The Eden Passion (47 page)

But there was no time for answers. Andrew was upon him, the cold wind ruffling his graying hair, moisture about the comers of his eyes which John suspected had nothing to do with the cold.

It was several moments before the embrace ended. Andrew stepped away first, wiping at his eyes. "I'm sorry." He smiled. "I couldn't believe it when Mr. Brassey said you were following . . ."

Then he spied Willmot, and as the two shook hands warmly, John was brought forcibly back to the reality that was his purpose for standing on this wretched dock. "Ah, Brassey," he said grimly. "And where is the great man?"

"He arrived about a week ago," Andrew replied. "You wouldn't believe it, but there is already a tent city set up in the large valley on the edge of town. His engineers have started blasting, and he was most anxious for your arrival. He said that. . ."

Then obviously he saw Willmot's deteriorating condition and suggested, "Let's get out of here. Brassey sent a carriage. It's not far, if it hasn't been stolen."

With that he commenced to clear a path through the crush of men. Again John lent Willmot a supportive arm and followed after.

Beyond the push of the crowd, John found that they were on a commercial street, a narrow muddy artery from which were being hawked a variety of wares, skewers of lamb cooking over open fires, loaves of flat dark bread, sheep and goats and chickens running through the crowds.

At last, at the top of an incline, John saw a remarkable sight, a small but stolid English carriage, looking out of place in the stinking alley, a large man in civilian clothes in the driver's seat, his whip raised at the ready.

"Any trouble?" Andrew called out as they approached the carriage.

The large man grinned, a good plain English face to match the carriage. "Not to speak of, sir, though a few of the bloody bastards has got new stripes on their hides."

Still trailing a yard or two behind, John saw Willmot slip in the muddy terrain, and ran to his side just as he was starting down, Andrew joining him, the two of them helping him into the carriage.

"Is he ill?" Andrew asked, concerned.

John smiled. "Not seriously. Just a little shipboard celebration."

Willmot confirmed this diagnosis with a low groan.

As Andrew and John assisted him into the carriage, he fell forward, holding his head, occupying the entire seat.

Andrew assessed the problem of limited space and suggested, "Let the driver take him to the tents and he can come back for us."

But John had another idea. "How far is it?"

"A little over a mile."

John called up to the driver. 'Take him on. We'll walk and be along later."

"But you must be exhausted," Andrew protested. "And Mr. Bras-sey said—"

"Brassey can wait." John smiled, relishing the words. "It's been far too long since I've seen you. A few hours' delay won't make that much difference. Come, lead the way to a local spot and let's at least lift one glass together."

At first John saw a strong look of objection on Andrew's face. Then apparently he warmed to the suggestion and lifted a hand to the driver.

With a rattle the carriage started forward. "See him safely delivered," John called out, and the last view he had was of Willmot curled comfortably into the cushions.

As they started at an easy gait down the narrow street, Andrew restored his sealskin cap and John followed suit, drawing on his gloves, as the bitter cold seemed to increase with nightfall. Andrew walked for a few minutes in silence. Then, as though trying to lift himself out of his mood, he said expansively, "Well, I'm afraid I can't offer you either a Childe's or White's," mentioning their two favorite London restaurants. "Actually, the food at the tents is by far the—"

"Oh, come now," John chided, "surely somewhere in this exotic landscape we can at least—"

Andrew nodded, and as they entered the commercial street again, lined now every twenty or so feet with flaring torches, John again saw the ruin in his friend's face, felt his shivering inside the warmth of his heavy coat

"Have you been ill?" John asked, knowing the answer, but wanting specifics.

"A minor wound in the leg," Andrew said, "from a Russian saber, and a not so minor case of dysentery that has sent me to the hospital in Scutari twice."

"Are you well now?" John asked.

Andrew laughed. "I've been granted a reprieve, at least a tempo-

rary one. My commanding officer has assigned me to Mr. Brassey until the railway is completed. Military liaison, I believe they call me.

"Splendid," John said with enthusiasm. "Then we'll have many such evenings, won't we?"

Again Andrew gave him a curious look. "I doubt it. We're in desperate need of the railway, John. Without it, we face certain defeat."

He'd become so earnest. As though just thinking on Brassey had reminded him of certain duties, he sternly added, "I think we had better proceed immediately to the tents. Mr. Brassey gave me strict instructions to bring you—"

"Damn Brassey!" John exploded. "Damn Brassey," he shouted again. Caught between the ruined features of his friend and the projection of the impossible task ahead, he strode past Andrew, ignoring his startled expression, and led the way through the crowded streets of Balaklava as though he knew precisely where he was going.

But of course he didn't. A few steps later, Andrew caught up with him, turned him in the proper direction with a soft apology. "I'm sorry, John. It's just that I'm sick of this place. We must end it soon. So many have died."

Abruptly he broke off. Again John saw the confusion that he'd discerned so often in Andrew's letters, a simple question, obviously still unresolved. What were they doing here? What were any of them doing here?

Lacking an answer, John pulled his collar up about his face in an attempt to block out the stinging cold and walked silently beside Andrew, at least giving the appearance of passive acceptance.

London, St. George Street, March 1855

They have what?" Elizabeth gasped.

She sat up on the velvet settee in her drawing room, certain that the early-morning hour had affected her hearing. Still half-asleep, her hair undone, she clutched her dressing gown and stared disbelieving at Willie Gladstone opposite her. In spite of her shock, it suddenly occurred to her that she'd never seen him at this hour of the day. She'd seen him last night, to be certain, a pleasant evening spent in the manner of old friends, during which she'd expressed concern that Edward Eden's son and Jack Willmot had apparently disappeared from the face of the earth. Time and again she sent her card around to Jack Willmot's address in Warwick Lane, begging for a reconciliation. But she'd received no reply.

Thoughtfully Willie had promised to look into the matter himself. Now here he was, at nine-thirty in the morning, seated before her in her drawing room, delivering this most alarming message.

"I'm afraid it's true," he soothed. "I sent an assistant to Mr. Bras-sey's office first thing this morning. A clerk there confirmed what I suspected. Both Mr. Willmot and Mr. Eden sailed for the war zone the first of January."

For the second time Elizabeth heard the words, and still she couldn't believe them. "The war. . . zone?"

He nodded, then stood and commenced pacing before the fire. "Hysteria," he pronounced angrily. "All of England has gone slightly mad."

His words, instead of soothing, caused great agitation. "Then . . . there's real danger?" she asked.

Abruptly he stopped pacing. "For them," he mused thoughtfully, "perhaps not. After all, they have gone as civilians."

Civilians! Elizabeth didn't understand and said as much, and listened carefully as Willie explained the nature of Brassey's expedition.

All the time Willie talked, Elizabeth heard the words, though at one point her mind wandered to an image of John as a little boy, his abhorrence of violence, how even the sound of a voice raised in anger was capable of unsettling him. Now she simply couldn't imagine him in a "war zone."

"There's really no cause for worry, my dearest," Willie murmured, sitting opposite her again in an attempt to ease her fears. "I know Thomas Brassey well, a man renowned for his kindness and thought-fulness to his men."

She looked up from her memories, wanting desperately to believe him, though now there was another worry. Had John gone off to war in an attempt to escape the pain that she obviously had caused him?

The possibility could not be digested, and she moved away from it, her steps carrying her to the window.

Willie came up behind her, his hands on her shoulders. "But there's good news as well," he said. "According to my assistant, Bras-sey's clerk said that the project was going so well that the entire expedition expected to return to London by April."

She turned to face him, grateful. That was good news. By April. Only a month or so away. Then God grant that he return safely, and that he would answer her card and come to see her. Surely in an atmosphere of calm and reason she might help him to see and understand who she was, and that in no way did it have any effect on her deep love for him, and the deeper love she still held in special reserve for his father.

Edward. At the mere thought of his name and the realization that she had failed his son, her eyes filled with tears, and she saw Willie open his arms to her, and without hesitation she stepped into the embrace. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"No need," he replied.

Still drying her eyes, she said, "It's just that I feel a . . . responsibility to the boy."

"And a deep love," Willie added.

"He's the only son I'll ever know."

As though he sensed that what she needed most was brusque reassurance, he gave it to her. "And he shall be returned safely to you. I

promise it on my name." He guided her back to the fire, his mood altering, his arm still about her waist. "If I could be granted one wish today, it would be to stay here with you."

She heard the wistfulness in his voice and discovered that it matched her own. At least with company she could keep her mind busy and away from war zones. "Then why don't you?" she asked.

"Don't tempt me," he said, moving away. "I'll see you tonight. Now I'm afraid I must go and deal with Little Johnny Russell."

In spite of her disappointment, she recognized both the name and the problem, having heard Willie talk about it at length the night before. A member of the cabinet, Lord John Russell was claiming that the government had no defense against the charges of mismanaging the war and therefore should resign- Willie apparently was in complete agreement with everything except the last, claiming that if the government resigned, Russell would head the new cabinet, and that, for some reason, would be disastrous.

Whatever the outcome, Elizabeth knew that he was fully preoccupied and she had no right to keep him away from Westminster.

"I thank you, Willie," she said, reaching for the bell cord. "At least I know now where John is, and with your word on his safe return, I'm sure the days will pass quickly."

She kissed him farewell and walked with him to the door.

Back in her bedchamber, she moved close to the fire and tried to perceive of John in something called a war zone. He was just a boy. Didn't Willmot realize that, and she was certain now that it had all been Willmot's idea.

But standing before the fire, she was forced to abridge her condemnation of Jack Willmot. Obviously he'd stood by John, perhaps when he'd needed him most, certainly when she'd disappointed him so bitterly.

Remembering that horrible night, she clasped her arms about her, feeling a chill that the fire could not dissipate. Shivering, she turned away and crawled between cold linens.

From the limited perspective of her pillow, she surveyed her grand surroundings, fully aware of what she'd done to climb to this luxurious setting. Could she ever make John understand? She must try, for now it occurred to her that if he didn't understand, she might be compelled to doubt herself.

Out of a morning of grim thoughts, this was the worst, and she turned on her side. Without warning, her eyes fell on the small trunk almost hidden in the corner behind the mahogany wardrobe.

As tears came, she closed her eyes and gave in to her loneliness and regret, and as her grief mounted she buried her face in the pillow and forced herself, in spite of the pain, to take a hard inventory of her deceits, her failings, her emptiness.

Balaklava Highlands, March 1855

Shivering, Jack Willmot lay on his cot beneath three fur rugs in the small tent and decided that compared to the Crimea, Canada had seemed like a tropical clime.

Never had he been so cold, and it was little comfort that everyone felt it as acutely as he did, including John, who had refused even to get undressed for this rest period and who now huddled under his blankets, fully clothed, rereading his last letter from Harrington Hall in Wiltshire.

Since sleep was out of the question, Willmot turned on his side and studied the young man, fully bearded now, looking not so young. There were new lines on his face from squinting at the snow, and new hollows beneath his eyes from too many sleepless nights.

What a vast inner change had taken place in the boy as well, Willmot thought. What pride Willmot always felt when he saw John, on horseback, leading Brassey along the line, pointing out this inefficiency and that need.

Leading Brassey! The incredible words echoed in his head. Yet they were true. Time and again Willmot had seen Brassey seek out John, ask his opinion, listening carefully to his response. Of course there had been violent battles between the two men. In fact, one was raging now, unresolved. But for all the fireworks which erupted from the collision of their strong personalities, Willmot had to admit that never had a Brassey project progressed as efficiently as this one.

With pride Willmot looked at John across the way. How many times Brassey had told Willmot that he'd never encountered so

quick a mind in any man. Of course—and this was a cause of bafflement to Willmot—he'd never heard Brassey make these tributes within earshot of John. Quite the contrary; when the two of them were together, they shouted at each other like bitter enemies, though again Brassey had told Willmot that upon their return to London he was planning to give John a contracting job of his own, only a small project in the Scottish Highlands, but nonetheless an opportunity that could lead to a future, if only the two did not kill each other first.