The Prince of Eden (37 page)

Fortunately his kiss was passionless and short-lived. He released her and stepped back. "I think we could have a good life together," he said.

She continued to stare forward. Now all that she saw was long white miles and she heard the terrible silence, and still she felt the cold.

How cold it was!

Then she heard another voice, a false, cheery, high-pitched woman's voice. "Ah, there you are, the lovebirds. I trust. Miss Powels, that you will be comfortable here. I know it's isolated, but it makes for quiet sleeping. Out of all the apartments in this wing, I do believe—"

The chirping bird voice of Miss Cranford ceased. VI say, are you well?" she inquired, coming around the table and stopping short by a few feet.

James answered for her. "She's merely tired, Sophia. We've really been very thoughtless, you know. After that long journey—"

Harriet rallied. "He's right," she murmured. "I need a bit of time to-"

"And you shall have it," Miss Cranford insisted generously. "There will be a simple dinner tonight at ten. I shall either come for you myself or send James."

Harriet smiled and tried to look grateful. Apparently her expression satisfied both, for they were moving toward the reception hall now, Sophia reminding her with pride of the system of bells and pointing to a small panel beside the archway. "It's really quite efficient. Your servants are waiting below. All you must do is summon them."

Then, blessedly, Harriet saw the heavy wooden door close. She held still for a moment longer, listening to their retreating footsteps. Then silence.

Gently she reached out and touched the table cautiously as though

she were afraid of breaking something. She tried to breathe deeply and found she was incapable of it.

Then she moved forward into activity, ripped off her gloves, and discovered the sheet of paper which Miss Cranford had given her earlier, the familiar names of her servants corresponding to certain numbers. With trembling hands, she took the chart to the bell panel beside the door and tried to hold it steady, tried to clear her eyes of tears at least to the extent that she could read.

Nelda. That would be her lady's maid, and beside her name, was that a two or a three? And there was Mary, and what was that number? A four? She couldn't see and in frustration lifted her hand and pressed wildly on all the buttons, expecting the sound of a shrill alarm, the desperate need to signal someone for help.

But the buttons merely gave beneath her shaking hands and made no sound. If the alarm was going off somewhere, she couldn't hear it. Help would not come. She was alone in this dreadful place, faced with no options, no alternatives, only the pressing weight of duty.

What was it James had said? The point and purpose of this whole affair. Of course she could go quietly home to Hadley Park and endure the condemnation of her parents and live to full spinsterhood. Her life would be saved, but she would be as dead. A few days, a few years, a lifetime are all the same when you've lost the illusion of your own worth.

Suddenly her head dropped forward against the wall, her forehead resting on the unresponding panel of buttons. The tears ceased. One cried when there was hope.

Her eyes stared unseeing at the floor. Then this was her destination, this narrow cold cell.

Calm. Be calm . . .

During the next few days the procession of carriages passing through the castle gates was endless. Edward watched most of it from his chambers on the third floor through windows which gave a perfect view of the inner courtyard. The hanging lanterns were still in place and supplemented now by banners of all colors bearing the coats of arms of each visiting house. Each carriage seemed to require even more pomp and ritual than the one before it as trumpeteers brought out from Exeter heralded the new arrivals.

It had been like a circus, and Edward had viewed it from a safe distance, through eyes glazed by repeated draughts of opium. He'd taken no part in any of the receptions. The guests were strangers to

him, old friends of his mother's and father's come to witness the ritual of continuity of line. He'd thought that by staying out of sight he was performing a service for the family. Bastardy at best was an embarrassment, something to be kept in the closet, certainly on an occasion such as this.

During his self-imposed confinement, he'd enlisted the aid of his coachman, John Murrey, and had instantly elevated him from coachman to steward. He had given him instructions that he and he alone was to see to all of Edward's needs. Certainly John Murrey knew of Edward's addiction and was not likely to say anything if he found his master lying dazed upon his couch. As long as Edward had to endure confinement at Eden Castle, this was a workable arrangement.

Thus he had passed the days in pleasant oblivion, and now awakened to find dark outside the windows, dramatically broken by the continuous rows of torches along the castle walls. John Murrey was bending over him, his gnarled hands trying to shake him out of his drugged lethargy. Somewhere off in the vast distance he thought he heard music.

"Mr. Eden, sir," John whispered. "Please, sir, wake up."

Reluctantly, Edward lifted his head, trying to oblige the old man and curious, though a little annoyed, to know the nature of his urgency.

Convinced that since his eyes were open, he was capable of hearing words, John Murrey stood back from the bed a respectful distance. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I brought your food—"

Annoyance increasing, Edward shook his head and lay back on the pillow. "No food, John," he muttured. "No food, not now."

"You must, sir," the old man pleaded. "The lady was here, your mother. She wanted to come in, sir, but I wouldn't let her. You were—" He hesitated, at a loss for words to describe the early stages of an opium trance. "You—were not suitable," he concluded.

Edward stared up. Slowly he raised himself again from the pillow. "I'm grateful, John," he muttered.

John Murrey backed away a few steps. "You won't be, sir, when you hear the rest of it," he said ominously. "I told the lady," he began, "that you would come down tonight."

Edward started to protest, but John cut him off. "It was the only way, sir," he pleaded. "She was carrying on like—" He shook his head, still pleading. "Please, sir, just long enough to let her see you.

"I'm sorry, sir," murmured John Murrey, seeing the desolate look on his face. Then stepping forward with a daring which spoke of his own

discomfort, he said, "Don't know why we ever come, sir, beggin' your pardon. Don't belong here. Either of us. Back in London, that's our proper ground, back with the others who don't stand on no ritual. But here-"

He broke off suddenly and with his arms made a massive gesture of rejection. His face grew reflective. "At home in London, Cook's always nice and gentle, saying, 'Here, John, have yourself a cuppa tea,' or 'John, sit while I fetch you a pint.' " A look of genuine sadness covered the lean old face. "And the young 'uns always laughing and shouting, and Mr. Daniel keepin' things in order, yet kind—"

Edward listened carefully to the whole recitation, sharing the old man's homesickness. He steadied himself on the bedpost and joined him where he stood a short distance away. Affectionately he rested his arm on the bent shoulders and promised, "We'll go home soon, John." He stopped short of telling the man that they could not return to London. Not at least for the duration of the summer, that if they didn't pass their exile here, they would have to pass it someplace else.

As though to soften the blow of this unspoken message, he patted John on the shoulder and promised, "I'll dress now, and a bite of food might help." He stood erect as though to make good his vow. "If you said I'll be there, then I'll be there."

It was approaching midnight when at last he stood before the pier glass, shaved, dressed, and mildly fortified with a glass of claret lightly laced with laudanum. It was his intention to be back in his chambers by one o'clock, a perfunctory appearance, undoubtedly designed to display family unity.

"You look fine, sir," smiled John Murrey, making a final adjustment to the black dress jacket.

Edward received the compliment for what it was and turned away from the pier glass. "Help yourself," he said, motioning to the half-filled bottle of claret on the table. Then dreading the ordeal before him, but determined to get it over with, he headed for the door. He stopped and looked back at his chambers, old John Murrey watching anxiously. Grateful for such concern, he promised again, "We'll go home soon, John. Bear with me."

Without hesitation, the old man replied, "I'm always with you, sir. I'd be in my grave now if it weren't for you." He lifted a hand to his forehead as though in salute. "You lead. I'll follow," he grinned, revealing missing teeth.

Edward stared at him, remembering the night he'd found him, half-starved under Westminster Bridge, beaten and left for dead by a gang

of river rats. How changed he was now. Not an excess of flesh, but filled out, a piece of humanity that once had been wreckage. The intensity of Edward's gaze clearly began to cause the old man embarrassment. Quickly Edward averted his eyes and turned to the door. There was a good possibility that he had just turned his back on the choicest company in all of Eden Castle.

He closed the door behind him and moved toward the end of the passage and was just in the process of taking the short hall which led to the landing when he heard voices coming up the stairs, a chattering, anxious procession, mostly female, though he thought he detected the lower registers of a man's voice.

Quickly he drew back into a small alcove. He was not ready yet to face the company, but in a way he was curious as to the nature of this procession. Then he heard Sophia Cranford's voice, unmistakable, like a curse from God. He drew farther back and felt a sort of sullen anger as it occurred to him that perhaps this chattering delegation had been sent to fetch him. He heard the voices clearer now, earnest male voices, both James and Caleb.

"Let us call the physician," he heard Caleb say over the continuous hum.

And then James, "It might be best. One can't be too careful. Fever is rampant—"

Then Sophia's voice, scolding. "Oh, for heaven's sake, James, you'll frighten the girl to death. Fever! I've never heard of anything so ridiculous."

"She just needs to lie down a bit," somebody said. "It was warm below, and—"

They were in the small passageway now, less than ten feet from where Edward hid. He felt stealthy and ridiculous, but any move was out of the question. He relaxed against the cool stone wall, relieved that they had not come for him. No, someone else was the focal point of their attention, someone who was ill, or who had begged off on the pretense of illness.

"Please," he heard a woman whisper. "Go back to the ball, all of you. Miss Cranford is right. I only need a—"

Then he heard Miss Cranford again. "And leave you? The guest of honor? Never. Certainly not. I'll sit with you myself—"

"It isn't necessary—"

"Or James," Sophia suggested. "Yes, James will sit with you."

The pleading voice seemed to grow unduly distraught. "No, please, I beg you. Just an interval alone—"

Then he heard another female voice, younger, timid. "I'll stay with her, ma'am. She'll be right enough, I promise you. Back at Hadley Park, milady always needs a brief respite during entertainments—"

Obviously the prolonged speech from the servant had shocked Sophia into silence. But when Miss Powels confirmed her maid's words with a final, "Please, she's right. Go back to the party, all of you," Edward heard a moment's muddled silence.

"Well, it is warm," Sophia agreed, half-heartedly. "I'll have a pitcher of fresh lavender water sent up."

"It isn't necessary," the young woman said.

James stayed for a final inquiry. "Are you sure?"

"I'm fine," she soothed.

The voice sounded firm and reassuring. The little company broke up, several moving back down the stairs now.

Edward held his position in the alcove. He'd heard footsteps on the stairs. He had yet to hear footsteps moving toward the east wing. Then he heard the maid, her voice concerned, "Come, milady. I'll help—"

"No, you go along as well, Nelda," the young woman insisted. "I need no help. I'll lie down for a moment and if I need you, I'll ring."

"But, milady, I said that I—"

Suddenly the well-modulated voice rose, no longer affable and compliant. "I said go along, Nelda. If I need you for anything, I'll let you know." The voice vibrated with emotion, like a survivor clinging to a single piece of wreckage.

Clearly the servant had not often heard that tone from her mistress and now beat a quick retreat. "Yes, milady," she murmured, her voice fading as she hurried down the passageway.

He heard a light flurry of footsteps on the stairs, then he heard nothing else, though by his estimate there still was someone standing less than ten feet away.

With his head pressed back against the wall of the alcove, he continued to listen. Was she going to stand there all evening?

Then he heard a first tentative step, and something else, a quick inhalation of breath, like a sob.

He heard it again, a second sharp inhalation of breath, a sound of such consummate wretchedness that he threw hazard over and leaned forward. He saw her standing in the center of the passageway, both hands clutching her midsection as though indeed she were ill. He had never witnessed such inarticulate grief, almost childlike in its manifestation.

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His instinct was to speak. But prudence intervened, and he continued to watch as now she made her way slowly down the corridor, the sobs catching in her throat. He followed a discreet distance behind.

Then just as she was approaching the door which led to the guest apartments, she seemed to lean heavily against the wall, her head flung back as though for an instant she'd been unable to draw breath. In one of the most pitiful human sounds he'd ever heard, she moaned, "Oh God, help." Then he saw her slowly collapse against the base of the wall.