The Women of Eden (59 page)

Involuntarily she smiled, amused by the ironies of life, that she, the useless daughter, should now be facing the noblest future.

Of course there was the matter of the man himself. Lord Richard, but he was something of an unknown quantity. What little she had seen of him last spring had been pleasant. It would not be difficult to strike a bargain with such a man, to give him love and children in return for the security and prestige of his name. Besides, she had learned long ago that love begins in earnest when we love what is limited. There was a challenge about it that appealed to her.

Then, it was time. The first step had been taken last spring. Now the second step was about to begin.

Hurriedly, she swung her feet off the window seat and heard her mother launch forth into the most ridiculous argument of all.

"She has nothing to wear. She has a veritable paucity of winter gowns and the man didn't even bother to state the social functions. If I had a dozen dressmakers I still wouldn't—"

''Mother!"

As her voice topped the aging one coming from the end of the Li-

brary, she looked in that direction and saw an expression of surprise on her mother's face, as though a stranger had intruded into a private debate. That is the trouble, Eleanor thought. I've been unin-volved in my own destiny for too long. "Now come, both of you. Enough polite shouting. There are times when it is best to speak softly."

She waited until they were within arm's length of her. "Please listen," she began. "I believe we all agree that this discussion is both futile and foolish."

"Not at all," her father grumbled.

"Papa, you were there last spring. You and Mama both signed the premarital agreement."

"Legally it is not binding," her mother interjected.

"But I want it to be binding," she announced. "I've been waiting for Mr. Eden's letter since last spring. Now that it has come, why the surprise or the discussion?"

"It isn't proper!" her mother snapped.

Eleanor laughed. "Oh, Mama, the Edens have been improper for the last three hundred years. Why should you expect them to change now?"

"You have been raised according to certain strict standards, and I expect—"

"I have been raised to make a good marriage. Now that I'm on the verge of doing so, why are you standing in my way?"

"I forbid you to go alone," her father stated emphatically.

"I won't go alone, Papa. I'll take both Annie and Beulah, and you can send along a dozen stewards if you wish, to ward off highwaymen and other unidentifiable threats."

"It is not a matter for humor, Eleanor," her mother scolded. "I'm afraid that your—innocence prohibits you from understanding the real hazards."

"Which are?" Eleanor asked.

She saw her parents exchange a curious look, as though debating with themselves who would speak first.

Predictably her mother volunteered. "We are not speaking now of a childhood fete," she said. "Here, all of your life you have enjoyed the decorum and civility of Forbes Hall. At Eden you will be beyond our protection and, locked in marriage vows, you will be beyond our-"

"Mama, they are not monsters." She was expecting one or the

other to interrapt her. When they didn't she moved to terminate the discussion. "Papa, would you please write to Mr. Eden and tell him that I accq)t his invitation with pleasure, that it is my intention to leave here on the eighteenth of December and, taking the road conditions into consideration, I should arrive at Eden on or about the twenty-second of December?'*

All the time she talked she was moving toward the Library door, thus relieving herself of the worry on their faces.

"And you. Mama, if you care to come with me now, I'll show you that paucity of gowns of which you spoke. I think you'll agree that there are quite enough for ten women."

"Eleanor, wait!"

The voice was her mother's, bereft of intonation. She looked back and saw the two of them looking at her as though she were a corpse.

"Yes?"

"Do you have—sufficient black in your wardrobe?"

"Black! Now why would I want black, for the holidays?"

"Because Mr. Eden is in mourning," her mother replied. "Because his wife died last week. Did you know that?"

Stunned, Eleanor shook her head.

Her mother went on. "Don't you think it's strange that an invitation has been issued during a formal period of mourning?"

Eleanor stood in the doorway, trying to deal with this new information. Though it cast an air of gloom on the days ahead, still it changed nothing. In fact, in a way it could even work to her advantage. "I'm flattered," she murmured, "to be included in the family at such an intimate moment And I shaU do everything I can to ease their sorrows."

Her determined manner shocked them anew. 'Tou still insist upon going?" her mother asked.

"It's not a matter of choice."

"But you don't understand!" her father protested.

"I understand enough. Papa, more than you." She hesitated to see if there would be further rebuttal. "Well, then," she said, "come. Mama. Come help me select my gowns. But no black," she added, "not for this occasion. I'm not in mourning. If the Edens do things differently they must grant that right to others."

With a gasp of delight at her amazing self, she eagerly turned and took that first step. . . .

London

The Temple

December 10, 1870

In his private chambers in the Temple, Sir Henry Aimsley stood over the naked female on his couch. Judas, but she's beautiful! he had thought. She had performed tricks for him all night. Fetched for him by his steward, Arthur, Sir Henry realized that he didn't even know her name. What matter! As soon as he had dispatched with this foolish hearing he intended to return to this paradise where names ultimately might be important, though he doubted it.

At sixty-five, as he had been at six. Sir Henry was small, birdlike in all aspects. As his steward brushed his robes preparatory to this morning's hearing, he turned and engaged in his second-favorite activity, that of studying his face in the glass. For his troubles he suffered two regrets. One, that he'd not gone on the stage as a young man instead of burying his good looks in law books, and, two, that there would be no ladies present at the morning's hearing. It always made the time pass more quickly if there were a female or two about, a softly bulging bodice beneath which he could imagine the specifics of the female anatomy.

Peering into the mirror, Sir Henry saw his steward still brushing his "costume"—for what was the law but the grandest theatrical of all?

"Enough, Arthur," he scolded. "Leave the nap. It wouldn't do to appear threadbare before the richest man in England. Come, help me into my robes. Then fetch my wig. For one hundred pounds, Mr. Eden will get the full theatrical."

He turned about for a final look in the mirror. Pleased with what he saw and finding no room for improvement, he glanced longingly toward the small alcove and considered one more look at the sleeping female, but with strict discipline he reminded himself that the parties were already waiting in his chamber and that his superior judgment was needed and personal pleasure would have to wait.

In that frame of mind, he brushed past Arthur and walked through his library to the door which led to his public chamber.

Alone at the door, he paused, belatedly realizing that in the pleasure of last evening he'd failed to study the briefs which had been sent to him by Andrew Rhoades, a lengthy explication on the nature and purpose of the hearing.

Judas, can I bluff it? Of course he could. He knew enough from the gossip he'd heard in the Common's dining hall and from what Rhoades had told him several weeks ago when for one hundred pounds this hearing had been arranged. The editor, John Thadeus Delane, was involved, he remembered that much, and, of course, John Murrey Eden.

Then he was ready, and drew a deep breath, and pushed open the door and instantly took on the weight of several male faces, including his two young clerks who had already taken their positions, pads in hand, ready to record the morning's boredom.

Oh, he did enjoy these opening moments of any hearing, when his sense of theater was richly fed by the respectful silence, all faces looking toward him, though now he observed one face that was not looking toward him. The lack of response was coming from the table on his right, from the tall gentleman who sat next to Andrew Rhoades.

Sir Henry knew who it was, the premier cock himself, in deep study of various papers spread out before him, ignoring the pressure from his own solicitor to rise, as had everyone else in the chamber.

For the first time Sir Henry observed another interesting face, that of a young man, Indian-appearing, seated directiy behind Mr. Eden. Probably the bastard offspring of Eden's Indian mistress.

Sir Henry held his position behind his high bench, perfectiy willing to give the man all the time he needed to correct his bad manners. When the silence stretched to an uncomfortable point, and when the man had yet even to look up. Sir Henry took matters into his own hands and set out to correct the miscarriage of tradition.

"Mr. Eden," he pronounced in a voice that had been designed by

nature for a proscenium, "it is tradition for all parties to rise in the presence of—"

"I was prepared to rise a half an hour ago," Eden replied with matching imperiousness. "These other gentlemen, including yourself may have time to waste. I assure you, I do not."

The heat of embarrassment emanating from Andrew Rhoades seemed to reflect the embarrassment of all, though a moment later Sir Henry was pleased to see the man half-rising, though with reluctance, where he held himself suspended, then sat immediately.

The young Indian smiled, as did Sir Henry himself. The morning might be of interest after all. Next to adultery cases, he enjoyed most those cases where he could punish arrogance.

He glanced toward the table on his left and recognized the aging though noble face of John Thadeus Delane. A sad case, that. An alcoholic wife, though not a hint of scandal in the husband's past. Either he practiced celibacy or was a self-performer.

Sir Henry smiled at Delane and noticed that he was flanked on both sides by well-known solicitors, his own private staflf no doubt, along with the legal staff from the newspaper. Of the two armed camps with which he was faced, if he had to choose a side Sir Henry would most definitely choose Delane's. Andrew Rhoades was outnumbered and perhaps outclassed.

Then to work, and in his best stage voice Sir Henry outlined the rules of the hearing. Both sides would have equal time to present their cases, though he made a plea for brevity. All parties were to understand that they were under oath, that they were to speak as objectively as possible, without emotion or exaggeration. And, since this was only a hearing, there would be no cross-examination and all questions would emanate from the bench. His judgment would be final and, if further litigation were required, then a new sitting magistrate would have to be found.

"Let us proceed," Sir Henry commanded, motioning for Andrew Rhoades to begin, the offended party by custom always taking the floor first. He noticed the young Indian on the edge of his seat.

Slowly Rhoades left his chair. "Milord," he began, in a voice that was scarcely audible, "our case is a simple one. Our premise is that a man, any man, is entitied to know the identity of his detractors. This"—and he held up the sheet of newsprint—"appeared in the Times several months ago, the date is noted, a vicious and, in our

opinion, slanderous attack on my client, his heritage, his intent, his morals, his life in general. . "

Here the poor man seemed to falter. He looked down at the newsprint as though struggling for direction.

"I request permission to approach the bench, milord, so that you may see for yourself.**

"Granted," Sir Henry replied. He had some vague recollection of the attack on Mr. Eden, but was desirous of refreshing his memory.

As Rhoades placed the newsprint on the bench. Sir Henry stole a glance toward Delane. In addition to age he saw something else. Worry, perhaps. If only people realized how often they betrayed themselves through their faces. In the past Sir Henry had rendered decisions on the basis of who looked guilty and who did not. Unfortunately at this moment John Theadeus Delane looked very guilty.

Efficientiy Sir Henry scooped up the newsprint and read the column heading: "The Demi-God of Eden." He scanned the first few paragraphs and found it increasingly difiBcult to conceal a smile. Thus he coughed convenientiy into his hand and glanced down at the bottom of the column to find a name, someone named Lord Ripples claiming credit for the painful broadsides.

Well, what of it? Public figures were assailed every day in the press, every scribbler who could hold a pen seemingly dedicated to drawing influential and preferably blue blood. Not that Eden's blood was blue. But unfortunately bastardy, like adultery, was beginning to lose its hold on the public imagination. It simply was a case of excess. There were so many bastards and adulterers that they were no longer objects of interest.

"I beg your pardon, milord?"

Sir Henry looked up from his thoughts into Rhoades' face. Embarrassed, he realized that his mind had wandered. He thrust the newsprint back across the bench. "I fail to see the case, Mr. Rhoades," he said. "If you can, please illuminate further."

He saw Rhoades glance back toward the table and the leveled eyes of both Eden and the young man. Deriving no help from his own camp, Andrew Rhoades turned back to the bench. "With your indulgence, milord," he murmured, "permit me to point out . . ." Again he faltered, as though he were constantiy losing his train of thought.

The inept performance was being observed and recorded by the opposite table. Even old Delane seemed to be relaxing a bit. And Sir

Henry was beginning to lose patience with the whole affair. True, he'd been paid well enough, but considering what was waiting for him back in his private chambers—

"I beg you, Mr. Rhoades," he said, ''try to be as articulate as possible." In an attempt to get the solicitor back on track, he folded his hands and pronounced simply, "I fail to see a case. I can see a point of contention. The words printed there"—and he pointed toward the news sheet—"are unflattering and were undoubtedly painful for your client to read. But in my opinion, Mr. Eden is a public figure, and if every dignitary who had been offended by the press took his case to court, I'm afraid that Mr. Eden's building firm would have to construct courtrooms from one end of England to the other."