The Prince of Eden (41 page)

Sophia spoke with mock consideration. "As it is not a pleasant illness, milady, neither is it a pleasant subject." Now she looked, perplexed, at Marianne. "But surely, milady, it comes as no surprise to you. You, more than any of us, have observed Edward close at hand. Surely you've seen—"

At last Jane found her voice and the will to use it. "Seen what?" she demanded.

"The—symptoms," Sophia replied, casting a wary eye over her shoulder at the stewards, standing rigidly at attention. Now she raised her voice in their direction. "Run along, all of you," she commanded with a brief wave of her hand. "I'll summon you when we're through here."

Marianne watched and listened and felt reduced to the status of guest in her own home. Edward ill? Those two words made a continuous assault on her brain. The stewards had left the room. Why didn't Sophia speak?

Then she did. She turned in her chair, new color on her face, as though her blood were warming to the subject at hand. "The symptoms are clear," she said.

"What symptoms?" Jane demanded.

"The symptoms," Sophia went on, "of an—addict."

For an instant it was as though neither Jane nor Marianne had heard correctly. "A—what?" Jane demanded again.

"An addict," Sophia repeated. "Rather advanced, too, in my opinion," she added. "My sources tell me he requires a considerable amount every day—"

"A considerable amount of what?" Marianne asked.

"Opium," the woman said without hesitation. And when apparently the fog in Marianne's head still did not lift, Sophia said it again, more bluntly than before, "Opium, milady. I fear that your son is an opium addict."

Curiously the words had no effect of real devastation on Marianne for she simply did not believe them. Then too at that precise moment, Jane's toneless laughter rang out over the empty table, a reassuring sound in the face of Sophia's tragic expression.

"Good Lord," Jane gasped, as though in the throes of great amusement. "Laudanum, Sophia? Are you serious? All of England takes laudanum in one form or another. My traveling cases are filled with it. My old London physician prescribes it for a rainy day. Good Lord," she repeated, dabbing at the corners of her eyes, as though still helplessly caught in the throes of amusement. "You make it sound so horrific. Every babe who has ever sucked a mother's tit has partaken of laudanum. William used to say it was what made us such a placid, good-natured people."

Sophia sat up, her face stern, more than ready to meet the challenge. "I beg to disagree with you, Miss Locke. The potions of which you speak are readily available to the general populace. But they are also diluted with other elixirs which render them harmless on the face of it." Marianne listened closely. "But Edward's addiction is of quite a different nature, I fear. He consumes it pure, raw, dissolved in alcohol, and worse, his system now demands it." Her head bowed, her voice fell. "Unfortunately I've had experience with such addiction. In Yorkshire it was a common plague among the miners." She shook her head as though in genuine commiseration. "After prolonged use, their effectiveness as men, indeed as human beings is over. They generally retreat to a den, finding greater solace in their dreams and hallucinations than in God's world around them. And at some point, their pleasures become negative, their cravings savage." She ceased talking and looked directly at Marianne. "Ultimately, of course, it annihilates them," she concluded, a look of triumph on her face.

Marianne felt her heart beating too fast. She had observed something changed in Edward, at times a mysterious weakness which she attributed to fatigue. And she'd noticed too a new gauntness in his usually robust face.

Sophia moved in closer to the table. "I'm truly sorry, milady, to have to be the bearer of these tidings. With God as my witness, I thought you knew. It's common talk in the kitchen."

"Who?" Marianne demanded, still not willing to believe and not totally willing to disbelieve.

"Edward's manservant," Sophia replied without hesitation. "John Murrey, I believe, is his name. He supplies him, then sits with him through the horrible affliction." Sophia sat back, as though delivered. Slowly she shook her head. "Surely, milady, if you've not been

bewildered by young Lady Powels's absence, you cannot have failed to have noticed your son's absence as well."

In the throes of distress, Marianne looked about at the ctuttered table. She was unable still to face the truth of what she'd been told. That Edward had indulged, she had no doubt. But an addict?

Now she noticed Jane maintaining a strange silence, as though she too was involved in putting pieces of the puzzle together. But looming large was one predominant horror—how vulnerable Edward would be now to the assaults of James and the Cranfords. What a simple case, the legitimate second son contesting his birthright in a court of law against an addict.

"Oh dear God," she moaned audibly, resting her elbows on the table and concealing her face behind her hands.

The silence held, the other two apparently rendered mute by her clear distress.

She heard movement then, as though someone were pushing gently back in a chair. Then she heard that voice again, the same voice that had brought her nothing but grief throughout their long association.

"Milady," Sophia began, "again my apologies for bringing you such tragic news. But I'm glad I did, for now you know the urgent nature of the many problems at hand—"

Still Marianne did not look up.

Jane sat up straighten "It has been my experience," she said, almost sweetly, to the table, "that a house warden's only legitimate domain is the kitchen and the scullery. How effortlessly. Miss Cranford, do you step into spheres that are none of your concern."

Marianne saw the flush on Sophia's face deepen. But with admirable control, she maintained her position, standing behind the chair now, talking down to both Jane and Marianne.

"My position in this household is not an ordinary one. Miss Locke," she pronounced in a low voice. "I've given long years of service to this family, as has my brother, almost our entire adult lives. We have raised the three heirs and, with Lady Eden's kind indulgence, we now take full credit for what they are."

With a wave of black amusement, Marianne thought. Take credit. Take full credit for Jennifer in her late twenties, a terrified, repressed spinster; for James, weak beyond description, with little wit and less backbone. And Edward? An addict apparently in the process of destroying his life, for which Marianne had once had such rich and limitless hopes.

Throughout these thoughts, Sophia had never ceased talking and was now saying, "But I can't do it alone. I find myself in that most

unfortunate position of great responsibility and no authority." Carefully she stepped back from the chair as though the better to display her martyrdom. "There are vast problems afoot in this castle this morning, problems which, perhaps, suffering the wrong solution, could spell the end to the Eden line. And yet— What must I do now? I must go attend to the waiting stewards, must see that the consomme for luncheon is of the proper clarity, must see that the pate is seasoned properly, and the wine chilled, and the flowers fresh in all of the chambers—"

Her eyes closed as though in consummate fatigue. With a slight shake of her head, she opened them again, resolution on her face. "So, now, milady, I'll assume my rightful and limited duties if you'll assume yours. Your sons, both of them, are on the verge of destroying themselves. See to it, milady, I beg you."

And with that brief though impressive conclusion, she walked the full length of the table, head erect like some put-upon queen who has had the misfortune of being set down among witless and unruly subjects, and left the room.

Both Jane and Marianne watched the grand exit.

"I would give anything," Jane began, her voice firm though scarcely audible, "up to and including my modest fortune and my good right arm, if Thomas could have heard that little outburst."

In spite of her gloomy mood, Marianne smiled. Jane's thought had not been precisely her own. Nonetheless it stirred her. Oh yes. Thomas.

Then Jane was speaking again. "You cannot permit it to go on, Marianne," she scolded, rising laboriously from her chair.

Grasping the edge of the table for support, as Jane had done, Marianne stood. For a moment she felt light-headed.

Jane saw the weakness and misinterpreted it. "You've only yourself to blame," she scolded, "for permitting that woman ever to gain the upper hand."

But Marianne's thoughts were elsewhere. "Do you have morning plans, Jane?"

Jane craned her neck forward as though the better to comprehend the curious question. "None that amount to anything save the killing of time."

"Then walk with me," Marianne requested, still suffering an intense longing.

"Walk?" Jane echoed. "I should think you would have—"

"Please," Marianne begged, looking directly at her. "Just a brief stroll. To the graveyard."

"Of course I'll walk with you," Jane murmured, as though at last she had perceived Marianne's exact need.

Clinging together as though against the vicissitudes of an unseen storm, they made their way out of the Banqueting Hall, through the Great Hall, past the army of stewards who were hanging bowers of summer flowers for the evening ball, on out to the steps of the Great Hall where a mild June sun greeted them.

Without being consciously aware of it, Marianne must have leaned heavily against Jane, causing her sister to lend her the support of both arms. "Are you well?" Jane demanded, looking sharply at her.

Marianne nodded.

As they passed behind the great hulk of the castle itself, the sun was obliterated, and they found themselves in shadow, the earth beneath their feet soft and spongy Where the dampness held year around without the drying rays of the sun.

"Wouldn't it be lovely," Marianne said softly as they walked, "if we were permitted to choose the day on which we wished to die?"

And that was all she said, but she was aware of Jane looking at her in bewilderment, in concern.

Something more was wrong, of that Jane was certain. As though Sophia Cranford's cruel little announcement concerning Edward hadn't been enough, Jane knew that her sister was suffering from some other, as yet unknown crisis.

As they walked together through the muddy damp;iess behind the castle, Jane tried to read her sister's face, tried to understand her curious remark about choosing the day on which to die, and considered pressing her for elaboration.

But as they emerged once again into the sun of the formal gardens, she changed her mind. Marianne was leading her into that grim tree-shaded graveyard at the extreme edge of the castle wall, the hallowed ground where Edens had been buried since the tenth century. As with visibly trembling hands, Marianne released the latch on the gate, Jane remembered grimly the number of times she had taken part in funeral processions which had led to this place.

But without a doubt, the most sorrowful of all had been the impressive funeral cortege in the spring of 1826, when a respected contingent of peers of the realm had walked along this same path, bearing the body of Lord Thomas Eden.

Jane closed the gate quietly behind her and continued to watch her sister, noting the manner in which she used the smaller tombstones for support as she made her way toward the large glistening marble block beneath which rested her life. Quickly Jane turned away. The moment was too intimate, even for sisterly observation.

She decided she would give Marianne five minutes. Then she would insist that they return to her apartments where they would be well advised to turn their thoughts, in a practical way, to the problems at hand.

Well then, enough. Marianne had communed with the dead for far longer than was either necessary or healthy. It was time that she set herself to more practical solutions. But as Jane glanced back again at the sorrowful tableau, she discovered with a start that she lacked the courage to interrupt so mysterious and intimate an encounter.

Looking down again, she spied her father's grave, and there, slightly to the right, poor dear Russell. And a short distance beyond that, Jenny and Dolly. She had no intention of kneeling before them all. But if she could find an equitable space midway between, she would run the risk of soiling her gown and get on her knees as Marianne had done and pay her respects.

As she lowered herself painfully to her knees, she looked about with a disturbing thought. Where would they plant her when the time came? Probably in the precise area where she now was kneeling.

Quiet! There was so much quiet around her that the image of the grave doubled. Only the bird sounds could be heard and even their normally cheery chirping seemed diminished in this dreadful place.

Quiet.

Then softly into this quiet, she heard another sound. Still on her knees, she held her position, then looked up, thinking that perhaps Marianne was at last stirring.

But when she glanced over the tops of the tombs, she saw her sister still sunk against Thomas's grave, her position the same. Yet there it was again, footsteps, clearly footsteps on gravel.

Again she raised her head and looked in all directions. There, moving along the narrow gravel path which led from the east door of the castle, she saw two figures. Her immediate conclusion was that it was simply two guests, wandering far afield.

She was in the process of lowering her head when suddenly, sharply, she looked back up, her attention riveted on some aspect of recognition. Throughout the entire and laborious fortnight of banqueting and dancing she had stood in silent admiration of one aspect of Harriet Powels. And that was her dazzling, beautiful auburn hair.

Now here was that same glorious mane of fair hair, scandalously loosened and hanging free down the young woman's back, her face still obscured as she hurried along the pathway, clinging, as a vine clings to the wall, to—

Oh sweet God! Jane froze in her prayerful position, her mind far

removed from prayer, as she watched the two hurry down the walk like culprits, heading toward the far gate. From Jane's position, she saw her sister's head raise slightly as the two continued their furtive passage around the edge of the graveyard.

Still both Jane and Marianne watched, transfixed, as in their approach to the wooden door, he drew her back suddenly and into his arms, where upon the instant her face lifted and their lips met in a kiss so passionate as to suggest that all their emotional faculties had been focused on the union of lips.

After the embrace they clung to one another for a moment. A moment later, Edward pushed open the wooden door and guided her through it, then followed after her. The door was closed and the graveyard was as it once had been.

Jane stared fixedly at the closed door, then pressed her eyes shut and shook her head as though perhaps she simply had seen an apparition. Good God! What was to happen now? Was an engagement to be announced between Harriet Powels and Edward? Or would they simply take their obvious passion and flee, leaving Marianne to make amends and apologies. / am sorry, Lord Powels, but my bastard son seems to have abducted your daughter. I thank you all for attending this futile occasion. Dear James, you must try to understand your brother-There was a phantasmagoric quality to Jane's thoughts, as though she were spinning the specifics of a nightmare for her own amusement. But then, looking up, she saw Marianne turn and look directly at her.

"Dear God," Jane muttered again, her eyes never leaving her sister's face. With a wave of sympathy, Jane thought that Marianne looked freshly injured somehow. She knelt there, her eyes still fixed upon Jane, as though hopeful that her sister would communicate a solution.

But Jane had no solution. She tried to return her sister's awful gaze with steady eyes, but could not. They were, as William was fond of saying, "surrounded by a horror of great darkness, on an ocean of counterfeit infinity."

Peculiar! William had uttered that quote on an average of three times per week every week for over fifty years that she had lived with him.

Until now, she'd not had the slightest idea what it meant.

He marveled at and worshipped everything.

From the crown of her thick and luxurious hair to the small white toes and all the rich and varied and partially explored territory in between, he marveled at and worshipped simply everything.

Now as they hurried across the headlands, having again successfully escaped from all the watching eyes in the castle, he drew even with her

and considered reopening the one subject which had marred the four most blissful days of his life. Then it occurred to him that he was always the one to bring up the subject, and while their discussions were usually gentle, they always left her saddened, their passion tempered.

So quickly he decided against raising the subject again. Not now. They had the whole glorious day ahead of them, the seclusion of the little green glen toward which they were hurrying, magnificent in its isolation.

Trailing a step behind, he continued to watch her, recalling how pleased he had been by her appearance when they'd met at the secret stairway, that crown of hair undone as though in mute signal of the state of her emotions. Her gown was dark brown and plain, loosely fitted as a servant's, clearly no corsets.

Quickly now he reached out and caught her arm and turned her toward him, as though to reconfirm the expression on her face. "I just wanted to see for myself," he said. "At times when we're apart, you seem like an apparition."