John shook his head. "But I'll tell them before they leave."
At last Mary saw Dhari look up, her attention caught by something that had been said.
Elizabeth asked, "Are they leaving? So soon?"
John nodded. "Richard and Aslam will depart tonight, Andrew first thing in the morning." He stretched his arms and clawed toward the ceiling. "The ill-fated Festivities have at last come to an end," he announced broadly. "I've neglected my duties long enough. We all have."
With his hands laced behind his back, he walked slowly to where Dhari sat at the table, her hands manipulating the needles through the red yarn. "In fact," he began, stopping behind her chair, "my second announcement concerns us all. We all will be leaving Eden come Monday."
Elizabeth looked up. "I had thought to stay for a few additional—"
"No. I want no distractions for Lila, no late-afternoon tea parties like this—" He gestured about the room, the censure clear on his face. "You know as well as I that if you remain Lila v^all seek you out, and the stairs are the worst of all, according to Cockburn. No, I want everyone in London with me for a while."
He seemed to assess the female faces about him, then again a grin splintered those strong features. "I'll impose no hardships on you.
Quite the contrary. Indulge yourselves to your hearts* content. Concerts, art galleries, dressmakers—"
From where Mary sat she saw his hand make its way down the side of Dhari's neck, an intimate gesture. For the first time the knitting needles went silent.
"You have no real objection, do you, Dhari," he asked, "to leaving Eden for a while?"
There was no response at first. Slowly the woman shook her head and the needles commenced a slowed but steady clicking.
"And you, Mary?" he asked. "Surely there's no objection coming from you."
"No," she replied without hesitation. "I'm happiest in London."
"Of course you are," he agreed, approaching her and extending his hand. As he lifted her to her feet she went willingly, seeing nothing in that generous countenance to cause her alarm.
"I tell you what we'll do," he said, putting his arm around her shoulder. "We'll entertain more often. Yes, we will. That monstrous house of mine has never known a decent ball. Elizabeth, you can help us," he added, drawing Elizabeth close beneath his other arm. "We'll dust off those chandehers, polish the floors and give the most lavish balls that old London has ever seen."
In view of the recent disastrous Festivities, it seemed a generous offer and yet one which pleased Mary. Perhaps at last he would grant her just a portion of her own life. Still, based on experience, she knew that he was capable of saying something and not meaning a word of it.
"Are you—serious, John?" she asked.
"I've never been more serious."
He seemed determined to hold her in his gaze, as though aware of her doubt and his need to dispel it.
"If I've made you unhappy, Mary, I'm truly sorry. But you must understand that my impulses are weighted with love for you and nothing else."
His manner, his voice, the expression on his face were as honest as any she'd ever seen. She did love him very much, this strong, handsome cousin.
Without warning she found herself in his arms. In the quiet embrace she heard nothing but his own labored breathing close to her ear and the click of Dhari's knitting needles, and for a moment longer she luxuriated in his tenderness, like all deep feeling, con-
cealing a melancholy strain. She must remember this lesson as well, that it was much easier to love than to hate.
"Then it's settled," he said at the end of the embrace. "We'll all return to London and leave Lila in the solitude she needs to properly nurture my child. Is it agreed?"
It was as far as Mary was concerned, though with surprise she heard a protest coming from Elizabeth. "But Dr. Cockburn, John," she murmured. "Now more than ever Lila needs expert professional—"
"I said he would serve for a while," John snapped. "Of course I'll be returning periodically to Eden. If I feel she needs more assistance, then I'll certainly provide her with it."
"Still, she's not well, and we are all aware of how—"
"What precisely is it, Elizabeth?" he demanded, confronting her where she sat on the chaise. "I thought that you, more than anyone, would look forward to an early return. Don't you miss your menagerie of friends? I assure you, I'd much prefer that you entertained them in your own house in London than here. I wouldn't be too surprised if you singlehandedly and your associates were not responsible for this last disastrous week. What gentleman or lady in their right minds would—"
The shocked look on Elizabeth's face silenced him. Fresh from loving him, Mary was astounded by his outburst. Never had she heard him speak like that to Elizabeth.
"I'm—sorry," she murmured. "If you'll excuse me, I have much to do."
Not until she reached the door did he find his voice and the will to use it. "Elizabeth," he called out, a desolate quality to his voice. "Elizabeth-wait—"
But she didn't and, stunned, Mary watched her depart the room. In sympathy Dhari commenced gathering up her work and silently left the room without a glance at the man who stood near the chaise, his initial high spirits obliterated in the small death for which he was totally responsible.
Mary looked toward her mother and saw her seated erect in her chair, though her veiled head was turned several degrees to the left, away from the place of hurt feelings, as though in spite of her blindness she still saw too clearly.
When no one seemed inclined to move, Mary plunged her hands into the pockets of her skirts to hide their trembling and kissed her
mother through the veil and whispered, "Fll come later and say goodnight."
Having decided that it might be best to pass John by, she drew even with him, and changed her mind. He appeared so pathetic, devoid of strength and consumed with regret, and with the intention of offering comfort, as he recently had comforted her, she touched his arm and whispered, "Elizabeth has a miraculous capacity for forgiveness. I know, for I have offended her many times."
He looked away. Then, with a sharpness which warred with the grief on his face, he said, "The offense is hersj not mine. I do not seek her forgiveness."
Then there was nothing more to stay for, except to try to sort out in her own mind the enigma named John Murrey Eden.
At the end of the corridor she looked back and saw Peggy just starting into the chamber. A mistake that, Mary thought, though in the next minute she saw John leave the room. He paused outside the door as though he wanted very much to return. But Peggy closed the door forcefully and left him standing alone in the corridor.
Quickly Mary slipped out of sight around the corner, not wanting him to see her. At the top of the landing she stopped, debating with herself whether to turn right toward Elizabeth's apartments or left toward her own. Dhari would be with her by now, and perhaps Dhari's silent presence was all she desired.
Later she would seek her out, when they both felt stronger. For now she longed for a closed and bolted door behind which she could still the turmoil of hurt and harsh words in that most healing memory of all. No fantasy this time, but a specific face, a specific form and a specific sensation of an arm about her.
Of course she would have to fill in the music out of her imagination, but what a simple task that would be, compared to the demands she had placed on her imagination in the past.
London June Ir 1870
"Still reading?"
From the window of Delane's home in Sarfeant's Inn, Burke looked across at the man bent over the desk, the sheaf of papers in his hand angled toward the small lamp, nothing on his face to give the slightest indication of how he was reacting to Lord Ripples' latest offering.
Satiated with the delicious meal provided by Delane's French cook, Burke sipped at his brandy and looked out at the night beyond the window, the street emptied of all traffic, as well it should be at three in the morning.
Smiling in spite of h
is satiation and fatigue, he recalled Delane's absurd melodrama in setting up this meeting. In the past Burke had strode midmorning into Delane's office in Printing House Square, deposited Lord Ripples' column on his desk, then strode out again, greeting personally the assistant editors, most of whom he knew by name.
But this time it had been very different. At Delane's insistence Burke had been instructed to stay clear of his offices and not to come to his home until well after midnight, and then to leave his carriage at least a block away and come on foot, keeping his portfolio concealed under his coat and with every step making certain that he was not being followed.
Well, he had followed those instructions to the letter, though it had been a damned inconvenience to do so. Now, having overeaten because of the late dinner and consumed too much brandy while
Delane deliberated over every bloody word, Burke abandoned his vigil on the window and walked about the comfortable study.
Distracted from his prolonged waiting, he amused himself by reading several framed letters, one from the war correspondent Sir William Russell thanking Delane for his courageous reportage of "the truth." Another from Gladstone commending a liberal stand which the Times had taken on some matter close to his heart. And a third addressed coldly to "The Editor of the Times/' in stiff, blocklike handwriting on black-edged stationery, chastising the Times for daring to criticize her "protracted seclusion" as a widow, the scant though heated four lines signed, "Victoria R."
That Delane was a man of courage, Burke had no doubt. Then why was he faltering under the slight weight of Lord Ripples' justified attack on John Murrey Eden?"
Beyond the column heading. The Demi-God of Eden, Delane had read in silence, as though in the locked privacy of his home there might be listening ears. In truth, Burke had not thought his material that incendiary. In past Lord Ripples' columns he'd indulged in much greater irony and sarcasm. Not that his words were truly objective. The readers of the Times could get their objectivity from the financial section. They read Lord Ripples for different reasons. He gave them permission to hate, and only lately had Burke come to realize what a rare gift that was.
To be true, the opening paragraph was strong:
A guilty conscience was never betrayed by a more superior sniff than that witnessed at Eden Castle, North Devon, a fortnight ago. Under the guise of fellowship, London's master-builder, John Murrey Eden, opened his castle gates, hoping to humble the world with a display of riches unrivaled since the halcyon days of Roman decadence. The stench of poor taste could be whiffed across the Channel and into Wales-Yes, a bit heavy, that, though taken all together and not set apart,
as he had just done in memory, it did mesh. Consider the second
paragraph:
John Murrey Eden labors under the delusion that material goods are the outward sign of a conscious respectability, and respectability, as every good Englishman knows, is the name of
that Common Level of behavior which all families ought to reach, and on which they can meet without disgust. In accordance with this philosophy, Eden presented a contradiction of material splendor and moral bankruptcy, though unwittingly he served as the most polished mirror ever held up to English society in recent times.
How well he knew it, even in memory, having lived with it, gone to bed with it and awakened with it every day for the last three weeks. It was good and he knew it was good, and more importantly, it was the truth. Not until he had commenced work on this particular piece had he realized how deeply he resented the English and all they stood for, their arrogance based on nothing of substance except a propensity to bully the rest of the world under the guise of their "Christian mission."
Still reading?
"My God, Delane," Burke said, shattering the silence of the room. "Do you want me to read it for you?"
But Delane lifted a restraining hand and with deliberation laid a page atop the other pages already resting on the desk.
He'd read it twice at least and, as far as Burke could tell, he was rereading certain sections. Well, let him! The words would stand up even to the critical eye of John Thadeus Delane. Yet in spite of this private conviction, Burke continued to wander restlessly about the study, running through in his mind certain passages that might be causing Delane discomfort.
There was that historical comparison near the bottom of the third page, culminating with:
... we remember with surprise that we are dealing with a race which had once and not so long ago been famous for an independence and even an eccentricity, and we must now ask what has happened to make it submit its behavior and its language and its ideas to this untenable mediocrity. . . .
Too strong? Not strong enough, when placed against the reality of that week at Eden, that swaggering, maudlin public display which . most assuredly had taken its tone from one man.
... for the most part, the Demi-God of Eden presented a face of reserve to his public guests, but we must remember that
reserve is the defense of the wise and the refuge of the stupid, and in this case it appeared to conceal cynicism and superciliousness as well. . . .
Abruptly Burke drained his glass, recalling unexpectedly the Alma-Tadema painting, that incredible recognition of the pretty young girl who had held him in thrall at Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club. He smiled into his empty glass. He would see her again. But when and how?
Now what was left for Delane to read that he had not read thrice before? Glancing back at the man hunched over the desk he discovered with relief that he was reading the final page—again:
. . . Let the Demi-God of Eden enjoy his marble castle while he may, for one day all his underfed, unpoliced, ungoverned and unschooled brothers will rise up against him and show him their code, not in bloody revolution, as England's neighbors across the Channel have done so often, but rather in slow assault, in subtle transfers of power, in allotments for the young, the old, the poor, until one day the descendants of the Demi-God will awake to find their castles stripped, their bogus "respectability" in shattered pieces about their feet.
The Demi-God of Eden will receive no homage from this corner, nor should he receive homage from any quarter of England, for he and his breed are fast changing the English landscape from one of proud and sober confidence to something unspeakably grim. Into what patterns the emergent lines and angles will fall, we cannot tell. But a hundred years from now when their culture and civilisation lay in waste about them, and if there is enough energy remaining to look for a cause, there will be no need for them to look beyond their own boundaries to the costly excitement of Imperial politics, to annexation and debt, to the obscene excesses and insensibility of conscience personified by the Demi-God himself: John Murrey Eden.
There! Done! Across the flickering light of the study, Burke watched Delane closely, ready to lodge a protest if the man started back at the beginning a fourth time.
Fortunately he didn't. Instead, with almost mournful deliberation, he placed the final page atop the others, flattened his hand on them.
as though to contain the words written on the pages. Slowly he removed his spectacles and placed them with equal deliberation atop the piled pages.
Without looking up at Burke, still addressing the stacked papers, he asked quietly, "Is that—really the portrait we present to the world?"
"I can't speak for the world," Burke replied honestly. "For myself, yes."
Delane continued to stare downward, his fingers gently ruffling the edges of the pages, his ability to respond either excluded or rendered mute by private thoughts. He waved a hand toward Burke and commanded, "Draw the drapes, please."
"Oh, good Lord," Burke muttered, suffering an exhaustion of his own. But he drew the drapes on the window and, hoping to lighten both their moods, he joked, "There's no one about now but owls and rats, Delane, and I doubt seriously if they have the slightest interest in anything that Lord Ripples—"
Another abrupt movement coming from the desk cut him short. Delane leaned forward and drov
e his fingers through his hair, allowing his hands to come to rest, blinder-fashion, obscuring his face. From behind this barrier he spoke.
"One cannot be too careful. Our only protection lies in complete secrecy."
All right, then, Burke thought, trying to rein in his impatience, "What is your opinion?"
"I think—" Delane began, then broke off, shaking his head, looking at Burke with eyes which seemed to ask for patience. "Oh, God, Burke . . ." he muttered, leaning back in his chair.
"Were you expecting something else?"
"No," Delane admitted, "but there is something different about this one, and you know it as well as I." He leaned forward as though at last he'd found a negotiable train of thought. "In the past Lord Ripples' columns, in spite of their content, there has always been a—a levity, sometimes satiric, sometimes ironic, but always in spite of the criticism a sense of fun."
"I did not have a great deal of fun at Eden," Burke replied.
"No," Delane agreed, "I know you didn't, and I have apologized repeatedly for—"
"It was not your place or obligation to apologize."
"Still, I can't help but wonder if perhaps you haven't lost a degree of—objectivity."
"Did you ask me to accompany you for my objectivity?**
"No, of course not." As the man waved his hand apologetically in the air, Burke retreated to a chair and sat heavily. Why was he so surprised? While Delane was many things, he was also an Englishman, and clearly he was seeing himself in the scathing indictment spread before him on the desk. Well, three weeks of effort for naught, but no matter. It had kept Burke busy, kept his mind off the slow disintegration of his mother and his own senseless existence.
Delane spoke again, posing questions as though he were a dimwit-ted schoolboy. "Do you really see so bleak a future for us, Burke?"
"Worse."
"Yet the Empire is flourishing."
"From whose point of view? And I can assure you it won't always flourish."
"But social changes are being made."
"Nothing of permanence or significance."
"We export over sixty percent of the world's goods."
The Women of Eden Page 23