The Women of Eden

by Marilyn Harris

  Stealthily he bolted his door and moved to the task at hand. A short time later his valise was packed with a minimum of garments, four hundred pounds and a letter of credit from his bank. He hurried to the sideboard, poured a glass of brandy as fortification against the chill evening and took a final look around his room, seeing the two letters he'd left which would explain his absence, one to Charles and one to his mother.

  As all was ready, and the need for movement strong with him, he gathered up his cloak and valise, extinguished the lamp and started out into the darkened corridor. In a way it had been easier not knowing where she was or what had happened.

  He was halfway down the stairs when at the top of the landing he saw a flicker of candlelight and heard a drifting, familiar voice.

  "Burke? My darling, is it you?"

  He glanced ahead. He could easily make it to the door before she reached the top of the stairs. In an attempt to outrun the voice, he

  took the carriage running, secured and bolted the door and pressed back against the seat.

  As the carriage started forward he realized that he had yet to give his driver instructions. He drew down the window and suffered a blast of cold January wind. "Make for the North Road and High Wycombe!" he shouted. "I'll give you directions from there."

  As his driver turned in the appointed direction, Burke drew the heavy fur rug out from beneath the seat and arranged it over his legs.

  Cheltenham. In school. Her hair had been cut. . . .

  Slowly he bent over and tried not to see the image of that pale white cheek, those dark blue eyes which once had looked up at him with such trust and love.

  How would he find her? Would she even remember him? Would she come with him, or would she remain blindly loyal to John Murrey Eden? And if she did come with him, where would he take her, to what location of safety beyond the reach of the madman's grasp?

  As the questions, all unanswerable, continued to assault him, he sat back in the seat, pressed his head against the cushion and offered up one startling prayer.

  His request was simple. He entreated God never to let him come within close physical proximit}' of John Murrey Eden, for if he did, he would surely kill him.

  Cheltenham January 13, 1871

  At thirty-six, she was an old maid and likely to remain one. God had seen fit to give her a set of features so ugly that childhood companions had laughed at her. Then He had sent a plague of smallpox, which kindly had taken most of those cruel childhood friends, but He had let her survive and had covered those already ugly features with a mask of pockmarks which still on occasion ran pus and scabbed over.

  As though this weren't enough. He had given her an adult form which resembled the local blacksmith's and He had crowned the entire grotesquerie with the crudest gift of all, a degree of intelligence so that she knew precisely how ugly she was and how barren her life would always be.

  Small wonder, then, that on occasion Frieda Langford looked about at Miss Veal's collection of unhappy females and selected one as a pet. Kindness was in short supply in this establishment, and if now and then, in exchange for a moment's kindness, one of the girls was prompted to give Frieda a crust of love, she would grab it eagerly, knowing full well it might be the last she would receive.

  Now she stood in the dead winter garden behind the crumbling Tudor mansion, well bundled in her thick black cape, and looked out over the fiercely cold winter day at her fifteen charges, all moving like spiritless ghosts up and down the paths.

  No one spoke. It was too cold for speaking. Their daily ritual of an hour's fresh air was another of Miss Veal's trident commands and, like the weekly enemas and physical examinations, it was there to be endured.

  Not that Frieda had any real quarrel with old Miss Veal. She'd taken Frieda on, hadn't she, when no one else in Cheltenham would have anything to do with her. Hired six years ago as a "helper," Frieda had passed what possibly had been the happiest years of her life. No one here seemed to mind that she was ugly and, while on occasion her heart went out to the young ladies who were imprisoned here, still she agreed with Miss Veal's philosophy, that life was hard and only those survived who knew how to accept their daily dose of pain.

  Like that one. Frieda lifted her head and stared down the length of the garden at the samll solitary figure seated on the stone bench, wrapped in the heavy black cape that was standard issue for all the young ladies.

  For some reason that one appealed to Frieda, had from the beginning when the London gentleman had deposited her several months ago. Oh, it had been clear even then that someone had gone over her with heavy boots on. From her butchered hair to the lingering bruises on her legs, it had been painfully apparent that someone had taken what he wanted without a thank you.

  In those first few weeks Miss Veal had warned Frieda to look for telltale signs of pregnancy in Mary Eden. But, blessedly, there had been nothing and her cycles were regular and, while she didn't have to contend with a growing seed, there was still grief aplenty plaguing the young woman, and Frieda would give anything to ease it, to cause just a semblance of a smile to color those pale lips.

  Well, what harm in trying again? There was still about twenty minutes left of the enforced hour. Her other charges were behaving themselves right enough, moving at a steady pace up and down between the dead flowers, rubbing their hands to keep warm.

  Only little Mary Eden was seated and alone, and this was a legitimate reason for Frieda to approach her. On Miss Veal's orders, all the young women had to keep moving. Thus armed with a reason to speak, Frieda drew her own cloak more tightly about her and walked in a steady line down the garden path.

  "You there," she called out, bridging the few feet that separated them and, though she stood directiy over her, she was alarmed to see that the girl had yet to look up.

  "Mary?" she said, her voice softening, and as she sat on the bench she bent forward in an attempt to see the face that was almost obscured by the hood.

  Then she saw too clearly, the small face drawn and colorless, a stream of old grief which apparently was so powerful it required no sound.

  "Here, now," Frieda comforted. She reached into the folds of her pocket and withdrew a handkerchief and lifted the girl's face. All the time she worked at restoration, she was aware of Mary's eyes on her, was aware of the girl's hands like two blocks of ice, while her forehead-Frieda stripped off her glove and placed her bare hand against Mary's forehead. Dear Lord, she is on firel

  "Mary? Are you feeling well?"

  The girl nodded and with the back of her hand wiped away the last of the tears.

  Distracted from the feverish brow, Frieda counseled, "You know it doesn't pay to think on bad things. How many times have I told you that before?"

  "I wasn't thinking on the bad, Frieda," she murmured. "I was thinking on the good. They are the hardest."

  "Well, good or bad, you're letting something do damage to you, and it's my advice to—"

  "Frieda, how long have you been here?"

  The question caught her off-guard. "Well," she began, lifting her head to the sky, "to the best of my recollection, going on six years. Yes, about six."

  She looked back at the young girl and didn't like what she saw there, the pupils of her eyes glittering unnaturally, a rigidity to her chin as though she were trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

  "Come on," Frieda urged brusquely, "let's get you up and moving. You'll be warmer."

  "Six—years," Mary repeated as though awed by the number.

  "Aye, come—"

  "Will you—stay here all your life?"

  Half-risen from the bench and beginning to shiver herself, Frieda sat back down, amused by the question. "I suppose I will 'less something better comes along, and since that's not likely—"

  All at once she noticed fresh tears on the girl's face. "Here, now, I thought I told you to keep your mind off those ghosts."

  Slowly Mary shook her head. "I don't mean to cry. I really don't, and I wasn't thinking of
anything."

  In an attempt to stop the tears, Frieda announced, "It's letter-

  writing day,'* remembering that in all the months since Mary had been here she'd never written a letter to anyone. The young ladies were permitted one correspondence a week, and most of them considered it a high point.

  Of course, what they didn't know was that all those letters containing such private thoughts to loved ones provided Miss Veal and her staff with a full evening of jolly good entertainment. The letters containing any sort of complaint were read and burned. A few were sent on, those claiming contentment, and certainly those which praised Miss Veal or any aspect of her institution.

  But not once had Mary felt compelled to use her single piece of writing paper. Now Frieda felt it was time she made contact with her past.

  "Your—mum," Frieda prodded gently. "Let's write to your mum this afternoon. I'm sure she worries—"

  "No," Mary said, returning the handkerchief. "She—wouldn't read it, anyway."

  "Now, why?" Frieda chided. "If you were mine, I'd—"

  "She's blind."

  Silence. The bough of the old tree overhead creaked in the pressure of the wind.

  "I'm sorry," Frieda muttered, thinking that she'd take her scarred face any day if she could keep her eyes. "Then the gentleman that brought you here," she said. "Surely he would like—"

  All at once the young lady stood. She took one step toward the end of the bench as though to put distance between herself and the suggestion when suddenly she faltered, one hand reaching out for support.

  "Mary? Are you ill?" Frieda demanded.

  "No, I'm fine." But as she started to her feet again, her head seemed to lift as though she couldn't draw enough breath. Frieda stepped forward, her alarm increasing at how suddenly pale that face had gone and, just as she was reaching out to lend her the support of her arm, she saw the young woman collapse.

  Lord-Frieda stared down, shocked at the lifeless figure. "Fetch Miss Veal!" she shouted ahead to the other young ladies, who had just noticed the unconscious girl in Frieda's arms. "Hurry!"

  As she carried Mary up the path, she bent over and placed her

  cheek against that pale forehead and immediately withdrew. It was as though she'd pressed against an oven.

  As the girls reluctantly parted to make way, Frieda grimly remembered the time—when had it been, two, three years ago?—when one of Miss Veal's young ladies had died. In order to avoid a fuss, late one midnight Miss Veal had taken the body away. What she'd done with it, to this day Frieda had no idea, though she had been within earshot the day the alarmed family arrived, had overheard Miss Veal's lies, the old woman informing them convincingly that the young lady had simply run away.

  Although she was out of the cold wind now, moving rapidly down the darkened back corridor, Frieda shivered and drew her lifeless charge more closely into her arms. Pray God that death would spare her. But if it didn't Frieda would not he again. There were just so many compromises that even an ugly woman could make and still keep her soul intact.

  She tightened her grasp on Mary Eden and held her close as though she were an injured pet and braced herself for the gargoyle of a woman who stood at the far end of the corridor, with arms crossed, viewing their approach with condemnation.

  Due to impassable winter roads, the journey from London to Cheltenham required five difficult days. Impatient and worried to the point of madness, Burke had tried to endure the delays, had tried and failed to keep his mind off her, so near and yet so unreachable.

  As they approached the outskirts of Cheltenham, Burke found momentary' distraction in the beauty of the place. He'd been expecting a plain rural village. Instead he found a lovely Georgian spa with a wealth of Regency houses on elegant squares, tree-bordered open spaces and a grand promenade with a double avenue of horse chestnuts.

  At the far end of the promenade he discovered the Queen's Hotel and checked in under the false name of Mr. Robert Stow. In the event that EHzabeth weakened and he was followed, the anonymity might provide him with a few additional hours.

  The helpful desk clerk provided him with directions to Miss Veal's establishment about three miles north of town and, thus armed, Burke grimly realized that he had not one plan in his head.

  As he hurriedly drew on his cloak, he was aware for the first time of his new proximity to her and suffered unbearable anticipation at

  the thought of seeing her again. These thoughts caused him to increase his speed, cloak adjusted as he took the stairs running, not stopping until he saw his carriage and driver.

  "Just a brief trip," he called up, "three miles north, then the rest of the evening is yours."

  The driver nodded. "Whatever you say, sir. The horses, though, they could do with a bit of a rest."

  "And they shall have it, I promise. Soon." As he drew himself up into the carriage he called back, "Go slow once out of town. I'm not absolutely certain what I'm looking for."

  And he wasn't. In fact he'd passed it by when he glanced out the rear window and saw the deserted dirt road, the beginning of a crumbling driveway and a small, weathered sign, obscured by overgrown brush, which read: Miss Veal's School for Females.

  He drew down the window. "Wait! Turn about."

  As he swung down out of the carriage, he looked up at the mystery on the driver's face and said simply, "I won't be too long," and headed at a rapid pace back to the beginning of the driveway.

  He had gone about thirty yards when he stopped and tried to peer ahead into the fast falling dusk. From where he stood he saw nothing but the black traceries of dead trees against the darker sky, and suddenly it occurred to him that Miss Veal's establishment, whatever it was, could be located miles ahead. Even now his sense of isolation was acute. Hard to believe that less than three miles away lay Cheltenham.

  About ten minutes later, just when he was convinced that he was follov^dng a dead-end, through the thick winter foliage he caught sight of a single light, proof that someone was residing in these impenetrable woods.

  He increased his pace to a trot, keeping well to the shadows, took a final turn and there it was, an immense structure, Tudor was his guess, the entrance flanked by pinnacles with domed caps which shot up like the minarets of some Persian mosque.

  He moved as close as he dared and saw that the crumbling driveway culminated in a cobblestone courtyard, hardly visible beneath the carpet of dead and blowing leaves, and the most awesome aspect of the spectral mansion was that, for all its size, only one lamp was burning behind the drawn drapes of the first floor, casting a diffuse light.

  Twice he surveyed the grim fagade and on the second inspection made another bleak observation. Out of all those rows of chimneys on the roof, not one showed signs of smoke. There was no fire within, no warmth.

  No, Mary was not here. Elizabeth was wrong. Even so consummate a bastard as John Murrey Eden would not abandon his cousin in this frozen and isolated prison. Convinced of this, he turned away, stepped back to the pavement and had taken about four steps when his thoughts stopped him.

  He had to make certain. He'd traveled a great distance under difficult circumstances. Why would Elizabeth lie to him? He remembered well her reaction when she had discovered the second note. She had been convinced of Eden's manipulative hand behind Mary's ordeal.

  No, Elizabeth had not lied to him. Of course, there was always the possibihty that Eden had lied to her, had merely told her that he had deposited Mary here.

  For several minutes the battle raged. Occasionally he glanced back over his shoulder toward the mansion, as though perhaps he'd failed to see an important clue. But each time he saw nothing that he'd not seen the first time. Certainly no human life could exist within, not for long.

  At last the battle was over, terminated by a simple though dreaded resolution. Come morning, in some fashion, operating on some deception, he would seek entrance and see for himself and, as desperately as he wanted to find her, he prayed silently that he would not.


  Then he was running, not even bothering to keep to the shadows, for shadows covered all now, his mind moving in a hundred directions at once, the problem simple.

  All he needed was for that front door to swing open to him and one hour in which to launch his search. Surely he could accomplish it. He had to accomplish it.

  But how?

  Miss Veal's School for Females January 14, 1871

  Sick with worry over the condition of Mary Eden and outraged that Miss Veal had refused the night before to send for the doctor in Cheltenham, Frieda took a last look at that feverish face, saw her shivering beneath the single coverlet, grabbed the two bricks, now cold, from the foot of the bed and decided to take matters into her own hands.

  She looked down on Mary and saw not one aspect of hope. Her eyes were closed as they had been all night, though not in sleep, the mouth partially open in an attempt to breathe over the rattling congestion in her lungs. But the worst of all was that constant shivering, as though in spite of her raging fever she could not get warm.

  "Damn her!" Frieda cursed aloud, seeing in memory Miss Veal's face the night before when she had glared at the lifeless figure in Frieda's arms and had pronounced, "Malingering, that's all. Give her a dose of salts and oil and she will be on her feet come morning."

  On her feet, Frieda thought, still angry. It was her untutored opinion that Miss Veal's "maHngerer" was on the verge of becoming a corpse.

  "I'll be right back," she whispered to the girl, aware that she 'couldn't hear but saying it anyway. Carefully she tucked the two bricks under the concealment of her apron and started out into the corridor, pleased to find it empty.

  At the top of the stairs she paused, stymied by one enormous obstacle. How could she discover if Miss Veal was in the front parlor? Sometimes she took her morning tea there, but occasionally she spent the early-morning hours in the kitchen, badgering the kitchen staff.

  Well, if she encountered Miss Veal she would tell her straightway that the "malingerer" was not on her feet this morning and she'd best come look for herself.