"Have mercy," Richard protested, as Aslam commenced to arrange the chess pieces for the fourth game. 'Three defeats in one evening are enough for any man." He smiled and glanced toward the clock beyond the Billiard Room.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, on his feet and stiflF from the sedentary position. "A quarter until twelve. Come, let's rescue Eleanor and make for White's. I'm starved."
Reluctantly Aslam concurred and began carefully to arrange the small ivory chess pieces in the velvet chest. "You play very well, Richard," he said generously. "Up to a point. And then your mind wanders. At the very moment when you should be most alert to my queen you seem mentally to drift off."
Richard laughed at the accurate assessment of his chess capabilities and settled into the chair again. "The story of my life, I'm afraid," he said, enjoying the companionship of the young man, watching with bemused resignation the meticulous manner in which he was storing the chess pieces. Based on experience, Richard knew they would be detained for at least another quarter of an hour. Every piece had to go in just so, a few receiving a loving polishing from the young man, who at eighteen could qualify as a chess master.
In the distance, coming from the Ballroom, Richard heard the sounds of a waltz. Strange how he looked forward to seeing Eleanor again and he hoped that she wouldn't be too angry with him. Of course he'd have to tender countless apologies to John as well. But no matter—he was feeling well, better than he had a right to feel.
considering the bottomless pit of grief out of which he'd recently climbed.
Bertie.
The man still went with him everywhere, but in Lady Eleanor's constant companionship the pain eased. He did like her company and he enjoyed as well the ease of their comings and goings. In public places, restaurants, galleries, no one looked askance at them, those weighted looks which he and Bertie had received so often. Somehow now he felt "proper," and after years of fear and apprehension it was as though a weight had been lifted.
Of course there were awesome questions in his relationship with Eleanor. For one, there was no physical attraction on his part and he hoped that she would not press for more.
"Richard." The inquiring voice belonged to Aslam. "Are you well?"
Richard nodded and walked away, in an attempt to cancel his emotion while he could still control it. "Put your treasures to bed," he called back. "We have an apology to tender and a lady to rescue."
After having aimlessly circled the room twice, he returned to the chess table to see Aslam absentmindedly polishing the head of a queen. "Let me help," Richard offered, convinced that they both needed movement and the distraction of Eleanor's warm personality.
"I'll do it," Aslam snapped.
Richard lifted his hands to stay the annoyance and leaned back in his chair and tried to fill his head with safe thoughts.
"Richard?"
He looked up at the voice. "Yes?"
Aslam bowed his head as though now that he had Richard's attention he didn't know what to do with it. It was while his head was still down that he asked a peculiar question. "Are you—happy?"
Richard almost laughed, but didn't, seeing the seriousness with which the question had been asked. In an attempt to honor that seriousness, he answered truthfully, "No, not happy. But I'm reasonably content, more so perhaps than I have a right to be."
Aslam looked up. "Were you happier at Cambridge?"
Although baffled by the questions, Richard responded honestiy, "Yes, happier than I've ever been in my life."
"Why?"
"I felt, rightiy or vnrongly, that I was being productive, was contributing in a small way."
"And you don't feel that now?"
Richard smiled. "What am I doing here but living a life of pampered luxury? You at least have your studies in the Temple, and John calls on your services from time to time." He rubbed his eyes as though to dismiss the vision of a useless life. "All he asks of me is that I smile on cue and dress properly and be charming to pretty ladies."
"Will you ever go back to Cambridge?"
A most peculiar line of questioning! "I don't know. It has occurred to me. But—"
Again the past and all its pain rose up before him: Bertie laughing; Bertie racing across the Commons, late as always; Bertie counseling a young reader with wisdom and tenderness; Bertie's hand; Bertie ... He lowered his head, aware of the emotion in his face and equally aware that he lacked the vwll to hide it.
While he was still struggling for control, there came another question. "You—miss him, don't you?" Aslam whispered. "Professor Nichols, I mean."
Sweet God, what is the boy doing? "Yes," Richard said, angry at the senseless conversation. "Now hurry. Eleanor's waiting and—"
"Then why didn't you come?" Aslam persisted.
Still recoiling from the earlier questions, Richard looked baffled across the table. "Come—where?"
"John said that you would be there, said that all he wanted was to speak to you, to both of you."
Bewilderment increasing, Richard confessed, "I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about, Aslam. Come where? Speak to whom?"
Aslam ceased to lavish attention on the chess set and returned Richard's stare. "That night in Cambridge," he said, "that terrible night at Professor Nichols'. John told me that he had stopped by your flat earlier and that you had promised to be there."
Richard looked up. The room had gone still around him. "Be-where?"
"At Professor Nichols'," Aslam said impatiently.
Richard wasn't faring so well himself. All the fragments of half-information seemed to assault his mind, and he had the curious sensation that if he rose to his feet he could not stand. "John saw—Bertie?" he asked, hoping that something would be denied.
"Of course," Aslam explained, "and you were to have been there as well. John said—"
"What did John say?"
Aslam appeared to be suffering embarrassment. "He—knew everything-"
"What do you mean, 'everything'?"
"You know," the boy protested, "that you were Sodomites." His face flushed, his eyes became confused. "Neither of us had any idea that Professor Nichols would—"
At that point in the room where earlier the fire had blazed there now, in silence, crept masses of shadows which consumed all the light and warmth. In the manner of a self-flagellate, Richard wanted to know more. He tried to speak and thought he had, but as there was only silence about him, he tried again with all the remaining strength at his disposal.
"What—did John say to Bertie?" he whispered, trying to fight off the image of the noose.
It was Aslam who felt that enough had been said and, as he closed the chess case with a snap, he said, "No matter. John did what he thought was best and, of course, he had no way of knowing—"
Suddenly Richard felt himself driven forward by a force that literally lifted him to his feet. His hand, which never in his life had been raised in violence to anyone, moved as though of its own accord, grabbing Aslam's jacket and holding fast. "Tell me," he demanded, "what was said." When the boy either couldn't or wouldn't speak, Richard shouted, "Te/Z mel"
Aslam stood motionless, terrified. "He told Professor—Nichols to —leave England," he stammered. "He said it was for the best, for both of you. He said no charges would be brought if—he left right away. If he didn't he said he would have both of you—anested—"
The darkness steadily thickened. It was as though a ragged wound incompletely healed had been opened and the pain and odor of infection had been loosened. Stumbling on the leg of the chair, Richard stepped back.
He would have both of you arrested. . . .
"Richard, please. It's over. I—thought you knew."
"No!" Richard whispered in an attempt to digest what was now a double horror. Bertie dead and John behind it. John the cause, John-He took another step backward, then turned and ran, his initial
instinct to seek out the fiend himself and relieve him of life, as he had relieved Bertie.
But as he reached the Entrance Hall he changed his mind, and chose the direct path which led to the front door, pushing past gaping stewards and Alex Aldwell, intent only on putting as much distance as possible between himself and this place of evil.
The first blast of cold January air greeted him like a slap in the face. He found his carriage and shouted up an indefinite direction of "Drive!" and, just as his strength deserted him, he fell across the cold cushions and wept openly for the double loss of the two main supports in his life, Bertie Nichols and John Murrey Eden. Both were dead to him now and would remain so for the rest of his life.
Alex Aldwell stood in the doorway of the Belgrave Square mansion and tried to make sense out of what was going on. Damn—I have to straddle two worlds, that's the trouble! He glanced back up the stairs where the music was going on, then turned his attention to the lower entrance hall where the disintegration was going on. As always, John was no place in sight, leaving it all up to Alex to hold the pieces together.
He stared glumly down at the letter in his hand which had just been delivered by a road-dusty courier all the way from Cheltenham, or so the bloke said. In consideration, Alex had sent him down to the kitchen for food, and now peered out at Lord Richard's rapidly departing carriage.
Something was going on, but what in the hell he had no idea. First, about ten minutes ago, that young lady—what was her name? Lady Eleanor—had come running down the stairs without a goodbye, hello or thank you, and had disappeared into the night. Alex had tried to stop her but she'd not even taken time to fetch her cloak.
While he'd still been pondering that mystery, here came Lord Richard, almost knocking down a couple of stewards in his speedy exit.
A moment after that Aslam had appeared, looking like something passed over, though unlike the other two who had raced out the front door, the boy's goal had been at the top of the house, for he'd taken the steps upward three at a time.
Just as Alex had started up the stairs after him, a steward had summoned his attention to the front door and the courier, who had in-
formed him in rural dialect that "This here were to be placed direct in the hands of Mr. John Murrey Eden."
As he started again up the stairs, he wished that John would release him from all these "socializing" duties. He didn't do them well, and they exhausted him. He was best suited by nature and training to be a foreman of men and he was never happier than when he was watching the giant shovels break virgin ground for some new building project for John Murrey Firm.
His thoughts took him all the way up the stairs to the fourth floor, where behind the closed door he heard John's voice raised in anger. Alex lifted his hand, knocked once and peered in to see John in his dressing gown hovering over Aslam, who was seated on the sofa with bowed head.
"You idiot!" he shouted. "Dolt!"
"I—thought—he knew," Aslam stammered.
"Get out!" John commanded. "The sight of you sickens me. Get out!"
As the young man stumbled upward, then past him, Alex moved to one side, and his heart went out to him. He looked bereft. Alex made a mental note to seek him out later and remind him that John's rages frequently meant nothing.
"What do you want?" John demanded, summoning Alex's attention back to the chamber.
Experienced enough not to be intimidated by this complex man, Alex smiled. "How did the lad err, John?" he asked.
"That's none of your business!" John snapped. "What is it?"
He was testy tonight. "This was just delivered," Alex said, approaching the fireplace and the man brooding before it, "by special courier. I was told to place it in your hands direct."
John looked up. "What is it?"
"From Cheltenham it is. Do you want me to read it?"
John stared at the letter as though it were a curse from God. "Please do, Alex," he murmured and pushed away from the mantel and made his way to the sideboard, where he poured a brandy, dovmed it in one gulp, then leaned heavily forward.
Considerately Alex waited, thinking that the brandy would fortify him. But when he continued to stand in that stiffened manner, Alex slipped his finger beneath the seal, withdrew a single piece of paper and read the brief message for himself.
Dear Lord—
He glanced back at John. What were the fates trying to do? Destroy him? "It's from that—Miss Veal," he said, wishing that he'd sent a steward up with the letter. "She says she is compelled to inform you that—Lady Mary Eden has run away from the school and, while she is exerting every effort to locate her, the search thus far has been fruitless and she wishes for you to release her from any further responsibility."
Alex braced himself for new outrage, suspecting that this time it would be aimed at him. There was always a point of confusion between the message and the messenger. Thus armed with understanding, Alex continued to wait. Well, where was it? The outrage?
But it never came, though what did occur was worse. John lifted his head to the ceiling, as though he were silently entreating the Divinity to have mercy. "I'll leave for Cheltenham tomorrow. See that my carriage is ready."
That was all. He walked slowly into his bedchamber and closed the door behind him, and Alex was left alone, staring at the closed door, searching his memories of his long association with John Murrey Eden trying to recall a similar reaction.
But he couldn't. The fury of a lifetime apparently had been depleted and in its place was—what?
Though weakened by shame, Eleanor had retained enough strength and presence of mind to know that she must flee the house, and accordingly she had run cloakless out into the night and had taken refuge in one of the waiting hansom cabs.
Shivering from cold and her recent humiliation, she had drawn the fur rug up about her and had just been on the verge of giving the driver the address of her father's town house when, looking back, she had seen Richard leave the house.
In desperate need, she'd dared to hope that he was coming after her. But no. Something in his manner suggested a crucible at least as great as her own and, motivated by love, she'd waited until his carriage had passed her by, then had given her driver instructions to follow after.
For over an hour the carriages had cut an aimless path up and dovm the London streets and, just when she had despaired that he would ever select a destination, she saw his carriage roll to a stop on a high plateau on the outskirts of London overlooking the Heath.
Certain that he had seen the cab and must know that he was
being followed, she waited about twenty yards away. When there still was no sign of life coming from within the carriage, she left her cab and walked across the brown stubble of grass, the wind even sharper up here, until she stood at his carriage door, trying to see him through the darkness.
"Richard?"
Then she saw him and saw too much, saw a face which resembled a dead man's, his eyes staring at her as though in his mysterious grief he didn't recognize her.
Unable to abide such a look, and forgetting her own recent ordeal, she climbed up into the carriage and was instantly rewarded with the most treasured gift of her imagination, his arms about her in embrace, the two of them clinging to each other, comforting and being comforted.
For several moments they held each other with no words spoken. It was clear to her that tv^dn nightmares had brought them together and, while the specifics of his were still unknown to her, all that mattered was that they were together.
"Let's leave London," she whispered, and while there was no positive response there were no objections either.
In spite of everything that had happened, with the practicality and strength that was basic to her nature, she took control, sensing that he would always let her take control.
"Let's go to Forbes Hall," she murmured, smoothing his brow as though he were an injured child. "You'll like it there, I know."
Still, when there was no objection coming from the drawn face, she took matters into her own hands, extended her purse out the window to his driver with instructi
ons to pay oflF the cab, then, with a daring which left her breathless, gave him directions to her childhood home in Kent.
"Make an easy drive of it," she called out. "Noon tomorrow should see us safely there.**
As the carriage rolled forward she drew up the fur rug over both of them and looked again at his face.
"Oh, my darhng," she whispered and drew him close and felt his hand tighten on hers beneath the rug.
Giving herself wholly to the rocking motion of the carriage, she closed her eyes, impressed with the ability of the world to transform itself so rapidly from a nightmare to a dream.
Oxford January 17, 1871
For three days and two nights Burke maintained a constant vigil at her bedside, never once leaving the small room, never leaving his chair except to receive fresh linen and a bit of food now and then from Giffen at the door. Approaching the third night, his hope diminishing in exhaustion and fear, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared down on her, searching for the slightest change in the premature death mask.
But there was nothing, even less today than yesterday when she'd passed through a restless period, cr^'ing out several times in her delirium. It could not persist. The old physician had said as much. Tonight, tomorrow at the latest, the fever would either break or kill her.
"No," he whispered and shook his head, as though to postpone the inevitable. Fearing the night, he turned up the lamp and, as it flared brightly he allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes and tried to remember the circumstances which had led him here to this death watch.
In need as acute as any he'd ever experienced, he stretched out his hand in another direction, toward her, and let it rest on her arm. He prayed silently that if Death came for her, let it take him as well.
How long he remained thus he had no idea. He must have lost consciousness, though it could scarcely be called sleep. Now what was that dragging him back from that safe darkness?
With his face pressed against her hand, he felt movement, so slight as to be hardly discernible, some force moving her hand, the fingers extending . . .
He raised up. Had he imagined it? Had he wanted movement so desperately that he had conjured it up by himself? He continued to stare with such intensity at her hand that it grew blurred before his eyes and, as though viewing it under water, he saw it again, the fingers straightening, the entire hand lifting.
The Women of Eden Page 56