Burke had been only a little boy, running through the high summer sun with his Negro companions, the best of Jack, the best of Caroline, the sole heir to a profitable though doomed world. Strange, but out of the three, Delane felt the greatest pity for Burke.
He heard a step at the door and swiveled around, expecting Burke. Instead the white-haired old Negro man named Charles, who served as butler, stood before him, silver coffee service in his hands.
"Mr. Burke sends his apologies," he said in that Southern drawl which Delane found so pleasing. "He says to make yourself comfortable and not to steal all the silver."
As the old man poured coffee, Delane was aware of the twinkle in his eye and marveled at the humor, which in a true English household would not have been tolerated. Not that Delane condoned slav-
ery, and not that he hadn't in the past had heated arguments with Jack Stanhope. Still, there was an enviable ease between these people and their servants, and when Jack had made the hard decision several years ago to leave his ill wife in London rather than subject her to the horror of destruction following the war, his problem had not been to force certain Negro servants to join her in a foreign city. His problem had been how to choose from among the seventy volunteers who wanted only to continue to serve her.
"Thank you, Charles." Delane smiled, taking the cup of coffee. "And tell Burke that if he's not down soon, the silver will still be intact, but my patience will be missing."
The old man was halfway to the door when Delane called out, "And Mrs. Stanhope? How is she this morning?"
A quick sorrow crossed the old man's face. "She's well, sir," he said, then added a curious contradiction. "Not well, is what I mean. But she's happy most all the time, and that's a blessing."
Then, as though he'd said enough, he left the room.
What in the hell was keeping Burke? They should have been on the road by now. In a way, he looked forward to this fortnight, this grand unveihng of the restored Eden Castle. How the gossip had flown about London coffeehouses for the past year, all directed toward London's financial wizard and master builder, John Murrey Eden. According to the most imaginative tongues, Eden had spared no expense in the renovation of his ancestral home. One wild report had it that the windowframes were made of solid gold, but Delane would have to see that for himself, along with several other promised treats such as the massive Alma-Tadema painting of "The Women of Eden," a project which had attracted the attention of the art world as well as the financial world of London.
It promised to be a circus and Delane wouldn't miss it for the world. When the heavy parchment invitation had come over two months ago, Delane had accepted without hesitation, and sensing good journalistic sport, he had requested permission to bring along his young American friend. The request had been granted, and with dehght Delane had lived with the secret knowledge that he would be escorting Lord Ripples himself into the very bastion of British aggression, arrogance, and cunning.
"Lord!" Delane gasped, grinning. What sport it would be!
He strode the length of the reception room, searching the door eagerly for his protege. What sane journalist would have done other-
wise with a brilliant, natural-born writer, educated at William and Mary, trained to take over a world that no longer existed? Put him to work, of course, which is precisely what Delane had done, although in the beginning even he could not have predicted the success of the Lord Ripples column.
Smiling, Delane sat on the back of the sofa, studying the pools of sunshine eddying at his feet. There! He heard a noise outside the door and went eagerly forward, only to halt after three steps. It was not Burke. Instead an apparition in a pale yellow dressing gown slipped around the corner like a trailing cloud, her parchmentlike skin blending with the wispy folds of yellow silk, her emaciated body lost somewhere in the vapor. In her blue-veined hand she held a lace handkerchief which she waved before her face as though to rid the room of a noxious odor. In the process she saw him and drew sharply back, her eyes reflecting her fear.
"Caroline, no need. It's me," he soothed and stepped forward, aware that behind that white hair was a brain that had shut down on all images save pleasant ones.
Delane still remembered the day not long after the Southern surrender when an embittered Jack Stanhope had come to his office and had informed him of Caroline's "illness." And since Jack had had no idea of what conditions he would find on his return home, he was leaving his wife in the Mayfair mansion under the protective custody of his son Burke, and as soon as he could reconstruct their world he would send for both of them.
Delane had offered to look out for them. In spite of the differences in their ages, he considered Burke Stanhope a surrogate son as well as a fascinating companion. As for the ruin that was Caroline Stanhope, there was little he could do except be loving and polite and play her games with her.
He looked up and saw her standing just inside the door. Then came words, the floating image moving closer. "Is that you, John Thadeus Delane?" She smiled, the voice traihng off in soft Southern speech, the head turned demurely to one side, as though somewhere within the dead husk the young Southern woman was still alive and flourishing.
"At your service." Delane smiled.
"Well, my sweet stars!" Caroline gasped. "Now, why didn't Jack Stanhope tell me you were coming? Isn't that just like the man, to
leave me to discover my houseguest wandering disconsolately through my front parlor?"
"I wasn't wandering, Caroline." He smiled lovingly down on her. "I just stopped by to call for Burke. We are leaving today for—"
She backed away as though a false note had sounded in her head. "Burke?" she puzzled. "Why, I think he took off riding for Mobile this morning. Did he know you were calling for him? He's really such a rude boy on occasion."
As her voice drifted, she commenced moving through the room, her lace handkerchief trailing over the mahogany furniture. He watched her, all the time keeping his ear turned toward the door, praying that Burke would arrive soon.
From the corner of the room, in a blaze of morning sun, she turned abruptly. "It's a disgrace," she began, "that the soldiers should be allowed to behave like this. It makes a bad impression on our visitors."
Struggling to keep up with the twists of her mind, Delane followed as far as the center of the large room. "What soldiers, Caroline?" he asked, knowing in advance that he might or might not receive an answer.
"Would you like coffee?" she asked.
"Charles has served me. And you, may I pour you a—"
Her eyes suddenly filled with worry. "Did you see Jack Stanhope when you were in Mobile this morning?" she asked.
"No. I-"
"He told me he was going to meet you there. He has such admiration for the English. He's really very fond of you, you know. Did I tell you, Mr. Delane," she called from the sideboard where she was pouring a glass of sherry, "that the prevailing dream of Jack Stanhope is to make his way to England and there to become an honored citizen?"
Delane laughed. "I doubt that, Caroline. The South and Stanhope Hall mean far too much to him. He would never be happy."
"It's true," she whispered. "Sometimes I have a nightmare. I see myself on a cold rainy street and I'm all alone, quite alone, so cold, alone and so cold—"
"You're not alone, Caroline," he soothed. "You have friends."
"Who?" she demanded.
"Myself for one." He smiled, taking the glass of sherry from her hand before she spilled it.
**Did I show you what I've done in the rose garden?" With a mercurial change of mood, she was on her feet, her loneHness forgotten, tugging on his hand for him to join her.
"Come, Mr. Delane, the darkies and I have been working for days to surprise you." She walked a few steps away to the window where suddenly she bowed her head. "Don't you agree, Mr. Delane," she began, her voice floating, "that Stanhope Hall is the most beautiful place on earth?"
He followed her line of vision out of the window and saw only the gray pavement, wet from the early-morning rain, and the endless red bricks of Mayfair and his own carriage waiting at the curb.
Where in the hell is Burke?
"Of course you are planning to stay with us for a while, aren't you, Mr. Delane? I can't bear it when visitors come for just a week or two. Please say that you will stay with us until Christmas."
"I don't know, Caroline."
"Of course you will. I won't hear otherwise."
She turned away, one hand pressed against her forehead as though in an attempt to contain the confusion within. "How many times I've told Burke—" As she passed by the sofa she spied the silver service on the low table, sat primly on the edge of the sofa and poured a cup.
"Does Burke—have a lover, Mr. Delane?" she asked poHtely.
Taken aback by the question, Delane laughed. "I'm sure I don't know, Caroline. I'm afraid you will have to ask Burke."
"Oh, I have," she said, smiling over the rim of her coffee cup. "I know he doesn't have a wife, but I suppose he has mistresses, plenty of them. A boy that good-looking—"
Suffering embarrassment, Delane looked back toward the door.
"Mr. Delane, I want you to promise me one thing. You must promise me that you will talk to Burke—"
"About what?"
"Tell him that he must never leave me, that he will kill me if he does." She was trembling, her thin arms wrapped about her.
"Caroline, please," Delane begged.
"No, you must listen to me!" she pleaded, gripping his arm with surprising strength. "I know what he's up to. Every night he rides away from here. I have spies working for me and they report back. They tell me that on occasion he journeys as far as Mobile for his whores—"
Delane wanted to move away but she continued to grasp his arm. *Tlease," she begged, "tell him that I can abide whores. But tell him what I cannot and will not abide is a wife. Tell him that for me, Mr. Delane. We must not have a wife here. No, no, never. No wife, no wife; not for Burke, no!"
Then at last, blessedly, he heard it, a firm step on the stairs. And in the next minute Burke was at the door, lines of fatigue creasing his face, as though he'd slept too hard or not enough.
"Ah, Delane . . ." He smiled, adjusting his gray waistcoat. But the smile faded as he caught sight of his mother.
Delane looked back at Caroline, expecting a reaction from her. But there was nothing. She sat on the sofa, her hands lying idly in her lap, a tuneless humming escaping from her lips.
He glanced up at Burke in time to see the small death on his face, as though he'd hoped to make his escape unnoticed. "Sorry I was delayed," he muttered, heading toward the drifting woman.
Delane watched as Burke knelt before his mother and took her hands between his own. He noticed the knuckles on Burke's right hand. Bruised they were, red and scraped. Obviously the young man had passed an eventful night.
Well, Delane was certain he'd hear all about it during the journey to Eden Castle. For now, he watched in sad fascination the scene between mother and son.
"I'm leaving now," Burke said, above the tuneless humming. "I'll be away for a fortnight, but Charles knows where to reach me—if you need me—"
Still no response from the humming woman. If she was even aware of her son kneeling before her, she gave no indication of it.
"Mother, did you hear me? I said I was leaving now. Promise me you'll be good and do as Florence says."
Slowly Burke stood and straightened himself. "She's worse," he commented quietly.
"Come," Delane murmured. "We should have been on the road an hour—"
Burke nodded, still standing over her, his eyes dark with worry. As he drew on his gloves, he frowned as though his injured hand had caused his discomfort. He tried once more. "Mother, can you hear me? I'm leaving now."
But still there was nothing from the humming woman except for a
small smile that was vaguely triumphant as though she were pleased by his worry.
Then Burke turned about. "Again, sorry to have kept you waiting, Delane," he said, as he led the way to the door.
But as they were starting out into the entrance hall, words evolved out of that soft humming. "If you see your father on the road, Burke, please send him to me. Tell him that Caroline needs him. Tell him that she is alone—"
From where Delane stood it looked as though weight had just been lowered against Burke's neck. Without a word and as though eager to put distance between himself and the house in Mayfair, he led the way down to the pavement, hoisted his valise up to Delane's coachman and crawled inside the carriage.
Delane followed, his heart going out to the young man, wondering briefly about the limits of servitude that a father could legitimately place on a son. The last letter that Delane had received from Jack Stanhope had been well over a year ago. It had come from a hotel in Mobile and had stated that it would be best for Burke and Caroline to remain in London. Indefinitely. Of course they were well provided for. Sensing the coming hostilities a decade ago, Jack Stanhope had transferred a large portion of his fortune into foreign investments, a valuable portfolio that Burke had increased with skill and cunning.
As the carriage pulled away from the curb, Delane watched his friend in the seat opposite him, his eyes closed. It was too long a silence. Yet Delane reproached himself about speaking first. He had planned to take advantage of the journey to Eden to inform Burke of specifics regarding John Murrey Eden and the relationships of the people he would meet at the Eden Festivities. But there would be time enough for talk later. For now, let the silence persist as long as Burke saw fit. Let him deal with his private grief in his own way.
Delane was certain of one thing. It would be an invigorating fortnight, filled with good food, good wine, beautiful women and elegant surroundings. And at the end of those two weeks, it was his considered opinion that Burke Stanhope and John Murrey Eden would either be fast friends or the bitterest of enemies.