"I said, 'Fetch theml' "
There it was again, that heavy dragging in his voice, as though someone were speaking behind John, or through him. Unable to believe the command, Alex offered a protest. "I'm accountable for them, John. If you object to their actions, then deal with me. They only did what I ordered them to do."
"I'm not questioning either your command or your authority. I simply want you to fetch them."
Relieved that there was no blame to be placed, Alex stepped closer to the desk. "If you need—help, John—"
Then rage exploded out of die darkness, the same fury that he'd overheard coming from Elizabeth's drawing room for the last several weeks, mindless anger which seemed determined to hit every target in sight, whether it was guilty or innocent. "I need no help, Alex—I need loyalty, and if you won't do my bidding, then I'll get someone who will!"
Alex retreated. "You could search the world over, John, and not find a more loyal friend than Alex Aldwell."
Moved by his own avowal, he was not prepared for the command
which came in mindless repetition from behind the desk. "Then fetch them for me and prove your loyalty."
"What shall I tell them?"
*The truth—that Mr. Eden wishes to see them and that he will make it worth their time."
As his mind turned under the mystery of the baffling assignment, Alex walked slowly to the door, determining what he had momentarily forgotten—that the man seated behind the desk operated within his own framework of logic.
He was halfway out the door when he heard John's voice again, as considerate as he'd heard it throughout this baffling meeting. "Take the lamp, Alex. I wouldn't want you to stumble on the stairs. I have no need of light."
Wearily Alex turned back and retrieved the lamp. "I'll return as soon as I can," he said.
He closed the door behind him and hurried down the stairs, thinking curiously of a wounded animal, the manner in which it will crawl off into a dark place to lick its wounds or to die. . . .
It was approaching four a.m. when Alex returned to the house in Belgrave Square in a hired carriage with his questionable cargo. There were only three of them; the fourth had been too drunk to come.
With a handkerchief pressed against his nose in defense against their odor, he tried not to look at their hard faces, the three of them blending into a nondescript gray form across from him, their matted and snarled hair forming jagged outlines about their heads, like an infinite number of serpents twisting in the movement of the carriage.
Formidable in appearance, with square-built bodies and massive heads, they stared back at him with curiously calm faces, the unspoken arrogance of men who Hved by their own rules and who feared nothing.
As the carriage turned into Belgrave Square, Alex said, "Follow me and do as I say."
"Right, guv," one said, grinning.
Alex told the driver to wait and saw the three gaping upward at the impressive fagade of the mansion, and regretted that this mysterious meeting was taking place here. Determined to see the thing through as quickly as possible, he led the way up the stairs, hoping that the steward had not slid the bolt.
With reKef he felt the door give and entered as stealthily as a
thief, aware of the three behind him entering this grand place as arrogantly as though they belonged there.
Suddenly his head felt hollow as his belly and he caught a peculiar glimpse of himself, as though he were standing outside himself, bringing two forces together, the result of which caused him to shudder.
Too late now and, without words, he motioned for the three to follow after him, though at the last minute decided it would be safer to follow behind them, and with a jerk of his head urged them forward with whispered instructions, "To the top.'^
As he passed the first-floor landing he retrieved the lamp, hearing nothing except his own labored breathing and the three ahead of him, one with a death rattle in his throat, the other two gazing back at him with bloodshot eyes.
Oh Gawd, what am I doing? Lacking an answer, he knocked on the door, then pushed it open to find the room unchanged with the exception of a single burned-down candle on the desk at the end of the room.
"Wait!" John called out and extinguished the small flame, plunging the room into its customary darkness, but not before Alex had glimpsed what appeared to be several envelopes in John's hands.
"Did you find them?" John asked.
"I did. Three of them, at any rate. The fourth was too drunk to stand."
"Where are they?"
Without speaking, Alex motioned with the lamp that they were just beyond the door.
"Leave them there and close the door."
"I don't think that's wise, John."
"Then bring them in."
Alex pushed the door wide and motioned the three to enter. As guardian of the only source of illumination, he waited until they had aligned themselves near the far wall and, for the first time, considered the absence of light a blessing.
"Come forward, Alex. I have one more request."
As obedient as the three creatures who stood dumbly against the wall, Alex moved to the end of the sofa, suffering a painful perception that there were four puppets in the room, three who did not know better, one who did.
"Several months ago," John began, "while we were at Eden, I
asked you to launch a discreet investigation of a certain gentleman.** He paused. "Do you recall?'*
Alex placed the lamp on the table, searching his memory. Shortly after his return from Eden he had set two investigations into motion at John's request, one concerning Lord Richard's friend at Cambridge and the other—
"Yes, I recall. The American gentleman, I believe it was, the one who—'*
"Good. And what did you find?'*
More difficult, that, though Alex had compiled a file on the matter. But, of course, he did not have it at his fingertips and said as much, interrupting himself once to look over his shoulder where he'd heard an impatient rustling.
"I can bring you that information tomorrow,** he said.
"I don't want it tomorrow, and all I want now is to know whether or not you learned the place of his residence."
"Yes. In—May fair, if I remember correctly—**
"Could you find it again?"
"Of course, though I don't understand—'*
"I'm not asking for your understanding. I'm asking only for your cooperation. If it's too much, I can easily find someone else. Perhaps one of these gentlemen—"
Behind him he heard a snicker, one of the "gentlemen** delighted at Alex's embarrassment.
"What is it you want me to do, John?" Alex asked resignedly.
"Deliver this," John said, placing one of the envelopes on the edge of the desk. "It must be in his morning post, that's all I'm asking. Is it too much?"
There was a mocking quality to his voice which Alex tried not to hear. "Of course not," he muttered and started toward the desk with the intention of retrieving the envelope when John stopped him again.
"One more favor, if you will, Alex, and then I'll let you go.**
Let me go? What about the three who—
"Do you know the stables at the end of Rotten Row in Hyde Park?"
"I—do,** Alex stammered.
"Good. Then you are to deliver this to the old stablemaster and give him five pounds to make sure that it is delivered to the addressee. Is that clear?"
Nothing had been clear all night long.
"Anything—else?" Alex asked, and receiving no answer started toward the desk, amazed to see that now he was permitted to go the full distance.
"See it done," John said simply, "and I will be forever in your debt."
"No need, though if only I knew—"
"Then you're free to go."
"Free—to—" Alex faltered.
"Leave us," John said. "I have business with these gentlemen."
"No, John," he begged. "Let me stay. You don't know—"
"They won't harm me, Alex," he said. "If harm is done, I suspect I will be the one who inflicts it on them."
From behind he heard approaching footsteps and whirled about to see the three shapeless creatures coming toward him. "This gintle-man wants you gone, Maister Aldwell," one said with a grin, his massive, dirt-encrusted hand reaching out.
Alex retrieved the letters and sidestepped the hand, unable to comprehend the forces on either side of the desk, forces which, though totally disparate, seemed perfectly allied. He secured the letters in his pocket and moved in a wide arc around the grinning three and did not look back until he was at the door.
"Good night, Alex," John called.
"I'll wait outside and see them home," Alex offered.
This offer elicited snickers from the three and rising anger from the man behind the desk. "I daresay they require no help in finding their way home, wherever that is," John said. "Now go!"
Alex closed the door behind him, washing his hands of the whole affair. He started cautiously down the stairs, wondering if he would ever know, wondering if he would ever want to know. ...
Will God forgive me?
He had never forgiven John that offense committed years ago at Eden, and this was nothing compared to that. This was warranted. With John's help, Mary could salvage what was left of her life.
But will God forgive me?
Surely He would, for otherwise, why had He given John the power to manipulate and control? A God's gift to a god, divine intervention on earth.
He sat behind the desk, aware of the three waiting before him. He
did not know their names and did not desire to know them. Yet he trusted their instincts and knew that he could ask them to do anything and they would perform it.
**Gentlemen—" he commenced, and waited out their shufflings as they drew near the desk.
When the room was quiet, he said, "I'm in need of a—service. .. ."
If asked, on this high blue September morning, to account for the tidal waves of happiness rushing over him, Burke Stanhope would have answered with one name: Mary.
The word alone was capable of transforming him. Of course, there were incredible obstacles yet ahead of them, and the two most awesome ones were self-made, and that was an irony which was not lost on him. His own behavior at Eden and his subsequent Lord Ripples column had closed the castle gates to him and forced him into the clandestine activity of late afternoons in the sunken gardens of Hyde Park, an idyllic setting during the warm days of summer and early autumn. But shortly, with the imminence of winter, nature would close that chamber as well, and then what would they do?
While he had no direct answer, he had perfect confidence in his ability to find one. His motivation was simple. He could not live or function without her.
Momentarily lost in these painfully pleasing thoughts, he looked up as a grinning Charles placed a platter of turned eggs and sausage before him. At first he was unable to account for the grin and at last looked toward the end of the table, toward the source of another miracle, his mother, who had announced earlier that morning that she wished to breakfast with her son.
Although at first the servants had been skeptical, there she was, seated in her proper place, at least giving the appearance of rationality, though looking closer Burke thought that she looked even more ill now than before, as though she had derived a portion of her physical health from her madness.
"Mother," he said quietly, as though testing the word on the air, and saw her look up from stirring her coffee.
"I'm here, Burke," she said, and in that gentle way confirmed that at least for the time being the veils of her madness had lifted.
Strange how boylike he felt. "I couldn't quite believe it," he commenced, "when Charles told me that you would be down."
She sipped her coffee and leaned back in her chair, one hand playing with the strand of pearls at her throat. "1 get weary of that room," she said.
"Eat, Mother," Burke counseled her gently.
Midway through breakfast he saw her place her fork on her plate and lean back in her chair and look up at Charles. "Enough"—she smiled "and please don't nag, Charles. I do nothing, and thus require little food."
"I only nag you, Miss Caroline, for your own good," Charles scolded, doing nothing to mask his pleasure at this proper family tableau.
"My own good," she repeated, looking up as he removed her plate. "You're the worst tyrant around, Charles. Far worse even than Jack Stanhope—"
Burke saw the change in her face, the new passivity faltering, the pain of confusion taking its place.
A few moments later he heard her ask, "How long have I been here?"
Here? Does she mean this house, or England? He answered both. "In this house about seven years. In England, almost ten."
She looked up, the confusion on her face mounting.
Burke exchanged a glance with Charles. He pushed his own platter away and folded his napkin. "You know very well where we are, Mother, and why we are here."
When she didn't answer, he glanced up and wished that he hadn't. Silent tears were running down her face.
"Your-father, Burke. Is he-?"
"He's in America."
"Doing what?"
Burke paused. The only one who heard from Jack Stanhope now was John Thadeus Delane, and that was no more than once a year, a curt, caretaker letter instructing Delane in certain business affairs.
Glancing up, he saw her waiting for an answer. Burke gave her one, though he knew it was a lie. "Rebuilding, Mother, that's what he's doing—trying to put Stanhope Hall back together so he can send for you."
He saw a new expression on her face, as though she'd seen his lie for what it was. As she rose from her chair, Charles hurried to her side, but she waved off his assistance and moved toward the fireplace. "He will never send for us," she said to the fire.
**We don't know that for certain," he soothed, though he knew it as well as she. It was apparent that Jack Stanhope could live very well without a wife or a son.
"And it's not that I mind for myself. My life is over. But you,** she added and looked back at him.
"You have no cause to worry about me. Mother,*' he said, and considered at that moment telling her about his new happiness.