The Women of Eden (40 page)

"I know," she murmured, bewildered by how complete she felt with his arms about her, how bereft without them. "Then what are we to do?" she asked, bringing his face into focus, regretfully reminding him of the dilemma which had plunged them into this prolonged silence and which had kept them dangerously later than usual in the park.

"We'll talk tomorrow," he said, lightly tracing her lips with his fingers. "Perhaps winter will be kind and come later than usual."

"Not likely."

Here, then, was the outline of their distress. With the coming of winter this natural chamber would no longer be conducive to their meetings. Yet where would they go?

When he drew her close again, as though he, too, felt the need to fortify himself against the coming separation, she whispered, "Oh, my darling," and felt their dilemma like an intolerable burden.

He held her only a moment, then stood up, as though in anger, but in truth his voice sounded more like a cry for relief. "Then I'll simply announce myself, formally, to Elizabeth," he said. "It's her house. Surely she controls who calls, and will not object."

"No," she said, going to his side, "you mustn't do that."

"Why?"

"Why!" she repeated, amazed at his momentary lack of prudence. "You were there," she whispered, her voice faUing low, as though fearful that there were listening ears close by. "You saw my cousin at Eden and know him to be a man capable of—"

"If Elizabeth permits me entry, I don't see how—"

Slowly she shook her head, aware that not only did he not see but neither did he understand that unique bond which existed between John and Elizabeth, a bond that had been temporarily weakened by the last few weeks but which, as far as Mary could determine, was still strong and intact.

In an attempt to gain a moment's respite for herself, the better to explain, she turned away and walked a short distance to the edge of the path. The shadows of dusk had turned the fringes of the park to solid black, a mass of undefined lines and shapes in which effortlessly she found the contour of what appeared to be a human shoulder.

Shivering with cold and apprehension, she scolded her imagination. "They are very close," she faltered, dragging her attention back to the matter at hand. "Ehzabeth does nothing without John's knowledge and approval."

"Why?" he demanded. "She seems very fond of you. You said yourself that she was the one who allowed you to go to Jeremy Sims'."

"When John was out of the city."

"Won't he be returning to Eden again soon?"

"Not soon. There are other matters which are pressing against him now."

He gazed down on her v^dth new intensity, as though at last she had said something that he had understood. "What—matters?" he asked.

Drawing strength from his closeness, she said, "That newspaper article I told you about, weeks ago, written by someone who had visited Eden—"

She had thought to say more, but she was not given that chance, for abruptly he walked a few steps in the opposite direction.

"Burke?" she called after him, and either the sound of her voice or the pleading in her tone brought him back to her where within the instant he drew her close.

She lifted her arms about his neck and secured the closeness and heard him whispering her name over and over again in her ear. At some point the pleasant lassitude changed. As a low painful throb erupted in the pit of her stomach, she hfted her face to him and saw a similar need in his eyes and with a force which at first alarmed her, she met his lips, though the kiss was quite different this time, his mouth forcing hers open, his tongue probing deep inside, his arms tightening about her as though he wanted to draw her into him.

"I—will—see—you," he vowed, a curious tone of anger in his voice.

"And there is nothing for me but these hours only."

Then how was it to be accomplished? How could she willingly remove her hands from the back of his neck where beneath his soft dark hair she'd discovered the fascinating canal of his upper spine and, by the simple act of moving her hand forward, she had discovered his ear, her fingertips tracing its outline. And there were so many other rich discoveries as well, the taste of his flesh along the line of his jaw, the pleasantly scented skin of his neck, the manner in

which his hands had moved down her back and were now pressed against her hips.

It was commencing again, stronger than before, sensations which could not be ignored, a mutual need so acute that she found herself cursing the barriers of their garments and, as his head went down to her breast, she lifted her eyes to the darkening sky and was conscious of a silent thankfulness.

She was lovedl An extraordinary man had found something in her to love!

The strips of light overhead narrowed. Suddenly she heard something, a rustle in the underbrush nearby. As the embrace ended, both stared at the spot where the disturbance had occurred.

"What—" she whispered, and discovered that she lacked the breath to continue.

Without a word, motioning for her to keep silent, he took two steps in the direction of the thick bushes.

As Mary waited she tried to quiet the acceleration of her heart.

"Nothing," Burke said at last, returning to her, though glancing over his shoulder. "An animal; perhaps a rabbit—"

She saw him then look up at the fading light and pronounce those most dreaded words. "You must go," he said. "You're very late."

"I'll tell them—something," she whispered, retrieving her hat from the bench, smoothing one hand over her breast, which was still alive with the sensation of his lips.

He appeared to be watching her, concern in his voice and manner. "Come," he urged. "I'll walk back with you as far as I can and see you safely to your carriage."

"But they might—"

"It's too dark. I can keep to the concealment of the trees. Tell them a stirrup broke—"

"Yes, something. I'll think of something—"

"We've stayed too late—"

"Too late-"

"If there's trouble-"

"There won't be. I can handle Doris—"

""If it rains tomorrow—"

"It won't rain—"

"There's a small shelter not far from here—"

"But we'U meet here first, as always—"

"Yes-"

Only in that abrupt sflence did she realize how frantically they had been talking. She adjusted her hat in order to give at least the appearance of normalcy while he untied their horses and withdrew a small penknife from his waistcoat pocket and slashed the leather stirrup strap.

At last they were ready, and all that remained was the walk across the park and their imminent separation.

Without daring to look up at him, almost afraid of the beauty of his face, she walked a few steps ahead, picking her way carefully up the narrow path. As they emerged into the clearing of the park she was amazed to see the darkness complete and thought what a fearful place it would be without him and thought of the disturbance in the bushes and wondered if it had been an animal.

It was while she was sorting through these thoughts that she heard his voice. "You are aware," he said quietly, "that I love you."

What simple words, and so simply delivered! As they closed about her, she shut her eyes against the unexpected embarrassment of tears. How often in the past she had wondered if she would ever hear those words from any man. Now to have heard them from this man. . . .

He came up alongside her, apparently concerned by her lack of response. "And I you," she whispered and suffered a peculiar lightheadedness as though her system, unaccustomed to such joy, did not know how to deal with it.

They walked for as long as it was safe, neither feeling the need for words. As the edge of the park came into sight, she looked ahead and saw only two carriages waiting, hers and his.

"You go ahead," he said. "Ill wait here. And tell your driver of the broken stirrup so he can report it to the stablemaster."

She nodded to everything and, in defense against the empty hours when she would be forced to sit in her bedchamber and conjure up those beloved features through the sheer force of her memory, she stepped toward him and traced with her fingertips the outline of his jaw.

"My dearest," he whispered and grasped her hand and pressed it, palm opened, to his lips. Then he rehnquished her reins, placed them securely in her hands and, with a nod, urged her to go ahead without him.

Summoning strength she did not even know she had, she increased her pace and, with an act of discipline, put together the fragments of

the old Mary, laughing, frivolous, whom Doris and Jason could recognize immediately.

"A minor accident, Jason," she called out, resisting the temptation to look back just one more time. "No damage, though I'm afraid it's made me quite late and I do apologize."

Whoever that giddy young woman was spouting all those lies, she had no idea. There was not one tone or inflection of her voice that she recognized. Yet she was moving inside her skin, so there must be a kinship somewhere and, as she approached Jason, she was relieved and pleased to see his face as expressionless as ever. She pointed out the broken stirrup and explained in what she hoped was a coherent manner how the day had been so beautiful. . . .

Dear God, so beautiful. . . .

Suddenly it occurred to her that someone was missing. "Where's Doris?"

"Waiting inside the carriage, milady. The chill was increasing and she only brought a light shawl."

As Jason held the door for her, Mary looked up into the carriage and saw the old maid seated in the far corner, her face turned away. Well, there was work to be done here. As Jason secured the door behind her, Mary sat uneasily on the edge of the seat and tried to determine the best approach.

Unfortunately in the quiet interim she dared to glance back at the line of trees about one hundred yards removed. And, though she saw nothing, she saw everything and knew that he was still waiting in the confinement of the shadows.

"Doris?" she commenced, realizing that eye contact was necessary for a truly effective apology.

But the woman would not look at her and, baffled by this reaction and suddenly lacking the energy to pursue it further, she repeated the tale that she had told Jason and at the conclusion was rewarded with one simple sentence.

"Well, you're safe and that's all that matters.**

That was that, although she suspected the scolding would come later with Elizabeth, and perhaps even John, more than making up for Doris' strange silence.

She would have to deal with it as best she could. For now she was grateful for the silence in the carriage that permitted her to lean back against the cushions and relive certain sensations. Paradoxically how strong she felt and how vulnerable. How well and weaki

But tomorrow would come. She would see him again and feel his arms about her, and together somehow they could plot a future. In that faith she would survive. . . .

Although he had first glimpsed the horror over three-quarters of an hour ago, only now did he begin to feel the reverberations, that deadly combination of shock and betrayal, a sensation which curiously started in the calves of his legs, painful muscle spasms that seemed to move steadily upward, like a marauding army, crushing his chest, closing off the air in his lungs, forcing him to shout, "WaitI Stop here! Let me out!"

As his driver drew the horses sharply up on the pavement, John pushed open the door with such force that he heard the hinges break and he walked steadily, as though he himself were on the verge of breaking, across Westminster Bridge, stopping at midcenter, perspiration on his forehead, his mind as swirling as the waters below.

Aware of the seriousness of his disintegration, he shut his eyes and clung to the railing and tried to draw breath. But he could not think clearly, and suffered anew a distorted image of what he had seen earlier in that darkened garden—the whore herself, the eternal female, deceiving, corrupting. . . .

He bent over until his forehead was pressed against the railing, the cold metal gouging his flesh, supplying him with minor relief.

"Mated," he mumbled aloud. Of course they had mated. The last image he had seen before he had fled his concealment had been the man's hand pressing against her, and she responding as wantonly as though—

He raised up and braced his arms against the railing. Vaguely, as though it were coming from another world, he was aware of late-evening traffic on the bridge behind him, a few pedestrians passing him by, their voices falling quiet as though they sensed distress, then their steps quickening, as though they wanted to remove themselves from it.

Oh, dear God, perhaps I didn't see itl Had it been a dream, a familiar nightmare? For he had seen the man before, the entire hideous episode at Eden re-created in variation, for now apparently the closeness of a waltz no longer sufficed. Now, through deception, they had progressed to—

"Mated," he whispered. Of course they had mated. . . .

God, how dark it was—as though fate intended him to see nothing

except what had transpired in that garden. He was aware of a trem-bhng in his shoulders, and turned up his collar against the chill and tried to deal with the loss—of everything, his fondest hopes and dreams, the devastating loss of that last temple of purity in his life. Where could he cast his eyes now when he was in desperate need of innocence, something, one thing in his worid untrammeled, uncor-rupted?

Again he reached for the support of the railing. A thought more unbearable than all the others entered his mind. Was this the first, or had there been others? Under Elizabeth's lax guidance had she long ago sacrificed her virginity and in truth for months, years, had he been deceiving himself?

Whorel

Looking up toward the end of the bridge, he saw his carriage, the driver waiting beside it. All deaths must be dealt with, arrangements made for the disposal of the body, the charade played out to the end. He would find no solution in the middle of the bridge, and circumstances demanded a solution.

As for the man, he could be dealt with in any number of ways. The more difficult corpse was Mary. He wanted never again to be in her presence.