The Women of Eden (22 page)

Quickly the two men separated, Bertie striding to the opposite wall in an attitude of suspect ease, while Richard returned to the Library door and knocked, his heart beating too fast.

He glanced again toward the end of the corridor. The steward was gone. He exchanged a relieved look with Bertie and whispered, "Let me speak with John first, see what happened. Then—"

The postponement was as painful for him as it was for Bertie. "Only a moment," he said, studying the beloved man who now leaned against the far wall, head bowed. Richard knew his thoughts, for they were his as well, a mutual sadness at the furtive nature of their love, a deep regret that in the eyes of the world they were worse than lepers, and if found out could be prosecuted and imprisoned.

Sodomites should be flogged and castrated, John had pronounced once.

But he and Bertie were not Sodomites. They simply shared a love, a rich companionship and a mutual need and respect. Was that so unspeakable?

Lacking an answer, he knocked again, then pushed open the door.

"John?"

At first glance he thought the room was empty. But just as he was turning about he saw a figure hunched over in one of the large wing chairs near the end of the Library.

Motioning for Bertie to follow, Richard made his way through the clutter of chairs where earlier the entire company had gathered for the unveiling. As he approached, he saw that it was John, though a very different John from the man who had proudly presided over the unveiling. This man sat in the chair, his head down and buried in his crossed arms, a posture of such despair that it occurred to Richard that perhaps he should depart without speaking.

But he couldn't do that. He'd loved John ever since they had been boys together.

"John, what-"

Then the face lifted with an expression of helplessness, as though he'd received a message of tragedy and had been forced to bear the sorrow alone.

"John, what—has—" Reeling from such an expression, Richard drew up a chair and sat beside him. He was aware of Bertie a few feet away, his concern as great as Richard's.

"Please," Richard begged. "Tell me what—"

With a despairing gesture, John brushed aside the inquiry and propped his head against his hands. "Too late, Richard."

"Too late for what?"

"To prevent me from—" But he could not finish and Richard and Bertie were left with the spectacle of a man so weakened by grief that he could not speak.

Bertie drew even and, in a voice familiar and tender, said, "Mr. Eden, please. Surely nothing warrants such black—"

John looked up. He seemed embarrassed by Bertie's presence and walked to the end of the room, all the while fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief.

Richard heard him call back, "My apologies. Professor Nichols. I thought Richard was alone, though I should have known better."

Was there an edge to his voice? Richard couldn't be certain. "We just returned from a walk, John, and found the Great Hall—"

"—empty, yes," came the voice from the mantel. With his back turned, Richard saw half-gestures, John wiping at his face, then studying his handkerchief as though his grief were visible. "My fault, I

can assure you/' he went on, his voice hardening as though cynicism were a healing balm. "Who else could ruin an evening as thoroughly—"

He looked back at them from the mantel and coldly suggested, "Go along, both of you. I have no desire to ruin the evening for you as well."

"John, please," Richard begged. "Whatever it is, I'm certain—"

Bertie interrupted. "I'll bid you both goodnight and take advantage of the early evening to probe a few of the books I brought along."

Richard's initial instinct was to protest, although he felt certain that John would do it for him. Bertie had been coming to Eden since their undergraduate days. There was no need for him to take himself out of any discussion.

But when John made no move to intercede, Richard watched, helpless, as Bertie started toward the door. In an attempt to cover the awkward exit, Richard called out, "Wait, I'll go with you." To John he added, "Perhaps you'd prefer to be alone."

"No. I wish you would stay."

Caught between the two men, Richard foundered.

"Good night," Bertie called from the door, his voice forced, as though he were trying to cover his own embarrassment.

Before Richard could respond, the door was closed.

"I'm—sorry," came the voice from the mantel. "I will add him to the long list of people to whom I must apologize come morning."

Hearing that same tone of desolation, Richard settled back in the chair. "Please tell me what happened." With his concentration still focused on the absent Bertie, he was not at first aware of John drawing near to the chair where he sat, a new expression on his face.

"Do you think it wise?" John asked.

Richard looked up, struggling to make the transition. "Do I think what wise?"

"That you are seen so constantly in his company."

Alert to danger, Richard struggled for the proper response. "He's a good friend"—he smiled—"as Andrew Rhoades is your good friend."

"I do not live with Andrew Rhoades."

Richard laughed. "It's a matter of convenience and economy."

"I will buy you a house."

Puzzled, Richard looked up, not certain how the focus of atten-

tion had shifted. "John* I ^^ not come in here to discuss my life. You're the one who seemed in need—"

"I'm sorry/' John rephed, sinking into the opposite chair. He leaned back into the cushions, his face in repose now, though still bearing evidence of his earlier grief. "I'm afraid I caused a scene," he murmured.

"Of what nature?" Richard inquired, relieved to be out of the spotlight, though shaken by John's subtle attack on Bertie.

"There was a man," John commenced wearily, eyes closed. "Possibly you met him—an American, a friend of Delane's—who was behaving aggressively toward Mary."

"What happened?"

"He challenged me, launched an attack, and I had no choice but to reciprocate."

Richard felt relief that he'd not witnessed such a scene.

"Where is he now? The American."

"What choice did I have? I sent him packing."

It was Richard's turn to close his eyes, feeling embarrassment on his face. What morsels of gossip the guests would take back to London! No wonder John's despair. Still, what was he to have done? Mary was his prize. Richard knew that as did everyone else, except the hapless American.

"Well, it's done," Richard concluded. "I'm sure that Mary is grateful to you. It isn't every day that a lady in distress enjoys—"

"No. She—loathes me," John muttered, assuming that hunched position, as though a weight had settled upon him.

"Surely not. If she was in a distressing situation, she must feel only gratitude."

"Distressing situation!" John repeated. "She is so innocent, Richard, she doesn't even know when to feel apprehension. The man was making fools of both of them, and she, instead of objecting, was responding, as though—"

Behind the barrier of his hands, he went on. "She knows no fear, has been so sheltered that she would go smiling to her own ravishment—" He broke oflF. "Oh, God, what am I to do? I would not cause her pain for the world, yet every time I try to—"

"Don't, John," Richard begged. "It will pass, I'm certain of it. It's as you said, Mary is a child in many ways. I'll talk to her if you wish. Whatever her mood tonight, she will be restored come morning."

"And then what?" John asked. "It will happen again," he said in a

mournful tone, striding toward the painting which rested, ignored, on its standard, concentrating on one face. "I'm afraid that my fortune will be her curse. Men will persistently try to get to it through her, and she, in her innocence, will not even know what they are about."

Richard listened, not in complete agreement, yet not wanting to add to his mood by disagreeing with him. "Have you mentioned the school in Cheltenham to her?" he asked, thinking that it might be a solution.

"Yes. It was mentioned and instantly rejected."

Nothing very surprising there. Still, Richard was certain that he could convince her that it was for the best. With the sense of offering a final reassurance, he left his chair and drew even with John where he stood before the painting. He was prepared to speak, but the whispered declaration, "I love them all so much, yet I only succeed in hurting them," moved Richard until he felt compelled to reach out in a gesture of support.

"I will speak to her," he said. "And I promise further that what seems so black tonight will be forgotten come morning."

It was a generous promise and partly false, considering that there was nothing he could do about the shocked guests who had witnessed the ugly scene.

Still, it seemed to comfort John, who sank heavily into the chair, as though he were approaching exhaustion. "Tell her," he concluded, "that she must be on guard against those who would ruin her."

"I will."

"And tell her that in your opinion the school holds the brightest future."

"I will."

"And tell her that all of my actions are rooted in love.**

"I will indeed."

Richard hoped that the black mood was over. The hour was late. The encounter had left him exhausted. More than ever he needed Bertie's healing love. "Are you well now, John?" he asked, moving a step toward the door.

When at first John did not respond, Richard took a step further, praying that Bertie had not fallen asleep. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Still no response and, thinking that he was free to go, Richard increased his steps until he was approaching the door when at last John stirred himself to words.

"Apologize to Professor Nichols for me," John said, not turning in the chair.

Richard looked back "'Bertie needs no apology." He smiled. "The man was born with the gift of understanding."

"You're very fond of him, aren't you?" John asked, still maintaining his position, his attention fixed on the painting.

Richard felt a pulse in his temple, always the sign of fatigue and danger. "It's as I said, John, he's a good friend."

"Do you see women, Richard?" At last John turned, his arm resting on the back of the chair, his expression in no way revealing the nature of his question.

"See—women?"

"Socially, I mean." John smiled. "Has some heartbreaking beauty caught your fancy and you've kept her a secret from us all?"

Briefly Richard experienced the sensation of falling. "Cambridge-is not known for its—beauties, as you put it."

"Then come Monday I will have a surprise for you," John added, bearing little resemblance to the grieving man Richard had discovered earlier.

"A—surprise?"

"Indeed. Quite to your liking, I think." He paused, then added, "Will Professor Nichols be staying for the entire fortnight?"

"Of course. We were planning—"

"No matter." John grinned. "All I ask is that you are groomed and highly visible on Monday morning."

"I don't understand—"

"You will then, I promise," John added, and turned about in his chair.

Richard stood by the door, trying to sort out what John had said. Do you see women socially? Will Professor Nichols be staying? Come Monday I will have a surprise for you.

"John?"

"Go along with you," John replied. "And I thank you again," he added with kindness. "I'd be lost without you."

In the face of this declaration of love, Richard's anxieties were eased. John had meant nothing, and as for the surprise-Without warning, John concluded, "You know as well as I what must be done."

"What must be-"

"Good night, Richard."

Dismissed, Richard stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. His head felt dull, as if lead had been poured into it.

You know as well as I what must be done. . . .

Surely John would not force him into anything. He had no right. ...

He stood a moment longer, suffering the sound of a shrill alarm in his head. He must talk to Bertie immediately, must tell him everything that had been said. They had discussed in the past the possibility of emigration, to Australia, to Canada, America, anywhere.

Bertie would know what to do. For an instant, a specific image of horror filled his mind. No! Perhaps Bertie should leave now, perhaps the two of them should bid each other a very public goodbye. If John had suspicions, then they must throw him off the track. Better a temporary separation than—

Yes, but he must not seek Bertie out tonight. He must let it be known to someone that he was retiring alone.

At the end of the corridor he looked out over the Great Hall at the scattering of servants still dismantling remnants of the once festive ball.

"Bates," he called out to the butler, who was directing a group of stewards in the removal of chairs.

"Milord?"

"A wassail. Bates," Richard requested. "In my chambers, if you will."

"Of course, milord. One or two?"

"One. I said one, didn't I?"

"Yes, milord. Anything else?"

''No."

As the man departed, Richard thought he detected a knowing expression in those normally expressionless eyes.

Did they all know?

In the anguish of that possibility, Richard turned about, aware of the stewards staring at him. Exerting all the discipline at his command, he walked steadily up the stairs, grateful that no one could see his face. . . .

On Monday morning, from the door of Lady Harriet's sitting room, Elizabeth watched as Richard tried reason, though in the face of Mary's silence it seemed a weak tool.

"He meant nothing by it, I swear, Mary! You must understand how difficult this all is for him. Believe me, he feels worse than you."

As Richard's voice droned on, Elizabeth leaned wearily against the door frame, surprised to discover that she was almost envious of Professor Nichols' early-morning departure, though there was a mystery. As well as she could remember, Professor Nichols had never departed from Eden without Richard. Yet all he'd said at breakfast that morning was that duties were pressing upon him and he must return immediately to Cambridge. And, more mysterious still, an hour later, only she and Charlie Bradlaugh had been on the Great Hall steps to bid him farewell.