The Eden Passion (38 page)

Feeling paternal, Willmot tried to project his voice over the din coming from the area of the dart boards. 'Tell me of yourself." He smiled. "Did Eden suit you? Quite a change for a lad between this London and that paradise. Were you warmly received? Not a particularly happy homecoming, I wouldn't imagine, though still. . ."

He broke off, feeling that he was rambling, that little of what he was saying was reaching the ears opposite him. Or if his words were being received, they were being ignored.

In the midst of this small defeat, he glanced sideways into the room. Near the serving bar he spied the young barmaid. She seemed in close huddle with the barkeep, her hand pointing in their direction, the heavyset man's head swirling about and at last bringing them into focus.

Willmot continued to stare at them, bafHed by their interest. He looked back to see if John had noticed that they were being stared at. Apparently the boy hadn't. He continued to sit stiffly, his hands gripping the edge of the bench.

Suddenly, when Willmot least expected it, the boy looked up. "Tell me more about Mr. Brassey, if you will. Everything—'

"Mr. Brassey?" Willmot stammered.

"Yes," John said, "the man you were speaking of earlier, the contractor, I believe you said."

Willmot nodded, not wanting to appear simpleminded. It was just that for the last few minutes Brassey had been very far from his mind. "Mr. Brassey," he repeated, failing to see how that topic could hold much interest for the lad, yet willing to oblige if he could. Stealing a moment to gather his thoughts, he glanced again out over the crowded room. The group at the bar had grown, five or six now, all in a close huddle, all pointing and looking in their direction. What in the... ?

"What do you do for him?" John asked.

"T.

Tm a foreman/' Willmot said. "A professional foreman, the same as when I first met you and your father."

"Were you working for Mr. Brassey then?" John asked.

Willmot laughed. "No, the Crystal Palace wasn't Mr. Brassey's cup of tea, and I'm afraid he still fails to see the practicality of it. No, you'll find Mr. Brassey where there's a job that nobody else wants to do, and where there's money to be made."

If the young man's interest was intense before, now it bordered on obsession. He leaned over the table. "Is he very rich?" he asked.

Again Willmot laughed. "Beyond what either of us will ever know or can imagine. I've heard it rumored—though mind you, it's just a rumor—that his net worth is approaching five million pounds."

"Five . . ." John gasped.

Willmot nodded, pleased by the boy's attention. "He's the best," he went on, "a true gentleman in a field known for its quacks." He leaned closer. "And most remarkable of all"—he grinned—"is that he told me once that he had arrived in London in 1820 with three shillings in his pocket."

For some reason, the large room seemed to have grown quieter. It was possible now to talk at a normal pitch. Was the dart competition over so soon? Generally they were only warming up in the early-evening hours. Well, whatever the cause for the new quiet, Willmot was grateful for it. It meant that they could talk, that perhaps he could establish some bond of trust with the boy. Now generously he offered, "I'd be happy to introduce you to Mr. Brassey when he returns to London. I think you'd like him. He has many qualities not unlike those of your father, quite a . . ."

All at once that blond head bowed.

"John . . . T

As Willmot started to lean forward with a concerned inquiry, he was aware again of the increasing silence coming from the room behind him, as though all activity had ceased and the scattered attentions of some sixty-five or seventy people were now otherwise engaged.

What in the hell was going on? Mildly annoyed, Willmot shifted around on the bench as though to confront the silent starers. He tried to read the expressions on their faces, and from where he sat it seemed as though they were staring, not at him, but at John.

Then, without warning the heavyset, heavy-jowled barkeep was moving toward them through the closely arranged tables, his soiled apron tied tightly over his protruding stomach, his long black hair

catching glints of light as he passed beneath the oil lamps. He was headed their way, and in the last moment of privacy, Willmot whispered, "If we've caused offense, let me do the talking."

While he was still a few feet away, the barkeep ducked his head and commenced wiping his hands on his apron. In an attempt to blunt the man's approach, Willmot swiveled to meet him. "What's the cause of all this?" he called out in good humor. "My friend and I are just passing a quiet hour. If we've caused offense . . "

The barkeep halted in his approach, his massive head wagging back and forth. "Oh, it's not offense you caused, sir, jus' the opposite." Now he gave John a close inspection.

" Tis him," he gasped, "or ... his ghost."

Behind him hovered the little serving maid, clearly the one who had sounded the alarm. "See, I told you so, didn't I now? I said look over there if you want to see a face from the grave."

At that several chairs scraped as others tried to get a closer look. Across from him, Willmot saw the boy, his eyes down, as though the weight of embarrassment was too much to be borne.

Still mystified, Willmot was on the verge of questioning the bar-keep further when behind him at a table not too far removed he heard a gruff voice shout, "Couldn't be him, though^ not the Prince of Eden. We seen him off last spring."

Then Willmot knew. Why hadn't it occurred to him? He had made the same mistake himself a few hours earlier. Coming upon that strong fair face so unexpectedly would test the nerves of a stone. And these folks here in the Seven Men were bound to suffer a painful recognition as they had suffered a painful loss. The passing of the Prince of Eden surely had been like a light extinguished in their lives. Before his death, they had been able to count upon at least one refuge of warmth, one man who had treated them with human dignity.

With a sense of reverence Willmot looked out over the gaping faces, proud to have known such a man. As several more pushed closer, he thought how pleased John must be, receiving this silent tribute to his father. Because words of some sort seemed called for and because clearly John would not be capable of delivering them, Willmot stood and cleared his throat.

"You've made one small mistake, my friends, but an understandable one. This is not Edward Eden, though pray God that he was here. This . . . duplicate as you called him is just that, his son,

John Murrey Eden, a lad as fine and as upright as his father, and I think I can speak for him when I say—"

Suddenly from the young man there came a strong protest. "Not" Willmot only had enough time to look down before the young man rose with such force that the bench clattered backward.

"John . . . ?" But as Willmot's hand moved forward, the boy shot past him, knocking noisily against the partitions, and with his head still bowed, he ran through the crowded room, his hands outreaching as though to clear all obstacles.

For a moment Willmot continued to stand, only vaguely aware of the whispering going on around him. Then he too was moving, running the same obstacle course that John had run, trying to dodge the clutter of tables and the press of people who clearly had a tribute to make and no one to whom to make it.

Once out on the pavement, he noticed that night had fallen, the shadows obscuring the street in all directions. "John?" he called, foolishly thinking the boy might be waiting nearby and would answer.

Then a grim thought occurred to him. Of course, where else would he go but home, to the house three blocks away, to that obscenely luxurious front parlor where Elizabeth was at this moment entertaining her most distinguished client.

No, he thought, and broke into a run. Not until he'd turned the corner did he spy him, about fifty yards ahead and still running. "John, wait. . ." Willmot shouted, knowing he could hear now, but knowing as well that he would not stop or turn back until it was too late.

While he was still a distance away, Willmot saw the elegant carriage still waiting before the house. Was there no warning he could give? To anyone? "John, please wait. . ." he called a final time, and saw the boy take the front steps and push wildly at the door.

Breathing heavily from his sprint, Willmot started to take the three small steps in one, then suddenly changed his mind. Though the door was open, he heard not a sound coming from the room. While he felt a responsibility, perhaps it was not his place to intrude. As he retreated back to the pavement, he wondered if he was acting with prudence or cowardice.

His anxiety increasing, he continued to strain his ears, trying to hear something. To his left he spied a spill of light coming through the incompletely drawn drapes. Disliking what he was about to do, yet doing it anyway, he stepped to one side and with instantaneous

regret saw clearly through the crack a most bizarre tableau, like mannequins in a store window, the man Gladstone seated upon the sofa, the specifics of his features as frozen as the entire room, Elizabeth lying lengthwise, her head in his lap, the obscene white lace dressing gown down about her waist, his hand cupped about one breast.

But worst of all was John, literally a statue, as though upon his rapid entrance he'd collided painfully with an invisible barrier beyond which he could not move.

Still Willmot watched, thinking that someone, anyone, must move and speak soon. It could not persist, the shocked embarrassment coming from the two on the sofa, and the nightmare on the face of the young man. Clearly he'd had no notion of what was going on. None at all.

Then she moved first, though such a slow movement it was, her head lifting from the lap, one hand reaching downward for her garment.

In need of respite from the scene, Willmot closed his eyes. It might have been worse, though he doubted it. If the boy had discovered them in the middle of the act itself, it couldn't have been more obscene.

He noticed that Elizabeth was on her feet, the dressing gown partially restored, her face desolate. "J onn • • • ?" she begged softly, and was not given the opportunity to finish.

Drawing on some mysterious source of strength, the statue moved. Apparently he'd spied his abandoned satchel on the floor near the sideboard. Still moving as though in a trance, he retrieved the satchel and cast a final look at the woman drawing nearer. Some new expression cut through the masklike features, first hurt, then anger, then the plainest of all, accusation. Judgment passed, he stepped backward, and from where Willmot stood, he thought he saw the young man's lips move, a single word, but he couldn't hear, and could only faintly see Elizabeth's reaction. No longer advancing, she stood still, the extended hand slowly withdrawing, her head lifting as though she were having difficulty breathing.

Willmot had seen enough. Should he simply slip away and pretend it had never happened? Or should he remain and attempt to gather all the fragments of Edward Eden's son together and take them to some safe place?

While he was still in the process of making his decision, the young man appeared on the darkened stoop. Willmot looked up. "J onn > I

tried . . ." But as Willmot attempted to explain, John started walking slowly down the street, satchel in hand.

Torn between the disintegration on the pavement and what surely must be matching disintegration taking place inside the house, Will-mot foundered. He looked up at the closed door, half-expecting to see Elizabeth. Why hadn't she called the boy back? Why hadn't she at least made an effort to explain?

"John, wait," he called out, thinking perhaps that they would walk for a while, with Willmot doing the talking, trying to assist him in understanding. Then, in Willmot's opinion, it would be best if the boy returned to Eden. It was where he belonged. Certainly he did not belong here.

Having thus plotted the direction of the immediate future, he drew up alongside John, who had yet to look back and acknowledge his presence in any way. No matter. Willmot did not require acknowledgment, merely a listening ear.

"John, let me-"

But again that one hand lifted in a sharp gesture, as though he needed no help, or if he did, he would ask for it later.

Seeing the gesture and the blond bowed head, Willmot held his tongue and contented himself with merely walking alongside the boy. Perhaps later words would be negotiable.

But they weren't. For the better part of the night, Willmot followed behind him as he walked the streets of London, his head still down.

About midnight Willmot found that they were approaching Oxford Street. The traffic had thinned with the late hour, though an occasional carriage rattled past and several costermongers working late tried to hawk the tail-end of the day's wares.

But nothing, no encounter, no voice, no sound was enough to cause that head to lift in either interest or curiosity. And though an occasional bobby strolling in the late-night hours eyed them with mild suspicion, no one seemed inclined to halt or question them.

So they were free to roam the streets, with John setting both the pace and the direction, a topsy-turvy route as far as Willmot could determine. The only time that John halted his step altogether was at a point midway down Oxford Street, when in a crush of commercial shops and linen establishments he stopped and looked about, as though lost, and finally fastened his attention on one shop front,

clearly new—constructed within the last five years was Willmot's guess.

Standing behind the young man, Willmot followed the direction of his gaze, baffled why this particular shop held such interest for him. He was on the verge of breaking the silence and making inquiry when John volunteered the information himself.

"This was my father's house," he said, his voice so low that Will-mot moved a step closer.

"This?" Willmot puzzled. "It looks . . . newly built."

"The house was destroyed to make way for the shop."

It wasn't condemnation in his voice, merely bewilderment, as though he'd hoped to return and find the house exactly as he'd remembered it.