It was a harsh message, and momentarily she regretted having spoken it. Never had she seen such desolation on a human face. He leaned forward in the chair, his hands still obscuring his features, and for one terrible moment she thought he was weeping.
What she heard next was that voice, as arrogant as ever. "Then let them all go, and again I say, good riddance." Abruptly he reached for her hand. "You'll stay with me, I know, good Elizabeth, the only true mother I've ever known."
Abruptly he leaned back in the chair again, his eyes lifted to the ceiling. "Yes, just the two of us. That's how it should be; that's how if s been from the beginning. Good, loyal Elizabeth"—he smiled at the ceiling—"how I love you; how I've always loved you."
She had no words, no outlet, and felt an insufferable weight. No! Her days of servitude to this man were over. Although she had no clear-cut view of the future, her clarity of vision for the past more than made up for it. If she didn't know where she was going, at least she knew where she'd been, and knew that it was a landscape she could not pass through again and survive.
"No," she said simply and charted the shock on his face as he lowered his eyes from the ceiling and focused on her.
"What do you mean?" he demanded.
"What I said. I think for both our sakes we should not see each other again."
Abruptly the shock on his face altered. He laughed once. Then came a second laugh, then a third, until he was speaking over his laughter, a sputtering incoherent sound, a thin stream of spittle running down from the corner of his mouth. "Not see each other again?" he repeated. "Vhat nonsense! And where are you going?" he added, a heavier tone of sarcasm in his voice. "Has one of your lovers offered to become your husband?"
"No."
"Then what? Where would you go? Who would have you, an aging well-worn whore—" He waved his hand in the air as though to erase the ughness of his last remark. "Forgive me, Elizabeth, but we
belong together. We—understand each other," he added, slyly, "the needs of the flesh, if you know what I mean."
No, she didn't know and was in no mood to try to understand. Wise enough to realize that if she stayed they both would say far too much, she stood abruptly, ready to leave the room, except that he reached out and grabbed her hand and held her fast.
"Of course, you'll stay with me, Elizabeth," he begged.
With only minor effort she wrenched her hand free and confronted him, shocked that she should detest those features that once she'd loved.
"I'm going to France, John," she announced.
"France? What in the name of God are you going to do in France?"
"I've been invited."
"By whom?"
"You wouldn't know her."
"Her!" He settled back, a mocking expression on his face. "Well, variety is good for the soul, though I'd be surprised if it satisfied you for long."
She bowed her head in an effort to hold her tongue. She wasn't certain what it was that welled up within her, some ancient need to justify herself, to erase the humiliation of her past. "I'm going to France with Lydia Becker," she said. "We have been invited by Louise Michels to observe the French feminists—"
"I don't believe it," he interrupted. "Wasn't your last mortification enough? Do you and your—friends enjoy being the laughingstock of London?"
"Goodbye, John," she said, backing away.
"You don't even speak French," he shouted up at her.
"I can learn."
"And Bradlaugh will be going with you, no doubt. For all your rhetoric you still enjoy a good English cock, don't you?"
"Whether I go alone or not, I'm still going."
"Then you'll be the laughingstock of Paris as well as London."
"Perhaps."
"And what am I to do?"
As she circled the chair, he dragged himself forward, his voice, manner, words totally incoherent now. "You can't just leave me!" he cried out.
"I'm doing it." She smiled, deriving enjoyment from his disintegration,
"You're a whore, and that's all you'll ever be. Without my protection you cannot survive."
"We'll see."
"ElizabethlWait!"
The pathos of this last cry caused her to halt, and she looked back to see him clinging to the back of the chair, his face glistening with tears or perspiration, she couldn't tell which.
"What—do you want?" he whispered, on diminishing breath. Slowly he turned about and sank heavily into the chair. "What did any of you want that I was not prepared and willing to give you?" he muttered, staring at "The Women of Eden."
Elizabeth looked back at him, stunned by this wholly naive and ingenuous question coming from what had been the most brilliant mind in London.
Although she had vowed never to look upon him again, she retraced her steps until she was standing beside him, seeing him precisely as she'd first seen him, slumped in the chair, his eyes on the painting.
"What do we want?" she repeated, looking down on him, still amazed by the question. "What do you want?" she asked, pleased that she'd recovered so rapidly from his earlier abuse. Obviously he no longer had the power to hurt her.
"What have you always wanted, from the very beginning, John," she went on, "even when you were a little boy?" Failing to elicit a response, she provided him with one.
"Freedom, dignity, the right to pursue your own destiny, the opportunity to make those decisions that affect and influence your spirit and soul and body." She paused. "We are no different from you, John. Oh, our physiology is diflFerent, but that's all. And the difference does nothing to alter our hearts or our minds or our needs. For years, centuries, we've tried to convince each other that it does. But it doesn't, not in any fundamental or profound way."
Momentarily lost in her own thoughts, she forced her attention back down on the man who sat as though transfixed by four painted images. "John?" she said, hoping that he would respond in some way to what she had said.
But he did not. In fact, if anything the pain on his face seemed to have increased, his focus on the painting even more intense, as
though he saw in it all the world's mysteries combined into one. If he'd understood a word she'd said, he gave no indication of it.
Then it was over. There was nothing more to stay for. She looked down on him a final time, amazed to see not one resemblance to his father, Edward Eden. Once they had been mirror-image reflections, the only difference residing in their souls. Now that difference had surfaced with a vengeance, annihilating even their physical similarities. What chance did mere flesh have against the power of the soul?
"Goodbye, John," she said, and vidthout a backward look left the room.
Two hours later, with her luggage loaded and secured atop her carriage, she stood in the inner courtyard and took a final look at Eden Castle. How it had intimidated her once! But never again. In fact, she had good reason to believe that nothing would ever intimidate her again as long as she lived.
Before she climbed into the carriage she looked back toward the Great Hall, thinking briefly on two pieces of unfinished business. After she'd left John she'd gone in search of Alex, had found him quite drunk in the Kitchen Court. Perhaps it was just as well. She had no message for him, no instructions. He would have to find his own way, as would John. The April air was ripe for liberation, but the effort would have to be theirs.
Then she'd gone immediately to Harriet's chambers to say her goodbyes, only to be greeted in the corridor by a weeping Peggy, who had informed her that her mistress had slid the bolt from within; the ancient imprisonment had commenced immediately following Mary's departure. Again, though regretful, there was nothing Elizabeth could do about it. Perhaps for Harriet, with her ruined face and sightiess eyes, the greatest freedom came with imprisonment.
Now there was absolutely nothing more to stay for, and accordingly she climbed aboard her carriage, took a last look at Eden Cas-tie, then turned her vision toward the broad, unbroken horizon line.
She would find a f
uture for herself somewhere. She was certain of it, as confident as she'd ever been in her entire life.
May 3, 1871
Burke looked out over the crowded dock, and in this moment of inactivity made two fervent wishes: one, that he had made the right decision to return to America, and, two, that the crossing would allow them the degree of privacy that had consistently eluded them during these last hectic weeks.
He'd never gone through such days, and hoped that he never would again—the dismantling of the house in Mayfair, the transfer of funds, the complex task of booking passage for fourteen. All the servants had leaped at the opportunity to return "home." Home. There was a nagging anxiety.
He had tried repeatedly to warn them that the home they had left over ten years ago would not be the one to which they would be returning. His reports coming out of the South had been sketchy, but none of them had been good. Corruption and greed apparently were flourishing, the victorious Yankee 'liberators" exploiting the Negroes in ways that would make Southern paternalism pale in comparison. Still, nothing he had said had dissuaded them, and the eagerness with which they had hurled themselves into preparations for departure suggested to Burke that perhaps they had not been blissfully happy on free English soil. Home-As the confusion and mystery of that small word pressed dovm upon him, he altered his line of vision, turned slightly to the left and saw John Thadeus Delane with his arm around Mary's shoulder, pointing up at the immense steamship. The City of Paris, clearly an expert on ships as he was on everything else.
Enjoying a good reflective moment for a change, Burke leaned against the wooden shed where he was awaiting the army of porters with their luggage to clear Customs, and lovingly studied the two about thirty yards ahead.
Delane. What would Burke have done without the man? Generously Delane had offered to take charge of all the loose ends which Burke was leaving in London, and there were several, such as the disposition of the house itself. The man had been simply a bulwark during these hectic weeks, a curious reversal of position, considering that during the past year he had challenged Burke in every step of his pursuit of Mary.
Now look at them. Of course, Burke knew precisely what had happened. Delane had fallen under Mary's charm, like everyone else who met her. After devoting his full energies to their departure for several days, Delane had insisted upon journeying with them to Liverpool and seeing them off in proper fashion.
Then Burke rested his eyes on his bride, still not quite able to believe that she was his. How he wanted to be alone with her, to erase that distance that had grown up between them since the night of the fight at Eden, a distance which had been compounded by his injuries and by the frantic activity of the last few days!
His eyes blurred under the intensity of his vision and the weight of his emotion. Gowned in deep rose velvet with fur trim and clasping the bouquet of red roses which Delane had presented to her upon their arrival at the dock, she resembled a living portrait, high color in her cheeks, her hair once again her crowning glory. Pray God their destination did not destroy her, as it had destroyed his mother.
Submerged in a depth of old emotion and new, he was only then aware of them coming toward him, Mary clasping Delane's arm, laughing over something he had just said, and Delane responding with all the flushed enthusiasm of a schoolboy.
"Do you know what Mr. Delane told me, Burke?" Mary said, laughing. "He said there would be concerts on board, and all sorts of games and theatricals, like a small London."
Confronted directly by her beauty and excitement, Burke drew her close under his arm as though to reclaim her, and in the manner of a mock threat said, "And we shall attend none of them."
"Why?"
At that, Delane laughed heartily, understanding, his old face ruddy with sea air and rising good humor. Then at last a deep blush
595 on Mary's face told them both that she had understood as well. She buried her face in the roses and left them all standing about in a muddled silence.
"Perhaps I should see how Florence is faring, and the others," she said hurriedly and moved away, leaving Burke with mild regret for having spoken so intimately. There was a limit, however. He'd had a wife for almost three weeks, yet they had occupied separate rooms in the Mayfair house, his wounds from the fight still taking a toll. Then, too, there was that regrettable distance, as though she were angry with him for having challenged John Murrey Eden.
"She is so beautiful," Delane murmured, watching along with Burke as the vision in rose velvet made her way toward the group of servants near the gangplank. "Do you think she'll take to America?" he added, looking back toward Burke.
"She'll probably take to it better than I will," Burke said honestly, still following her with his eyes, seeing her safely delivered to the servants, who were greeting her warmly.
"Do I hear doubt in your voice?" Delane asked.
"Yes."
Burke had hoped for quick reassurance from this old friend. Instead he watched closely as Delane walked a few steps past him, then turned back, his face reflecting his apprehension. "I wrote to your father some weeks ago," he said. "I sent the letter to his last known address, and—nothing. No response at all, I'm afraid."
While Burke appreciated the tone of apology, he was not surprised at the response. Still focusing on Mary, feasting his eyes on a positive vision, he muttered, "Well, we shall soon find out, won't we?"
Respectful of this mood, Delane nodded sympathetically. "I'm sure it's only a matter of—" But then he, too, broke off, obviously unable to present any logical explanation.
At that moment the door to the Customs House opened and a parade of porters streamed through with trunks hoisted atop their shoulders. Burke stepped forward and gave the man in the lead the numbers of the various accommodations on board ship.
When the last porter had passed them by, heading toward the gangplank, Burke turned back to Delane for the farewell he'd
dreaded for days.
In an attempt to disguise his emotions, he smiled and said, "What's to say?" In a low tone, he answered his own question.
"Simply that I could not have survived without you during these difiBcult years."
"Nonsense," Delane replied gruffly, apparently not faring any better than Burke. "You served me as I served you, which is the true mark of friendship. Did you know," he added on fresh breath, as though to lighten the mood, "that circulation of the Times has dropped since the demise of Lord Ripples?"
Burke laughed, grateful for the new mood. "Well, if you get really desperate, let me know and I'll send you columns from America."
Delane's face brightened even more. "Not a bad idea," he exclaimed, as though the foolish notion had actually taken root in his imagination.
"Enough!" Burke laughed. "If I do any critical vmting, I'm certain I'll find plenty of material in my own garden. I'll give England respite for a while, and you as well."
For a moment his laugh hung between them, the old man's face cast in shadows of sorrow. Moved by such an expression, and aware that this stern stubborn man might have been the only true father he had in this world, and remembering his childhood when the long days of summer tedium had been so pleasantly broken by a visit from this Englishman, Burke at last succumbed, and without embarrassment reached out and drew Delane to him.
"Thank you, my friend, for caring," he murmured.
He gave them both a moment to restore their faces. Then he looked toward the gangplank, surprised and pleased to see Mary closely watching.
"Come," Burke said, taking Delane's arm, "There is someone else who would like to say goodbye."
As they drew near to where Mary stood, he saw a becoming blush on her cheeks, as though she, too, were aware of the occasion. "Thank you, Mr. Delane/* she said, "for being such a good friend to my husband."
Then old Delane had had enough. "What in the hell are you using past tense for?" he bellowed. "You just give me word when you are ready to receive an aging and very tired Englishman and I'll be on your doorst
ep sooner than you can imagine."
The promise seemed to please Mary immensely. Without warning, though quite predictably, she leaned forward on tiptoe and kissed the old man lightly on the cheek.
The three of them exchanged a final awkward embrace. Then,
with the captain's call to board echoing in their ears, Burke grasped Mary's arm and guided her carefully up the gangplank.
When they reached the upper deck, they went immediately to the railing and looked over and down. Burke observed that the chaos on the dock was clearing, most of the passengers aboard, the only ones left those who were saying goodbye.
Wordlessly he watched Mary in profile, still saw the high color in her cheeks, one strand of hair wonied loose by the wind falling softly across her brow.
Privately he dealt with his last anxiety. How would she fare when she saw her homeland slipping away? She must have brooded on it at length, the realization that quite possibly she would never see England again, or Eden, or her mother, or her brother, or Elizabeth.
As the great engines built up a solid head of steam and the bow lines were withdrawn, he saw her gently remove a single rose from her bouquet and toss it lightly back onto English soil. She closed her eyes, grasped the railing, then lifted her face to the wind.
He leaned closer, trying to read her expression. Was it sadness? Would she pass the entire voyage in premature homesickness?
^'Mary?" he inquired, concerned.
But there was no answer.
She was aware of Burke's concerned inquiry, but she simply could not answer in the excitement of the moment. Then, too, she was a bit disturbed that she felt so little distress. She'd feared once that she might weep, but now there was not a single inclination toward tears, not tears of grief, at any rate.
As the ship got under way, the excitement mounted even more, and she found her attention torn in so many directions that she scarcely knew where to look. Behind them and all around them were promenading passengers, the dock of Liverpool almost gone from sight now.
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