"What must be-"
"Good night, Richard."
Dismissed, Richard stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. His head felt dull, as if lead had been poured into it.
You know as well as I what must be done. . . .
Surely John would not force him into anything. He had no right. ...
He stood a moment longer, suffering the sound of a shrill alarm in his head. He must talk to Bertie immediately, must tell him everything that had been said. They had discussed in the past the possibility of emigration, to Australia, to Canada, America, anywhere.
Bertie would know what to do. For an instant, a specific image of horror filled his mind. No! Perhaps Bertie should leave now, perhaps the two of them should bid each other a very public goodbye. If John had suspicions, then they must throw him off the track. Better a temporary separation than—
Yes, but he must not seek Bertie out tonight. He must let it be known to someone that he was retiring alone.
At the end of the corridor he looked out over the Great Hall at the scattering of servants still dismantling remnants of the once festive ball.
"Bates," he called out to the butler, who was directing a group of stewards in the removal of chairs.
"Milord?"
"A wassail. Bates," Richard requested. "In my chambers, if you will."
"Of course, milord. One or two?"
"One. I said one, didn't I?"
"Yes, milord. Anything else?"
''No."
As the man departed, Richard thought he detected a knowing expression in those normally expressionless eyes.
Did they all know?
In the anguish of that possibility, Richard turned about, aware of the stewards staring at him. Exerting all the discipline at his command, he walked steadily up the stairs, grateful that no one could see his face. . . .
On Monday morning, from the door of Lady Harriet's sitting room, Elizabeth watched as Richard tried reason, though in the face of Mary's silence it seemed a weak tool.
"He meant nothing by it, I swear, Mary! You must understand how difficult this all is for him. Believe me, he feels worse than you."
As Richard's voice droned on, Elizabeth leaned wearily against the door frame, surprised to discover that she was almost envious of Professor Nichols' early-morning departure, though there was a mystery. As well as she could remember, Professor Nichols had never departed from Eden without Richard. Yet all he'd said at breakfast that morning was that duties were pressing upon him and he must return immediately to Cambridge. And, more mysterious still, an hour later, only she and Charlie Bradlaugh had been on the Great Hall steps to bid him farewell.
She closed her eyes to rest them from the bright spill of sun filtering through the casement windows. Mystery or no, she still wished she might have been in that carriage with him, escaping this hectic place, where guests seemed to be leaving willy-nilly, where only this morning she'd heard the house warden complaining bitterly about the lack of organization.
In spite of everything, Elizabeth smiled. At least Mary was no longer suicidal, as she'd been earlier in the week. Nor were there tears. Since her public embarrassment on Friday evening, she seemed to have acquired a simple resignation. She'd passed the weekend in a docile state, saying nothing, though repeatedly Elizabeth had tried to engage her in conversation.
Ultimately last night Richard had offered to speak with her. Now he'd been talking steadily for almost an hour, and Mary had at least given the impression of listening, though there was a distant look in her eyes.
"Are you listening to me, Mary?"
"I'm listening."
"Do you understand any of what I've said?"
"Of course I understand, Richard."
"Then I'm sure you will agree that it serves no purpose to bear a grudge toward John. It's as I've said. He meant well, and whatever actions he took on Friday evening, they were for your own good."
Elizabeth saw Mary bring her brother into focus with a strange expression. "Do you know how often in my life I've heard that, Richard?"
"What?"
"That something or other is for my own good."
"It's true."
"And when will I be capable of directing my own life, my own actions?"
"Never," Richard said, without hesitation.
Elizabeth looked up, surprised at the word, and felt something constrict within her. She knew Mary well enough to know that the word and the edict behind it were equally as unacceptable to her.
"Never?" she heard Mary repeat, shocked by Richard's pronouncement.
"Of course not," he replied mthout rancor. "Would you have it any other way? John's protection is a rich blessing. And when the time comes, he will cede that protection to another man who is worthy to become your husband. But until that time, your only responsibility is obedience; cheerful obedience, I might add."
"Did you hear that, Elizabeth?" Mary asked with suspect calm. "Do you agree?"
A sense of being trapped engulfed her. "Yes, I heard," Elizabeth admitted, "but I don't think that my opinion is at issue here." It was a cowardly response and she knew it. Later she would have to try to help Mary understand that the issues which had been fought for in London applied every place but Eden. Here, for the sake of family harmony, it was wisest to play the docile role.
"The quarrel is between you and John," she said. "Listen to Richard and please, I beg you, leave me out of it."
The silence in the room was sharp, leaving Elizabeth with an impression that she had destroyed something.
Blessedly, Harriet spoke, her calm voice a soothing balm. "The incident was unfortunate, to be sure," she said, appearing at first to take Mary's side. "However, I'm sure it's as Richard said, Mary," she went on. "I can't conceive of John relishing such a scene."
"Then why did he cause it?" Mary asked.
"According to Richard," Harriet replied, "the man was insulting."
"That's not true!" Mary protested hotly. "Mr. Stanhope is a gentleman. And may I remind all of you that the hall was very public. If there had been any real danger, don't you think—"
"Mary, you don't understand," Richard commenced. "John was not fearful of the man literally offending your person. He simply felt that-"
Abruptly Mary stood. "Do you have anything to say to me, Richard, that you haven't said before? If not, then I beg you to excuse—"
"There is one other m.atter, Mary," Richard cut in. "It is John's
wish—and I agree with him—that you take up residence away from here for a period of time."
Unfortunately, Mary was less than three feet from where Elizabeth stood, and thus she was privy to an expression on that face that she'd never seen before, as though she'd been cut adrift.
"I—am planning to return to London with Elizabeth," Mary answered, looking directly at her.
"No," Richard said, "not London."
Without turning, Mary asked, "Where?"
"There's an institution—outside Cheltenham, a school run by—"
Mary closed her eyes. One hand seemed to lift toward Elizabeth as though for support, but was withdrawn.
"Mary, please. . . ." It was Harriet again, sensing her daughter's distress. "Please come and take my hand. This is all so unnecessary. And I'm not at all in agreement with Richard or John regarding that school. So, come back and let's talk of other matters."
An expression of relief covered Mary's face. "Mama," she whispered, and ran back to her mother's side, and was instantly enclosed in open arms.
Harriet whispered, "Oh, how I've missed you! Come, you must tell me everything. Tell me about the painting. Was it well received? And tell me about the American gentleman. What's his name? And how on earth did he get caught up in all this silly business?"
From her position near the door, Elizabeth saw Richard's shoulders sag with defeat. If he'd been sent with a message, then the message had been canceled by a loving maternal voice. How John would take this news, Elizabeth had no idea
and didn't really want to know. Somewhere in the gardens that eminently sane gentleman, Charles Bradlaugh, was waiting to escort her on a morning walk. Dhari and Aslam and Andrew were out riding. Lila and her father and the attractive Irishman, Charles Parnell, were cloistered in Lord Harrington's room, and John was preparing to greet his second wave of guests this afternoon. And now Harriet and her daughter were blissfully locked in each other's company.
"Richard, come," she said, thinking to invite him to share the walk with Charles Bradlaugh, wanting only to clear the chamber.
Affectionately she took his arm and led him down the corridor, speaking the first words that came to her mind. "I'm sorry that Professor Nichols had to leave so unexpectedly. I know how fond you are of-"
Abruptly he drew away from her, "It had been his intention to leave early all along. He has other obligations."
"Of course," she murmured. She was about to suggest that he join her for a morning walk when he drew further ahead and called back politely, "If you will excuse me, Elizabeth—"
Did she have a choice? She watched, astonished, as he hurried down the corridor, turning left at the comer into the passageway which led to the Family Chapel.
Curious! What would he be doing in the Chapel?
Merciful heavens, how she would like to flee with Charlie Brad-laugh back to London! What a simple world that was compared to this.
Scolding herself for these thoughts, she hurried on down the corridor, hungry for sun, shivering from the permanent chill which seemed to be imbedded in the stone walls. . . .
In a significant way, John had hoped all morning that his business conference with Alex Aldwell would be interrupted by Bates' announcement of arriving carnages. They should be here by now, Lord and Lady Forbes, Lord Russell. Where in the hell are they?
"And in my opinion, the new building site on Portland Place will require additional crews. And here's the ledger you requested on the Circus Road site. It seems to me that. . ."
As Alex's voice droned on, John settled back behind his desk in the spacious second-floor chamber which he'd selected to be his oflEce outside of London. Glancing about, he realized that the chamber more nearly resembled an antique market than a business office. What had possessed him to give his approval to Queen Anne furnishings, replete with pale pink roses and velour drapes? It was suitable for a whore, and no one else.
He leaned back as far as the delicately ribbed constriction of his chair would allow and tried to keep his mind on Alex's voice. There were matters under discussion that needed his attention.
Mex—
Thinking the name, he glanced across at the large man, quite the dandy this morning, in a dark brown plaid suit and bright yellow silk neck scarf. Powerless to halt the assault of memory, John recalled the first time he'd laid eyes on Alex Aldwell in that grim hospital ward at Scutari. Alex, an erstwhile soldier of fortune recently returned from India, iU with dysentery, and John, an equally erstwhile survivor of
the madness known as the Crimean Engagement, young enough and foolish enough to Hsten to the rantings coming from the bed next to him.
They had gone separate ways. Alex back to England; John to India, yet fate had joined them together again when each had been in sore need of the other. Fifteen years ago that had been, and now viewing the man it occurred to John that Alex Aldwell might very well be the only person in the world whom he could trust.
"But we need Andrew," Alex was saying. "There are some legal matters that are holding us up, and I, for one, don't trust none but Andrew—"
John nodded. Andrew Rhoades. A small regret there.
"Do you think it would be possible for him to return to London soon?"
John rubbed his forehead, behind which beat a small pain, the result of a sleepless night. "I'll need him here for the rest of the week, but after that I see no reason—"
"Are you—well, John?" Alex asked considerately, closing the ledger.
"Of course I'm well," John scoffed, moved by the man's inquiry. No one else of late seemed to give a damn how he felt.
"And the various—fetes?" Alex inquired further. "Are they going well?"
"Tolerably," he murmured.
"I've been searching the London papers for the first accounts," Alex said with a grin.
John looked up. "Anything?"
"No, not yet, but then it's far too early, isn't it?"
John stared at him, aware that Alex was trying to read his mood. Weary of his close scrutiny, John left the desk and took refuge by the window, which gave a perfect view of the inner courtyard below.
"And how is Lady Lila?" he heard Alex ask, still trying to penetrate John's silence, "And the babes," he added, his voice going soft at the mention of John's two young sons, whom he adored.
"Well," John muttered from the window. "Look in on them if you wish before you leave. Tell Miss Samson I gave you permission."
"I'll do it," Alex said warmly.
Weary of the awkward meeting, John said, "I'll sign these later," gesturing to the scattered documents which Alex had brought him
from London. "Now I have a few requests to make/' he added, and sat behind the desk.
"Of course. Anything." Alex smiled and, as was his custom when John was giving orders, he withdrew from his pocket a small leather notebook.
"No," John said, "there's no need for notes. I'm sure you can remember—"
He waited out the quizzical expression on Alex's face. "Private matters, these, Alex. I trust I have your loyalty."
As though hurt by the question, Alex leaned up in his chair. "As you have always had it, John, as you will always have it."
The declaration moved John, and he thought of the numerous times in the past when Alex had performed "private duties" for him: fetching a street woman for him when he'd awakened in the early hours of the morning in need of that particular breed of female, driving a competitor out of business in a hundred subtle ways. In the course of their long relationship, Alex had never questioned him or censored him or challenged him.
Torn between his new requirements and his overwhelming sense of gratitude, John looked up. "Your careful attention, then, Alex, and your vow that what we are about to discuss will never leave this room."
"You have it."
John found that he could not look at the man and turned about in the limited chair until he was gazing safely into emptiness. "I have the need, Alex," he began, "of the services of a private investigator. You are to find me the best. The man is to take up temporary residence in Cambridge and he's to report back to you on the daily, the hourly movements of Professor Herbert Nichols."
At last a faint sound, not a complete articulation at first, but slowly expanding into one. "Lord Richard's friend?"
John nodded.
There was a pause. "Done," Alex said, and John knew that it was.
"Then I want you to find out everything you can for me on a man named Burke Stanhope, an American presently living in London. Where I have no idea, but it shouldn't be too diflEcult."
"Done," Alex said again. "Anything else?"
"One thing more. When you return to London, I want you to send a donation of five hundred pounds to a Miss Veal, to a school
for women in Cheltenham. Send it by special courier and make certain that my name is attached."
"Done," Alex said a third time, and John looked back over his shoulder to find the man grinning passively at him, not a sign of a question in that broad flat face.
"God, what would I do without you, Alex?"
"A better question is what would I do without you."
"Then take yourself off to whatever recreation you desire," John said gruffly, in an attempt to stay his emotions before they ran too high. "You've earned a rest, and the hospitality of the entire castle is at your disposal. I'll send a steward along to see—"
"No need," Alex said, declining the offer. "I don't need no man to wait on me, you know that. I take what I want."
"You do indeed." John smiled.
"A night's rest, John, and I'm on my way back to London." At the door he paused. "We miss you. I hope you won't be too long following after."
"As soon as all this is over, Alex, I promise you."
Then he was gone. For a moment longer John sat behind his desk, weary at midmorning. Why was everything becoming so difficult?
Lila
He wanted to see her.
In an attempt to offset the emptiness of the courtyard below his window, he pushed back from the desk and hurried through the door, thinking Lila, thinking not only of his rightful claim upon her but thinking how good it would be if she'd only smile at him as she'd smiled at the stranger. . . .
London May 14, 1870
In spite of his efforts to pay attention to his mother's incoherent discourse, Burke's concentration was consistently dragged away by the persistent ache in the lower left side of his jaw. It was nothing much in the way of serious discomfort—in fact, it was rather pleasing.
By merely running his tongue over the bruised flesh, he discovered that he was capable of resurrecting the entire evening—the orchestra, the scent of roses coming in through the doors, and ultimately that one remarkable face, the enchantment of Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club miraculously transplanted to an outpost called Eden.
"Burke, you must believe me. I don't think the darkies can be trusted."
In response to her accusation, he tried to offer comfort. "Why can't they be trusted. Mother? We've trusted them for years. They love you dearly as I do, and would do nothing—"
"No, Burke," she pleaded, half rising from her chair. "They refuse to—" Abruptly she stopped, spying Charles standing silently at the door. At the sight of him, she sat back down, the bow-shaped painted lips parted, and from them issued a soft moan.
Over the half-formed accusation, Burke saw Florence join Charles at the door. She stood as though assessing the situation, then moved steadily to his mother's side.
"Come, Miss CaroHne," she soothed, "we'll walk in the garden if you wish. WTiat pale cheeks my pretty has! Mr. Sun needs to touch them, that's what. Come."
As the maternal voice cut through the silence, Burke saw his
mother glance up at her old maid, a combination of longing and resentment on her face.
The Women of Eden Page 18