Free The Women of Eden by Marilyn Harris Page B

of the large painting, she stopped him several times in order to "see" a precise color or posture. When John's narrative reached its conclusion, she sat as though wanting more.
    "Will it hang here?" she asked.
    John nodded. "Over the mantel. There they vi'ill reside forever, our four, caught in a pose of classicism, a perfect setting according to Alma-Tadema, who is quite skillful in viewing the English Empire against the background of the Roman—"
    "Neither actually," she corrected quietly. "It's your empire. Dhari and Elizabeth, Lila and Mary, all belong to your empire."
    "And you?" he asked, covering her hand, shocked at how rapidly they had moved from the objectivity of the painting to whispered intimacy.
    "Of course."
    "Then why did you refuse to sit for the painting?"
    "Oh, Lord, John"—she laughed, shattering the intimacy—"I'm not questioning Alma-Tadema's genius, but how could he have worked a black veil into that stunning sea of color that you have just described?"
    In a strong need to counterbalance her merriment, he suggested, "He would have painted you as you once were."
    "That woman is dead," she said, and pulled away from his hand and called sharply over her shoulder, "Peggy, are you there?"
    "I'm here, milady. Shall we—"
    As Peggy started forward, John lifted his hand to halt her progress. "Give us a few additional minutes," he commanded.
    Peggy hesitated midway between the door.
    Aware of the impasse, Harriet turned in that direction. "We'll sit a while longer, Peggy, but please stay close."
    The words had been spoken in the manner of a reprieve. Loathing the feeling that he had been chastised, but grateful for her continuing presence, John sat well back in his chair and tried to change the subject.

    "You know the guest list, of course," he commenced, his voice now befitting the room, formal and cold.
    "Simply all of England," she said, "or at least all of influential England."
    "The Lord Mayor is representing the Queen—'
    "And Mr. Disraeli and Mr. Gladstone as well, I beheve you said."
    "Representing themselves, as always."
    "What if their paths cross?"
    John shook his head. "Not likely. Andrew has had a staff working for months. I didn't go to all this trouble simply to have the arguments of Parliament transferred to the North Devon Coast."
    "How clever of you," she murmured, "to be so considerate."
    "It was Andrew's idea."
    "Good Andrew."
    "Yes."
    It was as though they were pushing the words out, both of them insisting upon formality. He found it a source of pain, the realization that the once great love which had existed between them now lay impotent. If only there were a safe territory where they could meet and talk, as mother and son, safe from the storms of the past.
    "And Richard?" she asked as though sensing danger in the silence.
    "Due to arrive tomorrow sometime," John replied. "Late, I believe he said. And I have a surprise for Richard," he added, his mood lightening. Perhaps at last they had found a safe territory in Richard, Harriet's son and pride, who taught at Cambridge.
    "A surprise?" she asked, "Our lives of late have been filled with nothing but surprises, thanks to you. Surely they must cease soon."
    "A different sort of surprise, this, one he really should have seen to for himself, but then you know Richard . . ."
    "Well, tell me," she demanded eagerly.
    "Lady Eleanor Forbes," he said, and waited for her reaction, which never came except in the form of a confused silence.
    "I—don't understand."
    "Of course you do, Harriet. You more than anyone should understand. I've arranged a marriage for Richard," he went on, his sense of accomplishment dampened by her obvious state of confusion. "I've already spoken to Lord and Lady Forbes and they are delighted and have assured me that—"
    "You had no right!"
    "No right?" he repeated. "I really didn't consider it a matter of

    rights. Richard is of marriageable age and beyond it. With his head buried constantly in books, what effort will