The Women of Eden (68 page)

"Well, don't just stand there like a dumb cow," she snarled. "Go immediately and alert the staff. And lay a fire in every fireplace and see that they are burning well. Then go to the kitchen and tell Cook to add a joint to the stew and extra vegetables, and warn one and all that there is to be no punishment of any kind for the next few hours."

Stunned by the barrage of instructions, Frieda protested. "It would take ten women to do all that, Miss Veal. I can't—"

"Then get them!" the old woman whispered fiercely. "And be quick about it!"

"One moment, please. Miss Veal, if you will—"

"I don't have a moment," the old bitch snapped, "and neither do you."

"It's about Mary Eden—"

"Did you hear me?" the old woman practically shrieked, the veins in her neck popping out like thin blue cords.

Before such mindless anger, Frieda retreated. If the gentleman from the newspaper had cared to listen, he would have heard all, might have heard for himself how two-faced the old shrew was. As she backed away toward the kitchen door, Frieda found the courage for one more comment, a warning this time. "She's worse. Miss Veal, she is. 'Less you get help soon, she's—"

But the old woman merely followed after her with arm raised as though if Frieda uttered one more word she'd get her ears boxed.

Frieda had seen these bursts of wrath before and wasn't too alarmed. Still she didn't waste any time retreating to the kitchen door, where she flung it open and momentarily hid behind it.

She was still watching a moment later when Miss Veal drew open the parlor door and sent her false voice ahead. "Ah, Mr. Stow—now tell me precisely what you want to know about our humble establishment and I'll most certainly try to oblige."

About two hours later, when it was approaching noon, after having foisted most of the duties off on the four scullery maids, Frieda stood over Mary Eden and saw something that alarmed her even more than the constant shivering.

The young girl lay absolutely still, her mouth partially opened, lips dried, in an attempt to breathe over the rattle in her lungs. Her eyes were closed and she responded to nothing.

Lord, what am I going to do now? Slowly she sat in the straight-

backed chair, never taking her eyes off the still face, and ran through what were at best limited options. If the hazards weren't so great she'd bundle her up and carry her on foot the three miles into Cheltenham. But the hazards were monstrous. The entire school was ahve with the excitement of the gentleman who had demanded to be shown everything.

Commencing with a tour of the basement rooms, including the kitchen, proceeding to the first-floor reception rooms and classrooms, they were, at his insistence, working their way systematically through the house, Miss Veal's screeching voice floating up now and then in some raucous artificiality, the others, staff and students alike, giggling and blushing like idiots.

No, escape was out of the question—at least for now. Then what? Sit here with folded hands and watch her die?

Suddenly Frieda was on her feet, ready to announce before God, the gentleman and all, the tragic facts of what was going on in this cell when at that moment she heard chattering coming up the stairs. She opened the door a crack and saw a sizable entourage just climbing the stairs, Miss Veal in the lead, the gentleman a step behind, his hands laced easily behind his back, but his head swiveling in every direction, his eyes missing nothing. Following behind him were five of the staff, with insipid grins on their faces, all trying to speak at once.

Hurriedly Frieda closed the door, losing her nen^e. Perhaps this wasn't the time. From her position inside the closed door she listened as she heard doors opening and closing, the gentleman insisting upon seeing every cell, and over all was Miss Veal's singsong voice pointing out the cleanliness and neatness, the physical order which was a primary tenet in her philosophy and which always led to mental and emotional order.

"They are inseparable, don't you see, Mr. Stow?" Frieda heard now.

"I do indeed," the gentleman replied, "and most impressive it all is."

As their voices passed by the door, Frieda closed her eyes to rest them from the still figure on the bed and wished that she might close her ears as well.

Will he never leave?

What a din it was out there! What was going on now? As best as she could hear, someone was frantically calling for Miss Veal to

"Come quick!" She heard running footsteps, then heard the reverberations of several people taking the stairs at great speed.

A iew minutes later the corridor outside the door was silent, all apparently drawn away by something of greater interest. In this new quiet, Frieda sat on the edge of the bed and enclosed Mary's feverish hands in hers. Still, how beautiful she was! Had God created such beauty to let it expire here on a cot in this cold prison?

Suddenly the grim thought was interrupted by what sounded like a single step outside the door. She'd just turned in that direction when the door burst open and a most remarkable sight appeared before her.

"I—beg your pardon," she sputtered, trying to rise to her feet, angered by the intrusion.

It was the gentleman, but a very different expression on his face than the one she'd seen downstairs. Now he looked almost deranged as he closed the door behind him, his eye falling first on Frieda, then moving instantaneously down to the bed where his vision held.

"I must ask you to leave, sir," Frieda announced angrily, trying to come between her vulnerable charge and the gentleman's intense gaze. "You'll find nothing of interest here, I assure you, but a very sick young lady who requires only—"

Abruptly she stopped talking for two reasons. One, it was clear from the expression on his face that he was not hearing a word, and, two, that same expression was now speaking volumes as he moved slowly toward the bed, only tenderness and sorrow in his manner.

Frieda held her tongue. She walked to the foot of the bed, her mind churning with a thousand questions, but one predominant which begged to be asked, even though she knew the answer.

"Do—you know her, sir?" she whispered.

There was no response. There was no need for one. He sat on the edge of the cot and grasped the hand which earlier Frieda had held and pressed it to his lips, then to the side of his face, and finally bowed his head over it.

Still suffering confusion and knowing that their time was limited, Frieda asked, "Where are the others? How did you know to look here?"

"I heard you speak her name downstairs. And, as this was the only cell they refused to show me, I knew she had to be here." He paused. "I—did not know she was ill."

Suspicious, Frieda stepped closer. '*You ain't from no newspaper, are you?"

He shook his head.

"And you ain't no Robert Stow either."

Again he shook his head.

"Then who are you?" she demanded. "And what do you want here? You ain't her kinsman, are you? No, I can see that. Then who are you and what business do you have here?"

She thought he'd never answer. He seemed content simply to sit on the side of the bed and clasp the still hand, as though at last he'd found the object of a long search. She was just getting ready to go for help when the gentleman lifted his head and showed her for the first time a glimpse of his remarkable face, weakened by a depth of emotion.

"I love her," he said simply,

I love her I Lord, what words! To hear them spoken was a treat, even though they were intended for someone else.

"Well, then," Frieda said at last, "what do you intend to do about it?"

Her businesslike tone, and apparently the conviction that he'd won her trust, seemed to work miracles on the gentleman. No longer seated in a position of passivity, he was on his feet. "I've come to take her away," he said, hurraing to the door, opening it a crack and peering out "Could you dress her for me? I'll take her to a physician in Cheltenham, but we must—"

"Where are the others?" Frieda demanded.

"Someone said something about a fireplace smoking. They all ran off, but I'm certain—"

Frieda smiled. "It's a wonder they all ain't smoking like locomotives. They are never used, and they were lit now for your benefit."

The gentleman stared at her. With renewed purpose he returned to the bed. "Please help me to dress her warmly. I must take her out of-"

"I'm afraid, sir, you wouldn't get as far as the top step," Frieda said, not enjoying putting out the fire of his enthusiasm, but as a plan it lacked even the rudimentary elements of good sense.

"Then what?" he demanded.

Confronted with the direct question, Frieda turned all her concentration to the problem, aware, along with the gentleman, that their time to plot was limited.

"Do you have a carriage?" she demanded, a plan beginning to take shape, though a hazardous plan it was.

"Of course."

"Well, then," Frieda went on, keeping her voice down in the event someone was lurking outside, "every afternoon from two to three the young ladies exercise in the back garden. I'll dress Miss Eden as warmly as possible and try to get her on her feet long enough to walk her to the garden." She leaned closer, stunned by the insanity of her own words. "There's a small path, overgrown but I think you can find it, at the rear of the garden. You will have to leave your carriage on the access road directly north of the school. Shortly after two this afternoon you find that path and walk along it until you come to the edge of the garden. Wait there!" She added sternly, "Out of sight. If the other young ladies see—"

"Go on."

But Frieda had come to the end of the madness which she called a plan. "I'll bring her to you. You'll have to carry her the distance back to your carriage, then you must leave immediately. Do not return to Cheltenham. You should make it to Oxford by this evening and seek a physician there." She looked back at the pale young woman. "If she requires one," she added, ominously.

He saw the direction of her gaze. "Is—she—"

"She's very ill, sir," Frieda snapped. "You can see that for yourself. Go along with you," she urged, "before the dragon returns and ruins everything." As she walked him hurriedly to the door, she added the most important point. "With luck and a little help from God, I can conceal her absence until four this afternoon. But no longer. When the young ladies file back there's always a count. So by four o'clock alarms will be sounded."

"What will she do?"

Frieda shrugged, wishing he would be on his way and stop asking questions to which she had no answers. "That's not my concern, nor should it be yours. If you love her, just take her away from here and put as much distance as possible between yourselves and this place."

He appeared to have listened closely to all she had said, and now a new expression covered his face. "What's your name?"

"Frieda."

"You're jeopardizing your own position by helping us, aren't you?"

She hesitated and thought she heard steps on the stairs. "Hurry,"

she said softly. "They can't find you here or all is lost before we start."

At first reluctant, then at last agreeing with her sense of urgency, he drew open the door and peered out. "Two o'clock," he confirmed. "I'll be there."

Frieda closed the door but heard him lift his voice into the tone of an inquiring guest. "Ah, there you are. All's well, I trust?"

She heard Miss Veal's voice, at first rife with suspicion, though lifting into its customary falseness- "I do apologize, Mr. Stow, for abandoning you in this manner. I really thought that you were right behind us."

As their voices dwindled down the corridor, Frieda relaxed for the first time. She closed her eyes to rest them from the impossible task she had set for herself. How would she ever get that ill figure on her feet and into the garden? And what if, in the altered routine of the day, the exercise period was canceled?

No, she had no fears on this last count. No diversion, not even the handsome Mr. Stow, could divert Miss Veal's regimen.

J love her.

Lord, what she wouldn't give Just once to hear those words directed at her! Appalled by her own foolishness, she hurled herself into action, flinging open the wardrobe and withdrawing Mary Eden's two black musHn dresses. The point was to keep her warm and alive while awaiting her rescuer. It wouldn't do to place a corpse in his arms.

To that end, and in an attempt to keep her mind oflf everything that could go wrong, Frieda moved toward the bed.

"Mary?" she whispered, trying to nudge a sign of life from the still face. "Can you hear me?"

But apparently she couldn't. All her energies were being channeled into the effort of breathing.

No matter! Frieda could do it. On the hope that some of that residual love splashed over onto her, she would do it aU.

Shortly after two-fifteen, and murmuring a prayer to God for His divine intervention in all matters, Frieda sat at the lower end of the garden, one broad arm around Mary Eden, who was so bundled inside her double garments that she looked twice her normal size.

Moving up and down the paths were the other young ladies. One

or two had inquired about the curiously relaxed Mary Eden, who had journeyed to the garden totally under Frieda's strong support. But now they had lost interest and were concentrating on the task at hand, which was to keep warm.

Lord, let him come soon, she prayed, and in the tension of waiting recalled his departure shortly before noon, his disguise firmly in place, loudly thanking one and all, particularly Miss Veal, for having received him with such hospitality. Shortly thereafter, and exhausted by the encounter, Miss Veal had retired to her private chambers, where she'd remained for the rest of the afternoon.

There! She did hear a step, unmistakable this time, the sound of a boot crushing winter leaves. As she turned eagerly in that direction her eyes, skimming the rear of the old Tudor mansion, saw a second sight which caused her heart to stop.

"Wait!" she called in a low voice to the bushes behind her, having seen a man's shoulder. "Get down! Hurry!"