The Women of Eden (67 page)

Although she was out of the cold wind now, moving rapidly down the darkened back corridor, Frieda shivered and drew her lifeless charge more closely into her arms. Pray God that death would spare her. But if it didn't Frieda would not he again. There were just so many compromises that even an ugly woman could make and still keep her soul intact.

She tightened her grasp on Mary Eden and held her close as though she were an injured pet and braced herself for the gargoyle of a woman who stood at the far end of the corridor, with arms crossed, viewing their approach with condemnation.

Due to impassable winter roads, the journey from London to Cheltenham required five difficult days. Impatient and worried to the point of madness, Burke had tried to endure the delays, had tried and failed to keep his mind off her, so near and yet so unreachable.

As they approached the outskirts of Cheltenham, Burke found momentary' distraction in the beauty of the place. He'd been expecting a plain rural village. Instead he found a lovely Georgian spa with a wealth of Regency houses on elegant squares, tree-bordered open spaces and a grand promenade with a double avenue of horse chestnuts.

At the far end of the promenade he discovered the Queen's Hotel and checked in under the false name of Mr. Robert Stow. In the event that EHzabeth weakened and he was followed, the anonymity might provide him with a few additional hours.

The helpful desk clerk provided him with directions to Miss Veal's establishment about three miles north of town and, thus armed, Burke grimly realized that he had not one plan in his head.

As he hurriedly drew on his cloak, he was aware for the first time of his new proximity to her and suffered unbearable anticipation at

the thought of seeing her again. These thoughts caused him to increase his speed, cloak adjusted as he took the stairs running, not stopping until he saw his carriage and driver.

"Just a brief trip," he called up, "three miles north, then the rest of the evening is yours."

The driver nodded. "Whatever you say, sir. The horses, though, they could do with a bit of a rest."

"And they shall have it, I promise. Soon." As he drew himself up into the carriage he called back, "Go slow once out of town. I'm not absolutely certain what I'm looking for."

And he wasn't. In fact he'd passed it by when he glanced out the rear window and saw the deserted dirt road, the beginning of a crumbling driveway and a small, weathered sign, obscured by overgrown brush, which read: Miss Veal's School for Females.

He drew down the window. "Wait! Turn about."

As he swung down out of the carriage, he looked up at the mystery on the driver's face and said simply, "I won't be too long," and headed at a rapid pace back to the beginning of the driveway.

He had gone about thirty yards when he stopped and tried to peer ahead into the fast falling dusk. From where he stood he saw nothing but the black traceries of dead trees against the darker sky, and suddenly it occurred to him that Miss Veal's establishment, whatever it was, could be located miles ahead. Even now his sense of isolation was acute. Hard to believe that less than three miles away lay Cheltenham.

About ten minutes later, just when he was convinced that he was follov^dng a dead-end, through the thick winter foliage he caught sight of a single light, proof that someone was residing in these impenetrable woods.

He increased his pace to a trot, keeping well to the shadows, took a final turn and there it was, an immense structure, Tudor was his guess, the entrance flanked by pinnacles with domed caps which shot up like the minarets of some Persian mosque.

He moved as close as he dared and saw that the crumbling driveway culminated in a cobblestone courtyard, hardly visible beneath the carpet of dead and blowing leaves, and the most awesome aspect of the spectral mansion was that, for all its size, only one lamp was burning behind the drawn drapes of the first floor, casting a diffuse light.

Twice he surveyed the grim fagade and on the second inspection made another bleak observation. Out of all those rows of chimneys on the roof, not one showed signs of smoke. There was no fire within, no warmth.

No, Mary was not here. Elizabeth was wrong. Even so consummate a bastard as John Murrey Eden would not abandon his cousin in this frozen and isolated prison. Convinced of this, he turned away, stepped back to the pavement and had taken about four steps when his thoughts stopped him.

He had to make certain. He'd traveled a great distance under difficult circumstances. Why would Elizabeth lie to him? He remembered well her reaction when she had discovered the second note. She had been convinced of Eden's manipulative hand behind Mary's ordeal.

No, Elizabeth had not lied to him. Of course, there was always the possibihty that Eden had lied to her, had merely told her that he had deposited Mary here.

For several minutes the battle raged. Occasionally he glanced back over his shoulder toward the mansion, as though perhaps he'd failed to see an important clue. But each time he saw nothing that he'd not seen the first time. Certainly no human life could exist within, not for long.

At last the battle was over, terminated by a simple though dreaded resolution. Come morning, in some fashion, operating on some deception, he would seek entrance and see for himself and, as desperately as he wanted to find her, he prayed silently that he would not.

Then he was running, not even bothering to keep to the shadows, for shadows covered all now, his mind moving in a hundred directions at once, the problem simple.

All he needed was for that front door to swing open to him and one hour in which to launch his search. Surely he could accomplish it. He had to accomplish it.

But how?

Miss Veal's School for Females January 14, 1871

Sick with worry over the condition of Mary Eden and outraged that Miss Veal had refused the night before to send for the doctor in Cheltenham, Frieda took a last look at that feverish face, saw her shivering beneath the single coverlet, grabbed the two bricks, now cold, from the foot of the bed and decided to take matters into her own hands.

She looked down on Mary and saw not one aspect of hope. Her eyes were closed as they had been all night, though not in sleep, the mouth partially open in an attempt to breathe over the rattling congestion in her lungs. But the worst of all was that constant shivering, as though in spite of her raging fever she could not get warm.

"Damn her!" Frieda cursed aloud, seeing in memory Miss Veal's face the night before when she had glared at the lifeless figure in Frieda's arms and had pronounced, "Malingering, that's all. Give her a dose of salts and oil and she will be on her feet come morning."

On her feet, Frieda thought, still angry. It was her untutored opinion that Miss Veal's "maHngerer" was on the verge of becoming a corpse.

"I'll be right back," she whispered to the girl, aware that she 'couldn't hear but saying it anyway. Carefully she tucked the two bricks under the concealment of her apron and started out into the corridor, pleased to find it empty.

At the top of the stairs she paused, stymied by one enormous obstacle. How could she discover if Miss Veal was in the front parlor? Sometimes she took her morning tea there, but occasionally she spent the early-morning hours in the kitchen, badgering the kitchen staff.

Well, if she encountered Miss Veal she would tell her straightway that the "malingerer" was not on her feet this morning and she'd best come look for herself.

Firm in her resolve, she started down the steps, keeping her eyes on those closed parlor doors, certain that at any moment they would swing open and the harridan herself would appear.

Suddenly the front bell rang. Frieda froze. What in the name of— Obviously she'd been so busy concentrating on her ovra mission she'd failed to hear a carriage. Who could it be? No one ever called on Miss Veal's school unscheduled, and Miss Veal had said nothing about expecting visitors.

Gawd! There was Miss Veal, just pushing open the doors, her teacup still in hand, glaring at the ringing. In the next minute she swiveled her head about, her eyes falling directly on Frieda, who was just starting back up the stairs.

"Wait!" Miss Veal called out.

Trembling, Frieda obeyed and turned back, concealing both bricks behind her back.

"Answer it," Miss Veal commanded, "and tell whoever it is to go away. I am expecting no one."

Frieda bobbed her head, the two bricks becoming objects of incredible weight.

"Well, move!" Miss Veal ordered as the bell rang a third time.

"Yes, ma'am," Frieda murmured and, still concealing the bricks beneath her apron and thanking God for her misshapen body, she proceeded down the stairs, aware of Miss Veal watching.

As Frieda approached the door, she shifted both bricks to one hand, slid the bolt and with some effort drew back the heavy door a crack.

On the other side, in the gray, drizzling morning, she saw a gentleman, quite handsome he was, fashionably dressed, v^dth a silly grin on his face. "Good morning." He smiled, obviously unaware that he was standing on the threshold of a place where smiles did not flourish.

He looked different and sounded different. But as the awkward weight of the two bricks caused her hand to cramp, she said brusquely, "We are not receiving this morning. Good day."

As she started to close the door, to her surprise he stepped forward and with one hand forced the door open. "You might let me state

my case," he said in a voice that definitely was not EngHsh. She glanced over her shoulder to see Miss Veal still watching.

Spurred on by the awareness of that grim face, Frieda threw manners to the wind. "Look, I don't give a damn what your case is. We ain't receiving this morning and that's that!"

As she tried to close the door again he stepped forward. "Could you tell me this, then," he persisted, "do I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Veal herself?"

At that Frieda smiled. "No, I ain't Miss Veal. But if I were, the answer would be the same. Now, I must ask—"

"Then would you take a message to her?" the gentleman insisted. "Tell her that Mr. Robert Stow from the London Times is here. Tell her that he is doing an article on the new progressive schools for young ladies, and that this establishment was highly recommended to me as being the finest—"

Gawdl Where did he get his information from? "I suggest, Mr. Stow," she said archly, "that you put that pretty speech in writing and address it to Miss Veal."

But at that moment Frieda heard a voice behind her, a voice so different from the crow's voice which generally filled these corridors that she was compelled to look about.

"Who is it, Frieda?" this new voice called out, filled with suspect goodwill.

"A—gentleman," Frieda stammered. "Says—"

"I heard what he said, my dear. Here, take my teacup for me and I will attend to the matter myself."

As Miss Veal addressed her false voice to the gentleman at the door, Frieda stepped back out of the line of vision, placed the teacup on the hall table and eased the bricks to the floor, where with the toe of her shoe she slid them beneath the table itself.

She looked up in time to hear Miss Veal at her wheedling worst. "Your name, please," she demanded of the gentleman, though Frieda was certain she'd heard it the first time.

She heard his voice again, a most peculiar voice, foreign, she was certain of it.

"Mr. Robert Stow. From the London Times" he repeated.

"And the nature of your business, Mr. Stow?"

As the gentleman launched forth into the reason for his appearance here, Frieda glanced back up the stairs, her mind moving toward the ill young woman. She'd hoped to have accomplished her

mission by now and been back attending the girl. But here she was, the bricks as cold as ever, while she was caught between the fawning Miss Veal and the equally obsequious gentleman, who was filling the air with the most absurd flattery she'd ever heard.

"And while I left London with several addresses, Miss Veal, I came here first, having heard nothing but the highest praise for your establishment, and convinced that the readers of the Times would enjoy a firsthand account of such an advanced institution."

From where Frieda stood she could see Miss Veal in profile only. But that was enough. "You're not—English, Mr. Stow," she accused.

"By adoption, I am," came the swift reply. "My native country is America. But we should never have turned our back on England's stabilizing influence. This is my home now. Miss Veal. A wandering son has come to his senses, you might say."

America! Frieda had never seen an American before.

"Need I point out, Miss Veal," the American gentleman was saying now, "that it might be—how shall I put it—that it might be mutually beneficial for you to grant me a brief audience. The readership of the Times is vast. Such a story as the one I would like to write about your school would undoubtedly reach many eyes, families who perhaps are looking for a place to situate their young women."

He paused. Never had Frieda seen such intense interest on the old bitch's face. She looked transformed. "Well, do come in, Mr. Stow. It's a death chill in the air this morning, and I'm certain that we'll both be more comfortable discussing matters before a toasty fire."

Within the instant the gentleman had cleared the doorway and stood in the entrance hall with what appeared to be a smile of relief, though his eyes were moving everywhere at once. Frieda had never seen such searching eyes.

"This way, Mr. Stow," Miss Veal invited, leading him to the door of the front parlor and motioning him inside.

Still holding her position by the front table, Frieda caught only a glimpse of the roaring fire and with longing saw the gentleman move directly toward it.

Discouraged, she waited for Miss Veal to follow after him. At least then she could retrieve her bricks and return to her charge, where perhaps she might warm her with her own body.

Instead she heard Miss Veal call out to the gentleman, "I'll be with you in a moment, Mr. Stow." Then she closed the door and started toward Frieda, her normally chalklike face flushed with color.