The Eden Passion (24 page)

Still angry, she turned away from the window and the shadowy presence of the whore's bully. Of course she'd rejected his patronizing proposal, and shortly he'd gone off to Canada, heartbroken, or so he'd claimed. And the very next night, the watch had commenced, the presence of a man on the pavement across the way, each standing four-hour shifts as well as she could determine, a round-the-clock vigil.

Now she found herself hoping that the bullies sent detailed reports to Canada about how well the lady was faring, how the carriages seemed to be getting more elegant, and that one of her most regular clients was the great man whom Jack Willmot had sent to her in the first place for the purposes of "rescuing her," that noble statesman, sure to be prime minister one day, Mr. William Gladstone.

Then she heard it, the rattling approach of a carriage, and moved quickly to the window. A few minutes later she saw the carriage door open, caught her first glimpse of his top hat and heavy cape.

A handsome figure of a man he was, she thought as now she saw him speaking words of consideration to his coachman. For some reason, she thought of Edward, his devotion to his driver, old John Murrey. What a bond of affection those two men had shared, Edward even naming his son after the old man. John Murrey Eden. What a weight of loneliness and mystery there was there. Not a word from the boy since she'd deposited him at Eden last May, not a hint concerning his well-being.

Now, as the first gentle knock sounded at the door, she ran to it and flung it open.

"Willie," she whispered. "How I've missed you," and dragged him by the gloved hand into the warmth of her parlor, confident that in his loneliness she could find relief from her own.

"Elizabeth ..." He smiled and opened his arms, and she stepped into them, a paternal embrace, nothing more, though she enjoyed his fragrance and the feel of his soft fur collar against her cheek.

Still, he seemed more than content merely to look at her. "The last time I saw you," he began, his voice low and resonant, a speaker's voice now denying its power, like the man himself, "I said to myself, you're safe, Willie. She cannot become more beautiful or warm or loving than she is now." He shook his head sadly in spite of his generous words. "How mistaken I was," he concluded.

She laughed and denied his words. "I'm the same as always, though I was worried about you, afraid you wouldn't come."

Some disapproving expression crossed his face, and he went on talking as he shook off the heavy cape and removed his hat as well, depositing both with easy familiarity in a near chair. "A ministerial crisis," he muttered. "It seems as though Lord Russell's Whig administration is on the verge of sinking."

"And you were called back to salvage it?" she asked, taking his gloves, feeling a flair of pride that so great a man now stood in her front parlor.

He laughed heartily, a good sound, one which she rarely heard from those lips. "Either salvage it or sink with it," he said at the end of the laugh. "But here, let's not talk of politics. I've had my fill of that for a while." He reached behind him into the folds of the cape and withdrew a thick brown package and thrust it at her. "For you, dearest, from Florence, for your kindness in receiving me tonight and for all your comfort in the past."

"It wasn't necessary, Willie," she murmured. "I'm always pleased to-"

"I know, I know," he said, dismissing her sentiment. "Open it. It will give me pleasure."

She took the package and carried it to the comfortable arrangement of sofa and chairs near the window. "Help yourself," she invited, gesturing toward the sherry. His favorite.

As he poured himself a glass from the decanter, she sat in the chair, the package in her lap, and released the narrow gold cord and drew back the paper. It was a bolt of lace, pristine white, delicate petit point, exquisite. "Oh, Willie, how beautiful."

"Delivered with an ulterior motive." He smiled, settling in the

chair opposite her. "I'll send London's finest dressmaker around to you tomorrow with strict instructions that she is to make you the most elegant gown in all of London. Then, when it is done, you must wear it only for me. Agreed?"

She nodded and took loving note of the man opposite her, tall, slim, his hair still thick and only slightly graying at the temples, his jaws adorned in the stylish bewhiskered fashion of the day. And the most remarkable feature of all, his eyes, so dark with a piercing gaze which he was now leveling at her with such intensity that she blushed.

"I have no need of dressmakers, Willie," she said, "not even London's finest. I'll make the gown myself and wear it only for you."

She leaned forward with the intention of taking his hand, a harmless gesture which he'd permitted in the past. But at that moment he reached for the sherry, refilled his glass and leaned back again in a conscious effort to lighten the mood. "And tell me of yourself, dearest," he said. "While the rest of the world serves out its sentence of suffering, you seem to go serenely on."

Go serenely on! Was that the impression she gave? Then she was more successful than she'd ever dreamt. She thought then that she might speak of herself. But she changed her mind. Gentlemen did not come here to listen to her speak of herself. "Tell me of Naples," she asked, ignoring his invitation to speak, sincerely enjoying his tales of the world. "And everything you saw between here and there. How limited England seems when compared with—"

He smiled as though he were a father indulging a pretty child. "Not limited, dearest. Never think that. Because it's familiar does not make it less. We are blessed to live in what may be the richest paradise on earth."

He sipped again at the sherry and looked about at the warm cozy room, his mind apparently running on two tracks at once. "How peaceful it is here," he murmured appreciatively, "how simple."

She smiled. To a man, all of her clients seemed to appreciate the simplicity and peace of her house.

Then he was back on track, his voice lifting. "You asked of Naples," he said harshly, looking at her as though she'd committed a minor offense.

"I've seen paintings," she said. "It appears so beautiful."

"God made it beautiful," he said. "Men are in the process of making it ugly."

It all no doubt came from his heart, but she knew him well

enough to know that he was addicted to theatrical methods. So she merely settled back again, ready for a theatrical.

"What I saw of Naples," he went on, "you'll not find in paintings or picture books. Appalling." Again he shook his head. "With what false largess did King Ferdinand establish a constitution, and what a mockery of the word it is."

She was listening carefully, eager, as always, to learn as much as possible about the world beyond England. Therefore it was a few seconds later before she realized he'd stopped speaking, his eyes gazing intently at her.

"Elizabeth," he whispered, "would you ... be so kind as to . . ."

It was only when she heard his changed voice that she remembered how remiss she'd been.

"Of course, Willie." She smiled. "I'm afraid I quite forgot. You should have spoken sooner."

But there was no response, and he sat absolutely motionless and watched intently as her hand moved down the front of her dressing gown. At last she drew the fabric to one side, revealing one bared breast.

As she tucked the material in on itself, she looked down. She'd taken great care with her toilet, knowing that the sight of her breasts brought him pleasure. She'd lightly dusted her flesh with powder, giving her skin a patina of white marble. Only one. That was how he preferred it at first.

"Now," she went on, feeling perfectly at ease, "you were speaking of Naples," knowing that he preferred to resume the conversation as though nothing at all out of the ordinary had occurred.

For a moment he didn't speak. He seemed incapable of lifting his vision beyond that one bared breast. She thought sadly, what a polite yet barbaric ravishment.

"Dear Willie, do go on," she urged.

After several moments he did, the words sounding as though they had been forged on the anvil of brutal self-discipline. "Naples," he began, his eyes never once lifting to her face, "is a sinking ship. Ferdinand promises liberty, but in practice he has arrested any and all who have tried to implement the constitution or have in any manner opposed his rule."

He spoke for several minutes. Then again, without warning, Naples was forgotten as softly he whispered, "Might I look upon . . . both?"

Again without a word she drew back the opposite side of her dress-

ing gown, and decided to go a step further and unbuttoned the robe to the waist and gracefully shook herself free of the encumbrance, bared now from the waist up.

He sat braced in the chair, though now he seemed to wear a fixed expression. "Might I . . ." he began timidly. "Might I. . . that is to say, would it be an offense if I were to . . . just a touch," he whispered.

The request was without precedent. Pleased, she sat still and watched, as though it were the most fascinating spectacle in the world, the shy progress of that one inquiring hand which moved like a wounded bird attempting flight, made the journey halfway, then seemed to falter, then found a source of new strength and landed at last with a feather touch of two fingers on the upper half of her left breast.

So engrossed was she in the subtle sensations that only now did she take note of his face, his eyes closed, mouth open, seated on the edge of his chair, in an attempt to shorten the extension of his arm.

She felt his fingers grow brave and brush across her nipple, only a passing touch, though within the instant they returned, his thumb now braced against the upper half of her breast, the finger fully exploring, back and forth.

There were limitations even to her female instincts, and a little amazed that this reluctant gentleman could have brought her to such a pitch, she reached one hand out. "Willie, please," she whispered. "Let me help you."

For just a moment they sat, connected in that distant manner. Then suddenly he stood with such force that the chair scraped backward. "No," he muttered, and took the distance to the far corner of the room in four strides and stopped near the wall.

She closed her eyes, feeling embarrassed. Glancing down, she caught a glimpse of her exposed breasts. How obscene they looked now, and hurriedly she drew the dressing gown up about her shoulders.

Nothing to do but wait. It would take him a while to recover. Carefully she poured herself a sip of sherry and turned and looked over her shoulder into the bedchamber, the lamp within casting a soft inviting glow over the coverlet. If her late-night visitor had been any one of her dozen or so other gentlemen, she would have been in that room now, healing, being healed.

She looked again at his bowed head. Feeling herself to be almost

in control, she poured another glass of sherry and carried it to him, and saw, close at hand, the tears on his face.

"Oh, Willie," she whispered, moved by the sight. "I'm so . . . sorry," not certain what she was apologizing for, but feeling the need anyway.

Incredibly, he laughed, and reached for his handkerchief and commenced wiping his face. "What fools we are," he said, his voice muffled behind the barrier of white linen. "What a strange and humbling scene we've just played out," he concluded, refolding the handkerchief and placing it back into his pocket.

He spied the sherry in her hand. "Ah, balance," he exclaimed, and drained the glass in one swallow and placed it on the table before him. Then he turned the full weight of his eyes down on her, apparently restored except for his expression of sadness. "My dearest," he whispered. "Why do you endure me?"

It was an academic question, requiring no answer, and she gave none.

Then it came, as she knew it would, as it always did, the first soft reprimand. "I would be . . . remiss," he said, "if I failed to make inquiry about your soul."

She closed her eyes.

"I have promised my wife faithfully," he went on, "that I would try with all my might to turn you toward the Light, beg you to retrace this path of pain which you have set for yourself and join the others at the House of Charity."

At last she turned away. "I'm quite comfortable here, Willie," she said, unable to look at him.

He followed after her to the center of the room, his manner clinical. "May I ask," he began, "how many ... are you seeing now?"

She looked up, mildly angry. "That's none of your concern."

"You are my concern," he said kindly. "The thought of men . . . abusing you . . ."

"They do not abuse me, Willie." She smiled, pushing aside the anger. "They are gentlemen all, like yourself."

Apparently the comparison registered. He bowed his head as though conceding her point, then commenced pulling on his gloves. Quickly he reached for his cape and swung it lightly over his shoulders. Then followed his top hat, and at last he stood before her fully garbed. Still he seemed to be mysteriously feeding on her face. "You must help me, Elizabeth," he said, "make me strong, prevent that

final loss of all resolution and carry forward the little self-discipline I have."

She listened, not trusting herself to speak.

"All that I require," he went on, "is that you permit me to come here occasionally and enjoy your simple room, the beauty of your face and form, with soul intact. Is that asking too much?"

"You know it isn't, Willie."

"Well, then," he exclaimed, "I'll take my leave." At the door he stopped. She saw him place something on the table. "Next Thursday?" he asked, smiling back at her.

She nodded.

"And wear the lace for me. Would you do that? Please?"

Again she nodded.

He paused for a last long searching glance at her. Then he was gone, his boots sending back their echoes on the pavement.

She stood at the center of the room, enjoying the cold blast of wintry air which swept across the floor. She held still until she heard the carriage pull away from the pavement, the wheels rattling over the cobbles, diminishing at last as it turned the corner, heading toward the bridge and the respectable part of London.