The Women of Eden (84 page)

"Please answer," he begged, cowering against the wall.

Still there was no response and, with fear vaulting, he looked directly into the unearthly light and saw the dim outline of a figure, a phantom which faded, then reappeared, the image of a woman, the face growing clearer, her eyes two enormous black concentric circles in the center of the light, something moving beside her, a monstrous animal of some sort, a high-pitched, ethereal voice filling his ear which seemed to issue from the phantom.

"Help?" he gasped, staggering backward, grasping at the wall for support.

The image was clear before him, the last shrouded mists lifting, revealing the face, though the form was horribly mutilated, the white gown torn open revealing a split abdomen, red slime coating white flesh, a disemboweled specter who nonetheless smiled at him.

Lila!

At that instant the immense cat crouched low. Thrice his size in life, he now fixed his gaze on John with blood-red eyes, awaiting the command of his mistress.

Before the horror, John stumbled backward, and, as he tripped, Lila laughed and simultaneously Wolf sprang forward. Feeling the sharp claws digging into his face, John blessedly lost consciousness, dragging a living piece of Hell with him.

Eden Castle April 26, 1871

More convinced than ever that there was a wisdom in sorrow, Elizabeth stood on the Great Hall steps in a blaze of early-morning sun, watching the steward load the last of Mary's and Burke's luggage atop the carriage.

Not wanting to intrude on the intimacy of their final goodbyes to Harriet, Elizabeth had promised to wait for them here. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the healing rays of the sun and tried to keep her thoughts in order. It was, as always, a matter of priorities. First she would deal with the farewells, then she would try to confront the mystery that was taking place in the Library, John barricaded within that book-hned room, refusing to return to his bedchamber on the third floor, Alex tending him on the makeshift couch, though repeatedly Aldwell had begged Elizabeth to intervene.

What exactly she could do, she had no idea. But she would try. For Edward's memory and for the love she once had shared with John, she would make one final effort. Then she would turn her back on this castle and leave, Harriet secluded in her upper chamber, John self-imprisoned behind the Library doors. Some ancient passion bound those two together; what, she had no idea, but it was her considered opinion that neither would ever recover from it and both ultimately would be destroyed by it, and that was a spectacle she had no desire to witness.

She heard approaching footsteps moving across the Great Hall, and in her last moment of privacy warned herself against any undue show of emotion. It was the last thing that any of them needed.

Then she turned to face them, that strikingly handsome couple

who, to the best of her knowledge, had yet to consummate their wedding vows. With what loving patience Mary had tended to Burke's various wounds, the most serious of which had been three broken ribs. He was still heavily bandaged and walked slowly.

But every night Mary had returned to her mother's chambers, had slept on a small couch, only to awaken, refresh herself and return immediately to Burke's bedside.

Elizabeth still didn't understand it and, in a way grateful that she did not have to, she went forward to greet them and saw strain on Mary's face, the emotional stress of telling her mother goodbye, knowing that she probably would never see her again.

In an attempt to lighten the moment, Elizabeth stepped between and took their arms and announced calmly, "There is really no need for us to say goodbye now. I'll be seeing you in London."

"We'll be leaving as soon as we can make arrangements," Burke warned, his face still bearing the marks of the fight.

"Oh, but that will take time," Elizabeth chided gently. 'Tou said so yourself. There's the house to be dismantled, passage booked, the servants to look after."

"Delane will help."

"I'm sure he will. Still, you'll be there when I arrive," Elizabeth added, aware that she was lying and hoping that no one else was.

As they approached the carriage, Burke went to confer with his driver, leaving Elizabeth facing the ordeal she dreaded most.

"My dearest," she whispered, turning to Mary, still seeing that hardness in her eyes as though she'd served warning on the world that nothing it could do would ever hurt her again.

Elizabeth clasped her tightly. "No tears," she counseled them both softly.

The advice seemed to soothe the young woman, who at last released her grasp on Elizabeth and turned to face Burke, who was waiting by the carriage door.

Struggling for control, in spite of earlier vows, Elizabeth stepped toward him. "Make an easy Journey of it, Burke. I'm not even certain that you should be walking about. Everything in London will wait; I can promise you that."

He nodded and she thought that it was almost over, but without warning he reached for her hand, then his arm was around her shoulder and she found herself in a second embrace, as moving as the first, considering the two simple words he whispered in her ear.

"Thank you."

Laughing in an effort to keep from crying, Elizabeth ordered sternly, "You'd better take him away, Mary, before I steal him from

you."

With relief she saw the laugh spread like a welcome contagion, and gently Burke assisted Mary up into the carriage, then with greater effort followed after her, leaning heavily into the discomfort of his injured side.

Settled at last, they looked down on her. "Then we'll see you in London," Mary called out, hopefully.

"Of course you will," Elizabeth lied again, and tried to memorize their faces against the day when she would be hungry to see them and they would be half a world away.

Blessedly, Burke gave the signal for the carriage to move and, congratulating herself prematurely on her splendid control, Elizabeth was in no way prepared for Mary's final cry, scarcely audible over the rattle of the carriage, but clear enough.

"I love you, Elizabeth . . ."

Then the dam broke, but fortunately the carriage had swung wide for the turn which led to the Gatehouse and no one saw her as she leaned against the banister, storing those words in her heart, as she would treasure them every day for the rest of her life.

She would not see them in London. It would be too difficult for all. She might one day journey to America and see them in their new home. For now, she was content to live with the echo of those words.

"J love you, Elizabeth . . ."

What remarkable words they were, capable of lifting her heart and sending it soaring toward the sun.

Seated in a straight-backed chair in the corridor outside the Library, in an uncharacteristic position of helplessness, Alex Aldwell kept a close eye on the goings-on beyond the Great Hall door. Thus he knew immediately when the carriage had departed and he stood, ready to confront Elizabeth, and drag her bodily, if necessary, into that place of need.

When at first she did not reappear, he waited patiently and tried to clear his head so that he could speak effectively. Not that he objected to the burden which had been placed on his shoulders, the burden of a clearly terrified and weakened John Murrey Eden, im-

prisoned behind those doors, refusing to return to his bedchamber, refusing almost all food and drink, passing the days and most of the nights in fixed concentration on that bloody painting, "The Women of Eden," even talking to it on occasion. Yes, Alex had heard him.

Gawdl He'd seen John through some rough waters, but these were the roughest, and on top of everything that was going on here was Alex's painful awareness of how much they both were needed back in London.

With Andrew Rhoades gone, the only one looking after "family interests," so to speak, was poor Aslam, who still needed a few years to do his growing up in and who now found himself holding the reins to the largest private empire in all of England.

Almost in anger, Alex stared across the Great Hall. Where in the hell is she? He'd heard the carriage leave over ten minutes— Ah, there she is. Alex started forward, spying her now, her head bowed as though—

He held his position at the end of the corridor, watching her slow approach. Too bad that Alex couldn't share her emotion, but as far as he was concerned the departure of the carriage was simply a matter of good riddance. Not once during the last few tense days had Elizabeth or Lady Harriet inquired after John, all their attention focused on that upper corridor where the American had been recuperating from that godawful fight. Clear to see where their sympathies resided.

"Elizabeth?" he called out, his voice echoing strangely across the Great Hall.

Slowly she turned about, altering her direction toward the Great Hall stairs and veering toward him. "Yes, Alex?"

"It's about-John," he began. "He's-"

"What about John?" she asked, moving alongside him.

Annoyed, he said, "You know. We talked earlier—"

"And you told me he was residing in the Library now."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Annoyance increasing, he said, "If I knew that, I wouldn't need your help, now would I?"

Slowly she bowed her head. "I'm sorry, Alex. I didn't mean—"

"Talk to him. Miss Elizabeth," Alex pleaded, more interested in solutions than apologies. "You go talk to him. He cares about you."

"He did once, yes."

"And he still does. I don't think I've ever understood him. Oh, I love him, that's a true fact, but as for understanding—"

He broke off, aware of the peculiar expression on her face, one of sadness, as though his confession of love had moved her.

In an attitude of new efficiency, she folded her arms and demanded, "All right. Tell me everything, Alex. When did he insist upon this move to the Library, and what reasons did he give?"

Pleased by her interest, he tried to turn his mind to the questions. "It was the night after the fight," he began. "He told me to leave him alone and I obliged, though later, about midnight, I thought I'd look in on him again. I knew he must be hurting. And you know where I found him? In the corridor on the floor outside his chambers."

Still amazed at his memory of that bizarre night, Alex paused to let the words register with Elizabeth. "What—did he say?" she asked, bewildered.

Alex shrugged. "He said nothing, but as I was lifting him up to carry him back to his chamber he got very angry and said, no, he didn't want to go back in there, he wanted to go downstairs where the lamps were burning bright."

Before the Library door they both stopped. Alex felt talked out, though obviously he'd said nothing that had made any sense to either of them. "Please go to him, Elizabeth," he begged. "You'll make a difference, I know."

She looked at him with a curious expression, as though on the verge of challenging his words. She seemed to stare at the closed door, a battie raging within her. Finally she grasped the door and said simply, "Leave us alone. Let no one disturb us."

"Yes." Alex smiled, delighted to follow her instructions.

She bowed her head against the door. Then she pushed it open and disappeared behind it.

After she had closed the Library door, she was struck by two perceptions: the darkness of the large room after the brilliant sunlight outside and the odor, an unpleasant blend of old linen and an un-cleansed body.

From where she stood she glanced down to the far end, to a curious sight, the heavy oak library tables pushed aside, chairs stacked atop them, a small area cleared to accommodate a low, mussed

couch, a washstand and a large easy chair which had been angled about to face the massive oil painting of "The Women of Eden."

While the rest of the room was cast in semidarkness, the area surrounding the painting was illuminated as bright as day by a dozen lamps, all flaming brightly, casting shadows over the women in the painting, occasionally giving the impression that they moved, the painted wind catching in their pastel gowns.

She lifted her eyes from the painting and looked about at the disarray for the man she'd been sent to comfort. She found him, or rather found his hand, hanging limply off the arm of the easy chair, the rest of him obscured behind the high wing-back.

Then there was nothing to do but approach and see if he was in a mood to be rescued from this pit

Slowly she made her way through the misplaced furnishings, debating whether she should speak and identify herself. Less than ten feet from the chair she stopped, appalled at the profile which appeared before her. What precisely had happened to the man known as John Murrey Eden, she had no idea. This man was old; his hair mostly gray, lay mussed about his face; his beard mottled with old food; his face still bearing the scabs of the recent fight; his right arm still wrapped in splints; a dressing robe knotted loosely about his waist, the lower half fallen open, revealing bare feet and legs.

Shocked by the apparition, Elizabeth closed her eyes. How to begin? Where to begin? While she was pondering these questions she heard his voice, hoarse, subdued.

"Have they gone?" he asked, never lifting his eyes from the painting or acknowledging her in any way, yet revealing a certain knowledge of activities within the castle in spite of his seclusion.

"They have. Just a few minutes ago."

"Good riddance."

She started to respond, then changed her mind. She stepped closer, taking note of his ruined face. "Are you—feeling better?"

"I feel like hell."

"I'm sorry. Wouldn't you be more comfortable in your own—"

"No!" At last he altered his position. She saw his hands grasp the arms of the chair, as though fearful that someone would force him to leave.

Saddened by such fear, she ventured closer. "John, what is it?" she asked, trying to take his hand, but he pulled away.

"I can't go back upstairs/' he whispered, his head pressed against the cushions.

"Why?"

"Lila's up there."

"Lila?"

"Yes," he repeated sternly. "I saw her. And that cat. She wishes me ill. I know she does." Suddenly he grasped her hand, his injured face pitiful to behold. "Talk to her, Elizabeth," he pleaded. "Tell her that I loved her. I did, you know."