and Aslam walking toward the arched door which led to the night beyond. Lord Harrington and Parnell, their backs turned, engaged in conversation.
John closed his eyes, suffering the persistent feeling that he was in the midst of enemies. But of course that wasn't true. Richard had been right. It was his nerves and his various anxieties.
Then there was one to whom he owed an apology, Andrew Rhoades, and he turned to his left, where he'd last seen him.
"Andrew-"
But he was no place in sight, the arcade deserted.
Then he saw him at the center of the dancers, a plotting island of betrayal, Dhari on his arm, his head bent close to Mary and the American, obviously warning them.
He felt anger as raw as any he'd experienced in a long time. He would not abide it—was not obliged to abide it—this continuous effort on Andrew's part to circumvent his wishes.
Then he was moving, ignoring the voice inside his head which counseled prudence. Pushing through the rush of dancers, he was less than ten feet away when the four turned and saw him, a look of apprehension on Andrew's face and Dhari's, and something more complex on Mary's, a defiance. And on the other's—
"Ah, Mr. Eden . . ." The man smiled, extending his hand. "Though we met formally several days ago, I'm not foolish enough to think that you'll remember. I'm Burke Stanhope. Mr. Delane of the Times invited me as his guest, and permit me to express my gratitude to you for—"
Momentarily disarmed, John faltered. It had been easier to dislike
Pamell's arrogance than this broadly grinning gentleman. In truth, John had no quarrel with the man himself, only his preoccupation with Mary.
At the thought of her, John glanced to one side, where she'd moved in subtle retreat next to Andrew. He'd never seen her cheeks so flushed. She was so beautiful. Harriet must have looked like this when his father had fallen in love with her. These thoughts, paradoxically, left him weaker and stronger. "Come," he said, reaching out for Mary's hand with sudden force. Caught ojS her guard and finding herself ensnared, she tried to struggle free. Behind him he was aware of Andrew, ready to intercede.
To his right he was aware of the American gentleman, his earlier cordiality gone. "My apologies, Mr. Eden. We were just—"
But he wasn't interested in the American gentleman. His goal was, as it always had been, to secure Mary in some safe place, away from men's eyes and men's ambitions.
To that end, he stepped back, taking Mary with him, tightening his grasp on her wrist when again she made an attempt to struggle free.
The sound of her protest roused the American to some foolish state of misplaced chivalry, and with one stride he came down between Mary and John, dislodging her waist from his grasp and taking her place before him.
"Mr. Eden, please," the man said quietly. "I must insist that you allow the lady to walk by herself. She has done nothing to wanant such embanassment."
John ceased hearing the words. All he was aware of was the pleased look in Mary's eyes. And he was aware of the man's stance before him, defiant, the echo of his flat American voice reverberating about John's head, blocking him, as Andrew had done earher. While he owed Andrew a degree of consideration, he owed this man nothing except the concentration of fury which was building within him. Although that voice was still counseling him prudence, he felt a need to strike something, a need which had taken root long before this actual moment. In spite of the vastness of his fortune, in spite of the degree of respectability which he'd tried to restore to this scandalous family, he was what he had always been, the bastard son of the great Edward Eden.
In an exaltation of rage, defeated by his owti past, he lunged mindlessly forward, all his errors in judgment and missteps of the past
joined in that one strong, unretreating face. If he could not master the respect of an exiled American, what chance did he have in the stellar gallery of lords and ladies?
Since in his entire Hfe he had discovered that there was only one way to gain respect, and that was by force, he grasped the interloper by the jacket and was just in the process of drawing back his fist, fully prepared to deliver a killing blow, if necessary, when without warning the man raised both arms, dislodging John effortlessly, and followed through with a stunning blow to the side of John's jaw that sent him reeling backward, the chandeliers spinning above him in confusion, the rhythm of the polka interrupted by a woman's scream.
Though dazed, but still on his feet, John started forward again and this time made solid contact with the man's shoulder, spun him about and gave as good as he got, the blow dislodging the man from his center of balance, though he managed a brief look upward before John fell upon him, his hands moving to his throat, pressing until he was scarcely aware of the solid chorus of women's screams, the musicians' instruments silenced, only one voice predominant over the din, that of Andrew Rhoades' cry for the watchmen, who appeared within the minute, and the next thing John was aware of was strong hands lifting him bodily, drawing him away from the man whom he had pinned on his back and whom he joyfully would have murdered.
"My God!" Andrew gasped close to his ear. "Have you gone totally mad?"
Still, John was aware of little except the face of the man now rising to his feet, a thin trickle of blood slipping from the corner of his mouth, though his expression was as arrogant as ever, as though he too regretted the guards' rapid intervention.
"Get him out," John commanded, struggling for breath. "Escort him to his carriage. And I want two riders to see him across the moors."
"My—belongings, Mr. Eden."
"—will be sent to you. The hospitality of this castle is closed to you."
"No." The soft voice belonged to Mary and came from somewhere behind him.
John ignored it and went on in an attempt to convince the carefully listening company of his rightness in this matter. "I don't know
how gentlemen behave in America/' he said, full-voiced, "but this is England, where true gentlemen—"
"He did nothing, John!" Mary cried. 'Tou were the one. You—"
''Get her out of here as welU" he shouted over his shoulder and saw Mary with Elizabeth's arm about her. Was he surrounded by enemies?
When he looked back he was pleased to see the guards obeying his command, one burly watchman on each arm, a subtle restraint but restraint nonetheless.
As the company parted for the embarrassing exit, he saw a familiar face step out of the crowd and confer with the American. John Thadeus Delane. John would have to deal with him later. Prestigious editor or not, the man must be made to understand that John did not appreciate him bringing rabble to these Festivities.
When the conversation stretched on, John shouted, "Get him out of here! If his companion wishes to accompany h
im, his belongings will be sent as well."
"John!" The shocked whisper belonged to Andrew, and he looked back to see his face drained of color and saw more, saw Dhari and Elizabeth escorting a sobbing Mary through the company, their arms protectively about her.
John suffered a brief remorse. Why couldn't she see that he was just trying to protect her?
Feeling a need to rest his eyes from the sorrowful trio just starting up the stairs, John looked toward the departing American. His conversation with Delane had ended, though John saw that old man peering at him with sadness.
But his primary interest was not Delane but rather the arrogant man who had successfully shaken off his guards and who was now strolling easily through the silent company, his head erect as though feeling neither humiliation nor regret.
Still watching him, as though he were a threat to keep forever in his sight, John was in no way prepared for the man's final gesture where, upon reaching the doorways which led to the inner courtyard, he turned and faced the entire company, a look of amusement on his face as he lifted his hand to his forehead in a salute to all, though his focus was fixed on John, something triumphant about his stance and manner.
Then he was gone, leaving all staring at the open door, a stunned quality enveloping the Great Hall.
Belatedly, John was aware of the shambles which once had been his magnificent ball. The musicians seemed incapable of starting together or on key, and there was no need anyway, for the company was departing in hushed groups of twos and threes, all making their way to the Grand Staircase, leaving the maids hovering over empty tables.
He glanced toward the Smoker and saw several gentlemen peering out, relaying the events to the others inside. Presently they withdrew into the room, their attack on Alma-Tadema undeterred by the events which had taken place in the Great Hall.
Looking ahead, he saw Mr. Delane still standing about twenty yards before him, his attention splintered between the empty doorway and John himself.
Weary of the evening and dreading the gossip which would whirl for months about the episode, John was in the process of retreating to the Smoker when Delane called to him.
The Women of Eden Page 16