The Eden Passion (25 page)

She bowed her head, shivering, and hurried to close the door. She caught a fleeting glimpse of the whore's bully standing beneath the gas lamp. If only he knew how useless his watch was this night.

As she threw the bolt, she looked down on the table and saw a twenty-pound note. Twenty pounds. For what? Angered and confused, she left it on the table and moved hurriedly back into the room, where she extinguished the lamp and welcomed the semi-darkness, the only light now coming from the bedchamber on her right.

Feeling weary, she made her way into the room, the need still great within her. She dreaded what she knew she would have to do in order to get through the night. This act alone made her feel unworthy. Such a self-enclosing ritual, giving nothing, sharing nothing. Still, with only fleeting regret and increasing loneliness she stripped off the dressing gown and drew forward the small trunk from the corner of the room, filled with Edward's possessions, his books and papers and clothes.

In sore need, she gathered an armful of his garments and pressed them to her and carried them to the bed, where with one hand she threw back the coverlet and slipped between the linens, burying her

face in the shirts, a shuddering, empty embrace with unresponding fabric which nonetheless was capable of demeaning her, moving her, bringing her to fever pitch and ultimately lowering her indifferently into a semiconscious state which might, under certain limited circumstances, be called sleep.

Shropshire, April 1852

Well, it had been his own Grand Tour, that's what it had been, a damn nuisance at times, and great sport at others.

Now, after nine months of rattling about the English countryside and most of Scotland as well, Morley Johnson was more than ready to return to London. In a curious way, he even missed dear Minnie and that smelly brood of children she'd thrust upon him.

He leaned back in the carriage, quite adept now at taking its bounces and rolls. One thing was certain. He was a changed man, more worldly, all of his rough edges polished, clearly capable of managing the vast Eden fortune. Yes, it had been a profitable nine months in that respect. He was indeed a man of the world.

Unfortunately in other respects it had been less profitable. He closed his eyes a moment to rest them from the burgeoning green Shropshire landscape beyond his window. Well, only this one last stop at Hadley Park, to perform watchdog duties for Lady Eden, then he'd give his new driver joyous orders to make for London.

Again he relaxed into the cushions, amazed at his own cleverness. He'd kept careful accounts throughout the entire journey, sending humble records back to Eden each month, accounting for every penny. Yet through skillful management, he was returning to London richer by close to four hundred pounds, a handsome start toward the purchase price of a new piece of Eden land.

On the seat beside him was a small hamper packed with a light repast. He reached for the lid and withdrew a round of good cheddar and a loaf of brown bread. Roughly he tore off a piece of each and

commenced chewing contentedly, his eyes blinking rapidly as his mind turned in a thousand directions. What would he find at Hadley Park? What was he supposed to find, or even look for? And why had he not received any instructions or encouragement from Eden since Christmas?

Though his mouth was filled, he stopped chewing, bafHed. In the first months of the journey, he'd received several dispatches from Lady Eden, urging him to ignore nothing, to pursue each clue concerning the identity of the boy's mother to its natural conclusion, "regardless of cost." Lovely words, those. He smiled and commenced chewing again.

He'd done precisely as he had been commanded to do, had pursued the first lead, months ago, to the Lakes, that wet chill area that had almost been the death of him, and he had located an old Beaker woman in Westmoreland named Mrs. Simpson who had recalled the "gentleman in question," had indeed cooked for him when he had been of a mind to eat, though mostly he "was content to drink his special elixir."

Opium. Morley had known that. But to establish Edward Eden's use of opium had not been the point of the journey, and try as he would, Morley had been unable to unearth any female or even the remains of a female who might have consorted with Eden and borne him a child.

Then all that remained was this last foolish stop, though perhaps he'd better do the best he could to make up for his failure in the other matter.

He must make the Eden family, what was left of it, totally dependent upon him. Then when they were wholly vulnerable and least expecting it, he would thrust forward into their ripeness and make that monstrous wealth his own.

He sat up suddenly, amazed at how his dreams of wealth and power had set his sexual appetites whirling. He would have to find a woman tonight, one last fling before he confronted Minnie and the marital bed.

Dear God, what plainness there. Where would that boring woman fit into his grand scheme?

In an attempt to ease his sudden depression, he pulled up his cloak collar, shoved his hands into his pockets and focused, unseeing, on the horizon line a distance away.

The Mermaid Inn, Shropshire

Usually there were few sights in this life which brought Humphrey Hills as much pleasure as the rattling approach of a grand, road-dusty carriage, and the weary face of a gentleman with a rich purse and the inclination to spend it.

Now on this mild April evening, he looked out of the dining-room window of his flourishing public house, the Mermaid, and saw such a sight approaching slowly from the direction of Shrewsbury on the Wales Turnpike.

"Guests!" he shouted over his shoulder to the serving maids. "Step lively," he added, knowing they would, but feeling the need to shout it anyway.

Beyond the arch, he saw the beloved face of his young clerk, Bobby. What a joy therel He softened his tone. "Guests, Bobby. See to them."

The young man nodded, his eyes reflecting and sending back Humphrey's love.

Pleased by this brief interlude, Humphrey leaned closer to the window for a better look, taking pride in his ability to place any carriage, any gentleman in his proper class.

Now, as the cumbersome conveyance rolled closer, he decided, regretfully, not titled. No coat of arms. Hired, most likely, out of London. And the driver appeared to be nothing more than a crude country boy.

Humphrey leaned closer, one hand massaging his bald head, his eyes a little blurry from too much brandy.

Another tradesman-turned-gentry, no doubt, a plain bastard who by some stroke of fate or fortune had acquired a pretty mountain of coin and now expected the world to fawn at his feet.

Well, he didn't like it and again he took up his customary position at his customary table, where he sat each night, drinking too much brandy and dwelling on the misery of his entire life.

Sadly he lifted his eyes to the handsome black iron gates across the road, the entrance to the grand estate known as Hadley Park. There, as he knew all too well, was the beginning of his grief-ridden life.

Quickly he averted his eyes long enough to pour another snifter of brandy. He sipped and realized with new regret that the grand world across the road had changed as well; Lord Powels dead, Lady Powels dead, Lady Harriet, who apparently had survived her crucible, as good as dead, at least to him. She'd disappeared shortly after her ordeal. Where, Humphrey had no idea, though he'd tried hard enough to find out And with everyone dead or absent, the old uncle had moved in, a total recluse.

But it wasn't the uncle who occupied Humphrey's thoughts. As always, it was her, the missing Lady Harriet, and now he lifted his glass and wished her a plague of disasters, as acute as those which she had caused him to suffer.

With his eyes half-closed, Humphrey rested his head on the table, his mind still occupied with the graceless world in which he was forced to serve his penance as an innkeeper.

An innkeeperl He moaned audibly. Once he'd had such dreams. With his eyes closed and his brain beginning to melt under the effects of the brandy, he saw her again, Lady Harriet, that beautiful little girl from his childhood, riding her spirited pony to the very edge of the road and looking down upon him where he was cutting weeds.

He'd never seen such a vision. And how happy he'd been when she had come to the road the next day, and the next and the one after that, her loneliness as great as his own.

What harm had he done, what offense that warranted his father coming upon him in his cellar room, binding him to the bed, and with mindless anger delivering an untold number of lashes to his back with a horsewhip, all the time shouting down on him that he was to remember his place.

With his head down, he suffered a painful ringing in his ears, as though an invisible alarm had gone off, the mind of the fourteen-

year-old boy still recoiling, trying its best and failing to protect itself against such pain.

And the next day, workers from the estate had commenced building the stone wall that still stood, the barrier which had separated him forever from his dream.

Beyond him in the entrance hall he heard voices, the familiar one of his clerk, Bobby, and another one, strident, demanding. Almost undone by old grief, he turned his head toward the distant, elegant Georgian lines of Hadley Park looming sideways in his vision, the entire rich yellow limestone estate bathed in the becoming pink light of dusk.

Suddenly his eyes fell on the fourth-floor window and he remembered the time, about sixteen years ago, that he'd kept a constant vigil on those attic windows.

Slowly he raised up, remembering clearly the grand scheme which, if only fate had been generous enough to let work, might have provided a very different conclusion to his miserable existence.

But no! As always fate had not shown the least inclination to generosity, and not only had the aborted plan cost him one thousand pounds, but he'd suffered new humiliation as well at the hands of one Mr. Edward Eden.

As the memories continued to march over him, he felt as battered as though he'd just been freshly assaulted. Was there to be no period in his entire life in which fate would say, "Now, Humphrey Hills, you may have it as you please. Set the pace, call the tune . . ."

Suddenly he raised up and shouted, "Bobby?"

A serving maid near the kitchen steps asked, "Shall I fetch him for you, Mr. Hills?"

"Is he still with the new guest?"

"Yes, sir. As far as I can see."

He heard the fear in her voice and fed on it. "More brandy," he shouted, gesturing toward the empty decanter. As again he heard a reassuring flurry of footsteps, he bent low over the table, trying to hear the distant conversation. Outside the window, he saw the boy driver just unloading the trunks from the top of the carriage, a handsome lad.

Without warning he felt his breath failing him. At the moment when he thought he could not endure any longer, he heard a voice, the one voice in the world capable of comforting him, and felt a hand on his shoulder. "Worse tonight, eh? Here's succor."

He looked up and saw a fresh decanter of brandy on the table,

took note of the white, well-tended hand wrapped around cut glass, then looked slowly up into Bobby's face, with his bland, wide-set blue eyes, fair unruly hair, like an angel.

"Oh, God, Bobby," he moaned, shaking his head. "There are times when I don't think that I can survive."

"Of course you can," came the reply.

Then Humphrey felt the hand move with tenderness to his neck. "Now, more than ever," came the voice again. "You will survive. I shall see to it."

Humphrey closed his eyes in a spasm of enjoyment, the first respite he'd had in over an hour. Yet there were dragons even in that moment, his fearful realization that the serving girls were watching. "Careful," he whispered to Bobby.

Under the gentle chastisement the young man withdrew his hand and slid into the seat opposite him. Humphrey shouted at the still-gaping, stupid-faced girls, "Be about your business. Go on with you. Look in on the new guest. See to his needs."

"Sluts!" Humphrey muttered after they had disappeared, and looked up to see Bobby grinning.

Alone, Humphrey took a moment to feed on the face opposite him, a remarkable face combining the beauty of a woman in the features of a man.

"Oh, Bobby," he whispered, and looked away from the fair face and the awareness of the acts they performed each night between the linens of Humphrey's bed.

"My, how gloomy we are this evening." Bobby smiled, and for a moment Humphrey resented the glibness in his tone. Generally Bobby was sympathetic to a faulty had been from the beginning, when Humphrey had shared with him the whole dismal tale of his various misfortunes. And Bobby had shared a tale or two of his own, the son of a rich northern banker from Newcastle, well-educated, whose father had followed him one night to a male brothel, a "distasteful scene," as Bobby had put it, resulting in his expulsion from the family.

It had been the young man's intention to make his way south to London, where in that rich and varied world all things were possible. But instead he'd stopped for a night's lodgings at the Mermaid, and he'd stayed the night, the week, the year, and seven years later, there he sat.

Humphrey shook his head, feeling his own demons withdrawing

under the balm of Bobby's closeness. "What an incredible pair we are/' he mused sadly.

"Oh, not so incredible, Humphrey." Bobby smiled, lifting a small piece of folded paper from the pocket of his crimson satin waistcoat. "Just blessed," he concluded.

"Blessed!" Humphrey scoffed, refilling his own glass and pouring one for Bobby. "Under no circumstances would I assign that designation to either of us," and he lifted his glass and drank deeply, his eyes over the glass rim fixed on his beloved's face. "And the new guest?" Humphrey demanded, his attitude businesslike, though again he sipped deep of the brandy.

"Go easy," Bobby cautioned gently.

There was a nagging to the voice which Humphrey enjoyed. How good it was that someone cared. "Oh, Bobby, sometimes I see absolutely no point to this earthly existence."