While he was certain that her female contribution would be a
waste of everyone's time, still he summoned her forward. *TouI*' he called out. "Would you have any idea—"
*'0h, no, sir, I wouldn't, sir," the little woman gasped. ^'She's a wicked, wicked girl, though, I know that, sir, worrying old Doris like this-"
John nodded, taking comfort in one small fact. She was a superb horsewoman. The chances of her having had an accident were sHght
Then where in the hell is she?
"You go that way," he said to Jason, pointing toward the western extremities of the park, "and I'll follow the bridle path. And tell her," he added, stabbing a finger at the quietly weeping Doris, "to wait here and, if Lady Mary returns, she is to secure her in the carriage and wait for us."
He glanced up at the sky and assessed that they had about an hour of light left. "If you find her first, say nothing. Just bring her back here and wait for me, all of you."
"Yes, sir," Jason said, nodding.
John plunged his hands into his pockets and started down the bridle path, trying in the faint light to avoid the piles of manure dropped during the day's rides. Damnl He'd not intended to pass the conclusion of this day in this manner. He desperately wanted a cup of tea, wanted to see the look of forgiveness and joy on Andrew's face after he had returned Dhari to him.
Anger and discomfort rising, the chill of evening beginning to penetrate his jacket, he increased his speed, aware of his once-polished boots becoming caked with smelly manure.
A short time later he looked up to find himself at the far end of Rotten Row, an intersection which gave an uncluttered view of the bridle path in all directions, not a horse or rider in sight.
Then obviously she'd ventured off into the interior of the park, an area of merely several hundred acres, which would tax the abilities of three hundred searchers.
Standing on the deserted path, an alarming thought occurred. The park at night was aHve with thieves and footpads, whores and whores' bullies, a world wholly remote from any Mary had ever known. Perhaps a brief introduction to the dark side of day and those creatures who inhabited it would be good for her—life's fiirst installment in that classic lesson of caution.
As though to retract the thought before it became a reality, John
started off across the park at a walk that rapidly became a trot, then a run, no longer concerned with the condition of his boots.
"Mary!" he called, and heard his own voice in echo.
"Mary!" he called again, and spied ahead a place where two paths intersected, one leading back to the pavement beyond Rotten Row, the other leading down into an arbor, completely obscured in shadows caused by early evening and the dense foliage overhead.
He paused for breath at the intersecting paths, looking down toward the arbor. The path was narrow. Surely she would have had better sense than to lead her horse there.
He held his position, thinking he'd heard something.
Listenl
The soft whinny of a horse? Not a sound of distress, rather satiation, as though he'd had his fill of grass.
Cautiously, in the event he'd stumbled into a den of night people, he took a few steps toward the arbor and the concealment of the garden beyond. From this new angle he saw that it was a horse. No, two horses, tethered to the trunk of a tree to give them grazing room. In the diminishing light he observed that one was gray, a sturdy well-built animal.
And the other-He blinked, half-convinced that his eyes in the semidarkness had deceived him. No, he'd seen that one before at Eden, two, three years ago, a handsome black stallion.
Cautious! Be cautious!
He started slowly down, staying well behind the concealment of bushes, listening, his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead, half-afraid of what he might see, half-afraid of what he wouldn't see. . . .
If God elected to give her nothing but sorrow for the rest of her life, she would not complain, for at least He had been generous enough to give her one unbroken interval of happiness, a series of afternoons so perfect that she could feed on the memories for the rest of her life.
Looking up in the diminishing light of day, she wondered precisely when it had happened, when had this small garden become a temple and that gentleman strolling a few feet ahead of her, head down, a god? How curious, the sense of pain which moved in tandem with her sense of happiness.
Now it was late and they both knew it was late, but neither was
capable of doing anything about it. Would it be asking too much to ask the sun to stop moving for just a short interval, to turn back the clock to two-thirty, or better still, go back to yesterday or the day before when he'd kissed her?
"Burke?"
Was there ever a more remarkable name?
He didn't respond, though he stood less than ten feet from her where she sat on their bench. And she didn't want him to respond, for she'd simply breathed his name, as though to test it against the man himself, the face, the form, the name all conspiring against her these past weeks, forcing her to view her entire life before now as something fraudulent and bankrupt.
Her little pleasures no longer brought her pleasure unless they involved him, and the hours away from him were ordeals to be endured, and the hands on the rosewood clock in her bedchamber were frequently her most deadly enemies, refusing to move except at a snail's pace. Then at last it would be two o'clock and she could legitimately leave the house, with two albatrosses about her neck named Jason and Doris. But no matter. She always shed them quickly enough.
Then freedom, and the brief canter to the intersecting paths where he was waiting for her, his horse already secured, where without words he would lead her down into their garden and they would find themselves alone, and he would turn sideways on the bench and kiss her hand and she would brush back a strand of loose hair from his forehead and allow her fingertips to linger on his flesh and try as best she could to deal with the immense love she felt for him.
She shivered in the cool of early dusk and spoke his name aloud this time, in need of his warmth and closeness, and was not at all prepared for the sight of his face, like a beacon in the night as he looked back, perceived her need and sat close beside her, his arm about her shoulders, his hand stroking her hair.
"It's late," he whispered. 'The chill is bad for you."
"Separation from you is worse."
Then she was in his arms, that miraculous face obliterating her view of all else. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but his closeness, his lips, his hand pressing gently on the small of her back, a feeling so glorious that she was trembling, not from cold but from the sheer need to record every detail against the day when she would have to rely on memory alone.
At the end of the kiss he continued to hold her, her face nestled sideways against his shoulder, the rough texture of his jacket a pleasant sensation against her cheek.
''It is late/' he reminded her, his voice close to her ear.
"I know," she murmured, bewildered by how complete she felt with his arms about her, how bereft without them. "Then what are we to do?" she asked, bringing his face into focus, regretfully reminding him of the dilemma which had plunged them into this prolonged silence and which had kept them dangerously later than usual in the park.
"We'll talk tomorrow," he said, lightly tracing her lips with his fingers. "Perhaps winter will be kind and come later than usual."
"Not likely."
Here, then, was the outline of their distress. With the coming of winter this natural chamber would no longer be conducive to their meetings. Yet where would they go?
When he drew her close again, as though he, too, felt the need to fortify himself against the coming separation, she whispered, "Oh, my darling," and felt their dilemma like an intolerable burden.
He held her only a moment, then stood up, as though in anger, but in truth his voice sounded more like a cry for relief. "Then I'll simply announce myself, formally, to Elizabeth," he said. "It's her house. Surely she c
ontrols who calls, and will not object."
"No," she said, going to his side, "you mustn't do that."
"Why?"
"Why!" she repeated, amazed at his momentary lack of prudence. "You were there," she whispered, her voice faUing low, as though fearful that there were listening ears close by. "You saw my cousin at Eden and know him to be a man capable of—"
"If Elizabeth permits me entry, I don't see how—"
Slowly she shook her head, aware that not only did he not see but neither did he understand that unique bond which existed between John and Elizabeth, a bond that had been temporarily weakened by the last few weeks but which, as far as Mary could determine, was still strong and intact.
In an attempt to gain a moment's respite for herself, the better to explain, she turned away and walked a short distance to the edge of the path. The shadows of dusk had turned the fringes of the park to solid black, a mass of undefined lines and shapes in which effortlessly she found the contour of what appeared to be a human shoulder.
Shivering with cold and apprehension, she scolded her imagination. "They are very close," she faltered, dragging her attention back to the matter at hand. "Ehzabeth does nothing without John's knowledge and approval."
"Why?" he demanded. "She seems very fond of you. You said yourself that she was the one who allowed you to go to Jeremy Sims'."
"When John was out of the city."
"Won't he be returning to Eden again soon?"
"Not soon. There are other matters which are pressing against him now."
He gazed down on her v^dth new intensity, as though at last she had said something that he had understood. "What—matters?" he asked.
Drawing strength from his closeness, she said, "That newspaper article I told you about, weeks ago, written by someone who had visited Eden—"
She had thought to say more, but she was not given that chance, for abruptly he walked a few steps in the opposite direction.
"Burke?" she called after him, and either the sound of her voice or the pleading in her tone brought him back to her where within the instant he drew her close.
She lifted her arms about his neck and secured the closeness and heard him whispering her name over and over again in her ear. At some point the pleasant lassitude changed. As a low painful throb erupted in the pit of her stomach, she hfted her face to him and saw a similar need in his eyes and with a force which at first alarmed her, she met his lips, though the kiss was quite different this time, his mouth forcing hers open, his tongue probing deep inside, his arms tightening about her as though he wanted to draw her into him.
"I—will—see—you," he vowed, a curious tone of anger in his voice.
"And there is nothing for me but these hours only."
Then how was it to be accomplished? How could she willingly remove her hands from the back of his neck where beneath his soft dark hair she'd discovered the fascinating canal of his upper spine and, by the simple act of moving her hand forward, she had discovered his ear, her fingertips tracing its outline. And there were so many other rich discoveries as well, the taste of his flesh along the line of his jaw, the pleasantly scented skin of his neck, the manner in
which his hands had moved down her back and were now pressed against her hips.
It was commencing again, stronger than before, sensations which could not be ignored, a mutual need so acute that she found herself cursing the barriers of their garments and, as his head went down to her breast, she lifted her eyes to the darkening sky and was conscious of a silent thankfulness.
She was lovedl An extraordinary man had found something in her to love!
The strips of light overhead narrowed. Suddenly she heard something, a rustle in the underbrush nearby. As the embrace ended, both stared at the spot where the disturbance had occurred.
"What—" she whispered, and discovered that she lacked the breath to continue.
Without a word, motioning for her to keep silent, he took two steps in the direction of the thick bushes.
As Mary waited she tried to quiet the acceleration of her heart.
"Nothing," Burke said at last, returning to her, though glancing over his shoulder. "An animal; perhaps a rabbit—"
She saw him then look up at the fading light and pronounce those most dreaded words. "You must go," he said. "You're very late."
"I'll tell them—something," she whispered, retrieving her hat from the bench, smoothing one hand over her breast, which was still alive with the sensation of his lips.
He appeared to be watching her, concern in his voice and manner. "Come," he urged. "I'll walk back with you as far as I can and see you safely to your carriage."
"But they might—"
"It's too dark. I can keep to the concealment of the trees. Tell them a stirrup broke—"
"Yes, something. I'll think of something—"
"We've stayed too late—"
"Too late-"
"If there's trouble-"
"There won't be. I can handle Doris—"
""If it rains tomorrow—"
"It won't rain—"
"There's a small shelter not far from here—"
"But we'U meet here first, as always—"
"Yes-"
Only in that abrupt sflence did she realize how frantically they had been talking. She adjusted her hat in order to give at least the appearance of normalcy while he untied their horses and withdrew a small penknife from his waistcoat pocket and slashed the leather stirrup strap.
At last they were ready, and all that remained was the walk across the park and their imminent separation.
Without daring to look up at him, almost afraid of the beauty of his face, she walked a few steps ahead, picking her way carefully up the narrow path. As they emerged into the clearing of the park she was amazed to see the darkness complete and thought what a fearful place it would be without him and thought of the disturbance in the bushes and wondered if it had been an animal.
It was while she was sorting through these thoughts that she heard his voice. "You are aware," he said quietly, "that I love you."
What simple words, and so simply delivered! As they closed about her, she shut her eyes against the unexpected embarrassment of tears. How often in the past she had wondered if she would ever hear those words from any man. Now to have heard them from this man. . . .
He came up alongside her, apparently concerned by her lack of response. "And I you," she whispered and suffered a peculiar lightheadedness as though her system, unaccustomed to such joy, did not know how to deal with it.
They walked for as long as it was safe, neither feeling the need for words. As the edge of the park came into sight, she looked ahead and saw only two carriages waiting, hers and his.
"You go ahead," he said. "Ill wait here. And tell your driver of the broken stirrup so he can report it to the stablemaster."
She nodded to everything and, in defense against the empty hours when she would be forced to sit in her bedchamber and conjure up those beloved features through the sheer force of her memory, she stepped toward him and traced with her fingertips the outline of his jaw.
"My dearest," he whispered and grasped her hand and pressed it, palm opened, to his lips. Then he rehnquished her reins, placed them securely in her hands and, with a nod, urged her to go ahead without him.
Summoning strength she did not even know she had, she increased her pace and, with an act of discipline, put together the fragments of
the old Mary, laughing, frivolous, whom Doris and Jason could recognize immediately.
"A minor accident, Jason," she called out, resisting the temptation to look back just one more time. "No damage, though I'm afraid it's made me quite late and I do apologize."
Whoever that giddy young woman was spouting all those lies, she had no idea. There was not one tone or inflection of her voice that she recognized. Yet she was moving inside her skin, so there must be a kinship somewhere and, as she approached Jason, she was relieved and pleased to see
his face as expressionless as ever. She pointed out the broken stirrup and explained in what she hoped was a coherent manner how the day had been so beautiful. . . .
Dear God, so beautiful. . . .
Suddenly it occurred to her that someone was missing. "Where's Doris?"
"Waiting inside the carriage, milady. The chill was increasing and she only brought a light shawl."
As Jason held the door for her, Mary looked up into the carriage and saw the old maid seated in the far corner, her face turned away. Well, there was work to be done here. As Jason secured the door behind her, Mary sat uneasily on the edge of the seat and tried to determine the best approach.
Unfortunately in the quiet interim she dared to glance back at the line of trees about one hundred yards removed. And, though she saw nothing, she saw everything and knew that he was still waiting in the confinement of the shadows.
"Doris?" she commenced, realizing that eye contact was necessary for a truly effective apology.
But the woman would not look at her and, baffled by this reaction and suddenly lacking the energy to pursue it further, she repeated the tale that she had told Jason and at the conclusion was rewarded with one simple sentence.
"Well, you're safe and that's all that matters.**
That was that, although she suspected the scolding would come later with Elizabeth, and perhaps even John, more than making up for Doris' strange silence.
She would have to deal with it as best she could. For now she was grateful for the silence in the carriage that permitted her to lean back against the cushions and relive certain sensations. Paradoxically how strong she felt and how vulnerable. How well and weaki
But tomorrow would come. She would see him again and feel his arms about her, and together somehow they could plot a future. In that faith she would survive. . . .
Although he had first glimpsed the horror over three-quarters of an hour ago, only now did he begin to feel the reverberations, that deadly combination of shock and betrayal, a sensation which curiously started in the calves of his legs, painful muscle spasms that seemed to move steadily upward, like a marauding army, crushing his chest, closing off the air in his lungs, forcing him to shout, "WaitI Stop here! Let me out!"
The Women of Eden Page 31