The Prince of Eden (48 page)

Quietly now she rose from the cot and walked slowly to the bed on which he was sleeping. She looked down. Once she had thought this unique older brother to be the tallest, strongest man she'd ever known.

Now? He looked shrunken. His eyes, when awake or asleep, stared out of dark purple shadows. His lips closed more thinly than before and his whole face was gaunt. She'd considered writing to Daniel Spade, but had always dismissed the notion. For one thing, she wasn't certain that Daniel Spade and London were the proper solution. Daniel Spade had known of his growing addiction long before she had and apparently had done nothing to curb it.

Then what? She continued to stare down on her sleeping brother, trying to sort through all the dimensions of what was ahead for him. With her gone, there was nothing ahead for him but increased dosage, increased lethargy, addle-headedness, and eventually death. And at the heart of the tragic dilemma was the greater mystery, the unanswerable question which on occasion he'd tried to answer for her and failed. Why? Why any of it?

Then why leave him? If she was to depart in a fortnight, he would leave with her. She needed an escort. The air in Yorkshire would be crisp and cool by now, the change of scene and clime bracing and health-giving. Perhaps she could talk Miss Wooler into leasing to him one of the empty apartments near the back of the red brick school. At least for a while, until his routine was altered, his habit broken.

As the plan evolved, she held rigidly still. Of course he might refuse. But at least she could try. Whatever sorrow had set him on his present course, she felt certain that the true source of that sorrow resided in Eden Castle. It certainly did for her. Why would it be different for him?

No! She had to take him away. But she would have to go about it with great diplomacy, perhaps appealing to him from the position of her own need, her dread of making the long journey alone. She felt

certain that the drug had done nothing to alter his basic kindness. She'd served him well over the last few months. Now perhaps she could appeal to him for help-She would try. And on that note of hope, she slipped quietly from the room.

A soft awakening.

He enjoyed the soft awakenings when at first his mind refused to create the bridge across which his unconscious would march from the glories of the night to the harsh realities of day.

Thus it was with him now, as he opened his eyes, sensing someone staring down on him, but seeing nothing but a pink-tinged fog, every object in the room softly blurred. My God, how glorious the night had been. Yet a single night only?

Sitting upright, he rubbed his eyes and discovered that he received no sensation of rubbing his eyes. There seemed to be a pressure on his face, but the sensation went unrecorded. For a moment he stared at his hands as though they belonged to someone else, as indeed they did, those soiled unkempt extremities of himself. Surely it had not been those hands which had embraced Harriet.

Foolhardy, that, giving in to that memory! But once the wall was breached, other memories came down upon him, the quickness of her steps as she'd hurried down the secret stairway, the dazzling lights in her hair as she'd stepped out into first light, her curious strength even at the moment of complete submission, her face, her eyes, her voice—

For too long, he gave in to this self-induced torture which caused the mussed room to reverberate around him. Oh God, the bridge had been built, stronger than he'd ever built it before. At the end lay murderers in waiting, armed with knife-sharp memories.

And there were others: there, Charlotte Longford; and there, Jawster Gray; and there, thousands of homeless children all running toward him; and there his mother weeping; and Harriet, robed in white, laughing at him; the tempest of human faces still coming, always coming, closer, closer. He wanted—what? To leave this place, these chambers, these cold castle walls imbedded with misery. He wanted— what? Not London, not yet, though he hungered for Daniel Spade's strong face.

Then where? Again he closed his eyes and walked further across the bridge and in his imagination almost stumbled over a man who lay sprawled in his path, his clothes dirty, vermin crawling over the back of his withered neck, his outstretched hands revealing his fingernails like yellowed claws. Who was this senseless creature and how did he come

to be here? With a nudge of his foot, Edward rolled him over and saw himself.

The sight did not shock him. He'd known the identity of the man from the beginning, knew precisely the path he was taking. But now he felt only resentment of the waste, double resentment of the weakness. Perhaps it was not too late. All he needed was a course of action, a movement away from here until he could take himself in hand, make an attempt to cleanse his system and, more important, cleanse his mind of all memories.

Yet even at that moment he still saw her as he'd seen her that first night high atop the battlements, the channel breezes blowing her gown, her eyes fixed upon his face with an intensity he'd never seen before.

No more! Sternly he sent the memory away. Perhaps he could talk old John Murrey into shaving him this morning. Then he'd sit with Jennifer beside the window and count the sea gulls and watch the small packets navigating the channel. Dear Jennifer. How he was going to miss her. What solace she had brought him during—

There abruptly his thoughts stopped. Not here, not London. Then perhaps— His head lifted at the thought. Yorkshire. Of course, he did not want to impose anymore on Jennifer. And there was always the possibility that she'd had enough of him and viewed him as nothing more than an albatross. Perhaps he shouldn't.

Yet a moment later when he heard the door open, he lifted his head and saw her standing there, clean, brushed, her face shining like hope. Peculiar, he'd seen her before standing thus and she'd never struck him as so lovely.

"Are you awake?" she called softly.

"I'm awake," he said, trying to give his voice a firmness as though to signal to her that the sickness was over, that no longer would he be a burden to her.

Slowly he rolled from his side onto his back and stared fixedly at the ceiling. "It's—over," he said. "I swear it."

At first she obviously did not understand and continued to stare down on him. He began to speak again, fearful of losing the thread of what he had to say. "No more," he began simply. "I did not intend for it to go like this. In the beginning it was just—" He tried to remember the beginning, the night of William Pitch's death.

He looked up to see her listening closely, and the next minute she was seated beside him on the bed, her head pressed against his chest. He held her close, one hand smoothing back her hair. "How can I ever repay you?" he whispered. "I always knew your presence. In the blackest pit. I somehow could always see your eyes."

I

She raised up, the Hght of hope on her face. "Are you certain, Edward?" she begged as though in need of reassurance.

"I swear it," he repHed emphatically. His mood changed now as though he were weary of gloom. "As a matter of fact," he began, "I was just thinking—"

"You can't go back to London," she interrupted.

Solemnly he nodded. "You're right."

She moved closer to him. "And you can't stay here."

Of course she was right. He couldn't stay here. He looked up at her, as though baffled by all the closed doors. "Then where?" he asked, seeing the answer already forming on her face.

"You'll come with me," she said, firmly, standing up from the edge of the bed, as though ready to do battle with any rebuttal he might offer.

But he offered none and watched and listened with a grateful heart as she laid plans which, somehow, in their firmness suggested that they had been made some time ago.

"I must report by the end of September," she began. "Since it's a journey of some distance, we should leave within the week. I'll need an escort and you shall be it. We'll take your carriage and John Murrey can drive and—" As she talked on, he watched, fascinated. He thought again of Daniel Spade and his deep love for her. If only-She was standing directly over him now, that face which earlier had been hesitant now covered with a glowing radiance. "Miss Wooler has several apartments at the rear of the school where she lets parents reside on Visitor's Day. I'm sure we can talk her into—"

He'd not considered that, not permanent residence. It was his intention only to make the journey with her, see her settled, see firsthand the life against which Daniel had to compete, then return to London, stopping by Shrewsbury, by Hadley Park, in the hope of gaining an audience with—

The thought had come upon him like a thief in the night and caught him unaware. To stop by Hadley Park and gain an audience with— While Jennifer talked on about the glorious future, Edward found himself still sunk in the past.

"Edward?" The concerned voice belonged to Jennifer, who apparently had seen the new gloom in his face. "You are—in agreement, aren't you?"

Wearily he tried to drag himself up out of the abyss. "In complete agreement," he smiled. "I can think of nothing that would suit me more."

The expression of victory on her face was a fitting reward. Again she

embraced him lightly and seemed to grow more excited, talking now of plans for the journey, how pleasant the interval abroad would be with him.

In a desperate attempt to throw off memory, Edward tried to match her enthusiasm. He pushed back the coverlet and sat up on the bed, forcing himself into a good humor. "Then we must make preparations," he announced. "Old John there must be awakened, the carriage overhauled, new axles—" As though to carry out his own counsel, he stepped down to the floor and took two steps toward his sleeping friend when suddenly the room commenced to whirl about him. The last sound he heard was Jennifer's cry as he collapsed midway between his bed and John Murrey's chair.

When he came to, John Murrey was bending over him, trying to lift him. And Jennifer was on the other side, lightly scolding. "You're weakened, Edward. It will take time—"

Suddenly he disliked being viewed as though he were some unaccountable specimen. "Then, food, I suppose," he said weakly, wanting only to disband the morbid little gathering. "And look to the carriage, John," he added. "See that it's sturdy. We're accompanying Jennifer to Yorkshire-"

After John Murrey had left the room, Edward opened his eyes to see Jennifer still there, alarm on her face. "Will you be able to travel, Edward?" she asked gravely.

"I'll be ready," he smiled. "I promise."

"Then I'll leave you for a while and return with an enormous breakfast, every bite of which I shall feed you myself."

He had thought to say something else, but before he could stop her, she was out of the room, the sound of her footsteps diminishing down the corridor.

He lay still. Perhaps it couldn't be accomplished. The system had grown accustomed to its safe delirium. Perhaps it would object to a sudden and complete absence—

Slowly he opened his eyes to the realization that he was alone, that both his guardian angels had departed and left him with the cabinet there, less than six feet away, and behind that small door were the dancing streamers, the eternal and delirious misery, the deep sighings of the poppy.

His throat went dry at the thought. Six short steps at best to oblivion. Slowly he turned his head in that direction as though he'd already accomplished the distance. He raised himself on one elbow. The room and all the objects in it remained steady.

As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, he saw them clearly for

the first time and stared incredulously down. They were not his limbs, not those pale wasted specimens. No wonder they refused to support him. There was not enough flesh there to support a child. His mind could not put thoughts together and merely passed individual words through his consciousness. Breakfast—Hadley Park—Four steps—

He moved forward, left the support of the table, his hands ever outreaching. One step, then two, the cabinet coming closer, three steps, the surface of the floor like water, threatening to wash over him.

He devoted what little energy he had left to angling himself around to the front of the cabinet. His hand reached for the small knob and pulled it open. There it was, the temple of his need.

His right hand lifted toward the square-cut vial, gleaming as though at its core was heat. The glass itself felt cool to his touch. He grasped it firmly and with his teeth removed the small cork and spat it out. With the vial clutched in his hand, he was in the process of lifting his head when suddenly on the top shelf of the cabinet, his eyes fell on a reflecting mirror.

The face stared back at him. It was the image of a madman, or a dead one, the hair long, twisted, streaked with new gray, the eyes less visible than the fields of dark shadows into which they were sunk, the tint of the skin yellowed, the mouth open, listless, a monstrous face, detailing every step and twist of the dishonored past, a fool's face that did not know its state of death and thus still moved, aping the expression of a living man.

With one motion he lifted the vial to drink, saw the decayed fool do likewise, and on a last eflfort of will, instead of drinking, hurled the vial toward the reflection, heard the shattering of glass at the double destruction.

His limited energy totally exhausted, he sank to the floor to deal with the need, expecting to find comfort in his self-denial, but finding nothing but cold stone floor, the craving still within him and growing.

Exhausted, he pressed his forehead on the floor. Had he the strength for life? Or the appetite? Could he wage this battle and win it?

The reply came softly and settled over his numbed limbs.

He must, or he was nothing.

On the next to the last Saturday of one of the most glorious Septembers that had ever graced the North Devon coast, the Countess Dowager, Lady Marianne, broke out of her prison of silence and seclusion. Against the stern advice of both her sister and Mrs. Greenbell she broke out, arising before dawn and dressing herself in one of the plain black gowns left over from Thomas's mourning.