The Women of Eden (16 page)

How calmly the thought entered her mind, and she leaned back against the pillow, her hands caressing her breast, the sensation bringing her comfort. Her mind moved easily into fantasy, replacing the despair of the present with a faceless lover, who late each night approached her bed and who stood over her, looking down-Suddenly she moaned and turned on her side, her knees drawn up against the pain of emptiness. The voices outside her door rose, the two stewards protesting something.

Elizabeth.

The fantasy abandoned, Mary sat up, alarmed. Elizabeth was an extension of John. On the edge of the bed she looked back toward the closed door, where someone was struggling for possession of the doorknob. Why didn't they leave her alone?

Irrationally she looked about as though there were an escape route in this room which she had failed to notice after ten years of occupancy. But she saw nothing except the dead-end of her own chambers. She looked back toward the door, the stewards and Elizabeih falling mysteriously silent at the sound of approaching footsteps, the rhythm of the man's gait conjuring up an image of the man himself as she'd last seen him, hovering angrily over her, his eyes sharp with accusation, his hand lifting—

In defense against the memory of bewildering pain, knowing that now the door would open, that she would have to face both John and Elizabeth, Mary stumbled backward, spying the open window.

the place from which during the last three days she'd looked down four floors below into the Eden graveyard, that enclosed plot where every Eden since the fourteenth centurj^ had been buried.

Hearing the key turning in the lock and knowing that she would have to face the two people who once had loved her but who now hated her and meant her ill, and knowing further that the future held nothing for her but locked doors and increasing emptiness, recalling the shaded peace of the graveyard, she said goodbye to reason, as recently she had said goodbye to her pride, and ran toward the rectangle of late-afternoon sunlight, amazed that there was an escape route in this chamber and how dense of her not to have noticed it before. . . .

Still angered by her confrontation with the insolent stewards and grateful that John had come along and dismissed them both, Elizabeth was the first one through the door and was almost driven back by the smell of soiled linen.

But the disagreeable scent faded in importance as, looking about, she caught sight of Mary, though it was a Mar}' she had never seen before, clinging to the windowsill in a soiled nightdress, her long hair matted about her face, her eyes filled with terror as she looked back into the room.

John pushed past her and started toward the v^ndow, apparently failing to see the girl pull herself sharply upward until she was balanced precariously on the sill.

"Wait!" Elizabeth warned him quietly, terrified by the tableau.

Having managed to freeze everyone at least for the moment, Elizabeth made an effort to steady her own nerves and took a closer look at the young woman who was obviously ill. From that distance Elizabeth saw a swelling about her left eye, the once-flawless line of her cheekbone marred by bruised flesh. Also in this brief interim Elizabeth looked about the room, taking note of the tray of uneaten food, the mussed bed, the dark blue material in the corner which once had been Mary's traveling suit.

"I'll call the watchmen," John said over his shoulder.

"No!" Elizabeth shot back, confounded by his stupidity. Doesn't he realize Mary is fully prepared to leap to her death?

Then there was no time for further questions. Apparently unable to bear the weight of their eyes upon her, Mary moved further out onto the windowsill and swung one leg up.

*'No!" John called out, and Elizabeth heard fear in his voice.

She stepped behind him and counseled him to go back to the door. When at first he refused, she took his arm and in the most unconcerned tone said, "You must leave us alone, John. If you want the women of Eden to appear at their best in a few hours, we must be granted privacy. Isn't that right, Mary?"

Aware of her own heart beating, she guided him toward the door, daring to turn her back on the window and the impending tragedy. He did not go docilely, but he went, and in amazement she felt his arm trembling through his jacket.

"I'll wait outside," he whispered, pleading with Elizabeth to make things right. How often she'd seen the same expression on his face when as a little boy he'd brought her his boat with the torn sail or his toy soldier with the broken leg.

Closing the door behind him, Elizabeth wondered if Mary could be as easily mended.

"Shall we be about it?" She smiled toward the window, her eyes refusing to focus on the tenifying image of the young woman balanced on the windowsill.

"I trust your gown is in order," she went on, walking to Mary's wardrobe. Secluded behind the wardrobe door, Elizabeth closed her eyes and listened.

"Oh, Mary; how beautiful!" She smiled again, withdrawing the pale pink silk gown embroidered with pearls, a masterpiece of a gown, cut low in the bodice to reveal Mary's lovely breasts and small waist.

Elizabeth lifted the gown and held it against her for Mary's inspection. "You know," she confided, daring to take one step toward the window, "I think we should spirit this back to London, don't you? Can you imagine the effect of this gown on Jeremy Sims* guests?"

Although she wanted to look up and chart Mary's reaction, her instinct advised against it. Her only chance to lure the girl back into the room was to convince her that Elizabeth found nothing unusual with her precarious perch.

Midway across the room, she stopped and posed a direct question to the empty space before her. "Did we decide upon a hair style, Mary?" she asked. "No, I don't believe we did," she said, continuing on to the bed.

Sharply she looked up, thinking she had heard movement. But she

saw Mary still staring back at her out of eyes which appeared to fill with desperate unhappiness.

Elizabeth could resist her no longer and took one step toward the window, drawn to her grief and filled with remorse for her own contribution to it. "Mary," she began, "I tried to see you several days ago, but I was told you were ill."

Though she was approaching slowly, she still could not discern a change in Mary's face. "Others have tried as well," Elizabeth went on. "Lila and your mother have—"

Mary turned about on the ledge, as though the mention of her mother had caused greater pain. "Don't come any closer," she warned, and obediently Elizabeth froze.

Under the force of Mary's command, Elizabeth was obliged to drop her pretense of innocence. They both knew what was happening here, and gowns and hair styles were no longer viable subjects.

"Why, Mary?" Elizabeth whispered. "Why didn't you send for me? I would have come." When she didn't speak, Elizabeth went on. "Nothing is worth this. Whatever the nature of our disagreement, it can be settled in more—"

Was she crying? With her face averted it was difficult to tell.

"Mary, please look at me," Elizabeth begged. "Please talk to me. If you'll just tell me—"

She was crying. "I don't want to live anymore," she said.

"Why? You, more than anyone I know, have everything to live for."

"What?"

Elizabeth tried to turn her attention to that difficult question and was at first tempted to list the obvious reasons: Mary's youth and beauty, her position in the world, John's adoring support. But something in that tear-streaked, bruised face suggested that if these reasons made any difference, she would not be clinging to a narrow ledge, contemplating a fatal leap.

So Elizabeth abandoned the obvious reasons and said simply, "I need you, Mary. Words cannot express how you've filled my life these last few years. I didn't mean what I said to you in the carriage. I was—still frightened, alarmed by the incident at Jeremy Sims*. But-"

She was aware of Mary looking at her, a look of disbelief on her face. With less than three feet separating them, Elizabeth extended her hand. "Mary, please, come back to London with me. We'll start

afresh, I promise. Whatever the problems are, we can face them—'*

To Ehzabeth's embarrassment, she heard her own voice break. She heard a rustle of movement and looked up to see Mary moving back from the edge, one hand lifting to Elizabeth, until their fingers touched, and in the next instant Mary was in her arms.

Eagerly Elizabeth clasped her, not certain of the nature of her commitment or Mary's deep grief, but grateful for only one blessing, that Harriet's daughter had been drawn back from the edge and that now all they had to do was to find a future for her.

Still with no words spoken they clung together, Elizabeth stroking the matted hair, her fingers once brushing across the bruised area on the side of Mary's face. Gently she sat with her on the edge of the bed, assessing close at hand the nature of the swelling. Though on the mend, it once had been painful.

"What happened?" she asked quietly.

Mary tried to speak through her tears and couldn't, and Elizabeth again enclosed her in her arms, doubtful if she could ever restore her to the point that she could make a public appearance in less than three hours. Scolding herself for such considerations, Elizabeth rocked back and forth with her, a gentle rhythm which ultimately soothed, and at last Mary leaned back into the pillow, making an effort at control.

"I'm . . . sorry," Mary whispered.

"No need. Everything is going to be well. You'll see—"

"I. . . can stay with you ... in London?"

"Yes. I said so, didn't I?"

"John said-"

With the sense of moving to the heart of the matter, Elizabeth urged the girl to speak. "John said what?"

Mary closed her eyes. "He—said that I must go away, that you had spoken to him and—"

Suddenly she heard a voice behind her. "I said nothing to warrant this, I can assure you." Elizabeth stood immediately and saw John only a few feet behind her.

He moved to the foot of the bed and stared down on Mary with an expression of disappointment. "I came here this afternoon, hoping to escort you down to meet our guests—"

Abruptly he turned away.

In the new silence Elizabeth charted the expression on Mary's face, one of stunned recognition, as though at last she knew what the

rest of them had known for years—that this man controlled her life.

There was John to consider as well, looking groomed and handsome in his dress blacks, the slant of his jaw, his eyes stiU bearing a ghostly resemblance to his father.

Distracted by the comparison of father and son, Elizabeth looked up to find Mary watching the man, whose steps had carried him to the open window. When at last he turned, Elizabeth was in no way prepared for his words or the expression on his face.

"Do you—hate me so much?" he asked quietly.

Ehzabeth looked down at Mary. The tears had commenced again. "I-don't-hate-"

"What else am I to think?" he asked, moving back to the foot of the bed. "I try always to do what I think is best for you, as I try always to do what I think is best for everyone at Eden. You are my family," he went on. "Why would I want to do anything that would hurt you or cause you grief?"

The performance was skillful. And effective. Mary's hand moved up, covering her face.

Aware that she would have to pull this tearful creature into some semblance of unity, Elizabeth suggested quietly, "Not now, John, I beg you. Why don't you leave us alone, and I promise you a miracle in three hours, all of us at your side for the unveiling."

In a despairing gesture, he lifted his hand as though he needed no reminder of what the evening held. He stared down on Mary and walked slowly to her side, removed her hands from her face and whispered, "You must understand, Mary, my only defense is that—I love you, perhaps too much. You're so very special to me that I want nothing to disrupt your life or hurt you in any way."

It was a skillful performance, the weight of sympathy shifting in the room from the sobbing Mary to the meticulously groomed John. Even Elizabeth wondered who precisely was the injured party here.

Elizabeth beckoned for John to follow her. Leading the way to the corridor, she steeled herself against that injured expression. It was her intention to say nothing except to reassure him that they would be down shortly and that his Festivities would proceed uninterrupted.

Thus she was in no way prepared for the desolate question which he posed. "Would she—have jumped?"

Fortunately, she couldn't give him an answer, and simply said, "She's high-strung. Something caused her to—"

"All I suggested was Miss Veal's school in Cheltenham," he protested. "She hasn't even seen it, and even Richard thought it vs^ould be a splendid idea. If your female friends are right, and women are due the vote, then they'd damn well better know what to do with it."

She started to respond. But better judgment intervened. Still, she was grateful for his sarcasm, for now it enabled her to step back to the door, certain in her mind that the injured party was Mary. "You go along," she said briskly. "There will be time later to discuss all of this. As you have pointed out countless times, our first responsibility for these two weeks is to our guests."

"Damn the guests," John muttered and leaned against the corridor wall, his head bowed.

At last she succeeded in closing the door, though her final glimpse of his face was a moving one, not a trace of that aggressive strength which was customarily at home on his features. It was a child's face now, painfully facing the consequences of his own actions.

Well, she'd have to deal with the man/boy later. For now the real challenge was the young woman who lay curled and enclosed upon herself, her face a script of quiet grief.

Vowing not to ask any questions that might provoke disturbing answers, Elizabeth drew a deep breath, tried to affix on her face a mask of serenity and started toward the bed, calling out with a cheerfulness she did not feel,

"Mary, come. . . ."

It was a significant testimony to the topsy-turvy nature of the last few days that John Thadeus Delane, editor of the conservative Times, was now engaged in a warm conversation v^th Charlie Brad-laugh, editor of the radical and freethinking Reformer.