"Using the resources of others."
"They are compensated."
"Justly?"
There was a pause, the rapid-fire give and take coming to a halt. Burke had uttered his rebuttals effortlessly, with no real hope of changing anything. In fact, it was now his intention to leave soon, at the first moment he could do so gracefully, without offending Delane.
"It's late," he announced, leaning up in his chair, thinking that he might send his caniage on ahead and walk home. Although the distance was great and he was tired, he felt a peculiarly urgent need for fresh air.
To that end he was in the process of pulling himself to his feet when Delane spoke again, his approach a different, though interesting one. "You know what bothers me most about this particular column, Burke?" Without waiting for an answer he went on. "Through all the coldness of the prose, the logical progression of thought, the massive declarative statements which stop just short of libel, I see an author unwittingly exposing himself."
Stunned, Burke froze in his half-raised position. An interesting twist, this. Apparently his writing was more effective than he'd real-
ized, Delane putting him on the defensive. Interested to see precisely how the man would pursue it, Burke sat on the edge of the chair and invited: "I don't understand, Delane. Explain yourself."
The man shrugged and turned the pages over, his eyes racing across the lines, as though searching for specific ammunition. "It's quite apparent," he said patly. "In your zeal to catalogue our disasters, past, present and future, you reveal yourself to be a man who has had disaster heaped upon him,"
In the face of this absurd statement, Burke could only gape.
"And further, in your need to create an entire historical case against us, culminating in the annihilation of our present way of life, it isn't too difficult to glimpse behind the words and see a homeless exile."
"Oh, my God, Delane—you can't be serious!"
"I'm not only serious, I'm concerned." The man leaned forward, an expression of paternalism on his face. "Burke, have you ever considered returning home?"
"To what end?" Burke replied angrily, moving away from the desk.
"I'm certain you could be of help to your father."
"I have no desire to be of help to my father."
"Then for the sake of your mother."
"My mother is insane. It matters little to her where she passes her remaining days, so long as they bear a resemblance to her girlhood. That duplication, as you know, is impossible at home. The theatrical can only take place on foreign soil."
"Then for your own sake," Delane concluded, a caring tone in his voice which momentarily unnerved Burke. When and precisely how had the focus shifted? And was Delane a complete idiot? There was nothing left in the Southern part of the United States now. Besides, Burke could make no significant move until the death of his mother, a reality which the physicians had been predicting for years, but which had yet to materialize. And God forgive him for such thoughts, because he did love her.
Unable to deal with the complexity of his emotions, he turned his mind to other matters. "Then by all means don't print it," he said, more than ready for that early-morning walk.
"I didn't say that."
"My God, Delane—you've said nothing but for the last fifteen minutes I"
"I've said other things as well, if only you had taken the time to listen."
It was the man's harsh tone more than anything that caused Burke to halt at the door. He looked back to see Delane on his feet.
"Primarily what I've been saying, Burke, if you could submerge your ego long enough to hear, is that the day after this appears in print we both may find ourselves thinking back to this night and wishing we had made another decision."
Astounded, Burke started back across the study. "Then—you are going to-"
"Of course I'm going to! In spite of the author's emotional involvement, much is said that needs to be said. I just feel that I should warn you."
Pleased by this unexpected development, Burke smiled. "Don't tell me that you are genuinely fearful of John Muney Eden?"
"Not fearful. Apprehensive."
"But what can he do?"
"Sue!"
"Who? You? You didn't write the article and can swear so under oath. The Times? The paper has been sued before on more legitimate grounds and has always emerged triumphant. And the column will go on the Letters page, won't it, where Lord Ripples has always gone, in the company of all those other disgruntled and anonymous Englishmen."
"This is diflFerent, Burke." Delane leaned across the desk, his face taut with worry. "In the past Lord Ripples has written safely on very public London events: the opening of a new gallery, some particular madness in the House of Commons. But Eden will know that the author of this column possessed an invitation to his Festivities, occupied a chamber in the castle, partook of his hospitality."
"Hospitality!" Burke laughed, pleased that after all his words might find their way into print. "Delane, there were over two hundred guests that first week and, according to Eden's solicitor Andrew Rhoades, over one hundred and twenty-five of them were journalists of one stripe or another. Eden will have to commence his suits at Taunton and work his way back across the country to London before he can unearth Lord Ripples."
He paused, pleased to see that Delane was listening. "And I find it difficult to believe," Burke added quietly, "that the Enghsh courts
have so little to do that they can pander to the shrill protests of John Murrey Eden."
The confrontation held, Burke feeling amusement for this man opposite him who in the past had taken on the British War OflSce, the inefficiency of the British Army and had faced down threats at Cabinet level, and yet who now seemed to be backing away from a single adversary.
"He will do nothing, Delane," Burke added firmly, "because there is nothing he can do. Oh, mind you, I'm not saying that he'll like it, but it was not composed to elicit the appreciation of John Murrey Eden."
"Why was it composed?" Delane asked gently.
Momentarily, Burke frowned. "To let the English see for themselves that the fiasco at Eden is merely representative of a larger ill—"
"Noble," Delane murmured, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. But it only lasted a moment and was quickly replaced by a limited degree of enthusiasm and another spate of commands. "Then we'll run it next week, and starting now and continuing for a month thereafter, I don't want to see you in Printing House Square. Is that clear?"
It wasn't, though Burke nodded in affirmation: "Perfectly."
"Nor are you to contact me or my editors in any way, either socially or professionally. Is that clear?"
"It is."
"We've been seen together too often in the past, and if Eden is as intelligent as I think he is—"
"I will disappear from public view, I swear it, Delane," Burke vowed dramatically. It seemed to bring Delane so much pleasure to play these little games, the least Burke could do was oblige.
"Then it's settled," Delane concluded. Still studying the papers in his hand, he muttered, "My God, this will cause ripples right enough!"
"Our very point, if I recall correctly," Burke said with a smile, reminding Delane of the entire purpose behind the conception of "Lord Ripples."
The man nodded, then sat down, withdrew a ring of keys from his pocket, unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, dropped the pages in and quickly locked it again.
Aware of Delane's genuine concern, Burke extended his hand across the desk. "I thank you," he said simply.
Though Delane took his hand, he countered, "I'm not certain I
thank you as yet. The increased circulation brought about by the column may very well be consumed in legal fees, though the unions will love your words."
"Well, then?" Burke grinned.
"And you may want to prepare yourself to be burned in eflBgy again."
"Nothing like a good fire to warm the bones on a chill London evening."
Delane
stared at him. "Go along with you now, and stay out of my sight for at least the next six weeks. Is that clear?"
"Done," Burke called back. He was to the door and almost through it when a thought occurred. "Delane," he called, looking back to find the man still behind his desk. "That woman, the one who suffered the near accident outside the Gatehouse at Eden, do you know whether or not she has returned to London?"
From the look of confusion on Delane's face it was clear that the rapid transition had eluded him.
"Elizabeth?" he faltered.
"That's the one. Do you know whether or not she's returned from Eden?"
Delane muttered, "I—have no idea."
"Where did you say she resided? You told me once, but I'm afraid I wasn't paying—"
"Why?"
Burke smiled. "Just. . . curious, that's all."
Still unable to draw a parallel, Delane obligingly said, "Number Seven on St. George Street."
"Thanks," Burke called back and took his leave before Delane made the connection and issued another set of commands.
In the entrance hall he found Delane's manservant dozing in a chair. Not wanting to disturb him, Burke stealthily lifted his cape and top hat from the man's lap, where apparently he'd been holding them for several hours. Closing the door quietly behind him, he stood in the safe darkness, breathing deeply of the clean pre-dawn air.
Number Seven, St. George Street.
He knew the area well. Near Parliament, a quiet, respectable street, its inhabitants composed of prominent surgeons, a few solicitors and the woman named Elizabeth.
Without being able to say how he knew it, Burke suspected that
where the woman was, Lady Mary would be also and, since there was nothing pressing upon him for the next six weeks, it might be fun to do a bit of sleuthing on his own, try to locate the beautiful young woman who had given him such pleasure at Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club, and later, briefly, at Eden Castle. . . .
Out of the myriad tasks that Alex Aldwell performed for John Murrey Eden, he liked this one the least, though he understood the need for it and continued to perform it on the basis of that understanding.
So what if John sent him almost nightly over to Kate Hamilton's well-appointed brothel in Haymarket to fetch a young clean dolly-mop and bring her back to his mansion in Belgravia? John had needs like any man, and what was he to do with his wife ill in confinement at Eden, and his dark-skinned mistress now ensconced at Elizabeth's house in St. George Street, paying more attention to Andrew Rhoades than her master?
This young girl must have pleased him well, for, grinning all the while he had followed her down the stairs tonight. Alex stood waiting to escort her to a carriage, deliver the Times to John, and retire after his weary day.
Tasks completed, Alex headed toward his apartments on the second floor, looking back once to see John proceeding up the steps, head down, slapping the folded newspaper gently against his leg.
Alex turned back and was just opening his door when he heard a voice. "Did I—thank you, Alex?"
He looked up to see John poised halfway up the stairs, still beating a gentle rhythm with the newspaper. Moved by the curious question, before he could respond Alex heard the voice again, as diminished and humble as he had ever heard it. "Do I—ever thank you enough," he added, "for your loyalty and friendship?"
"No thanks are needed, John," Alex said gruffly, embarrassed by the show of emotion. "And if they were, then I'm the one who should be thanking—"
He had thought to say more, but saw that John was moving up the steps again. Alex pushed open his door, secure in his mind on only one point, and that was the simple fact that for all of his contradiction and inconsistency, he loved John Murrey Eden as much as it was safe for one man to love another. . . .
About twenty minutes later, just as he was adjusting his nightcap, he heard a crash, the muted and distant sound of glass shattering. From his position on the edge of his bed he looked up, trying to determine its direction and cause. But while he was still trying to work through this puzzle he heard another, then another—someone systematically destroying every glass object within grasp.
He sat forward in stunned alarm, then he was moving. He pushed open his door, thinking all sorts of things—that a servant, drunk with too much ale, had gone berserk, that the house had been invaded by a band of thieves, that whatever the nature of the disturbance which had shattered the peace of the quiet night, he'd better see to it before John-Standing in the darkened corridor outside his door, he heard footsteps coming from the upper regions of the house, angry footsteps setting off reverberations which Alex felt on the floor beneath his bare feet.
''John?" he called out, as though he wanted to stay that force thundering down the stairs.
Then the man himself appeared, bearing no resemblance to the one who only a few minutes earlier had whispered a moving thanks to Alex. This man, standing less than ten feet from him, a wadded sheet of newsprint crushed in his fist, looked demented, his eyes glittering unnaturally in the semidarkness of the corridor, his form seeming to grow uncannily large in the flickering lamplight.
"Fetch Andrew Rhoades," came the voice, the words somehow finding their way out in spite of his clenched teeth.
"Fetch—" Alex tried to repeat and couldn't. "Do—you know the hour, John?"
Whether he knew the hour or not, Alex never determined, for in the next breath he repeated his initial command, louder this time: "Fetch Andrew Rhoades!"
"I'm sure he's abed, John," Alex tried to soothe. "Can't it wait until-"
"Goddamn it, fetch Andrew Rhoadesl" John shouted, his voice resounding through the empty corridors.
Stepping back from the onslaught, Alex observed that the corridors were no longer deserted. Below in the entrance hall he saw the servants, all in nightcaps and nightshirts, a few holding candles, their eyes lifted fearfully toward the top of the stairs.
Resigned to his late-night errand, Alex retreated to his bedroom
door, still trying to determine the cause and nature of John's outrage. "John, what is it?"
But the man said nothing, though on his face Alex detected a martyred expression, all the grief and unhappiness and disappointment of the last few weeks joining forces against him. Just as Alex was about to speak again, he saw John lift his head as though he were having difficulty in breathing. He whispered hoarsely, "Leave me alone. Send Andrew to me,"
In bewildered alarm Alex waited until the reverberating footsteps diminished and disappeared near the top of the house, until a door slammed in the same vicinity with such force that it dislodged a fine rain of plaster particles which fell about Alex's feet.
Aware of the huddled servants looking up, Alex bent slowly to retrieve the sheet of newsprint, shocked by the display of fury, feeling the need to know more so that he could, at least attempt to explain to Andrew Rhoades why he was being routed out of bed in the early hours of the morning.
Flattening the crushed newsprint as best he could, he tilted the sheet toward a near lamp and at first saw nothing but a blur. As his eyes began to adjust to the fine print and dim light, he saw a column heading entitled, "Rising Grain Prices," and another concerning the new franchise bill before Parliament, and others equally as innocuous, certainly nothing to warrant-Then he saw the words: T/ieDemx-God of Eden. . . . He read only the first paragraph. That was enough. The content, so brutal and injurious, assaulted his senses and provided him with the momentum to dress quickly, drawing his trousers on over his nightshirt, saddling the fastest horse in the stable and setting out at top speed in his pre-dawn race through the city, hoping to return vidth Andrew Rhoades, who might, with luck, offer sympathy, experienced judgment and an avenging course of action. . . .
Cambridge Late June 1870
From where Lord Richard Eden sat in his study, surrounded by his books, the diffuse Hght of a mild June evening spiHing in through the windows, the harsh London Times article spread before him, he leaned back and found his mind mo
ving hungrily into Fenelon, the French Roman Catholic theologian, who two hundred and fifty years ago had created a very sensible movement called Quietism.
Man must make himself small and unresisting. A cross is no longer a cross when there is no longer a self to suffer its weight.
How he wished that he might send that philosophy to John—not that it would be received, let alone understood.
Richard leaned forward across his cluttered desk and lifted his eyes to the glorious evening beyond his window, one of those flawless, crystalhne early-summer English evenings, when the perfume of the roses was intoxicating.
He closed his eyes in a prayer of thanksgiving, relieved that after three weeks since his return from Eden the apprehension and despair and resentment which he'd brought back with him were at last subsiding. All three were expensive emotions and most detrimental of all had been his resentment of John, his attempts to thrust the young woman continuously before him.
A cross is no longer a cross when there is no longer a self. . . .
Of course there was the fact of the newsprint before him, picked up by Bertie earlier that day from the table outside the dining hall, a scathing essay signed by someone identified as Lord Ripples, whose sole journalistic intent seemed to be to inflict as much pain as possible without wholly killing the victim. Although John was the specific
target, the writer had chosen as well to take on all of England, her past impulses, her present foibles and her future sins against merely God and all Mankind.
Slowly Richard lifted the newsprint and tried not to dwell on the hurt that John must be experiencing. He'd posted a letter to him earlier that day after his first reading with Bertie, though he feared that it had been an ineffectual letter, pledging anew his love and loyalty, and tactfully advising John to ignore the prejudiced words of the anonymous writer.
In retrospect, the advice seemed ingenuous at best and foolish at worst. As Richard knew all too well, there was not one single impulse in John to "let things alone."
Weary of the crisis which was raging so far away, Richard glanced over his shoulder through the partially opened door which led to the study, the place where both he and Bertie met officially with their readers. Will he never finish?
The Women of Eden Page 24