The Eden Passion (55 page)

He leaned on the railing next to the captain and tried to look suitably sympathetic. He was on the verge of expressing that sympathy when suddenly from the top of the crow's nest he heard a cry. While

he was in the process of looking up, he felt it on his face, a scarcely discernible sensation, little more than a caress. Quickly he looked at the captain, who had felt the same thing and who now stood frozen on the deck as though fearful of making a move.

Again from overhead John heard a faint cry from the crow's nest. Behind him on the broad deck he saw the seamen begin to stir, a few raising a tentative hand to the air as though testing.

As the tension about him increased, John had the feeling that he was standing in the center of a slowly whirling vortex. The ship began to rock, ever so gently, and looking out at the harbor, he saw a small white froth, some force ruffling the surface, the same force causing the planks beneath his feet to creak.

"Captain," John whispered hopefully.

"Shhh!" Still the taut waiting persisted, trained eyes and ears alert.

Then all at once it came, the cry from the crow's nest which thundered down on all, "wind ho!" and the deck was alive with hundreds of seamen scampering up the main mast, loosening the upper sails without the help of even an elementary platform, clinging to the cobweb rigging like small blue spiders, defying gravity, releasing sail after sail, shouting joyously at each other as the wind caught in the billowing cloth and pulled the ship forward.

So scattered was his attention that John turned in all directions and caught only a glimpse of Captain Desfosses grinning broadly. "Weigh anchor!" the man shouted the length of the deck, and as a heavy metal clanging joined the wind sounds, John felt himself caught up in the excitement.

Overhead the stately sails were now filled to capacity, the magnificent vessel gliding through the green waters. The captain had disappeared, his short legs carrying him in a run to the bridge, where with what must surely be unbearable pride he would navigate his great ship through the harbor and point it toward the Mediterranean.

John grasped the railing and lifted his face to the wind. Below, he saw the steam tugs retreating, several dipping their flags in salute to the sailing ship. Hundreds of dinghies had appeared as if by magic, their oars also raised in salute.

Slowly he leaned forward, never dreaming that such a depth of emotion was possible for a mere wind and a stately sailing ship. Of course there was more to it than that, and he knew it. As the breaking waves and hiss of waters slapped against the side of the Belle Poule, he glanced over his shoulder back toward the green waters of

the Bosporus and the Black Sea beyond. Very softly he told Jack Willmot good-bye, and immediately turned his attention to the passing silhouette of Constantinople.

To his left, over the sprit sail he saw the gray hulk of Scutari and the Barrack Hospital, and he said good-bye to that as well. As the Belle Poule cut swiftly through the waters, he turned his vision toward the Mediterranean and the prolonged journey ahead, first Gibraltar, around the coast of Africa to Free Town, then Luanda, Walvis Bay, the rigors of the passage around the Cape of Good Hope, up the other side to Port Elizabeth, past Malagasy and across the Indian Ocean to Bombay.

He stared downward at the breaking waves. Had there ever in the history of man been a more circuitous route? Considering his only true and ultimate destination, he had to answer himself no.

In spite of the cold cleansing stream of wind and spray, he smelled heather and lavender, and saw across the churning waters of Constantinople harbor a clear silhouette of Eden at sundown, when she was at her loveliest, in black outline against a fiery dusk.

Whatever was ahead of him, of this he was certain. That vision of Eden would be with him, would always sustain him and give him purpose.

London, June 1855

Elizabeth had lost track of the number of times she had written to John and addressed the letters to British Military Headquarters in Balaklava. What she'd not lost track of was the fact that she'd received no answer. In the vacuum caused by his silence, she found herself turning more and more to the comfort of Edward's old trunk, poring over the meager contents as though in search of a voice to end the silence.

Her house was quiet this night, Lord Kimbrough on holiday with his family in Brighton. And to the best of her knowledge, Willie Gladstone was on a hiking holiday in North Wales. She only received these two now in her bedchamber, and while each knew about the other, there appeared to be no resentment. For the rest of the time, her salon was filled with gossiping, chattering gentlemen who, weary of the affairs of state, looked to her to provide them with a relaxed safe setting where they might sip a glass of sherry, exchange a raucous joke.

Now, no one demanded more of her but Lord Kimbrough and Willie Gladstone, and she preferred it that way. She felt a bond of affection for both men, and there were other concerns filling her life now, namely her one consuming passion, which was to locate John, to make amends to him in whatever way was necessary, and to resume a life with him, giving him the support and loyalty she'd given to him as a child. With Willie Gladstone's help, surely they would locate him soon and bring him home safe and sound to her.

For several moments she knelt before the trunk, her hands flat-

tened on top. "Pray God keep him safe," she whispered, and vowed to work overtime during these summer days at the large warehouse near Newport Market, where volunteer women met daily to prepare parcels for the front.

Thus resolved, she turned her attention back to Edward's trunk and with childish delight dragged it out from its hiding place behind the wardrobe and into a position where the lamplight was bright. In a state approaching reverence, she had just lifted the lid when suddenly she heard a sound in the entrance hall below.

Newly alert, she listened, her hand suspended in midair. She'd given Doris the night off and had extinguished the lamps in all her reception rooms. Then she'd locked the front door and had taken refuge in her bedchamber. She was expecting no one.

She heard it again, a discernible step on the stairs, and as her pulse increased, she drew herself slowly up from her seated position. It occurred to her to call out for the identity of the interloper. But at that moment she heard an enormous crash, a splintering of glass and a deep hoarse "Dammit!"

The voice was familiar if the curse was not, and feeling a surge of relief, she was on the verge of calling out his name when suddenly her door burst open and there stood the man himself, his gray cloak hanging limp off one shoulder as his hand massaged his knee.

"Willie!" she gasped, stifling a smile. "You're not hurt, are you? What in the world . . ." In addition to the rather comic appearance of one of England's most prestigious cabinet members rubbing a bruised knee was her own somewhat bewildered state. "I wasn't expecting you," she murmured.

With a smile she urged him, "Come, sit by the lamp and let me examine your wound. You gave me quite a start, you did."

He followed after her, his hand smoothing back his long graying hair. "Why did I startle you?" he asked. "There are only two keys loose, aren't there? Mine and Freddie's? Surely you knew it would be one or the other of us."

Belatedly she remembered. "Of course. You're right. I'm afraid I wasn't thinking clearly."

"Are you sorry," he asked, "that it's me and not Freddie?"

Taken aback by the question, she drew her dressing gown about her and considered restoring Edward's belongings to the trunk. "I'm always delighted to receive you, Willie," she murmured tactfully, "and I miss you sorely when you're gone."

He sat wearily in the comfortable wing chair, his long legs spread

before him, seeing for the first time Edward's belongings scattered about the floor. "If I knew that you spent every night of my absence with a ghost, I'd have no cause to worry."

"You have none now." She smiled and knelt before him, blocking his vision of Edward's trunk. As she settled comfortably between his legs, she lifted one hand to the injured knee and commenced a gentle massage, while he responded by stroking her hair.

"You loved him very much, didn't you?" he asked, a sadness in his voice which she couldn't quite understand.

"He was a remarkable man," she said, and hoped he'd let it go at that.

But he didn't. "How often do you go through his things like this?" he persisted.

"As often as I feel it necessary."

"Does it bring him closer to you?"

"He inhabits me now. He can come no closer," she said. In a way she regretted the direction of the conversation. Edward occupied a portion of her heart which she allowed no other man to enter. "What has brought you to London?" she asked.

"You," he said.

There it was again, that sadness, as though he were facing a dreaded ordeal. "What is it, Willie?" she asked, settling back between his legs.

"I have . . . news, a most difficult message."

Again she heard it, that ominous tone, as though he were trying to warn her of something. Alarmed, she pulled free of his arms. "What message?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I considered sending a letter," he muttered, not looking at her. "But I found the courage to come myself."

A thought was forming in her head which she rejected. "Willie, what is it? Have you received word concerning . . ."

Still she could not speak the name. Then she had no need, for he inclined his head forward, confirming her fears.

"I received the dispatch while I was in Wales," he began, his normally rich voice a monotone. "I'm afraid it's several days old. There was an attack on civilian navvies by a large Russian contingent at a place called Section Three below Sebastopol." His voice broke. "Over two hundred fatalities, and scores wounded, the rail link destroyed by explosives."

As his voice rose, she realized that at some point she'd ceased hearing individual words.

His name is John Murrey Eden and he's my son, she heard Edward say, as clearly as though he were standing beside her.

She looked up into Willie's face. "John . . ."

He nodded. "He was in charge of the crew, along with his friend Jack Willmot. We've not received a complete fatality list, but. . ."

Silence closed about her. She glanced up toward the window, where the moon shone through the mist. Briefly she breathed her fill of stillness. Then someone was calling her name, but she had no idea who. All sense of the room, the house, even her own name vanished. She was cut adrift.

"Elizabeth, please," someone begged close behind her. But the terrible silence continued to encompass her, giving her the impression that she had destroyed something. Again Edward's voice came to her from a distance.

If something happens to me, take care of my son for me. Promise?

Then the voice disappeared, taking all light and warmth and hope with it, leaving her with the sensation of arms about her, trying to support her grief.

Aboard the Belle Poule, First Night Out of Malta

From his table for two near the bulkhead beneath the oil portrait of Louis-Napoleon, John looked apprehensively out over the crowded dining room, his eyes fixed on the far arch through which at any moment would appear the albatross with which he'd been burdened for the duration of this lengthy voyage.

Now look at him, palms sweating, out of sorts, awaiting a man he'd never met, a "cultivated English gentleman," Captain Desfosses had said, "the only other single civilian gentleman besides yourself, Mr. Eden, and with the dining room filled to capacity with officers and their families, would you be so kind as to allow this gentleman to share your table?"

But that was not the worst of it. The worst had come as the sly dapper little French captain had been departing from John's stateroom.

"Fraser Jennings is the gentleman's name," Desfosses had announced. Not until he had been halfway out of the door had he turned back, grinning. "Reverend Fraser Jennings, it is, Mr. Eden. Mercil"

John had called him back, or tried to, but by the time the awful realization had fully swept over him, that he would be taking every meal for the next six months with Reverend Fraser Jennings, it had been too late. The cheeky little French captain was no place in sight.

Reverend Fraser Jennings!

Damn! It wasn't fair, not fair at all, and he was on the verge of leaving his chair and letting his absence speak for itself, when, at

that moment, a most unusual sight appeared in the archway. Now, there was a suitable dinner companion. Why couldn't Desfosses have guided that specimen to John's table, an Indian gentleman clearly, tall, most distinguished-looking in his slim white coat and wrapped leggings, an elegant white turban encasing his head.

So dramatic was his appearance that John noticed others looking up, a hush falling over the once chattering room. Strange, but John did not remember seeing an Indian embark at Malta. Now he leaned up in his chair as the gentleman continued to stand in the arch, as though aware of himself as spectacle.

A moment later John saw Captain Desfosses appear at the gentleman's side. Of course, what else? The scheming captain had kept this prize for himself. His annoyance mounting, John was in the process of looking away when suddenly he saw Desfosses take the Indian gentleman by the arm and point him toward . . .

John sat up. They were heading his way, the Indian carrying himself with great dignity through the crowded tables, both men drawing nearer, until at last they stood directly before John where he sat at the table.

"Ah, Mr. Eden," Desfosses beamed, "allow me to present your dinner companion, the Reverend Fraser Jennings, and, Reverend Jennings, may I present Mr. John Murrey Eden. I'm certain you two gentlemen will. . ."

But John was certain of nothing. As the man inclined his head in a formal Indian greeting, John slowly rose from his chair, his attention drawn to the "Indian's" eyes, as blue as Wedgwood plates, and to the fringe of sandy blond-gray hair which was visible beneath the white turban.