From where Burke sat, half-turned in the saddle, he thought that some pretty someone had changed her mind or raised her price and now had a disgruntled client on her hands. As the unpleasantness continued to attract more attention, Burke hoped that they could settle it peacefully, for there were no police about, this being the one area in the park beyond their jurisdiction.
He was about to turn away when he heard the gentleman's voice rising in anger shout, "Bitch!" At the same time he saw several of the ladies angle their horses between the gentleman and the target of his wrath. Battle hnes were being drawn.
Not until he had moved to a position of relative safety at the outer edge of the crowd did he look back, his curiosity getting the best of him, and from this line of vision saw the mane and head of a stunning black stallion, its eyes showing white, several of the ladies interceding in curious protection of the young woman who clung to her saddle, her pretty little beaver hat with flowing veil dislodged and knocked awry in the struggle, her eyes as white and as fearful as—
Godl
Struggling to steady his horse, Burke brought him around until he was facing directly toward the disturbance. Briefly the interfering ladies obscured his vision of the young woman. Surely he'd imagined it. What would she be doing here?
But once again the crowd shifted, the gentleman trying to explain himself to one of the ladies, speaking full-voiced, his protest clear. "We struck a bargain, we did," he shouted. "I offered and she agreed. Now all I ask is—"
Burke did not wait to hear the gentleman's specific request, knowing full well its nature and seeing the young woman clearly for the
first time. Good Lord, does she make it a habit of getting herself into awkward, potentially dangerous situations?
Suddenly he flattened his heels into the stirrups and galloped rapidly about the circle, not certain what he was going to do when he got to the trouble spot.
Approaching from the other side, he penetrated through the riders. Taking advantage of the element of surprise, he rode forward and grabbed the reins from the gentleman's hand and led the frightened black horse to the center of the circle, paying no attention to the young woman, concentrating instead on the protests coming from the gentleman.
"I say, you have no right!" he shouted, a rather elderly gentleman Burke observed close at hand, no real threat except for his indignant moral outrage.
"My apologies, sir." Burke smiled, guiding the black stallion into a position of safety behind him. "I believe if you had taken the time to listen to the young lady's protest you would understand. You see," Burke went on, not daring to look at the young lady behind him, "she struck a bargain with me late yesterday afternoon. Cash in advance, I might add, but as I had a pressing appointment and could not see our bargain through, she vowed to wait for me here today. The nature of her protest to you, sir, instead of being dishonorable, is quite the contrary, is honor itself."
My God, I'm even beginning to talk like the bloody English! he thought. Apparently it worked, for the old gentleman, while still grumbling, was retreating, and at that moment one of the enterprising young horse-breakers, spying the wad of pounds in his pocket which he'd been in the process of giving to Mary, moved close with a whispered offer. A few minutes after that, the old gentleman, smiling now, was leading the young lady triumphantly through the crowds toward his carriage, where a footman stood waiting to take possession of both their horses.
Thinking that now was the time to leave, and still without a backward look at the young woman behind him, he guided their horses through the crowds of grinning men, heading not toward the pavement of the Serpentine but following a narrow path which led into the heart of the park.
They rode in silence for several minutes away from the laughing men and at last, curious about his "bargain," he looked back and saw
her head bowed, the httle beaver hat clutched in one hand, the veil torn in the scuffle, her long hair mussed and loosed.
"You're not—injured, are you?" he asked softly, bending low in an attempt to see her face.
She said nothing.
"Do you remember me?" he asked, thinking that she might not.
Still no response, and he sensed a siege of gloomy embarrassment settling over her.
Although he had at least a hundred questions, he refrained from asking any of them and turned about in his saddle to plot a course for them. He didn't want to compromise her further by taking her into a deserted area of the park, yet he longed for an interval alone with her. Convinced that she was unable to give him a direct answer, he led her horse into a sheltered arbor beyond which a garden of summer flowers was in full bloom, a quiet, now deserted though public part of the park where an arrangement of stone benches flanked the gardens, and the generous branches of an ancient oak offered shade.
Quickly he dismounted and tied their horses to the trunk of a near tree and turned his undivided attention to her. For the first time he saw tears.
Moved, Burke lifted his arms to assist her down. "Please don't. Lady Mary. You're safe now."
Something, his tone of voice, the words themselves, caused fresh grief, and she accepted the offer of assistance, and more, clung to him once she was on the ground, burying her face in his jacket and pressing close, as though for admittance into the shelter of his arms.
Eagerly he provided it, though he felt as though his breath were failing him, never believing that he would be holding her so soon. Though he tried to think of additional words of comfort, words seemed entirely unnecessary. At last she stepped away from him, fumbling through the pockets of her skirts and producing a handkerchief.
She wiped at her eyes and walked a few feet around the garden, her head down, struggling for control.
He followed a respectful distance after her, wanting to give her all the time she needed, praying that this small, secluded garden would remain secluded, at least for a while.
"Are you certain you are not harmed?" he asked.
At last she turned. "I'm fine." She nodded, studying the handkerchief in her hand. "It—all happened so fast—"
Growing brave, Burke kindly suggested, "Here, why don't you sit for a while?" and was pleased as, without protest, she permitted him to take her arm and guide her toward one of the stone benches.
Once or twice she looked up at him, making eye contact, then concentrating on the embroidered edges of her handkerchief. She seemed to want to speak, but something was preventing her.
"You—do remember me?" he asked politely.
"Of course." She smiled. "Mr.—Stanhope, I believe—"
"Burke Stanhope, yes."
"And I am Mary Eden," she replied, a tinge of color warming her cheeks. Oh, yes, Burke thought, amused that she was ignorant of the fact that for the last two days he had rearranged his life to fit her schedule.
Then the mystery itself loomed large before him. What in the hell was she doing there? Surely she knew the purpose of that unique circle of females. Impossible to believe she had wandered into their midst by mistake.
"Lady Mary," he commenced, moving a step closer, "if I may ask —one question—"
"I knew what I was doing, Mr. Stanhope," she said, anticipating his question. "What I did not know was that someone would take me seriously."
It seemed a weak answer, therefore probably an honest one. She seemed to have a propensity for underestimating situations. Apparently the vast stretches of boredom in her life had produced a capacity for vast amounts of witless daring.
"I am most grateful to you again, Mr. Stanhope," she said, seeming to relax for the first time. "How curious it is to know so little about the gentleman who seems to have a habit of rescuing me."
"No thanks are needed." He smiled, fascinated with the play of sun upon her face. Lord, how beautiful she was, the tip of her polished riding boots just visible beneath her dark brown skirts, the restlessness of her small hands as they continued to play with the handkerchief, the delicate fringe of stiffened lace about her throat, framing the fac
e itself, wisps of fair, curly hair surrounding that perfect cameo of wide-set dark blue eyes and flawless skin.
"Please feel free to sit if you wish," she invited. "You, too, have
had a strenuous afternoon. I see from the back of your trousers that I was not the first mishap of the day,"
He laughed, seeing the humor on her face, having forgotten about his eariier spill on the bridle path. "A confession," he said, seating himself on the end of the bench, a safe distance away. "I am not by nature a horseman."
"Then why on earth—**
"As long as I'm forced to pass time in England, I decided that I might as well do as the English."
"Still, it could be dangerous. I mean, training is so important."
"Oh, I've ridden before. Lady Mary, but simpler beasts and under simpler circumstances." He decided that he had said enough. It was not his intention to delve into his own splintered past. The afternoon was too perfect for that.
Neither spoke, though the raucous conversations of the birds in the trees above adequately filled the silence.
Then, as bad luck would have it, they both started together, he thinking to ask if he could fetch her something, she saying something which was lost in the muddle of their voices.
"I'm sorry." He smiled. "You first."
She lowered her head as though embarrassed. "I—just wanted to apologize again—"
"No need-"
"—for your recent embarrassment at the hands of my cousin."
He'd not expected this. Still he felt touched by her need for apology.
"It was a pleasant evening, in spite of all," he said.
"How could it have been?" she demanded. "He purposefully set out to humiliate you."
"I don't think so. We simply were at cross-purposes, that's all."
Suddenly her mood changed, became businesslike. "I don't mean to detain you, Mr. Stanhope," she said, starting to rise.
"You're not detaining me. Please. Rest a bit longer. You had quite a scare."
She laughed. "Oh, not really. I knew the gentleman would come to his senses sooner or later. It was just a harmless afternoon's sport, that's all, to counterbalance the—"
She stopped speaking and closed her eyes. He sensed a new emotion in her, very close to the surface.
"To counterbalance what. Lady Mary?"
"I'm afraid that the household where I reside is not a very pleasant one at the moment," she confessed quietly. She gazed out at the sun on the riotous flowers. "Have you ever felt, Mr. Stanhope," she asked, staring at the flowers, "that you have no true place in the worid, that in spite of its vastness that, just when you think you've found a niche that might suit you, someone comes along and says, 'No, you can't stay there,' or, 'No, that's mine,' or, 'No, that won't do for you at all. . .'"
Her voice drifted off into the sun, taking Burke's attention with it.
Slowly she went on. "Of course Elizabeth says it's just because I'm young, that in time—"
"Time has nothing to do with it," Burke said quietly.
She looked up at him. "Do you know what I'm talking about?"
"Yes."
Never had he seen such a look of soft sympathy in any eyes, particularly not in such beautiful ones.
"How selfish of me," she murmured. "How far away from home you are and—"
"No farther than you, Lady Mary." He smiled. "As age has nothing to do with it, neither has geography."
"Then what is it?" she asked earnestly.
He faltered. Although he knew precisely what she was talking about, he'd never analyzed it thoroughly. Part of the natural human complexity he'd assumed, something to do with one's expectations of life, with memories, with love. Yes, one's capacity to love and be loved certainly had something to do with it.
"I'm sorry I asked such a foolish question," she said, returning her handkerchief to her pocket.
"It wasn't foolish," he said, fearful that her movements signaled her desire to end the conversation. "It's just that I have no ready answer—at least not an infallible one."
She glanced over at him, something in her expression which suggested that each time she looked at him she saw something new. Under this close scrutiny, he felt as self-conscious as a schoolboy. In an attempt to break the mood yet retain the intimacy of the conversation, he walked a few feet away, resting his boot on the brick border which surrounded the flowers.
"Forgive me. Lady Mary," he began, not looking at her, "but earlier you said that the house in which you are residing is not a very pleasant one. Is there anything that I can do . . ."
For a moment she looked as though she would not speak further and sat worrying a loose stone with the toe of her boot. "You met my cousin, Mr. Stanhope. Surely in that one unhappy meeting you saw him to be a man who does not like to be challenged or offended."
"And someone has offended him?" Burke asked, knowing better.
She looked up from the loose stone. "You haven't heard?" she asked, surprised. "Or, more accurately, read—"
Not wanting to lie, Burke retained an interested silence and hoped that she would speak further.
And she did, seeming to warm to the subject. "A journalist," she began. "An anonymous journalist wrote a column several days ago which appeared in the London Times. From his writing it was obvious that he'd been a recent guest at Eden, The article is—"
She hesitated and he waited, anxious to hear her opinion of Lord Ripples' words. "The article is—what. Lady Mary?"
"Devastating to my cousin," she replied, concealing her own opinion.
"And the words of—this anonymous journalist have upset him?"
"Upset him?" she repeated, rising from the bench and following after him to the edge of the flowers. "He has done nothing but rage since it appeared. He seems to demand an audience. Everyone must be present to hear and see him, and yet he listens to no one. Poor Andrew has been talking his head off for over a week, but John won't hear. And in the meantime life for all of us has come to a standstill."
She was very close to him now, less than a foot away, her hands relaxed at her sides.
"And this—Andrew," he commenced, under duress. "Does he suggest a course of action?"
"Oh, yes," she said. "His advice is to ignore it, that to do anything else would merely call more public attention to the affair and make it worse."
"And I take it your cousin does not agree?"
"No," she said and walked a few steps beyond. "No, not John," she repeated, her voice fading as she walked away.
Abruptly she bent over to caress a long stalk, heavy with royal blue delphinium. "In Lila's garden there is a dark purple variety, so lovely . . ." she said to no one in particular, her fingers gently studying the design of the flower.
Burke watched her, hypnotized, each gesture, no matter how small, appearing like a miracle before him.
"Poor Lila," she said mysteriously, her mood shifting from admiration of the flower to one of compassion. "Poor everybody." She smiled, lifting her eyes to Burke. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stanhope. I must sound as senseless and deranged as an old—"
"Not at all," he reassured her, and bridged the distance between them and, with a daring born from the need to be close to her, he suggested, "Would you care to walk?" and extended his arm.
"For a while," she agreed, though she looked apprehensively over her shoulder toward the bridle path.
As they strolled along the graveled path, Burke was aware of how small she was, barely topping his shoulder, not petite, for her figure was full. How attractive she must have appeared to the old gentleman who mistakenly believed he had bought her for the afternoon.
He had thought to guide her back to the subject of John Murrey Eden, but instead he spoke in a different vein. "No chance, I suppose, of your gracing old Sims' stage again in the near future?"
Abruptly she stopped and disengaged her hand from his arm. "No," she murmured, "and please, never say anything to—"
The walk so recently commenced was brought to a halt. Looki
ng down he saw new fear on her face and felt a surge of anger, questioning the right of any human being to cause such a look on another human face.
"Your cousin?" he asked, knowing it was none of his business and knowing further that she was perfectly within her rights to tell him so.
But she didn't. "Were you at Jeremy's every night, Mr. Stanhope?"
"Every night that you were there." He smiled. "The pattern seemed to evolve into Thursdays, if I recall."
"The safest night, according to Elizabeth. The night when Jeremy's place was bound to be half-empty."
"It wasn't half-empty when you were there."
"No," she replied in quiet self-satisfaction. She began to walk ahead of him, her head down as though lost in lovely though dim memories.
He followed after, content to watch her from all angles, and took careful note of new riches: the soft white canal which ran the length of her neck and disappeared into the ruffle of her jacket; the curious
manner in which she took a step, then rose up on her toes as though she would have preferred, if it had been ladyhke, to skip; the tiny shell of an ear just barely visible beneath the hair drawn loosely back into a knot.
As they were approaching the place where they had started, having encircled the garden once, he saw her glance toward their horses, placidly munching on summer grass.
"Do you come here every day, Mr. Stanhope?*' she asked.
He shook his head, laughing. "I've never been here before in my hfe."
"I—don't understand—'
"You brought me here today, Lady Mary. Surely you were aware of that." It had not been his intention to make this confession, but as long as the explanation was partially launched, he might as well complete it.
He drew close. "With your forgiveness, I determined some days ago that you rode here in the afternoons. I went out at dawn this morning to Smithfields, purchased that creature over there, who with one exception has served me well, purchased in addition all the necessary equipment to mount him properly, followed you along Rotten Row and promptly lost you, only to rediscover you a short time ago."
The Women of Eden Page 27