The Women of Eden (74 page)

Burke took the basket and regretted his false identity. Perhaps honesty would be at least partial repayment. "I'm not Mr. Bennett," he said.

"Oh, I know that, sir. Been a publican for too long, I have, seen too many 'Mr. Bennetts' come and go not to know a false one when I see him. But what I don't know, sir, is who you really are."

Burke shifted the basket and extended his hand. "My name is Burke Stanhope," he said, "and she," he added, gesturing toward the carriage, "is Lady Mary Eden. She's not my wife yet, but she will be soon."

Giffen laughed. "Well, I could have told you that as well," he said. "And you suit one another, you do." He leaned closer. "Now what I want to know is this: are all them babies going to be English or American? If you take my advice, you'll make them babes American, 'cause there's nothing for 'em here but boundaries and rising taxes and the glorification of a past which weren't much when it was the present."

He looked about the pavement, then extended his vision to in-

elude the road, the traffic, the clutter of surrounding shops. "It's space I hunger for, don't you see? A man needs space to dream in."

He seemed transfixed by his own words and in the interim Burke was aware of time passing, Mary waiting.

He reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a fifty-pound note. While the man was still gazing in a generally western direction toward America, Burke pressed the note into his hand. "Then apply this to your passage," he said. "You helped me with my dream. Let me help you with yours."

Wordless, the man blinked down at the note and started to protest. But Burke didn't give him a chance. "Thanks, my friend," he called back as he swung up into the carriage, "and I wish you well."

Within the instant his driver flicked the reins and the carriage was pulling away from the pavement. Giffen was running alongside now, his face a map of gratitude, the note still clutched in his hand. "See you in America!" he shouted above the clatter of the carriage wheels.

"Is he serious," Mary asked, "about America?"

"Completely serious. His brother emigrated several years ago and has established a pub in Boston. Apparently his letters home have described a paradise."

"Is it?" she asked quietly.

"What?"

"A paradise."

Burke adjusted the fur rug over them both, tucked in the edges in protection against the chill wind and sat quietly at last, his eyes fixed on the shadows dancing across the opposite seat. "No," he murmured.

Mary saw something in his face and pushed closer. As he drew her near he rested his cheek atop her head and, while he was moved by her nearness, the future suddenly loomed before him like an abyss.

He had found his life and brought her back from the dead. Now what? He could not envision a life for them in the house in Mayfair, and what would his mother's reaction be? And Eden? Whether or not Mary had faced the inevitable—and he was fairly certain that she had not—her days there were over as well. Her cousin would not retreat so easily. Having been duped in more ways than one, he undoubtedly would come storming up out of a rage that would make his earlier performances seem like a child's tantrum.

Then where? And how? And when?

He continued to stare doggedly at the dancing shadows on the seat

opposite, the questions coming faster than he could deal with them.

"I love you, Burke," a soft voice whispered close to his ear.

While the proclamation solved nothing, it moved him and provided him with strength and left him with the illusion that he could face and endure and triumph over anything the future might bring.

London

Mayfair

February 7, 1871

In spite of Burke's loving presence and the day-and-a-half journey during which they had done nothing but talk quietly and hold one another, now for the last hour Mary had feigned sleep, feeling a need to clear her head for the next obstacle, and a formidable one it was.

His mother. Caroline Stanhope.

As a thousand and one little problems of female vanity presented themselves to her, she shivered beneath the fur rug and kept her eyes on the passing streets outside the window. It wasn't far, she knew that, less than fifteen minutes was her guess, and look at her.

Sweet heaven—what a portrait she must present, still garbed in the crude black dress she'd worn at Miss Veal's. Giffen had kindly had it laundered, but that had done nothing to alter its ugliness or the manner in which it hung on her after her loss of flesh during her illness.

And there was the illness itself, which had left her with a complexion the color of chalk, and her hair which had not known a curling iron or grooming brush for weeks. And her hands and nails, which were equally disreputable, her lips still chafed and dried from the fever and, worse than anything, was the persistent weakness. Though she'd kept it secret from Burke, it had taken all her energy simply to walk down the steps of the inn and into the caniage.

As the problems mounted, real and imagined, she thought with longing of her familiar chambers on the second floor of Elizabeth's house in St. George Street, her wardrobe filled with lovely gowns.

She must have made a sound, for Burke was bending over her. "You're—not asleep?"

"No," she murmured and found her way into his arms, finding in his strength at least partial relief from all problems, all horrors.

"Don't think about it," he urged, pressing her head close to his chest, knowing precisely the turn of her thoughts. "We're almost there," he added, clearly unaware of the other half of her terror.

"I'm frightened," she confessed.

"Why?"

"Look at me," she invited, smiling at her ovm vanity.

"I have been looking at you almost continuously for the last three weeks."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

A little puzzled that he could not understand, she begged, "Please let me return to Elizabeth's first, Burke. I have fresh garments there. Let me—"

"No!"

The rebuttal was swift and left no room for debate. Only after he had turned away and settled back into the seat did he speak again, and then it was part apology, part warning. "I'm sorry, Mary," he said to the window, "but you must believe me when I tell you it is not safe. And I'm certain that Elizabeth herself would say as much."

A thought occurred. "Then I'm never to see any of them again?" she asked, afraid of his answer.

"I didn't say that. We must first see to your recuperation and then we must chart a plan."

"What kind of plan?" she asked, curious about the future he had in mind for them both.

Without hesitation he replied, "Marriage, of course. As soon as possible; as soon as you are able. Until then your cousin has every legal right to reclaim you, to do with you as he sees fit, including sending you back to Miss Veal's."

"No," she whispered, unable to deal with the memories of the dreaded place.

That was all that was said. The mood was not broken until a few moments later when above the traffic sounds of noontime London, they heard his driver shout, "Mayfair ahead, sir!"

The suddenness with which he disengaged himself from her and peered anxiously through the carriage window informed her again

that this next obstacle could well be the most awesome and that, while she possessed his love now, she shortly would be in the presence of the woman who had possessed his love all his life and there was a remote, though real, possibility that she would not take kindly to sharing it with anyone.

"You look as lovely as ever," he said hurriedly as the carriage drew up before the pavement. "Come. We're both home. And safe. At least for a while."

In spite of all her anxieties, she made an attempt to straighten her hair and thought with a wave of bleak humor that if her unborn son ever brought home a woman who looked like herself she would throw the baggage out. Pray God that Mrs. Stanhope possessed a more loving and understanding nature.

Clinging to Burke's arm for support in the face of her persistent weakness compounded by fear, they made their way slowly up the steps. As she heard the front door open, her heart almost stopped and quickly she looked ahead, expecting to see a stern-faced American matriarch.

Instead she saw a tall, razor-thin elderly Negro man in meticulous black jacket.

"Charles"—Burke smiled—"the prodigal has returned."

Without a word the old man stepped to one side. "Luggage, sir?" he inquired, his speech the same as Burke's, soft and musical.

"No," Burke said, trying to mask the embarrassment of travelers without luggage.

During this brief exchange Mary withdrew a step and found herself in a handsome entrance hall. From where she stood she could see into the library, the warmth of a small fire crackling in the fire-well, the entire house in its quiet elegance reminding her of Elizabeth's house in St. George Street.

Suffering a pang of homesickness, she looked up to see Burke at her side again, the two of them now confronting a small group of Negroes.

"Allow me to present Lady Mary Eden," Burke said, his arm about her waist, as though it were his intention to demonstrate his affection, thus setting the tone on how the others should receive her.

Nothing more was said, and she was painfully aware of all eyes upon her. Now Burke was singling out specific servants for personal identification. "And this is Florence," he said, gesturing toward a

dignified woman. "She raised me," he added, in a tone of affection, "and knows all my faults."

If the humor registered with Florence, she gave no indication of it but continued to stare at Mary, those alert eyes taking in everything.

Under such a gaze, Mary bowed her head. Burke, sensing the awkwardness of the moment, added sternly, "She will be our guest here indefinitely. She is recovering from a severe illness and I would appreciate any kindness that you can bestow upon her. If the guest chamber is in order, Florence," he went on, "would you be so good as to escort Lady Mary there and see that a fire is laid and that she has everything she needs."

Slowly Mary looked up to see the stem old woman's face as neutral as though she were wearing a mask. As she started up the stairs, the other servants dispersed. In a ragtag procession, those remaining started up the stairs, Florence leading the way, Burke with his arm securely about Mary's shoulder, and directly behind came Charles, the metal tips of his shoes hammering out a small dirge.

It wasn't until they were midway up the stairs that Burke asked the question that was predominant on his mind. "My—mother, Charles," he inquired. "Is—she—"

"Well, sir," the old man interrupted, as though it embarrassed him to discuss such matters in the presence of strangers.

"Is she-"

"She is in her sitting room," Charles interrupted again. "Shall I tell her-"

"No, I will."

During these taut half-sentences, Mary's alarm vaulted. Then they were moving again down a smaller corridor on the right, though Burke's attention seemed to be focused on broad closed double doors at the head of the stairs. The throne room, Mary suspected, and felt the presence of the invisible mother.

"Only a few more steps," Burke urged, and then they were inside the guest chamber, a small though lovely room, with a high, broad window obscured by heavy drapes, though Florence threw them open and the entire room was suddenly warmed by an explosion of high-noon January sun.

Without words, Burke led her to a comfortable chair and stood beside her while they both watched the preparation of the room. With what littie energy she had left, Mary tried to marshal a degree of understanding. After all, she had arrived unannounced and unex-

pected, and this household was not an ordinary one in any sense of the word. Burke had told her enough to confirm that. All these people were exiles, driven to London by a war which had destroyed their homes. Though it saddened her to think it, she suspected that London had not received them with warmth. Small wonder that all appeared suspicious.

Then the burden was on her, the task of proving to them that she was not a threat

"You must rest now,'* Burke whispered.

She nodded, not looking up.

"I'll go to my mother," he added as the servants were leaving the room. "I'll come for you in a while and we'll have tea with her."

Long before she was ready for it the room was emptied, a small fire burning in the firewell, the bed freshly made with clean linens and a full pitcher of water resting on the china stand.

After this brief inspection, she lifted her head in an attempt to draw breath and tried to rise from the chair so that she might cleanse herself and perhaps work a miracle of grooming, as Elizabeth used to say.

But the mood and the moment were too bleak. Without the support of Burke's presence she discovered that momentarily she could not move and was forced to remain seated, her hands curled in her lap, her shoulders bowed, her vision fixed on a future which seemed as hazardous as the past.

At four o'clock that afternoon Mary stood before the mirror and stared back at a sparrow in black.

The dress, of course, had been unalterable. Like death, it had to be endured. But she'd managed to cleanse her face and pinch a degree of color into her cheeks and, with the help of a comb and brush she'd found in the top drawer of the dressing table, she'd brushed her hair vigorously and had been pleased to see it falling into soft waves which framed her face and seemed to fill it out.

Though still weak, a brief nap had taken the edge off her despair. Well then, she thought with dispatch, turning away from the mirror, she'd done all she could do, at least to the exterior creature known as Mary Eden. As for the interior woman, that she could control completely and, in spite of everything, she found herself looking forward to her meeting with Caroline Stanhope.

Standing at the window in a blaze of late-afternoon sun, she vowed to bring to the meeting all the love and understanding that

she could muster. For Burke's sake. It was not implausible to assume that all would go well. She'd learned one lesson through her various ordeals, the all-important one that few people in this world were blessed with such an abundance of love that they could afford to turn their backs on offers of new love. For now, that was all she could offer Caroline Stanhope—a rich love and gratitude for her son.