For several moments Burke spoke softly to her, trying to coax her into speaking to him. But she never did, and Delane detected a stubbornness in her silence or, more accurately, a protective device. As long as she didn't respond, no one could involve her in any further horrors.
As these thoughts filled his head, he saw new suffering on Burke's face, saw him bend low over the young woman and take her into his arms, cradling her head as though she were an infant.
Before such intimacy, Delane turned away. As for a solution, he was bereft of ideas. Perhaps a woman would make a difference, draw
her out of her silence. But what woman? An impersonal nurse? Old Florence?
Suddenly he looked back toward the bed as though someone had called to him. By God, why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't Burke think of it? Elizabeth! Good, sweet Elizabeth, who had raised the girl, who must surely by now have heard of Mary's disappearance and be sick with worry.
"Burke," he whispered, trying to draw the man's attention. He watched as Burke released her to the pillow. "Ehzabeth," Delane suggested quietly as Burke joined him at midroom.
Slowly he began shaking his head. "No. I thought of her, but I'm not certain I can trust her."
"You don't have much choice."
"She's fiercely loyal to Eden."
"She raised Mary. There must be a bond of loyalty there as well."
Again Burke shook his head. "I can't risk it. If Eden were to learn of her whereabouts—I have no legal claim—he could take her away."
Delane nodded ruefully and wished that Burke had considered all these points of loyalty earlier. "If I can bring her here without detection, will you let her see the girl?"
"Of course, but—"
"Then I'm gone," Delane called back.
"He'll follow you," Burke warned, "and if he does, all is lost."
"It's going to be lost in another way if you don't—" But at the door Delane ceased speaking. The degree of pain on Burke's face was sufficient. It needed no more.
After Charles had helped him on with his cloak and seen him to his carriage, Delane settled back, feeling like an actor in a theatrical, the go-between, the loyal friend who brings help at the last moment.
Smiling at his foolishness, he closed his eyes to rest them from the glare of winter sun. He hadn't a plan in his head on how he would lure Elizabeth out of her house or if he would even find her at home. Compounding this vacuum was his remembrance of how tenderly Burke had held the young woman.
Well, lacking a great passion in his own life, perhaps the best he could do was to serve those more fortunate than himself. With longing he thought. How would it have inconvenienced God to send me one small case of that irrational illness known as love?
The meeting had been a good one—twice the number in attendance than they had counted on, a fair scattering of men among the
women, a new coalition forming around the not quite dead corpse of the old feminist movement.
Stimulated by the afternoon at Lydia Becker's Elizabeth gazed out the window at the passing London streets, aware that in about three more blocks the good feelings would desert her and be replaced by the depression which she'd come to associate with her home in St. George Street.
Perhaps she should sell Number Seven and move. Too much had happened there. Disappointments, tragedies unresolved, like Mary's continued absence.
Where is she? Elizabeth tried to discipline her thoughts. It served no purpose to torture herself. If Mary had wanted to contact her, she would have by now. Human beings change. The relationship that was so vital yesterday proves itself to be extraneous today.
As the maddeningly true cliche inundated her, she looked up and saw St. George Street ahead and tried to prepare herself for another empty evening, with only old Doris for company. The others, Aslam and Alex Aldwell, both of whom she was so fond, had stopped coming around, clearly on John's orders. She'd considered just last week making a trip to Eden to visit Harriet and try gently to apprise her of her daughter's mysterious and continued absence.
But she wasn't certain how welcome she would be there either. Eden, even more than London, was John's domain, and she could not endure the hurt of being turned back at the castle gates.
As these thoughts pressed against her, she braced herself for the turn into St. George Street, her driver brushing dangerously close to a large carriage parked on the right side of the street, curtains drawn.
Suspicious, she glanced back at it. Why was that one parked, with curtains drawn, the driver dozing in his greatcoat, as though someone within were maintaining a vigil?
John? Pray God, no. Yet, as her carriage circled wide for the approach to her house, she looked again and saw the driver stir, as though someone had given him orders and, even before her carriage had come to a halt before the pavement, that one was in motion.
Quickly she gathered up her belongings and was just alighting her carriage when she saw the other circle wide for the turn, its speed increasing. As she hurried up the stairs she prayed that Doris would respond immediately to the ringing of the bell.
Behind she heard the second carriage rattle to a sudden halt. With trembling hands she jerked on the bell cord, but still no Doris.
Damn! Alarm increasing, she looked at the large carriage, expecting to see John approaching. Instead she saw a gloved hand draw back the curtains almost timidly. She saw a man peering at her through the curtains. Not John. She breathed a sigh of relief and saw the man still staring at her, as though confident that she would recognize him.
Then she did. John Thadeus Delane.
"Elizabeth? A moment, please—"
As she approached Delane's carriage, she saw him push open the carriage door, his face and manner conspiratorial.
"Forgive my—rudeness," he began, talking rapidly as though he must get it all said as quickly as possible. "Are you—alone?" he inquired foolishly, for he could see that she was.
"Of course," she replied. "May I ask why—"
"I beg you, ask nothing now," he broke in. "Please, are you certain there is no one awaiting you in the house?"
"Only my maid, and I'm not so certain of that. Now, what—"
"Please come with me," he said rather brusquely. "I have news."
Why should I accompany him—and news of what? "Mr. Delane, I must know the reason for this."
He leaned forward as though to draw her bodily into the carriage. "I have news," he said, "concerning Mary Eden."
"Mary-"
"Please come, I beg you. We haven't much time, and we mustn't be seen or followed."
He reached forward and clasped her hand, a new earnestness in his manner. "She needs you," was all he said, but that was enough.
With his help she pulled herself into the carriage and observed how quickly he locked and secured the door, then drew the curtains. Even after the carriage had commenced to move, he continued to draw back the curtains and peer out both windows. She'd never seen him so agitated.
Not until they were several blocks distant from St. George Street did he relax, and then a smug smile appeared on his old face, as though he'd executed a great feat. "L think we did it, don't you?"
But Elizabeth's mind was still turning on that one name. "Where's Mary?" she demanded. "Is it far? You said she needed me. What has happened?"
In defense against her barrage of questions, he Hfted both hands. "In time," he said. "First I want to ask a few questions of my own."
"What questions?"
"About John Murrey Eden."
"What about him?"
"How often do you see him?"
"I can't see what business that is of yours."
"If you want to see Mary Eden it is."
She stared across at him, trying to understand. She recalled a distant alliance, during the Eden Festivities almost a year ago, Mr. Delane in the company of the American.
"Mr. Stanhope—" she asked, trying to draw a connection.
"-is safe."
"Is Mary with him?"
Stubbornly he refused to answer and then she understood. Yes, Mary was with him—and how important it was that they conceal the fact from John or from anyone who might be loyal to him!
"Mr. Delane," she said, "my relationship with John has been severed. I've not seen him for several weeks and would prefer never to see him again in my life."
Dear Lord, how the words hurt! When she looked up, she was surprised to see him staring at her, as though in disbelief.
"Please take me to Mary," she begged. "I've missed her terribly. I promise I'll tell no one. Why should I? I'm more concerned for her safety than I am my own."
Finally he smiled, lifted his walking stick and tapped it three times on the ceiling of the carriage. "I don't know why I'm so worried," he murmured. "If their hiding place is discovered, they will simply find a new one. They will be together and only God will separate them."
"Tell me everything. How far is it? How long must we—"
"Not far, and I can only say that she's ill and that Burke is beside himself. We thought—that is to say, I thought—that your presence might make a difference."
III! She looked impatiently across the rocking carriage, wanting more. But obviously the stealth of the afternoon had taken a toll on the old man and he sat with his eyes closed, that self-satisfied smile still on his face, as though he'd performed his part and now it was left to others.
In an effort to calm her nerves, she closed her own eyes and envisioned Mary as she had been less than a year ago, full of life, willing to run any risk, taking the stage at Jeremy Sims' as though it belonged to her.
Reflexively Elizabeth shuddered. No more. A portion of that warmth had been extinguished in a darkened garden, and the flicker that had remained undoubtedly had been quenched in the cold region of Miss Veal's school.
What was left?
No need for an answer. Soon she would see for herself.
Delane had not dozed. He'd given the appearance of dozing in an attempt to avoid all her questions, feeling that Burke should answer them.
Yet her concerned impatience was difficult to watch, and when the carriage pulled up before the pavement in Mayfair, he saw her quickly alight. At the last minute he caught up with her and led the way up the stairs, where immediately the door was opened and he saw Charles on the other side.
"Come," the old man commanded. "You are to go directly up."
As they drew near to the top of the stairs, Delane looked down the corridor and saw Burke just emerging from her bedchamber. His face alone should have provided her with a fair indication of the seriousness of the moment.
Apparently it did. "Mr. Stanhope," she murmured.
He grasped her hands. "Thank you for coming." He looked beyond Elizabeth to Delane. "Were you followed?"
Before Delane could reply, Elizabeth answered for him. "No, I'm certain we were not. I've not seen John for several weeks. Our relationship has been severed."
From where Delane stood he saw the two staring at each other in a moment of assessment.
"Take me to her/' Elizabeth said, breaking the spell of the quiet corridor.
Burke led her to the door with a succinct explanation. "She suffered pneumonia about three weeks ago. But she was well on the road to recovery. Then"—his voice fell, the explication became more painful—"two weeks ago my mother took her own life. Mary witnessed it—"
Edging closer, Delane saw Elizabeth's face, her expression one of shocked sympathy. She led the way into the room, her attention drawn to the young woman on the bed. Delane saw her sit on the edge, one hand brushing lightly across that pale forehead. "Mary? It's Elizabeth."
Delane saw Burke step closer, drawn inevitably to his love, the tension in the room manifested in his posture.
"Mary?"
It was Elizabeth, sitting back, appearing to be at ease, her tone almost conversational. "This won't do, you know," she scolded lightly. "Have you come this far only to surrender? And so many are fighting for youl"
She glanced toward Burke. "Mr. Stanhope is here," she went on, addressing the silent face. She leaned close. "Don't turn your back on us, Mary. We are all dealt suffering for a purpose. To strengthen us, to make us more compassionate."
Still there was no response, yet Elizabeth went on. "Of all the people I met at Eden so long ago, you and you alone impressed me as possessing that degree of courage which life demands. Of course, I could have been wrong, but—"
All at once the head on the pillow stirred. Delane looked closely, fully expecting Elizabeth to respond to the movement, but she did not. She held her position on the side of the bed and watched, along with everyone else, as the eyes opened and moved directly to the face of the woman who had just accused her of cowardice.
"Eliz-"
The half-formed word was scarcely audible. Then Elizabeth reached out and lifted her into her arms, and the last Delane saw before he turned away was the two of them, Elizabeth's face buried in young Mary Eden's hair, her arms locked about her, holding her. . . .
March 15, 1871
Four weeks later Mary sat by the rain-swept window and wondered how many more resurrections w^ere due her. Like a cat with nine hves, did she have several to go? She hoped not. Not that she wasn't grateful. It was just that, surrounded by love as she had been for the past month, she doubted seriously if she could survive its loss.
Feeling the need to confirm the reality of that love, she glanced across the room toward the two who had drawn her back from the recent nightmare. They were like bears, the three of them. Burke, Elizabeth and herself inhabiting this small chamber in the house in Mayfair as though it were a safe cave against the chill of winter and other less easily identifiable threats.
Lovingly, her eyes focused on Elizabeth, who had, for all intent and purpose, moved into the house and now occupied the small chamber adjoining Mary's. Seeing her bent over her needlework in studied concentration, Mary smiled. She knew that Elizabeth hated needlework and undoubtedly had taken to it only in defense against the idle hours that always accompany recuperation.