Free The Women of Eden by Marilyn Harris

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.
    "The library, milady," Peggy began, "and here is a lovely lac-

    quered cabinet. Come, feel for yourself." Lightly she pressed Harriet's hand against the smooth black enamel. "Can you feel it?"
    "Of course I can," Harriet scolded good-naturedly. 'Tell me of its color."
    For several minutes John watched as Harriet bent low over the cabinet, her hands moving out in all directions, while Peggy stood silently behind her, her eyes fixed on John as though again she were warning him not to move or speak.
    Still amazed that her soul was intact and as beautiful as ever, John found for a moment that he could not watch her and averted his eyes, his memory punishing him with a recall of the one and only time since her self-mutilation that he had seen her unveiled, the morning almost ten years ago of his triumphant return to Eden, when he'd thought her dead and Richard had informed him that she was alive. He had entered her chambers alone, the weight of emotion almost unbearable, as his eyes had fought the blackness for a glimpse of this remarkable woman who had been his first love, perhaps his only true love, and who had blinded herself upon learning the news from Morley Johnson's corrupt lips that she was indeed the natural mother of John Murrey Eden.
    Seated on the arm of the chair, he crumpled forward, the ancient burden of guilt as powerful as ever, as though the ten years of penance for both of them had never taken place. The lamplight had caught on certain specifics, the eyeless sockets, two small ovals of white, the rough jagged scar tissue covering her cheekbones, extending over the bridge of her nose, the entire grisly script scarcely recognizable as a human face, except for the mouth and chin, which had escaped the stabbing thrusts of the forks.
    He bowed his head into his hands, involuntarily shuddering. The faint sound caused a cessation in Peggy's voice behind him. Simultaneously he heard a gasp and looked over his shoulder to see Harriet raised up from her inspection, her head lifting, her hands reaching out as though seeking Peggy's protection.
    "Who—" she gasped. "We're not alone!"
    With an accusatory look, Feggy glared at John from across the room. "No, milady," she murmured. "Mr. Eden is present. I thought it best if—"
    "John?"
    A portion of her fear seemed to be receding, replaced by appre-

    hension as she reached up to her face to make certain that the veil was in place.
    John gave her all the time she needed, glad that she was aware of his presence, pleased by the scolding she delivered to Peggy. "Why didn't you tell me?" she murmured.
    "You said you wanted to see the new halls, milady. You said nothing about visiting."
    "Oh, Lord! Peggy, please don't take me so literally in the future. You should know that John—"
    As she turned in his direction, he put the past behind him and went forward and grasped her hand. "You look lovely," he said, and lifted her hand to his lips. "If I'd known that you, too, were suffering from insomnia, we could have prowled