The Women of Eden

by Marilyn Harris

  "Mother, this is—"

  "Do you have any idea who sent this lovely fruit, Burke?" she asked, holding up the pear as well for his inspection. "They arrived yesterday without so much as a card. Now who do we know who

  would be so thoughtful?" she went on, her voice striking the silence like something soft and boneless, her words a liquid stream, each connected to the other.

  "If you ask me," she said, "it was that nice Mr. John Thadeus Delane. Yes, that's who, Fm certain. Did I tell you he called twice during your rude absence? He did. Quite an attentive gentleman, even though he is foreign."

  Mary held her place several steps removed from the woman, aware that she was being ignored, yet fascinated by the remains of what once must have been a dazzlingly beautiful woman. All the evidence was still there in the high, classic cheekbones, the curved angle of the jaw, the violet eyes imbedded in equally violet shadows that continued to study the pear as though it were the most fascinating object in the world.

  In a rapid movement she lifted the pear and sliced it in half, the sun catching on the fast-moving knife.

  "Here." She smiled sweetly, extending half of the pear to Burke. "You look wretched."

  Taken aback by the offering, Burke started forward, then stopped, retraced his steps, grasped Mary's hand, this time taking her with him.

  "Mother, this is Mary Eden," he said, his voice forceful, as though trying to cut through the foolish subject of fruit.

  Those violet eyes were upon her, though they appeared to have gone blank. Struggling against a temptation to turn and flee the awkward encounter, Mary ventured forward until she stood less than three feet before the woman.

  As the reciprocal inspection stretched on, she was on the verge of retreating when the woman motioned for her to come closer and, without hesitation, Mary did so, only to see that blue-veined hand which still clasped the knife reach up for her face, two bony fingers possessing surprising strength holding her fast.

  "Forgive an old woman, my dear"—she smiled, their faces only inches apart—"but my failing eyesight makes this rude inspection necessary. I have a right, don't you agree, to see the face of the woman who has stolen my son."

  Embarrassed, Mary did well to murmur, "I hope I didn't steal anything, Mrs. Stanhope, I—"

  "No, of course not!" The woman laughed lightly, at last releasing her and turning her attention back to the fruit, slicing off a smaller

  portion and popping it into her mouth. Everything in the room seemed to wait upon her chewing. Mary felt herself almost mesmerized by the ugliness and the tension.

  "No, of course you didn't steal anything/' Mrs. Stanhope repeated. "From what Burke tells me, he's the thief. He's the one who kidnapped you and—"

  "Mother, we would like tea," Burke interrupted. "Will you pour, or shall I?"

  Waving the knife before her, Mrs. Stanhope murmured, "You do it, my dearest. My hands are unsteady of late. I'd more than likely spill it and embarrass you."

  As Burke moved toward the table, she added not unkindly to Mary, "And do help yourself, child. You both look as though you forgot altogether to eat during your escapade."

  Wordlessly Mary accepted a cup of steaming tea from Burke and read the message of encouragement and love in his eyes and selected a small sandwich from the platter and stood, as self-conscious as she'd ever felt in her life.

  With the half-eaten pear still suspended in one hand, Mrs. Stanhope seemed to sit in a state of suspended animation, her eyes fixed on Mary. "You were pretty once," she said, "and you might be again, though it's hard to tell.

  "Come, sit here near me," Mrs. Stanhope said, pouting. "I must see who has stolen Burke from me."

  There it was again, that pouting, small-girl quahty. And, to Mary's distress, she saw Burke arrange a second chair directly in front of the old woman.

  As she sat in the appointed place, Mary felt a hot flush on her face. Burke offered her another cup of tea, but she said "No" and felt his hand close about hers in reassurance.

  His mother saw it, as well, and from where Mary sat she saw the facade drop, the old woman looking as stricken as though someone had driven a knife into her breast. Not wanting to inflict hurt, Mary withdrew her hand and searched her mind for a safe topic of conversation. Her eyes fell on a small basket of needlework half-concealed beneath the skirt of the table. "Yours?" Mary smiled, pointing toward the basket, convinced that it was a harmless topic.

  But the woman failed to respond. She seemed to be studying the knife, the delicate ivory handle, the joint which connected the handle to the blade.

  "How long will you be here?" she asked.

  Burke replied, "I told you, Mother. She's here for purposes of recuperation, as my guest."

  "She doesn't look ill."

  "I assure you she has been very ill. She needs rest and peace and—"

  "Why does she have to come here? Has it ever occurred to you that her family may have good reasons for not taking her back?"

  As the voice rose it became less soft and musical. Mary bowed her head. She'd never known such mortification. It was not working. It might tomonow, or the day after, but not now.

  "Burke, may I be excused?" she asked, starting to her feet.

  "No!"

  The harsh word, so unexpected, slammed against her. Shocked, she looked up to see the full weight of his anger directed at his mother.

  "No," he repeated, softer this time, sitting on the edge of his chair, reaching for Mary's hand. "I want to say something and I want you here when I say it."

  He renewed his grasp on her hand, as though fearful she might flee the room prematurely. "Look at us!" he commanded his mother.

  When at first she did not, he repeated: "Look at us. Mother, and grow accustomed to the sight. I mean what I said earlier. I intend to marry her just as soon as possible and, while I would like your blessing, I do not require it."

  He paused, as though giving the words a chance to register with that wandering mind.

  "Did you hear me. Mother?"

  Then she did, for she looked up, her face contorted with grief, and suddenly the handkerchief was pressed into service, covering her eyes, as the tears came.

  The sound and sight of grieving resurrected other memories within Mary and represented all the losses she had ever suffered and, much to her surprise, she felt a bond of affection for the old, half-mad woman. Without knowing what she was going to do, she went down on her knees before her and grasped her hands.

  "Mrs. Stanhope, please," she begged. "There's no need. Burke's love for me does not in any way affect his love for you. You must understand that and believe it. I have no desire to displace you in his affection or come between you in any way. Instead of cutting off his love for you, please let me contribute to it. I would very likely be

  dead by now if it weren't for him and, since you gave him life, then my debt of gratitude is to you as much as it is to him. Do you understand what I am saying?"

  She wasn't certain whether the woman had heard or not. Then the tears seemed to subside. The old woman looked down on her, an expression on her face which was impossible for Mary to read.

  "You are—ver>' kind," she said. Then she looked at Burke. "'When —will you marr}'?" she asked.

  "As soon as possible."

  She stared at him for ever so long. "Then it shall be." Her head fell back against the cushions of her chair. "You both must forgive a very rude and thoughtless old lady. If I've inflicted pain, I'm sorry. If I've caused—"

  "No need," Mar}' said, trying to relieve her of the need for an apology. "I'm certain that in time we will become fast friends. I would like that very much and I would hope—"

  All at once that thin hand lifted and began another inspection of Mary's face. No longer weeping, Mrs. Stanhope viewed her with quiet melancholy.

  "You will be beautiful again!" She smiled sadly. "Under the effects of my son's love you will become ravishingly beautiful."

  In spite of the blush on her face, Mary h
eld still, something within her suggesting that it would be best to let the woman talk herself out.

  "Leave me now, both of you," Mrs. Stanhope whispered, "I'm not fit company. Perhaps tomorrow I'll make a fresh start. I'm good at fresh starts, aren't I, Burke?"

  "Yes, Mother." He smiled, lifting the bowl from her lap.

  Mary moved back, weakened by her kneeling position and the tension of the occasion. She watched as Burke bent over and kissed his mother. "Sleep now. Tomorrow we'll talk some more."

  "No more talk," she said. "I'm tired—so tired—"

  As her voice drifted, Mary watched, amazed at how rapidly sleep had descended. Neither spoke until they were in the corridor outside. Then, as alwa}^, words were not as effective as the closeness of an embrace. "I'm so sorry," he murmured. Sensing new weakness in her, and in a way apologizing for the recent ordeal, he lifted her into his arms and carried her back down the corridor to her chamber.

  Inside the room he placed her on the bed, remained bent over her

  long enough for a kiss, then almost paternally he counseled, "You sleep, as well. I'll send Florence to you. If you need anything—"

  "I need only you," she said, wishing that he would sit on the side of the bed forever. Then she saw the fatigue in his face and remembered the countless nights when he'd not closed his eyes at all.

  "Oh, my dearest," she whispered, and he was in her arms again, the nature of their closeness changing rapidly. She felt his hand on the small of her back, as though he were trying to lift her to him, his face buried in her neck, his breath warm against her flesh. As his hand commenced a loving caress of her breast, she shut her eyes. Though close, they were not close enough and, in spite of their mutual fatigue, or because of it, she drew him yet closer, cursing the barrier of their garments, unmindful of anything but the need vvdthin her.

  His suffering was as acute, she was convinced of it, and with night breathing peace on all sides, he raised up and stared down on her.

  He had just loosened the top buttons of her dress when suddenly a knock came at the door. Their eyes met in a moment of shared desolation. "Who is it?" he called out.

  "It's me, Florence. I thought the young lady might enjoy—"

  Mary tried to hide a smile, and tried even harder to still those sen-sate points within her.

  "I'm afraid they're determined to keep us proper," he muttered. "Wait a minute," he called out to the closed door, then returned for a final kiss and whispered plea. "Marry me soon," he begged, "and I'll put a bolt on that door, and anyone who knocks will do so at their own risk!"

  "Mr. Burke, are you in there? I know you are!"

  In answer to Florence's insistent voice, Burke stood up from the bed and shouted, "I'm coming!" At the door he looked back at her, the longing clear in his face. "Sleep well. Tomorrow we'll make plans."

  She nodded and rejoined the loosened buttons, sensing that a puritan would shortly enter the room.

  And she did. As her sharp old eyes darted about, Florence stepped briskly past Burke and carried a dinner tray to the side of the bed. "Soup," she pronounced flatly. "And I brought you a nightdress."

  "Thank you," Mary murmured, pushing up to a sitting position. At the door she saw Burke still watching.

  Florence saw him as well. "You run along now, Mr. Burke," she

  scolded, as though he were a boy of five. "Charles is waiting to tend you."

  Burke nodded, though he lingered long enough to throw her a kiss, which she received gratefully before turning her attention to the fussy old woman who was moving a small table to the edge of the bed, then placing the dinner tray on it.

  "Eat!" she commanded. "Ain't enough flesh on you for a man to grab hold of."

  As she finished the broth and permitted Florence to undress her, she felt a curious lassitude extend to all parts of her mind and body. For the first time in her life she enjoyed an almost dazzling simplicity of vision. There was only one path that led to only one future. And both led to Burke. Her days as a fugitive were over. She was connected in heart and soul and mind and, one day soon, body. Never again would the world change its shape. It was fixed and she with it, and, while there might be hazards like Caroline Stanhope, there would never again be terror or defeat.

  Garbed in the clean white nightdress, she lay back against the pillows, her eyes heavy with sleep.

  "Thank you," she murmured to the woman standing at the foot of the bed. She had wanted to say more, but her mind called a recess and she slipped instantly into a healing sleep, the long nightmare over, her head filled with luminous dreams.

  She awakened to darkness, though beyond the window she saw the first pale streaks of light altering the night sky. She lay still, not absolutely certain where she was. As the familiar contours of the room appeared before her, she sat up, feeling remarkably restored.

  She dressed quickly in the chill room, drawing on the black dress for what she hoped would be the last time. Never had she felt so suffused with love. She wanted to explore everything—the house, the gardens, the closed rooms which she'd observed the night before.

  Thus dressed and groomed to the best of her ability, she stood and pondered the miracle of her resurrection. The clock was ticking on the bureau. Six-thirty. From someplace in the house she smelled the good odor of breakfast. She was starved. And was Burke still abed? He won't be for long, she thought, and smiled mischievously as she pondered the countless ways in which she might awaken him. How was it possible that her existence less than a month ago had been unbearable? How was any of it possible, that she would be standing

  here, her heart filled to such an extent that she felt tears in her eyes. Happiness was as great a hazard as grief. Both had to be assimilated gradually.

  Ready for movement, for the sound of human voices, for the touch of a specific hand, she took a last look in her glass and saw her face bathed in the rosy light of dawn and hurried out into the corridor where she saw Florence just climbing the stairs, bearing a heavily laden tray which gave off irresistible odors, and heading toward the closed double doors which led to Mrs. Stanhope's chambers.

  "Florence, waitl" she called out, and saw the old woman glance surprised in her direction.

  "You're up and about early," she scolded, climbing to the top of the stairs, where she paused for breath.

  Mary smiled. "I slept the night through, and I've never felt better, thanks to you and your kindness."

  Embarrassed, Florence ducked her head and covered the moment with characteristic gruffness. "Well, you'll have to wait your turn for breakfast. This here is for Mrs. Stanhope. She's—"

  An idea occurred to Mary. "Let me take it in," she suggested.

  "Oh, no, I couldn't-"

  "Please, Florence," she begged. "I used to take my mother her breakfast and nothing pleased her more."

  Still the old woman hesitated. But the idea had taken root in Mary's head. Perhaps in the kindness of an early-moming encounter, the harshness of last evening would be forgotten.

  "Please, Florence. It's important to me."

  At last the old woman relented. "Well, I'm not saying she's going to like it," she muttered, passing the tray over to Mary. "She likes things the way she's been accustomed to them, but maybe—**

  "Thank you."

  "See to it that she eats, you hear?" Florence added, pushing open the door for Mary to pass through. Without warning the stern face softened. "She always wanted a daughter. I've heard her say it thousands of times."

  Grateful for the supportive words, Mary smiled her thanks, renewed her grasp on the tray and turned to face the large chamber which, to her surprise, was aglow with every lamp burning.

  Mary glanced at the four-poster at the end of the room and saw only a mound of down comforts, three or four at least, and remem-

  bered how her mother used to complain of night cold, something about the blood thinning with age, she assumed.

  The weight of the tray was beginning to make her arms tremble and she moved toward the be
d, never taking her eyes off the still head resting on the pillow.

  Carefully she placed the tray on the bedside table, monitoring that face closely for signs of consciousness. Still sleeping? Then how to awaken her gently with news of breakfast and soft reassurances that she'd come in love?

  She stepped back from the table and was just approaching the side of the bed when her foot struck something. Looking down, she saw a glint of silver, a familiar carved ivory handle, the paring knife which she recognized from the night before. Stooping to retrieve it, her hand was just going down when she noticed what appeared to be moisture, something red and glistening slipping out from underneath the comforts, culminating in a slight though steady stream.

  Her hand, still moving toward the knife, altered its course. Two fingers moved toward the curious moisture, touched it, then slowly drew back and presented themselves for her inspection.

  It was sticky, quite thick, like-Suddenly she looked up to the side of the bed, traced the river to its source someplace beneath the comforts, her mind unfortunately moving ahead of her hand, connecting instantly the presence of the knife with—

  No!

  Had she screamed? Someone was screaming. Yet why did she seem blanketed in silence, and why was she drawing back the comforts to see what she had already seen, those thin arms l}dng limp beside that skeletal body, the comforts, the ivory dressing gown, everj^thing, floating in blood, the wTists severed, turned upward at a rigid angle, as though she were a suppHcant presenting evidence of her deed to a higher authority.

  Reflexively, Mary stepped back from the horror, though the sight followed after her, boring into her brain. Quickly she reached out for the bedposts in need of support. As she grabbed hold, the bed moved, the head on the pillow stirred, as though she were awakening from a night's sleep.