The Women of Eden (26 page)

He moved stealthily toward the black iron gate, wanting to see but not wanting to be seen until—

John.

He was standing before the marble headstone of his father, Edward Eden. As Andrew's eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he stepped back behind the protection of the wall itself and peered around the gate at John, who appeared to be merely standing before his father's grave, not in the attitude of mourning or prayer, but rather a defiant stance, as though he were asking questions of the grave.

It occurred to Andrew that he had never seen him here before. Elizabeth came often and on occasion Lady Harriet, but those were the only two who ever paid their respects to the Eden dead.

In the chill evening, Andrew shuddered. Of all the haunts of Eden he would have thought this one the last that John would have sought out. Surely he would find nothing of comfort here.

Feeling that he was intruding on an intimate moment, Andrew was in the process of turning away when he saw John take one step forward, his hands reaching out for the marble headstone bearing the inscription Edwaiid Eden 1798-1851, He seemed to grasp it, as though he wanted to rip it from its place in the earth. But at last his intent failed him and Andrew saw him go down onto his knees on his father's grave, his head bent low, a soft, childlike voice joining the sighs of waves coming from the strand, an almost soundless moaning which nonetheless Andrew heard clearly.

"Papa-'*

Andrew turned away, unable to watch any longer.

Lord Liam Harrington, originally from County Kerry, Tully Cross, Ireland, sat back in his chair in his private sitting room, amazed that the long-dreaded public opening of Eden Castle should be so enjoyable and that the enjoyment was emanating from such an unlikely source—a tall, gaunt, attractive young Irishman who had kept them both captivated for the last several days with his humorous accounts of "Britishness."

Though it was approaching midnight, the three of them having dined alone because of Lila's indisposition, and though Mr. Parnell had held forth nonstop for over four hours, still Lord Harrington was loath to let the evening end.

To Mr. Parnell's thoughtful observation of, "It's late and you both look weary," Lord Harrington insisted, "No, not at all," though he glanced across at his daughter Lila, lying on the chaise in her dressing gown, and determined that while she didn't look particularly weary, she looked ill, her eyes darting to the clock. John would send for her soon, as he always did, and Lord Harrington would be forced again to witness her fear as her maid helped her to the door.

Yet what can I do? She was the man's wife. She had her duties and no choice but to perform them. In addition, Lord Harrington was too deeply in debt to John Murrey Eden ever to take Lila's side against him. The man wanted more children, a reasonable Catholic desire, and Lila must be the bearer of those children, whether she fancied it or not.

Strengthened by these thoughts, he redirected his attention to the irrepressible Irishman, Mr. Parnell, who had regaled them all evening with stories of his English classmates at Cambridge.

"Tell us more, Mr. Parnell, I beg you," Lord Hanington pleaded, rising from his chair to fill both their brandy snifters, in the hope that the man would talk on until Lila was sent for, and then remain for that next ungodly hour when Lord Harrington was forced to dwell on what she was enduring.

"I can't imagine what's left to tell, Lord Harrington," Mr. Parnell responded. "Suffice it to say that my Cambridge days were a disaster from start to finish. If it hadn't been for a few men such as Richard Eden and Herbert Nichols and my supervisor, G. F. Pattrick, my

three and one-half years there would have been even more unproductive than they were."

"Then you count the experience for nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing." Parnell smiled.

"Why did you go?"

"My mother's idea," Parnell said, laughing. "God spare the world from ambitious mothers! She'd thought to make an English gentleman of me, but—"

Abruptly the man broke off and stared into his brandy.

As though hoping to guide the conversation away from that painful topic, Parnell asked, "Is it true. Lord Harrington, that your daughter has never seen Ireland?"

Embarrassed, Lord Harrington leaned back in his chair. "I'm afraid it is," he confessed.

"I don't believe it," Parnell said, standing. "I merely ask her when she'd last been home and she calmly replies that she's never been to Ireland!" He strode a few steps about the room, looking back at the two of them, only to conclude with a vigorous shake of his head. "I don't believe it; I really can't."

"You must understand, Mr. Parnell," Lord Harrington began feebly, "I married an Englishwoman and dissolved all my Irish holdings many years ago." He placed his snifter on the near table and locked his hands before him in defense against the memories of that bleak past. "It was during the Famine, Mr. Parnell. I was unable to care for my workers and I wearied of watching them die."

He closed his eyes against the assault of memory and guilt. Unable to face it, he'd run from it, had run as well from his Catholic faith. In a rush of grief he walked a distance into the shadows of the room and threw back a defensive, "No, Lila has never seen Ireland, and my last glimpse of it was not one that I would want her to see."

Softly he heard Mr. Parnell say, "The invalid lived, Lord Harrington. Surely you received news of that. The Irish heart beats as strong as ever and will continue to do so, despite British greed. I can't imagine that you will be contented forever within the confines of this English fortress, nor Lady Lila."

"She is an English wife now, Mr. Parnell," Lord Harrington re-phed, "as she was an English daughter."

"And an Irish one," Parnell added. Then, as though he too had sensed that the conversation had taken a disagreeable turn, he sat on the edge of the chair, that irrepressible grin seeming to light all the

dark corners of the room, and cordially invited, "Then you must both come and visit me at Avondale. Oh, beautiful it is, you wait and see. Lady Lila, comfortable but not grand, set in a park of ancient trees and rolling grassland."

As Pamell rushed on in loving description of his home. Lord Harrington watched Lila, the changes on her face as Parnell talked about the small comfortable rooms, the cozy library, the three bay windows which afforded a breathtaking view of the lush parkland, every feature in direct contrast to what she inhabited here at Eden.

As Parnell's enthusiasm mounted, keeping pace with his voice, he left his chair and sat on the edge of Lila's chaise, as though his words delivered close at hand would have a greater effect on her. Lord Harrington found himself drawn forward by the man's passion, his determination to make the dream happen, to work alongside his farmers, enjoying the dignity of labor, an experience not totally foreign to Lord Harrington, despite his ten years of pampered boredom here at Eden. In his youth he, too, had worked alongside his father and knew the feel and smell of Irish soil as well as any man.

"Ah, glorious it is, and glorious it will be," Parnell concluded in a state of rapture, his hands clasped between his legs, his strong patrician features lifted toward the ceiling.

Suddenly Wolf awakened and meowed plaintively. The animal sound, coming so unexpectedly after the torrent of human words, set them all three to laughing, Parnell claiming, "See? Even Wolf wants to come. Poor Wolf," he added, gently rubbing the cat's head, "condemned to a diet of English rats."

There it was again, that coldness in his voice for everything English.

Lord Harrington had a question, indeed had postponed asking it for several days. He drew near to the chaise and tried to speak diplomatically. "If I may ask, Mr. Pamell, why did you come here?"

A look of surprise covered the man's face. "I was invited," he said, "by both Lord Eden and Professor Nichols. I was on my way to London to visit my brother John, and, if given a choice between the filthy roadside inns of rural England and the cornucopia of Eden Castle, which would you select?"

Lord Harrington smiled. It was as he'd suspected. The man was a charming opportunist.

"Money, great masses of it, has an incredibly strong odor." Parnell

grinned. "And this poor Irishman couldn't resist a good glimpse at one of England's truly great cesspools."

Aware that he'd said too much, Parnell delivered an apology to Lila. "I beg your forgiveness, milady," he murmured.

"No need, Mr, Parnell," she replied, the expression on her face soft with reflective tenderness for the land of her ancestry which she'd never seen. "My husband is—"

A knock came at the door, a light rap, not at all capable of eliciting the look of fear which covered her face.

Lord Harrington saw Parnell glance toward the door and offer kindly to open it.

"No," Lila whispered, drawing her dressing gown more tightly about her. In the next moment when Wolf jumped down from her side and darted into Lord Harrington's bedchamber, Lila cried out, "Wolf, please!"

In defense against the cry and the dread in his daughter's eyes, Lord Harrington summoned strength from some remote source and ignored Pamell's offer to answer the door, going himself, knowing full well what he would find on the other side.

There they were, precisely as he had imagined them, a strange party of executioners; Lila's maid, Molly, her expression in the dim corridor as fear-ridden as Lila's, and standing behind her, two strapping male stewards who had been sent to assist her with the completion of her duties.

"Begging your pardon. Lord Harrington," Molly whispered, "but Mr. Eden-"

"I know," Lord Harrington replied sharply and thought. How barbaric! Was the fault Lila's or John's, and how long could his daughter endure nightly rape, and why between husband and wife did it have to be rape?

Frustrated and despondent for lack of an answer, he commanded brusquely, "Madam, your husband is waiting."

He turned away from the conclusion of the ritual, Molly stepping aside to permit the two stewards to enter the room, the men, one on each arm, lifting Lila to her feet, a gentle assistance, simply acting as support for her weakness, no one paying the slightest attention to her soft plea of "No, please," the echo fading under Molly's encouragement of "Come, milady—"

lyo

Then they were gone, and Lord Harrington closed the door quickly behind them, fearful that she might cry out again, and took his regret to the window where in the comfort of night he thought again, Barbaricl

"With your forgiveness. Lord Harrington," Parnell said, a few steps behind him, "why do you permit it?"

"Permit what?" Lord Harrington replied, taking shelter in a feigned ignorance.

"Your daughter is ill," Parnell said. "That is apparent to anyone with eyes to see. Why do you permit her nightly to be subjected to-"

"Who am I to give my permission?" he countered. "They are husband and wife, Mr. Parnell," he pointed out, embarrassed to be discussing such an intimate matter with a stranger. "Mr. Eden wants more children. Doesn't he have that right? Tell me if I'm wrong, please."

He heard the entreaty in his voice and hated it, seeking consolation from a man he'd known for less than a fortnight.

But to his extreme pleasure Parnell gave it to him. "Yes," he said at last, as though his conclusion had been painful but nonetheless honest. "Yes," he repeated, "a husband has rights—even John Murrey Eden."

The two men stared at each other, a bleak, uneasy stare, as though something had been omitted, something left unsaid.

Parnell rallied first. "Come," he said, placing an affectionate arm about Lord Harrington's shoulder, "another brandy for medicinal purposes."

Comforted, Lord Harrington refilled their snifters and settled back in the easy chair opposite Parnell. And, in order to keep his thoughts away from the chambers two floors below, he asked with sudden urgency, "Please tell me more of Avondale, Mr. Parnell. . . ."

Like a monstrous and mortally wounded prehistoric creature, the Eden Festivities gasped a final breath on Friday morning and died, to the relief of all.

The comparison was John's own, muttered in private to Aslam during the last torturous breakfast with no members of the family present save Aslam and less than ten diehard guests, including Lord and Lady Forbes and their daughter, Eleanor.

With the conclusion of that awkward meal, John had dutifully

stood at the bottom of the Great Hall steps and bid all farewell, their expressions of gratitude for his hospitality sounding more like condolences.

As the last caniage belonging to Lord and Lady Forbes rattled through the Gatehouse arch, John watched with weary eyes and thought that at least something had been accomplished there. A maniage contract had been drawn up and signed with mutually advantageous clauses for both sides. John had waived the dowry from the impoverished family in exchange for their promise that Lady Eleanor would be patient with her intended, Lord Richard Eden. The "engagement" could stretch over an unprecedented five years if necessary, and during that time Lady Eleanor was not to see or be seen socially with any other gentleman. She was to respond affirmatively to any invitation made by the Eden family and was to launch immediately into a correspondence with Lord Richard, persisting even if he failed to reply.

Of course John had assured them that he was confident a marriage would take place well within the five-year limit. But in the event that it didn't. Lady Eleanor was then free to pursue her matrimonial search in more promising directions. In return for this display of patience, John would provide the Forbes family with fifty thousand pounds per year, which would enable them to retire all of Percy's gambling debts, plus their household debts, thus achieving a degree of financial respectability when the ceremony did take place.

And it would take place, and with that conviction he had reassured both parents and daughter. The fact that the prospective bridegroom had not put in an appearance for the last two days was a bit harder to explain.

As the Forbes carriage rattled beyond the Gatehouse, John closed his eyes and tried not to dwell on the bitter disappointment of the last few days. In the heat of the late May morning, he felt a trickle of perspiration course down the side of his face. He opened his eyes and brushed it away and saw his hand unsteady before him. That they considered him a fool there was little doubt. That he was a fool there was no doubt. What need had he for any of them, those pampered bluebloods with their inherited and rapidly dwindling wealth, pathetic specimens like Lord and Lady Forbes, in outdated and musty-smelling clothes, and their pretty little practical-minded daughter, who had more sense than the two of them put together?