The Women of Eden (32 page)

There it was again, that ominous threat as though something were

coming to an end. Because Richard couldn't deal with it and had no desire to understand it, he suggested quickly, "Mrs. Pettibone's tea will wait, as will the summer evening. Come," he murmured, his mind moving ahead to their bedchamber at the rear of the flat, cool linens, the comfortable bed.

Convinced that the need and desire were mutual, he was bewildered to see Bertie sit back down in his chair. Then there were words, incredible ones. "I was thinking, Richard, that it might be wise if we established separate residences."

Stunned, Richard demanded, "Why?"

"I had hoped that by now you would have perceived the reason for yourself."

"What are you saying?" Richard asked angrily, his hurt and confusion conspiring against him.

"I'm saying," Bertie replied calmly, "that someone has set a watchdog on us."

"A-what?"

"A watchdog," Bertie said. "I've seen him almost every day for the last two weeks, and am amazed that you have not—"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"At first I wasn't certain," Bertie explained, "but now I am."

"Certain of what?"

"That we are being watched. This flat, you, me. . . ."

Richard tried to draw a deep breath in order to deal with the insanity of Bertie's words. "I—don't believe you," he stammered. "Who would-"

"I was hoping you could tell me that as well." Bertie smiled, his eyes fixed on that same spot beyond the window. "He stands-there," he said, pointing across the hedge in the direction of the fountain which fronted the building opposite their flat.

Apprehension was pressing so heavily upon Richard that he felt he could not stir. But feeling the need to see for himself, he glanced out the window and saw nothing but the deserted walk.

Slowly he raised up and looked down on the true mystery—Bertie himself. Was he speaking the truth? Were they being watched, and to what end? Or was this Bertie's way of informing Richard that he had found another source of affection?

Unprepared for the pain of that last thought, Richard felt himself go weak. He reached for the chair behind him and sank into it. Then he was aware of Bertie kneeling before him, grasping his hands. "Lis-

ten to me, Richard," he pleaded. "It isn't the end of things, though I must confess that at first I thought it might be. But it's simple, really. If someone has been sent to spy on us, then we must give them nothing to see."

Partially reassured by Bertie's closeness, Richard found the courage to ask, "But who? And why?"

"Who else?" Bertie replied, glancing back at the folded newsprint on the desk.

"But why?" Richard demanded. "And are you certain?"

Bertie sat back on his heels, his hands grasping Richard's legs. "Why?" he repeated. "Eden needs a legitimate heir, doesn't it? And who but you can produce that? And yes, I'm certain. I wasn't at first, but I am now."

"I've seen nothing."

"You want to see nothing, Richard, But believe me, our future safety lies in us both seeing as clearly as possible now."

Bertie had been talking in feverish haste and was suddenly silent with a questioning look. "Do you trust me, Richard?"

"You know that I do."

"Then for a while I'm going to take rooms in town."

"No-"

"For a while, I said. Perhaps John's present ordeal will draw his attention back to London and the watchdog will retire and leave us alone."

Richard closed his eyes against the coming separation. "I have no life without you."

"Nor I you."

They clung to each other in the darkened study. It was Bertie who first moved away from the embrace. "Look," he murmured, holding back the edge of the drape.

Slowly Richard stood. Before he looked out he fought a silent battle with himself. Bertie was wrong. John would not do this. But as Bertie stepped back to make room for him at the window, Richard lifted the edge of the drape and looked out, his eyes moving instantly toward the small fountain.

A man stood there, leaning relaxed against a lamppost, one leg propped before the other. He was smoking a pipe or cigar—Richard couldn't be sure from that distance and saw only the wreaths of smoke curling about the man's head.

Still the dragons of doubt persisted. Couldn't he simply be taking the air, a tradesman from Cambridge curious about life here?

Richard was on the verge of presenting Bertie with these arguments when the man by the lamppost shifted positions, stood erect, looked in both directions, then moved stealthily into a new position directly behind the hedge, less than ten feet from their front door.

Angered by the invasion, Richard dropped the drape as though it were hot and confronted Bertie, who had retreated to the chair behind the desk.

"He has no right," Richard said. "John has no right—**

Sharply Bertie lifted a finger to his lips. He began to shake his head back and forth, thus reminding Richard that it was dangerous to speak now.

Richard started back toward the window, then changed his mind, realizing that any movement of the drape would signal the man's attention. In an attempt to ease his growing sense of being trapped, he started toward the door, then again changed his mind.

His sense of entrapment dangerously increasing, his sense of outrage and injustice keeping pace, Richard turned away from the door. "He has no right," he repeated.

Again Bertie leaned forward, urging quiet. Stymied on all sides and trapped within the confines of his own study, Richard closed his eyes and leaned upon the desk and tried to still the fear within him.

Before him on the desk he caught sight of his books on Fenelon.

A cross is no longer a cross when there is no longer a self to suffer its weight. . . .

How empty and sterile those words sounded now. He sat slowly in the chair and returned Bertie's sorrowful gaze. . . .

London June 1870

Taking care to fasten her beaver hat with the flowing veil, Mary inserted a second pin through the soft fur, then lowered her arms and gazed into the mirror.

Without warning and for no reason that she could think of, unless it was the resemblance about the eyes, she thought of Richard. How often of late she'd done that, wondering what Richard would think of that fabric, that gown, this hat.

As she leaned forward to pinch color into her cheeks, it occurred to her that she missed Richard and his quiet ways because of the storm which had been raging below in Elizabeth's drawing room, off and on, night and day, for the last week—a silly melodrama with constantly changing characters, one day Andrew, the next Lord Harrington, occasionally Elizabeth and Dhari, while the lead actor remained the same.

Listen! She could hear him now and marveled at his capacity to sustain such outrage. And the cause of it all? A foolish newspaper article written by an anonymous journalist who had visited Eden during the fortnight's Festivities and had found it lacking.

Everyone had tried to soothe him in witless variations. But John's anger had increased in direct proportion to the offers of comfort about him, and late last evening when he had mentioned his desire to file a suit against the London Times, Andrew Rhoades, in angry resignation, had stomped out of the room, leaving the rest of them to absorb his fury until well after midnight.

Grateful for a chance to flee this madhouse, Mary took another quick glance into her looking glass, not pleased with what she saw,

for she was too plump to look really well in the fashionable riding habits of the day. Nevertheless she adjusted her foldover skirt, grabbed her riding crop and gloves and hurried down the stairs.

She was to meet Doris, Elizabeth's maid, at the front door, a condition which Mary had agreed to two days ago when she'd asked EHzabeth for permission to indulge in the harmless activity of an afternoon's ride in Rotten Row.

Not only had Elizabeth granted it, she'd looked longingly at Mary, as though she wished she might join her. But that was out of the question. John's anger seemed to require Elizabeth's presence, almost as if he were punishing her instead of the anonymous journalist.

Midway down the stairs, Mary stopped. No sign of Doris at the front door. She held her position on the stairs, debating with herself whether to return to her room or proceed on into the drawing room and wait for the maid there. She would have preferred to wait on the pavement outside in the warm June sun, talking with Jason, Elizabeth's driver from the West Indies, about the various merits of her horse Bonaparte. She adored the dignified black man who treated her so courteously, though with a twinkle in his eye.

But it would never do to wait on the pavement. Anyone in the drawing room could look out and see her, and she had no desire to call attention to herself.

So she elected simply to wait on the stairs and settled near the banister, listening with detached interest to the voices coming from the drawing room.

No one had departed following luncheon. Andrew was there, his weary-sounding voice a pronounced counterpoint to John's rising angry one. Lord Harrington was there as well, in solid support of Andrew's point of view. And Elizabeth, of course, whose shoulder Mary could just see through the drawing room arch, a silent presence saying nothing at all. And today Alex Aldwell was present as well.

Safely out of sight and aligning the fingers of her leather gloves, Mary heard John interrupt Andrew in midsentence.

"Why would it be so difficult?" he demanded. "The man was a guest at Eden."

"One of over two hundred," Andrew quietly reminded him.

"But the column appeared in the Times!" John shouted. "I should think that would narrow the search considerably."

"Not necessarily," Andrew said. "I've already made an inquiry at

the Times. No one knows the identity of this Lord Ripples, and they all are prepared to testify to that in court."

*'Of course they would say that," John countered, *1>ut proclaiming that in the safety of an editorial oflBce and in sworn testimony in a court of law are two different things."

"I believe them," Andrew said quietly. "And I believe further that any Englishman could have written that article and submitted it to the Times. They appear weekly, you know, on the Letters page, an open forum, a legitimate place for anyone to say anything."

"But someone must know his identity," John bellowed, "someone in authority."

"Not necessarily," Andrew repeated. "There are constant letters to the paper, signed anonymously."

"This is not a letter."

"No, but the Times always publishes a disclaimer to the private opinions expressed on its pages, and this is what I've been told in all inquiries. They—are—not—responsible."

As Andrew's words, measured out as though for a child, filled the silence, Mary held still, her eyes focused on the face of the old clock. Three-twenty. Oh, Doris, why couldn't you have been early?

Then she heard Elizabeth's voice.

"John, please, let it drop. The words are offensive enough without damaging yourself further in vengeful action. Listen to Andrew. Ignore the column. I assure you that most of London has done so by now. Legal action of any form will only resurrect the matter and summon everyone's attention."

"I don't give a damn about everyone's attention!" John exploded. "I only care about the attention of one man, and that's the bastard who wrote it, a cowardly bastard, hiding behind—"

As John's voice rose, Mary glanced through the railing toward the kitchen door. If Doris didn't appear soon, she would go down and drag her up. How desperately she wanted to flee this place for the broad, tree-hned bridle path of Rotten Row, the sun warm upon her back, June fragrance all about, Bonaparte trotting easily past the ladies and gentlemen and heading, as though he had an appetite of his own, for the southwest corner of the park where the pretty "horse-breakers" rode, those hordes of kept women who paraded every afternoon for the pleasure of London's male populace.

Mary had ventured to the edge of the crowd yesterday and had watched along with everyone else, fascinated by their beauty and

fashionable clothes and scandalous lives. She'd looked closely for the most famous horse-breaker of all, the beautiful Skittles, who was a near national figure and who once had been painted by Sir Edwin Landseer, an equestrian portrait which now was one of the main attractions at the Royal Academy. Mary had seen the painting many times and longed to see the woman herself, who was reported to have had over one hundred lovers.

"And just where might John Thadeus Delane be?" she heard John shout, his fury destroying her image of the woman who enjoyed such freedom.

"Out of the country," Andrew replied.

"Convenient," John snapped.

"It's true. His assistant claims he is on the Continent."

"When is he expected to return?"

"Mid-July is what I was told. But surely you don't think that Delane-"

"Yes, I do!" John cut in. "Delane is the London Times. Nothing appears on those pages without both his approval and consent."

"Oh, John, that's nonsense!"

As the battle continued to rage, Mary leaned back against the steps and tried not to hear the charges and countercharges and thought again of the horse-breakers of Rotten Row. Yesterday she'd had such an amazing compulsion to join them, to slyly enter their parade and see what it felt like to have men look admiringly at her. But what if one approached her, as they frequently did, hiring women on the spot, then leading them away through the dappled green of Hyde Park toward waiting carriages?

Abruptly Mary closed her eyes, simultaneously shocked and fascinated by the fantasies in her head.

Just then she heard the kitchen door creak open and looked down to see plump Doris emerging on the top step, her middle-aged face flushed from the climb and from her labors of cleaning up after luncheon.

Grateful to the woman and vowing to tell her so as soon as they were alone, Mary stood rapidly, caught Doris' eye and placed her finger to her lips, indicating the need for stealth and silence. She could make it undetected to the bottom of the stairs, but beyond that she would be in clear view of anyone within the drawing room. There would be about six steps of complete exposure, then the freedom of the door and beyond.