The Eden Passion (43 page)

John turned back, something ugly in the half-formed accusation. "What is it you're saying?"

Brassey shrugged. "Nothing, only I thought it strange last year when you allowed all your friends to enlist without you."

It had been mere innuendo, but the outline was very clear. "I had no more appetite for war then, Mr. Brassey, than I do now."

"Appetite?" Brassey parroted. "Or inclination?"

The men clustered about the desk had grown silent. "What is it that you're trying to say, Mr. Brassey?"

Again the man shrugged. "Nothing, nothing at all. It's just that in my day . . ."

John had had enough, of everything, of thinly veiled accusations, of allurements, of resistance. There was always the possibility that Brassey had made the offer of first assistant, secure in the knowledge that John would never accept. But of greater importance was the awful weight which seemed to have settled over the room, a weight which was centered in the eyes of the men watching him, specifically in Jack Willmot's eyes, looking at John as though seeing him for the first time, a clear look of disappointment.

In an effort to alter that expression, John announced, "Then I accept your offer, Mr. Brassey, most particularly your promise of profit." Even as he was speaking, the full meaning of what he was saying had yet to settle over him. All he knew was that somehow he must remove the taint of that unspoken accusation, the brand of coward. "I'll join your venture," he went on, anger rising, "and serve you as best as I know how, and expect to be served."

In his growing anger, he was aware of Brassey, a look of satisfaction on his face. The awareness of such a look only fed his outrage. "I still think it's insanity," John went on. "No, worse than insanity," he added. "Perhaps approaching criminal."

Brassey appeared to draw himself up, and in spite of the tension, still he extended a hand to John, his closing advice succinct. "Say your good-byes, then, Eden. Tell the girls they will have to do without your charms for a while. Pack your warmest clothes and meet me on the docks of Portsmouth in a fortnight."

John listened, loathing both the man and the words. There was a new weight in the room now, the weight of defeat. For all of John's rhetoric, Brassey had ultimately defeated him, and he knew it, and Brassey knew it.

Ignoring Brassey's outstretched hand, he grasped the door, feeling relief in escaping from the watching eyes, though still suffering defeat so acutely that he slammed the door behind him with such violence that he felt the vibrations run across the floor, an explosion which he felt certain would be recorded by the man standing victorious on the other side.

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It brought him only small satisfaction, but for the moment it was all he had.

Not until Jack Willmot felt the cramp in his hand did he realize how tightly he'd been gripping the desk. The violence with which John had slammed the door brought him to his senses, and quickly he turned loose of the edge of the desk and massaged his wrist where the muscles were painfully contracting.

What had happened here? Why had Brassey placed John in such a position, then literally run him to ground? And John! Why had he spoken thus, his words sounding dangerously close to treason, particularly with army officers present. And first assistant! Was the young man totally dense and self-absorbed? Had he no conception of what that advancement would mean to him?

As the muscle spasm in his hand relaxed, the tension seemed to move up to his shoulders. Before he could deal with it, he saw Brassey slowly turning away from where he'd faced the closed door for several moments without moving.

"See to him," Brassey instructed Willmot. "In his present state, he will probably drink himself senseless and stumble into the Thames, thus depriving us and the world of his. . . wisdom."

Mockingly spoken, the sentiment provoked laughter from the officers. But from where Willmot stood, he saw no smile on Brassey's face.

"See to him," Brassey commanded again.

Hurriedly Willmot moved to obey, though on his way to the door he stopped, feeling the need to say something. "I'm certain the lad did not mean anything he said, sir," he began.

"Nonsense," Brassey contradicted. "He meant every word of it, and more." Abruptly he drew a noisy breath. "And the damnable thing about it is that he may be right."

From where Willmot stood, he could see the reaction from the officers.

"Go ahead, Willmot," Brassey said almost brusquely. "He's still your charge, at least for a while. Just have him standing upright and sober on the Portsmouth docks in two weeks. Is that clear?"

Willmot did well to nod, for in truth nothing was clear. He closed the door behind him and looked out across the large room in time to see a shoulder, with a coat loosely slung over it, just leaving the room.

"John, wait," he shouted, and knowing that he wouldn't, Willmot

grabbed his own coat and raced after the departing figure, and at last caught up with him on the pavement, where, to Jack's surprise, he saw that night had fallen and a light snow had commenced.

As he drew his coat about him, he observed John standing on the edge of the pavement, angry puffs of fog escaping his mouth, mute evidence of his lingering rage.

Expertly Willmot took in all aspects of the brooding figure. With an experience based on the two years they had shared the same flat, he knew that the best approach to John was a circuitous one. He watched him a moment longer, newly aware of the depths of affection he felt for him. In a very real sense, this was the son that Willmot had never had.

"Come," Willmot urged, taking John's arm. "I propose dinner, a feast if you will, one of Childe's beefsteaks as large as a hindquarter and still smoking from the fire."

"I'm . . . not hungry, Jack . . ." John faltered, head down. "You go ahead. I'll walk a bit."

"John, wait," Willmot called out, and caught up with him only a few steps away. "Please," he urged. "Come with me to Childe's. It will serve no purpose to—"

John smiled. "No cause for alarm. I'm simply following Brassey's advice. Remember? Say your good-byes, he said. Didn't he say that?"

Willmot listened, appalled at how angry the boy still was. He noticed something else, that self-imposed isolation into which he always locked himself when troubled.

A cold wind suddenly gusted in their faces. John turned away. When he looked back, all the walls were intact. "I don't think you'd find it to your liking, where I'm going," he said. "I won't even find it to my own liking," he added, "but I'm going anyway."

"Where would that be?" Willmot inquired.

"I'm going to Bermondsey. I have no one to say my good-byes to, except you, and you apparently will accompany me. So that leaves Elizabeth."

Willmot looked up. This was an unexpected turn. Elizabeth. That name had not been spoken between them for months. To be sure, for a while after John's painful discovery of what she had become, Willmot had tried to help him to understand. But each conversation had always concluded in anger, and ultimately they had made an agreement that her name was never again to be mentioned.

Now John had broken the agreement, and if Bermondsey was indeed his destination, Willmot had sad news for him. But first he had

to make certain that he had understood correctly. "Bermondsey?" he repeated.

"Of course," John said. "I can't leave things between us as they are now, can I? Someone must know where I'm going and care."

Peculiar. Willmot had never heard that before, that hint of self-pity, or was it something else? "Are you so . . . apprehensive, John?" he asked, amazed. "Do you really see potential. . . danger in—"

"Indeed I do," John said, "and I'm amazed at your loyalty to the man."

"Brassey would never engage in any undertaking that might prove potentially harmful to his—"

"Brassey is totally unconcerned with the welfare of anyone but Thomas Brassey."

"That's not true."

"Oh, isn't it? Who will profit if the scheme is successful? Who will the press lionize if that damnable railway is built? Will it be you, or the other foremen, or the navvies who will freeze and be shot at and suffer illness?"

Willmot retreated a step and drew up his collar. "I . . . doubt if we will ever see fighting."

"See it? Did you hear nothing of what was said this afternoon?"

Willmot watched, helpless, as John paced back and forth. Again he tried to reassure him. "Nothing will happen." He smiled. "I give you my word. We will go and do the job for him, as I've done countless jobs all over the world. We'll collect our pay and return to London by spring, richer men, you richer than most."

He stepped closer, still failing to see why the evening wasn't cause for celebration instead of angry exchanges. "My God, John," he said. "Aren't you aware of what happened in that office? Out of all those men, many of whom, like myself, have been with him for years, you were singled out for an opinion, and for advancement. First assistant!" he marveled. "I can think of fifty men who would fall on their knees for such advancement."

"Then seek them out and tell them the job is theirs," John responded coldly.

"I can't do that. Brassey chose you to honor—"

"Or destroy."

If those last words had not been so soberly spoken, they would have been laughingly melodramatic. As it was, Willmot smiled. "Now, why should he want to destroy you, John?"

Newly impressed by the depths of the boy's mood, Willmot had

one last question. "If you feel this . . . strongly, John, why did you agree to go? You're a free agent. It's your right to say no."

For a moment he did not speak. Then all he said was, "I had no choice. In effect he called me a coward. Now I must go and find out if he's right."

From the look on John's face, it was clear that nothing Willmot said could dissuade him from his fears. Apparently he would have to play out the whole ridiculous melodrama, up to and including a "soldier's good-bye."

As John started away, Willmot called after him. "If you insist, let me save you a trip. You won't find Elizabeth in Bermondsey."

John looked back. "I. . . don't understand."

"She's moved."

"Where?"

"If you like, I'll take you there."

Slowly John returned. "How do you know?"

Embarrassed, Willmot shrugged again. "Habit." He smiled. "Since your father's death, I've felt. . . responsible."

Still John stood, his eyes fixed upon Willmot. "Do you love her?"

Willmot had not been expecting so direct a question.

"You do, don't you?"

"I did once." Willmot nodded.

"Is she still. . . ?"

"Oh, indeed, very much so. A peer it was, or so I heard, that purchased her new lodgings for her."

John stared downward at the pavement. "Show me where she is, Willmot."

Resignedly Willmot drew a deep breath. What was the point? She was lost to both of them. With a sense of futility he increased his pace, determinedly leading the way. The sooner they arrived, the sooner they could depart.

About twenty minutes later, the hulking facade of the Admiralty came into view. And beyond that, the Horse Guards, and beyond that the Government Offices. Without breaking speed, he turned into St. George Street, a respectable street inhabited by successful surgeons, a few members of Parliament, and at number seven, Elizabeth.

Not until he'd crossed the narrow street and taken refuge in the shadows near a black iron fence did he look back at John and see the puzzle in that face as he took in the quiet lane and its unspoken wealth and respectability.

"She's . . . here?" he asked, bewildered. "Where?"

Willmot lifted a hand numb with cold and pointed to the house across the way. "Number seven," he said. "She owns it. Some generous gentleman put it in her name."

He might have said more, but slowly John stepped out of the shadows, his attention held by the house. The massive front door was a colorful explosion of stained glass. The lamps were lit in the entry hall. To the right were the heavy drapes of the drawing room. Willmot had never seen inside. The drapes were always closed. But to the left he saw something he'd never seen before, the drapes opened on that room, a dining room, the long table covered with white linen and a glittering array of crystal, while overhead a gold chandelier supporting at least a hundred lit candles shed a bright light on the gentleman at one end, a middle-aged man with graying hair formally dressed in black, and at the opposite end of the table, the woman, scarcely recognizable, her fair hair done up and intertwined with pearls, her gown rose satin, both the lady and gentleman chatting amiably while a maid moved silently about the table.

Willmot watched longingly. How beautiful she looked, how much the "lady" in her new setting. Could one pretend such a look of happiness, and where was the sordid degradation he thought of whenever he thought on her?

The gentleman was saying something now. Then he was on his feet, his hand extending to her. She reached for it and stepped gracefully into his embrace, her head tilted backward to accommodate the force of his passion.

Willmot watched the kiss a moment longer, then turned his attention back to the rigid figure standing on the pavement. "Come, John," he whispered sternly. "We've no right to be here."

But the boy merely shook his head, all of his attention still focused on the window across the street, the kiss ending, the gentleman lifting her into his arms and carrying her out of the room.

Willmot bowed his head, his heart going out to the boy. How could he explain that which he himself did not understand?

For over an hour they stood thus. In the agony of waiting, Willmot had long since ceased to feel the cold. A comforting numbness had set in, which he kept hoping would extend to his brain, or at least to the feeling part of him so that his heart would no longer ache for the young man who had yet to lift his eyes from that darkened second-floor chamber.

When Willmot did not think he could endure a moment longer,

he saw John straighten his shoulders. He seemed to take a final look at that second-floor chamber; then for the first time he turned toward Willmot, his face clearly visible in the spill of light from the near streetlamp, revealing tears which he tried to wipe away with his hands.