The Eden Passion (59 page)

gence. The walls and onion domes of the palace loomed over every other structure in Delhi.

As he walked, he ran through in his mind the plan which he'd half-concocted during this interminable trek. He would see Jennings to his mission school. Then he would take his leave this very night. If an oaf like Aldwell could gain access to the palace, he was certain that he could as well. He still had over a hundred pounds left, sewn inside the leg of his trousers. If he needed to offer bribes, the money was there.

Once inside the gates, he remembered specifically Alex Aldwell's direction to the underground treasure house. If all went well, he would retrieve his horse and be across the river by first light. Again, fate and God willing, he could reduce the torturous ten-week walk to a swift three atop the horse. Back in Bombay, he would take his remaining moneys and purchase a ticket on the first sailing ship leaving for Portsmouth.

So engrossed was he in these thoughts that at first he was unaware of Jennings calling to him. "John, this way! Hurry, they have spotted us."

Running to catch up, he saw Jennings waiting for him beside a low whitewashed stone wall. The gate was open and he saw a small courtyard, a proliferation of chickens running loose, and beyond the dust and chickens, he saw a small compound of bungalows, one large one with a broad portico, while stretching out to the left were three smaller cottages.

As John drew near, he saw the emotion in Jennings' face and heard it in his voice as he muttered, "Home!" That was all he said, for at that moment the double doors of the large bungalow flew open and about thirty dark-skinned children ran down the steps, their eyes bright with affection, their arms outstretched. In the next minute Jennings was inundated, laughing and crying all at the same time, his broad arms trying to lift as many children as he could, his hands constantly stretching forward to pat a head or stroke a cheek.

John stepped back out of the turmoil. As the reunion showed no signs of breaking up, John settled wearily on the low stone wall. Gazing over the tops of the children's heads, he saw a new gathering on the steps of the bungalow, several adults, natives in native dress, save one, a dark-eyed, dark-skinned young woman who seemed to be focusing on Jennings with the same degree of adoration displayed by the children.

She was coming slowly down the steps now, her long black skirt

and white shirtwaist reminding John of Harriet on days when she'd visit the kitchen court.

From where John sat she appeared young and very pretty, her dark hair pulled back and fashioned in a knot, a shyness apparent though blending compatibly with her bearing. A little boy accompanied her, five, perhaps six, in native dress, tightly wrapped leggings, white slim jacket.

Intrigued, John continued to watch as step by hesitant step the young woman and the boy approached the circle of children. As far as John could tell, she'd never taken her eyes off Jennings, though he was certain that Jennings had not seen her as yet.

All at once he did. That bending white head suddenly froze in its greetings. Simultaneously John saw the young woman duck her head and draw the boy even closer, as though embarrassed by the intensity of Jennings' gaze.

The peculiar encounter held for several minutes. Then Jennings lifted a hand toward the three Indian women standing on the steps, and within the moment the women were herding the children back into the bungalow.

In an incredibly short time the courtyard was empty save for Jennings and the young woman and the boy.

Would he never greet her? John wondered, feeling an intimacy in the moment, but refusing, out of curiosity, to turn away. At last the old man was moving toward her, one hand outstretched as tentatively he touched her face.

There was a bond between them, of that John was certain. But what sort of bond, he had no idea. He saw a sadness in the young woman's face now, a remarkable face, rich smooth olive complexion, dark eyes, perfectly sculptured nose and cheekbones.

Then the strange nongreeting was over and John saw Jennings scoop up the young boy, who, unlike the other children, seemed ill-at-ease in his arms and within the moment struggled for his freedom and hopped down to the woman, burying his face in her full black skirt.

So engrossing was the encounter that again John was caught unawares as Jennings called to him. "I'm sorry," he apologized.

John smiled, still unable to take his eyes off the young woman, whose beauty increased close at hand.

As though eager to put his blunder to rights, Jennings said to the young woman, "This is John Murrey Eden, Dhari. We passed several enjoyable months together at sea, over endless chess games, and

we've been companions on the road." He looked back at John, as though to confirm his identity. "While not quite brothers, we are, I hope, good friends. Please greet him warmly and make him feel welcome."

He was in no way prepared for her response, one slim hand outstretched in greeting, and a musical, cultivated English voice saying gently, "Mr. Eden. I'm grateful for your fellowship with Reverend Jennings, and I'm certain that you were a source of spiritual strength in his grief."

John gaped. Grief? What grief? He'd witnessed many moods in Jennings, but grief had not been among them. Then he remembered the dead wife, May.

Jennings said almost brusquely, "Well, come. As you can see, Dhari, we're both in sore need of a hot tub. Tonight at dinner we will fill your pretty head with tales beyond your imagination. Won't we, John?"

John did well to nod, and picked up his knapsack and trailed behind as Jennings gave the young woman a spate of instructions having to do with dinner and the children, a brief discussion of menu, and finally, "Take Mr. Eden to May's room, would you, please? See to his needs. I can see to my own."

From where John stood, he thought he saw an objection on her face, but at that moment the little boy, ignored for long enough, made his presence known by a sharp tug on her skirt. Smiling, she caressed the child's head. "This is my son, Mr. Eden. His name is Aslam. He's six and is trying very hard to master your beautiful language."

His mind still splintered by the confusing circumstances, John nodded to the little boy. "Aslam." He smiled and extended his hand to the child. Mother and son! Where and who was the father?

"Go with Dhari, John," Jennings insisted, climbing the steps to the bungalow, for the first time displaying a weariness of both step and mind. John watched until the man had disappeared from sight. What had happened to his incredible endurance? There hadn't been a day on the road when he hadn't outwalked and outtalked John.

"If you're ready, Mr. Eden, I'll take you to Mrs. Jennings' room."

He hurried after her, his eyes struggling to adjust to the shadowy interior after the brightness of sun. As they passed the kitchen, he looked in and saw several of the native staff filling two large copper tubs with steaming water.

"This way, Mr. Eden. Here it is."

And there it was, the dead wife's room, small, though comfortably arranged, with an inviting feather bed covered neatly with a flowered coverlet, one bureau with a well-worn Bible resting atop, one wardrobe, one straight-backed chair beside a small table with a wicker sewing basket, and two large color reproductions, one of Christ at Gethsemane, and the other a likeness of Queen Victoria at her plump stern worst

While John was briefly inspecting the room, he saw the young woman place his knapsack on the bare floor, then lovingly smooth the coverlet, her eyes filled with mourning.

"If it's any comfort, Dhari," John said, "I won't be here long. If there's any other room in which I can simply wash and—"

"Oh, no," she said hurriedly. "Reverend Jennings wants you here, and here you shall stay."

He watched as she continued to move about the room. "Did . . . you know her well? Mrs. Jennings, I mean."

She looked up, her slight frame seemingly inadequate to support her grief. "She saved my life," she said, and could not finish and turned away to the small window which gave a view of the rear courtyard and rows of long clotheslines adorned with what appeared to be hundreds of small white shirts.

John focused on the drying clothes, not certain what kind of comfort he should offer the young woman.

She turned back to him with a smile. "I'm sorry. I've tried for months to prepare myself. She was so ill when they left here. I knew then that I would never see her again." She shook her head, one hand smoothing back a strand of ebony hair. "I am grateful to you for accompanying Reverend Jennings. Rosa said he would not come back if Mrs. Jennings died. Thank you for returning him to us."

Again he had the uneasy feeling that they were talking about two different men. In spite of his fatigue, he longed to change the subject, to make inquiry about where she came from, and how she had mastered English so beautifully, and what precisely was her role in this mission school. But he felt the questions would be inappropriate, and at that moment two Indians appeared in the doorway carrying an enormous copper tub of steaming water between them, and following behind was a woman bearing a stack of linens.

Dhari was transformed into a blur of efficiency, instructing them in native tongue where to place the tub, taking the linens from the woman and turning at last to John with a startling order. "Take off

your clothes. Rosa will wash them and have them pressed in time for dinner."

He hesitated, thinking of the pound notes sewn inside his trousers. "These are beyond restoration." He smiled, indicating the clothes on his back. He handed her the knapsack and a weak explanation. "There's a soiled change in there which could do with some attention, though."

She took the knapsack and handed it to Rosa. Alone, she again ordered, "Take off your clothes," and at the same time drew open the top drawer of the dresser and took out a long-handled scrub brush and a dish of soap.

John counseled himself to be calm. "I've taken up quite enough of your time, Dhari. I'm certain you have other—"

"Don't you want me to scrub your back?" she asked, surprised. "Reverend Jennings would be angry with me if—"

"No," John said as gently as possible, part of his mind censoring the old buzzard for placing such temptation in his path.

"Then there's nothing more I can do to make you comfortable?" she asked from the door.

"You've done enough." He smiled. "A bath, a rest, and I promise to be better company at dinner."

Again she gave him the gift of that remarkable smile. "And I, too," she said. "We'll make it a fete and put all death and grief behind us." The smile faded. "Mrs. Jennings would have wanted it that way."

Then she was gone. Never had he seen such exotic beauty. What were the rules here, he wondered, and should he take them seriously? And why was Mrs. Jennings' bedroom on one side of the bungalow and Reverend Jennings' on the other? And how often had the old man allowed Dhari to scrub his back?

Struggling against his fatigue, he stripped off his foul-smelling clothes, grabbed the brush and soap where she'd left them on the table and sank slowly into the water, his eyes closed in enjoyment.

With his knees raised, he leaned back against the copper tub.

Dhari. A pretty name. Damn the rules! Was it too late to call her back? Even now she might have been wielding the scrub brush.

He was halfway out of the tub, water dripping, when suddenly his eyes lifted to the opposite wall, to the suffering face of Christ.

But it wasn't that. He could deal with that face. It was the other,

the one next to it, the stern flat eyes and fleshy jowls of Queen Victoria that sent him sinking backward into the tub. Oh, God, he was too tired anyway.

The dining room was small, with Spartan furnishings, reminding him of farm cottages at Eden. But that was the only point of recognition. For the rest of it, he felt bewildered and groggy from his heavy nap.

As the woman named Rosa served his plate with a rich red pungent mixture of chicken and vegetables, he looked about the table and thought how helpful it would be if everyone could just manage a degree of consistency.

For instance, there was Dhari seated opposite him at table, her Western dress gone, adorned beautifully in a pale blue silk sari, one shoulder bared, the fabric so fine as to reveal her breasts in perfect outline. Her hair was loosed in a black shimmering cascade which extended below her waist.

Then there was Reverend Jennings, conversely clad in a somber, tightly cut black frock coat, highly polished black boots, and resting beside him on the table, within easy reach, a well-worn dog-eared Bible. In addition to these obvious changes, there was something else as well, a subtle inner change, the light of childlike enthusiasm gone from his eyes. Now he looked old, his graying hair brushed rigidly back, something alarming in the zeal with which he stared ahead as though aware of besetting temptation on either side.

After all plates had been served, John heard Jennings command, "We will bow our heads in prayer."

And they did, Dhari's falling forward as though it had been snapped downward by a cord, and Jennings following suit. As the man intoned, "But when I looked for good, evil came, and when I waited for light, darkness came . . ." John lifted his head just enough to make an attempt to understand where he was.

Four servants, two male, two female, he noticed, were standing near the door with bowed heads. All in native dress, they seemed to be responding to the dismal voice reciting the dismal tale. Job, most likely.

"And we thank thee, O Lord," Jennings prayed, "for our safe return to our children, who need us, and for the companionship of John Murrey Eden. Be with this child of Yours during his stay in Delhi and assist him in finding what he is searching for, peace for his heart, and strength for his soul."

John felt a blush along the edge of his face.

There was a flurry of prayers for everyone; then he heard a muttered "Amen" and the ordeal was over. Rosa broke the silence by placing a basket of brown bread on the table. For the first time, Jennings smiled, reached for the bread and commenced eating.