The Prince of Eden (50 page)

She returned the smile. "You have it, Edward, as you shall always have it."

Bath abandoned, she leaned her head back against the cushions,

certain that the matter was closed and again it was time for silence. Thus she felt a slight shock when a few moments later she heard his voice again.

"And our mother?" he queried gently. "Surely there is enough affection in that vast reservoir beneath your breast to give a portion to her who is in such sore need."

She'd not expected this. "I don't know what you mean," she said.

"I mean," he persisted, "that you are a daughter and that you have a mother who is dying for lack of affection."

She looked directly at him. "Our mother may be dying," she said, firmly, "but I doubt seriously if it's from lack of affection. She's had that in sinful amounts all her life."

She was acutely aware of Edward still looking at her. His voice when he spoke was laced with kindness. "Why do you hate her so?"

By way of answering, she simply asked another question. "Why do you love her?"

"She's our mother."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" she demanded, amazed at how rapidly he had brought her to the edge of anger. "We slipped from her womb to be sure, we share her blood, but that's scarcely motherhood."

She was aware of his intense interest. "I am amazed to hear you speak thus," he began.

"And I am equally amazed," she replied. "Tell me the source and reason for your affection for her, you, of all of us. Because of her, you carry a cross that neither James nor I can even begin to understand. And yet you praise her, you—"

"She was not the cause of my bastardy, you know that. She thought the union was legal. It was—"

"I know who it was," she interrupted angrily, wishing only to end the conversation.

"It was trickery," he went on, "at the hands of—"

"The trickery, Edward, I suspect, started long before the day of your birth."

There was amazement in his voice. "You believe there was never any love between them?" he asked.

"Oh indeed, there was love. Her love of his money."

"Oh Jennifer, no, that's not true," he protested. "With thoughts like that you do yourself a greater injustice than you do her. What happened thirty, forty years ago is a matter of monumental unimportance. Can't you see that? They lived their lives to the best of their

abilities and it's not for you or I or anyone to stand in judgment of them."

"God?" she asked bluntly. "Are you counting Him out as well?"

"Of course not," he smiled. "But even God, I suspect, will be far more merciful than you." He gazed into her face. "She loves you so very much," he said simply, and that simplicity almost disarmed her.

She disliked intensely both the subject and the weight of his attention, and with unprecedented vigor now took steps to relieve herself of both. "This really is a dreary matter, Edward," she said firmly. "I recognize the lady whom you embraced so warmly this morning as my mother. Nothing more. I give her respect and, whenever possible, obedience. But I know, perhaps better than you who she is and what she is."

She was silent a moment and turned away, disturbed by what she was going to say. "I see not a mother, not even a decent woman, but a whore—"

Suddenly he leaned sharply forward on the edge of his seat. "Then you have a remarkably flawed vision," he pronounced. "I can only assume that someone has assisted you with your vision. Do I speak the truth?"

She pressed back against the cushions. "I don't know what you're talking about, Edward."

"Who has turned you against her?" he demanded again.

"No one has turned me against her. No one had to. You remember our childhood. Or perhaps yours was different. But every time I went in search of her, I found Sophia Cranford."

At that moment he brought his fist down against his knee. "Damn Sophia Cranford," he shouted, as though all at once a truth had been confirmed for him.

In an attempt to pacify him, she took a stern hold on her own feelings. "Yes," she murmured. "I wouldn't have said that at the beginning of the summer, but I will now. Damn Sophia Cranford. She has become mean and scheming."

"Become!" Edward parroted. "She was born thus, a true bitch who has left her mark on each of us. But on you, more than anyone." Slowly he shook his head, anger receding, a look of pity on his face. "Dear God, Jennifer," he pleaded, "look at yourself. Where I should see the soft loving angles of a woman, I see only harsh imprisoning piety. Where I should see a daughter radiant with love for her mother, perhaps in anticipation of the day when she herself would know motherhood, I see the cold, barbed exterior of a schoolmistress, a

spinster in the making, a woman denying her very self."

Under the barrage of his words falHng heavily upon her, she looked away beyond the window and saw the dirty edges of the city, the hovels which passed for homes, a one-legged beggar, a crying child, a hollow-eyed old woman. With what mysterious speed the world had gone suddenly ugly.

Seeing her distress, Edward slid over to her side and in a gesture both warm and forceful took her in his arms, murmuring her name over and over again, begging her forgiveness.

Thus they sat until the carriage was well out again into open country.

At some point at the approach of night, he lifted his feet and rested them on the seat opposite them and sank back into the cushions, taking her with him, never abandoning her.

From inside his embrace, she stared blankly out at the evening beyond the carriage window. What if she were wrong? In everything? What if-

"Edward?" she whispered, speaking the first word in over two hours. "What if I—" She faltered and tried again. "What if I wanted to start fresh? What-would I do?"

There was a pause. Then he drew her yet closer. She felt his cheek resting atop her head. His voice when he spoke was extraordinarily close. "Write a letter," he whispered. "Addressed to—her, not Sophia Cranford. Take that one small step. Write her a letter."

She nodded. That she could do, and that she would do.

Gloucester, then, the three of them approaching exhaustion. As John Murrey bedded down the horses, Edward acquired adjoining rooms at the Monmouth Inn. After a simple meal served in their chambers, they retired, John Murrey and Edward to one apartment, Jennifer to another.

She had planned to lie in dark silence and think for a while on the events of the day. But fatigue defeated her and no sooner had her head touched the pillow than sleep overtook her, a pleasurable refreshing sleep, the sense of an old wound healing.

The rest of the journey was placid, the painful subject of their mother never mentioned again. Edward seemed to sink back into the silence which had imprisoned him on the first day, a silence which seemed to grow deeper at evening of the second day when they had stopped for the night in the little village of Lichfield. There was only one inn, a crude country dwelling with small narrow cells and leaking roof.

HeM excused himself from dinner, claiming a need to stretch his legs. Later, Jennifer fetched her shawl and slipped out into the dwindling dusk, searching the narrow rutted road in both directions.

Then she had seen him at the far end of the road, staring up at a road sign. As she'd gone to meet him, he'd seen her and turned away from the sign, but not before she'd drawn close enough to catch a glimpse of it, one word only atop a small painted arrow which pointed down the narrow lane.

Shrewsbury.

The arrow pointed to Shropshire, toward Hadley Park, the seat of the Powels family, the present location of Harriet Powels.

He said nothing and neither did she. He simply returned her to her room, then he had joined old John Murrey for a glass before bed. And predictably the glass had turned into a bottle, then another, and finally a third, so that on the following morning their departure had been delayed somewhat, the slightly bleary-eyed Edward finally crawling into the carriage, a clear look of discomfort on his face as with every jolt of the carriage, he held his head.

She felt sorry for him, but was grateful for one small blessing. According to John Murrey, the drinks had been clean. No laudanum had been requested and none had been provided.

While clearly he was suffering, he was not drugged, although, forced to witness his silent suffering during the two remaining days of the journey, Jennifer found herself sometimes wishing that he had been drugged.

Doomed from his first breath to his last.

Perhaps in one area, Sophia Cranford had been right.

At noon on the fourth day, after a delay at the blacksmith's in Wakefield for the purpose of reshoeing a lame horse, Edward looked up with blessed relief at Jennifer's announcement, "We're almost there!"

Now after four days of this endless journey, his brain felt loose, his body stiff", his throat parched, and his eyes blind to every image save one, that small black arrow pointing toward Shropshire. As he sensed Jennifer's mounting enthusiasm, he vowed to himself to see her safely settled, then depart, as soon as possible. He was not fit company. The need within him was as pressing as ever, his abstinence merely a token gesture. Perhaps he was going about it in the wrong manner. At any rate he must return to London as soon as possible, there either to seek something or destroy something. He had no idea which.

Across the way, he saw Jennifer's delighted face as she beheld familiar territory. There too was regret. He'd been harsh with her.

She'd suffered enough, had a lifetime of suffering ahead without his contribution.

But obviously such thoughts were very far from Jennifer*s mind as again adjusting her bonnet, she pointed, "There it is, Edward. There's Roe Head."

He lifted his eyes to an easy slope where he saw an old and spacious building set behind gates at the end of a long and narrow lane.

As John Murrey slowed the horses to take the curving driveway, Edward thought ruefully that it resembled a nunnery. On the circular drive immediately fronting the building was a small crush of conveyances. Beyond the window, Edward saw a group of females in close huddle, obviously greeting each other in warm reunion. As John Murrey brought their carriage to a halt, Edward again vowed to himself to unload the trunks and leave as soon as possible. He might have volunteered to deliver Jennifer to purgatory, but he had no appetite to see her settle into it.

Outside the window, he saw John Murrey climb down from his perch. As the old man appeared outside the carriage door, Edward called, "Well done. Our thanks to you for a safe journey."

Jennifer echoed his sentiment and was on the verge of saying more when suddenly Edward saw her face brighten with the light of recognition. "Charlotte," she whispered softly, and before he could stop her, she was out the door and running toward a small red-haired woman who was just herself climbing down from a two-wheeled gig.

As the two women fell into close conversation, Edward wearily dragged himself out of the carriage and leaned against it. Stretching slightly, he noticed for the first time a gentleman standing upright in the two-wheeled gig, looking equally as nervous and out of place. The man had a large beaked nose similar to that of the peculiar woman with whom Jennifer was chatting.

"What now, sir?" John Murrey whispered beside him.

Still watching the scene by the gig, Edward muttered, ^'Unload and leave as soon as possible."

Edward held his position close by the carnage, still waiting for Jennifer to return with further instructions. Counting small blessings, he thought that at least he was not in such a prominent position as the poor gentleman still standing awkwardly upright in the gig.

Then to his mild horror, he saw the young woman reach up toward the gentleman as though to assist him to ground and in the next minute, these three, Jennifer, the lady, and the gentleman, were walking toward him.

Nothing to do but greet them since obviously that was Jennifer's intention in dragging them in his direction. "Edward," she called out now, one hand outreaching for his arm. "Give me the pleasure of presenting you to a dear friend—'*

He pushed off from the support of the carriage and tried to stand erect as Jennifer intoned, "Miss Charlotte Bronte, my brother, Mr. Edward Eden."

Edward focused all of his attention on the shy creature who stood before him. "Miss Bronte," he said, his voice low as though fearful of frightening her. "I'm honored always to meet a person who shares such a large portion of my sister's life."

"Mr. Eden, my pleasure," she murmured. And apparently that was that.

Edward was on the verge of speaking again when a complete sentence left the sparrow's mouth. "Mr. Eden/' she pronounced, in a high-pitched voice, "may I present my brother, Mr. Branwell Bronte whom, I'm certain, feels as ill at ease and as out of place as yourself."

Caught between her unexpected perception and the introduction itself, Edward smiled. "Mr. Bronte," he pronounced, extending a firm hand. "My pleasure, I assure you, and my congratulations on training your sister to travel so light." He nodded toward the two-wheeled gig, scarcely weighted with the presence of a single dark green trunk.

Mr. Bronte at first did not seem to understand. "I did not train my sister, Mr. Eden," he said, the same primness of pronunciation in his speech as in his sister's. "I would not attempt such an undertaking."

At first Edward thought it was an attempt at humor, but not one face about him was smiling.

"We live only a short distance away," Mr. Bronte went on, "in the village of Haworth. My sister is not bound here by distance as are some of the young ladies."

To this rather pedantic reply, Edward nodded with due seriousness. "I thought as much when I observed your gig, sir," he said, smiling. "I'm afraid it would have been a casualty on the first leg of our journey."

"And where is your source, sir?" Mr. Bronte inquired, both his voice and speech revealing a certain archaic quality, as though his tutor had been old and harsh.

"My source," Edward replied, trying to hide a smile, "is Eden, North Devon. Just on the channel. Near Exeter." He continued to add qualifications, hoping that at least one would make a diff'erence. None did. And when again all conversation threatened to die, Edward made

a single request. "Jennifer, if you would be so kind as to direct John Murrey to your chambers, we can clear the pavement and make room for others."

Jennifer caught his mood and hurled herself admirably into the task at hand. "This way, John," she called out.

As John started forward with a large trunk, Edward was fearful that he would simply be left alone with the strange Brontes. But Jennifer at the last minute slipped her arm through Miss Bronte's and led her forward.

Edward's head was pounding from the effort of the social exchange. He closed his eyes a moment, feeling an uncomfortable warmth in the cool Yorkshire afternoon.

When he opened his eyes again, he discovered to his dismay that Mr. Bronte was still there, silently regarding him. "Are you well, Mr. Eden?" he inquired.

Laughing in an attempt to hide his weakness, Edward replied, "Quite well, sir, thank you. The journey was long. We are taught in school how limited in scope is our island country. I might suggest that our geographers attempt to traverse its length in a coach and four."

By his own assessment he thought he was doing well enough. But the man merely continued to stare at him.

The silence struck Edward as oppressive. My God, he owed the man nothing, would never see him again after today. "If you'll excuse me, sir. I must attend to my sister's needs and return to the road."

"Your destination, sir?" Mr. Bronte inquired.

It was none of his damn business. Still Edward replied, "London, sir."

"Then you have another great journey ahead of you."

"I do indeed."

Edward was in the process of passing the man by when suddenly Mr. Bronte asked a peculiar question. "Are you—prepared, sir?" he inquired. A slight wind ruffled his already blown hair, giving him a mildly demented look.

"Prepared?" Edward asked, looking back.

But the man seemed disinclined to explain himself. Instead he gave Edward a knowing look of recognition.

Well, he had the clear advantage for Edward hadn't the slightest idea what he was talking about.

Feeling helpless, Edward stood to one side and watched John Murrey deftly hoist the second trunk up onto his back and move with it toward the front door where Jennifer was just emerging with an old woman in tow.

Another introduction. The red-haired Mr. Bronte still was watching him closely. The two women were upon him now, Jennifer calling out, "Edward, come. It gives me great pleasure to present to you Miss Margaret Wooler, headmistress of Roe Head."

"Mr. Eden, my pleasure," the woman smiled. She was short, stout, and wore a white woolen dress. Her voice was fluent and sweet.

Then he was aware of Jennifer at his side, lending him support. "My brother has not been well. Miss Wooler, and the journey was long. Might we—"

"Of course," the old woman quickly replied. "How rude of me. This way, please."

Then they were moving after the old woman, Edward more or less on his own strength, though Jennifer was still close beside him.

Inside the school, Edward's head began to clear. He saw mellow oak paneling, bow windows, deep window seats, and curiously winding passages which appeared to lead off" in all directions. With Miss Wooler still leading them, he found himself at last in what appeared to be a formal parlor-sitting room, heavily cluttered with bric-a-brac.

"May I offer you tea, Mr. Eden," Miss Wooler now inquired, "or perhaps a bit of sherry?"

He shook his head. "I'm quite recovered. Miss Wooler, and grateful for your kindness."

"Nonsense," the old woman countered, settling opposite him. "I've truly looked forward to meeting you. How fond we are of Jennifer. In every sense of the word, she brings music into our lives."

He smiled in agreement. "I'm afraid I would be quite lost without her." He noted the blush on Jennifer's face as she stood behind Miss Wooler's chair. In the brief interplay, Edward glimpsed what he thought might be an explanation for his sister's attachment to this dreary place. Miss Wooler. It occurred to him that in the stern yet loving kindness of Miss Wooler, Jennifer had found the mother she'd never had.

Now Miss Wooler was speaking again, and with effort, Edward summoned his attention back to the conversation at hand. He really was becoming addle-headed.

"And Jennifer tells me we will be honored with your presence for a while," the old woman said. "What a treat that will be."

Again he closed his eyes. My God, but he was weary. He'd hoped to talk to Jennifer in private about the matter. But between the mad Brontes outside and Miss Wooler before him, he had the feeling that his chances of talking to Jennifer alone were nil. Then it might as well be now.

Although he was addressing Miss Wooler, he found himself looking at Jennifer. "I'm afraid not, Miss Wooler," he began, leaning forward in the chair. "We discussed such an arrangement, I'll admit, and I can never express my gratitude for your offer of hospitality." If there was the slightest change on Jennifer's face, he was unable to discern it. "But the truth is," he went on, "I've been a truant from my own duties and responsibilities for three months. So with your kind understanding, I must take my leave."

Still Jennifer's face was unmoved. It was Miss Wooler who expressed deep regret. "I am sorry to hear it, Mr. Eden, for selfish reasons. All the ladies would have enjoyed your presence among us."

For a moment he met his sister's eyes and forced them to stay with him. When she looked away, he stood, some instinct warning him to take his leave quickly.

To that end, he warmly grasped Miss Wooler's hand and held it between his own. "My dear lady, I thank you for your kindness. Now when I think of Jennifer," he went on, "I shall have a proper setting in which to place her, a setting of warmth and love."

Now he moved toward the door, held it open for Jennifer, and with his arm lightly about her waist hurried her down the hall toward the rectangle of gray afternoon light beyond the front door.

Jennifer was maintaining an ominous silence. As they stepped through the door onto the porch, he saw with sinking heart the Brontes standing beside the gig. Apparently leave-taking was the order of the day. He had mentally prepared himself for another awkward encounter and was thus surprised when Jennifer, still grim-faced, led him directly past the gig and the two gaping Brontes without a word to either.

Alone at last, Edward was in the process of offering comfort when suddenly Jennifer turned on him, her face as white and angry as he'd ever seen it.

"You promised," she whispered, as though in spite of her emotions, she knew the wisdom of keeping her voice down.

"I did not promise," he gently corrected her.

"And what will you do in London?" she demanded, her voice rising slightly. "Who is there to look after you? Will the pattern be altered, or simply reinforced?"

"Daniel is there," he said simply.

"And you expect his assistance?"

"He's given it to me in the past."

Suddenly her anger vaulted. "Dear God, Edward, can't you see how Daniel is using you?"

For just an instant, he felt a flare of anger. He lowered his head in

an attempt to try a fresh approach. "Jennifer, look at me," he begged. "Now tell me truthfully, can you see me passing time in this establishment? Can you see me partaking of afternoon tea with Miss Wooler? Serving as dinner companion to Miss Bronte?"

"She's brilliant," Jennifer interrupted defensively.

"I'm not doubting her brilliance," Edward said quickly. "I'm merely doubting my ability to—"

In an attempt to break the mood, he drew her close and took her in his arms, and for the second time in their four days together, she gave in to tears.

"I love you so much," she whispered.

"And I, you."

"Please," she went on, grasping him tightly. "I beg you. Look to yourself."

"It is my intention to do so."

"And promise me that if you look up one day and have need of a sister, you'll send for me."

It could not go on, neither for him nor for her. Then she stepped up, and lightly kissed his cheek, slipped from his arms, and ran toward the door of Miss Wooler's establishment.

The pavement where he stood was deserted in all directions save for the tentative approach of John Murrey, who had just emerged from behind the carriage. "Then is it London, sir?" he inquired, a crispness in his voice as though nothing had happened.

Edward nodded. With John's assistance he dragged himself upward into the carriage, his eye immediately falling on the place she had occupied for the last four days.

He would miss her enormously. As the carriage started forward, he turned in the seat and caught a last glimpse of Miss Wooler's school. Blessedly he saw nothing but an unfocused whirl of red brick and closed windows and shut doors.

As the carriage picked up momentum, it occurred to him that he and John Murrey had had no conference concerning itinerary from this point onward. Perhaps he should signal to John and have him bring the horses up and confer on places of intervals.

But he changed his mind. For now, it rather appealed to him, the thought of wandering about the Yorkshire moors. No harm. They were expected no place.

Suddenly the weight of a vague future pressed solidly down about him. My God, but his throat was parched, his appetite for the divine repose of opium as acute as ever. What harm? And what virtue, abstinence?

He closed his eyes. The empty landscape outside the window lay like a weight upon him. Annoyed, he became aware of the carriage slowing, John Murrey no doubt lounging atop his high seat, unaware of the need inside the carriage.

Edward opened his eyes. Yes, the speed had been broken. The horses were scarcely strolling now. A man might walk as fast. In growing need, he pulled down the window and shouted, "What is it? Why the-"

From atop the carriage, John Murrey called back, "Trouble, sir. Up ahead. On the other side. Look for yourself."

He slid rapidly across the seat, lowered the opposite window, and leaned out. There up ahead in the dying light of day he saw a conveyance tilted crazily off the road, two-wheeled, one upraised in the air, the other imbedded in the soft loam of the embankment. The driver, in an attempt to extricate the gig, had guided his horse out onto the road and was now attempting to attach the harness at that insane angle, the animal protesting, rearing back on its hindlegs, the hapless driver appearing to do a crazy jig about the horse.

Edward looked closer, some element of recognition dawning in the dim light. The man was hatless and Edward observed a massive shock of unkempt red hair. As he drew even with John Murrey, who was just crawling down, he heard his old friend mutter, "It's him, Mr. Eden, the gentleman you just met back at—"

It was him. Mr. Bronte of the strange questions and strange looks. As the absurd spectacle continued, Edward felt his anger soften into amusement. He'd not thought the man so full of energy, but also he'd thought him more intelligent.

As the horse continued to object to the cutting bridle, it occurred to Edward that the idiot was in real danger. Again and again the horse reared back, then fell, stamping to earth. John Murrey leaned close with an opinion. "He's goin' to get himself killed, sir."

"Then perhaps we'd better stop him," he muttered. As they started forward, John Murrey took the lead by several steps, his whip in hand. He shouted ahead, "T'ain't the way to do it—"

At that moment, Mr. Bronte took his attention off his spinning horse and looked up the darkening road. In the next instant the horse took advantage of his faltering attention to pull loose. She shook her massive head, darting wildly to the far side of the road, and started down the steep incline.

"Now look what you've done," Mr. Bronte shouted back at the two approaching figures. "I'll never retrieve—"

Then apparently recognition struck him as well. He wiped his

sweating forehead and squinted through his spectacles. In his excited state, his voice cracked, "Mr. Eden, is it?" he faltered.

Drawing nearer, Edward smiled and nodded. "I'd not expected to meet you again so soon and certainly not under such distressing circumstances."

At first Mr. Bronte seemed more than willing to return the handshake, but at the last minute seemed to change his mind. "I think you might want to reconsider," he apologized, holding up for Edward's inspection a mud-covered hand.

Edward observed now that the man's entire right side was covered with drying mud and there on the side of his forehead was a small laceration. Edward stepped closer. "You've had quite a tumble, I see. Are you in one piece?"

The man quickly bobbed his head and fell into a hurried restoration of himself. "The horse bolted," he said simply, brushing mud from his shoulder.

As he continued in his attempts to restore himself, Edward withdrew his handkerchief and handed it over. "There's a cut on your head."

Quickly the man raised a hand to the injured area as though just aware of it. "Good God," he muttered. "I'm really most grateful," he added, taking the handkerchief, "for both your propitious appearance on this treacherous road as well as for your assistance."

Edward laughed. "I haven't done much yet in the way of assistance, but let's take a look." As he turned his attention to the up-ended gig, he noticed that John Murrey was there ahead of him, his trained eye already assessing the damage.

"Axle's broke, sir," was his first diagnosis, and as though that weren't bad enough, the old man slid down into the ditch and called out further bad news. "The side's caved in, sir. Even if we drag it out, it ain't going nowhere."

Staring down into the ditch, gloomy with dusk, Edward felt a sinking of spirit. Now what? He couldn't simply abandon the man on this lonely stretch of road with a ruined gig and straying horse. Behind him he was aware of Mr. Bronte waiting silently.