The Eden Passion (3 page)

"Then ... who ... ?"

"My mother is dead," he replied. "Shortly after I was born. I never knew her."

The information seemed to hang in the still room, as though in search of a receiver. Then she spoke again. "I must ask you to fetch your satchel and follow after me."

Amazed, he stood. "To what end?" he demanded. "I assure you I am in my proper place."

She too seemed to be suffering from new agitation. "What is proper for you and what isn't is for us to decide. I want these chambers cleared—"

"You have no right—"

Both their voices were rising, their anger, if nothing else, drawing them together. "No right!" she echoed. "May I remind you that I am mistress here, you the intruder. Any and all discussion of what is right will emanate from me."

They were standing so close he could see nerves quivering around the corners of her eyes. Again, silence fell between them. Weary after the two-day journey from London, John unfortunately lapsed into a childlike stubbornness. "What if I refuse to obey you?" he challenged.

Taken aback by such impudence, she responded in kind. "Then I shall summon two watchmen and have you bodily removed."

He met the threat. "Then I'm afraid that's what you must do, for I have no intention of leaving chambers that are rightfully mine."

He thought that he had called her bluff. But within the moment she marshaled new strength, moved through the opened door and merely lifted a hand, a magic hand apparently, for within the instant he heard heavy boots moving from the far end of the corridor, drawing nearer.

A moment later two burly watchmen appeared, no expression at all on their faces save an eagerness to do their mistress's bidding. In a voice so cold as to deny all female qualities, she commanded, "Escort him below."

Then the two were moving toward him, their immense shadows falling over his face. Well, he decided, might as well go with grace. But as the first coarse hand clamped itself on his shoulder, all pretense slipped from him and he shook off the hand, eager to do battle with them.

They too seemed surprised by such foolhardiness, and for a moment the confrontation held, he backing slowly away into the dead end of the room itself, the two giants stalking him.

"Come, pup." One smiled toothlessly. "These here is gintleman's chambers. Pups gits special kennels—"

"Don't harm him," she called out, something desperate in her tone, as though she regretted having set certain forces in motion.

But too late. As one Goliath reached out for him, the second merely stepped forward and most effectively blocked his escape route. He felt a massive arm go around his waist and lift him effortlessly off his feet.

Something vaulted within him. The smell of the two encapturing him, the look of brutal delight on their faces, and perhaps an awareness of his own helpless position, all these things conspired against him, and suddenly he commenced flailing, his fist moving down to his captor's groin and delivering an effective blow to that spongy area. Within the instant he heard the man wail and felt the viselike grip around his waist slacken, and in the next moment he was free and darted away from the pursuit of the second watchman, and in a blur caught a glimpse of the lady's face, her hand pressed to her mouth.

It was only a matter of time. He knew it and they knew it. Still he gave a good show for several minutes, inflicting minor pain on first one, then the other.

Then it was over. Outraged as though by a flea, the two giants drove him back into the far corner, effortlessly pinned his arms and delivered two blows, one to his midsection, which caused him to crumple forward, and one to his jaw, which sent him reeling backward into a painful collision with the stone wall.

For several moments those shadowy chambers whirled about him. Far off in the distance he heard a woman's scream, as though at last she'd undone herself as well as him. His last conscious thought as he slid down the wall was for his father.

"I'm home, Papa . . ."

Then there was only blackness and silence, except for that soft sobbing which seemed very close now and which interrupted itself only long enough to whisper a name.

"Edward . . ."

"I said not to harm him," she cried, cradling the young boy's head, despising the two gargoyle faces which stared down on her.

"He was a handful, milady," one muttered, still rubbing his side where apparently a sharp elbow had found its mark.

"What is your wish now, milady?" the second watchman asked.

Still she held the lifeless head. What was her wish? Without giving her thoughts a chance to take shape, she again bent low and with the hem of her dress tried to stanch the slight flow of blood slipping from the side of his mouth.

In the silence, with the two watchmen gaping down on her, she was aware that they were about to be joined by a third. Moments before she heard his actual footsteps, she sensed him.

Then he was upon them, causing a small congestion in the door as the two watchmen rushed to pay their respects.

"My lord . . ." They bowed in tandem.

"James," she murmured, moving out of the shadows. "He . . . resisted," she began and finished, feeling that it was an adequate explanation for the sprawled youth still lying in the corner.

But James, apparently confounded by it all, merely sidestepped the watchmen, and as though nothing had been said, asked, "What happened?"

She looked up at her husband, amazed, as she always was when she first caught sight of him after even a brief separation, that she was bound to this man for life.

"It's as I said," she repeated, helpless to alter the edge on her voice. "I explained our dilemma, asked him courteously to quit these chambers, and he. . . resisted."

Now on her husband's face she saw a surprising look of remorse. As though for his own edification, he stepped toward the boy and encircled him, a cautious examination. "It could be a young Edward . . ."

"Then why," she implored, "did you ask me to remove him to the servants' hall?"

"It was as much your judgment as mine," he countered defensively. "You said we needed proof and I agreed."

She couldn't even look at him now, not with Edward's face still before her only a short distance away. Refusing to have any further hand in it, she walked the distance to the windows and took comfort in the chill night. Finally she heard James address the watchmen. "As long as you've knocked him senseless, you might as well deliver him to the proper quarters."

As the watchmen lifted the boy and left the room, she was

tempted to follow after them, but James was at her side. "Now, what happened?"

Again she moved to put distance between them. "It's as I said, James," she repeated herself for the third time. "I found him here, quite willing and eager to settle in. Richard was with him," she added.

Now James became peculiarly adamant. "I want Richard to have nothing to do with him."

Amused at his foolish sentiment, she smiled. "They are boys, James. It's natural that they should seek each other's company."

"Boys!" he exclaimed. "That was no boy I saw downstairs. He charged in here with the aggressiveness of a man. And neither was that a boy," he added, "I saw sprawled in the corner."

No, she thought, amazed that at last they agreed on something. Beneath the hem of her gown, her toe found the substance of the satchel. Strange, the fascination she felt suddenly for that crude rain-dampened luggage. "Well, it's done with for a while," she said with dispatch.

"And what brought about the blows?"

She looked at him, trying hard to be civil in the face of his dense-ness. "Obviously he felt that he belongs here."

"And what if he does?"

"Then of course he will be allowed to stay."

"In what capacity?"

Was the man totally dense? Didn't he realize that he was posing questions to which she had no answers? Still bewildered by the agitation she felt within her, she tried again to send him on his way. "Why don't we deal with each problem as it arises?" she counseled quietly. "For now, may I make a suggestion?"

"Please do."

At times his submissiveness was a joy. "Why don't you go immediately to your writing bureau and compose a letter to Mr. Morley Johnson in London. Tell him precisely what has happened and tell him that we desire a complete investigation."

"If you wish . . ."

"One thing more, James. Tell Mr. Johnson that we are most interested in the identity of the boy's mother."

Here James laughed. "That may prove too much of a search even for Morley Johnson," he commented. "He might be well advised to start among the prostitutes in St. James Park, or else with that piece of damaged goods who delivered the boy to us."

"No," she replied quickly. "The boy swears she is not his mother."

Surprised, James looked up. "You've already questioned him?"

"Briefly."

"And what did he say?"

Annoyance surfaced. "That the woman driving the wagon was not his mother," she repeated.

Still the denseness persisted. "Did he say who his mother was?"

"James, if he had said that, would I now be asking you to write to Morley Johnson?"

"All right," he said, lifting both his hands as though to stay her anger. As he started toward the door, he muttered, "I knew this would happen. Someone always had to pay for Edward's profligacy. It strikes me as unfair that it is the innocent who always have to do the paying."

"You've been asked to pay nothing yet," she said in an attempt to soothe. "Go ahead and write to Johnson. He'll know what to do."

From the door he looked back. "Aren't you coming?"

"No, you go along. I'll restore the chamber and join you shortly."

"What's to restore? The boy was only here for a—"

"James, please . . ." Over the lamplight she tried not to see his face and failed. "Look about," she said, and as she gestured, she saw for the first time the strewn garments on the floor near the wardrobe. A little surprised, she looked again.

Now James saw them as well. "Why would he do that?" he puzzled, stepping back into the room. "Those are Edward's. Why would he. . . ?"

Suddenly, in her deep need for privacy she felt a residue of weakness sweep over her. The stone floor beneath her feet seemed to waver. She reached quickly out for the table and would have collapsed again had it not been for James.

He escorted her to a near chair, lightly scolding. "You must lie down. The day has been a strain on—"

"I'm fine," she murmured, and saw him still hovering over her, one hand stroking her shoulder as though she were a pet. "Please leave me," she whispered, too exhausted for anything but the truth.

"I won't," he announced in a witless display of husbandly concern. "This room is chill. Come. You need the warmth of a fire." He knelt before her, his voice falling very low. "Let me assist you to your chambers." One hand was now on her upper leg, a shy quality in his voice. "We'll send the maids to the kitchen. Then I'll warm you."

She bent slightly forward, as though a new weight had just fallen

upon her. It had been weeks since he'd made such a request. She had hoped that he had found a cooperative serving maid or two to accommodate his needs.

"Did you hear me?" he whispered. Then, as though he sensed her unspoken objections, he reminded her, "I do have rights, you know."

She felt as though a huge animal were crouching at her feet. He did have rights and she her duty. Perhaps if she were fortunate he would impregnate her and she would be spared her duty for another year.

Now, as the recently mentioned whores in St. James Park surely struck bargains with their clients, Harriet struck a bargain with her husband. "Go and write to Mr. Johnson, and give me an interval of privacy. I'll meet you in my chambers in an hour."

Still incapable of looking at him, she waited for his reply. Even if he agreed, she'd have to hurry. Three brandies dulled the sensations, but she must consume them quickly for them to take effect.

"One hour," he whispered finally, both hands grasping her upper legs.

Then at last, as though aware that he must function on her terms or not at all, he left the room.

Now slowly she moved forward to face her true ordeal, the presence of the young boy with Edward's face, Edward's form and manner. Quickly she skirted the table, her eyes falling immediately on the abandoned satchel. For a moment, conscience stopped her. She had no right to examine its contents.

If he were Edward's son, perhaps the proof would be in that satchel. And perhaps the disproof as well. She wondered which she preferred. She slipped to her knees before the satchel. The single strap fell loose, and with both hands she drew open the luggage. It was too dark where she was kneeling, and hurriedly she rose and carried the satchel to the table, where the lamp was burning brightly.

Her hand moved down and drew forth a shirt, muslin, hand-sewn, a second shirt, identical to the first. Then came a pair of trousers, three belt loops torn, a light jacket, a nightshirt, a small collection of articles of toilet wrapped in white linen, and a soft brushed cap.

All? She tilted the bag toward the lamp and saw a gleam of white, and withdrew a large pamphlet of some sort. In the light of the lamp she read the title, The Great Exhibition—London—1851—The Art Journal Illustrated Catalog of the Industries of All Nations.

She placed the heavy catalog on the table beside the meager collection of garments and plunged her hand into the luggage a final

time. Another book? Hurriedly she withdrew a small white leather Book of Common Prayer. In gold on the cover was stamped the name John Murrey Eden. Inside she found a simple inscription, "With loving devotion on the occasion of your baptism, from your godfather, Daniel Spade."

Daniel Spade. There was a familiar name. Edward's friend, the cause of poor Jennifer's illness.

Again she looked down at the inscription. Edward's sister Jennifer was to have been Mrs. Daniel Spade, but fate and fever intervened, leaving Daniel dead, Jennifer witless. She still spoke of him now and then as though he were due to arrive at any moment and take her away.