The Prince of Eden (24 page)

But apparently it was not to be. As she started to rise, he again gave her generous support. He was sorry that she had cooled toward him. And he was doubly sorry that he had been unable to fill her romantic old head with avowals of passionate love. Of course she had yet to meet Harriet. All of his encounters with the young woman in the past had been at cotillions at country house parties, and the fortnight which he'd spent at Hadley Park in Shrewsbury. Now, thinking on the shy, timid, rather stern-appearing girl, he doubted seriously if there was a single impulse in her entire personality which would in all honesty be called passionate.

He laughed openly and placed a loving arm around his mother's shoulder. "Don't worry," he soothed. "It will be a workable marriage. The Powels blood is even bluer than that of the Edens. In the marriage race, Harriet and I are the leftovers. In that respect, we were made for each other. And I promise you that she will make a good wife, and I'll try to be a good husband, and we will both try to give you suitable grandchildren."

The echo of his words sounded right upon his ears, the dutiful son giving his mother all the reassurance he was capable of giving her.

Therefore he was a little surprised and annoyed when she walked away from him without speaking, moving slowly down the long promenade which led, a distance away, back to the stone bench and the family graveyard.

"Will you lunch with me, Mother?" he called after her, remembering how in the past it had pleased her when he would forego luncheon with the Cranfords and dine with her instead.

But obviously it meant less than nothing to her today as she continued down the long walkway, her head bowed, as though, inexplicably, she was weeping again.

"Shall I accompany you, Mother?" he called again.

No answer.

"You've mourned long enough, you know," he shouted. "Please return with me to the castle—^'

But still she continued on, a small figure growing smaller. He continued to watch her and thought again of Sophia's warning: "She's growing quite senseless."

Although the thought was ugly, it occurred to him that he'd rather see her dead than mindless.

Weary now of watching her, he turned away and started back toward the castle gates.

He increased his step until he was running. He was in sore need of the Cranfords' company, the only two people within the realm of his society who looked upon him with proper deference and respect, who considerately reminded him daily of who he was and what was rightfully his ...

By the light of a single candle, Jennifer Eden carefully folded the last of her garments, placed them in the valise, and laced it shut. The silence of the school echoed about her. They were all gone, the young girls to friends and families for summer holidays, the teachers, most of them off for seacoast holidays to Bridlington and Whitby, except for herself and the peculiar Miss Bronte, with whom she had shared a silent supper. All during the meal. Miss Bronte had read a book; her head dropped so far over it that her nose had nearly touched it.

Still Jennifer liked her very much. She kept to herself and afforded Jennifer the same right, unlike some of the noisy, nosy, chattering co-teachers.

Now with a rueful smile she sat heavily on the edge of her cot, thinking tonight how much she would have enjoyed some of that chattering female company, thinking how heavy Miss Bronte's silence had been during the meal, giving Jennifer time to dwell with dread on what lay ahead of her.

Slowly she reached for the opened letter resting on the near table. Here was one terror, the letter which had arrived a week ago from Daniel Spade, begging her to come to London before she returned home to Eden Point.

Not only one terror there, but many. Her brother for one. Daniel's letter hinted at an unprecedented deterioration without listing any specific cause. Not that Jennifer needed any specific listing. She'd read in the last issue of Blackwood's Magazine of William Pitch's death, the

renowned editor of The Bloomsbury Gazetteer. She'd thought then how devastated Edward would be, the closest of all three children to their mother's lover.

Abruptly she sat erect, as though she somehow felt it was her responsibility to serve penance for her mother.

She stood up and took Daniel's letter nearer to the candle. Dear heavens, why had he summoned her? She was in no way equipped to deal with Edward's flagging spirit, and she loathed London with its noise and filth. Lovingly she touched her portfolio of music, packed for the dreaded journey, slightly bulky now as she'd tucked her Bible and Book of Common Prayer on top of her music.

Her hand trembled as she made a mental inventory of what was ahead of her. First, come dawn, the long chill ride in the open gig across the moors to Leeds, where for the first time she would board one of the new railways, the black monster she'd seen from a distance, belching smoke, traveling with the speed of the wind.

Reflexively, her hand crumpled Daniel's letter. Perhaps it would be God's blessing that she not survive such a trip. While she did not particularly look forward to being mangled in a railway accident, it did seem a superior fate to what was ahead of her if she survived and arrived safely at Euston Station in London. For there she would find Edward, her beloved though troubled older brother, involved in an adultery scandal. The Leeds Mercury had been full of accounts of the trial, had covered all aspects of it for the past month, including the ultimate death of the poor young woman.

She stared fixedly forward at the dancing candle. Surely Edward had not been involved. She knew him better than that. He was troubled, but not sinful.

As though Daniel's crumpled letter had suddenly spoken to her, she now looked sharply in that direction. As children, the three of them had played together, exploring every nook and cranny of the North Devon coast until such time as Sophia had put her foot down, claiming that two rough boys were not fit company for a young female. Then they had thrown themselves into an exciting game of cat and mouse, the three of them plotting at every turn to outwit and outmaneuver the stern woman.

And how they had succeeded, Daniel, Edward, and Jenny, climbing to the uppermost regions of Eden Castle, crouching low against the battlements while below in the inner courtyard, old Sophia had cried her lungs out.

Growing unaccountably breathless, she held rigidly still, remembering the two boys, grown young men then, while she lagged behind a mere child. In the spirit of harmless knavery they had asked her once

to lift her petticoats, and in the spirit of the adoring tag-along little sister, she had obliged. At that moment, Sophia Cranford had found them.

Her face in the pale light of the candle now appeared drained of color, as though merely thinking on that certain incident, she'd suffered fresh shock. Her parents had been away as always and, as Miss Cranford had put it, the full burden of punishment descended on her shoulders. The two boys had been turned over to Caleb Cranford and, to this day, Jennifer had no idea what had been their fate. As for herself, she was taken from the nursery against Mrs. Greenbell's protestations and confined to the back room of the Cranfords' private apartments, a small windowless enclosure no larger than a closet. There, Sophia had bound her to a chair, had arranged a wooden crucifix on the table before her, and had forced her to sit for two days, denying her all food, denying her even a chamber pot, forcing her to sit in the filth of her own body waste.

Remembering the ordeal, Jennifer closed her eyes. She remembered as well Sophia's exhortation that she focus on the suffering face of Christ and pray that He remove all future temptation from her. And she remembered the most puzzling moment of all, how at the end of the two-day ordeal, sickened by the stench of her own filth, her hands numb and cold from the cord, her eyes swollen shut from weeping, when her hate for the woman was on the verge of annihilating her, Sophia Cranford had come to release her, had taken her lovingly into her arms, stench and all, and had held her throughout her tears, saying over and over again how much she loved her.

Jennifer, the child, had been incapable of understanding the intricate emotions. All she knew was that that incident had marked the beginning of her deep involvement with Sophia Cranford, who surely loved her more than her mother did. And she also knew that that episode had marked the beginning of her fear of Daniel Spade, and all men who were not either her father or her brothers.

Drained by her memory, she sat again on the edge of the cot.

Without warning, the room went black. The candle had burned out. Frightened as though at an unusual phenomenon, she stared wide-eyed into the blackness.

In the darkness she went rapidly down upon her knees, praying, "Dear God, help me," saying the four simple words over and over again, when without warning, there was a soft knock at the door. Incapable of speech, she held still in her peculiar position and prayed now that the intruder would leave. A moment later, she saw the door pushed open, saw the light of a lamp spilling in.

At first she didn't recognize her in the shadowy darkness. Then she

saw her clearly, Miss Bronte, l^kjpig like a little old woman, peering into the dark. "Are you well, Miss Eden?" Miss Bronte called softly in. "I heard an outcry—"

Struggling for control, Jennifer turned away and tried to wipe the tears from her face.

Though still squinting, the keen-eyed Charlotte apparently saw everything. With an attitude of resolution which belied her thin form, she strode into the room and removed the well-worn Bible from Jennifer's hands. "It isn't Sunday," she said. "How weary God must get, hearing our constant whinings."

Jennifer was on the verge of protesting. But something within responded to the woman's bluntness. With admirable forebearance she permitted the Bible to be taken from her hands, permitted the woman to lift her up and guide her considerately to the edge of the cot. In the splash of lamplight, their eyes met and held. Charlotte's extreme nearsightedness gave the impression that the woman was peering effortlessly into her soul. She recalled the young students saying the same thing, that as Miss Bronte tried to fill their heads with rules of grammar, she was capable of seeing the slightest mischief, even with her back turned.

"Now," Charlotte went on, with an air of dispatch, "I see you are packed. According to Miss Wooler, you are leaving tomorrow for an adventurous day which will include a ride on the railways.'*

Jennifer nodded.

Now curiously, Charlotte seemed ill at ease. She stepped back from the cot and peered shyly about the room. "My only regret," she said, in her funny high-pitched voice, "is that our duties with the students keep us so occupied that even at the end of a solid year together, we do not know each other." The smile broadened, though it still looked awkward on the small pinched features. "To me," she went on, "you are simply Miss Eden, Pianoforte, and coming from behind the closed doors of your classroom, I hear sounds so torturous that, on occasion, I find myself praying for the infirmity of deafness."

In spite of herself, Jennifer smiled. "On occasion I myself use two small pieces of cotton inserted lightly into each ear. Or cork works as well."

"I'll remember it in the future," Charlotte replied.

Jennifer felt the need to say something else. But she could think of nothing. In spite of the welcome distraction, the company of the funny-looking young woman with dry, frizzy hair screwed in tight curls seemed only to remind her of how soon her safe refuge here at Roe Head was coming to an end. Finally in spite of her distress, she mustered, "Will you be going home, Charlotte?"

The woman nodded. "Yes, indeedj K^ brother is coming in the gig for me tomorrow."

"Is it much of a journey?'*

She shook her head. "Less than two hours to Haworth, across the moors."

"Are you looking forward to it?"

Charlotte lowered her head. "Yes, very much. It's always good to see my brother and sisters." She looked up, a strained expression on her face. "It would be pleasant, however, if we could stay here."

Jennifer listened closely. She knew that, unlike herself, Charlotte taught to eat, to survive, that it was her keen sense of duty to her family that made her stand apart in a single-minded drive to excel. But now she readily agreed with Charlotte's sentiment. "I don't want to leave either," she confessed. She lifted her head and drew a shuddering breath, the result of her recent tears. "I hated it here when I first came. Now—" She glanced about. "Now," she concluded, "it seems so—safe."

"Is it so hazardous, your home?" Charlotte inquired softly.

Jennifer nodded. "It is, indeed."

For the moment she had the feeling that the woman might press for more specific details. But she didn't. Instead she slipped comfortably into the abstract. "We assign danger," she said bluntly, as though she were back in her classroom, instructing, "as we assign safety. As a child on the moors, I used to see phantoms in every mist of whirling fog." She shook her head and laughed quietly. "How peculiarly barren I've felt since I grew brave and discovered that there was nothing at the center of those whirling mists."