But he didn't and, without being able to say how it had happened, they were standing together before the fire and she was in his arms, begging him, "Never leave me, Burke. Promise me now. Never abandon me. I don't think I could bear it."
As he enclosed her, he shut his eyes to a new anxiety. Of course she didn't know what she was asking. Wasn't it perfectly possible for a man to keep the love of a mother and add the love of a wife?
Wife! For the first time he thought the word and saw a specific face, specific and beloved features.
"There," he soothed, and postponed any mention of Mary Eden. There would be time later when his mother was stronger. For now, their reunion was sweet and the future would take care of itself.
"Look at me," he urged, holding her at arm's length, feeling that their roles had been reversed, that she was the child, he the parent. "Let's plot our morning," he suggested. "What suits your fancy? A walk in the garden? A game of cards? Tell me what you wish to do and it shall be done; I swear it."
The pledge seemed to mean a great deal to her. Almost shyly she looked back at him and proposed, "A carriage ride, Burke, that would be lovely."
"Of course, I should have thought of it."
"This afternoon," she added, returning his gaze with level eyes.
Burke faltered, sensing a trap. "Not—this afternoon, Mother."
"Why?"
"I have an—appointment.**
"What kind of appointment?"
"Business."
"What kind of business?"
"There are matters that require my attention.**
She stepped closer. "Florence tells me that you have adopted the habit of riding every day in the park."
"That is true."
"You were notoriously bad with horses when you were a boy.**
**Ym learning new sldlls.**
*Then let me come and watch. Nothing would give me greater pleasure—"
"No," he cut in. The sacrifice of his private meetings with Mary was more than he was prepared to make. Their hours in the park were limited. They had to arrive upon a course for the future soon, or else—
"Please, Burke," she begged. "How I long for a vista of beauty! Fm not absolutely certain where I've been or when I shall be summoned back, but I would adore to watch you ride."
Even as she spoke, he could chart the changes on her face, and to make matters more difficult, he was aware of Charles moving up on her left, a clear alliance, with Burke cast in the role of villain.
Still he could not oblige her, though at the last minute a logical solution occurred to him. "This morning, Mother," he suggested. "Fetch your shawl. I'll send for the carriage and I'U show you morning vistas so da22;ling—"
But all the time he spoke she shook her head. "Not this morning," she said. "I'm afraid I'm not up to it." She grasped Charles' extended hand as though it were the only reliable support in her universe. "Pay no attention to me, Burke." She smiled, the expression of a sturdy soldier. "Certainly I have no intention of intruding where I'm not wanted."
"Mother, please," he said, his voice sharper than he*d intended, caught between his need and hers. "You would not be—intruding."
"Then it's settled?"
"For this morning, yes. I can call for the carriage now."
But she turned away and accepted the full support of Charles' ami and left Burke to accept the full weight of Charles' condemnation. "Then you have abandoned me," she said to the floor, seeming to grow weaker with each step.
"I've not abandoned you. Mother," he called after her. "Please come back, and let's—"
But there was no response, and he was left to digest the pathetic sound of their movement up the stairs.
Damnl
He tumed back toward the warmth of the fire. Perhaps he had been selfish. Surely Mary would have understood his absence for one day. But how could he have sent word to her? And the thought of her waiting, worried and alone, could not be borne.
No, he would have to make amends to his mother later, and now more than ever it was important that they make other arrangements for meeting. Perhaps his mother would not object if he brought her here, although under what pretext Mary would leave her house he had no idea.
As the obstacles pressed against him, blended now with an uncomfortable weight of guilt, he leaned forward until his forehead was pressing against the mantel, one image providing him with a degree of solace.
Her.
He saw her face, that quality of her soul which had initially attracted him as long ago as Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club. Curious how she was capable of both strengthening and weakening him. He looked up at the clock. Scarcely nine-thirty a.m. Centuries to go before two this afternoon. How could he pass the hours?
He heard the bell at the front door, the announcement of the morning post. He held his position, staring down on his mother's chair. How pleased he had been with her new rationality. Yet in a way his life had been simpler when she'd been lost in the maze of madness. If her new clarity of mind meant that from now on he would have to account for all his actions, his every move—
"Master Burke?"
He looked up to see Estelle, one of the Negroes who had agreed to accompany them into exile.
"The post, sir."
"Thank you, Estelle," he said, noticing the single envelope in her hand. Probably a stray bill to be forwarded to their solicitor. "Tut it there on the table, if you will."
He'd look at it later. For now his only hope of surviving the hours ahead was to submerge himself in mental activity, one of the several books waiting for him on his desk in the library.
"I said I would attend to it later, Estelle," he said, looking up, surprised to see the woman still at the door.
She appeared to be searching for something in the pockets of her long black skirts. "This, Master Burke, as well," she began, smoothing a second white envelope.
"Put it with the other and I'll see to them both later."
"This one didn't come in the post, sir. It was handed me this morning, early, as I was sweeping the stoop."
Puzzled, Burke stepped back toward the dining table. "By whom?"
"A gentleman, Master Burke. He said it was most urgent that I place it in your hands personal, and for my troubles he gave me this." She reached back into her pocket and withdrew a guinea. "He --asked me questions. Master Burke—"
*'What kind of questions?"
The woman shrugged. "Was you in residence here, and was you the gentleman from America, and was you at home at the time? I said yes to everything, and then he handed me this." And she held up the letter. "And he said I was to put it in your hand, personal."
He'd never heard the woman so ganulous. "Then do so, Estelle," he invited, and met her by the door.
As she gave him the letter, he noted his name written in a somewhat aggressive scrawl across the front. He studied it, turned it over and saw nothing on the back but a plain wax seal.
"And here's the other, sir," Estelle added hurriedly, placing both letters in his hand.
Satisfied that she'd done her duty, she left the room, calling back, "We'll clean the table when you're finished in here. Master Burke."
He nodded absentmindedly and took both letters to the window. As though saving the greater mystery for last, he split the seal on the first and discovered John Thadeus Delane's familiar handwriting. The message was short. He'd only recently returned from the Continent to find a barrage of rumors awaiting him concerning the legal actions which John Murrey Eden was planning to take against the Times. He would try to sort out rumor from fact and, as soon as he was able to determine the validity of the man's many threats, he would like to have a conference with Burke, possibly within the next two days, time and place of meeting to be determined later. There was a rather melodramatic closing instruction to "Bum this letter, lest it fall into the wrong hands," thus connecting the two of them.
Burke smiled down on the letter. He suspected that Delane hadn't had so much fun since the Times had attacked Victoria for her prolonged mourning of Albert. There was nothing like a good fray to bring color to a journalist's cheeks.
Then on to the mystery of the second letter, and without hesitation he broke the seal, removed the note, and read:
My Dearest,
I will not be able to meet you today nor can I at this time explain why. Trust me and wait until you hear from me again,
Mary Eden
He stared down at the message, which seemed to dance across the page, the fixed letters turning liquid under the duress of the sun.
I will not be able to meet you today. . . .
Disappointment as deep as any he'd ever felt moved across him, blending with the mystery of the note itself. Feeling somehow that a connection was to be made between the message and the messenger, he called, "Estellel"
He heard the kitchen door at the end of the corridor open, heard hurried footsteps and Estelle appeared, wiping her hands on her apron.
Burke held up the letter. "Who did you say delivered this?"
"A gentleman."
"Did he give you his name?'*
"No, but I didn't ask for it."
"What did he look like?"
"Oh, he was a big man, Master Burke, but he was polite and never gave me no reason for alarm."
Stymied by her account of the incident, Burke retreated from the door, the letter still in his hand. He reread the simple note several times, as though he'd failed to comprehend its equally simple message.
It just occurred to him that he had never seen Mary's penmanship before and was amazed at the bold, broad strokes which had emanated from such a gentle hand.
But it wasn't her penmanship that interested him, rather the nature and cause of the disappointing message.
"I hope I done right. Master Burke," Estelle murmured. "If you want me to give over my guinea as well—"
"No, you keep it, Estelle," he said, turning back to the door. "If the gentleman comes again, would you please get his name?"
"I'll ask for it. Master Burke, but I'm not certain he'll give it. He seemed in a hurry."
As the woman talked, Burke's mind commenced to move in a more fearful direction. What if Eden had found out? "WTiat if he had badgered a confession out of Mary? What if she had been forced to tell him of their meetings of the last few weeks? What if—
But the thoughts were too alarming, and, fearful for her well-being, Burke was on the verge of calling for his carriage, traveling to Number Seven, St. George Street, and confronting the man directly.
Fortunately, better judgment intervened. Perhaps it was nothing.
Perhaps she had other duties that she had to attend to, though since early summer no duty had been pressing enough to keep her from their secret meeting place.
Then what?
Confused and worried and unbearably disappointed, Burke sat in his chair at the head of the table and flattened the note before him, reading it over and over again, hoping to find a clue.
Without vi^aming, the most painful possibility of all occurred to him. Perhaps she was tiring of the arrangement, and tiring of him as well. She was young, almost fifteen years younger than he. Perhaps her eye had been caught by one her own age, though he found it difficult to believe.
If there is someone else, why didn't I detect it before now? Wouldn't there have been an indication in her manner and attitude?
"Master Burke, are you well?" Estelle asked.
"Yes," he said, aware that he was giving too much of himself away. "Fetch Charles," he commanded, and refolded Mary's note and slipped it into his pocket.
Even though the note had been put away, he still could see it, that strong penmanship, the block letters written without scroll or flourish. He would never have assigned that penmanship to her. . . .
I will not be able to meet you today. . . .
He kept hearing her voice speak the words and that made the message even more painful. He'd been so confident that she had returned his affection.
"You asked for me, sir."
He looked up to see Charles in the doorway, his features still bearing the imprint of condemnation.
Too distracted to deal with past offenses, Burke muttered, "Tell my mother that I will be at her disposal this afternoon, all afternoon, if she wishes. We can—''
'That will please her," Charles interrupted.
"See what her v^dshes are and then inform me."
"Very good, sir," Charles replied. "I think a ride in the open countryside would bring her pleasure. I'll arrange everything. Perhaps a picnic lunch—"
Burke nodded, still struggling with the mystery of Mary's note. Why did it disturb him, the sudden cancellation of a secret meeting?
But there was an ache which seemed to be boring deeper inside
him, leaving him sitting at the table, suffering the feeling that without her, life itself was ebbing from him. . . .
Timing was all.
Aware of this, and equally aware that she must give no one a chance to scold her for her tardiness the day before, Mary kept to her chambers all morning, vowing to read thirty straight pages of Mr. Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad without looking up at the clock.
Not that it wasn't an enjoyable book. It was, and doubly important as Burke had given it to her several weeks ago. All things American fascinated her now, the incredible vastness of the country, the numerous tales that Burke told her of the West. She could listen to him talk forever.
Sharply she scolded herself for doing what she had vowed not to do, to think of him, to torture herself with the recall of his face, the sensation of his hands, his lips. . . .
She lay back against her pillow, her incredible happiness pressing against her. She stared at her hand and thought of his, twice the size of this one, lightly covered with fine black hair, capable of enclosing, soothing. . . .
Several moments passed before she was aware of her own foolishness. Yet try as she did, his memory would not leave her alone, and ultimately she abandoned Mark Twain and tried to relax upon the bed so that she might be fresh and rested later.
But it could not be done. Burke occupied every thought, every impulse, no matter how fleeting. Then dress! If she bathed slowly and took extra pains with her hair, perhaps the hands of the clock would move from one o'clock to two o'clock.