Harriet spoke softly. "In all of us, our creative urge is always linked to our self-destruction mechanism. In John, as in all great men, that link is even more insistent." She bowed her head. "How-unhappy he must be."
In that moment, Elizabeth felt for the first time the comfort of understanding. Having built his empire in London and his world at Eden, the incredible force known as John Murrey Eden had to turn his energies elsewhere. Unfortunately he'd tried to remake human beings in his own image, and had found flesh and blood to be less malleable to his will than iron and brick.
Now there was the future to consider, the remains of those shattered lives. To that end, Elizabeth raised up and posed the single question that had brought her to Eden. "Will you receive them?"
she asked. "Mary and her young man? They want to be married. Here at Eden. Yet they are fearful that John will—"
"Of course I'll receive them," Harriet said without hesitation. "And tell Mary I'll give her the most beautiful spring wedding in the history of Eden." She paused. "This—American," she whispered. "You know him, of course."
"Yes, I know him. I lived in his house during Mary's recuperation."
"And?"
"And I found him to be one of the most remarkable gentlemen I have ever known. And most remarkable of all is his deep love for your daughter."
"And it's reciprocal?"
At that Elizabeth laughed, recalling the light in Mary's eyes each time he'd entered the room. "Oh, yes." She smiled. "I assure you it is reciprocal."
"Good!" Harriet said briskly, her mind moving ahead to the future. "Then tell them to come, as soon as possible. I long to hold my daughter."
Confronted with the joy that once again had triumphed over tragedy, Elizabeth clasped Harriet to her. At the conclusion of the embrace, Harriet touched her cheek. "I am forever in your debt. Mary might have—"
"Rest now," Elizabeth counseled. "I'll send Peggy to you. We'll have dinner tonight together and indulge ourselves in that greatest of female pastimes, the planning of a wedding."
"I'll look forward to it." She said nothing more until Elizabeth had opened the door, then, "One last favor, Elizabeth."
Elizabeth looked back, ready to grant the woman anything.
"Will you help me write to Richard?"
"Of course. Anything else?"
"Yes. When you write to Mary and Mr. Stanhope, tell them they will be safe here. Tell them I will see to it. I do not fear John. We've done all we can do to each other. . . ."
In spite of the firmness of her manner, her voice drifted off. Quietly Elizabeth closed the door behind her and leaned against it.
"I do not fear John. We've done all we can do to each other."
"WTiat had she meant by that? In need of respite herself, and eager to dispatch the fastest courier to London with the letter to Mary and Burke, she hurried down the corridor toward her own chambers, amazed at the persistence of life.
London
Mayfair
April 12, 1871
As Florence was packing the last of her trunks, Mary stood by the window in the warming rays of the April sun and stared down at the curious old beggar she'd seen standing in the exact spot at various intervals during the last few days.
"Florence?" she called out. "Do you know him?" she asked, pointing down at the disreputable figure whose face was wholly obscured by the broad brim of his crushed, worn hat.
"Now how would I know him?" Florence scolded, annoyed for having been dragged away from the chores at hand.
"He's been standing there for ever so long," Mary murmured, feeling sorry for him, whoever he was.
"And he'll be standing there waiting for a handout long after you've gone!" Florence snapped. "Now, if I were you, I'd look to myself. Mr. Burke said he wanted to leave by six o'clock." She stabbed a finger toward the clock on the mantel. "One hour you got to make yourself presentable."
"Where is Burke?" Mary asked, her eyes still fixed on the old man across the street.
"I'm here," came the voice from the door.
She turned about, embarrassed to be in her dressing govm still. He'd left over an hour ago for the purposes of her dressing. As he met her at midroom in an embrace, she saw beyond his shoulder to Florence, who averted her eyes. "I'll finish," Mary called out, in an attempt to relieve the woman of her embarrassment.
"Finish!" the old woman pronounced dourly. "And I'll give you ten minutes," she added, "then I'll be knocking on the door ready to dress you."
As she slammed the door behind her, Mary laughed. "Has she always been like this?" she asked, as Burke sank into the bedside chair.
"Always," he confirmed, "or at least as long as I can remember, which is the same as always. My mother always said that it was Florence who ran Stanhope Hall, not her."
Standing before him, Mary saw it again, that sorrowful reflection when he mentioned his home. A moment later the reflection was gone, displaced by a fixed stare.
Gently she knelt before him, alarmed by such an expression. The bridegroom must be as joyous as the bride. Of course she knew what part of the trouble was. She was going home. He would never see his again.
"What is it?" she asked, drawing his legs close on either side, a provocative support. "You're not still worried, are you? About Eden?"
He shook his head. "If Elizabeth says it's safe, then I trust her. And it's what you want."
"Then what is it?" she prodded.
He looked down on her, his fingers moving through her hair, a pleasant though absentminded gesture. He laughed as though at his own foolishness. "Having plotted our lives up to this moment, I find now that—I've lost my direction."
"What do you mean?"
"After Eden, then what?"
'Then—back to London," she said vaguely. "Back here to—"
"To do what?"
"To do whatever you wish. Mr. Delane said—"
At the mention of the man who had been such a frequent and supportive visitor during the last three weeks, Burke laughed. "I think we all know that my days as Lord Ripples are over. I have no desire to inflict further pain—on anyone. Not even John Murrey Eden."
Then it was Mary's turn to retreat, the ghosts of the past still strong within her. Slowly she sat on the edge of the bed and wondered if she could find the strength to speak the words. For both of them.
'Then why don't we go to America?" she asked simply, finding it easier than she'd ever thought possible.
He looked at her as though she had spoken in a foreign language.
"Well, why not?" she went on. "It's your home and soon it will be mine. And you're right. There's nothing for you here in London."
"Are you—serious?"
"I've never been more serious." She smiled, amazed at the shock on his face. Clearly the idea had not occurred to him. "And besides, I don't want you to have to hide behind a false name ever again. I don't want to be Mrs. Lord Ripples," she chided. "I want to be Mrs. Burke Stanhope."
Her voice fell as the sense of her proposition fully dawned on her. "And neither do I want either of us to spend one minute of our future looking over our shoulder. We might conceal our marriage from him for a while. But he'll find out, as he finds out everything, and-"
As the possibility of a future as grim as the past washed over her, she again knelt before him, her visions of the future now fixed on America. "Please, Burke," she begged, and hoped it would sufiEce.
But he continued to look stunned. Instead of solving the problem, apparently she'd only compounded it. "It's—out of the question," he said flatly.
"Why?"
"This is your home."
"And America is yours."
"I—have no idea what we would find there."
"Whatever, we'll find it together."
"Everything was destroyed, in flames."
"Surely they have been extinguished by now."
"What-would I do?"
"What would you do here? You said yourself there was nothing for you."
Suddenly he stood and brushed past her. For all the quickness of his movement, he stopped at the foot of the bed and looked back down on her.
"It—would be difl&cult."
"The past has been difficult," she reminded him gently.
"I can promise you nothing."
"I ask for nothing except your love."
"You would miss your home, Eden."
"In a few days Eden will no longer be my home. My place is with you."
As he leveled objection after objection, she tried to disarm them, gently though firmly. At last she saw a new expression on his face, one of old wounds being healed, one of possibihty, of hope. "Perhaps—'*
"Of course, perhaps," she said, rising to her feet. As she drew near to him she said with quiet conviction, "There's nothing here in England for either of us now, Burke—or rather too much, too many memories, too much grief—" She drew closer. "Then let's take ourselves away. Andrew did it, and Dhari—" She reached up and smoothed back that one errant strand of hair from his brow. "And remember old Giffen?" She smiled. "His last words were, Til see you in America!' We can't disappoint him, can we?"
Then she was in his arms, locked in an embrace that was so tight it rendered her breathless. No matter. In spite of his strength she sensed a new calm within him, as though in that splintered fashion his mind had reached the decision that his heart had made years ago. The two forces were now joined.
There was a sharp rap at the door, immediately followed by Florence's voice. "Unless you want her to go to her wedding in her dressing gown, Mr. Burke, you better let me in now."
Abruptly he laughed, a curious sound, for in his eyes she saw emotion. "Hurry," he whispered. "I want to pause in front of Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club on our way out of London and thank God for directing my steps to that door."
She watched him leave the room and scarcely heard old Florence's grumbling, "Never seen such goings-on."
At precisely six o'clock, with the last trunk secured atop Burke's new roadworthy carriage, Mary descended the stairs in a beautiful traveling suit of dark green silk edged in black piping, a low-brimmed bonnet of curled peacock feathers on her head.
Burke was waiting for her on the pavement before the carriage. How pleased she was by the look in his eyes, the look of a man for whom the dream was on the verge of becoming a reality! Before she entered the carriage she lifted her eyes to the soft rose hues of early dusk. The world had never been so lovely.
He assisted her into the carriage and settled beside her. Not until
the carriage had pulled away from the pavement did she think to look back.
Good! The old beggar had disappeared. She hoped he'd find a home soon. She nestled closer beneatii Burke's arm, grateful that she had at last found hers. . . .
The old beggar had not disappeared.
Alex Aldwell saw what happened. Perched atop his high carriage seat at the far end of the street, Alex had kept him forever in his sight. As young Mary had descended the stairs, Alex had seen the "beggar" dart down into the concealment of the kitchen entrance of the mansion across the way.
What in hell is going on? he thought. They had played this bizarre game every afternoon for the past week, John seeing to business affairs in the morning, then changing into the garments which he'd had Alex buy from the ragman.
Then they would come here to this quiet street where John would give Alex instructions to hold his position a block away while he pulled the worn hat low over his face, then hobbled up the street and took his place directly opposite the mansion.
Holding still, Alex watched as the last trunk was loaded and secured atop the carriage down the way, still wondering why John was hiding from the one person he wanted most in this world to see.
Well, there she was, standing on the pavement, and looking pretty as a picture for all tiie world to see. Then why hadn't John approached her? Why instead had he dashed down into the kitchen entrance, leaving Alex sitting high and stranded like a visible target?
Oh, Gawd! They would be passing directly by him, and quickly he lowered his head, pulled the collar of his jacket up about his face and tried to give the impression of a dozing coachman, all the while keeping one eye fixed on that approaching carriage, on the two in the back seat looking at each other as though there wasn't a sight in this world that held greater fascination for them.
Then they were gone, the carriage safely past, the horses picking up speed as they crossed the intersection, heading west toward the turnpike road.
Alex glanced back down the street in time to see the '^beggar" emerging into the fading light of dusk and lift one hand, a signal that Alex was to bring the carriage forward.
As John pulled himself slowly inside the carriage, Alex waited patiently for directions. But they never came and, assuming that silence
meant home, Alex flicked the reins and kept to the side streets and thought that at least it was over now, Mary and the gentleman on their way out of London to somewhere. Maybe now John would let Alex burn the ragman's clothes and they both could turn their attention to certain pressing business responsibilities—three litigations tomorrow alone involving the purchase of new properties.
A short time later Alex guided the carriage to a halt before John's house in Belgrave Square, with a sense of having seen the mystery through. "I'll take the carriage around back, John, and meet you in the oflace. There are some papers I want j'ou to—"
Still no response, just those eyes staring up at him from out of the muss of rags and that soiled, crushed hat.
"John-"
"We will be leaving for Eden in the morning," John said, his voice a monotone, nothing moving on his face.
"Eden?" Alex parroted, thinking he'd not heard correctly.
But there was no further response. Slowly John turned and commenced walking toward the steps, his head down.
"John, wait!" Alex called after him. If he lacked good sense, then someone had better provide him with it. "We—can't go to Eden," he protested. "You're due in court tomorrow, both in the morning as well as—"
"Aslam can handle it," came the vague reply.