The Prince of Eden (51 page)

"Well, then," Edward said, turning toward the waiting man, who was still dabbing at his forehead. "I'm afraid you're totally dependent upon us, Mr. Bronte. I offer you the security of my carriage and if you'll give us your destination, we shall be on our way."

In the twilight he saw the man's hesitancy. "I can't impose to that extent, Mr. Eden," he replied.

"Nonsense," Edward countered. "You have no choice. And besides, you said that your home was not very distant."

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"I wasn't returning to Haworth," the man suddenly interjected. "I have no desire to return to Haworth,"

Edward thought he detected a bitterness in his voice, as though Haworth, wherever it might be, contained threats. "Then state your destination, sir," Edward urged quickly. "I'm abroad with no pressing destination. Out of respect for the love clearly shared by our sisters, let me assist you."

Again the man looked up at Edward, indecision altering and somehow softening the madness in his eyes. "And ^our destination, sir?" he inquired softly.

Edward repeated himself. Was the man deaf? "None pressing, as I said. London ultimately. At the moment I'm free as the wind."

Both men merely gaped at one another while behind them Edward was aware of John Murrey waiting beside the ruined gig.

"Well then," Mr. Bronte said finally. "May I suggest an interim step? Ahead," he began slowly, "at about two hours' distance is the village of Skipton. May I suggest that we make there for the night? There's a good inn with decent food and clean beds. With your kind permission, I shall impose upon you to that extent."

It seemed a reasonable proposal, indeed the only one, as again Edward saw the rapidly darkening countryside. It was not quite the conclusion to the day that he'd had in mind. But there was a sense of adventure to the whole thing.

The decision seemed to please Mr. Bronte immensely. Edward was about to ask John Murrey to fetch the straying horse when he saw the old man already headed in that direction. As John secured the horse to the back of the carriage, Edward stood beside the carriage door, awaiting the arrival of Mr. Bronte, who apparently had felt the need to linger over his ruined gig.

A moment later he drew near. "I am forever in your debt, sir," he murmured.

"Nonsense," Edward countered. "You'd do the same for me, or any man."

The man halted in his upward progress into the carriage. "Strange," he smiled from his half-suspended position, "the twists of Fate."

Edward nodded, and was in the process of swinging up behind Mr. Bronte when without warning the man halted again. "How fine it would be," he said, "if we could walk away from all wreckage with such ease."

In the simple statement, Edward heard grief.

As the carriage moved forward at a reduced rate of speed to accommodate the horse trotting behind, he was aware of Mr. Bronte

peering closely at him. "May I return your kind concern, sir?" he asked. "Are^ow well?"

"Merely tired," Edward said, wanting now only to dismiss the strange man and his close scrutiny. "Merely road-weary, that's all, Mr. Bronte."

The man persisted. "Begging your forgiveness, Mr. Eden," he began. "But now, as with the first time I saw you, I have the feeling that I am gazing into a mirror."

Then the man disarmed him with a single question. "You are an opium user, aren't you, Mr. Eden?"

For several minutes, there was no sound within the carriage save for the rattle of wheels on packed earth. Apparently Mr. Bronte saw his apprehension and moved to dispel it. "No need for alarm," he smiled. "We're members of the same brotherhood, you and I. Better than Free Masons, actually. No secret word or handshake." His amusement faded rapidly. "Merely something in the eyes," he concluded.

Edward's first inclination was to move away from the discovery. "I've indulged, yes," he agreed. "But I'm in a period of abstinence now."

Softly Mr. Bronte broke in. "You're in a period of hell now, Mr. Eden."

"You, sir?" Edward began hesitantly. "Do you indulge?"

Mr. Bronte laughed openly. "At one time, I consumed it like air. And I suffered." He lowered his head. "Now, I regulate it. No harm is there in an unarmed man arming himself?"

Was the question rhetorical? Edward had no idea. To "regulate it," his very thought.

Mr. Bronte looked at him. Slowly he lifted his portfolio and sent one hand down into the bottom of the bag and in the next minute withdrew a small slim vial. "Do you recall the question I put to you back at Roe Head, Mr. Eden?" he asked. "I believe I inquired whether or not you were prepared for this journey?"

Edward remembered, his eyes fixed on the vial.

"Well, at that time, I'm afraid you would have had to answer no. But now, because of your kindness to me, you can answer yes."

He thrust the vial upward into the air. Incredible the speed with which Edward's eyes followed it.

At first Edward merely smiled, dwelling with great affection upon Fate. Then mysteriously the smile grew to a soft laugh. Amazed, he heard it in echo across the way, Mr. Bronte warmly sharing both his relief as well as his anticipation, the short laugh growing, first from one side of the carriage, then the other, increasing, as though they'd just shared a rich joke, still increasing, irrationally, their eyes focused

upward on the vial, their heads now pressed back against the cushions, Edward laughing as heartily as he'd laughed in months and his companion joining in until the carriage at times seemed inadequate to contain their frenzy of laughter.

As he saw his new friend lift the vial ever higher as though extending it for blessings to Heaven, he dissolved again into helpless laughter and was only vaguely aware of the carriage veering to the left, of the twin road signs outside his window: Skipton to the left, London to the right.

What matter? No matter!

The carriage picked up speed, a small black dot in the vast emptiness of the Yorkshire moors while inside above the clatter of hooves and the rattle of wheels came the incongruous, hilarious, yet mysteriously senseless sound of two men laughing.

^ece^/ny^e^, /SS^

In the light of a single candle Daniel Spade sat in the chill office and stared in despair at the pile of debts before him on the desk.

It could not go on much longer. The volunteer money had long since been exhausted. The teachers had received no pay for two months. The monies he had received from Edward last spring had been disbursed to impatient creditors. There would be no more coal delivery. Only that week he'd closed off the upper floors of the house and had moved all the children to the banqueting hall, where from now on they would study, sleep, and eat communally. For the young it had been an adventure. For Daniel it was a crisis approaching tragedy.

Weary and shivering, he leaned his head forward. It was truly baffling and without precedent. Never before had Edward abandoned him thus. And now the tragedy was that not just Daniel had been abandoned, but seventy-eight children had been abandoned as well.

In a surge of anger Daniel pushed away from the desk and paced rapidly. Something was wrong. Why didn't he answer Daniel's letters? My God, how many he had sent to Eden Point, all unanswered. His rapid pacing diminished as he took note of the empty room. Everything sold, for what little it could bring. He'd even approached his Chartist friends for help, but what a futile exercise that had been. Their own coffers were pitiably low, and revolutions, as Feargus O'Conner had pointed out, required a sacrifice of both blood and money.

"Then what?" he asked the darkened cold room and stood still for a moment as though expecting a reply.

But none came and slowly he returned to the mussed desk, spying among the clutter of unpaid bills the terse letter he'd received that very day from Sir Claudius Potter.

He lifted the paper to the light of the candle and reread the harsh words. "Under no power am I authorized to support your dubious undertaking—" "Look to your own responsibilities, or you will find yourself in debtor's prison—" "—the entire Eden estates are facing radical litigation—"

That last was puzzling: "—facing radical litigation—"

Bewildered, he let the letter drop from his hands. Coming from downstairs, he heard the hum of children's voices. How to feed and clothe them? How to love them and give them a sense of their own worth and dignity? How, in short, to give them back their lives?

It was a heavy storm that raged within him, so heavy that at first he did not hear the faint knock at the door. Dragging his head upward, he saw Elizabeth. "I was sent to fetch you, sir," she began timidly. "The soup is hot and we were hoping—"

Now she stood erect, her hair brushed and gleaming, her dark blue gown simply cut. The younger students called her the "pocket girl" because every dress she sewed boasted a large pocket in which she could hide her ruined hand. And she was quick, so quick.

If she objected in any way to Daniel's close inspection, she gave no indication of it. "Poor Mr. Spade," she said. "How tir«d and cold you look."

The sentiment almost undid him. "Neither cold nor tired, Elizabeth," he smiled. "Not in your presence."

For a moment she seemed to be regarding him with new interest. "Tell me honestly, sir," she asked. "Will we ever see him again? Mr. Eden, I mean?"

"Of course we shall see him, Elizabeth. One cannot lose a man like Edward Eden. For a while he has been attending to interests elsewhere, but I promise you, he will return."

He had no way of knowing whether she believed him or not. "Run along, Elizabeth. You have my soup for me and leave me alone to write some letters so that one day soon you will look up and there he'll be. How does that suit you?"

According to the smile on her face, it suited her fine. "I'm grateful, Mr. Spade," she beamed. "You write your letters and I'll post them this night."

As she hurried to the door, Daniel waved her on her way. "Not necessary, Elizabeth. I'll do it myself. Help the volunteers with the little ones. I'm told you have a way with them."

At the door she blushed under the compliment. "All I do is hold them and rock them, like Mr. Eden did to me, sir." She gave a cheery wave and slipped through the door.

Hold them and rock them, like Mr. Eden.

Damn! Why didn't he answer the letters? Had he completely forgotten the house on Oxford Street and its vulnerable inhabitants? Again Daniel stared at the desk. Then with angry resolve he withdrew a sheet of paper from the drawer, moved the candle closer, and held his pen suspended.

He would try a new approach, one born of desperation.

He stared down at the blank page and in his mind's eye saw a familiar face. He had sensed a fondness there once, indeed a protectorate. Perhaps age and distance had not altered those positive feelings.

He closed his eyes to rest them. Then with care, he dipped the pen into ink, shook it once, and wrote,

"My Dearest Lady Eden ..."

With the tip of a solitary finger, Marianne knocked the little golden orb of the sun off its path as it revolved slowly around the earth. For an instant, the brass ball bobbed crazily through the cosmos.

Seated opposite her in the third-floor morning room, at a table spread with the remains of breakfast, was her sister, Jane, peering over her spectacles. "Well, for heaven's sake," she snapped, "don't take it out on William's orrery." She reached for a golden buttery croissant and angled it into her mouth.