The Women of Eden

by Marilyn Harris

  Cheltenham December 24, 1870

  With only two exceptions, Mary found her new life within Miss Veal's school if not pleasurable at least endurable.

  The first exception was this constant state of cold. The second hurt too much to think about. Would they come tonight?

  As she huddled on the cot beneath her blanket, she sent her toes in search of the brick which earlier she had warmed at the parlor fire. It was cold now, and she tried to wrap the blanket more tightly about her, praying for sleep to come soon, then in the next breath praying that it didn't. Occasionally in sleep she found safety, but more often she found nightmares.

  Tomorrow was Christmas and Miss Veal had promised them a packet of chocolate to follow the cabbage soup. Of course there would be prayers and lessons as always, but Mary was grateful for that. In the diversion of constant Bible study she'd managed to find a degree of relief from the terrors that haunted her. As Miss Mait-land, the instructor, had pointed out, Mary had sinned and God had punished her.

  Slowly she withdrew one hand from the blanket, and reached up to her hair. It was growing out. She was certain of that, but it felt as jagged as ever. Fortunately there were no mirrors at Miss Veal's, so she was spared the agony of seeing herself. Though at first her fellow students had stared at her, now they no longer did so, and for that she was grateful.

  Shivering, she turned on the narrow cot and tried to nestle deeper into the small pocket of v/armth left by her own body. There was

  one interval each week when she was warm, the physical examinations which took place every Friday before the fire in the parlor.

  At first these weekly examinations had alarmed her. Frieda, the woman who looked after her, had had a fierce argument with Miss Veal over Mary's participation in the examination. But Frieda had lost and Miss Veal herself had patiently explained to Mary the awesome responsibility in the care and physical well-being of so many young ladies, some, like Mary, from England's finest families. Infections had to be detected early, open sores that might spread, chapped and chafed areas which must be attended to.

  Thus on that first Friday several weeks ago Mary had taken her place in the line of students outside the parlor door. Frieda had walked with her as far as the door and had whispered a curious instruction. "Look *em in the eye. Lady Mary. Look 'em straight in the eye."

  Mary had done just that, as she'd taken her place before the fire, facing a semicircle of eight teachers with Miss Veal at the center, who had commanded her to remove all her garments and turn slowly before them.

  She'd done this, enjoying the heat of the fire, and after they had kept her standing for about five minutes. Miss Veal pronounced her well, had ordered her to put her clothes back on and that had been that.

  Now she found herself looking forward to that brief interval, standing naked before the fire. Over the weeks the ritual had changed only a little. On occasion one of the teachers would come forward and touch her, either on the breasts or the buttocks, and once, last week. Miss Maitland, the Bible instructor, ran her hand between Mary's legs. But that was all, and Miss Veal had dismissed her and, with reluctance, Mary had said goodbye to the fire and had re-emerged in the cold corridor in time to see a pretty young girl named Stephanie break into tears that her turn was next.

  Now she tried to huddle deeper into her cot and hoped that the night would be quiet. Almost every night she heard cries coming from someplace. At first they had frightened her. But cries in the night, according to Miss Maitland, were erring souls striving for forgiveness, and they were blessed and should be received as such. Still, Mary didn't like them.

  Suddenly she glanced toward the door, thinking that she had heard a step. As her dread of the inevitable increased, she covered

  her face with her hands and tried to remember what Miss Maitland had said about welcoming pain.

  They would come tonight. She knew it, and there was nothing she could do to avoid it. Then she must accept it, as Miss Maitland had instructed her to do. Sometimes it helped if she could concentrate on something else, a Bible verse, a parable, a Latin conjugation.

  They were coming. She heard them now and, in desperation, she shut her eyes and sent her mind deep into her memory and found a familiar face which awakened within her such feelings of warmth and happiness that she was only partially aware of her door being pushed open, lamplight filling the darkened cell, the four women standing over her, looking down, with that awful apparatus in their hands.

  "It's time, Mary. You know what to do.**

  Still she clung to the dream, all the time rising from her cot, stripping off the muslin nightdress, scarcely feeHng the new chill.

  If only she could hang on to the memory of that miraculous face.

  Another female was hovering close beside her. "You know why we have come, don't you, Mary?" this voice asked kindly.

  "Yes."

  "Why? Tell us so we can be certain that you understand.**

  His hands. She remembered his hands, strong and square with soft tufts of dark hair on the knuckles, remarkable hands that had—

  "Mary! Pay attention."

  "Yes.**

  "Why are we here?**

  "To—rid my body of the poisons that are corrupting me."

  "Good giri. Now-"

  Yes, now. It could not be postponed any longer, and Mary did not want to postpone it. Commence it now so that it would be over soon and she could spend the rest of the night exploring this remarkable memory. Had she concocted it out of her imagination, or had such a man really existed.

  "Take your position, Mary," the female voice insisted. As she still was fully occupied with her dream, she felt hands guide her face down onto the bed, felt other hands separate her legs.

  Under the duress of the moment the face that had once sustained her faded and, aware of what was about to happen, she reached forward for the iron bars at the head of her bed and grasped them just as she felt the cold insertion into her rectum.

  Compelled to look, though she knew the ritual by heart, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Miss Maitland standing over her legs, a full pitcher of cold water suspended in the air, which she now tilted into the end of a long tube which led down into the insertion.

  As cold water began to fill her bowels, Mary clutched at the iron bars and tried to resurrect that face. Where was he? She needed him now. The heaviness was increasing as was the discomfort. And she had to hold it. They became angry with her when she couldn't hold it.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw another female move a chamber pot into position.

  Please, God, let me see him again, she prayed silently and in defense against the increasing pain in her lower abdomen, she clutched at the iron bars and buried her face in the blanket and tried to send her mind to safer ground.

  But it could not be done. The pain was acute now and, wiping her tears on the blanket, she looked back at the pitcher still suspended, the water still coming.

  In spite of her vow to keep silent, she cried out and realized belatedly that she was alarming the other students as they, when it was their turn, always alarmed her.

  She was sorry for that, but the pressure on her bowels could not be borne and she arched her neck and lifted her head at an awkward angle and cried out for relief.

  In defense against the unendurable she pressed her face into the blanket. Surely purgation would come soon. Surely one day God would forgive her. . . .

  Eden Castle December 28, 1870

  Although the ordeal of Christmas had been over for three days, and although Andrew Rhoades had tried repeatedly to find John alone in order to speak with him in private, thus far he'd had no success.

  As he glanced about the grim Dining Hall, he debated the wisdom of speaking now. They were far from alone, but time was running out. He owed him that much, out of respect for the love they once had shared.

  He looked about at these contradictory surroundings. The lovely hall bore all the external decor of Christmas jubilation. Bows of evergre
en and spruce had been looped about the elegant plasterwork ceiling and a magnificent holly wreath adorned the marble fireplace where a massive Yule log still burned.

  It was as beautiful as he'd ever seen it. Still, there was a poisonous air here and it was emanating from the family itself, everyone deep in private mourning with the exception of the young woman. Lady Eleanor Forbes. Why John had invited her into this misery, Andrew would never know. Even she seemed to be succumbing to the gloom. Only moments earlier she had excused herself from the table and had taken refuge at the pianoforte in the Great Hall and was now contributing to the gloom by sending back the plaintive echoes of a Chopin etude.

  Andrew closed his eyes to the sorrowing faces about him and concentrated on the music. She did play well, and the musical harmony was soothing after the discord of the last few days.

  Without opening his eyes, Andrew reached his hand out beneath

  the table until he found Dhari's. She responded to the pressure of his hand with predictable warmth, her fingers separating his until they were locked together.

  Carefully he looked at her, amazed that now she was his, that at his request she had come back to London from Eden and that two days before Christmas she had done him the extreme honor of becoming his wife.

  They had exchanged simple vows before the old vicar at St. Mar-tin's-in-the-Fields. Tlien they had left immediately for Eden. Thus far they had told no one, not even Elizabeth, and Dhari kept the gold band studded with rubies that Andrew had placed briefly on her finger tucked away in the concealment of a white handkerchief.

  Andrew had requested that she not wear the ring until he had told John everything. But as yet that opportunity had not presented itself. Not tiiat Andrew hadn't tried. God, how he'd tried!

  Wearily, he shook his head. After a relationship that spanned almost two decades, he should be capable of understanding John Murrey Eden. But he wasn't, and his new awareness of this failure only reminded him of what he had yet to do, which was to inform John of his marriage to Dhari and their imminent departure on the second of January, when they would sail from Liverpool to Canada and, they hoped, a new and better life.

  Abruptly he looked up, his senses sharpened by the awareness of this difficult task yet ahead of him. To his right at the head of the table he saw John, the food on his plate scarcely touched. He sat slouched in his chair, his dress jacket bunched about him, an expression of distance on his face.

  Directly across the table from Andrew sat Richard. Anguish was there as well, though of a different sort, the suggestion of an invalid about the man. He seemed to move very slowly now and speak only when spoken to.

  Next to Richard was Elizabeth, whose face bore the strain of the last few weeks. There were hollows about her eyes and she, too, maintained the silence that seemed to be the order of the day.

  Next to Elizabeth sat Alex Aldwell, the only one at the table who was enjoying the culinary efforts of John's chef. But even that imperturbable man looked up from his plate with apologetic eyes, as though he felt guilty for enjoying himself.

  Seated next to Andrew, of course, was Dhari, and next to Dhari sat Aslam, who kept a constant and adoring watch on John. Beyond

  Aslam there was nothing but the empty expanse of the table itself and two services, one which had been recently abandoned by Lady Eleanor Forbes, and one, unoccupied, which had been set for Lady Harriet. Someone had expected her this evening but, as always, she had not appeared.

  This, then, was the setting into which Andrew was about to step with two difficult announcements.

  "John," he began, and stopped, aware of how out of place a human voice sounded at this frozen table. He looked about and realized that he had gathered everyone's attention except the one he had addressed. That man did not so much as look up from concentrating on aligning his knife with his fork.

  "John, I beg you, please give me your attention, for just a moment."

  "You always have my attention, Andrew."

  Relieved, Andrew was in the process of speaking when suddenly John shifted, sat up and abandoned his interest in his knife.

  "She plays very well, doesn't she?" he commented, referring to the distant strains of Chopin coming from the pianoforte in the Great Hall.

  In the absence of an immediate response, Elizabeth filled the vacuum. "She does indeed, John. She's charming in every respect, though I'm afraid we are neglecting her. Perhaps this wasn't the time to-"

  ^Then we must remedy that," John replied. "Richard, go and fetch her. Tell her we are in need of her charming presence."

  Andrew protested. "Please, John. Richard can fetch her in a moment."

  "But we have been accused of neglecting our guest," John protested.

  Elizabeth tried to defend herself. "It wasn't an accusation, John. I just meant that. . ."

  As her voice drifted off into a muddled silence, the tension and cross-purposes at the table increased.

  Andrew waited for the air to clear. He was on the verge of speaking a second time when again John drew the attention to his end of the table.

  "I miss—Mary," he murmured. "Mary always made it truly Christmas, didn't she? I remember how she would sing for us. Such a lovely voice. . ."

  As his words drifted off, Andrew saw Elizabeth with her head bowed. Dear Lord, what is the man doing to us all? he thought.

  "I had a letter before I left London. Did I tell you, Elizabeth?" John went on.

  "From-Mary?''

  "No, not from Mary. She*s kept far too busy to write. My letter was from Miss Veal, who assured me in glowing terms that Mary was fitting in nicely. She said that she's a diligent student—" Here he laughed softly. "Can you imagine that? Our Mary a diligent student. Isn't that good news?"

  "Indeed it is," Elizabeth murmured, looking up long enough to sip her wine. "Would it be possible to visit her? I thought that on my return to London I might veer in the direction of Cheltenham. I would like very much to—"

  "No, it's out of the question," John interrupted. "Miss Veal has made it clear. She wants no distractions, at least for the first year." He leaned forward, as though to make certain that his next words would be understood. "You see, the whole point of the new regimen is to break old habits of self-indulgence and lack of discipline. So I'm afraid a visit is out of the question. In fact I forbid it."

  Andrew saw the anger in Elizabeth's face, but instantly it was replaced by quiet acceptance. He wished that Elizabeth had challenged him. She, more than any of them, had endured such continuous abuse at John's hand. Through some misplaced sense of love and loyalty she was prepared to endure even more.

  With the renewed sense of preparing the way for his own exit and that of Dhari's, Andrew tried again to speak. The message was simple. Why couldn't he simply deliver it and have done with it?

  Then he would, though at that moment John stirred, this time leaving his chair in a burst of energy which dragged all the attention to that end of the table. "My sons," he announced, full-voiced. "Lord Harrington has requested the privilege of taking my sons to Ireland for a brief visit in the spring. He says he has a woman, someone named Molly, who will care for them and he says that it would please—Lila."

  He paused, as though it had been difficult for him to pronounce the name. "What is your opinion?" he asked. "Do you think that I should permit it?"

  Andrew tried to determine if he was addressing someone in partic-

  ular. Apparently he wasn't. In the absence of a response, Andrew tried to fill the void. "The decision is yours, John."

  "I know, but Fm asking for others."

  "They are your sons."

  "And his grandsons," John replied with a startling degree of largess. "He says it would help to heal his grief.

  "You, Elizabeth," John went on. "No opinion from you?"

  Elizabeth looked up. "I agree with Andrew," she said. "The decision is yours. In the end you'll make it, anyway, regardless."

  John laughed and stretched before the warmth of the fire. "How well
you know me, Elizabeth. Still, I was interested."

  Sensing that the subject was closed, Andrew sat up on his chair, hoping that now it would be his turn. But unfortunately the stewards reappeared with arrangements of celery and cheese and dried winter fruit. Predictably, only Alex made a move toward the food and, as the last steward departed, Andrew summoned his courage and decided—now!

  "John, if I may—" he began.

  "Eat, Andrew." John smiled at him from the fire.

  "I'm not hungry."

  "No, that's obvious. No one seems to possess an appetite."

  "John, I must speak," Andrew said bluntly.

  "Speak!" he invited, slicing a piece of cheese vigorously, as though he had to kill it before he ate it.

  It was not exactly the mood that Andrew had hoped for. Still, he could not postpone it any longer.

  "John," he began, as though he were commencing a formal address, "and the rest of you as well, two days before Christmas, on the twenty-third of December, to be exact—"

  "God!" The curse came from John, who pushed his plate away and was looking distastefully at it. "Is there anything more disgusting than the presence of food when you have no appetite?"

  Over the taut silence he heard Elizabeth invite softly, "Please go on, Andrew. You were saying something about two days before Christmas."

  Andrew gave her a grateful smile. "As I was saying, on December twenty-third at St. Martin's-in-the-Fields—"

  "You know you are wrong, Alex," John interrupted from the end of the table.

  "How's that?" Alex mumbled, his mouth filled.

  "You said you'd never seen anyone grieve as Lord Harrington was grieving—"

  "Aye-"

  "Do you think Tm not grieving as well?" The question was posed with large amounts of self-pity laced in.

  "Oh, I didn't imply that, John," Alex said. "Not any of us mean to imply that."

  "You see, in my opinion," John began quietly, "it serves no purpose to give in to the weakness of grief. What is death but the endless laboring sigh of the earth? The dead are—dead. They have moved on. There is nothing we can do."