The Eden passion Read online

  For my friends in England, June and Bob Robinson,

  Peter Ashen,

  Emmie and Harry Cox,

  Michael and Dorothy Taylor,

  gratefully, for their

  hospitality and assistance.

  The steam whistle was already heard across the fields: already in mid-Atlantic the great steamers were crossing against wind and tide; privilege, patronage and the power of rank were already beginning to tremble and were afraid . . .

  Yet we who have lived in the century, we who are full of its ideas, we who are swept along the full stream of it—we know not, we cannot see where it is carrying us . . .

  —Sir Walter Besant The Victorians

  compelled him to keep silent. Looking up, she saw that he too had caught his first glimpse of Eden Castle.

  She closed her eyes, unable to look at him any longer, unable as well to view the great hulk of that castle drawing nearer. Her one thought now was to have done with it and return immediately to London. All she was bringing home was a broken shell. The spirit and memory of Edward Eden still resided in London, in the hearts of those thousands of men and women and children who had followed the wagon to the extreme western edge of the city before they had commenced to fall back. She belonged with them, and although she hadn't the faintest idea how, she fully intended to continue his work and reopen the Common Kitchen, to feed, clothe and give shelter as best she could to anyone who came to her door in need.

  Passing beneath the gatehouse arch now, Elizabeth looked up into the driving rain at the awesome facade of the castle. Grander than Buckingham, or so it seemed to her. Ahead she saw a small group of people moving down a flight of steps, all clothed in rain-wet black, a man and a woman as far as she could tell, while at the top of the stairs, inside the shelter of an arch, she saw an old woman clutching two children to her skirts.

  Turning about, she looked ahead and saw that the guardsmen were leading them toward a black iron fence which surrounded a small graveyard. The gate was open, and beyond she saw a scattering of marble stones, and there to the left, near the fence, she saw three gravediggers, their spades in their hands. Then the grave itself was visible.

  Through the narrow gate, John guided the horses into a small clearing on the left and brought them to a halt. His head, rain-drenched, inclined slowly forward as though he were aware that his job was done. How she longed to somehow penetrate that terrible silence into which he had fallen.

  She was aware of activity at the rear of the wagon, saw four guardsmen climbing aboard, each lifting one corner of the coffin and hoisting it down to earth.

  As she swung to the ground, she glanced back up at John. "Are you coming?" she asked, trying to stretch the stiffness out of her legs so that she might walk erect, like a lady.

  Although that pale boyish face lifted and looked down on her, he gave no response.

  Then Elizabeth felt her attention being drawn to the coffin being slowly lowered into earth. The rain, she noticed, made a peculiar

  sound on the coffin lid, as though it were hollow. And in that instant, a new sense of loss swept over her.

  No words? She glanced quickly about in search of a priest. No one to tell the world about this man? Then, although she'd vowed not to break, she bent her head over and gave in to one small moan. It sounded out of place in that death yard, as though mourners and corpses alike must maintain the silence of the grave.

  The coffin was lowered now. As the first clods of dirt struck the coffin lid, she turned slowly away and walked a distance beyond the mound of dirt.

  What was the connection between the man himself and that almost obscene ritual which was taking place behind her? All at once, an unexpected memory from an earlier time rose up before her. She remembered Edward as she'd first seen him in the Common Cell at Newgate, recalled how he'd put his arm around her and warmed her with his own cloak. She remembered him in the banqueting hall in the house on Oxford Street, laughing, lifting the children into the air, carrying them on his shoulders. And she thought too of certain facts that again had nothing to do with what was going on behind her, of the reality of his seventeen Ragged Schools scattered throughout London which were still functioning, existing quite well now on contributions from charity and from the Union. She thought of the hundreds of abandoned children who had been fed and clothed and housed, and in certain instances, educated, like herself. She thought of the Common Kitchen, the door always open. She thought of his love and tenderness and kindness to all. She thought on all these things and more, and felt her heart fill, not with grief, but with gratitude that she had known such a man.

  Then she could restrain herself no longer and wept openly for Edward Eden, for John, his son, and even for the men and women standing rigidly beside the grave.

  She looked back at the place where the gravediggers were doing their job. Let them! The man himself had long ago escaped and now resided in thousands of human hearts. Try to contain him in mere earth and wood, she thought with a smile.

  It could not be done. . . .

  Harriet stood atop the stairs outside the Great Hall, in the cold drizzling rain, feeling nothing, seeing little, and completely aware that her awesome strength was fast running out. Behind her, she was

  aware of James huddled in the shelter of the arch with the two children. What in the name of God was the delay?

  Annoyed, she glanced down at the wagon standing at the foot of the Great Hall steps, its wheels coated with mud from the graveyard. She saw the boy and the young woman in close huddle. Feeling sorry for both, Harriet had issued an invitation for them to take refuge around the fire in the servants' hall.

  She had not expected such a simple and humane gesture to be a matter for discussion. But apparently it was. So still she waited, consuming what strength she had left in an attempt to keep her mind away from the fresh grave, the realization of the man they had just buried.

  Edward. The name still hurt.

  Then at last she saw the two moving toward the stairs, the young woman in the lead. "Milady," she called up in a curiously aggressive voice. "We thank you for your kind invitation." At that moment, Harriet saw the young boy move up close beside her. He must be about fifteen, Harriet thought, perhaps sixteen. His face bore a peculiar expression, resolution of some sort. She couldn't tell.

  The young woman was speaking again. "I will not be staying, milady. I want to return to London right away."

  Considering it settled, Harriet was in the process of retreating when she heard the woman speaking again, and looked back to see her climbing the stairs. Midway up, she stopped as though she did not want to come any closer. "I beg your pardon, milady," she said. "With your permission, the boy will stay."

  Harriet turned slowly back. A peculiar request. She couldn't very well say no, for the boy was standing within earshot "Of course," she murmured, "if he desires . . ."

  The woman moved up another step, her face tense, as though she were trying very hard to say the right thing. "The boy here," she began, looking back over her shoulder, "is Mr. Eden's son."

  The words came softly over the wind and rain. "Mr. Eden's . . * As Harriet tried to repeat what she thought she had heard, she found she couldn't.

  The woman repeated it for her. "His son, milady. I have his paper back in London, his baptismal certificate. I'll send it right away if you wish . . ."

  But at that moment Harriet was not thinking of baptismal records. Instead she gazed steadfastly down upon the boy who, with matching steadfastness, returned her gaze. She saw it now, although

  she did not want to admit to it, the similarity, the stance, the line of the jaw, the hair coloring, the eyes, especially the eyes. It might have been a young Edward staring up at her.

 
She looked away over the inner courtyard. My God, she couldn't turn him out. She owed Edward that much. But who was the mother? That poor thin woman on the steps before her?

  As she looked back at the two waiting patiently at mid-step, she tried to erase all traces of uneasiness from her face. "Of course, he's welcome," she said.

  She continued to watch closely as the boy and the woman hurried back to the wagon, was still watching as the boy reached into the back and withdrew a small satchel. A moment later he fell into a close and loving embrace with the young woman.

  Still Harriet stood watching, trying to conceal her agitation, to tell herself that it was nothing, that of course their solicitor would have to launch a discreet but thorough investigation, perhaps discover the identity of the mother. There was plenty of room in the servants' hall to accommodate a young boy.

  Everything seemed to wait in the cold dusk as the boy watched the wagon pass through the gatehouse arch. Harriet saw him bow his head as though he'd offered a brief prayer. Then those eyes, Edward's eyes, were staring up at her. He appeared so alone, both boy and satchel dwarfed by the vast emptiness of the courtyard.

  Clearly they couldn't stand like this all evening. Someone had to move. With an effort of will she pulled away from those intense young eyes and issued a command to one of the waiting stewards. "Take him to the servants' hall," she called down. "And see that he has dry clothes and something to eat"

  The steward started toward the boy, his hand outstretched for the satchel. But at the last moment Harriet saw the boy scoop up the luggage and start toward the stairs.

  As he came upward, her first impulse was to withdraw. But she held her ground and was about to redirect him to the servants' door when without warning a dazzling smile broke across those young features.

  He stood less than three feet from her. "If you don't mind," he commenced in a voice remarkable for its strength and clarity, "I prefer to reside in my father's chambers. It's a waste of time, don't you think, to get settled in one place, only to have to move to another?"

  Again she found that speech was beyond her, and she did well to

  move to one side as he walked past her, beneath the arch, past James and the children into the Great Hall.

  He turned briefly back. "I know the way," he announced. "I need no assistance."

  He proceeded on across the Great Hall, when suddenly at midpoint he stopped. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble," he asked, "a fire would be pleasant. My father always said there was nothing worse than a May Devon rain."

  Harriet followed a few steps after him. She saw him glance lightly up at the ceiling of the Great Hall, as though he were searching his mind for something.

  Apparently he found it, for the smile on his face broadened. "I believe my father told me that the fire well in his chambers required a half a dozen good oak logs, approximately the length of a man's arm." He was silent a moment, assessing her. "If the steward would be so kind as to lay such a fire, I'd be most grateful."

  There was not a trace of impudence on the young face, only quiet conviction. Then he turned again and proceeded across the Great Hall, his head erect, shoulders back.

  Harriet watched him, noted the swing of his arms, the way he carried his body, the angle of the head. Suddenly and without warning she shivered, though not from cold now, but rather from the incredible sensation that true recognition was just beyond her, that if only she could remove certain veils from her eyes, the mystery of his identity would be solved.

  She stepped quickly forward and asked in a voice remarkable for its fearful quality, "Who are you?"

  Just a few steps short of the far doorway which led into the heart of the castle, the boy stopped. Slowly he turned, an expression of quizzical impatience on his face, as though he was certain this was old ground that had been gone over before to everyone's satisfaction. He placed his luggage on the floor by his feet, then stood erect. With visible and awesome pride he said, "My name is John Murrey Eden. My father was Edward Eden. I have come home."

  She saw him pause again, as though to see if there would be further interrogation. And at last he disappeared into the darkened corridor.

  Behind her, she heard James trying to articulate something, a protest, she assumed, though it came out as little more than sputtering. She glanced over her shoulder and saw her husband in a crouched

  position, clutching their children to him, as though they all were in imminent danger from an unidentified threat.

  She looked back toward the empty doorway, and stood absolutely still, listening. There were a dozen passageways leading out from that corridor. It had taken her over a month to learn them all. Surely the boy would return in a moment and confess to being lost.

  But he didn't. In fact, she heard his step on the staircase now, moving steadily upward in the proper direction toward Edward's third-floor chambers, as though he knew the interior of vast Eden Castle as intimately as he knew any place on earth.

  In the event that someone followed after him—and he was certain they would—he left the door ajar and turned to confront his father's chamber.

  Oh, and it was familiar. He'd not counted on remembering so much. Now he heard an odd rustling in his ear, as though his father were still here, telling him about Eden. He reached back through the door and lifted a small lamp from its position on the wall and took one tentative step forward. In spite of the shadows, every object in that Spartan interior seemed to be presenting itself to him for judgment.

  Stepping toward the center, he realized critically that there was an absence of everything. No carpet, but merely cold stone floor. No cushions, only straight-backed wooden chairs. Not even lamps that he could see, save for the one he held in his hand, no tapestries softening the walls, no paintings to engage the eye or the mind. In less than a minute he completed the bleak inventory which he already knew by heart and sat slowly in a near chair.

  Infuriated, he looked about, almost choking on the self-denial which emanated from those barren walls. Suffering from an incoherent blend of anger and fatigue, he strode toward the wardrobe and jerked it open and found precisely what he knew he would find, less than a dozen garments, worn, some not even cleansed.

  Damnl Lookl He pulled forth a jacket. A beggar wore better. And look! Another, with buttons missing. And now he commenced jerking the garments off their hooks and hurling them to the floor, his rage and bewilderment increasing, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes playing tricks on him in the dim light so that now and then as he touched a sleeve, he saw the man himself. And still he pulled forth the clothes, talking aloud now—"How would it have offended your soul to buy decent clothes? You looked after others, why not

  yourself?"—always punctuating the unanswered questions with curses of outrage, the pile of discarded garments ever-growing, some hurled halfway across the chamber until at last his hands found one remaining cloak, a dark gray with torn collar.

  Breathing heavily from his exertion, John held it. Without warning he slipped to his knees and clasped the cloak to him and buried his face in it and smelled the scent of the man they had just buried in the graveyard behind the castle.

  "Papa," he whispered, and clasped the cloak even tighter in his arms, and for the first time gave in to his grief.

  For several minutes he was aware of nothing but the loss of his father. Then gradually the sensation of someone standing in the door caused him to look quickly up where he found the wide sympathetic eyes of a young boy staring at him.

  Grateful for the shadows which earlier had plagued him, John hurriedly wiped away the embarrassing tears and stood, dropping the gray cloak onto the pile of abandoned garments.

  But before John could speak, the boy stepped into the room, eyeing the scattered garments. "You made a mess," he said, in so solemn a tone that, in spite of himself, John smiled.

  "I did indeed," he agreed.

  The boy stepped farther into the room, somberly surveying the walls and bare furnishings as John had done earl
ier. Still safe in shadows, John brushed away the last of his tears and determined to his own satisfaction the identity of his young visitor. This would be his cousin—his uncle, Lord Eden's son—the next heir to Eden Castle. From where John stood, he guessed the boy's age at about eight, saw his slight frame tightly encased in a slim black jacket, his skin pale, hair and eyes dark, as his scrutiny of the chamber continued.

  "What's your name?" John called out to the boy, whose inspection had led him to the large table near the center of the room.

  Still not looking at him, but concentrating now on the face he was drawing with the tip of his finger in the dust on the table, the boy replied, "Richard Grenville Powels Eden," then leaned sharply over to put eyes and nose on the dust face.

  "That's quite a name," John said, watching him.

  "Clara calls me Dick sometimes, but my mother doesn't like it."

  "What should I call you?"

  "Richard." For the first time the boy looked up. "Are you going to live here?"

  John nodded. "It's my home."

  "They're arguing about you downstairs."

  Interested, John stepped forward. "What are they saying?"

  The boy shrugged. "They don't know who you are." Suddenly his face brightened as with his fist he rubbed out the circle face he'd drawn on the table. "But I know. Your name is John Murrey Eden. Your father was my uncle Edward, and you have come home."

  A grin passed between the two boys. With relief, it dawned on John that at least one had understood the message he'd been asked to repeat downstairs.

  "Do you want me to help you unpack?" Richard asked now, his journey about the room taking him close to the pile of discarded garments. For a moment he seemed to stare down on them as though remembering his first sight of John kneeling. "I'm sorry about your father," he said quietly. "Clara said he was a good man."

  "And who would Clara be?" John asked, following after him.

  "Nursemaid," Richard replied. "She doesn't tend me as much as she does my sister," he added defensively.

  Preoccupied, John looked toward the open door. It was only a matter of time before . . .