'Tes, milady."
**When you have completed that, I want you to go to the nursery and tell Miss Samson that the boys are to be dressed and made ready. I won't have them brought down now, but as soon as she awakens."
"Yes, milady."
Good Peggy. Harriet softened her tone of voice. "And after that," she went on, "please have two couches moved into the next room for us. We will be staying here awhile."
Harriet waited until she heard the departing footsteps, then she turned her attention to the women behind her. "I thank you for summoning me," she commenced, recalling the days when she had been mistress of Eden and what a magical effect a httle consideration had on the servants.
"We should have done it sooner, milady," one said. "I told the others that Mr. Eden didn't hire us to watch his wife die."
Harriet nodded. "You did the right thing," and felt bewilderment that Lila had not mentioned John once. How sad for both of them. Then, aware that she had the attention of the women and must do something with it, she commanded, "I want one of you to fetch Dr. Cockburn for me. I am relieving him of his duties and want to tell him so personally in order to avoid any misunderstanding."
"Oh, a pleasure that will be, milady," one said. "I'll keep that little chore for meself, if you don't mind."
"And I want one of you to alert all the stewards to be on the watch for the cat."
"No watch is needed, milady. He keeps to the kitchen and suns himself every afternoon outside the kitchen door."
"Then fetch him," Harriet said. "I want him here. And I want one of you to fetch pitchers of cool water, and clean hnen. We are going to bathe her and try—"
"We done that, milady," one interrupted, "but it got to where it was hurting her so much to move her, we decided—"
"Bring them again," Harriet commanded. "We won't move her. We'll simply try to cool her and make her more comfortable."
"Aye, milady."
Then the instructions were over. This was all that Harriet could think to do. It had occurred to her she might send for a more competent physician from Exeter, but there was that feeling in the room,
the sense of imminent death that was so strong it belied all medical assistance.
Aware of the women hovering about her, awaiting either dismissal or further instructions, Harriet felt a question forming.
"One of you mentioned a relation earlier, a woman who had suffered a similar—"
"Aye, milady. My old auntie it was—"
"What—happened?"
"She died, milady, and the richest of God's blessings it was when she drew the last breath. I never heard such screams and I never want to hear them again."
"And what was the medical decision on your aunt?"
*The doctor said it was a tumor, a mal-ig-nancy, I believe he said, something growing where it ought not to be, and blocking everything that oughtn't to be blocked, if you know what I mean."
She did. Lila's fever was the result of her own body wastes. She was poisoning herself.
She asked quietly, "Was it—a hard death?"
"The hardest I ever hope to see again," came the quick reply. "Our old sawbones was good enough to give Auntie opium. And it helped some, but she still died the death of the damned."
Harriet lowered her head. She despised opium. Still, if it would ease Lila's agony. . . .
"Then fetch some opium," she commanded. "She will not suffer more than is necessary."
"Yes, milady. I tried to tell old Cockbum that, but he said no, that opium would effect the babe."
"The babe!" Harriet gasped, overwhelmed by the man's ignorance, shocked by John's willingness to place his wife in such inept hands.
"Aye, the babe," one repeated sarcastically. "He claims to hear a heartbeat, and even suggested once—"
"Fetch him!" Harriet ordered. "Fetch him immediately, then see to the rest of it."
While she was aware of how awkward she must look, she didn't care. At this moment there was nothing in the world that mattered more than the fact of death itself, obscene in this case, a young woman who had committed no crime, no sin, whose sole reason for being had been to bring happiness to others and who by now, by some whimsy of nature, had been condemned to death.
Harriet waited until she heard the outer door close. Then she sat
on the edge of the bed and felt for the fever-dampened brow and caressed it, and wondered how it was possible that many human beings judged this world to be heavenly when in reality it was heU
It was well after midnight before she'd accomplished everything she'd set out to do. Now, seated fully dressed on her couch in the room next to Lila, the sleeves of her gown still damp from the cool lavender-water with which she had bathed the young woman, she was awaiting Peggy's return from the kitchen with a light meal.
In the silence she listened for the slightest sound coming from the next room. Nothing. There had been nothing all afternoon. Several times, alarmed by the silence, Harriet had felt for and found a pulse, mute evidence that life was persisting.
She shivered, not from cold but rather from a combination of fatigue and grief. Would anyone arrive in time? At best it would take the couriers a day and a half to make London. Then would John and Lord Harrington leave immediately? She'd tried to make the message clear and had urged the greatest haste.
She lifted her head in the direction of Lila's room, thinking that she'd heard something. But she decided finally that it was only the cat. Wolf, who had been found midafternoon and lured upstairs with a bowl of rich cream and who, according to Peggy, had settled comfortably on the foot of Lila's bed.
Abruptly she stood. In this unfamiliar environment she suffered a collision with a low table, quickly righted both herself and the table and with both hands outreaching, she commenced to fed her way about the small chamber.
Near the mantelpiece a bleak thought occurred to her. A transient guest had occupied these chambers, a brief, though dazzling, ray of light which had illuminated all their lives and which now was on the verge of being extinguished.
Could it have been avoided? Is Lilcfs death unnecessary. . . . What was that? Looking up toward the footsteps in the corridor, she heard Peggy's excited voice even while the door was still closed: "Milady, someone is here, a miracle!"
She heard the door open and was on the verge of demanding, "Who?" when a deep, fatigued though familiar male voice broke in.
"Milady, it's me. Lord Harrington."
"Lord Harrington?" she murmured, and reached out her hand and thanked God for at least one favor.
"How did you-"
"Where is she?" he cut in.
Aware of their cross-purposes, she found his arm and tried to place a restraining hand on it. "Lila is quite ill. Lord Harrington," she warned, feeling the need to prepare him.
"I know."
"How did you know?"
"A friend, Charles Pamell, stopped off here on his way to Ireland some months ago."
"He was—permitted access to these chambers?" she inquired, amazed.
"He took access for himself," Lord Harrington said. "Charles asks for nothing and thus avoids the possibility of being rejected." He paused, waiting out her questions before he could move on to the next room and the source of his love.
"Then John knows as well?" she asked, struggling to put the puzzle together.
There was another pause. "He knows Lady Eden—"
"Then why isn't he here?" she demanded.
"He said he was too—busy."
The simple words fell like rocks about her head. While she was still trying to recover, she heard movement and knew that Lord Harrington was proceeding on to his daughter's bedside.
"Peggy, please," she whispered, but too late. As they reached the door, she heard a deep groan.
"Lord Harrington, let me help," she murmured. But Peggy exerted pressure on her arm.
"He's at prayer, milady."
For over half an hour the ritual of prayer persisted. At some point she heard the sound of a rosary, and when she was just growing accustomed to the silence, she heard a male voice so constricted that it sounded as though the man were undergoing torture.
"Lila, it's me—Papa. Can you hear me? Please look at me. I've come back, my darling, to take you home again."
For the better part of that long night she sat with Peggy at her side, neither speaking, for what could either of them say that would match the eloquence of that deep voice as he tried to work his way through his grief.
Harriet had just heard Peggy's whisper of **Dawn'' when suddenly the male voice fell silent, followed by a moan, then a lament which lifted the hairs on the back of her neck.
They reached the door at the same time, but Peggy left her and went forward to confirm what Harriet knew was true.
"She's dead, milady," came the soft announcement. Harriet leaned back against the door, thanking God, thinking. Could it have been avoided?
She was in no way prepared for what she heard next, Peggy's sharp cry coming from a far corner of the room, her voice laden with disbelief.
"The cat, milady! I thought he was sleeping. He's—dead.**
As the wailing lament of Lord Harrington rose and joined Peggy's irrational announcement, Haniet suffered a sensation as though she were being torn in half.
For the first time since her own crucible over ten years ago she bowed her head and thanked God for her blindness. . . .
Cambridge December 1, 1870
Bertie wrapped the rope around the trunk which contained the last of his books and looked about the drab empty room, relieved to be seeing it for the last time.
Richard was right. He had proved nothing by moving out of their comfortable flat except what they both already knew, that neither had any life without the other, and if John Murrey Eden was determined to find them out, then let him do so. Together they had a chance to survive, whatever fate had in store for them.
The thought that Richard was waiting for him with the tea kettle bubbling spurred him on a final inspection. He didn't want to forget anything, for he planned never to return.
Well, then, hoist this one trunk out to the pavement, then lock the door to this dingy room in which he'd passed one of the most miserable intervals of his life.
Before hoisting the trunk to his shoulders, he swung his cloak into place and thought on their plans for the future: the south of France, maybe fifteen years from now, a shared masterwork, a detailed study of the effects of Christianity on pagan Graeco-Roman life, a project which would challenge both their disciplines.
He shook his head at his own enthusiasm. There was time. Life had to be lived in logical progressive steps. The masterwork, the south of France, would come in time. For now all he needed was Richard's quiet company and love.
"Then—go—home!" he said aloud and was just in the process of lifting the trunk up onto his shoulder when he heard a noise at the outer door.
Riehardf he thought, smihng. Richard had come to assist him with this last trunk. He was more than ready to receive that belovai face when suddenly the door was pushed open.
"Aslaml" he exclaimed, confused to see the boy standing on his threshold. He hadn't even been aware that Aslam knew where he was staying in town.
"What a pleasant surprise." He smiled at the young man, who had yet to say a word. "Well, come in," Bertie urged. "I'm afraid I can't offer you the comfort of a fire. In fact, I was just leaving. But I have a splendid idea. Why don't you come with me to Richard's and we'U all have a cup of tea?"
He was talking too much and he knew it. But why in the hell was the boy standing in that defiant position, his eyes assessing the small room as though he were looking for something?
**Aslam?" he began, sensing something wrong. But as he stepped forward he saw Aslam move out into the corridor and turn, as though someone were with him.
Again Bertie thought that it was Richard. The two of them had come together. With a sense of play, he called out, "Come on, Richard. No time for hide-and-seek. I'm bloody well frozen and in need of a-"
But Aslam stepped further back, and the figure that appeared in the doorway was not Richard.
"Mr.—Eden," Bertie murmured, and tried to cover his shock by stepping back and putting the trunk between them. "How—good to see you."
As the silence expanded to an uncomfortable point, Bertie said, "We've been expecting you. Several days ago, actually. Richard is most anxious to see you. Your letter caused him some alarm. You mentioned Lady Mary's illness, but did not specify—"
Will the man never speak? And how did they jtnd me here? He tried again to alter the silence. "Richard—is not here, Mr. Eden. He's-"
"I did not come to see Richard, Professor Nichols," the man said. "Might I step in for a moment?"
Belatedly remembering simple courtesy, Bertie rushed to conect the oversight. "I'm sorry. Of course, do come in, both of you, although I'm afraid it's not much warmer inside. As you can see, I was just in the process of vacating these premises."
"For more comfortable ones, I hope." Mr. Eden smiled.
Bertie counseled himself prudence. ''Yes, more comfortable.**
Tom between the young man at the door and the curious manner in which Mr. Eden was leaning against the opposite wall in a position of suspect ease, Bertie found himself in the middle, trying to look in both directions at once.
Struggling to disguise his fears, Bertie said, "If you want to see Richard, Mr. Eden, he's not here."
"I've come to see you.**
"Then by all means, my attention is yours," Bertie said. "I will try to be of service in any way I can—" He faltered. The mask of ease was slipping. "I'm—sorry. I have no chairs to offer you."
"No need."
"We might, if you wish, walk the short distance to the pub. It's quite a good one and there will be a fire and—"
"No, this place suits me."
Again silence. Bertie felt the need to keep both of them in his sights, a difficult task considering their positions at opposite ends of the room. At last, grovdng weary of trying, Bertie moved back until the three of them formed a triangle, leaving the rope-bound trunk alone in the center of the room.