The Eden passion Read online

  "So you've eaten." He smiled. "I was just coming to—"

  "Of course he's et," Aggie snapped, on her feet now, her gruffness laced into place. Roughly she thrust a lantern at old Dana and gave him a harsh command. "Take him down where he belongs 'fore Rexroat comes blowin' in here. I'm in no mood for his jawin', so take him down where he belongs. I'm sick to death of the sight of him."

  Bewildered by her sudden change, John pushed away from the bench. He saw Dana waiting impatiently at the far door, lantern in hand, his face awash with pity, as though he dreaded the errand ahead of him.

  Enough, then! On this resolve, John started toward the door, weary of delays. Apparently the subcellar was as low as one could go in Eden Castle. While it had not been his intention to start there, still there was something of a challenge in it. It might, in the end, make the climb out more interesting.

  As he skirted the last table, he glanced in Aggie's direction. In that moment he altered his course and moved toward her side. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other servants edging back. He touched her shoulder and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Thank you," he whispered, aware of the shocked silence coming from behind him, acutely aware of old Aggie herself, who turned slowly toward him, a look of confusion on her face, as though twin instincts were waging a relentless war, on one side a clear impulse to smack him for such impudence, on the other a desire to hug him to her.

  Obviously the battle was a standoff, with no clear victor. "Go on with you," she muttered, and again turned away.

  He moved back through the servants and rejoined Dana at the door. Lifting his voice into a tone of false confidence, he said, "Lead the way, my friend."

  Then they were moving again back down the endless corridors, Dana in the lead. To keep his mind off his destination, John counted the torches in their fixed standards; four, six, seven—where was Elizabeth now? Had she made it safely to Taunton? Would she stop there for the night?

  Papa, tell me more of Eden. It is beautiful?

  At the end of the corridor they came to a wide reception room, two staircases leading off in opposite directions, one broad one which clearly led up and one narrow one which led down. Predictably Dana took the one leading down through a low door to a stone staircase, the descent steep, the only light now coming from the lantern.

  John perceived a marked change in the temperature, a damp cold.

  Still they moved downward, until at last they came out into a stone chamber with one small passageway on the right and ahead what appeared to be a mountain of stones scattered in profusion, as though a cave-in had occurred, blocking the next staircase down.

  Curious, John looked closely at the gray crumbling barrier. "Is that-?"

  "Don't know," Dana snapped with unprecedented bluntness, and moved steadily forward into the narrow passageway on the right, lifting the lantern high to light the way.

  Finally he stopped before a low door. "Here it is," he announced.

  "Thank you, Dana." John smiled, stepping forward and pushing the low door open. He ducked his head and moved into the cell, felt the dirt floor beneath his feet and saw nothing but a mound of straw in the corner. In comparison, the small whitewashed cell had been paradise.

  Still Dana held his position in the door, one hand covering his nose in defense against the odors of waste and decay which seemed to be increasing with the dampness. "Ain't fit for stock," he grumbled angrily, "let alone . . ."

  At last John agreed. "No, but according to Aggie, it won't last too long." He moved toward the door to speed the old man on his way. "Get some sleep." He smiled. "Come morning, I'll need your assistance. I've never been an odd-boy before."

  The old man looked at him affectionately. "At least your duties will take you into the light of day, sir."

  Sir! He couldn't have said anything that would have pleased John more. "Then be off with you," he urged.

  Finally the old man turned and lifted his hand in salute and disappeared down the passageway.

  John watched him the length of the corridor, and was still watching when the lantern light faded and left him in darkness. For a moment his heart accelerated. But in the silence he heard snores in the cell opposite him, and drawing comfort from the realization that he was not alone, he stepped back into his own narrow cell, felt along the floor until he found his satchel, then like a blind man felt farther with the toe for his boot until he felt the beginning of straw.

  As he settled on the pallet, he reached for the satchel and withdrew his jacket, meager protection against the damp cold. Reaching farther, he felt for his two books, one the Book of Common Prayer, and the other the catalog of the Great Exhibition. Slowly he withdrew the one which would bring him the most comfort. How he'd

  looked forward to it, strolling the central promenade of the Great Exhibition with his father and Elizabeth, leading them ultimately to the wing where those magnificent black machines had been arranged.

  He closed his eyes and let the catalog of the Great Exhibition fall limp in his lap, overcome by a sense of disappointment. How hard they had worked. How unfair of fate to deny . . .

  But even before his mind had completed the thought, a new awareness moved in, too painful to deal with, the image of his father crushed beneath the machine, the sad journey back to the house in Bermondsey, Elizabeth's speechless grief, the funeral procession, all leading here to this black pit.

  His head was heavy with fatigue, and he made no effort to hold himself erect. He slipped down onto straw, the catalog still clasped in his hands.

  His mind, equally as numb, made no attempt to make sense out of his surroundings. All he knew for certain in the last minutes before sleep came was that one day he'd close and bolt these mean cells, and if he had need of odd-boys, he'd move them up into the light of day.

  When he was Lord of Eden, he'd do all this, and more.

  Lord of Eden! Dear God, what a climb he had to make from here to there.

  As he began to wonder about the nature of the climb, for some reason he felt inexpressibly sad. It wasn't that he lacked energy. He had that. Or determination. He had that in abundance. And ability as well.

  Then why sad?

  But sleep came, obscuring both the question and the need for an answer.

  London, May 10, 1851

  In spite of the fact that he was a halfhearted husband, Morley Johnson liked to awaken with his arm slung over his wife's swollen belly. On occasion, just as he was opening his eyes, he felt the baby kicking, pushing against Minnie's womb as though eager to get out. In quiet moments such as these, the baby, number seven, reminded Morley of himself. Both were trying to break out of encasements of one sort or another.

  With his eyes open, he lay in the predawn darkness. Beyond the pillow, he observed the small room filled with used furnishings. In the next room, the other six children were still asleep, noisome stairsteps commencing at two and leading to seven.

  Morley rolled onto his back now, taking half the bedclothes with him. Oh, God, but he was sick to death of narrow beds, small rooms and the smell of cabbage filtering down into his law office below.

  Still he counseled himself patience. An impatient man made mistakes, a valuable lesson he'd learned from his old mentor, Sir Claudius Potter. And in truth, Morley's rise thus far had been remarkable. In the miraculous time of thirty-eight years, he'd shaken the dirt of his father's Hampshire farm from his boots forever, had walked to London, educated himself, served a tedious but valuable apprenticeship in the Temple, had applied for admittance to the bar, had passed the examinations on the fourth try, and now was entitled to put "Solicitor" after his name.

  Rather enjoying the recall of his own accomplishments, he stretched luxuriously in bed, his toes touching the footboard, his

  long, lean frame uncurling for the first time after the night's sleep. His mind raced downstairs to his cluttered desk, to the urgent letter he'd received yesterday, delivered by special courier from Lord Eden. Apparently Morley was to play police inspect
or today, though the letter by and large had been incoherent. His lordship had mentioned the death of his brother, Edward, and the arrival on the doorsteps of Eden Castle of a young man who had claimed kinship with the family. Lord Eden had instructed Morley to launch a search for proof, if indeed proof existed, and to report back to him immediately when and if documentation was uncovered.

  He stared up at the ceiling in the darkness. Where to start? Suffering momentary mental confusion concerning the future, he preferred to sink back into his noteworthy past. How fast events had moved the last few years! Morley admitted to the bar, Sir Claudius' death in the riding accident, then the crowning achievement, the humble letter he'd penned to Lord and Lady Eden, applying for the vacant post of solicitor to the vast, though abused Eden estates. He'd presented an effective case, pointing out that as Sir Claudius' clerk how intimately acquainted he was with all the Eden affairs, informing them of his own shiny bronze plaque, morley johnson, solicitor, and begging for the privilege to serve that great family with humility and dedication.

  In the next post, he'd received his reply. A trial association of twelve months. If at the end of that time all were pleased, the position would be his.

  Now, with the year's trial over, with the Eden ledger books firmly in his command, Morley Johnson was, as they say, a man on his way. He had a rare talent, as great as if not greater than old Sir Claudius himself. To be true, he'd learned from that gentleman how to take in one sum from the estate agents and how to list another in the ledger books, pocketing the difference.

  But to the best of his knowledge, certain daring refinements of the game had not even occurred to Sir Claudius. For example, in the past Morley had penned a simple note to Lord Eden. Estate tea due. Selling Piatt number Thirteen due east of Taunton to highest bidder.

  Perhaps his lordship had taken all of three minutes to glance at the note, had scribbled his initials and had returned it to Morley, whereupon the estate agent had been notified that a bidder by the name of Ross Gourland had put up the capital and the deed was to be transferred posthaste.

  And who was Ross Gourland? Morley smiled. Who else? And who was Sidney Blackston? Who else? He was now the proud though anonymous possessor of two small estates on the outskirts of Taunton. Of course, he must move with care, but that he intended to do, constructing a good solid foundation on which a limitless structure might be built.

  He stretched again, then snuggled close to his sleeping wife. Damn that protuberance! He loved to have her when she was half-asleep. Now one hand moved up to her swollen breasts. Carefully he worried loose the tie on her nightdress and eased the fabric down. As his lips closed around her nipple, she stirred.

  "No, luv," she whispered sleepily. "Let me ease this 'un out 'fore you slip another in."

  Damn! She was right. Still he had a hunger. And since he'd probably pass the entire day tramping through the slum areas of London in search of a bastard's mother, the least she could do was give him a moment's respite in this gray dawn.

  "Turn over," he commanded, determined to take his comfort whether she liked it or not.

  Again she protested, her eyes wide, as though aware of what he was asking. "No, luv, please. We ain't animals."

  "Turn over!"

  Reluctantly she did as she was told, dragged her bulbous body upward onto her hands and knees while he lifted her nightdress and mounted her.

  It was over in less than five minutes. He felt reasonably better, and she certainly was none the worse for wear.

  In fact, as she rolled back over, she giggled prettily, her mussed brown hair spread across the pillow. "Oh, you're dreadful, Morley." She smiled. "You really are."

  As he climbed off the bed, he looked back down on her. She'd enjoyed it, he was certain, in spite of her protests. All women protested, he thought, as he commenced his toilet, undoubtedly considered it their duty to do so.

  He lit the lamp near the washbasin and was constantly aware of her eyes on him, admiring eyes, of course.

  "Where is it you're headed today for, luv?" she asked, still nestling in the bedclothes.

  "On a search," he said, trimming his jaw whiskers in the wavy glass.

  "You're not a detective," she protested. "You're a solicitor."

  "When you serve the Eden family," he said to her reflection, "you play any role they ask you to play."

  "What if the boy is who he says he is?" she asked sleepily.

  "I'll have to find the mother before anyone can prove that, now, won't I?" He lifted the lamp from the table, thrust it toward the wardrobe and withdrew a plain black jacket, twice patched, and matching trousers.

  At that moment the door to their bedchamber opened and three young faces appeared. One announced, "Mama, I've wet . . ." As she put her arm around the offender, Morley decided there would be no breakfast for him this morning. He'd stop at a coffeehouse along the way.

  As the other three children appeared following the younger ones, the smell of soiled linen filled the room, and every place he looked he saw a small white ghost in a nightshirt.

  Thank God for whatever wild-goose chase would take him out of this place. As he sidestepped small bodies, he saw Minnie's distressed face. "I'll fix your breakfast."

  "Not now," he called back, moving eagerly toward the top of the stairs.

  "It will only take a . . ."

  But he didn't stop, and pretended not to hear as he hurried down the stairs and through his narrow office, retrieving the letter from Lord Eden from off his desk, then moving quickly out into the early-morning traffic of Holborn, relieved to shut the door on all domesticity.

  He stood a moment, the push of traffic increasing about him. Then he unfolded the Eden letter and read it again, the tone strident for the normally placid Lord Eden. Clearly something had momentarily dragged his attention away from his hounds and horses.

  And the object of this agitation? A young man, according to the letter, fifteen, sixteen, no one seemed to know for sure. Apparently he answered to the name of John Murrey Eden, and most important of all, he claimed to be the son of Edward Eden.

  Morley stepped to one side in order to permit the passage of a large cart heaped with fresh fruit. As the peddler passed him by, he snagged a ripe red apple and was on the verge of fishing through his pockets for a halfpenny. But apparently the peddler hadn't noticed. So why should Morley call it to his attention?

  Now blessed with free breakfast, he proceeded slowly down the pavement, munching on the fruit contentedly, still eyeing the letter

  from Eden. He really couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. The young man, whoever he was, posed no real threat to the Eden fortune. Ten bastards of Edward Eden could surface, and not one could lay a legitimate claim to any portion of the Eden inheritance. On that foolish July morning in 1848, when Edward Eden had given up all claim to his own fortune, he had rendered his line bereft as well.

  True, the boy had a right to reside at Eden, and the Christian impulses of Lord and Lady Eden would assure him of clothes to wear and food to eat. But by the same token they could toss him out anytime they chose. At best he would never be anything but a peripheral family member.

  His jaws, still munching the apple, suddenly ceased. With the tip of his tongue he shifted the seeds from the core to the front of his mouth and spit them out. According to the letter, the young man in question had arrived bearing Edward Eden's body, in the company of a woman known only as Elizabeth.

  Morley commenced walking again down the pavement, appalled by the size and challenge of the undertaking. In all of London, there probably were ten thousand Elizabeths. He looked again at the closing paragraph. Ah, a bonus! This Elizabeth, it seemed, had a maimed hand.

  Then, with renewed purpose he turned the corner, heading toward Oxford Street. Perhaps there still was someone in the neighborhood who remembered Edward Eden and his Ragged School, someone, more importantly, named Elizabeth with a maimed hand.

  As his speed increased, the thought of failure never ente
red his mind. Sooner or later he would uncover the boy's true identity, not that it mattered to him, but only because it seemed to be of such monumental importance to Lord and Lady Eden. He was at last beginning to understand that invaluable lesson which he'd learned at the knee of Sir Claudius Potter.

  Keep your client contented, for their contentment leads to their apathy, and their apathy leads to your enrichment. . . .

  Bermondsey, May 10, 1851

  As Elizabeth knelt on the floor before the small trunk in the back room of the house in Bermondsey, she closed her eyes. The bright sun had begun to hurt them.

  Of course she knew that the cause of discomfort was much more than mere sun. Commencing on the first of May with Edward's death, until now, May 10, she'd never closed her eyes for more than two hours at a time. The journey back from Eden after the funeral had been difficult.

  But they finally had glimpsed the spires of London late last evening, and after prayers of thanksgiving, the four riders of Mr. Jack Willmot's had taken themselves off for reunions with their families.

  Of course she had thanked them profusely. And after their departure she had lit the lamp and carried it into this small back room, Edward's room, and had spent the night lovingly going through his belongings, weeping for him anew at the sight of each worn object, and trying to keep her thoughts away from the riddle of her future.

  Now she shifted positions upon the bare floor and gently lowered one of the shirtwaists into the open trunk. She still had a vivid sense of the man himself, which somehow, mysteriously, seemed to be growing stronger. Countless times throughout that long night she'd heard his voice, the weight of his foot on the front stoop, his laughter.

  In a wave of new grief, she bent over the trunk. Both of them were gone now, John and Edward. How mildly hurt she'd been by John's decision to stay at Eden. Yet not surprised. Eden had been his dream for as long as she could remember.