The Eden Passion (39 page)

At some point in the early-morning hours, a faint rain began to fall. Willmot turned up his collar and buttoned his jacket to the top and watched to see if John would do likewise. He didn't. If he was aware at all of the falling rain, he gave no indication of it.

Looking up into the fine mist, Willmot got his bearings and realized that they weren't too far from his own flat behind St. Paul's in Warwick Lane. It seemed the sensible thing to do, to suggest that they make for those rooms, and if John chose to pass what was left of the night staring into emptiness, then at least he could do so in dry comfort.

With this suggestion in mind, Willmot drew closer and stood over him for a moment, still finding his silence incredibly difficult to penetrate. He'd not thought it possible for the human body to endure such a siege of silence.

Then without warning the young man spoke. "How much did you say Mr. Brassey is worth?" he asked, as though nothing had transpired since their earlier conversation at the Seven Men.

So surprised was he by the sound of the voice and the curious question that it took Willmot a moment to adjust to both. "According ... to rumor," he stammered, "approaching five million."

"And how much did you say he arrived with in London?" the young man asked further.

Again Willmot struggled to answer. "According to his own accounts, less than . . . three shillings—"

He was aware of movement next to him, the young man fishing through his pockets for something and apparently finding it, holding it out before him, palm open.

Willmot looked closer at something shiny in that open palm. A coin of some sort. He leaned closer. A halfpenny.

The young man stepped forward as though on a burst of energy, swinging his satchel. He looked at Willmot and smiled. "I thank you for your company," he said. "And now, if you could direct me to a near boardinghouse, I'd be most appreciative."

"A boardinghouse?"

"I need a place to stay, Mr. Willmot. Obviously I cannot return to the house in Bermondsey, nor can I go back to Eden."

Willmot looked at the boy. "I know of ... no boardinghouse," he faltered. "There's no need anyway. My flat is not far, and there's plenty of room."

The boy looked at him. "I am grateful, and I assure you it will only be temporary." He stepped closer. "You offered once, Mr. Willmot, to introduce me to Brassey. Does that offer still hold?"

"Of . . . course," Willmot stammered again, "as soon as he returns from—"

"Good! Well, then, come. You lead the way for a while and I'll follow." In spite of his words, he strode to the intersection, leading the way, his shoulders back as though drinking in the perfume of an early-summer morning.

Again Willmot shook his head and hurried to catch up. As they started across Southampton Row, the young man drew farther ahead, his stride long and purposeful now. Willmot had never seen such a rapid transformation.

"To the left," Willmot called out as John veered to the right. No longer was he interested in keeping up with him. His own weariness after the long night was beginning to take a toll. Then, too, of greater interest to him was that miraculous resemblance, the way he carried his shoulders, the angle of the stride, the swing of the arms, the daylight on his hair.

But there was a difference, deeper and more profound than mere physical resemblance. And it was his awareness of that difference and his inability to identify it that disturbed Willmot and caused him then to hurry to catch up, as though the young man were an incomprehensible force that must be watched.

Eden Castle, North Devon, January 1853

Though eleven, going on twelve, and considered by all to be still a child, nonetheless Richard was capable of overhearing the whispered conversations of those around him, and assessing the dimensions of that bleak existence which now passed for life at Eden Castle. The trouble was that he understood all aspects of the tragedy. Except one.

On this cold January morning, bent over his desk in the small library, near the warmth of a flickering fire, he leaned over the fine print of Homer's Odyssey and pretended to be reading. But all the while his mind never traveled further than the third-floor corridor above him, that grim place where daily there could be heard voices calling out to his mother. A macabre ritual had been established. The awesome door opened only briefly, late at night, and for one person, Peggy, who was granted quick access for the purpose of serving a simple tray. Then she was banished, and tearfully she had informed all that if anyone tried to enter when she did, her ladyship had vowed to bolt the door forever.

Still everyone tried to talk to her through the closed door. Such a variety of entreaties: Peggy's soft concerned one, Mrs. Swan's pragmatic one, Aggie Fletcher's harsh angry one. And once, some months ago, they'd even enlisted him.

"Talk to her, Richard," Clara Jenkins had instructed. "Tell her that you need her, that Mary needs her, that everyone . . ."

He had obeyed in all respects, had stood outside the ominous door, her daily tray of food and the fresh chamber pot resting near

his feet, aware of the others hovering in the shadows a distance away. He had commenced talking, at first of superficial things: Mary's stomachache, his progress in Latin and French, the new colt. And all the time he'd talked, he'd kept his eye on the door, a continuous prayer running through his mind, "Please, God, let her open it."

But she hadn't.

Suddenly Richard shivered. The small fire was dying, the storm outside the window increasing. His thoughts labored painfully to lift everything that had happened to the light of an ultimate meaning, and while he understood a great deal, there still was one missing link in the chain of understanding.

John.

Why had he left them when they needed him most? Why had he been there one day and gone the next?

John. How he missed him.

"Very well. Enough!" The voice was Herr Snyder's, sharp and drained of patience. "Clearly you have succumbed to self-indulgence, as has everyone else. Oh, I've been watching you. A page hasn't been turned in the last fifteen minutes."

Richard did not look up. Neither did he offer any sort of denial. How could he? Herr Snyder had spoken the truth.

Apparently having received no denial or apology or explanation, Herr Snyder washed his hands of the entire matter. "Then I'll leave you to your own devices," he pronounced, marching toward the door.

From where he sat at his desk near the fire, Richard followed his progress until he disappeared up the stairs, clearly on his way to his second-floor apartment to write more letters of inquiry, searching for new employment.

Upon the instant of his departure, Richard felt a curious splintering of emotions, partly relief to be out from under the weight of those sharp eyes, and partly regret, an awareness that perhaps he needed the anchor of Herr Snyder's iron discipline to keep him from drifting like the other lost vessels in the castle.

Alone in the small library, his sense of relief won out. He would miss Herr Snyder, but he could manage without him. Of late he'd felt a strange impulse to cease exploring other men's minds, and for a while at least, explore his own. Now he would have freedom in which he could pursue to his heart's content the massive old fifteenth-century Bible which was chained to the pulpit in the chapel.

He loved the Parables best, the Prodigal Son, the Coat of Many Colors, Daniel and the Lions. All these tales transfigured the world and expanded his temporal boundaries.

Thinking on his place of refuge, he closed the volume of Homer. In a surge of excitement he stood. Then he was moving across the Great Hall to the steps.

He increased his pace and was well on his way to the safety and warmth of the chapel when at the top of the third-floor landing he heard a voice, a familiar one, though the words were unfamiliar.

In spite of the instinct which warned him not to stop, he stopped and pulled his jacket up about his neck. Suffering from that unfortunate faculty of comprehending everything and feeling its nature in an instant, he turned toward the distant voice. It was Peggy. Forbidden to speak a word to his mother at night she was holding her conversation with the door early today. Drawn forward by grim curiosity, Richard glanced down the corridor and saw her seated upright upon the floor, a piece of newsprint in her hands, laboriously reading.

"It's the Russian influence at Const-ant-i-nople, my lady, that might cause the war. What with Napol-e-on inclining toward military ventures for prest-ige, and the Czar interfering as always in everything, England will soon be drawn into the conflict. . ."

Richard closed his eyes, feeling ill. Apparently Peggy was determined to involve his mother in the foolish affairs of the world, whether she wanted to be involved or not.

"I hope all that war talk makes sense to you, my lady," she said, looking up at the door, "because I assure you it makes no sense to me."

From where Richard stood near the end of the corridor, he saw Peggy draw her cloak more tightly about her and turn the page of newsprint. "Let's find a happier item, my lady, shall we? Ah, here, the Queen and her Albert are at Osborne for a brief holiday. And here's a darling sketch of the little princess, my lady, quite a plump cherub, she is. How I wish that you could see it."

Suddenly she broke off, her head lifting regretfully to the door. "I'm ... so sorry, my lady," she said, her voice breaking.

The poor woman leaned forward, her hands pressed against the cold unresponding barrier, openly crying. "I can't bear the thought of you imprisoned like this, my lady," she sobbed. "Whatever you done, or didn't do, it's a loving God that looks down upon you. He wouldn't want you to do this for His sake."

Abruptly Richard stepped back. He didn't want to hear any more. There was nothing he could do about anything. If Peggy chose to talk with a locked door, that was her business.

As for himself, it hurt too much, even to watch from a distance, and sharply he turned and started running through the corridors. Out of the turmoil of a thousand contours gradually emerged the features of his mother as they had appeared to him before she'd done the damage.

Oh, dear Christ, how he missed her and wanted her, and he ran toward the chapel in sore need of refuge, sobbing like a child.

London, March 29,1854

Though usually punctual, this morning John slipped behind his desk in the outer office of Peto, Betts, and Brassey one hour late and mildly hung over.

At the far end of the high-ceilinged room he saw the other clerks huddled about Andrew's desk in close examination of something.

Well, there was a break. Perhaps no one had noticed his late arrival. Weary at eight-thirty in the morning and breathless from his high-speed sprint up three flights of stairs, he opened his portfolio to a scattering of papers, the report which Brassey had assigned him to make over a month ago: Laissez-Faire and the Development of British Industry.

He would never survive this day. Still he scattered the papers about, determined at least to give the appearance of working. At the end of the long room, Andrew's voice rose above the others in a single exclamation. "What sport it would be. . ."

Slowly John looked up. He squinted down the length of the dimly lit room. Quickly he glanced behind toward Mr. Brasse/s closed door. The cat was either busy or away. Again he tried to overhear the specifics of the conversation coming from the opposite end of the room. But he could hear nothing clearly, and the sight of those "fellow prisoners" simply served to deepen his depression, and with newly sinking spirits he glanced about at the cold gray office which once, or so he'd hoped, would be the door to his future.

Door to anonymity, more likely, he brooded. He should have followed his instincts months ago and departed for India. Even now

the only respite he had from this mind-dulling work was an occasional excursion to the docks, where he'd watch the giant sailing ships arrive, the Indian porters grinning down at him as though trying to lure him on board.

But no. He'd decided that Willmot's contact with Thomas Bras-sey would be more promising. Promising! For fourteen months he had been "one of ten" clerks, filing letters, copying graphs, running witless errands that a child might do as well. Oh, the pay was adequate, no more. It enabled him to pay Jack Willmot a few shillings a week for sharing his flat, though each time John paid him, Willmot insisted it wasn't necessary. And it enabled him as well to slip five shillings a week into old Mrs. Pendar's apron pocket, a generous payment for her housekeeping duties and for the hot meals she delivered to their second-floor flat. As for the rest of his salary, it was sufficient to cover his nightly drinking.

Slowly he pushed back in his chair, his head tilted upward. He must watch himself this morning. He knew the price he always paid for dissipation. Normally in the mind-numbing activities of the day, and the feverish activity of the night, he could successfully hold memory at bay. But in certain transitional periods, like now. . .

Eden.

One word, capable of undoing him, and he leaned forward across the desk, cradling his head in his hands.

Her.

There was another word, one her out of a world of hers. Was she still alive?

Beneath his hands, he stared, eyes blurred, at the column of figures which Mr. Brassey had given him the night before. They were to be tabulated, copied in triplicate, the papers on Mr. Brasse/s desk first thing this morning.

"John! There you are!"

The voice was eager and warm and belonged to Andrew Rhoades. Grateful for the reprieve, John looked up, aware that he'd been discovered. The lot of them, headed by Andrew, were now moving toward him, their faces, to the man, alive with some new enthusiasm.

And to the man, John had ignored them for over fourteen months for the ciphers that they were, all except Andrew, and there was a special bond, or more accurately, a two-edged knife which cut both ways, simultaneously attracting John, then repelling him, for at their introduction and upon hearing the name of Eden, Andrew had gaped, claiming surely it wasn't possible that John Murrey Eden was