The Women of Eden

by Marilyn Harris

  "You will do no such thing!" Richard said. He was on his feet, not at all certain of what he was saying. It was simply that he could not abide the expression of silent grieving in the face opposite him. "I'll go to the young lady," he offered quietly, a bit amazed at his own words. "I'm not certain that my company will please her, but—"

  He had his reward in the look of gratitude on John's face, even though it was accompanied by protest "I—can't let you do that," John argued.

  Richard smiled. "I have enjoyed her music; I'll tell her so," he said. "And why don't you go and speak with Dhari and Andrew, tell them what you have told me, that you love them both and that you wish them well?"

  "I am grateful."

  The two men gazed at each other. Richard felt stronger than he had in weeks. As he started through the door it was not his intention

  to look back. But concern made him do so, and love for the bowed man he'd left at the table.

  He only glanced at first, then looked quickly back, amazed at what he saw. No longer was John slumped at the table. Now he stood erect, watching Richard as closely as Richard was watching him. Was that a smile on his face?

  Surely not, though John turned instantly away, and Richard closed the door behind him and started off toward the music.

  She knew that if she waited long enough someone would come.

  Who, she had no idea. All of them had looked bereft, the tension in the Dining Hall so acute that she'd had to leave, suspecting in a way that she was contributing to it.

  As she had taken refuge in the Great Hall, she had spied the lovely old pianoforte and, thinking to play softly enough to disturb no one, she'd settled herself before the keyboard and quite soon had lost herself in its mellow tones.

  Unfortunately she had now played her entire repertoire twice and the thought had just entered her mind that perhaps she should retire, let this night pass, and wait for morning and hopefully an improved mood within Eden. With dispatch she concluded the Beethoven sonata, amazed at how much richer it sounded here than in the hmited Music Room at Forbes Hall.

  "You play beautifully."

  The voice, so unexpected, came from behind. Quickly she turned, pleased that perhaps there would be no early retirement tonight after all.

  "Lord Richard," she murmured, amazed at how quietly he had come up behind her. "I—hope I was not bothering—"

  "Bothering!" he repeated, coming around beside her. "I can't remember when this old instrument has been played last. My Uncle Edward bought it for my Aunt Jennifer and she was the last to play it."

  "Did you know her? Your aunt, I mean. So many of my relations were dead before I was even born." She lowered her head and hoped that she wasn't saying too much. "I'm always a Httle envious when I hear words such as 'Aunt' and 'Uncle.'"

  "I knew her very well," Richard replied, crossing his arms on the pianoforte. "She was—ill most of her life."

  "I'm sorry."

  For a moment it was as though the gloom of the Dining Hall had merely followed him here to the Great Hall. Eleanor considered trying to alter the mood but changed her mind. Let him set the pace and she would willingly follow.

  She watched as he moved around the pianoforte, one hand caressing the highly polished rosewood cabinet. There was a tenderness about him that appealed greatly. Her brothers were rough and boisterous sportsmen. Even her father enjoyed a good hunt, coming home with flushed cheeks and bloodied gauntlets. She would have been most surprised to learn that this gentle man had ever killed anything in his life.

  At the far end of the pianoforte he looked back at her. "I'm sorry for speaking so personally. You must think we—"

  "I think nothing and see only a family that has suffered a tragic loss."

  "How kind you are—and will you please play for us again tomorrow?"

  "Of course I'll play."

  She was embarrassed by the silence. It occurred to her that perhaps he had been sent to "see to her." In that case she must relieve them both of this awkwardness. To that end she walked a few feet away, looking ahead to the Grand Staircase.

  "Lord Richard," she began, "I'm certain that you have other things to do. Please don't feel as though you must—"

  "I assure you, I have nothing to do," he said. "In fact, I came to tell you that I am at your disposal. What would you like to do? I'm afraid that Eden can't offer much in the way of diversion. But there is always the Game Room and of course the Library."

  "I remember the Library—" she smiled—"and that lovely painting of'The Women of Eden.'"

  He nodded and strolled easily beside her, his hands laced behind his back. "Quite a to-do, that was, wasn't it?" He laughed. "The castle filled with people we've never seen before or since, thank God."

  "It was lovely," she murmured. "Very exciting, and how proud Mr. Eden was!"

  She was aware of him nodding to everything, and was pleased by the fairly easy give and take between them. Curious, but he seemed so accessible now. Last spring he'd seemed so distant.

  As they were approaching the Great Hall stairs, he stopped and is-

  sued an invitation. "Come," he said, "let me show you my favorite room."

  Before she knew it, she felt his hand close about hers, an intimate yet innocent gesture, for she doubted seriously if he realized what he was doing. Swept up in his own enthusiasm, which blessedly included her, he had simply reached out to propel her forward, unaware that their hands had touched.

  A few minutes later, "There!" he exclaimed, pointing ahead to the far arcade in the west wall of the Great Hall, to a small, low, Gothic arch, most unpretentious compared to the lofty arches of the Great Hall.

  "It—looks like a cloakroom," she said.

  "It was, originally," he said, nodding, and abandoned her to push open the low door, then stood back to let her pass before him.

  From where she stood on the threshold, there was only darkness, though within the moment he had fetched one of the wall lamps, hurried past her and was now adjusting several lamps within the small chamber.

  The faint illumination revealed little at first, but as the lamps blazed higher she saw what appeared to be a small library, the walls a solid array of books with rich leather bindings, a pleasant arrangement of simple furnishings, a charming window seat with drapes dravm, and a plain tile fireplace.

  She noticed that the room was very cold. From all signs it had not been in use for some time. Without a word, she saw him expertly lay a small fire. She watched, amazed that the Lord of the Castle would be performing so menial a task. Not once had she ever seen her brothers, and certainly not her father, kneel down to lay a fire.

  "You do that with great expertise," she commented, drawn to the warmth.

  He laughed. "Bertie used to say I could coax a flame from a wet log—" Abruptly his hands froze in their activity.

  Puzzled, she watched, and v^dth relief saw his hands moving again, the fire blazing well. "At Cambridge," he said to the fire, "one learned to fend for oneself. No servants there, only—"

  As his voice drifted off, she reminded herself to let him take the lead as he'd done all evening. To that end she stepped back and commenced looking about at this simple chamber which he had claimed as his favorite. In the new illumination she saw a large portrait over the mantel, the image of a woman, a most beautiful

  woman. "Who is that?" she asked, unable to take her eyes off the face.

  "My grandmother/* he said. "Marianne, Lady Marianne—"

  She had never seen such compelhng beauty. Pity the poor females who had had to share a room with her. "She is—remarkable," Eleanor commented. "Did you know her?"

  He shook his head. "She was ill for a long time and I was very little. I have a dim memory of an old woman, but, of course, she bore no resemblance to that—"

  Behind her she heard him stirring and looked back to see him perched on the edge of the table, a look of amusement on his face. "You may find it difficult to believe"—he smiled—"but that lovely lady started life as a
fisherman's daughter."

  Eleanor looked up. "Surely not!"

  He nodded emphatically. "She was in service in the castle when my grandfather first saw her. Their courtship was launched in an inauspicious way. She disobeyed my grandfather in some small matter and in consequence he sentenced her to a public whipping."

  Shocked, Eleanor looked back toward the painting. For what seemed an eternity they studied the portrait, his interest intense as though he were seeing it for the first time, or seeing a new dimension in it. She was forced to admit that she'd never felt more alive. Her proper, secluded existence at Forbes Hall fell away and suddenly she found herself in an arena with dazzling beauties and frightening horrors.

  She shivered. What she had interpreted as life in the past had been merely sleepwalking.

  Apparently their thoughts had been running along the same lines.

  **rm sorry," he murmured. "I did not intend to drag you back into the family history."

  "No, please don't apologize. In fact Fd like to know more, everything."

  Richard laughed. "Everything? Fm afraid that would take quite a while. The Edens have never done things simply or, Fm afraid, properly." He looked at her. "How kind you are."

  "Kindness has httle to do with it," she replied. "Fve heard of Eden all my life and have been fascinated with it."

  "Well, then," he said expansively, "starting tomorrow, a chapter a day for as long as you are with us. What do you say to that? And if I bore you, you have no one but yourself to blame."

  "I promise I will not be bored'—she smiled—"and I look forward to it and beg you to leave nothing out."

  For a moment they looked closely at each other. Though she longed with all her heart to stay, propriety and her sense of the moment urged her to leave.

  "Now I'll bid you goodnight," she said.

  At her words she saw disappointment on his face. "Must you? I mean, I know the hour is late, but—"

  "And I've occupied far too much of your time."

  "No."

  "Besides, I have morning to look forward to."

  He nodded, as though to say this was a sensible suggestion.

  She paused at the door. "Good night, then, Lord Richard."

  She had turned about when she heard his voice again with a simple request. "Please, just call me Richard. I've never quite known how to respond to the—other—"

  She looked at him, strangely touched by this reluctant lord. "Richard," she repeated. The name sat well on her lips and tongue.

  At some point, about a quarter of the way across the Great Hall, she was aware of a curious sensation. He was watching her; she was certain of it.

  It required all the discipline at her command not to look back.

  London

  Hyde Park

  January 8, 1871

  Burke sat on the frozen bench in the small garden, half-frozen himself, and heard echoes inside his head, a soft voice singing, then speaking his name as he'd never before heard it pronounced, taking those three syllables and transforming them into music. As long as she inhabited his memory he felt strong.

  But where is she? What has happened? As those two questions cut through his memory for the thousandth time, he bent over and held his head, as though to keep it intact. At times he felt mindless with worry. Something had happened, something terrible and unexpected, and he had to speak with the woman Elizabeth. But in his repeated attempts in the past he'd always been rebuffed by the fierce little maid, who had kept a firm grasp on the door and who, on the last occasion shortly before Christmas, had threatened him with the police if he did not cease his harassment.

  All he wanted was a brief audience with her mistress in an attempt to pick up the pieces of his heart, which had been shattered by a simple note informing him that she would be unable to meet him in the—

  Suddenly he looked up, as though someone had called his name.

  The note!

  Her note, written in her own hand and addressed to him. He did have something which had emanated from her, indisputable proof of their acquaintance and, more important, his right to inquire after

  her. He closed his eyes and saw it in its place of security in the small chest in the third drawer of his bureau.

  Amazed that the document that once had cast him into such gloom should now hft him out of gloom, he ran up the path, plotting a new and, he hoped, successful assault on Number Seven.

  He would place her note inside one of his own, thus eliminating the need for all but the simplest exchange with the old maid. He would request simply that she give both notes to her mistress and that he would await her reply with patience and civility on the stoop.

  It has to work. It has to work! he repeated to himself.

  And if it didn't? But he did not linger in search of an answer.

  It was no longer a question of happiness. It was a question of life.

  London

  Number Seven

  St. George Street

  January 8, 1871

  Feeling more relaxed than she'd felt in weeks, Elizabeth stretched before her drawing-room fire, toasting her toes, so glad to be home, and looked across at Charlie Bradlaugh, whose face seemed to reflect her contentment.

  "Like a couple of old marrieds, we are, Charlie," she murmured. Fearful that she had said too much, she added, "Pay me no mind. I like to dream now and then. No harm.**

  As she leaned forward to refill his teacup she was aware of his eyes upon her. "I've never been opposed to dreams, Elizabeth," he said, "but I do try to recognize them for what they are."

  At that moment the bell sounded at the front door. "Damn," she whispered, resenting the interruption. She had hoped to pass the entire afternoon vidth Charlie.

  "Were you expecting anyone?" he asked.

  "No, of course not," she said, and turned in her chair as she heard Doris emerge from the kitchen steps. "I'm not at home," Elizabeth called out. "Take their card, if you will, and teU them to come around another time."

  Confident that she had taken care of the matter, she turned back in her chair and tried to ignore the cold draft coming from the opened front door.

  "Miss Elizabeth?** The exasperated voice came from the doorway. It was Doris. "I wash my hands of it," she went on peevishly. "I swear I can't do all my duties as well as fend off—"

  Elizabeth turned about in her chair, feeling peevish herself at this second interruption. "What are you talking about, Doris?"

  **Him!" the maid said in a loud stage whisper, simultaneously pointing toward the front. "I've told him repeatedly that you've got no business with him or he with you. But now, lookl"

  In exasperation she lifted a white envelope and wagged it back and forth before her face. "All he's asking is that I deliver this to you and he'll be more than pleased to wait for a response."

  Mystified, Elizabeth glanced toward the envelope and beyond to Doris' martyred face. "What gentleman is it you are speaking of, Doris?" she asked.

  "Him!" the old maid repeated, "the same one I was telling you about, the American who pounded on that door every night while you were at Eden."

  "What does he want?" Elizabeth asked.

  "You!" Doris replied bluntly.

  Elizabeth looked back toward the fire. Charlie was leaning up in his chair, obviously intrigued by the mystery.

  An American? She knew no Americans. She took the envelope from Doris, broke the seal on the back and withdrew two pieces of paper, one quite worn, the second fresh and white.

  She opened the worn parchment first and saw something familiar about it before she'd read a word. The handwriting, that was it. Rather similar to—

  She commenced to read the message, something to do with a change of plans, someone being told not to come to a certain place with the promise that all would be explained later. And it was signed by-

  Mary?

  How was that possible? Still absorbed by the confusion of the first note, she hastily opened the second and found a totally unfamiliar penmansh
ip, an urgent plea from one Burke Stanhope, who was respectfully requesting a brief audience concerning the person who had written the first note.

  "May I be of service, Elizabeth?" It was Charlie, who apparently had detected her bewilderment.

  Vaguely she shook her head. There was nothing Charlie could do.

  But on the other hand, she couldn't very well dismiss the notes or the mystery or the American gentleman who had brought both.

  Gently she put a hand on his arm. "Charlie, would you excuse me briefly? I think that perhaps I'd better see—"

  "Of course," he said, nodding genially. "I have an appointment myself within the hour."

  "Will you return?" she asked, loathing to let him go.

  "Whenever you say." He smiled graciously.

  "I say dinner tonight at nine."

  "I'll be here."

  "Then tonight. Doris, see Mr. Bradlaugh out, then show the other gentleman in."

  As both disappeared into the entrance hall, Elizabeth lifted the two notes. Burke Stanhope. The name was familiar. But the greatest mystery of all was Mary's name attached to a note which bore the handwriting of—

  She felt another chill draft rush across the floor and moved back to the fire. Then she heard Doris' voice. "Miss Elizabeth, this here is him, the one who don't give up so easily."

  Elizabeth looked back and saw a tall, well-built man with dark hair, who was just handing Doris his cloak and top hat and who was returning her stare with matching intensity.

  "Mr.-"

  "Stanhope," he said. A good voice, deep, relaxed-sounding in the manner of Americans. "Burke Stanhope," he went on, "and thank you for seeing me."

  She nodded and was aware of Doris lurking in the hall, eager to stay and hear everything.

  "That will be all, Doris," she called.

  Doris muttered something, but Ehzabeth couldn't hear. She waited until she heard the kitchen door slam shut, then kindly she invited Mr. Stanhope to join her by the fire. "You must be frozen." She smiled, trying to remember where she had seen him before. Quite a handsome man, he was.

  "I was just having tea," Elizabeth said. "Would you like a cup?"

  He shook his head. "No, please, and I am sorry for this intrusion. I saw the gentleman leave. It was not my intention to—"