The Women of Eden (55 page)

How can she be dead?

"John, come sit down. Let me help you." It was Andrew again.

But it wasn't assistance that John desired. It was explanation, denial. Vaguely aware that he was turning in a slow, stunned circle, he asked Alex Aldwell, "This—isn't true, is it? There's been a—mistake?"

"No mistake, John, I'm afraid. Let me fetch the message for you. You need to read it."

Why in hell is everyone telling me what I need? "Elizabeth?" he called out, as though still willing to give someone a chance to refute what had been said.

But her tears merely increased. "We didn't know where to reach you, John. Oh, we tried. How hard we—"

Suddenly a new horror swept over him. "The babe," he demanded. *Thebabyis-"

He saw Andrew approaching him warily. "There was no baby, John," he said. "According to Lady Harriet, Lila suffered and died from a tumor."

John glared at the face effortlessly spilling lies. They were all liars. What pleasure they were taking in taunting him! There was a babe. Hadn't the doctor said so? And if it was dead, then Lila had killed it, as she'd killed all the others.

"John, please," someone was begging. "Let's go into the drawing room and sit down. I'll pour you a brandy."

He didn't want a brandy. He didn't want anything that they could give him. They were not to be trusted.

"Aslam!" he called out, lifting a hand, knowing that the boy would respond.

"I'm here, John."

For one stunning moment John could not remember why he'd summoned the boy.

Lila— Not dead.

He seemed to be having difficulty drawing breath. Everyone around him was using up all the oxygen.

Deprived of air and fast losing reason and too proud to accept their pity, he struggled up out of his confusion and whispered a single command to the young man standing before him. "Fetch the letter from Eden and bring it to me."

Then, because he could not endure the congregation or the echo of their malicious announcement, he proceeded toward the staircase.

"Leave him alone," he heard someone whisper.

"But we must know—"

"In time. There's time—"

While the voices continued to whirl behind him, he continued on until he gained the support of the newel post, then commenced slowly to pull himself up the stairs.

All he had to do was to make it to the first landing. Then the disloyalty which was coming from those faces and which was draining him of energy would no longer have an effect on him. One must always be stronger than one's enemies.

As he rounded the second-floor landing, he was pleased to find his theory confirmed. He was feeling stronger. It had been their pity that had weakened him. At last he gained his door and stepped inside and began to consider what Lila would like for Christmas. A little ermine cape perhaps to offset her blond beauty. And a muff. Yes, he would see to it this very day, as soon as—

But at midroom his knees buckled and the truth struck a blow through all the armor of his rationalization and, without being able to say how he knew, he knewl She was dead. There was no babe. Scarcely thirty-seven, and he was a widower, an object to be pitied.

Outside the door he heard footsteps and, in an effort to hide his weakness, he sat on the sofa. There was a knock, then a familiar voice. "John, I'm here."

"Come," he called out, hopeful that the worst was over. There was

no need for prolonged grieving. He had grieved before in his life and would grieve again.

He looked up, aware of Aslam standing just inside the door, a parchment in his hands. "Good," John said, and motioned him to come forward. "Quite a homecoming, wouldn't you say?"

"Fm—sorry," Aslam said, and that was all he said, but it was enough. Death was only a rumor at his age. Others died, but it would never touch him.

As though aware of John's scrutiny, he extended the parchment. "Mr. Rhoades said to tell you that you must make preparations to depart immediately."

"Read it," John requested, thinking he would like a brandy but not yet trusting his legs. He leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes.

The silence was broken by Aslam's voice. "It is signed by Lady Eden, Countess Dowager, and co-signed by Lord Harrington," he began.

Treachery even there. John had forbidden the old man to journey to Eden. Another score to settie.

Aslam read:

My Dearest John,

It is with grieving hearts that we convey to you this message. On the first of December 1870 in the early hours of the morning Lila died. Forgive the plainness of the words and please bear no ill feehngs toward those who bear this terrible message. As we lack a competent medical opinion, we hesitate to tell you more, except that in the judgment of the midwife she suffered a tumor which prevented her system from performing its essential tasks.

We are sending this by the fastest courier. We will await your imminent arrival with instructions for burial. Lord Harrington has penned his daughter's obituary and will hold it for your approval. We beg you, come immediately. All of Eden has been plunged into the deepest grief and we desperately need your presence.

In the faith that God watches us all and sends us no burden which we cannot bear, I remain

Your loving Harriet

Silence, except for the rastle of the parchment being folded.

John opened his eyes. The resurrected memories were almost over. She had been a miracle to him in those early years. But the later ones had been discordant and filled with suspicions. Perhaps Harriet's God was wiser than he'd ever imagined. What a hell it would have been to have grown old with Lila! The suspicions would have turned to distrust, the distrust to resentment, the resentment to hate. Now he'd been spared all that and could remember her only with that sweet sadness that had first invested their love.

Feeling strong, he pushed up from the sofa, took the death message from Aslam's hand and dropped it on the table. "Of course, a journey to Eden is out of the question," he announced, making for his desk.

"Out of the question," Aslam repeated.

"Still, without my guidance, they apparently lack the good sense to bury her, so—"

He reached into his lower drawer for his writing portfolio and, as he arranged it on his desk, Aslam stepped forward.

"Let me do that, John," he offered kindly. "You dictate."

Dear God, what a joy the young man isl He waited until Aslam was ready, then commenced speaking, pleased to hear his voice restored to its normal power:

My Dear Haiooet,

Circumstances prohibit a journey to Eden at this time. Therefore I request that you adhere to the following instructions.

My wife is to be interred as soon as you receive this message. Place her next to my father. I will attend to the headstone myself when I arrive for Christmas. There is to be no service. If the family wishes, there will be a memorial during the holidays. I forbid my sons to see her. I will inform them when I arrive. Instruct Miss Samson to keep them in the nursery and isolated from the rest of the castle.

I am, as always, grateful for your cooperation and assistance.

"I'll sign it," John concluded and waited for Aslam to finish the last sentence.

That done, he was just reaching for the document when a knock sounded at the door.

"Shall I send them away?" Aslam whispered, an expression on his face which suggested that he would relish such a task.

John's impulse was to say "Yes," but it was probably Andrew and the man's appearance had been inevitable and, since undoubtedly that grim crowd was still congregated downstairs and since they would not go away until he sent them away. John ignored the look on Aslam's face and commanded, "Let him in."

A moment later Andrew stood before him, his face sunk into angles of gloom. Dear God, why does the world so relish grief?

"Come in, Andrew," he called out good-naturedly.

"I'm sorry to bother you, John," Andrew commenced, 'l^ut we were wondering how soon you would be ready to leave. The letter urges haste, and the rest of us are prepared to leave immediately."

"I'm not going anywhere, Andrew."

"I—beg your pardon?"

"I said, I'm not going anywhere."

"I—don't understand," Andrew faltered.

"Here," John said, shoving the recently penned instructions across his desk.

He watched as Andrew read Aslam's meticulous penmanship and could see the protest forthcoming.

"But, John, you must go," he insisted.

"It's quite impossible," John replied, retrieving the letter, folding and inserting it into its envelope.

Andrew looked almost desperately about the room. "But she's your wife!"

"And she's dead now. There is nothing further I can do for her,"

"You can be there," Andrew said, "out of consideration, out of decency."

"Both moot points," John replied, "at least where lila is concerned."

"I—don't beheve it," Andrew stammered, backing away from the desk. "I'm sorry," he went on, shaking his head. "Clearly I intruded too soon. I'll give you additional time."

"I need no additional time," John called after him. My decision is final and rooted in good sens^ which seems to be in short supply in my house at present."

"And what am I to tell the others?"

"The message was short, surely you can remember." Briefly he re-

gretted the hurt he saw in Andrew's eyes. But why, in God's name, does the man challenge me on everything

The hurt passed rapidly and was replaced by carefully controlled anger. "The women/' Andrew pronounced coldly. "Dhari and Elizabeth will insist upon going."

"Then let them/' John said. "It's a woman's ritual. They will relish every moment of it."

"I would like to accompany them."

"No! I need you here." John leaned across his desk, amazed at the density of this once-brilliant solicitor. "The hearing/' he pronounced broadly. "Have you forgotten it?"

'The hearing can be postponed. I'm certain that under the circumstances Lord Aimsley will understand."

Outraged, John shouted, "The hearing will not be postponed! Is that clear? And how can you even suggest such a step? You know how I've suffered. The only thought that has sustained me these last difficult months is the hope, the dream of getting John Thadeus Delane in the box, under oath—"

He caught himself up, aware that rage was a posion he could do without. And why should he allow himself to be driven to rage? This was not a debate. The issue was settled.

Slowly he sat back dovm in his chair and tried not to look at the shock on Andrew's face. "I've been traveling for a fortnight," he concluded quietly, "on two most distasteful errands. I've neglected my business affairs; I've neglected my ovm health. Now it is my intention to see certain matters through to their conclusions. Then, when my mind is clear, my responsibilities executed, I have every intention of journeying to Eden where, if it pleases you, I wiU outmourn all of you. Don't forget. The loss is mine."

He'd not planned to put on such a performance. The words had simply come of their ovra volition. Only now was he aware of the positive effect his theatrical had had on Andrew. The man was drawing close to the desk.

"I am sorry, John," he murmured. "How selfish of me not to understand." He straightened up, his face still desolate, though tempered with understanding. "I will convey your vidshes to the others, and I assume then that Dhari and Elizabeth have your permission."

"Of course, of course," John murmured, resting his head in his hands. 'Tell them to go with my blessing. And send Aldwell with them. They mustn't be alone on the road."

This last consideration was a master stroke. "Send my message with them," he added, "and tell them that a large portion of my heart goes with it."

Andrew took up the letter which recently he'd dropped in angry disgust. "I'll see them safely off, John. Then, with your permission, if you are feeling well enough, I'll go over the specifics of the hearing."

"Very good." John smiled. "And by the way, I've brought you a new assistant. Aslam—" He motioned for the young man to come forward and charted the expression on Andrew's face.

Surprise was there, as well as confusion. John went on, "I want him to work closely with you, Andrew. He's wasted his talents in the backwaters of Cambridge long enough."

He watched the two men sizing each other up. How subtly their relationship had changed. And how potentially volatile it was. Aslam was now a professional threat to Andrew, and Andrew, in his new alliance with Dhari, was a personal threat to Aslam.

He grinned at the quietiy staring men, then he caught himself in time. He was the grieving widower now. Determined to play his proper role, he stood with a weariness that was not altogether feigned and walked to the door which led to his bedchamber. "Leave me, both of you," he requested softiy. "I need an interval alone. Aslam, go and see if you can assist your mother with her preparations for the journey. Andrew, give Jason instructions. Have them take Elizabeth's carriage; it's more roadworthy. Instruct them to travel without respite. Harriet is waiting. . . ."

As his voice drifted off, he grasped the door frame and without looking back concluded, "A few hours alone, please, that's all I ask. The three of us will take dinner here tonight. We must be fully allied and prepared for what the future may bring."

With that, he stepped into the chill of his bedchamber, closed the door behind him, then held his position, listening.

Ah, there were the footsteps he'd been waiting for, both men moving without question to execute his instructions.

Slowly he turned to confront his bedchamber.

Dead.

He'd not expected this and, in an attempt to dispel the word and the meaning behind it, he struck a lucifer and lit the lamp beside his bed. The flame caught, though it burned weakly.

He sat on the edge of his bed and began laboriously to remove his boots. A fire would help. The chill was intense.

Boots removed, he stretched out and tried to clear his mind by concentrating on the dancing shadows overhead.

Mary ...

The name entered his thoughts v^dthout warning and dragged him over onto his side, where he clutched the coverlet and stared sideways into the darkness. It was for the best. No need at this time to inform her of Lila's death. They had been very close and such news would only serve to upset her further.