The Women of Eden

by Marilyn Harris

  The mysterious screams inside Mary's head had grovra silent and all she heard now was a child whimpering, a sound so slight that it could not begin to drown out the terror coming from the bed, the

  old woman staring up at her from out of a sunken face. Her eyes opened and fixed on Mary. "I—had hoped you would come in time, and now you have."

  In response Mary shook her head, as though with that simple movement to deny what she saw, what she heard.

  "You see, my dear," the old woman went on with effort, "I could never compete with you alive. But dead—" A radiant smile covered those colorless features. "Dead, I'll defeat you. My ghost will lie between you and my son every night. At first he will blame himself. But he will blame you in the end, and how wretched you both will be!"

  "No, please-"

  "I—wish you only—heartache." The woman sighed. Suddenly her fingers curled in a convulsive movement, the blood spilling out from her wrists increased. In a final effort she turned her head until she was facing Mary directly, her eyes opened, though fixed and staring.

  Clinging to the post, Mary tried to back away from that gaze. But she seemed to be locked on the horror, all breath deserting her, as recently it had deserted the old woman.

  The child was whimpering again, a mindless repetition of one word. 'TSIo. No. No—" The rest of the chamber fell away, and she was left suspended on one small high pinnacle, clinging to the post, knowing that if she moved in any direction she, too, would fall.

  Yet, given a conscious choice between those staring eyes and that dead face smiling, she willingly chose the abyss and took the distressed child with her and felt herself spiraling through a black emptiness which, though frightening, was preferable to the world she'd left behind. . . .

  Two weeks after Caroline Stanhope's funeral, John Thadeus Delane sat in the library of the Mayfair house and silently thanked whatever God had looked over him all these years for sparing him the agony of a passionate love.

  The face opposite him on the sofa bore no resemblance to the man he'd known as a boy. This face, lined with recent grief and new worry, belonged to an old man who had, on too many occasions, been pushed to the limits of endurance.

  "What precisely is it that you want me to do, Burke?" he prodded gently.

  When Burke did not answer, Delane leaned back against the cush-

  525 ions, relying on the philosophy that had served him well all his life. Put everything into perspective, then form as objective a judgment as possible.

  This, then, was Delane's dispassionate judgment: with the exception of Caroline Stanhope's suicide, the whole affair had all the melodramatic aspects of a penny novel—the abducted female spirited out from under the nose of her keeper, a romantic illness in a country inn, the invalid brought back and ensconced in her lover's house, where now she suffered a setback, a mysterious illness beyond the diagnostic powers of modem medicine.

  Pleased with his sensible assessment, Delane looked at his friend and felt his pleasure diminishing. There was nothing false or melodramatic about that face, his jaw lined with a stubble of rough beard, his hands visibly trembling as he shielded his eyes from the midmorning sun.

  Moved by the sight in spite of his objectivity, Delane leaned tor-ward, ready to help in whatever way he could, though his initial impulse was to lecture. Hadn't he warned Burke months ago agamst any involvement with the Eden girl? "What can I do?" he asked simply. "For your own good you must find relief soon."

  Burke lowered his hands, revealing every detail of his face, the eyes heavy from lack of sleep. He had been a model of strength at his mother's funeral. The disintegration had commenced later with the girl's mysterious illness, the inability of the doctors to help her.

  Standing before Delane, he requested, "Will you see her? Please?

  Everything in Delane resisted. "I'm not a medical man."

  "I trust your judgment."

  "I don't even know what to look for."

  "I did not bring her all this way to lose her!"

  "You should never have become involved in the first place.

  "I had no choice." ,

  There was something helpless in Burke's voice that suggested he had never spoken a greater truth.

  Then nothing to do but go and play medical man. As he rose from the sofa it occurred to him that he was curious about this cousm of John Murrey Eden's, this remarkable young woman who had captured the heart of one of London's most pre-eminent bachelors.

  With a look of gratitude Burke led the way up the stairs, where thev encountered Florence just coming down, her normally neutral face showing the strain of this household for the last few weeks.

  "I bathed her, Mr. Burke," she said, "but she wouldn't eat."

  Burke nodded, a resignation in his manner which suggested he'd heard those words before. Halfway up the stairs, his pace slowed and, with rising sympathy, Delane tried to move him rapidly past the closed door which had been his mother's death chamber. The young Eden woman had discovered her, or so Burke had told him the day of the funeral.

  Delane stared at the closed door, suffering a sudden understanding of Mary Eden's illness. He'd seen severed wrists before. Only last year Lord Addison had chosen the method rather than facing the scandal of adultery. Delane had been one of the first on the scene. The image had stayed with him for weeks.

  Then they were standing before a smaller door at the end of the corridor, and the sense of the moment grew strong within him. If another death occurred—and what a spectacular death this one would be, John Murrey Eden descending like a wrath from God, the scandal of Mary Eden ensconced in Burke's household.

  As the potential for disaster thundered down upon him, Delane pushed open the door of his own accord, though just inside the door he stopped and allowed Burke to take the lead, as he willingly did, the small figure on the bed drawing him forward like a magnet.

  Delane followed as far as the foot of the bed and stopped, staring down on the young woman, her eyes closed.

  "Mary?" The voice was Burke's, who sat on the edge of the bed and lifted one hand and enclosed it between his own. "Mary, can you hear me?"

  Watching, Delane had the feeling that she could. Her head turned in the direction of the voice, her eyes opened, then closed, as though the voice were a part of her nightmare.

  For several moments Burke spoke softly to her, trying to coax her into speaking to him. But she never did, and Delane detected a stubbornness in her silence or, more accurately, a protective device. As long as she didn't respond, no one could involve her in any further horrors.

  As these thoughts filled his head, he saw new suffering on Burke's face, saw him bend low over the young woman and take her into his arms, cradling her head as though she were an infant.

  Before such intimacy, Delane turned away. As for a solution, he was bereft of ideas. Perhaps a woman would make a difference, draw

  her out of her silence. But what woman? An impersonal nurse? Old Florence?

  Suddenly he looked back toward the bed as though someone had called to him. By God, why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't Burke think of it? Elizabeth! Good, sweet Elizabeth, who had raised the girl, who must surely by now have heard of Mary's disappearance and be sick with worry.

  "Burke," he whispered, trying to draw the man's attention. He watched as Burke released her to the pillow. "Ehzabeth," Delane suggested quietly as Burke joined him at midroom.

  Slowly he began shaking his head. "No. I thought of her, but I'm not certain I can trust her."

  "You don't have much choice."

  "She's fiercely loyal to Eden."

  "She raised Mary. There must be a bond of loyalty there as well."

  Again Burke shook his head. "I can't risk it. If Eden were to learn of her whereabouts—I have no legal claim—he could take her away."

  Delane nodded ruefully and wished that Burke had considered all these points of loyalty earlier. "If I can bring her here without detection, will you let her see the girl?"
/>   "Of course, but—"

  "Then I'm gone," Delane called back.

  "He'll follow you," Burke warned, "and if he does, all is lost."

  "It's going to be lost in another way if you don't—" But at the door Delane ceased speaking. The degree of pain on Burke's face was sufficient. It needed no more.

  After Charles had helped him on with his cloak and seen him to his carriage, Delane settled back, feeling like an actor in a theatrical, the go-between, the loyal friend who brings help at the last moment.

  Smiling at his foolishness, he closed his eyes to rest them from the glare of winter sun. He hadn't a plan in his head on how he would lure Elizabeth out of her house or if he would even find her at home. Compounding this vacuum was his remembrance of how tenderly Burke had held the young woman.

  Well, lacking a great passion in his own life, perhaps the best he could do was to serve those more fortunate than himself. With longing he thought. How would it have inconvenienced God to send me one small case of that irrational illness known as love?

  The meeting had been a good one—twice the number in attendance than they had counted on, a fair scattering of men among the

  women, a new coalition forming around the not quite dead corpse of the old feminist movement.

  Stimulated by the afternoon at Lydia Becker's Elizabeth gazed out the window at the passing London streets, aware that in about three more blocks the good feelings would desert her and be replaced by the depression which she'd come to associate with her home in St. George Street.

  Perhaps she should sell Number Seven and move. Too much had happened there. Disappointments, tragedies unresolved, like Mary's continued absence.

  Where is she? Elizabeth tried to discipline her thoughts. It served no purpose to torture herself. If Mary had wanted to contact her, she would have by now. Human beings change. The relationship that was so vital yesterday proves itself to be extraneous today.

  As the maddeningly true cliche inundated her, she looked up and saw St. George Street ahead and tried to prepare herself for another empty evening, with only old Doris for company. The others, Aslam and Alex Aldwell, both of whom she was so fond, had stopped coming around, clearly on John's orders. She'd considered just last week making a trip to Eden to visit Harriet and try gently to apprise her of her daughter's mysterious and continued absence.

  But she wasn't certain how welcome she would be there either. Eden, even more than London, was John's domain, and she could not endure the hurt of being turned back at the castle gates.

  As these thoughts pressed against her, she braced herself for the turn into St. George Street, her driver brushing dangerously close to a large carriage parked on the right side of the street, curtains drawn.

  Suspicious, she glanced back at it. Why was that one parked, with curtains drawn, the driver dozing in his greatcoat, as though someone within were maintaining a vigil?

  John? Pray God, no. Yet, as her carriage circled wide for the approach to her house, she looked again and saw the driver stir, as though someone had given him orders and, even before her carriage had come to a halt before the pavement, that one was in motion.

  Quickly she gathered up her belongings and was just alighting her carriage when she saw the other circle wide for the turn, its speed increasing. As she hurried up the stairs she prayed that Doris would respond immediately to the ringing of the bell.

  Behind she heard the second carriage rattle to a sudden halt. With trembling hands she jerked on the bell cord, but still no Doris.

  Damn! Alarm increasing, she looked at the large carriage, expecting to see John approaching. Instead she saw a gloved hand draw back the curtains almost timidly. She saw a man peering at her through the curtains. Not John. She breathed a sigh of relief and saw the man still staring at her, as though confident that she would recognize him.

  Then she did. John Thadeus Delane.

  "Elizabeth? A moment, please—"

  As she approached Delane's carriage, she saw him push open the carriage door, his face and manner conspiratorial.

  "Forgive my—rudeness," he began, talking rapidly as though he must get it all said as quickly as possible. "Are you—alone?" he inquired foolishly, for he could see that she was.

  "Of course," she replied. "May I ask why—"

  "I beg you, ask nothing now," he broke in. "Please, are you certain there is no one awaiting you in the house?"

  "Only my maid, and I'm not so certain of that. Now, what—"

  "Please come with me," he said rather brusquely. "I have news."

  Why should I accompany him—and news of what? "Mr. Delane, I must know the reason for this."

  He leaned forward as though to draw her bodily into the carriage. "I have news," he said, "concerning Mary Eden."

  "Mary-"

  "Please come, I beg you. We haven't much time, and we mustn't be seen or followed."

  He reached forward and clasped her hand, a new earnestness in his manner. "She needs you," was all he said, but that was enough.

  With his help she pulled herself into the carriage and observed how quickly he locked and secured the door, then drew the curtains. Even after the carriage had commenced to move, he continued to draw back the curtains and peer out both windows. She'd never seen him so agitated.

  Not until they were several blocks distant from St. George Street did he relax, and then a smug smile appeared on his old face, as though he'd executed a great feat. "L think we did it, don't you?"

  But Elizabeth's mind was still turning on that one name. "Where's Mary?" she demanded. "Is it far? You said she needed me. What has happened?"

  In defense against her barrage of questions, he Hfted both hands. "In time," he said. "First I want to ask a few questions of my own."

  "What questions?"

  "About John Murrey Eden."

  "What about him?"

  "How often do you see him?"

  "I can't see what business that is of yours."

  "If you want to see Mary Eden it is."

  She stared across at him, trying to understand. She recalled a distant alliance, during the Eden Festivities almost a year ago, Mr. Delane in the company of the American.

  "Mr. Stanhope—" she asked, trying to draw a connection.

  "-is safe."

  "Is Mary with him?"

  Stubbornly he refused to answer and then she understood. Yes, Mary was with him—and how important it was that they conceal the fact from John or from anyone who might be loyal to him!

  "Mr. Delane," she said, "my relationship with John has been severed. I've not seen him for several weeks and would prefer never to see him again in my life."

  Dear Lord, how the words hurt! When she looked up, she was surprised to see him staring at her, as though in disbelief.

  "Please take me to Mary," she begged. "I've missed her terribly. I promise I'll tell no one. Why should I? I'm more concerned for her safety than I am my own."

  Finally he smiled, lifted his walking stick and tapped it three times on the ceiling of the carriage. "I don't know why I'm so worried," he murmured. "If their hiding place is discovered, they will simply find a new one. They will be together and only God will separate them."

  "Tell me everything. How far is it? How long must we—"

  "Not far, and I can only say that she's ill and that Burke is beside himself. We thought—that is to say, I thought—that your presence might make a difference."

  III! She looked impatiently across the rocking carriage, wanting more. But obviously the stealth of the afternoon had taken a toll on the old man and he sat with his eyes closed, that self-satisfied smile still on his face, as though he'd performed his part and now it was left to others.

  In an effort to calm her nerves, she closed her own eyes and envisioned Mary as she had been less than a year ago, full of life, willing to run any risk, taking the stage at Jeremy Sims' as though it belonged to her.

  Reflexively Elizabeth shuddered. No more. A portion of that warmth had been ext
inguished in a darkened garden, and the flicker that had remained undoubtedly had been quenched in the cold region of Miss Veal's school.

  What was left?

  No need for an answer. Soon she would see for herself.

  Delane had not dozed. He'd given the appearance of dozing in an attempt to avoid all her questions, feeling that Burke should answer them.

  Yet her concerned impatience was difficult to watch, and when the carriage pulled up before the pavement in Mayfair, he saw her quickly alight. At the last minute he caught up with her and led the way up the stairs, where immediately the door was opened and he saw Charles on the other side.

  "Come," the old man commanded. "You are to go directly up."

  As they drew near to the top of the stairs, Delane looked down the corridor and saw Burke just emerging from her bedchamber. His face alone should have provided her with a fair indication of the seriousness of the moment.

  Apparently it did. "Mr. Stanhope," she murmured.

  He grasped her hands. "Thank you for coming." He looked beyond Elizabeth to Delane. "Were you followed?"

  Before Delane could reply, Elizabeth answered for him. "No, I'm certain we were not. I've not seen John for several weeks. Our relationship has been severed."

  From where Delane stood he saw the two staring at each other in a moment of assessment.

  "Take me to her/' Elizabeth said, breaking the spell of the quiet corridor.

  Burke led her to the door with a succinct explanation. "She suffered pneumonia about three weeks ago. But she was well on the road to recovery. Then"—his voice fell, the explication became more painful—"two weeks ago my mother took her own life. Mary witnessed it—"

  Edging closer, Delane saw Elizabeth's face, her expression one of shocked sympathy. She led the way into the room, her attention drawn to the young woman on the bed. Delane saw her sit on the edge, one hand brushing lightly across that pale forehead. "Mary? It's Elizabeth."

  Delane saw Burke step closer, drawn inevitably to his love, the tension in the room manifested in his posture.

  "Mary?"

  It was Elizabeth, sitting back, appearing to be at ease, her tone almost conversational. "This won't do, you know," she scolded lightly. "Have you come this far only to surrender? And so many are fighting for youl"