As the obstacles pressed against him, blended now with an uncomfortable weight of guilt, he leaned forward until his forehead was pressing against the mantel, one image providing him with a degree of solace.
Her.
He saw her face, that quality of her soul which had initially attracted him as long ago as Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club. Curious how she was capable of both strengthening and weakening him. He looked up at the clock. Scarcely nine-thirty a.m. Centuries to go before two this afternoon. How could he pass the hours?
He heard the bell at the front door, the announcement of the morning post. He held his position, staring down on his mother's chair. How pleased he had been with her new rationality. Yet in a way his life had been simpler when she'd been lost in the maze of madness. If her new clarity of mind meant that from now on he would have to account for all his actions, his every move—
"Master Burke?"
He looked up to see Estelle, one of the Negroes who had agreed to accompany them into exile.
"The post, sir."
"Thank you, Estelle," he said, noticing the single envelope in her hand. Probably a stray bill to be forwarded to their solicitor. "Tut it there on the table, if you will."
He'd look at it later. For now his only hope of surviving the hours ahead was to submerge himself in mental activity, one of the several books waiting for him on his desk in the library.
"I said I would attend to it later, Estelle," he said, looking up, surprised to see the woman still at the door.
She appeared to be searching for something in the pockets of her long black skirts. "This, Master Burke, as well," she began, smoothing a second white envelope.
"Put it with the other and I'll see to them both later."
"This one didn't come in the post, sir. It was handed me this morning, early, as I was sweeping the stoop."
Puzzled, Burke stepped back toward the dining table. "By whom?"
"A gentleman, Master Burke. He said it was most urgent that I place it in your hands personal, and for my troubles he gave me this." She reached back into her pocket and withdrew a guinea. "He --asked me questions. Master Burke—"
*'What kind of questions?"
The woman shrugged. "Was you in residence here, and was you the gentleman from America, and was you at home at the time? I said yes to everything, and then he handed me this." And she held up the letter. "And he said I was to put it in your hand, personal."
He'd never heard the woman so ganulous. "Then do so, Estelle," he invited, and met her by the door.
As she gave him the letter, he noted his name written in a somewhat aggressive scrawl across the front. He studied it, turned it over and saw nothing on the back but a plain wax seal.
"And here's the other, sir," Estelle added hurriedly, placing both letters in his hand.
Satisfied that she'd done her duty, she left the room, calling back, "We'll clean the table when you're finished in here. Master Burke."
He nodded absentmindedly and took both letters to the window. As though saving the greater mystery for last, he split the seal on the first and discovered John Thadeus Delane's familiar handwriting. The message was short. He'd only recently returned from the Continent to find a barrage of rumors awaiting him concerning the legal actions which John Murrey Eden was planning to take against the Times. He would try to sort out rumor from fact and, as soon as he was able to determine the validity of the man's many threats, he would like to have a conference with Burke, possibly within the next two days, time and place of meeting to be determined later. There was a rather melodramatic closing instruction to "Bum this letter, lest it fall into the wrong hands," thus connecting the two of them.
Burke smiled down on the letter. He suspected that Delane hadn't had so much fun since the Times had attacked Victoria for her prolonged mourning of Albert. There was nothing like a good fray to bring color to a journalist's cheeks.
Then on to the mystery of the second letter, and without hesitation he broke the seal, removed the note, and read:
My Dearest,
I will not be able to meet you today nor can I at this time explain why. Trust me and wait until you hear from me again,
Mary Eden
He stared down at the message, which seemed to dance across the page, the fixed letters turning liquid under the duress of the sun.
I will not be able to meet you today. . . .
Disappointment as deep as any he'd ever felt moved across him, blending with the mystery of the note itself. Feeling somehow that a connection was to be made between the message and the messenger, he called, "Estellel"
He heard the kitchen door at the end of the corridor open, heard hurried footsteps and Estelle appeared, wiping her hands on her apron.
Burke held up the letter. "Who did you say delivered this?"
"A gentleman."
"Did he give you his name?'*
"No, but I didn't ask for it."
"What did he look like?"
"Oh, he was a big man, Master Burke, but he was polite and never gave me no reason for alarm."
Stymied by her account of the incident, Burke retreated from the door, the letter still in his hand. He reread the simple note several times, as though he'd failed to comprehend its equally simple message.
It just occurred to him that he had never seen Mary's penmanship before and was amazed at the bold, broad strokes which had emanated from such a gentle hand.
But it wasn't her penmanship that interested him, rather the nature and cause of the disappointing message.
"I hope I done right. Master Burke," Estelle murmured. "If you want me to give over my guinea as well—"
"No, you keep it, Estelle," he said, turning back to the door. "If the gentleman comes again, would you please get his name?"
"I'll ask for it. Master Burke, but I'm not certain he'll give it. He seemed in a hurry."
As the woman talked, Burke's mind commenced to move in a more fearful direction. What if Eden had found out? "WTiat if he had badgered a confession out of Mary? What if she had been forced to tell him of their meetings of the last few weeks? What if—
But the thoughts were too alarming, and, fearful for her well-being, Burke was on the verge of calling for his carriage, traveling to Number Seven, St. George Street, and confronting the man directly.
Fortunately, better judgment intervened. Perhaps it was nothing.
Perhaps she had other duties that she had to attend to, though since early summer no duty had been pressing enough to keep her from their secret meeting place.
Then what?
Confused and worried and unbearably disappointed, Burke sat in his chair at the head of the table and flattened the note before him, reading it over and over again, hoping to find a clue.
Without vi^aming, the most painful possibility of all occurred to him. Perhaps she was tiring of the arrangement, and tiring of him as well. She was young, almost fifteen years younger than he. Perhaps her eye had been caught by one her own age, though he found it difficult to believe.
If there is someone else, why didn't I detect it before now? Wouldn't there have been an indication in her manner and attitude?
"Master Burke, are you well?" Estelle asked.
"Yes," he said, aware that he was giving too much of himself away. "Fetch Charles," he commanded, and refolded Mary's note and slipped it into his pocket.
Even though the note had been put away, he still could see it, that strong penmanship, the block letters written without scroll or flourish. He would never have assigned that penmanship to her. . . .
I will not be able to meet you today. . . .
He kept hearing her voice speak the words and that made the message even more painful. He'd been so confident that she had returned his affection.
"You asked for me, sir."
He looked up to see Charles in the doorway, his features still bearing the imprint of condemnation.
Too distracted to deal with past offenses, Burke muttered, "Tell my mot
her that I will be at her disposal this afternoon, all afternoon, if she wishes. We can—''
'That will please her," Charles interrupted.
"See what her v^dshes are and then inform me."
"Very good, sir," Charles replied. "I think a ride in the open countryside would bring her pleasure. I'll arrange everything. Perhaps a picnic lunch—"
Burke nodded, still struggling with the mystery of Mary's note. Why did it disturb him, the sudden cancellation of a secret meeting?
But there was an ache which seemed to be boring deeper inside
him, leaving him sitting at the table, suffering the feeling that without her, life itself was ebbing from him. . . .
Timing was all.
Aware of this, and equally aware that she must give no one a chance to scold her for her tardiness the day before, Mary kept to her chambers all morning, vowing to read thirty straight pages of Mr. Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad without looking up at the clock.
Not that it wasn't an enjoyable book. It was, and doubly important as Burke had given it to her several weeks ago. All things American fascinated her now, the incredible vastness of the country, the numerous tales that Burke told her of the West. She could listen to him talk forever.
Sharply she scolded herself for doing what she had vowed not to do, to think of him, to torture herself with the recall of his face, the sensation of his hands, his lips. . . .
She lay back against her pillow, her incredible happiness pressing against her. She stared at her hand and thought of his, twice the size of this one, lightly covered with fine black hair, capable of enclosing, soothing. . . .
Several moments passed before she was aware of her own foolishness. Yet try as she did, his memory would not leave her alone, and ultimately she abandoned Mark Twain and tried to relax upon the bed so that she might be fresh and rested later.
But it could not be done. Burke occupied every thought, every impulse, no matter how fleeting. Then dress! If she bathed slowly and took extra pains with her hair, perhaps the hands of the clock would move from one o'clock to two o'clock.
Safe in the delirium of anticipation, confident that in the blessed security of his embrace all problems, all obstacles, would be surmounted, she moved toward her pitcher and bowl, stripped off the dressing gown, plunged the fresh linen into cold water and pressed its coolness against her breasts, as though to temper the fever of her happiness. . . .
The old stablemaster handed Mary the note along with the reins of her horse. At first she thought there had been some mistake, but then she saw her name printed in broad strokes on the envelope and, fearful that Jason, waiting at the stable door, would see the letter
and inquire into its nature, she quickly slipped it into the pocket of her riding habit and led her horse forward.
Now well beyond the watchful eye of both Doris and Jason, she guided her horse to one side of Rotten Row beneath a bower of autumn trees and retrieved the note, knowing before she opened it that something had happened.
She tore the envelope and withdrew the single page and read the message at one glance:
Dearest,
I will be unavoidably delayed today. But wait for me, I beg you, in our appointed place. I have important news.
B. Stanhope
She read it three times and even turned the page over, thinking there might be something of greater illumination on the back. But there was nothing and, as her horse grazed on the dying grass, she read it yet a fourth time.
I have important news.
There was a cause for hope and, in a moment of loving inspection, she realized that she had never seen his penmanship before. How broad and strong it was, faltering a bit on the closing letters as though he were trying to write well.
In the cool shade of the trees, she shivered. She needed him now, not hours from now. And what would she do with the abyss of time which gaped before her? He had not said how late he would be. Obviously something had happened. Perhaps his mother had taken a turn for the worse. She was ill. Burke had told her so repeatedly.
Yes, that was it, and a man of Burke's loving consideration would not leave a mother's sickroom. And how else was he to contact her except through the old stablemaster, the one place where he knew she would be alone and thus able to receive his note?
Carefully and with love, as though the letter were the man, she ran the tip of her finger over that bold signature and returned it to its envelope and secured it inside her pocket.
He would come. That was the important thing to remember, and she would wait for him. That was important as well. The thought of returning to that unhappy house in St. George Street without the healing balm of his love was unthinkable. . .
The crowds had gone.
Mary watched the last of the strollers until, turning to the left^ they were lost to sight. The sun was setting behind the ridge to the west and the twilight began to weave shapes in the secluded garden.
By her conservative estimate she'd been waiting over five hours.
"Burke-"
She whispered his name in an attempt to dispel her rising anxiety. How much longer could she wait before Jason came in search of her? True, she'd been late the night before, but then Burke had been with her and she'd taken no notice of how shadowy and isolated the garden was at this time of night.
It was so quiet. Hard to believe that all of London lay just beyond that distant fringe of trees. What would she tell them tonight? Another broken stirrup? Not likely, but perhaps Burke would have a solution.
I have important news.
"Oh, please come," she prayed quietly, wrapping her arms about her in protection against the chill.
For over three-quarters of an hour longer she sat in the gathering shadows listening, watching the small path which led down into the garden.
What was that?
She turned quickly toward the indistinct sounds. In the effort of listening, she was aware of her eyes growing blurred. All were shadows, impossible to distinguish anything. Perhaps it was her imagination.
But it was not her imagination. Around her now, coming from three sides, she was aware of movement, the surrounding bushes rustling as though they had a life of their own.
Suddenly she rose and tried to move away from the animate bushes, and at her first step the sound of gravel crunching beneath her feet made an indistinct noise.
"Burke," she whispered, trying to deal with her rising fear, the sense that she'd waited too long, the certainty that whatever was moving through the bushes-She commenced backing away from the stone bench, still clinging to the possibility that all was well, that it was only a matter of finding her way out of this place and returning to the path where assistance would be available.
Then, too late, a single form emerged from the bushes, massive.
faceless in the shadows, not approaching her yet but inquiring^ almost politely, "Mary, is it?"
Out of the turmoil of her terror, a hope flickered. Another message? From Burke. Otherwise, how could he have known her name?
"Yes," she murmured, confirming her identity. Eager to make contact with her love, she stepped toward the specter. "Did he send you?"
Without warning she heard movement behind her too late, heavy boots stepping aggressively across the gravel path, and she'd no more than turned on the noise when she felt herself overpowered, her arms wrenched behind her, a monster with many hands twisting her head to one side, binding her eyes with a heavy, foul-smelling cloth, though the last image her eyes recorded was a fearful one, the specter from the bushes stepping free.
Futilely she struggled. A violent trembling seized her and, mustering all the strength at her command, she issued one single cry, and for her effort felt a knotted cloth forced into her mouth, the tethered ends bound tightly around the back of her head, her lips distorted, her tongue useless.
Thus silenced and blinded, she felt herself being forced down onto the gravel path, something heavy pressing against her back, her wrists being tightly boun
d over each other. As the rough gravel cut into the side of her face, she tried to cry out around the gag in her mouth, but all she heard was her own inarticulate moaning, and she closed her eyes beneath the blindfold and felt her heart stop.
Blessedly, she lost consciousness, but less blessedly she revived too soon. As the awareness of what was happening pushed back the safe blackness, she realized that she was lying on her back, her arms twisted and bound beneath her, though she was no longer lying on gravel but rather she felt the softness of dirt beneath her. In an act of discipline she tried to control her terror, at least long enough to determine what was ahead for her next.
Listening carefully over the thunder of her own heart, she realized that she heard nothing. Had they gone?
Laboriously she tried to lift herself. But at her first movement she felt hands on her shoulders, forcing her back down, and heard as well a guttural laugh.
"The pretty's awake now."
"Then let's do it and get out of here."
"Her hair, we was told, remember."
The voices seemed to come from all around her, flat coarse voices. Repeatedly she twisted her head, trying to see. But it was useless, and equally as useless was any attempt to scream. The sounds of her moans were amplified in her ears, her saliva choking her.
"Get on with it," a voice commanded, and then they were upon her, foul-smelling hands moving about her head, loosening her hair, one hand lifting her to an upright position with a painful jerk of her hair.
Inside her head a woman was screaming, begging them to release her. She could hear it so clearly. Why couldn't they?
Then she heard a new sound, metal teeth biting together, her head jerked first one way then the other, growing lighter, the sharpness of a cutting edge once nicking her ear.
Held rigid by the grasp of a single hand on her throat, she had no choice but to endure everything.
God help me! the voice inside her head was whimpering as they continued to jerk her head, the iron blades eating closer and closer to her scalp.
Mother-Then they were lowering her again to the dirt, where she felt the customary cushion of hair gone, the coolness of dirt against her ear.
The Women of Eden Page 34