The Eden Passion (75 page)

"I . . . don't believe it," John managed, freeing his hand, recalling the number of times he'd cursed this man during that hot trek across India, recalling at the same time the enormous diamond which Aid-well had kept concealed in the leather pouch about his neck. The memory only heightened the mystery of what Aldwell was doing here, clearly a workman, in workman's clothes.

"What happened, Alex? The last time I saw you, you were a wealthy man."

At first Aldwell seemed at a loss to know what he was talking about. Then a smile lightened his look of confusion. "Oh, that," he said. "Well, I tell you, Eden. I got separated from it three days out of Constantinople. Bloody Turks did it to me. Come up from behind and left a knot on my head the size of the stone itself."

He shook his head. "I was ready to commit murder at first, but I guess some men were meant to be rich, and some weren't, and I'm head of the second group."

John listened sympathetically, detecting a change in the man, less belligerent, less arrogant, his garments speaking of hard times.

Aldwell stepped closer, suffering a question of his own. "Are you applying here as well, Eden?"

John laughed. "No, I'm taking applications."

Puzzled, Aldwell reached inside his coat and withdrew a soiled bit of paper. He read, "John Murrey Firm."

"That's me," John nodded.

"Where's the 'Eden'?"

"Dropped it."

The man looked closely at him. Slowly he stepped back, apparently aware of the new distance between them. "Sorry for the ruckus here," he murmured. "I'll get 'em back in line for you if you wish."

But John had no intention of exploiting his position as employer. They had far too much to talk about. The hiring was over for the

day. He stepped after Aldwell, one hand on his arm. "No, wait here. There'll be no more interviews today. Stay close, though," he added. "I doubt if they'll take too kindly to it."

"Oh, I'll tell 'em for you," Aldwell volunteered. "They're a good lot, really. You want them back there same time tomorrow?"

Grateful and impressed with the man's efficient manner, John watched as Aldwell herded the men out of the door and onto the stoop where the others were waiting. In a booming voice he shouted, "That's all today, mates. Don't leave downhearted, though. Tomorrow is yet ahead, and the gent says to come back then."

Keeping an ear on the activity outside, John looked over at Andrew and saw the look of bewilderment on his face. "I met him in the hospital at Scutari. I never expected to see him again."

"He handles men well."

"Indeed he does."

"I'll leave you two alone," Andrew went on. "I'm certain that Elizabeth and Dhari heard the noise and are concerned."

Alex Aldwell reappeared in the door and closed it behind him. "Done." He grinned. "Though ever' last one of them will be back tomorrow."

John thanked him and motioned for him to come close. "Alex, I would like you to meet my friend and solicitor, Andrew Rhoades."

As Andrew extended his hand, John saw him wince at the strength in the man's grasp. With the intention of sparing him before his arm was pumped off, he suggested kindly, "Alex, go on in by the fire. There's tea there. You look frozen. I'll be with you in a moment," John called after him, "and this time, I have a tale or two to match your own." He dismissed the clerk, sent him home for the night and called up to Andrew, who was just starting up the stairs. "Wait a moment."

As Andrew looked back down, John asked, keeping his voice low, "What do you think?" bobbing his head toward the drawing room, where Alex was waiting.

"He's your friend. You know him better than I do." Andrew looked down on John again, smiling. "I don't know what we would have done today without his assistance." He shook his head as though reliving the brutal moments, then slowly he proceeded up the stairs.

John stood alone in the entrance hall, looking out over the smudged prints left by muddy boots. Still he missed Jack Willmot,

and while he didn't understand the tragedies of the past, he thoroughly understood the needs of the future, and now he lifted his head and felt his spirits follow, and entered the drawing room with the rising optimism of a man who had just found himself one hell of a foreman.

London, August 1859

Andrew sat on the brocade sofa in the sitting room adjoining the bedchamber in John's new town house in Belgravia. His attention was torn between not mussing his new dress blacks and the clock atop the marble mantelpiece, which was devouring the minutes at a rapid pace.

"John, you must hurry," he called out. "I told Elizabeth and Dhari we would be there before nine o'clock."

No answer. There had been no answer for the last half hour, not since John had angrily dismissed his manservant, shouting that he was capable of dressing himself.

Nerves!

Andrew was certain it was nerves. He felt the pressures himself, the opening of the Elizabeth tonight, the thousand and one details which had inundated both of them.

He started to call again, then changed his mind. If he felt the pressure, what must John be feeling? In an attempt to get his mind off the ordeal of waiting, he reached for the latest edition of the Illustrated London Chronicle resting on the low marble table before him. For a moment he bounced it nervously against his knee, not really in the mood to read.

He looked about, taking a pleasing inventory of the richly decorated sitting room, which in reality paled in comparison with the rest of the Belgravia mansion. The move had come six months ago, instigated by no one in particular, but simply a need for more space for John's growing firm, plus the fact, as John had pointed out, the

Belgravia house itself would be a good investment. Also Andrew was certain that living in the mansion that had been built by Thomas Cubitt held great appeal for John, the young master builder displacing the old one, in more ways than one.

For the first time since he'd arrived that evening, Andrew leaned back against the sofa, amused at the quixotic nature of his good friend and business associate, who for the most part thumbed his nose at decorum, and yet who had insisted that for appearance's sake, Dhari and Aslam remain under Elizabeth's roof, though he'd furnished private apartments for each in his new Belgravia house. Now three, sometimes four times a week, Dhari would arrive in her private carriage and pass the night with John, only to be whisked away before dawn back to Elizabeth's house on St. George Street. And John had succeeded in fooling no one, as all the tattlers in London were gossiping about the dark-skinned and curiously silent mistress of its new young master builder.

Aslam was a more frequent visitor, his carriage arriving at nine sharp every morning, when John would escort him up to his apartments, which included a classroom where four tutors were waiting.

On occasion, Elizabeth called in for tea, or dinner, making sound business suggestions, acting as liaison between John and her many and influential friends in Parliament.

Andrew had been relieved when John had established his own household and had given Elizabeth back her drawing room as well as her privacy. In a way, Andrew had suffered most when they had all been confined in the house on St. George Street. Now he was able on almost any evening to avail himself of Elizabeth's company, though frequently he had to wait patiently for Lord Kimbrough to leave.

He smiled, aware of his role as "waiter." No matter. The truth was he was happier, more prosperous than he'd ever dreamed possible. The success of the firm had been nothing short of miraculous. Under John's leadership, they'd scarcely broken ground for the new hotel when he'd launched half a dozen other projects: the new modern dock in St. Katherine's, the large Methodist church in Bloomsbury, and the most profitable of all, the government contract for new barracks near Hyde Park, with the promise of more government involvement to come.

In order to accommodate all this feverish activity, John had set up offices on the street floor of his house in Belgravia, and there was scarcely a night when the lamps did not burn late.

Now all of London, particularly financial London, was keenly aware that a new, young wizard had arrived among them, and through the art of competitive tendering was in the process of driving all his near competitors out of business.

The primary result of all this confusion could be stated in one simple fact. John Murrey Eden was well on his way to becoming one of the richest men in London. A "scrambler," the London Times called him, who was not above undercutting the Archbishop if it meant profit to his stockholders and fiercely loyal crew of five hundred workers.

Thinking on the man now, Andrew opened his eyes and called again, "John? Do you need assistance? Time is passing and we really must . . ." He glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty. They should be in the carriage now. The traffic would be fierce.

"John?" he called again, and still receiving no answer, slapped the folded newspaper against his knee and considered charging into the bedchamber himself. But he changed his mind. The world wouldn't come to an end if they were a few minutes late. On more than one occasion both he and Elizabeth had expressed concern over the pace that John had set for himself.

Every morning for the past year and a half, John's day had commenced at six-thirty and frequently had not come to a halt until well after midnight. There had been no holidays, no respites, and if he wasn't in committee meetings or closeted with an architect, then he could be found on the building site of the moment, chatting with his men, frequently accompanying them in the raucous company of Alex Aldwell to a local pub, where they would lift a pint together.

Elizabeth had called him obsessed and feared for his health. But in Andrew's opinion he was simply a man who at last had found an outlet worthy of his incredible energies.

Eight-forty! In an attempt to quiet his rampaging nerves, he opened the folded newspaper on his lap and read the headline:

THE NEW ELIZABETH AND ITS YOUNG GENIUS.

He blinked and withdrew his spectacles from his pocket. Though the London papers had been filled with accounts of the new hotel for weeks, he'd not seen this one.

He adjusted his specs and lifted the paper toward the lamp and read aloud, full-voiced, in an attempt to penetrate the silence coming from the bedchamber.

" 'The New Elizabeth and Its Young Genius.' Have you read this, John? How's that for a headline?"

Still no response. "Let me read it to you," Andrew called out. "Perhaps it will spur you on to greater speed."

An occasion of note will take place in this city on August 9, 1859, the formal opening of the most elegant hotel to grace London in over two decades.

The New Elizabeth, adjoining Paddington Station, is a marvel of old-world grandeur and modern technology, a grandiose, declamatory structure more like a mountainous work of sculpture than architecture.

Seldom has London seen a public house on the scale of this one. Reminiscent of one of England's Great Houses, it will provide luxury and comfort for the weary who have the purse to match the tariff.

For the opening ball on this coming Saturday evening, the gallery will be filled with twenty thousand crimson roses, and while the invited guests feast on the eighteen-course banquet provided by the artist-chef Laguerre, a full stringed orchestra will perform a concert of Strauss waltzes to aid their digestion and heighten the glories of their surroundings.

Andrew stopped reading with a wry smile. How effortless it all sounded. Who would know the hours, days, months of laborious planning which had taken place prior to this evening? No one but himself and John and the staff of sixty who had been hired specifically to arrange the opening ball.

Andrew looked up, thinking that the effusive journalism might draw John out or at least elicit a response. Unfortunately it did neither, and Andrew read the closing paragraphs, determined to enter the bedchamber at the conclusion of the reading.

But of greater interest to informed London than the hotel itself, which is certain to become a landmark, is the driving creative force behind it, a young man about whom little is known except that he appeared two years ago on the London financial scene, and through methods orthodox and unorthodox is well on his way to becoming the premier master builder in all of London.

Who is he and where he came from, no one knows. But where do any of them come from, those amazing industrial czars? From every rank of society they have come, and royalty

has smiled on them, politicians have cleared their way, and the city has put its money at their disposal. The roll call is impressive: Stephenson, Naysmyth, Brunei, Tangye, Bessemer, Murrey. Consider the Empire Builders, the men who invent, design, organize, contract. When historians look back on our remarkable empire, they will note that during the reign of one of our greatest queens, we also enjoyed an age when kings were common.

Andrew blinked at the newsprint, rather impressed by the unique tribute. He removed his spectacles and wiped at his eyes, and it was while he was thus incapacitated that he heard a familiar deep voice.

"You read very well, Andrew, even when you're reading nonsense."

Thank God! At last. Quickly he looked up, expecting to see a fully dressed John standing before him. Instead he saw the man still in his dressing robe, loosely knotted about the waist, revealing bare legs and feet, his hair mussed as though he'd recently been lying on his bed, a maddening smile on his face.

Andrew started to his feet. "What in the—"

"We must be on guard against believing such rubbish," John went on. "The journalist who wrote that should be drowned in his own ink."

"Damn the journalist!" Andrew exploded. "Why aren't you dressed? It's nine o'clock. The guests, Elizabeth, Dhari all waiting . . ."

But if the man was aware of Andrew's anger, he gave no indication of it. Instead he strolled to the sideboard, lifted the decanter of port, poured a glass, sipped and announced calmly, "I'm not going."

For a moment Andrew had to struggle with the incredible announcement. "Not . . . going?" he repeated, his anger rising along with his nerves. "What do you mean, you're not going? Everyone's expecting you. My God, man, have you lost your senses?"