Andrew drew the last strap into place and lowered the portfolio to the table. "You have it," he murmured.
John smiled, pleased by this small victory. "Surely that loyalty will enable you to listen to the rambhngs of an old friend."
"Of course."
"It just occurred to me that none of us know Dhari's exact age. Now I realize that that's not terribly pertinent to the time or the day, but I, for one, find it an interesting dilemma." He moved slowly to where Dhari sat and he stood behind her, his hands massaging her shoulders. As far as Andrew could tell, she had exhibited no reaction to his touch, but continued to sit, head down.
"If indeed, as Fraser Jennings said, she was mid-twenties when I first met her," John went on, mindlessly pursuing the subject, "then that would place her in her mid to late forties." He turned his head sideways at the revelation. "Imagine that, Andrew!"
"I fail to see—"
"Of course you fail to see, Andrew, as from time to time you fail to see other important dimensions in certain situations.'*
"Then I must rely upon you to point them out for me."
"Which I am always only too happy to do." John smiled, his hand caressing the back of Dhari's head, in the process loosening the French knot and pulling free the long strands of ebony hair streaked with gray.
"Considering all that she's been through, she's very well preserved, don't you think, Andrew?" As John methodically wrapped the long strands of hair around his hand, Andrew watched, uncertain how long he could merely stand by.
"And she has been through a great deal," John went on. "Of course I have no way of attesting to the number of men she had received before I came along. She had borne a son, however, and with my own eyes I saw her with Fraser Jennings, and of course during our time together she has been nothing less than generous."
As he spoke he began slowly to pull back on her hair, forcing her face upward, a frightened face, Andrew could see now.
"John, I ask you, please—" Andrew said and was not given a chance to finish.
"Of course, I have no way of knowing how many men she's received since she's been in London. I don't set a guard on her, you know. She's a free agent, so I really have no basis for complaint."
He had drawn her head so far back that her neck was arched, her line of vision forced up to the ceiHng. Fearful of losing her balance, Andrew saw her hands reaching out on either side and, unable to endure the soft moan which escaped her Hps, Andrew strode across the room.
"Let her alone, John!"
In mock surprise, John looked up. "What concern is it of yours?" he smiled, though simultaneously he released her hair.
"You bafHe me, Andrew," he went on. "In the areas where I legitimately seek your advice and intervention you give me no aid. In personal areas where you have no right to trespass you are quick with both."
Andrew had heard enough. It would be best if he left before more was said, damaging further their already strained relationship. "If that's all, John, then I'll—"
"But it isn't all." John smiled. To Dhari he commanded, "Get
your cloak and wait for me in the carriage. It's been too long since Fve enjoyed your company. Talking of the past has made me—nostalgic."
No one moved, though the meaning behind the command was clear. Andrew saw Dhari bow her head.
In the ensuing silence it occurred to Andrew that for several weeks he had sensed the end. At the sight of Dhari's bowed head, at the sight of John abusing her, Andrew stepped forward, ready to sever all aspects of his long relationship with John Murrey Eden. The man was no longer the man whom Andrew had loved. This man standing by the open door had grown bitter, narrow, cruel, a "demi-god."
But as Andrew stepped forward, Dhari looked at him, a curious warning look, and at the same time one of reassurance, trying to convey—what? All he knew for certain was that she had asked him not to intercede further.
"Truly one of God's greatest blessings," he heard John say from the door. "A silent woman. Wouldn't you agree, Andrew? If only they all could be born thus, how pleasant our world would be."
When his shock and anger dragged him back around to face the man grinning at him from the doorway, he saw Dhari's chair empty, the woman gone.
**You're not looking well, Andrew," John said considerately, "and I won't keep you but a moment longer. You're right on one score and I concede it as a gentleman. It's past time that we put an end to these constant postmortems of what to do and what not to do. And all your points are well taken on previous suits brought against various newspapers. And the anonymity of the joumahst does keep him safe."
Curious as to the conclusion of his little speech, Andrew looked back toward the door to see him drawing on his gloves, adjusting his cloak. "So," John concluded, his manner light, "we'll bring no suit against the Times."
"Thank God," Andrew muttered,
"But what we will do is subpoena Mr. John Thadeus Delane to appear at a private hearing to be conducted discreetly in a magistrate's chambers where under oath he will be forced to reveal the identity of his anonymous journalist."
Andrew blinked, unable to believe what he was hearing. "You— can't be serious!"
"I've never been more serious."
"Mr. Delane is a prominent gentleman, highly respected."
"Delane is a bastard who hides behind the sanctity of his newspaper, confident that he is beyond the law."
"It will gain you nothing but further embarrassment."
"Perhaps. But it may gain me the name of the man I seek."
"For what purpose?"
John smiled. "For the purpose of destroying him, as he tried to destroy me."
Sick at heart, aware that nothing he had said had made the slightest difference, Andrew sank into a chair, shaking his head.
Apparently the appearance of weakness stirred John to new anger. "I'm not asking you to do this, Andrew," he said, "I'm commanding you to do it, and if you refuse, you leave me no choice but to seek the services of another solicitor, someone more understanding of the relationship which should exist between client and agent."
So! Both of them had been thinking in terms of ending the relationship. Andrew was on the verge of telling him to do just that, and would have, except at that moment, beyond the opened door he caught a glimpse of Dhari, her cloak over her arm as she came down the stairs and passed the archway, heading toward the front door and the carriage beyond.
Either his residual fear at what she would be forced to endure, or his new awareness of what a consummate fool John was on the verge of making of himself, and wanting terribly to be on the scene when that happened, all these thoughts caused him to lean forward from his slumped position and nod, mourning the death of the love he'd once felt for this man, no longer concerned with protecting him but eager only to assist him to new humiliation.
"Of course I'll do it, John. In fact I'll get on it this very afternoon."
Obviously his cooperation had been unexpected because, for the first time since they had been in the room together, Andrew saw an alteration on that arrogant face. John looked suspiciously at him and, finding nothing to rail against, he muttered, "I'd be most grateful."
"It will be done."
"Then, perhaps all our lives can return to normal. That would be fine with me."
Since no response was called for, Andrew offered none and contin-
ued to watch the man who had so completely annihilated his capacity to love that now he could not identify hate.
'"Well, then," John said with dispatch from the door, "111 be at home for the rest of the day, if you need me."
Not likely, Andrew brooded, returning the man's gaze. Unable to watch the disintegration any longer, Andrew walked away toward the dying fire, feeling a chill in the room.
So engrossed was he in private mourning that he was not at all prepared for the petulant voice which cut through the silence. "She is mine, you know, Andrew, and has been from the beginning. You had no right, none at all."
A
s Andrew looked back all he saw was the hem of a gray cloak leaving the room.
In defense against the pain of his own cowardice, he retrieved his portfolio from the side table, tried to clear his head enough to determine his destination and settied on his private office, where he would draw up the subpoena which would bring John Thadeus Delane and John Murrey Eden into direct and inevitably bloody confrontation.
As he hurried through the open doors and out onto the pavement he stopped at the top of the steps and watched through blurred eyes as though it were the most fascinating spectacle in the world, a black-mustachioed organ grinder expertiy manipulating his red-jacketed monkey. . . .
The carriage had scarcely departed the pavement when John discovered that he was having difficulty swallowing. Perspiration broke out on his forehead and, no matter where he looked, whether inside the carriage or out, all he saw was that last expression on Andrew's face.
Adding to his distress was his awareness of Dhari seated opposite him. Remorse as deep as any he'd ever felt pressed down upon him and, using the last of his strength, he drew down the window and shouted up at his coachman, "Just drive for a while, anywhere."
The coachman brought the horses about and settied them into a leisured pace down the Mall past the early-autumn beauty of Hyde Park and Rotten Row. John leaned up, wishing that he might catch sight of Mary.
But beneath the reds and golds of September the riders blurred into a liquid ribbon and he was forced to admit that it was best he didn't see her. He had again offended her as well, and, as long as he
was suffering from this mysterious heaviness and before he did any more damage, he'd best content himself with a quiet ride and Dhari's silent company.
Abruptly he pressed his head back against the cushions. With difiSculty he tried to breathe deeply and felt a pain in his side and opened his eyes to see Dhari staring at him.
"I'm—sorry," he murmured. As he turned away he saw a movement coming from her side of the carriage, as though in spite of everything that had happened, she still felt an impulse to offer comfort.
With his face turned away, he waited, full of childish hope that she would come to him as she always had in the past, without requiring an invitation.
But she didn't.
He tried to concentrate on the reality outside his window, seeing everything with a strange brilliancy. He couldn't remember when in his life he'd felt such consummate fatigue.
There had been many times when he'd been tempted to agree with Andrew that the matter was simply not worth the effort they were expending on it. Yet it had not been Andrew's name or reputation that had been obliterated by that despicable column, and it was not the name of Andrew Rhoades that had been on everyone's tongue in snickering gossip, nor had it been Andrew's trust that had been destroyed by the realization that someone had taken advantage of his hospitality as a friend and then had tried to do him in as his worst enemy.
Someone was playing a very serious game at the Times, a game which, if carried to extremes, would mean that no public figure would have any recourse to self-defense, that anything could be printed, no matter how damaging or untrue, and the offending Journalist could hide forever behind the protective barricade of anonymity.
Of course John had a private suspicion, so incredible that he'd never shared it with anyone, but after prolonged contemplation it made great sense, that Lord Ripples was John Thadeus Delane himself, that under the pseudonym the aging journalist had devised a capital way to sell newspapers and drive his competitors out of business.
If this were the case, a hearing under oath would reveal all and, if indeed the man's judgment had been impaired by senility and aging
ambition, then John would simply request a public retraction, content to let the man's punishment be his own embarrassment. But if some other Englishman were responsible for those devastating words, then further action would be taken, a civil suit, financial restitution, and ultimately complete ruin.
Warmed by these thoughts, John began to relax into the cushions, enjoying the rhythmical rocking of the carriage. In time they all would be restored to an even keel, the mutual love he shared with Andrew as strong as ever.
Thinking on love, he glanced across at Dhari, who had settled back as well during the prolonged ride.
She was aging, John thought sadly, seeing new Hues about her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She'd served him well and perhaps it was time to release her. There were others, younger, to whom he could turn, and if Andrew wanted her, then John would give her to him as a peace offering.
"Turn back!" he shouted out the window on a burst of energy, at last beginning to feel the heaviness lift. There was the key, then. Certain bridges had to be mended with those he loved. He'd never intended to hurt them. He would return and show them a different face, his old one, the one which in the past had elicited love and respect and loyalty. He could be as repentant as the next man.
"No—keep going!" he shouted, seeing that his driver was heading toward the house in Belgravia. "We're returning to Number Seven, St. George Street," he shouted further, and was aware of Dhari's look of surprise. Her eyes were fixed on him as though she had just perceived his intent, his generosity.
With mild regret, he said a silent goodbye to her. He'd kept his promise to look after her. As the carriage drew up in front of Number Seven, he said, more gruffly than he might have wished, "Go find your solicitor and tell him that his friend John Murrey Eden wishes you both well."
He watched as she alighted the carriage and looked beyond her to see Elizabeth, fully dressed, just descending the stairs.
"WaitI" he called up to his driver. On the pavement he saw Ehzabeth nod in his direction, as though he were little more than a stranger, and proceed on to her own carriage.
A/i, bridges in need of mending there as well, he thought. And, in the spirit of his newly made vows, he caught up with her in three broad strides.
"Going out again?** he asked, wanting desperately to heal this relationship.
She proceeded on a step or two, as though she had little desire to exchange words with him. "Briefly." She smiled, pulling at her gloves. "Why don't you go inside?" she added. "Alex Aldwell is waiting for you. He says it's a matter of some urgency."
Aldwell could wait. Again reminding himself that he must show all these people a new face, he took Elizabeth's arm. "Wherever you're going, can't it wait? I had hoped that we might take tea together as we used to, all of us, Dhari, Andrew, Mary—"
"You must excuse me, John," she said and moved a few steps beyond.
Then he must try again, truly humble himself before her. "Obviously Andrew has been talking to you," he began, "teUing you how— badly I behaved today."
"I've not seen Andrew," she said, still walking away from him. "Wben I returned a few moments ago he was not—"
"You've just come in?" he asked, puzzled. "Then why are you going out again so—"
"I'll return shortly," she promised.
Whatever the nature of her distress, it was increasing. An affair of the heart. He seemed to be sunounded by them today. A lovers' quarrel with Charles Bradlaugh?
Looking up, he saw that she was still moving away from him, and, in an act of discipline, he repressed the urge to command her to return and instead called after her, "Then I'll have to make do with Mary's company for tea, though we will miss you."
Her hand, extended to pull herself up into her carriage, froze in midair. Slowly she stepped back down to the pavement. "Mary has not returned home yet," she said softly, as though wishing he would not hear the words.
But he did hear and looked up at the sky and determined that the hour must be approaching six o'clock, the sun beginning to set. Although his instinct was to rage, he tempered his reaction, still wanting to heal the wounds he'd inflicted in the past. As for Mary, while her thoughtless disobedience would have to be dealt with, he doubted if she were in any real danger. After all, Jason was with her, as was Doris. She'd probably ridden too far
and in her witless way lost track of time.
He found himself thinking of the school in Cheltenham. How
much easier he would breathe if he could place her in that fortress for a few years.
But this was neither the time nor the place to bring up that touchy subject. Consciously striving to fill his voice with merely kind authority, he said, "No cause for worry. I'll go and fetch her myself."
"No."
"Yes!" He looked back at Elizabeth and was tempted to say, You cdlowed her to run free. How can 1 entrust you with bringing her back?
As he shouted out the destination to his driver, he reminded himself that the control he'd needed in his dealings with Elizabeth was nothing compared to what would be required of him when he found the truant Mary.
As the carriage proceeded along the edge of Green Park, he looked out the window, amazed to see how rapidly dusk was falling. Deep in the park he saw the lamplighters at work, and only a few late-evening strollers, couples mostly, taking advantage of the fading light for a whispered intimacy.
"Stop up ahead," he called out, seeing to his right the beginning of Hyde Park and Rotten Row. He was amazed at how deserted the area was. Earlier, when he'd passed this way v^th Dhari, the pavement around the bridle path and stables had been clogged with carriages and cabs, people coming and going.
Now? Only four carriages stood at the pavement. One he recognized as Elizabeth's and, standing beside it, he saw Doris and Jason.
"Here," John called, and as his driver guided the carriage in front of the others, he looked back through the small oval window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mary. But nothing and, as Doris and Jason recognized him, he saw them lean together for a whisper. Then Jason started toward him, an expression on his face which looked ominously like concern.
"Mr. Eden," he said, bobbing his head.
"Where is she?" John demanded.
"I don't know, sir. She's never been this late before. I've just returned from searching the bridle path and found nothing."
"Does she follow a set route?" he asked over his shoulder.
"I wouldn't know, sir."
"Of course," John muttered, aware of Doris creeping up on his right.
The Women of Eden Page 30