Their voices sounded far away now, though they still were involved with mundane matters. Dry garments had been produced by Charles and, as his mother's voice rose, indicating that she was on the verge of retracing her steps, Delane's voice again interceded.
"I'll take them, Caroline."
"And see that he gets out of those dreadful clothes immediately.**
"I will, I promise."
At some point he became aware of a new silence in the drawing room. In the next moment he heard Delane close behind him, his voice filled with affection. "She's right, you know. Here, put this on."
At last Burke pushed away from the mantel, though he ignored the dressing gown, and sat heavily in the chair in a slumped position. "I thought we were not to be seen together," he muttered.
"I had to talk to you. But, please, get out of that wretched jacket"
"I'm well, thank you."
"You're half-frozen. Where in the hell have you been?"
"Walking."
"On such a night?"
"It suited me." Suddenly he leaned forward. The words came out of their own volition. "She's dead," he whispered. "EarHer tonight I went to St. George Street. The maid there told me—"
As his memory of that bleak exchange invaded him anew, he covered his face with his hands and tried to stem his grief at least until Delane left and he could be alone.
Instead of the sympathetic silence which Burke had expected, he heard Delane announce, "I know. We carried her obituary in the paper yesterday. I thought it might make a difference. So did my solicitors. We were hoping at least for a postponement of the hearing. But no. Word came this morning from Andrew Rhoades. It will take place as scheduled."
All the time Delane talked, Burke was aware of him pacing back and forth in front of the fire. Suddenly he exploded in anger, confronting Burke directly with, "My God, is the man a complete fiend? The death of his wife and he refuses to observe even the simplest decorum."
Death of his—
Burke looked up. The fire seemed to be burning bright, as though it were on the verge of leaping out of the firewell.
"Death of his—" He tried to repeat the words and couldn't, confident that he'd not heard correctly.
"So tragic," Delane went on. "You remember her, of course," he asked, "from the fortnight last spring? So young, rather delicate. She didn't look well then, but who was to know she was so ill?"
As Delane spoke on, Burke pushed out of the chair, not giving a damn about anything but the discrepancy of one small word. **Wife?" he repeated, reaching out for Delane's arm.
In a new surge of anger, Delane shook off his grasp. "Yes, wife! My God, Burke, are your ears frozen as well?"
Stunned, yet warning himself against false hope, Burke momentarily retreated. "Mary—" he began, "I thought that—"
"Good Lord, no," Delane scoffed. "Where did you get that idea?"
Burke was aware of Delane staring sharply at him. "Are you still pursuing that lost cause?" he asked.
"Then where is she?" Burke demanded. "I was told by the maid that she-"
"I have no idea," Delane interrupted. A new tension surfaced on his face. "And what in the hell were you doing in St. George Street? I thought I told you to stay away."
"Not—dead?" Burke repeated, unable to move beyond those two miraculous words.
His state of confusion was more than Delane could bear, for suddenly the man stepped forward and grasped Burke's shoulder. "Will you please listen to me?" he demanded. "I have warned you once against such an impossible alliance, and I warn you again."
"Alive,** Burke whispered, and the frozen state in which he'd passed this dreadful night thawed, and he could focus on nothing but the sweet revitalizing outline of hope.
"Burke, will you listen to me?" a voice demanded. "You are pursuing a phantom, nurturing a dream that can never be. Consider all the aspects of what you are doing, I beg you."
As the voice continued to assault him, Burke took his new happiness to the fire, where again he effortlessly found her face, more beautiful and full of promise than ever under this new patina of hope. Of course her whereabouts were still a mystery, but he would find her. On that quiet vow, he found the courage to face the man who was filling the air with such dire warnings.
But Delane had talked himself out, at least on this subject, and merely gaped back at him. "You're still—quite serious, aren't you?"
"I've never been more serious in my life."
"Do you—love her?" he asked, pausing before the word.
"More than I can state or you can comprehend," Burke said simply.
"It will come to nothing," Delane warned.
"We'll see." Burke smiled. More than ever feeling the need for privacy, he turned to face his old friend. "Come," he invited, making room for him beside the fire, "you said you wanted to talk to me. I promise to listen attentively, then we both can go to bed."
Reluctantly Delane drew near the fire, one hand massaging his forehead as though, taken all together, the night had been something of an ordeal. He turned his back on the blaze, his hands laced behind him.
"Considering your—present state of mind, I doubt if what I have to say will make much difference."
'Try me." Burke smiled, feeling indulgent and patient.
"The—hearing. It's upon us, you know."
"Ah, yes, the hearing."
Unfortunately his new attitude only seemed to enrage Delane further. "You must understand, Burke," he said grimly, "that if I am put under oath, as I surely will be, I cannot protect you."
"I know."
"Do you know what that could mean?"
"Of course." Burke laughed. "It means that Mr. Eden will at last know the name of the man who called him a Demi-God."
"And beyond that?"
"Beyond that what? You tell me."
"He could ruin you."
"What is there to ruin?"
For the first time Delane retreated, taking his worried expression and walking halfway across the room. "I'm surprised that you should even pose such a stupid question."
"Then tell me," Burke invited. "Tell me specifically why I should be alarmed by the wrath of John Murrey Eden? My God, Delane, if it hadn't been for Lord Ripples I think there were times when I would have willingly joined my mother in her madness."
"Still-"
"Still nothing. We both knew the risks we were running, and we both willingly took those risks. As far as I am concerned, that is that. As for your apprehensions concerning what Mr. Eden will do, dismiss them. In this instance, my state of exile serves me well. I'm not obliged to play by his rules. What he holds most dear, I view with complete indifference."
"Except his young cousin."
Stymied, Burke gaped back at him. '^Mary's love is reciprocal," he said. "If forced to choose—"
"Oh, Burke . . ." Delane groaned and reach out for a near table as though he required support. "How is it possible for a man of your intelligence to live among us for almost ten years and still know so little about us."
There was a pause, then Delane pushed away from the table, as though no longer needing its support. "If John Murrey Eden represents the worst of the British mentality, then he also represents the best. He has indeed reshaped large sections of this London world to suit himself. And if he can disrupt entire blocks of mortar and steel and replace them with his own vision, what do you think he will do with you, mere flesh and blood?"
"Then tell me what you want me to do," Burke said, "and I'll do it. Shall I attend the hearing and defend myself? I'm perfectly willing."
"No!" the single word exploded in the quiet room like a cannon volley. "I want you no place near the Temple on the tenth of December. Is that clear?"
"It is."
"You wait here," Delane concluded, his face suggesting weariness
amounting almost to illness. "If I'm forced to speak your name, Fm certain you will be hearing from Andrew Rhoades soon enough/'
^'A lawsuit?" Burke asked.
/>
At the door, as though at last he'd talked himself out, Delane smiled back at him. "If I could be certain that all you would lose to Eden would be money, I would consider it a major blessing."
"Wait," Burke called after him. "What do you mean?"
Delane looked as though he would speak further. Then something changed his mind. "I'll be in touch, Burke," he called back. "Don't bother. I can find my way out."
"Delane?"
But there was no answer and Burke heard the front door close. He stood near the fire until the rattle of the caniage diminished, then sat wearily in the chair, aware of an acrid smell about him as the clothes proceeded to dry on his back.
One nagging thought occurred. To the best of his memory he'd never seen Delane in such a state. Now the question was: Should the man be taken seriously? Or was he simply growing old and womanlike? And what were those veiled threats all about? What, beyond the limits of the law, could Eden do to him?
The questions continued to chum in his head, all unanswerable. Slowly he leaned back against the cushions. Undoubtedly he would have the answers in good time.
There were happier areas on which he could focus. Mary, lovely Mary, resurrected from a premature grave, and, of course, it all made sense now. The tragic death of the young wife had drawn them all back to Eden, all except the Demi-God himself, who apparently placed the need for revenge above the grief for his wife.
Burke shut his eyes. In a way, how he would relish an opportunity to be in the arena with John Murrey Eden. But Delane had asked that he remain invisible and, on the basis of their prolonged friendship, he would oblige.
After the foolishness of the hearing, after the young wife had been buried, they all would come streaming back to London, Mary among them, and, in spite of all obstacles, he would arrange to see her again, to rekindle the love which had blossomed between them, and under the sweet pressure of the reunion, they would plot the future together.
It would be so, and in that faith he could live and endure anything. . . .
Eden Castle December 8, 1870
Too late.
They had arrived too late and while Elizabeth was certain that Harriet understood the reason for their delay, she doubted if Lord Harrington did. But in his grieving state perhaps he was incapable of understanding anything.
As the small black-clad procession made its way slowly around the east wing of Eden Castle, taking the full stinging slap of the Atlantic wind in their faces, Elizabeth bent her head lower and clung tightiy to Harriet's arm. The terrain was dangerous enough for a person with sight. She had begged the frail woman to stay inside, but nothing would do but that she and Dhari be shown the fresh grave.
Looking directly up into the cold wind, Elizabeth saw Dhari grasping Harriet's other arm. "Hold secure, Dhari," Elizabeth called over the gale, aware of Harriet's trembling steps. Walking behind them was the indomitable Peggy, who kept a firm grasp on her mistress' waist, the three of them leading the blind woman toward the graveyard beyond the north wall of Eden Castle, where shortiy they would have to endure the combined winds of both the Atiantic Ocean and the channel as well as the greater punishment of the fresh grave.
But worse than all else was the pitiful man walking a few steps ahead of them who, without the support of Alex Aldwell, would be incapable of standing, let alone walking. In all her years, Elizabeth had never seen such a pathetic transformation. He bore not a single resemblance to the former Lord Harrington.
His bitterest disappointment, according to Harriet, had been the absence of a CathoUc priest and, as the nearest one had been in Ex-
eter and as Lila's burial would not wait, Harriet had had to exert her authority and had insisted upon immediate interment.
Elizabeth shuddered. In spite of her many garments, the wind cut through as though she were naked. Looking up, she caught her first glimpse of the black iron fence behind which lay buried almost every Eden for the last seven hundred years. Though it was noon, Elizabeth felt as if she were moving through a cavern of night.
In spite of these discomforts, she offered Harriet solace. "Not far. Just up ahead. Are you well?"
Beneath the black veil she saw Harriet nod. "I'm sorry I'm such a bother."
Ahead she heard Alex Aldwell offering encouragement to Lord Harrington as he supported the man with one arm about his shoulder and another buttressing his arm. "Only a few more steps, sir. You can make it, can't you?"
Elizabeth drew up her hood, blown back by the force of the wind, and caught her first view of the graveyard itself, her eyes moving to the large marble headstone with the simple name carved upon it.
Edward Eden.
Abruptly Harriet stopped. "Are we—near?** she whispered. "We must be, for I can feel it."
"It's directly ahead," Elizabeth said, and knew precisely what it was that Harriet had felt—the presence of death.
As the three of them guided Harriet through the gate, Elizabeth looked ahead and saw the mounded dirt in a corner of the graveyard, the grave itself seeming to sit apart from the others, as though each generation of Edens was assigned its own territory. The oldest markers, little more than slate slabs, rested in crumbling disarray against the far west fence, their carved names and the dates of their tenures upon this earth almost obliterated by centuries of sea breeze and storms. Then, in a grisly cavalcade the headstones marched slowly up through the centuries, husbands, wives, children, all clustered together in death as they had been in life.
They were less than twenty yards from the fresh grave when Elizabeth looked ahead and saw Alex Aldwell and Lord Harrington halt, their attention fixed on something. As the surrounding headstones obscured her vision, Elizabeth craned to one side to see what had halted their steps. From where she stood she saw a black-clad figure prostrate over the new grave, face obscured, weeping audibly.
"Who is it?" Harriet demanded, sensing the intrusion.
"Someone is here," Elizabeth murmured. "I can't see who."
Peggy released Her Ladyship and moved in a determined stride to the grave and the figure kneeling over it.
She called out, "It's only Molly, Lady Lila's maid."
"Molly?" Harriet repeated, puzzled.
All stood before the grave, looking down on the woman who either didn't know or didn't care that she was being watched.
As Peggy tried to rouse her out of her grief, Elizabeth saw Lord Harrington fall to his knees, rosary in hand, eyes closed. As his fingers moved over the beads, his face lifted directly into the cold wind.
She looked back at the little maid named Molly, who with Peggy's assistance was just struggling to her feet. Elizabeth saw a small covered basket clutched in her hand.
Having reached their destination, Elizabeth released Harriet's arm and moved a step to one side, concentrating on the freshly turned earth, unable to believe what lay beneath it. In fact, there was nothing in this cold graveyard which bore even the slightest resemblance to Lila. There should be fLowers, Elizabeth thought angrily. Mountains of flowers of every color and scent.
But it was not the season for flowers, and she moved back from the barren grave and the man on his knees talking to Jesus' Mother, and saw Molly's tear-streaked face as she looked about her, aware for the first time that she was in the presence of the Countess Dowager.
"Milady," she murmured, drawing free from Peggy's arms and curtsying before Harriet. "I—hope I didn't—intrude. I wouldn't want to be someplace I shouldn't be."
Kindly, Harriet reached out her hand. Elizabeth saw the maid shift the basket and step forward until their hands touched, the contact seeming to provoke fresh tears.
"Oh, milady, I couldn't believe it," Molly sobbed. "I knew she was ill when I left, but—"
"Why did you leave?" Harriet asked.
"I thought you knew. I was—sent away, I was, last summer, just when Lady Lila needed me so."
Harriet drew the woman closer. "Who sent you away?"
"I was sent away by him, I was," she said. "By Mr. Eden."
There was no sound in the graveyard save for the wind and the muffled voice of Lord Harrington saying his beads. After the an-
nouncement Elizabeth saw Dhari turn away in an attitude of resignation.
Harriet was faring less well. '"By—John?^ she stammered. "I don't believe—"
"It's true, milady," Molly insisted. "I begged him, I did, to let me stay, but he was firm, said I was not fit company for his wife, not strong enough to handle her. Those were his very words, milady."
"Please, Molly," Harriet soothed, holding the weeping woman, "where did you go? If I had known I would have brought you back into the security of the castle."
"Oh, no, milady, I wouldn't have wanted you to do that. That would have been counter to Mr. Eden's wishes and would have only caused more trouble." At last the woman stood erect and withdrew a small handkerchief from the pocket of her coat.
"I'm being well looked after," she went on. *When I left Eden I took meself down to Mortemouth and was taken in by the old Reverend Christopher and his wife. Good souls, both, and could do with a bit of looking after. I clean and cook for them and it's not a bad life, though my heart never left her." And she looked down on the grave.
Suddenly there was the sound of a wrenching sob coming from the grave. All looked in that direction to see Lord Harrington collapsed, his rosary dragging in the dirt, as he clutched at the freshly turned soil.
Alex Aldwell had just stepped toward him when Molly interceded, went down on her knees beside the grieving man and put her arms around him. "Don't, sir," she said softly.
Distracted from his grief. Lord Harrington fixed on Molly as though she were a miracle.
"Here, sir," the woman said with dispatch. "Look what I brought." And she reached behind for the small basket. "Ain't much, but it will brighten the place, it will. Look!"
EHzabeth found herself leaning forward, trying to glimpse the contents of the basket. At last Molly produced a minor miracle of color in that gray slate day, a simple white china bowl with delicate fluted edges filled with a mound of yellow, freshly churned butter.
The Women of Eden Page 45