The Women of Eden (62 page)

^Then we must remedy that," John replied. "Richard, go and fetch her. Tell her we are in need of her charming presence."

Andrew protested. "Please, John. Richard can fetch her in a moment."

"But we have been accused of neglecting our guest," John protested.

Elizabeth tried to defend herself. "It wasn't an accusation, John. I just meant that. . ."

As her voice drifted off into a muddled silence, the tension and cross-purposes at the table increased.

Andrew waited for the air to clear. He was on the verge of speaking a second time when again John drew the attention to his end of the table.

"I miss—Mary," he murmured. "Mary always made it truly Christmas, didn't she? I remember how she would sing for us. Such a lovely voice. . ."

As his words drifted off, Andrew saw Elizabeth with her head bowed. Dear Lord, what is the man doing to us all? he thought.

"I had a letter before I left London. Did I tell you, Elizabeth?" John went on.

"From-Mary?''

"No, not from Mary. She*s kept far too busy to write. My letter was from Miss Veal, who assured me in glowing terms that Mary was fitting in nicely. She said that she's a diligent student—" Here he laughed softly. "Can you imagine that? Our Mary a diligent student. Isn't that good news?"

"Indeed it is," Elizabeth murmured, looking up long enough to sip her wine. "Would it be possible to visit her? I thought that on my return to London I might veer in the direction of Cheltenham. I would like very much to—"

"No, it's out of the question," John interrupted. "Miss Veal has made it clear. She wants no distractions, at least for the first year." He leaned forward, as though to make certain that his next words would be understood. "You see, the whole point of the new regimen is to break old habits of self-indulgence and lack of discipline. So I'm afraid a visit is out of the question. In fact I forbid it."

Andrew saw the anger in Elizabeth's face, but instantly it was replaced by quiet acceptance. He wished that Elizabeth had challenged him. She, more than any of them, had endured such continuous abuse at John's hand. Through some misplaced sense of love and loyalty she was prepared to endure even more.

With the renewed sense of preparing the way for his own exit and that of Dhari's, Andrew tried again to speak. The message was simple. Why couldn't he simply deliver it and have done with it?

Then he would, though at that moment John stirred, this time leaving his chair in a burst of energy which dragged all the attention to that end of the table. "My sons," he announced, full-voiced. "Lord Harrington has requested the privilege of taking my sons to Ireland for a brief visit in the spring. He says he has a woman, someone named Molly, who will care for them and he says that it would please—Lila."

He paused, as though it had been difficult for him to pronounce the name. "What is your opinion?" he asked. "Do you think that I should permit it?"

Andrew tried to determine if he was addressing someone in partic-

ular. Apparently he wasn't. In the absence of a response, Andrew tried to fill the void. "The decision is yours, John."

"I know, but Fm asking for others."

"They are your sons."

"And his grandsons," John replied with a startling degree of largess. "He says it would help to heal his grief.

"You, Elizabeth," John went on. "No opinion from you?"

Elizabeth looked up. "I agree with Andrew," she said. "The decision is yours. In the end you'll make it, anyway, regardless."

John laughed and stretched before the warmth of the fire. "How well you know me, Elizabeth. Still, I was interested."

Sensing that the subject was closed, Andrew sat up on his chair, hoping that now it would be his turn. But unfortunately the stewards reappeared with arrangements of celery and cheese and dried winter fruit. Predictably, only Alex made a move toward the food and, as the last steward departed, Andrew summoned his courage and decided—now!

"John, if I may—" he began.

"Eat, Andrew." John smiled at him from the fire.

"I'm not hungry."

"No, that's obvious. No one seems to possess an appetite."

"John, I must speak," Andrew said bluntly.

"Speak!" he invited, slicing a piece of cheese vigorously, as though he had to kill it before he ate it.

It was not exactly the mood that Andrew had hoped for. Still, he could not postpone it any longer.

"John," he began, as though he were commencing a formal address, "and the rest of you as well, two days before Christmas, on the twenty-third of December, to be exact—"

"God!" The curse came from John, who pushed his plate away and was looking distastefully at it. "Is there anything more disgusting than the presence of food when you have no appetite?"

Over the taut silence he heard Elizabeth invite softly, "Please go on, Andrew. You were saying something about two days before Christmas."

Andrew gave her a grateful smile. "As I was saying, on December twenty-third at St. Martin's-in-the-Fields—"

"You know you are wrong, Alex," John interrupted from the end of the table.

"How's that?" Alex mumbled, his mouth filled.

"You said you'd never seen anyone grieve as Lord Harrington was grieving—"

"Aye-"

"Do you think Tm not grieving as well?" The question was posed with large amounts of self-pity laced in.

"Oh, I didn't imply that, John," Alex said. "Not any of us mean to imply that."

"You see, in my opinion," John began quietly, "it serves no purpose to give in to the weakness of grief. What is death but the endless laboring sigh of the earth? The dead are—dead. They have moved on. There is nothing we can do."

Andrew was listening closely, not to the merit of the words, which sounded like every cliche he'd ever heard; rather he watched the reaction they seemed to be having on the others. Every face bore the circumflex eyebrows of sympathetic understanding.

Abruptly John sat up in a new burst of energy, as though a splendid idea had just occurred. He retrieved his glass of port from the table, a warm smile on his face. "Will you all accompany me to the Library where, before the Alma-Tadema painting of 'The Women of Eden,' we will toast my Lila and thank her for the brief Joy she brought to all our lives? That"—he smiled—"would be a proper mourning."

The proposal caught on instantly, a splendid idea in the opinion of all who struggled to their feet, glasses in hand, the general movement leading to the door where John already stood.

Still desperate to deliver his message, knowing now that there would never be an appropriate time, and realizing that in a few days the reaction of John Murrey Eden would be a matter of monumental indifference to him, Andrew stood and raised his voice to full strength in an attempt to cut through the scraping of chairs, and pronounced loudly and clearly enough for all to hear, "My wife and I will remain behind, if you please. We have paid our respects to Lila and now we have much to do before we depart in a few days for Canada."

The silence seemed to whistle about his ears, and he heard his own voice in echo. Good Lord—I'd not intended to shout it! He was then aware of Dhari rising to stand beside him, willing to bear her share of the shock waves which seemed to be battering the large dining hall.

Elizabeth spoke first, drawing back to the table. "I—beg your pardon?" she stammered. "What did you—say?"

Eagerly Andrew repeated himself, all the time keeping his eyes away from the man who stood at the most distant point in the room. "I said that on the twenty-third of December, Dhari and I were married. And on the second of January we sail for Canada."

There! There was no way he could make it any clearer, and now he concentrated on Elizabeth's changing face. The shock had vanished and he saw the beginnings of a warm smile, as she hurried around the table and clasped Dhari in her arms. "Oh, I'm so happy for you both. Married! My goodness. Why didn't you tell me? How I would have loved to—"

Though Andrew's inclination was to join the chattering group behind him, Elizabeth admiring the ring which Dhari had brought forth from her pocket, still he knew that for all that had been said, nothing had been said, and there was no reaction in the room as powerful as the lack of reaction coming from the Dining Hall door.

With the thought of seeing it through to its conclusion, Andrew turned to where John was standing, glass in hand, where he'd been halted on his way to toast his dead wife.

He appeared to study the port in his glass. With his head still bowed, he commenced walking back toward the table. "Married," he whispered to the glass of port and placed it on the table as though it had displeased him.

"Yes," Andrew confirmed. "I wanted to tell you earlier, but—"

"When?"

"A few days ago, on the twenty-third."

John leaned back in the chair, a smile on his face. "So that's where you were on that day. I had need of you. I even sent Alex around."

If the words were unclear, the tone was not. They were being made to feel like misbehaving children. "How could you have looked for me, John?" Andrew inquired pohtely. "You left for Eden on the twenty-second."

Too late, Andrew realized his mistake.

"Twenty-second, twenty-third," John snapped, "what difference? You have seldom of late been where I needed you."

"I'm sorry. I assumed that with your departure—"

Suddenly John leaned up in his chair. "Why did you do it behind my back?" he demanded.

Be tactful, Andrew counseled himself, and patient. "It wasn't a matter of doing anything behind your back, John. We merely wanted it to be small and private, and we didn't think that you would be—"

"Interested?" John demanded. "Not interested in the marriage of my mistress with my solicitor?" His voice was rising, the words ugly. "What effective ammunition you've given my enemies to use against me, both of you," he accused. "As if the recent farce of a hearing wasn't enough, now you have made it possible for me to become the laughing stock of every public house and private club in London."

"We did not think," Andrew began, "that it would be—"

"No, you did not think," John mimicked. Abruptly he pushed back with such violence that the chair almost overturned, and strode angrily to the fireplace.

Elizabeth tried to intercede. "John, please. They have a right to—"

"To deceive me? To be disloyal to me?"

"It was not our intention to deceive," Andrew said.

"Then what was your intention? To simply disappear one day with her on your arm and send back word from—wherever in hell it is you are going?"

"Canada."

"Canada!" John retorted, hands on hips, his anger full-blown and still increasing. "What precisely do you think you'll find in Canada?"

"A new life."

"And what's the matter with this one?"

Andrew hesitated. "It's grown stale."

"England? Stale?" John parroted and slapped his forehead and turned away, as though he could not bear to face such stupidity. "Just the greatest empire the world has ever known," he said to the fire. "Just the only place in the world where a man can seize a future for himself beyond his wildest dreams."

"I'm not interested in seizing the future, John. I just want a peaceful present, that's all."

Slowly John looked back at him. "No, you never have been interested in the future, have you, Andrew? Your ambitions have always been limited to the moment. I would say, offhand, that it has always been the central bone of contention between us."

Andrew nodded. "Our visions are different."

"Indeed they are. Yours, limited."

Andrew closed his eyes.

It was while his eyes were closed that John's attack took an uglier turn. "Why in hell did you marry her?" he muttered. "She's used goods, Andrew, surely you knew that. Well used even before I took her on."

'That's enough, John," Andrew warned, tightening his grip on Dhari's hand where she seemed to lean softly against him.

"Well, it's true," John replied innocently. "She's not the kind of woman you marry, Andrew. I thought you knew that. You take her to bed. You see she is well cared for, but you do not marry her."

The offensive words seemed to echo in Andrew's head. In a battle of fisticuffs he would lose, for John's physical strength was superior. But if he continued to speak, Andrew would be forced to find some way to shut his mouth.

Determined to end the encounter while he still was capable of a degree of civility, Andrew turned away and sheltered Dhari beneath his arm. "If you will excuse us," he murmured, and had just commenced leading Dhari toward the door when John spoke again, his voice strangely hoarse.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"To pack," Andrew replied. "We will be leaving tonight."

Elizabeth offered a whispered protest. "Oh, no, please stay a while longer. We'll never see you again."

"Let them go," John muttered. "I'm sick to death of the sight of them. They deserve that barbaric wilderness toward which they are headed. I predict in a year they will come running back to the security of England and Eden. Oh, you'll see them again, make no mistake of that!"

Throughout this tirade, Andrew and Dhari continued the length of the Dining Hall. Of greater concern to Andrew than the insane voice raging behind him was Dhari. She clung to him, her humiliation doubly tragic because she could not defend herself.

No, it was very important that Andrew not stop once in that seemingly endless journey to the door. He must take Dhari beyond the reach of John's voice, which still pursued them, the man's words incoherent now, a confusion of accusation and betrayal, of threat and

revenge. . r n •

All at once, when Andrew was least expecting it, the voice fell silent. At the door he paused, trying to interpret the silence without looking back. But he couldn't.

Then he heard it, that same voice speaking his name, "Andrew—** the two syllables weighted with grief.

Although he had vowed not to look back, the cry struck something deep within him, the place where memory resided, the good memories, the times they had spent together as young men prowling the streets of London, enduring their apprenticeships at Thomas Bras-sey's. All this and more conspired against him and caused him momentarily to abandon Dhari and gave him the strength to look back at the most remarkable man he'd ever known in his life, a man who was capable of transforming the world, yet who could not transform himself.