As the woman's mind turned in all directions at once, Elizabeth made no attempt to answer her questions. Instead she had one or two of her own.
"Hettie, where is everyone? Lady Lila—"
"Oh, not well this morning. Miss Elizabeth," the woman cooed. "Her maids tell us she'll be abed most of the day." Her sorrowful expression lifted as she added, "But the babes is fine. You must see them, Miss Elizabeth; darling they are, and growing."
Elizabeth nodded. "And where's Dhari?" she asked, still trying to capture Hettie's scattered attention.
Hettie's eyes grew wide, sharing the mystery. "I don't rightly know. My guess is that she's making herself extra beautiful for the arrival of her son."
"Then Lord Richard has not—"
"No," Hettie replied, shaking her head, the prim white-lace cap quivering under the movement. "And Mr. Eden was fit to be tied early on, he was. But he settled down." She moved close to Elizabeth, her excitement growing. "Oh, Miss Elizabeth, I wish you could see the Kitchen Court! They got eight chefs working down there. The pantry's filled with cakes and puddings and trifles, and in the butchers, whole stags, dressed for roasting, and sides of beef the size of-"
"They all must be fed, mustn't they?" Elizabeth smiled, cutting the woman short, not interested in the excesses in the kitchen. "And Lady Harriet?" she asked, feeling the need to account for all the missing.
"Keeping to her chambers," Hettie whispered, a portion of her excitement dampened as though an embarrassing subject had been brought up.
Elizabeth started up the stairs without a word of parting. At the top of the first-floor landing she stopped, out of breath. She was getting old and, suffering one of those unexpected perceptions, she looked out over the magnificent Great Hall, amazed that she had a place here, that the pathetic little prostitute whose mother had sent her out at age thirteen in an attempt to earn a few bob had risen from that beginning to—this.
The perception didn't last long and was instantly replaced by her knowledge of the unhappiness which resided within the walls of this now elegant castle.
Slowly she turned about, her weariness increasing. There had been a time as recently as a year ago when her visits to Eden were interludes of deep joy, reveling in John's success. Now she was forced to admit that her greatest contentment—and she was willing to settle for contentment; happiness being the illusion of the young—took place in London, with her small circle of slightly off-center friends, lending what limited support she could to their worthy causes.
During these thoughts she walked slowly toward her chambers at the end of the second-floor corridor, looking forward to the privacy of her sitting room, where, with luck, she might nod off for a few minutes.
But as she reached her door she changed her mind. Her instincts told her that there were pockets of terrible unhappiness in this castle, and with the impulse toward compassion that she'd learned at Edward Eden's knee, she entered her apartment only long enough to remove her bonnet, gloves and cape; then she started out toward the third-floor landing, undecided whether the first object of her attention would be Lady Harriet, who must surely hear the sounds of guests arriving and regret anew her self-imposed blindness, or Lady Lila, John's vulnerable young wife, who, though ill-equipped for childbearing, was doing her best to provide John with the large boisterous family he had demanded, or Dhari, who must live in a perpetual state of silence, missing her son and locked in servitude to the man who was responsible for her inability to speak.
As Elizabeth started toward the third floor, she thought of the missing Mary and couldn't deny that there was need there as well. But somehow it paled in comparison to the anguish suffered by the three women whose apartments were scattered over the third and fourth floors of Eden Castle, women who, in their special ways, had given their lives to the glory, comfort and pleasure of John Murrey Eden.
As her sense of Justice tilted dangerously out of balance, Elizabeth gained the fourth floor and started toward Lady Harriet's chambers. The others, Lila and Dhari, would have to wait until their respective husband and lover returned from his search for his beautiful cousin.
She hoped they would understand. She didn't. . .
Expecting the luxury to end at the pubHc rooms, Burke was amazed to find a Persian carpet beneath his feet as thick as the ones in the lower corridors.
Standing in the door of his guest chamber on the fourth floor of the west wing, he saw the dark green velvet drapes beautifully framing the long window, the window itself covered with white lace, which blew gently under the pressure of a slight channel breeze. As the steward unpacked his luggage, Burke listened to see if he could hear Delane settling into the chamber next door. Curious to see if those rooms were as luxurious as his own, he started through the door, then changed his mind. He knew that his old friend was still smarting from John Murrey Eden's cool reception.
Well, he'll recover, Burke thought, and moved deeper into the room, his attention drawn to all aspects of the decor, observing upon closer examination that at some point good taste ended and ostentation commenced. Burke smiled. Lord Ripples could write three columns on the decor of Eden Castle alone. Objects could be reassuring if life refused to fit into approved patterns and, based on this excess of things, Burke had reason to believe that life below the surface at Eden clearly did not fit into approved patterns. Surrounding all was the odious smell of commerce, as though John Murrey Eden were silently pleading with his guests to judge him on the presentation of displayed objects.
Curious, but Burke had not expected this. Glancing about at the frills and geegaws and velvet fringes, he'd somehow expected to find a castle as rugged as the man himself, a simple utilitarian statement in stone which matched the pragmatism of John Murrey Eden.
"Will there be anything else, sir?"
At the sound of the voice, Burke glanced over his shoulder at the steward standing in the door, several suits suspended across his arms, among them Burke's dress blacks.
"There's no need," Burke said, indicating the suits which were about to be taken somewhere. "I'm sure you have—"
Thinking to relieve him of an unnecessary service, Burke saw the tall man shake his head. "They could do with a bit of a press, sir. That's what I'm here for."
The man stood in the door, looking uncomfortable in his crimson and gold livery, clearly new, with high-buttoned collar and tight sleeves. The rooms below had been a sea of identical uniforms.
Following his journalist's instincts, which, based on past expeii-
ence, told him that servants frequently were good informants, he moved closer to the man, aware that as a guest he had no business engaging him in conversation but doing so anyway. What the helll He was an American. Americans, according to most Enghshmen, knew little of the modes and manners of civilized people.
"What's your name?" Burke asked cordially.
"Paul, sir," the man replied, his eyes never quite making contact with Burke's.
"Paul," Burke repeated. "I'm certain you have other duties to attend to. The suits are—"
"You are my only duty, sir—you and Mr. Delane. I have no other responsibilities, save those which entail your comfort and well-being."
"How long have you worked at Eden, Paul?'*
The direct question caused the man's eyes to move to Burke's face. "I'm not permanent staff, sir," the man replied, coldly polite. "I was trained and brought in for the Festivities."
"How many are there of you?" Burke persisted.
"Regular staff, sir?" Paul replied. "Regular staff members around two hundred. With us extras, we're four hundred strong."
Shocked by the figures, Burke glanced back to see the man gazing at him. "Anything else, sir?"
Still trying to comprehend a domestic staff of four hundred, Burke did well to shake his head. "One thing more, Paul. Do we dress for dinner, and what are we supposed—"
"Begging your pardon, sir, but there is a schedule of events on the table. It will inform you of all your activities and the required dress. As for tonight, no, the gentlemen of the press will enjoy an informal buffet in the Great Hall."
"None of the family will be present?"
"No, sir, not tonight. The first formal banquet will be tomorrow evening."
Burke glanced over his shoulder at the large gold pamphlet with crimson tassel which he'd missed in the general clutter of the room.
Paul bowed and murmured, "If there's nothing else, sir—"
"No, that will be all." As Burke started to close the door behind him, he called, "Please ask Mr. Delane to join me after he has settled in."
He moved back into the room, lifted the heavy parchment containing the schedule of events and carried it to the light of the
opened window, studying the Eden coat of arms on the cover, still amazed that a gentleman would purposefully create this carnival atmosphere in the privacy of his home, subjecting his family to such public display.
Suffering an unexpected image, Burke closed his eyes and saw the young woman with the beautiful voice at the Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club. How bleak his evenings in London would be without her, and he was certain that he would never see her again. He remembered his fleeting glance at the middle-aged woman standing in the wings, whose face bore the look of—
Abruptly he opened his eyes, thinking that he had seen that woman someplace. Mystified, he drew back the curtains, as though fresh air would help to clear the cobwebs from his head. He had seen her. But where?
As he squinted down onto the headlands below, he was distracted from his confused memory by his first glimpse of the vista, the vast sweep of headlands stretched out below like a massive green carpet, the carefully tended lawn extending to the edge of the cliffs, then the blue-green of the channel itself, dotted here and there with small white fishing packets, Wales visible in the distance.
Just as he was breathing deeply of the refreshing sea breeze, he caught sight of a figure reduced by the height and distance to miniature proportions, a man running along the edge of the cliff. Fascinated, Burke leaned closer to the window, his attention caught by some recognition of the gentleman which carried in spite of the distance.
Good God! Burke tried to shield his eyes from the sun. It couldn't be, yet it was! The master of the castle himself, John Murrey Eden, who apparently had abandoned his duties as host and who was now running across the headlands in search of something.
Burke leaned further out and searched the headlands in both directions, finding nothing but a row of stone benches placed every fifty yards or so, where guests might sit and enjoy the channel view.
Then he saw something at the extreme right edge of his \ision, behind a low clump of shrub and beach bramble, a dark blue something that appeared to be in hiding. A woman? From that distance it was difficult to tell. She appeared to be crouching on the edge of the cliff, her head bowed, her face obscured, as though the last thing she wanted v/as to be found.
It was a woman. He could see her dark blue skirts, which she'd gathered about her in her bowed, crumpled position.
He looked back toward Eden, who had ceased running and who now stood at the edge of the cliff, hands on hips, as though baffled. What a peculiar position to be in, Burke mused, enjoying his crow's nest view, enabling him to see what Eden was looking for but had yet to find.
Enjoying this unscheduled drama, he rested his elbows on the sill. If Eden turned about now he would never find her, and Burke found himself pulling for her concealment. "Stay quiet," he whispered, as though sending down instructions to her, his eyes fixed on the hesitating figure of John Murrey Eden.
Abruptly the man stopped. Less than twenty feet from where the woman hid, Burke saw him kick petulantly at the ground.
Then he saw her. "Damn!" Burke cursed under his beeath, amazed at his involvement in the distant drama. Apparently having found her, Eden suffered no compulsion to go immediately to her.
As for the lady, she was still locked in her illusion of safety.
Suddenly there was a movement, though not from Eden. This time it was the lady who, sensing his presence, looked over her shoulder and was struggling to her feet, ready to flee again.
Then Burke saw Eden moving. She had just started down the steep embankment when he gained her side and held her fast, both of them partially concealed by the thickness of bushes.
Words were exchanged, Burke was certain, though all he could detect was the struggle. Then, without warning, Eden slapped her, a silent pantomime of violence, his hand shooting forward, the woman reeling under the force of the blow, her body crumpled awkwardly to one side, her arm still held rigid by Eden.
Burke continued to stare down on the drama rising noiselessly from so far below. Suffering a surge of witless chivalry, he considered leaving his vantage point, and going to the woman's aid. In all seriousness he was fully prepared to do this if Eden lifted a hand to her again.
But to the contrary, the only movement taking place now was one of reconciliation, Eden drawing the woman into his arms, the two of them from that distance blending into one.
Under the duress of his gaze, Burke closed his eyes, confounded as to the true nature of this strange domestic drama. Slowly he looked back down, confident that after the reconciliation he would be
treated to a full glimpse of the two as they emerged arm in arm, the drama over.
Therefore he was in no way prepared for the emptiness which greeted his eyes as he looked back toward the clifiE. Nothing. Not a sign of life or movement. He leaned further out over the sill. Where could they have gone?
Suffering a keen sense of disappointment, Burke raised up from the windowsill. Who was the woman? He had no idea and, having failed to get a good look at her, perhaps would never know. But of this he was certain: for all the elegance and surface polish of Eden Castle, there were forces loosed here that certainly begged for closer scrutiny.