The Women of Eden

by Marilyn Harris

  As his driver drew the horses sharply up on the pavement, John pushed open the door with such force that he heard the hinges break and he walked steadily, as though he himself were on the verge of breaking, across Westminster Bridge, stopping at midcenter, perspiration on his forehead, his mind as swirling as the waters below.

  Aware of the seriousness of his disintegration, he shut his eyes and clung to the railing and tried to draw breath. But he could not think clearly, and suffered anew a distorted image of what he had seen earlier in that darkened garden—the whore herself, the eternal female, deceiving, corrupting. . . .

  He bent over until his forehead was pressed against the railing, the cold metal gouging his flesh, supplying him with minor relief.

  "Mated," he mumbled aloud. Of course they had mated. The last image he had seen before he had fled his concealment had been the man's hand pressing against her, and she responding as wantonly as though—

  He raised up and braced his arms against the railing. Vaguely, as though it were coming from another world, he was aware of late-evening traffic on the bridge behind him, a few pedestrians passing him by, their voices falling quiet as though they sensed distress, then their steps quickening, as though they wanted to remove themselves from it.

  Oh, dear God, perhaps I didn't see itl Had it been a dream, a familiar nightmare? For he had seen the man before, the entire hideous episode at Eden re-created in variation, for now apparently the closeness of a waltz no longer sufficed. Now, through deception, they had progressed to—

  "Mated," he whispered. Of course they had mated. . . .

  God, how dark it was—as though fate intended him to see nothing

  except what had transpired in that garden. He was aware of a trem-bhng in his shoulders, and turned up his collar against the chill and tried to deal with the loss—of everything, his fondest hopes and dreams, the devastating loss of that last temple of purity in his life. Where could he cast his eyes now when he was in desperate need of innocence, something, one thing in his worid untrammeled, uncor-rupted?

  Again he reached for the support of the railing. A thought more unbearable than all the others entered his mind. Was this the first, or had there been others? Under Elizabeth's lax guidance had she long ago sacrificed her virginity and in truth for months, years, had he been deceiving himself?

  Whorel

  Looking up toward the end of the bridge, he saw his carriage, the driver waiting beside it. All deaths must be dealt with, arrangements made for the disposal of the body, the charade played out to the end. He would find no solution in the middle of the bridge, and circumstances demanded a solution.

  As for the man, he could be dealt with in any number of ways. The more difficult corpse was Mary. He wanted never again to be in her presence.

  Then it was a simple matter: a corpse implied the need for a tomb or grave. Decomposing flesh was an ugly sight, and it must take place away from the eyes of decent men.

  What he was looking for was a tomb for a living corpse, a place of confinement where the killer of the dream could contemplate her actions and be removed from decent society.

  Stunned by the immensity of his hate, he realized curiously that he could not distinguish Mary's face from Lila's, or Lila's from Harriet's, Harriet's from Elizabeth's. The enemy was simply one monstrous female with painted lips and spread legs, luring all men to their destruction.

  He remained there a while longer on the bridge, staring at the rushing water below, a prey to those growing images. Punishment was due of the most severe kind. She must be brought down first, then entombed. As for the man, her absence would be sufficient punishment. In the last moments of his agony, John realized that he did not blame him as much as he blamed her. Nothing could have transpired between them without her consent, her ffirtations, as John

  had seen her flirting the night of the ball at Eden, without shame, without modesty or fear—

  Fear—

  There was something in that word that caught his attention and held it. If she could be terrified, if terror could bring her down, then perhaps she would march willingly to her own tomb, thus sparing him the role of villain.

  Fear—

  There was the key, a degree of fear which would render her useless, some isolated terror which would leave her forever distrusting and contrite.

  The conception was only half-formed. But even in this state it brought him the first relief he had known for over an hour. He needed time to think, to plot. . . .

  Thus resolved, though lacking a specific course of action, he commenced walking back across the bridge. With a strict sense of discipline, he ordered his mind to stay away from the offensive image of their embrace. The irritant there was the whore herself. Then he would begin the grim inventory a few moments before that when the impulse to kill had driven him out of his place of concealment. Then what had he done? He'd run across the darkened path and had approached Jason with perfect control, had informed him that he had located Lady Mary, who would return shortly, and further, he had asked Jason to say nothing to her of their search or worry. With what kindness he had asked it, implying that he did not choose to play the role of spying cousin.

  Jason had knowingly agreed, as had Doris, both of them viewing him with new respect.

  He looked up, amazed to see his carriage less than ten feet ahead, his driver staring at him in concern.

  "Are you well, sir?"

  "Not well," John replied honestly, accepting the man's assistance as he crawled up into the carriage. "Take me home, please," he added and closed his eyes, still trying to defend himself against a world filled with deceivers and liars.

  "Shall I fetch your physician, sir?"

  "No, I don't need a physician!" John snapped.

  As the carriage accelerated, he bent over in the seat, astonished at how much it hurt, Mary's death. For the rest of the ride to the empty mansion in Belgrave Square he felt his mind going blessedly

  sflent, as though at last it had worn itself out and needed an interval of rest.

  A short time later as the carriage stopped before the darkened mansion, he called out to the driver, "Fetch Alex Aldwell."*

  Why Alex Aldwell? Because he would do John's bidding in all matters without question.

  What was his bidding in this matter?

  He didn't know yet, but he would soon, before this night was over.

  At the top of the steps he rang the bell and waited and saw the glimmer of a lamp through the cut-glass panels. One of his stewards opened the door, still struggling into his jacket.

  "Mr. Eden?" he stammered. "We—weren't expecting—**

  **I shall require nothing," John said, striding past the gaping steward, climbing the stairs, heading toward the seclusion of his fourth-floor chambers. As he turned the first landing, he heard the carriage rattling away from the pavement.

  By his own estimate he had approximately an hour to collect his thoughts, banish the hurt and plot a course. It could be done. In a way, the death of this last dream was a comfort, the world at last a consistent place.

  Breathless from the climb up, he stopped before his chamber door and contemplated the darkness on all sides. How black it was.

  "A lamp, sir. I'll bring you one right away," came the voice of the steward on the stairs below him.

  "I don't want a lampl" John shouted down and closed the door behind him and took comfort in the blackness, even though it was not black enough.

  He could still see her, clinging to the man, her hands clawing, a creature bereft of shame and pride. Whore, slut, har, deceiver. . . .

  He walked across the darkened room, knowing the terrain by heart, feeling his desk, then the security of his chair.

  Carefully he sat, folded his hands on the desk and waited for inspiration, confident that it would come.

  Gawd, what a topsy-turvy evening this has been! Alex thought as he cUmbed awkwardly out of John's carriage, ignoring his empty belly, and looked up at the darkened mansion.

&nb
sp; There he had been, just settiing down in Elizabeth's dining room to the most glorious steak and kidney pie, when Elizabeth had an-

  nounced that they'd best not wait for John any longer, lest the crust turn moist and cold.

  He started wearily up the stairs to the darkened front door, his mind moving in two directions, behind to the carriage just rattling away from the pavement and ahead to the darkened stoop, the entire house dark, for that matter, yet the old driver had assured him that John was waiting for him inside.

  What was in the wind now? And what would be required of him beyond what he was already doing—which was just about everything, overseeing nine building sites and all those accompanying problems, though in the course of the last few weeks he'd managed to solve a few of the more troubling ones, like the petty thievery which now had ceased as mysteriously as it had started?

  Mysterious, my ass! He grinned as he rang the bell and waited, proud of his brainstorm to set thieves to catch thieves. What an effective job his disreputable quartet had done, all four ex-convicts bearing the signature of Newgate on their backs, awesome-looking creatures hired by Alex to keep a sharp eye out in the workyards, find the culprit and serve as judge, jury and executioner.

  The culprit had been one Jack Dalkins, a trusted foreman, or so Alex had thought.

  Not that Alex wholly approved of their tactics, for Jack Dalkins had not yet returned to work from his stay in hospital with a broken head, two broken arms and a crushed foot. Still, Alex's first and only loyalty had been to John, and he'd not intended to stand idly by while some bastard stole him blind.

  Cursing the growling in his empty belly, he rang the bell again. Where was everyone? "Open up!" he shouted, seeing a hght through the panels. He heard the bolt slide, the door swung open and he saw one of John's stewards, coatless, a dinner napkin stuck into his belt. Lucky bastard, Alex brooded. Seeing that the man would not give him passage until he'd identified himself, Alex snapped, "It's me, Aldwell, you idiot! Mr. Eden sent for me."

  "I beg your pardon, sir," the man muttered, stepping back.

  "In his chambers, is he?" Alex asked, striding past the steward and glancing up the darkened stairway, dreading the climb.

  "He is indeed, sir."

  Suffering a slight anger which affected his breathing and made the climb more difficult, it was several minutes before Alex gained the top landing, where he stopped to wait out a stitch in his side. He

  lifted the lamp toward the closed door and called ahead, **John, are you there?"

  He waited, head down, listening. He started to call again, but with a wisdom based on his long association with John Murrey Eden he opened the door and saw nothing but more darkness.

  "John?"

  "Come in and shut the door/'

  There he was at his desk, at least a recognizable outline with shoulders and head, though the voice sounded different.

  Closing the door, Alex tried to understand the nature of this peculiar meeting. "We waited dinner on you, we did, John," he said pleasantly, starting across the room toward the desk.

  "Hold your position!" the voice commanded. "Come no closer. If you require light, place the lamp on the table and take a seat."

  If you require light?

  A curious statement, as baffling as the voice itself, as though Alex were the enemy. Still he obeyed, retraced his steps to the sofa, collided with a low stool, placed the lamp on the appointed spot and sat with growing uneasiness.

  "I'm sorry I had to disturb you at this hour," John began softly, the old John, his voice filled with concern.

  "You didn't disturb me," Alex lied. "In fact, I'd been waiting all afternoon to see you. Last week Andrew gave me several new freehold leases that require your signature."

  "Why didn't Andrew deliver them himself?"

  The voice had gone cold again. Not wishing to enter into the complexities of this disintegrating relationship, Alex murmured, "He's been kept busy elsewhere. He thought I'd see you first—"

  "—elsewhere," came an echo, and, thinking that John might say more, Alex waited. But nothing more was said.

  "I'll—bring them around tomorrow, if I may," Alex went on, his voice sounding loud in the quiet room.

  Matter closed. From where Alex sat, the figure behind the desk resembled a statue, his hands rigidly folded on the desk before him.

  "John, we can discuss all this tomorrow."

  "Go on," the voice commanded. "Tell me everything that's been going on. I've been removed from it for too long. Tell me of the progress on the various building sites."

  Ah, that was encouraging, the first interest he'd shown in his own firm for several long weeks. Having been issued the invitation to

  speak, and in spite of the circumstances, Alex took the floor, pacing in the Hmited area near the Hght, looking up now and then as he spoke in the hope of provoking a response from the silent man.

  But somehow Alex had the disquieting feeling that John hadn't even heard what he had said. He looked back toward the desk. "John, why don't we just—" he began, and was not given a chance to finish.

  "Go on!" came the command. "Talk to me. Tell me everything.**

  For the first time Alex heard the tone of alarm. Talk to me, as though the silence had to be filled with words.

  He faltered. What would he say now? All those pressing business matters seemed to have deserted him in the face of this unspoken need. Still he had to try and, as he paced beyond the spill of light, a fitting subject occurred to him—the solved problem of petty thievery which had been plaguing the central workshop.

  Warming to the subject, Alex returned to the sofa and began the tale. "On the matter of thievery, John, if you'll recall," he began, and talked steadily for several minutes, listing the missing items and the refusal of the local police inspector to do anything about it, being short-handed and informing Alex that thieves came third after rapists and murderers, thus forcing Alex to take matters into his own hands, which he'd done right enough by hiring a unique set of watchdogs, fresh from Newgate.

  Alex grinned. "And they moved with the efficiency of their breed, they did, John, and escorted Jack Dalkins to a secluded spot on the Heath and told him in an unforgettable way that one man did not have the right to take another man's property."

  Alex laughed, completely forgetting the silent man behind the desk. "Course old Jack Dalkins will never be quite the same," he concluded, "but we'll hire him on when he leaves the hospital and find hght work for him, and in the meantime, the thievery has stopped."

  At last he looked toward the desk, hoping for a shared laugh, some indication that there was life at that end of the room. But from where he stood he saw nothing but the outline of shoulders and clasped hands and, fearing that he'd overstepped his bounds, that John did not approve of such methods, he grew defensive. "Well, the problem was real and growing, it was, the thievery adding up. As for Jack Dalkins—"

  "What did they do to him?"

  Grateful for the direct question, Alex replied, 'Taught him a lesson, that's what. Oh, there's a few broken bones which will heal right enough and when he comes back he'll be a better mate for it, I can promise you that."

  All at once he saw movement behind the desk, a stirring, the shadowy outline standing erect, his arms braced against the desk. In the next instant John turned away and disappeared into the deeper shadows at the far end of the room.

  Alex gaped into the blackness, which seemed to have swallowed John whole. He waited, listening, worried that he had offended with his rough tactics.

  "I had no choice, John," he called out. "You were occupied elsewhere, and I didn't think you'd appreciate a debit inventory sheet for the last three months."

  Tell me—again," came the voice from the darkness.

  "Tell you-what?"

  "Everything."

  Alex sat wearily on the back of the sofa. "I said it all the first time. I don't see—"

  "Tell me again?'

  There was something heavy in the voice
which suggested that Alex had better do as he had been commanded to do. Still seated on the back of the sofa, he launched into a repetition of the tale. A few minutes later he brought the tale to its identical conclusion. "Dal-kins will survive," he repeated. "I warned the watchdogs to do no lasting damage, and he'll be a better man."

  Therel He'd said it all twice and still could not understand why he was here. If John wanted to lecture him, he'd best do it quick, for it was Alex's intention to be seated at Childe's within the next quarter of an hour, soothing his bewilderment in a quarter hind-section of good English beef and a bottomless bottie of port.

  Still silence. What in the name of God was going on?

  "John, I-"

  "What are their names?"

  "What are-"

  "—the names, Alex, of your—watchdogs."

  Names! Good Gawd! Is John going to place blame on them? "Call them what you wish," Alex muttered. "They'll answer to anything."

  "I want their names," came the voice from the shadows.

  "And I don't know them!" Alex shouted, his anger lifting him to his feet, where he stood foolishly confronting blackness.

  Slowly a form evolved out of the shadows, returning to the desk. "What—did you pay them?"

  "Enough to ensure their loyalty and continued service," Alex replied. "They enjoy working on this side of the law for a change."

  "Where are they now?"

  Alex laughed. "Probably cutting some poor bloke's throat for the cost of a pint."

  "You don't know?"

  Alex shrugged. "I told them they could use the old barracks down by the river. It seemed to suit them well enough, the first reliable roof with the exception of Newgate which they've had over their heads since lads."

  "Then you do know where they are?"

  "I suppose."

  "Fetch them!"

  "Fetch-"

  Uncertain whether or not John was joking, Alex laughed. "I don't think you'd find them suitable—"

  "I said, 'Fetch theml' "

  There it was again, that heavy dragging in his voice, as though someone were speaking behind John, or through him. Unable to believe the command, Alex offered a protest. "I'm accountable for them, John. If you object to their actions, then deal with me. They only did what I ordered them to do."