The Women of Eden

by Marilyn Harris

  "Leave her alone!"

  The voice came from the foot of the bed and bore no resemblance to the man himself.

  Elizabeth protested. "No, John, let him speak. Perhaps he can—"

  "I said leave her alone, both of you." Without moving from the foot of the bed, and without lifting his eyes from Mary's face, he said, "The future is clear for her now. She must go away."

  "No!" Elizabeth protested.

  "She can't stay here," John said. "What is there for her here but a constant reminder of her ordeal?"

  "She needs us," Elizabeth begged. "Can't you see? She mustn't be shut away—"

  "She needs nothing that we have to oflFer," John countered, "neither our sympathy nor the idle and permissive atmosphere of this house, which led her into trouble in the first place."

  For a moment Andrew thought that Elizabeth would retreat. The accusation had been clear.

  But instead, with an anger which matched John's, she rallied and offered an eloquent defense. "This is my house, John, not yours. The atmosphere is to my liking and one of my own choosing. I know it does not please you and, if you will recall, I have begged you repeatedly to take Mary out of it."

  Dangerous wordSy those, Andrew thought, glancing down at the wide-open eyes. The silence on Mary's face was not so deep as to prohibit a listening ear. What she did not need now was the announcement from the woman whom she adored as much as her own mother that she had never been wanted.

  "May I suggest—" Andrew began, and was interrupted.

  "I beg you, John," Elizabeth went on, "do not try to place the blame on me. For Mary's sake, let's not talk of blame at all. She needs our love and support now more than—"

  "I repeat," John said, "she needs nothing from us. She needs seclusion and isolation in new surroundings. She needs discipline."

  "Discipline!"

  "Yes. For her mind. The discipline of studies to fill the void of memory. She needs the association of decent people who know nothing of this, who will be capable of looking at her and not seeing—"

  "What are you suggesting?" Elizabeth asked cautiously, as though she already knew the answer.

  ^'It's clear," he said, "a step which should have been taken years ago perhaps. I will make arrangements for her in Miss Veal's school in-"

  "No!"

  "There, in a safe environment, controlled and guarded, she can rechart her life along more responsible lines."

  Though Andrew had vowed not to speak, his incredulity matched Elizabeth's. "You make it sound as though it were Mary's fault"

  "It is," came the calm reply.

  "You have no right," Elizabeth murmured.

  "I have every right," John countered. "I am responsible for this family."

  "On whose authority?" Elizabeth challenged.

  "On my own, for there is no one else even remotely capable, as that pitiful specimen demonstrates."

  Again Andrew suffered misgivings. Far too much was being said, damaging words, as though they were in the room alone. "John, please," he begged, "it doesn't have to be settled now."

  "It is settled, Andrew. As soon as she is able to travel, I will personally escort her to Cheltenham, see her safely ensconced in that institution and—"

  Andrew saw Elizabeth coming slowly around the bed. "It's what you've wanted, isn't it?" she accused softly. "You've always wanted to lock her away someplace, away from all hfe, from all—"

  "That's enough," John commanded.

  Indeed it was. Andrew was beginning to feel as battered as though he'd suffered the assault along with Mary. Yet as the two voices continued to hurl accusations at each other he looked back down on Mary and saw her lips, dried, trying to form words.

  "Wait!" he called to the two beyond the foot of the bed and heard a cessation of their voices and was aware of them returning to the bed.

  He saw Elizabeth enclosing Mar/s hand in hers. "Oh, my dearest," she murmured as the eyes from the pillow struggled to bring her into focus.

  The lips were still working. "I—want—" Mary commenced and closed her eyes under the duress of effort. "I—want," she whispered, "to go—away. Please, I want to—"

  The words, though barely audible were plain enough for all to hear and provided John with the victory he needed. "Of course you do/' he smiled, brushing past Andrew and taking her hand in his. "And you shall. You'll find it to your liking, I swear it. And in a few years, perhaps no more than two, you'll emerge from this ordeal stronger and lovelier than ever. And it will have been forgotten."

  As the voice droned on, Andrew listened, amazed at John's stupidity, to think that what she had endured would ever be forgotten.

  "Rest now," he heard John whisper. "I'll return tonight with all the roses in London. We'll have dinner here together, just the two of us, and speak only of the future. Is that to your liking?"

  But there was no further response. Apparently she'd expended what energy she had left in her single announcement. "I want to go away" Now her eyes were closed, and with tenderness, John kissed her hand, his fingers lingering in examination of the bruises about her wrists.

  Like a man renewed, he stood up from the bed and strode to the door, not acknowledging Elizabeth in any way, calling back, "Come, Andrew, we've work to do. I want to speak to you about the hearing with Delane, and there are other matters as well."

  But Andrew held his position in sympathy for the woman who stood alone beside the bed. No longer weeping, she resembled an abandoned husk.

  Andrew was on the verge of going to her side when John reappeared in the doorway, his monstrous confidence almost an obscenity in this room- "Are you coming, Andrew?"

  Andrew was tempted to say "No," but his reliable voice of reason calmly informed him that no one in this room was capable of clear judgment, and on that thought alone he said simply, "I'm coming, John."

  In passing he placed a hand on Elizabeth's shoulder, though she did not respond. The last image he had of the room was of two abandoned women, each having been stripped of some essential Hfe force, each left on her own to deal with the vacuum. . . .

  On the following evening, almost insane with worry, Burke Stanhope paced the darkened pavement opposite Number Seven, St. George Street. How simple his disintegration had been.

  He'd taken his mother for her second carriage ride in as many

  days. Then he*d returned her to the Mayfair house at midday and gone immediately to Hyde Park.

  He'd saddled his horse himself as the old stablemaster had been busy with a group of novice riders. Then, with a sense of anticipation, he had ridden immediately to the garden, his need to see her after a single day's absence acute and his own curiosity mounting over why she'd been unable to keep their appointment the day before.

  At two-thirty the garden had been deserted and had remained that way until shortly after eight p.m. His concern increasing, Burke had returned to the stables to the toothless old stablemaster, who had viewed him with curious sympathy and had asked an equally curious question.

  "Your young lady, sir—how is she?"

  His young lady! Had they been that obvious? If the stablemaster had been able to link them, what would prevent—

  Then the nature of the inquiry itself had dawned on him and, though that had been the beginning of his apprehension, still he'd managed to inquire. "I'm not certain I know what you are talking about."

  But the old man had not answered him. Instead he'd shaken his head and pushed the wheelbarrow full of oats ahead of him on the rough dirt floor, methodically proportioning out a lot for each horse, talking nonsense. "They should brush off Tyburn Hill, they should," he grumbled. "Nothing like a public spectacle of a man's execution to put the fear of Gawd into faint hearts."

  Burke halted his pacing on the darkened pavement of St. George Street, recalling how many times he'd begged the old man to speak clearly, then, unfortunately, he had.

  "Pitiful, she was, your young lady, and the ruffians who done it ought to be—"

  Without warnin
g, Burke felt weak and reached out for the iron fence behind him, turning his back on Number Seven and the vigil he'd maintained for the last three hours.

  Something had happened, he knew that much. But what? Earlier that evening in his frustration he'd backed the old stablemaster into one of the stalls and not until he'd seen the fear in the old man's face had he moved away. Obviously the man had told him all he knew, that a young woman had suffered injury, that the police had been involved and that he couldn't talk any more because he didn't know any more.

  Suffered injury—

  The words beat an assault across his brain, the depth of his worry drawing his attention back to the house across the way, an establishment which seemed to reek of disaster with its drawn curtains, its single lamp burning in the entrance hall, the wagon which had arrived about an hour ago with dozens of roses, as though for a funeral.

  If only he knewl Then he suffered the most irrational of instincts, to simply cross the street and demand entrance. Countless times during these difficult hours he'd almost succumbed to this foohsh action, which would only succeed in alerting the entire household to his presence and, worse, jeopardizing their secret, perhaps putting an end to all future meetings.

  It was that thought which had prevented him from bridging the short distance from where he stood to the door itself.

  What had she been doing in the park alone after she'd sent the note informing him that she could not meet him on that day? And what precisely had befallen her? Had she taken ill? No, ruffians had been mentioned, the need for the restoration of public executions, as though a crime had been committed.

  In this tortured manner he continued to pace, searching each passing carriage, as though foolishly hoping that someone would give him the news he so desperately needed.

  It was shortly after midnight when the first rational thought penetrated his mind. He needed access to the house and, lacking that, he needed the assistance of someone who would not be barred at the door, someone who could intervene on his behalf and ask questions with the hope of receiving answers.

  The name was in his mind even before he posed the question.

  ]ohn Thadmis Delam, Surely EHzabeth would not bolt the door to him.

  On that note of hope, uncaring of the hour and impervious to Delane's strict command that they not be seen together, Burke took a last glance across the street and tried not to dwell on the phantoms plaguing his mind. He ran toward the end of the street and his waiting carriage, calling out, "Printing House Square," to his driver even as he swung precariously through the small carriage door. , . .

  Though the hour was late and he was approaching exhaustion, John Thadeus Delane sat behind his desk in his editorial house in

  Printing House Square, rereading the ofiBcial parchment spread before him.

  Delivered by special courier earlier that evening, neither his repetitive reading nor the added illumination of another lamp had done anything to ease his sense of incredulity.

  It was signed by Andrew Rhoades, solicitor to John Murrey Eden, and signed as well by Sir Henry Aimsley, a prominent though not wholly respected magistrate in the Temple. The script informed Mr. John Thadeus Delane that on the tenth of December, 1870, he was requested to appear in the capacity of editor of the London Times in Lord Aimsley's chambers for the purpose of interrogation regarding recently printed material in the above mentioned newspaper.

  Interrogation?

  He shoved the document across the desk. How dare they? Were they all asses, including Lord Aimsley, whose official seal had given legitimacy to the farce? Well known in the Temple as a magistrate who would perform any judicial service for a price, it was obvious that Eden had bought him for his own petty purposes.

  With his thoughts gaining momentum, he moved around his desk and walked halfway to the door, where he stopped, gazing up unseeing at the large map of the world which covered the wall to his right.

  But it wasn't the world that interested him, but rather his awareness of the disaster that could descend upon him in that hearing on the tenth of December. If Aimsley put him under oath—and he would, otherwise why involve a magistrate? And if Eden's solicitor forced him to identify Lord Ripples, then Delane would have no choice but to answer. And Eden would then have precisely what he wanted. And God help Burke Stanhopel

  Delane stared at the world map as though seeing disaster in every comer. With his duty clear, he grabbed his cloak and started toward the door. Though the hour was late, still Burke had to be warned. Perhaps he could go home for a while, back to America beyond the extension of Eden's power, anyplace, but he must leave London until the hearing was over and Eden's attention had been focused elsewhere.

  He'd taken less than three steps toward the door when suddenly he heard footsteps on the other side, running footsteps, or so it seemed, and in the next minute the door was pushed violently open, and filling the doorway was Burke Stanhope, his hair mussed, cloak-

  less in spite of the chill evening, his coat undone, indeed everything undone, including the expression on his face.

  Startled by the appearance of the very man he'd been on his way to see, Delane gaped, both men staring at each other with the weight of undelivered messages.

  "Burke." Delane smiled, dropping his cloak back onto the chair and stepping toward the man, hand extended to assist him to a chair where he might regain his breath and composure.

  But Burke needed no assistance and stepped further into the room, slamming the door behind him, confronting Delane directly.

  "I know you said I am not to see you," he commenced, "and I wouldn't have come if it hadn't been necessary."

  "No need," Delane soothed, still trying to guide him to the settee and perhaps a settling glass of brandy. What had caused this unprecedented agitation in his normally contained young friend he had no idea. Suddenly a grim thought occurred to Delane.

  "Is your mother—"

  "Well, thank you."

  "That's good. I've been meaning to call. But I've been busy since my return. Come, Burke, I was just in the mood for a nightcap. Will you join me? We have much to talk about."

  To the brandy Burke said no, but as Delane went to the sideboard he was aware of the man pacing behind him. Snifter in hand, Delane returned to his desk. He felt most comfortable there, ready to deal with any crisis, and as he sat his eye fell again on the parchment from Andrew Rhoades and, feeling a need to deliver his own message, he said, "I was just on my way to see you," and lifted the parchment toward Burke, who in his own anxiety either didn't see it or didn't care.

  "I have need of a favor, Delane," he said urgently, dragging a chair directly before the desk, forcing Delane's attention.

  "Name it. If it's within my power, it shall be done."

  Slowly Burke shook his head. "I—don't know where to start," he faltered. "Do you remember that woman, Delane, the one who almost fell from the carriage door outside the gates of Eden? You knew her or said you had known her before."

  "Ehzabeth?"

  "Yes, that's the one," Burke said hurriedly. "I want you to go and see her, tonight if possible. No, not tonight; it's too late. First thing in the morning, though, I want you to go and see her and—"

  "For God's sake, why?" Delane managed.

  **I—need information/' Burke went on, stammering as though he knew he wasn't making a great deal of sense. "You—see, there was an accident of some sort, involving—"

  "Elizabeth?"

  "No, but the young woman who lives with her."

  "Lady Mary Eden?"

  "Mary," Burke repeated, as though it hurt to speak the name. He turned away, leaving Delane in a state of bewilderment, one hand playing with the stiffened comer of the parchment from Andrew Rhoades, baffled that both their problems involved Edens.

  Delane noticed for the first time that he was wearing riding boots, the caked mud of a bridle path coating the heels. He'd never known Burke to show an interest in matters equestrian and, as each small mystery compounded the larger
one, Delane pushed back his chair, took a long, mind-clearing swallow of brandy and, following the instincts of a journalist, calmly invited Burke to take a chair and start at the beginning.

  At the invitation Burke appeared to draw a deep breath, then finally came words, the most incredible words that Delane had ever heard, an account of one chance meeting and recognition of the beautiful young woman who had held all of Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club enthralled for months, the same fair face with whom he had danced immediately preceding his expulsion from Eden. And all of this merely prelude to the larger madness of clandestine meetings in Hyde Park, the fascination growing to affection, the affection to—love, and finally, the most incredible of all, an aborted meeting and the gossip of a stablemaster who had implied that tragedy had befallen the young woman, and, as it was impossible for Burke to penetrate the fortress behind which she was confined, and, by his own confession, going mad with worry, he was now enlisting Delane's help.

  The incredible tale concluded, Delane sat in a state of mild shock, torn between laughing his head off, which somehow seemed inappropriate considering the tragic slump of the young man on the settee, or clearing the residue of romantic nonsense from the room with a display of rage.

  Instead, without a thought to choosing his words, Delane sat up in his chair and announced bluntiy, "I'm afraid you've made an ass of yourself."

  He waited, certain that such an accusation would arouse a response from the man. When it did not, he tried again. "Are you hs-tening to me, Burke?" he prodded. "I frankly find it difficult to be-heve anything of what I've just heard."

  "It's true."

  "If it's true, it's madness. Out of all the available females in London, why—"

  "I did not intend for it to go this far, nor did she.*'

  "And how far has it gone?" Delane asked cautiously, thinking of the powerful ammunition that Eden could use against the man when and if Delane were forced to reveal his identity.

  Burke sat up and conveniently used his hands as a shield for his face, "It's as I said, Delane. I—love—her."

  "Touching," Delane murmured acidly. He decided to let the point of their intimacy pass. Perhaps it was best that he did not know everything. As it was, he felt that he knew too much.