The Women of Eden (57 page)

It could not be borne. Blindly he stumbled forward and sat on the bench and extended his arms on either side, as though to gather to him any residual memories which might be surviving beneath the blanket of snow.

But he found nothing except the hardness of the bench itself, winter's frozen dampness, and the deep conviction that his true state of loneliness had just begun. . . .

It was approaching midnight when, wept out, thought out, and dreamt out, he made his way like an invalid back to the house in Mayfair. During the last few blocks of this endless frozen walk he had counseled himself that from now on he must neither ask too much nor expect too much of life and fortune. He had been blessed with one brief interval of paradise, the reciprocal love of an adored woman. If from now on he were less greedy, fate, perhaps, would be more kind.

To that end, all he asked for was a quiet and warm chamber, free of all intruders. He wanted to luxuriate in her memory, to recall specific occasions and write them down, record everything that he could remember about her as a safeguard against the day when, as an old man, his memory would fail him, and he would run the risk of forgetting that one beacon which had shone so brightly in his life for such a short interval of time.

Thus armed with this simple request, he turned the comer which led to his house, his feet inside his boots as numb as his mind and

heart, and noticed angrily that even this small request was too much for fate.

On the pavement before his house he saw a familiar carriage, the driver buried under a mountain of fur rugs. He saw the drawing room ablaze with lamps.

Too weary for anger, he closed his eyes with a sense of letting fate do with him as it would, and slowly climbed the steps and knocked once and waited for the next ordeal to commence.

A moment later the door opened and Charles appeared on the other side. "Master Burke!" the old man gasped and extended a supportive hand, which Burke moved past, heading toward the drawing room and the voice of his mother, who called out, "Who is it, Charles? Please tell us that the prodigal has—"

His mother, catching sight of him, stood immediately. "Sweet Lord, Burke, have you lost your senses? Charles, hurryl Fetch him his dressing gown and a linen for his hair. Look at him, he looks like a ghost."

He stood in the doorway, giving them both all the time they needed, returning the close scrutiny of John Thadeus Delane, who apparently had broken his own rule by coming here.

"Delane," he muttered.

In what appeared to be sincere concern, Delane started across the room toward him. "My God, Burke," he scolded, "you're frozen."

Burke brushed past him on his way toward the fire. There he stood for several minutes listening to tiie chattering voices behind him. Curious how, with his first contact with warmth, the sensation of freezing seemed to increase.

What was his mother saying? He must pay attention, at least for a few minutes more until he could take his leave and retreat into the comforting darkness of his own chambers.

"Caroline." The voice was firm but kind. "I—was wondering if you might leave us alone for a few moments. I must talk business with Burke and the hour is late."

Without averting his eyes from the fire, Burke listened to the voice, grateful to the man, who obviously had seen something in Burke's face which suggested that he was not altogether interested in reminiscences of his childhood.

Grateful for one small intercession on the part of fate, Burke heard his mother withdraw with characteristic Southern wile, some-

how leaving the impression that withdrawal had been her idea all along.

"Well, I do agree, John Thadeus, the hour is late and I should have been in bed long ago. The doctor says I need my rest if Vm to complete my recovery.'*

"And a remarkable recovery it has been, CaroHne," Delane said gallantly. "I can't tell you what pleasure it gives me to see you looking so well and beautiful."

Through it all, Burke continued to stand before the fire. How effortlessly he found her face in the flames, as it had once appeared before him in a fiery sunset, crimson and amber.

Mary . . .

He would never see her again, and in defense against the pain of that thought he leaned against the mantelpiece, amazed that there were tears left within him.

Their voices sounded far away now, though they still were involved with mundane matters. Dry garments had been produced by Charles and, as his mother's voice rose, indicating that she was on the verge of retracing her steps, Delane's voice again interceded.

"I'll take them, Caroline."

"And see that he gets out of those dreadful clothes immediately.**

"I will, I promise."

At some point he became aware of a new silence in the drawing room. In the next moment he heard Delane close behind him, his voice filled with affection. "She's right, you know. Here, put this on."

At last Burke pushed away from the mantel, though he ignored the dressing gown, and sat heavily in the chair in a slumped position. "I thought we were not to be seen together," he muttered.

"I had to talk to you. But, please, get out of that wretched jacket"

"I'm well, thank you."

"You're half-frozen. Where in the hell have you been?"

"Walking."

"On such a night?"

"It suited me." Suddenly he leaned forward. The words came out of their own volition. "She's dead," he whispered. "EarHer tonight I went to St. George Street. The maid there told me—"

As his memory of that bleak exchange invaded him anew, he covered his face with his hands and tried to stem his grief at least until Delane left and he could be alone.

Instead of the sympathetic silence which Burke had expected, he heard Delane announce, "I know. We carried her obituary in the paper yesterday. I thought it might make a difference. So did my solicitors. We were hoping at least for a postponement of the hearing. But no. Word came this morning from Andrew Rhoades. It will take place as scheduled."

All the time Delane talked, Burke was aware of him pacing back and forth in front of the fire. Suddenly he exploded in anger, confronting Burke directly with, "My God, is the man a complete fiend? The death of his wife and he refuses to observe even the simplest decorum."

Death of his—

Burke looked up. The fire seemed to be burning bright, as though it were on the verge of leaping out of the firewell.

"Death of his—" He tried to repeat the words and couldn't, confident that he'd not heard correctly.

"So tragic," Delane went on. "You remember her, of course," he asked, "from the fortnight last spring? So young, rather delicate. She didn't look well then, but who was to know she was so ill?"

As Delane spoke on, Burke pushed out of the chair, not giving a damn about anything but the discrepancy of one small word. **Wife?" he repeated, reaching out for Delane's arm.

In a new surge of anger, Delane shook off his grasp. "Yes, wife! My God, Burke, are your ears frozen as well?"

Stunned, yet warning himself against false hope, Burke momentarily retreated. "Mary—" he began, "I thought that—"

"Good Lord, no," Delane scoffed. "Where did you get that idea?"

Burke was aware of Delane staring sharply at him. "Are you still pursuing that lost cause?" he asked.

"Then where is she?" Burke demanded. "I was told by the maid that she-"

"I have no idea," Delane interrupted. A new tension surfaced on his face. "And what in the hell were you doing in St. George Street? I thought I told you to stay away."

"Not—dead?" Burke repeated, unable to move beyond those two miraculous words.

His state of confusion was more than Delane could bear, for suddenly the man stepped forward and grasped Burke's shoulder. "Will you please listen to me?" he demanded. "I have warned you once against such an impossible alliance, and I warn you again."

"Alive,** Burke whispered, and the frozen state in which he'd passed this dreadful night thawed, and he could focus on nothing but the sweet revitalizing outline of hope.

"Burke, will you listen to me?" a voice demanded. "You are pursuing a phantom, nurturing a dream that can never be. Consider all the aspects of what you are doing, I beg you."

As the voice continued to assault him, Burke took his new happiness to the fire, where again he effortlessly found her face, more beautiful and full of promise than ever under this new patina of hope. Of course her whereabouts were still a mystery, but he would find her. On that quiet vow, he found the courage to face the man who was filling the air with such dire warnings.

But Delane had talked himself out, at least on this subject, and merely gaped back at him. "You're still—quite serious, aren't you?"

"I've never been more serious in my life."

"Do you—love her?" he asked, pausing before the word.

"More than I can state or you can comprehend," Burke said simply.

"It will come to nothing," Delane warned.

"We'll see." Burke smiled. More than ever feeling the need for privacy, he turned to face his old friend. "Come," he invited, making room for him beside the fire, "you said you wanted to talk to me. I promise to listen attentively, then we both can go to bed."

Reluctantly Delane drew near the fire, one hand massaging his forehead as though, taken all together, the night had been something of an ordeal. He turned his back on the blaze, his hands laced behind him.

"Considering your—present state of mind, I doubt if what I have to say will make much difference."

'Try me." Burke smiled, feeling indulgent and patient.

"The—hearing. It's upon us, you know."

"Ah, yes, the hearing."

Unfortunately his new attitude only seemed to enrage Delane further. "You must understand, Burke," he said grimly, "that if I am put under oath, as I surely will be, I cannot protect you."

"I know."

"Do you know what that could mean?"

"Of course." Burke laughed. "It means that Mr. Eden will at last know the name of the man who called him a Demi-God."

"And beyond that?"

"Beyond that what? You tell me."

"He could ruin you."

"What is there to ruin?"

For the first time Delane retreated, taking his worried expression and walking halfway across the room. "I'm surprised that you should even pose such a stupid question."

"Then tell me," Burke invited. "Tell me specifically why I should be alarmed by the wrath of John Murrey Eden? My God, Delane, if it hadn't been for Lord Ripples I think there were times when I would have willingly joined my mother in her madness."

"Still-"

"Still nothing. We both knew the risks we were running, and we both willingly took those risks. As far as I am concerned, that is that. As for your apprehensions concerning what Mr. Eden will do, dismiss them. In this instance, my state of exile serves me well. I'm not obliged to play by his rules. What he holds most dear, I view with complete indifference."

"Except his young cousin."

Stymied, Burke gaped back at him. '^Mary's love is reciprocal," he said. "If forced to choose—"

"Oh, Burke . . ." Delane groaned and reach out for a near table as though he required support. "How is it possible for a man of your intelligence to live among us for almost ten years and still know so little about us."

There was a pause, then Delane pushed away from the table, as though no longer needing its support. "If John Murrey Eden represents the worst of the British mentality, then he also represents the best. He has indeed reshaped large sections of this London world to suit himself. And if he can disrupt entire blocks of mortar and steel and replace them with his own vision, what do you think he will do with you, mere flesh and blood?"

"Then tell me what you want me to do," Burke said, "and I'll do it. Shall I attend the hearing and defend myself? I'm perfectly willing."

"No!" the single word exploded in the quiet room like a cannon volley. "I want you no place near the Temple on the tenth of December. Is that clear?"

"It is."

"You wait here," Delane concluded, his face suggesting weariness

amounting almost to illness. "If I'm forced to speak your name, Fm certain you will be hearing from Andrew Rhoades soon enough/'

^'A lawsuit?" Burke asked.

At the door, as though at last he'd talked himself out, Delane smiled back at him. "If I could be certain that all you would lose to Eden would be money, I would consider it a major blessing."

"Wait," Burke called after him. "What do you mean?"

Delane looked as though he would speak further. Then something changed his mind. "I'll be in touch, Burke," he called back. "Don't bother. I can find my way out."

"Delane?"

But there was no answer and Burke heard the front door close. He stood near the fire until the rattle of the caniage diminished, then sat wearily in the chair, aware of an acrid smell about him as the clothes proceeded to dry on his back.

One nagging thought occurred. To the best of his memory he'd never seen Delane in such a state. Now the question was: Should the man be taken seriously? Or was he simply growing old and womanlike? And what were those veiled threats all about? What, beyond the limits of the law, could Eden do to him?

The questions continued to chum in his head, all unanswerable. Slowly he leaned back against the cushions. Undoubtedly he would have the answers in good time.

There were happier areas on which he could focus. Mary, lovely Mary, resurrected from a premature grave, and, of course, it all made sense now. The tragic death of the young wife had drawn them all back to Eden, all except the Demi-God himself, who apparently placed the need for revenge above the grief for his wife.

Burke shut his eyes. In a way, how he would relish an opportunity to be in the arena with John Murrey Eden. But Delane had asked that he remain invisible and, on the basis of their prolonged friendship, he would oblige.

After the foolishness of the hearing, after the young wife had been buried, they all would come streaming back to London, Mary among them, and, in spite of all obstacles, he would arrange to see her again, to rekindle the love which had blossomed between them, and under the sweet pressure of the reunion, they would plot the future together.