With a surge of joy she realized that it was working. For the first time in months she felt herself leave the bed and run along the headlands, searching the tall grasses for her private path which led down to the ocean. Even Wolf was with her again, the high May sun shimmering across his gray fur.
"Lila-"
Who had spoken her name? Whose hands were moving down the front of her dressing gown?
"Wolf, look," she called, ignoring the hands. Quickly she scrambled over the side of the cliflF, pointing out for Wolf's benefit the fishing boats just making their way back to the safety of the harbor.
"If we hurry," she whispered, "they will throw you a fat herring. Run, Wolf-ril catch up."
As she slipped down the side of the chff, she felt a sudden chill, as though her body had been laid bare. Someone was speaking to her out of the darkness, but she preferred to listen to the whistle of the wind, to feel the feathery sensation of the grasses blowing against her ankles.
Someone was coming closer, the dark of the room alternating now with brilliant sunlight.
"Wolf, please wait," she called, trying to retain the sunlight.
"Lila-"
No, that voice had not been with her on her afternoon walk, and it had no place here now. She would have to outrun it, and outrun as well the rustle of a robe being discarded, the sensation of hands touching her breasts.
"Wolf, be careful; you'll get wet!" she cried as the massive cat chased the waves that broke on the beach near the small cove. "I'll race you to the quay."
What was that weight crushing her? There had been no weight on the beach this afternoon.
There! She was almost to the bottom of the cliff now, feasting her eyes on the clean, wave-swept little cove that was her private domain. No one else ever came here except Wolf.
"Wolf, find a seashell for me, one that contains the ocean—"
Oh, it hurt, the pressure inside her.
"Run, Wolf, run while you can. I'll try to catch up."
"Lila, please—"
Her breathing stopped. She felt crippled, her legs useless, the weight on her midsection increasing, something drilling into her flesh, the entire weight jerking involuntarily from time to time while she, with a desperation bom of terror, tried to follow after Wolf down the long, clean, white expanse of sand.
But she couldn't move, and as the pain increased, she opened her eyes to the blackness of her bedchamber, and in an attempt to keep from crying out, she pressed her fist against her lips until she tasted blood. . . .
John completed the act as quickly as possible, aware as always that he was causing pain. After one convulsion he separated himself from her, drew on his robe, fumbled in the dark for the lamp and looked
down on the sight which had greeted him every night for the last two months.
My wife, he thought angrily. What wife? It was getting worse, leaving him with the guilty feeling that he had raped a child.
In spite of his disappointment he drew the folds of her dressing gown over her and tried to focus on her face.
"Lila . , ." he began, trying to ease her fear. But with the exception of the tears rolling down into her hair, nothing moved. She might have been a statue, sculpted in a position of consummate terror. With tenderness he tried to withdraw her hand from her mouth, but she was rigid to his touch, as though at some point during intercourse death had occurred.
In despair, John turned away and sat on the side of the bed. He did love her, reveled in her sweet beauty during the daylight hours, counted her gift to him of two sons to be among his most prized possessions. But he wanted more, and he wanted Lila to bear them. Then what was he to do?
The question only served to increase his despair, and he pushed away from the bed and paced a distance away. How could women be so different? Dhari submitted joyfully to his approach, deriving as much pleasure from the union of their bodies as he did, while Lila—
At the thought of her, he looked back toward the bed to see her watching him, her breathing coming in sharp spasms. Then he could watch no longer and fled the room which unintentionally he had converted into a torture chamber. Outside the closed door he paused, thinking that perhaps he should return and see that she was well.
But he couldn't bring himself to do that. After the Festivities were over he would take her to London, where a qualified physician could examine her, perhaps determine the cause of her repeated miscarriages.
He knew from past experience that such an examination would simply cause her more grief. Last year after the physician from Exeter had examined her she'd been ill for a week. Still, it must be done. He wanted more children, and while he regretted the pain he caused her, he intended to impregnate her as often as possible until there were ten filled cribs in the nursery, every room of Eden exploding with the laughter of well-fed, rosy-cheeked offspring, all his own.
For a moment he stood without direction or compass, lost in the elegance of new Eden Castle. Slowly he looked about him. So! It was
finished. Suffering that anguish of accomphshed goals, he sat wearily on the top step and drew his robe about him.
He bowed his head, his mind turning on what tomorrow would bring—the first carriages rattling across the moors, bringing journalists for the most part, representatives from every major newspaper in England and a few from France and Germany as well, the first act of the fortnight Festivities, during which time the world at last would get a glimpse of the paradise he had created on the North Devon headlands.
He had created it, and with a self-satisfied smile he leaned back against the step, his eyes falling on beauty wherever he looked. Even the once crude stone corridors of the old castle had been transformed into passages of expressive beauty, tapestries everywhere, shimmering brass lamps fixed in permanent standards every four feet along the wall.
As the eye scanned the surrounding illumination, his hand caressed the thick scarlet carpet which covered every stone floor with the exception of the Great Hall, which boasted Italian marble in parquet squares of black and white. And the walls and ceilings of that magnificent room were now covered with the gigantic painted murals done by the French artist Ricard, depicting early scenes of English history.
In his mind's eye he saw it so clearly, and every other splendid detail of the new Eden, for every decision had rested with him, every command to carve, to chisel, to enlarge, to paint, had come from him. For over eight years he'd caused an army of artisans and craftsmen to move to the lift of his hand.
In the delirious excitement of his own accomplishment, he forgot about Lila and ran down the steps like a child, taking delight in each turned corner, aware of the beginning of the marble pavement, bracing himself for the magnificent new gilt staircase which took the place of the old wooden one, a single majestic descent to the Great Hall, the new gallery running out on all sides, its gilt ironwork glittering under the six massive chandeliers, each supporting two thousand candles.
At the far end of the Great Hall he saw eight watchmen standing guard near the door. They looked up in his direction and one took a step forward. But apparently a second closer look had revealed his identity and now all eight men made a respectful bow and turned
their backs, as though they knew better than to intrude into the privacy of their master.
Feehng a bit sheepish for having been discovered prowHng about in his dressing robe, John started to retreat back up the stairs. But again the problem confronted him. Where would he go? He had no appetite for the emptiness of his own chambers, and Lord Harrington was probably abed by now.
Of course there was Andrew, loyal Andrew, but if Andrew wasn't asleep he should be. Only that evening at table John had noticed the look of fatigue on his friend's face. And why not? John had placed heavy burdens on Andrew, had placed the full weight of his London operations on him while Eden was being completed. No, he would not disturb Andrew on this evening though it baffled him how the man could sleep, how any of them could sleep on the eve of such a momentous occasion.
He walked aimlessly about the Great Hall, stepping with his bare feet schoolboy fashion on only the white squares of marble, aware of how foolish he must appear to the watchmen, but uncaring.
At the exact center of the Great Hall he lifted his head and looked directly up into the dazzling chandeliers, their illumination momentarily blinding him and causing a stinging about his eyes, his emotions close to the surface, as without warning he thought of that rain-drenched young boy who had stood in this exact spot over twenty years ago, fatherless, penniless, announcing to Harriet that his name was John Murrey Eden and that he had come home.
The memory, so unexpected, led to others, and suddenly he looked up the staircase as though somone had called to him.
Of course there was no one there, and he shivered in the emptiness. If only Elizabeth were here. Well, she would be tomorrow, and Mary would be with her, his adored cousin, who would have to play the role of his daughter until Lila could—
The thought caused a small death, and aware of the watchmen's eyes upon him, he moved out of the Great Hall and took refuge in the library, an equally elegant and massive room, with walls of leather-bound volumes, a black marble fireplace at the far end, and resting before the fireplace the enormous shroud-covered painting of "The Women of Eden," where next week it would be unveiled and raised to a position of honor above the mantel.
Settling into a nearby armchair, John stared fixedly at the covered canvas.
The painting was remarkable. After his initial shock, John had been forced to concede the point, still seeing, in spite of the shroud, the revolutionary rendering of four women, all recognizable as Lila, Dhari, Elizabeth and Mary, But there the recognition stopped, as in various sensuous poses they gazed out over a white marble parapet at a vast blue Mediterranean sea below, their Roman garb merely an ephemeral film which scarcely covered their bodies, and indeed Dhari's breasts were visible beneath the yellow transparency which clung under the pressure of a mild wind. Precisely how the Royal Academy was going to deal with those bare breasts, John had no idea, but what sport it was going to be finding out!
Relying only on his memory, he stared at the concealed painting and saw Elizabeth. Oh, yes, Elizabeth was certainly present, or at least her Roman counterpart, a delicate matured beauty who, in spite of her small stature, seemed to control the other three.
Next to Elizabeth in the painting stood Lila, her bare arms resting on the parapet, her body angled in the same direction, but her fair, childlike head averted, a pose which seemed to say that in spite of the common focus of attention, there was something else, just out of sight of the canvas, which had caught and held her attention.
Still suffering from his recent encounter with her, John sank deeper into the chair, impressed anew with the accuracy of Alma-Tadema's perception.
Sharply he lifted his head, thinking he'd heard footsteps at the door behind him.
But the doorway was empty and he chided himself for his annoyance. Settling back, he again focused on the covered canvas, searching his memory for the last image, that of his beautiful Mary. Slowly he sat up as though drawn to the invisible image, her form and face predominant on the canvas, a breathtaking beauty who seemed to be searching the horizon with much greater intensity than the others, as though she alone would benefit from the return of her lover.
In the clarity of his recall, John felt himself suffering from a kind of inarticulate affection for her. She was a jewel, as innocent as the day she was born, a treasured temple of purity, as Lila once had been.
Without warning he found himself gripping the arms of the chair, dwelling on Mary's purity, unable to say why it held such an attraction for him. Many times it had occurred to him that he would have
been wise to leave Lila untouched. How ill-conceived society was. Every man should have the right to possess two women: one to worship and the other to use for baser purposes. What a felicitous arrangement that would be!
He sat quite still for several minutes, staring at the covered canvas. Suddenly his attention was caught by faint movement at the door behind him. He turned in that direction, ready to dismiss the prying watchman. Instead an apparition swung into the center of his vision and seemed immediately to become the focus of the midnight landscape.
A thin, darkly clad figure, a veil concealing her face, stood in the doorway, her hands reaching out in an attempt to clear unseen objects, her head beneath the veil lifting and turning as though after ten years of blindness, she still longed to see.
John stood immediately, as though an imperative hand had seized him by the shoulders and swung him around.
Harriet —
He tried to speak her name, but a strangling sensation rendered him voiceless and, as he stepped forward to speak it again, he saw behind her her constant shadow, her maid Peggy.
As Peggy came into view, John held his position without speaking, looking to Peggy, as did everyone in the castle, for guidance concerning how he should respond to Harriet's unexpected presence.
A ferocious watchdog Peggy was, who looked at him over Harriet's shoulder and slowly wagged her head from side to side, a wordless command that John was not to speak, was not to signal his presence in any way.
"Now tell me, Peggy, tell me all about this room. , . ."
At the sound of Harriet's voice, John suffered the painful shock he always felt at hearing her speak, her voice as lovely as ever, the only faculty about her that had remained unchanged during her crucible. Somehow he always felt that the mutilation of her face and eyes should extend to her voice, but of course it hadn't, and the woman who had just asked Peggy for a description of the library might have been the same woman who twenty years ago had lifted him out of the misery of the odd-boy cellar and into a luxurious bed and a treasured love from which his soul still had not recovered.