"Mr. Eden—a word please, if I may."
While his quarrel was not with Delane, there were a few questions he would like to ask the man. He held his position, not deigning to look up at Delane's approach, and warned himself to move with greater diplomacy here. This man was powerful.
"Mr. Eden—my—apologies," Delane began. "I must confess I was occupied and did not see—" He broke off, struggling for articulation. "How-did it start?"
"With your friend, Mr. Delane," John replied without hesitation. "I have never witnessed such crude behavior, and he left me no choice." He paused, gratified by the remorse on Delane's face. "May I ask his name?"
"Stanhope," Delane murmured, "Burke Stanhope. Fve known his family for years. I can't—"
"American, I believe?"
Delane nodded. "Though he lives in London now."
"Why?"
The blunt question merely added to Delane's confusion. "Why what, Mr. Eden?"
"Why is Mr. Stanhope living in London if America is his home?**
"There wasn't a great deal of his home left after the recent hostilities. His mother is too ill to return, and—"
"Then he has abandoned his homeland."
"It's not that simple, Mr. Eden."
'Why not? His behavior here tonight was certainly cowardly."
Delane stepped closer, as though they had come full circle back to the heart of the mystery. "What, precisely, did he do, Mr. Eden?" he asked again,
"He behaved rudely toward Lady Mary," John commenced, undaunted. "He detained her against her wishes and countermanded my orders."
He was aware of movement to his left and caught a glimpse of Andrew's shocked face.
Now in a concihatory manner John extended his hand. "My quarrel is not with you, Mr. Delane." He smiled. "You have caused me no offense except perhaps an error in judgment which motivated you to bring such a man to Eden."
"He is a gentleman," Delane protested hotly.
"Not tonight he wasn't," John contradicted. "He behaved like a predator, as all Americans are predators. They simply lack the leavening wisdom of centuries of civilization. The present turmoil in their own country bears witness to that."
As he spoke, he was aware of a new expression on Delane's face, one of astonishment. "So you see, Delane, he didn't belong here, had no business here, and certainly no right to offend the members of this family."
"No, of course not," Delane murmured courteously, backing away from the encounter, "and whatever the nature of his offense, Mr. Eden, I do apologize."
Then he was gone, taking his astonishment with him, leaving John with the painful sensation that somehow he'd lost again.
Whatever the nature of his offense . . .
Hadn't he just stated the nature of the man's offense? How much clearer need he make it?
"Andrew-"
But as he turned he saw Andrew hurrying after Delane, catching up with him on the stairs, talking rapidly, though Delane in no way acknowledged his presence.
"Damn!" John cursed, and felt the sense of unrest increase within him. He stood at the center of the now empty Great Hall. Along the edges of the arcade a few guests remained, chatting nervously, their eyes lifting to him, then turning away.
In the sudden absence of noise, in those embarrassed half-glances, in the painful sense of betrayal and in the continuing sense that he
had lost and the American had won, John looked about, his mind in chaos. Feeling a need for escape, he walked steadily toward the corridor which led to the Library and the painting of "The Women of Eden/'
He closed the door behind him and felt the breath catch in his throat. Ignoring the sensation, he started through the clutter of chairs, not looking where he was going, never once lifting his eyes from the four women fixed for all time in the painting.
Voices in the corridor outside the door went past, hesitated, then moved on. . . .
"What in the-"
Abruptly Richard stopped in the doors which led from the inner courtyard into the Great Hall. Less than an hour ago he and Bertie had left a formal ball comprised of over two hundred guests. They had taken a brief, mind-clearing walk along the headlands, enjoying the May evening, and had only just returned to find—
"This is the right castle, isn't it?" Bertie joked, a step behind him.
"I—don't understand. . . ." Richard faltered, leading the way into the hall, which was empty now except for the maids who were clearing the tables of half-filled wineglasses.
About thirty yards ahead he spied Bates, the dignified old butler. "Bates," he called out.
"Milord," Bates murmured, after taking a backward glance at the place where a dozen stewards were lowering one of the massive chandeliers.
"Would it be possible for you to tell me what happened?"
Bates adjusted his white gloves. "I can't say, milord. An early end to the Festivities, that's all."
"For what reason?"
"I'm sure I don't know, milord," the man replied cautiously.
"Where is Mr. Eden?" Richard asked.
"I'm not certain, milord," Bates told him, standing ramrod straight. "I believe I saw him entering the Library. Would you like for me to—"
"Was he alone?"
"As best as I can remember, milord. I'd be happy to—"
"No. No, thank you, Bates. That will be all."
His alarm increasing, Richard led the way across the Great Hall, amazed at the rapid transformation. Behind him he was aware of
Bertie. "Perhaps it's nothing/' he soothed, "the company merely fatigued after several days of—"
While Richard appreciated this attempt, nothing he was saying made sense. John had said earlier that he expected the ball to go until dawn.
Outside the Library door he stopped. He leaned closer, trying to hear, but the large room gave back silence. As he listened he felt Bertie's hand on his shoulder.
"Come," he suggested quietly. "Let's retire early, as the others have done. The mystery can be solved come morning."
Richard looked back, having heard clearly the invitation. Both men stood motionless outside the Library door. Richard glanced about and, seeing the corridor deserted, he Hfted a hand to Bertie's forehead.
"Would we be safe?" he whispered, recalling how in the past they had always denied themselves when in residence at Eden. The risks were too great.
"I think so," Bertie replied. "I suspect that the routine of the castle has been—"
They walked a few steps beyond the Library door, Bertie just reaching for his hand, when a steward appeared at the far end of the corridor.
Quickly the two men separated, Bertie striding to the opposite wall in an attitude of suspect ease, while Richard returned to the Library door and knocked, his heart beating too fast.
He glanced again toward the end of the corridor. The steward was gone. He exchanged a relieved look with Bertie and whispered, "Let me speak with John first, see what happened. Then—"
The postponement was as painful for him as it was for Bertie. "Only a moment," he said, studying the beloved man who now leaned against the far wall, head bowed. Richard knew his thoughts, for they were his as well, a mutual sadness at the furtive nature of their love, a deep regret that in the eyes of the world they were worse than lepers, and if found out could be prosecuted and imprisoned.
Sodomites should be flogged and castrated, John had pronounced once.
But he and Bertie were not Sodomites. They simply shared a love, a rich companionship and a mutual need and respect. Was that so unspeakable?
Lacking an answer, he knocked again, then pushed open the door.
"John?"
At first glance he thought the room was empty. But just as he was turning about he saw a figure hunched over in one of the large wing chairs near the end of the Library.
Motioning for Bertie to follow, Richard made his way through the clutter of chairs where earlier the entire company had gathered for the unveiling. As he approached, he saw that it was John, thoug
h a very different John from the man who had proudly presided over the unveiling. This man sat in the chair, his head down and buried in his crossed arms, a posture of such despair that it occurred to Richard that perhaps he should depart without speaking.
But he couldn't do that. He'd loved John ever since they had been boys together.
"John, what-"
Then the face lifted with an expression of helplessness, as though he'd received a message of tragedy and had been forced to bear the sorrow alone.
"John, what—has—" Reeling from such an expression, Richard drew up a chair and sat beside him. He was aware of Bertie a few feet away, his concern as great as Richard's.
"Please," Richard begged. "Tell me what—"
With a despairing gesture, John brushed aside the inquiry and propped his head against his hands. "Too late, Richard."
"Too late for what?"
"To prevent me from—" But he could not finish and Richard and Bertie were left with the spectacle of a man so weakened by grief that he could not speak.
Bertie drew even and, in a voice familiar and tender, said, "Mr. Eden, please. Surely nothing warrants such black—"
John looked up. He seemed embarrassed by Bertie's presence and walked to the end of the room, all the while fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief.
Richard heard him call back, "My apologies. Professor Nichols. I thought Richard was alone, though I should have known better."
Was there an edge to his voice? Richard couldn't be certain. "We just returned from a walk, John, and found the Great Hall—"
"—empty, yes," came the voice from the mantel. With his back turned, Richard saw half-gestures, John wiping at his face, then studying his handkerchief as though his grief were visible. "My fault, I
can assure you/' he went on, his voice hardening as though cynicism were a healing balm. "Who else could ruin an evening as thoroughly—"
He looked back at them from the mantel and coldly suggested, "Go along, both of you. I have no desire to ruin the evening for you as well."
"John, please," Richard begged. "Whatever it is, I'm certain—"
Bertie interrupted. "I'll bid you both goodnight and take advantage of the early evening to probe a few of the books I brought along."
Richard's initial instinct was to protest, although he felt certain that John would do it for him. Bertie had been coming to Eden since their undergraduate days. There was no need for him to take himself out of any discussion.
But when John made no move to intercede, Richard watched, helpless, as Bertie started toward the door. In an attempt to cover the awkward exit, Richard called out, "Wait, I'll go with you." To John he added, "Perhaps you'd prefer to be alone."
"No. I wish you would stay."
Caught between the two men, Richard foundered.
"Good night," Bertie called from the door, his voice forced, as though he were trying to cover his own embarrassment.
Before Richard could respond, the door was closed.
"I'm—sorry," came the voice from the mantel. "I will add him to the long list of people to whom I must apologize come morning."
Hearing that same tone of desolation, Richard settled back in the chair. "Please tell me what happened." With his concentration still focused on the absent Bertie, he was not at first aware of John drawing near to the chair where he sat, a new expression on his face.
"Do you think it wise?" John asked.
Richard looked up, struggling to make the transition. "Do I think what wise?"
"That you are seen so constantly in his company."
Alert to danger, Richard struggled for the proper response. "He's a good friend"—he smiled—"as Andrew Rhoades is your good friend."
"I do not live with Andrew Rhoades."
Richard laughed. "It's a matter of convenience and economy."
"I will buy you a house."
Puzzled, Richard looked up, not certain how the focus of atten-
tion had shifted. "John* I ^^ not come in here to discuss my life. You're the one who seemed in need—"
"I'm sorry/' John rephed, sinking into the opposite chair. He leaned back into the cushions, his face in repose now, though still bearing evidence of his earlier grief. "I'm afraid I caused a scene," he murmured.
"Of what nature?" Richard inquired, relieved to be out of the spotlight, though shaken by John's subtle attack on Bertie.
"There was a man," John commenced wearily, eyes closed. "Possibly you met him—an American, a friend of Delane's—who was behaving aggressively toward Mary."
"What happened?"
"He challenged me, launched an attack, and I had no choice but to reciprocate."
Richard felt relief that he'd not witnessed such a scene.
"Where is he now? The American."
"What choice did I have? I sent him packing."
It was Richard's turn to close his eyes, feeling embarrassment on his face. What morsels of gossip the guests would take back to London! No wonder John's despair. Still, what was he to have done? Mary was his prize. Richard knew that as did everyone else, except the hapless American.
"Well, it's done," Richard concluded. "I'm sure that Mary is grateful to you. It isn't every day that a lady in distress enjoys—"
"No. She—loathes me," John muttered, assuming that hunched position, as though a weight had settled upon him.
"Surely not. If she was in a distressing situation, she must feel only gratitude."
"Distressing situation!" John repeated. "She is so innocent, Richard, she doesn't even know when to feel apprehension. The man was making fools of both of them, and she, instead of objecting, was responding, as though—"
Behind the barrier of his hands, he went on. "She knows no fear, has been so sheltered that she would go smiling to her own ravishment—" He broke oflF. "Oh, God, what am I to do? I would not cause her pain for the world, yet every time I try to—"
"Don't, John," Richard begged. "It will pass, I'm certain of it. It's as you said, Mary is a child in many ways. I'll talk to her if you wish. Whatever her mood tonight, she will be restored come morning."
"And then what?" John asked. "It will happen again," he said in a
mournful tone, striding toward the painting which rested, ignored, on its standard, concentrating on one face. "I'm afraid that my fortune will be her curse. Men will persistently try to get to it through her, and she, in her innocence, will not even know what they are about."
Richard listened, not in complete agreement, yet not wanting to add to his mood by disagreeing with him. "Have you mentioned the school in Cheltenham to her?" he asked, thinking that it might be a solution.
"Yes. It was mentioned and instantly rejected."
Nothing very surprising there. Still, Richard was certain that he could convince her that it was for the best. With the sense of offering a final reassurance, he left his chair and drew even with John where he stood before the painting. He was prepared to speak, but the whispered declaration, "I love them all so much, yet I only succeed in hurting them," moved Richard until he felt compelled to reach out in a gesture of support.
"I will speak to her," he said. "And I promise further that what seems so black tonight will be forgotten come morning."
It was a generous promise and partly false, considering that there was nothing he could do about the shocked guests who had witnessed the ugly scene.
Still, it seemed to comfort John, who sank heavily into the chair, as though he were approaching exhaustion. "Tell her," he concluded, "that she must be on guard against those who would ruin her."
"I will."
"And tell her that in your opinion the school holds the brightest future."
"I will."
"And tell her that all of my actions are rooted in love.**
"I will indeed."
Richard hoped that the black mood was over. The hour was late. The encounter had left him exhausted. More than ever he needed Bertie's healing love. "Are you well now, John?" he asked, mov
ing a step toward the door.
When at first John did not respond, Richard took a step further, praying that Bertie had not fallen asleep. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Still no response and, thinking that he was free to go, Richard increased his steps until he was approaching the door when at last John stirred himself to words.
"Apologize to Professor Nichols for me," John said, not turning in the chair.
Richard looked back "'Bertie needs no apology." He smiled. "The man was born with the gift of understanding."
"You're very fond of him, aren't you?" John asked, still maintaining his position, his attention fixed on the painting.
Richard felt a pulse in his temple, always the sign of fatigue and danger. "It's as I said, John, he's a good friend."
"Do you see women, Richard?" At last John turned, his arm resting on the back of the chair, his expression in no way revealing the nature of his question.
"See—women?"
"Socially, I mean." John smiled. "Has some heartbreaking beauty caught your fancy and you've kept her a secret from us all?"
Briefly Richard experienced the sensation of falling. "Cambridge-is not known for its—beauties, as you put it."
"Then come Monday I will have a surprise for you," John added, bearing little resemblance to the grieving man Richard had discovered earlier.
"A—surprise?"
"Indeed. Quite to your liking, I think." He paused, then added, "Will Professor Nichols be staying for the entire fortnight?"
"Of course. We were planning—"
"No matter." John grinned. "All I ask is that you are groomed and highly visible on Monday morning."
"I don't understand—"
"You will then, I promise," John added, and turned about in his chair.
Richard stood by the door, trying to sort out what John had said. Do you see women socially? Will Professor Nichols be staying? Come Monday I will have a surprise for you.
"John?"
"Go along with you," John replied. "And I thank you again," he added with kindness. "I'd be lost without you."
In the face of this declaration of love, Richard's anxieties were eased. John had meant nothing, and as for the surprise-Without warning, John concluded, "You know as well as I what must be done."
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