The Eden Passion (63 page)

John blinked, thinking that his vision was deceiving him again. No man could be that obese and still move. A moment later, he saw Jennings get to his feet with Dhari's help and confront the enormous man with admirable Christian kindness.

"Oh, God hears us, Reggie, make no mistake about that. Blame not the world that your eyes are blind, your ears deaf—"

"Hell," the big man snorted. He gave a little laugh of derision and for the first time looked toward John and the bed. "Good lord," he gasped. He pushed through the door with some effort and gazed in red-faced amazement down upon John. "Are . . . you awake?" he whispered.

"Only a short time," Dhari said, coming up on the other side of the bed. She looked so pleased at his return to the living. The other two looked simply amazed.

"Well, good lord," the fat man marveled, his fleshy hands out-reaching.

Suffering no desire to be touched by the man, John tried to pull away.

"It's all right, Mr. Eden." Dhari smiled. "This is Dr. Taylor from the British Cantonment. He's cared for you from the beginning."

"Get these damn things away," the man shouted, and John opened his eyes in time to see two Indian servants rush into the room, each lifting what appeared to be sandbags from either side of his head.

'There, that's better," Taylor muttered. "Well, I'm pleased to inform you, Mr. Eden, that you are alive, though according to all the rules of medical science, you should not be." He leaned closer, displaying yellowing teeth. "Have you ever cracked a good English wal-

nut, Mr. Eden, and observed the manner in which there is always one central split with small ruptures running out on either side? Well, that was your skull a month ago, sorry to say."

John listened, holding his head very still now.

"I've never seen anything like it," the doctor marveled. Suddenly there was a new look of alarm on his face. "You're not addled, are you?" he asked sharply. "Or simple-minded?"

He pulled himself out of the chair, a laborious process which left him panting, and pulled back one of John's eyelids. "What's your name?" he demanded.

"John Murrey Eden."

"How many fingers?"

John looked up at the fat hand. "Three."

"Where are you?"

"Delhi."

"Who is on the throne of England?"

"Victoria."

"Who is the consort?"

"Albert."

"How many royal children?"

John hesitated. The old doctor grinned down on him. "Oh, never mind. I couldn't answer that one myself. The royal womb is fertile, even if the royal brain is not."

He beamed at John, then leaned close, as though for a confidence. "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what you were doing inside the palace walls, would you?"

John decided to feign that obstinate egoism peculiar to sick persons. He said nothing.

The doctor smiled. "No, I didn't think you would. I would advise against further adventure, however. Another blow like that and someone will be able to pick the sweetmeats of your brain."

As the old man leaned forward, John was aware for the first time that his head was heavily bandaged. He felt the pull this way and that as the man unwrapped the dressing, was aware of Dhari watching, her lovely dark eyes filled with concern.

As the last bandage fell away, he saw the expression on her face and needed no mirror. The doctor confirmed the worst. "You're going to carry quite a scar on your forehead, Mr. Eden, for the rest of your life. You can tell all it's a battle wound. Choose your own battle. It makes no difference."

As he commenced rewrapping the bandage, he asked considerately,

"Are you feeling any discomfort? I have innumerable elixirs in my bag in the carriage, designed to numb the senses."

John muttered, "No," then, because it was beginning to bother him, added, "I. . . can't see very clearly."

The man exploded with a hearty laugh. "No damn surprise. Your eyes probably rattled about like marbles during the assault. I think they'll clear, though. Don't overwork them, and draw that damn blind."

As he pointed toward the small window on the far wall, Dhari lowered the blind.

In spite of his initial aversion to the man, John was beginning to soften toward him. "Thank you," he began weakly, and was immediately relieved of the need to say anything else.

"Don't thank me," the doctor snapped. "You'll pay before you're done by coming to Sunday dinner as soon as you're able. My wife adores young men, particularly prime specimens such as yourself. I try to deliver as many as I can to her. For myself, as you can see, a conventional marital bed no longer suffices."

John looked about at the other faces around the bed, wondering if any were embarrassed or offended by the man's bluntness. Apparently not.

"So, Sunday lunch, it is." The man grinned. "Just as soon as you're able. I'll send my carriage for you and introduce you to a bevy of English beauties who will feed on your masculine charms and wear you out in the process. So, get your cock ready, and I've seen it, and a gorgeous cock it is, and soon you'll learn why the average Englishman has no desire to return to England."

John felt the heat of new embarrassment on his face, and wondered why no one else displayed the slightest discomfort at the man's crude ways.

Now to Dhari Taylor commanded, "Feed him anything he wants and as much as he wants. The man will need all the strength at his disposal."

John saw the man's watery blue eyes focus on Dhari, moving from her face in an appreciative line to her breasts.

"If you're in a thanksgiving mood, Mr. Eden," he said to John, though not looking at him, "give thanks to that nigger there."

Shocked by the designation, John looked toward Dhari, surprised to find her serenely smiling back at the doctor.

The man was caressing his belly below his waist in a vulgar, sensuous gesture. "They have a magic touch, the niggers do." He smiled,

still devouring Dhari's breasts with his eyes. "And that one hovered over you long after Fraser and I both said give up. Isn't that right, Fraser?"

Jennings nodded. "Correct." He smiled, apparently not offended by anything that had been said the last few minutes. "Dhari has an incredible faith," he went on. "She has sustained me on more than one occasion."

Then the examination was over. From the door the doctor looked back toward the bed. "Welcome to the living, Mr. Eden," he said, his voice suddenly sobered. "Fraser tells me you're a gentleman recently come from the Crimea. Do come to Sunday dinner, and I'll fight off the ladies and keep you all to myself. You've no idea how weary I get of women and niggers and soldiers."

John heard loneliness in the man's voice. "Dr. Taylor?" he called out with effort. "Are you . . . with the military?"

The man looked surprised. "Of course. What did you think? A forty-year veteran I am." A light dawned on his face. "Oh, of course. No, no uniform." He smiled, holding up the tail of his coat. "I outgrew the largest years ago. Besides, none of us are too spit-and-polish in this godforsaken outpost," he added. "And why should we be? We have niggers to do our work for us. Very little is required of an Englishman here, Mr. Eden, except that he devise a way to retain his sanity."

With that, he led the way through the door, Jennings following after him. A few moments later, Rosa appeared with a tray.

Dhari returned to the bed, a bowl in her hand, a spoon lifted toward John's lips. He swallowed several spoonfuls of the rich broth, felt them resting uneasily in his stomach and said, "No more, please."

"You must," she insisted. "Dr. Taylor said you—"

He looked up at her, bewildered by her serene acceptance of everything. "Why did he call you. . .nigger?"

She sat on the edge of the bed. "I am," she said. "At least that's what the British call us. Any flesh darker than theirs is nigger."

"Why don't you object?"

"Why should I? What would it gain me?"

"Does he come here often, Dr. Taylor, I mean?"

"Oh, yes, they're good friends. Dr. Taylor sees to the children once a month. Sometimes Reverend Jennings can pay him. Most of the time he cannot. But he comes anyway. He's a good Christian."

Since there was still an air of bluntness lingering in the small

room, John heard himself speaking bluntly. "The first night I was here/' he began, "I went to the stable to check on my horse—"

"Oh, he's well. The stableboy is taking good care of—"

"And I happened to pass near the rear of the compound. I saw into Jennings' bedroom. . ."

He looked up, afraid he'd said too much. Instead he found her smiling as placidly as ever, a quizzical look on her face as though she was not quite certain of his point.

"I . . . saw you," he went on, "with Jennings. You were . . . bound . . ."

"Loosely, yes," she admitted. "I could have freed myself at any moment." She shook her head as though experiencing a bewilderment of her own. "It brings him pleasure," she murmured, "and it doesn't hurt me."

Apparently she saw the confusion in his face, and with her fingertips commenced stroking his brow. "Is it so wrong to give pleasure?" she asked. "I've been taught since I was a little girl that my only purpose is to bring pleasure."

"Do you . . . love him?"

"Of course," she said without hesitation. "I love all men who possess kind hearts and generous spirits. If it weren't for Reverend Jennings, countless Indian children would be dead now, including myself." Shyly she looked up at him, the beauty of her face so near. "I have been blessed," she began softly, "with the gift of giving pleasure. Why should I withhold it, or deny it, or limit it?"

He had no answer, was capable of giving none. Her hands were moving across his chest, pushing the coverlet down. "How many times," she said, "I've bathed you, and wondered about . . . that." She pointed to the small scar just above his right nipple, an ancient wound which once had fascinated another, a half world away. Thinking on Harriet and his awareness for the first time of his nakedness caused a strange sensation.

"I. . . don't know," he murmured, concerning the scar.

"Of course you do." She laughed. "Children are not born scarred. Someone did that to you, although I can't imagine why."

Her hands continued to stroke his chest as she moved closer, her long black hair falling forward, partially obscuring her face.

It occurred to him that perhaps she should cease. Just then she leaned down and kissed him, a sweet harmless intimacy that stirred him and set him thinking on that distant bedchamber where another had so effortlessly taken control of him.

"Dhari. . ."

He must stop it. There would be no hope for control past a certain point. Still she prostrated herself over him, edging down the side of the bed, her hand covering him.

Upon the instant of intimate contact, he felt a curious lassitude in his arms and legs, as though all the energy and heat in his body had been drawn to one point. He shut his eyes, feeling no need for vision. The sensations were clear.

He felt the skin of his upper legs tighten, felt her lips on him. She was whispering something, but he couldn't hear.

No sooner had she closed her lips about him than the tension crested, and he pressed backward against the pillow, a tremor of vast proportions, reminiscent of Eden and Harriet. Long after the actual moment passed, he felt his eyes fill with tears, thinking on how innocently she had performed, without shame, as though in sequence she had given him food and water and herself, a natural healing progression.

For a moment he fought a silent battle with his pride, remembering what she had said about loving all men.

"How do you know," he began, still not fully recovered, "that I have a kind heart and a generous spirit?"

She laughed, the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. "I think you do," she said simply.

If it had been left to him, he would have been more than content simply to lie beside her for the rest of the evening. He had not dreamed that such effortless satisfaction was possible.

Then she was scrambling off the bed, causing him to look up in alarm. "Don't go," he begged, "please . . ."

"I have duties," she said. "Reverend Jennings needs my help with evening prayers. Sometimes we have quite a large gathering in the evening. The children bring their parents." Again she bestowed on him that warm smile. "What fun it is to see the child instruct the adult in the ways of Christ."

He held her hand a moment longer. Perhaps if he could get her talking again. "Do . . . you really believe in Christ, Dhari?" he asked softly.

She seemed surprised at the question. "Of course I do," she replied, "and so do you, though you won't admit it. You're like Dr. Taylor, perhaps one of God's most blessed children, yet full of denial."

She drew away from his hand and walked to the door. She looked back. "May I ask a favor of you?" she inquired.

"Of course."

"May I bring Aslam in to see you for a moment? He's quite worried about you, has come daily to see you during your long sleep." She looked self-conscious. "He's fascinated by you, by your . . . youth. All he sees here are old men."

"It would be my pleasure." He smiled, drawing the coverlet up.

A moment later the little boy appeared, his dark eyes wide, dressed as John had seen him that first day. "This is Aslam, Mr. Eden," Dhari murmured.

"Aslam," John repeated, and lifted his hand to the boy.

Grinning, the child took it, his dark smooth face a miniature of his mother's. "I was afraid you would never wake up," the boy said soberly. "Everyone said you wouldn't."

"Well, we proved everyone wrong, didn't we?" John said. He saw that the boy was clutching a slim red book in his hands. "What are you reading, Aslam?" he inquired.

"Mr. Shakespeare," the boy said.

John looked up with interest. "And what is your favorite?" he asked.

"This," and proudly the boy thrust the volume forward. "Hamlet" he added. "I like the ghost on the battlement."

Apparently Dhari saw John's increasing fatigue and placed a restraining hand on her eager son. "Not now, Aslam," she counseled. "Come, we're both late for prayers, and Mr. Eden needs to rest."