The Prince of Eden (57 page)

A short time later Edward entered the dining hall and selected a small table near the window which gave him a perfect view of the iron gates across the road and the estate beyond.

A moment later he heard steps approach and turned to see a plump serving girl standing before him, the buttons on her black dress straining against the excess of flesh. "Sir?" she curtseyed prettily.

While Edward's true appetite dictated only coffee and perhaps a

piece of preserved fruit, the ruse which he hoped to work upon the proprietor demanded more. "Eggs," he said, "poached, and sausages would be nice as well." He paused and sniffed broadly at the air. "And is that fresh baking I smell?"

The girl blushed and ducked her head even lower. "Tis, sir. Cook's quite good. Both cakes and cinnamon buns, fit for angels, she makes 'em."

"Then bring me a full selection," Edward requested, "and we'll share a platter."

"Oh, I couldn't do that, sir."

"And why not?"

"Mr. Hills would have me hide, then me job," she gasped. She began to back away from the table. "I'll see to your breakfast, sir."

As the girl, still moving away, looked back, he called out, "And where is Mr. Hills this morning? I had hoped to greet him."

"He's in his office, sir. Shall I fetch him for you?"

"No," Edward answered. "Don't bother." He didn't want to be quite so obvious.

The girl still looked expectant. "Anything else, sir?"

Edward smiled, wanting very much to put her at ease. "Your name, please," he inquired softly.

Again the girl blushed. "Elizabeth, sir."

Elizabeth! With unexpected clarity the image of that other Elizabeth appeared before him. "Have you ever been to London, Elizabeth?" he asked now, knowing what the answer would be.

She looked at him as though he'd lost his senses. "London, sir?" she smiled. "Sweet Jesus, no. I've no business in London. Me Mum's here. Nothing for the likes of me in London."

He smiled at her protestations. "But no desire to see the sights?" he persisted.

"What sights?" she scoffed prettily, moving her bulky figure back through the arrangements of tables and chairs, apparently drawn into the conversation in spite of herself. "I've all the sights I care to see around here, sir," she stated with admirable confidence. "I feel best with little things, I do, if you know what I mean, sir."

Edward listened closely for two reasons: one, the girl's quiet and self-assured wisdom, and two, at some point they had been joined by a third. Edward could just see him over her bulky shoulder, the sharp features and ferret eyes of Mr. Humphrey Hills.

Mr. Hills spoke, sent his cold voice across the width of the dining hall in the sharpest of reprimands.

"Elizabeth!"

Then he was upon her, jerking her about and delivering a stinging blow to the side of her face.

As the girl reeled backward with a soft cry, Edward was on his feet. "You have no right, sir," he objected strongly. "The fault was mine. I invited her to speak.'*

But Hills said nothing. He followed the physical assault with a verbal one, literally driving the girl back toward the kitchen stairs, warning her that if ever again he caught her speaking to the guests, she would pay.

The girl was weeping now, still holding her injured face, and as she drew near the stairs, she bobbed her head and promised to be a good girl. Then she was gone.

Still standing before the table, Edward felt incredible anger. He considered pursuing the man and giving him the same treatment he had given to the girl. But it would have accomplished nothing, indeed would have closed the man's lips to him forever. Slowly now Edward returned to his chair, keeping a close watch on the man still looking down the kitchen stairs.

Then he was walking toward Edward, his hands behind his back, something in his attitude which suggested the harassed and overworked proprietor. "My deepest apologies, sir," he murmured, bowing his head. "I try very hard to maintain a quality establishment. For a staff I'm forced to rely on milk-maids and hay-girls, creatures more at home behind a plow than a tea service."

Still practicing self-restraint, Edward watched the manner in which the man curled his lips about each word, an affectation of speech which Edward found wholly repulsive. "I understand," Edward muttered. "Still, it was my fault. I coaxed her into speech and required her to stay. You should have delivered your blow to me. I was the offending party."

At that, the man became even more apologetic. "Never, sir," he pronounced with fervor. "You are my guest and, as such, incapable of causing offense."

My God, the man was both stupid and brutal. Again Edward smiled. "Even if I desire to engage a serving girl in conversation?"

Aware that he'd walked into his own trap, Mr. Hills gazed bewildered down on him. "I trust, sir, that for all her rudeness, the wench saw to your needs."

Edward nodded.

"And may I inquire," Hills went on, "did you sleep well? Again, with your forgiveness, you looked quite road-weary last evening."

"The chamber was comfortable."

Still fingering the back of the chair as though hungry for an invitation to sit, Hills smiled. "Have you been abroad long, sir?"

"Forever, sir, or so it seems."

Then all at once, Edward issued a brusque invitation. "Well, sit, man. Don't just hover. If you are the true owner of this place, see if you can produce coffee for us."

Edward saw a blush spread over the man's features, heard his command for coffee aimed at another serving girl who was lurking near the end of the hall. That done, he quickly slid into the chair opposite Edward, as though fearful that the invitation would be withdrawn.

Edward watched with quiet amusement as the girl deposited a coffee tray on the table between them, continued to watch as Hills waved her brusquely away and took over the serving duties himself

The cups filled, it was Edward's turn again. "You run a comfortable inn, sir," he commented blandly. "Indeed, last evening your beacon appeared to us as a light from heaven."

The little man beamed. "It was a fierce storm, sir. Winter's worst thus far, a terrible night 16 be abroad—" He paused, then added, cunningly, "That is, if one had a choice."

All at once, Edward was aware that their purposes were identical, each seeking information. Now, in his most generous gift of all, he extended his hand across the table. "Edward Eden," he pronounced, "from London."

Hills responded admirably. "My pleasure, sir," and took Edward's hand.

In an attempt to clear the preliminary stalking, Edward went on. "It was my misfortune last year," he began, in storyteller fashion, "to suffer an illness, a palpitating heart," he smiled innocently. "At least that's what my physician called it. And when I'd recovered sufficiently, the blasted man prescribed a journey, a leisurely excursion, as he put it, down England's country lanes." Again Edward sipped at the coffee. "So here I am," he concluded, "on an odyssey designed to cure, but which at times has threatened to kill."

He gave a brief laugh and saw to his amazement what appeared to be genuine compassion in the man's eyes. "Well, I assure you a safe and healthy visit here, sir, and the hospitality of my inn as long as you require it."

Edward bobbed his head. "I'm most grateful."

For a moment both men sipped their coffee, eyeing each other over the rims of the cups.

In an attempt to bring the true subject closer to hand, Edward glanced out of the window at Hadley Park sitting across the road.

"Tell me something of your neighbors, if you will, Mr. Hills," he suggested softly. "As long as I'm forced to make this blasted journey, I've at least tried to learn something of our country while I'm about it. If I understand correctly, Mr. Hills, you could in every sense of the word be considered native to these parts?"

"Oh yes, indeed, Mr. Eden. And my father before me and his father before him, on and on back to the beginning."

"Continuity," Edward murmured, assuming an admiring expression.

"Continuity," Hills nodded, "as good and as lasting, I might add, as thems across the road."

Edward peered at him, his mind responding to several points. For one, the mention of the estate across the road, and for another, the grammatical slippage, which perhaps indicated both involvement and knowledge. The opportunity was too great not to take advantage of it. "I have little use and less respect," Edward commented quietly, "for our noble peers. The world seems to crown them so effortlessly. For example, how many good men, like yourself, can boast a continuity of ancestry? Yet what does it gain you?

"Look at that," and the direction of his vision was clear, still focusing on the great estate, the enormous columns marching grandly from pavilion to pavilion. "Is such a structure really necessary merely to house flesh and blood? I've seen so much of want and need on this journey, Mr. Hills. And then I see—that." Somberly he shook his head. "I fear that England must look to herself," he concluded, "or else the people will look for her and in time make their own tragic adjustments."

The words might have belonged to Daniel Spade. Yet the truth was Edward's. He had seen much on his journey and now he did indeed look with regret on the estate across the road.

It was while he was still struggling with the peculiar sensation of the mask becoming the face that he heard Hills speak, the man's voice as intense as his own. "That don't cover one particle of it, Mr. Eden," the man muttered. "I've lived in the shadow of the Powelses all my life. I've seen and heard things no decent man could believe. I've made it my business, I have, to know all about them, and still I don't understand why I sit here and they sit there."

Edward gazed at him with mixed feelings. How painful a childhood it must have been. Then feeling that the man was truly his, Edward leaned across the table. "Tell me about them, Mr. Hills," he invited quietly. "Tell me what you have made it your business to learn."

Hills seemed to assess both Edward and his question. "I don't generally talk so openly," he protested.

"What harm?" Edward lightly countered. "Fm a mere traveler. When I leave here, you'll never see me again, though I assure you that I shall pass the word to the members of my London club. A good number of them journey frequently to Wales. I assure you that upon my return to London, they shall know of the excellence of the Mermaid."

The man beamed. "I'm most grateful, sir." Then as though an unspoken bargain had been struck, he took a long gulp of the lukewarm coffee. "Well then, sir, let me tell you about the local 'arees-too-crats.'" He stretched the word, mispronounced, into an obscenity and to Edward's chagrin commenced, "From Wales they come, land robbers in 1387."

He'd not expected the man to go so far back, but apparently Hills thought it necessary as he talked on, nonstop, for almost half an hour.

"And now," the man concluded, having made his way up through the centuries.

Edward sat up, newly alert. "And now?" he urged.

Hills gazed at him with delight. "There's a daughter," he pronounced simply. "Only a daughter. I knew her, you know, sir," he announced, pride in his voice.

"Knew her?" Edward repeated. Why had the man used past tense? "Why do you say 'knew her'? Is she—dead?"

"Oh no, sir, not dead," Hills reassured him. The light in his eyes seemed to glitter fiercely. "A bit worse for wear, if you understand what I mean."

No, Edward didn't understand and said as much and instantly regretted the urgency in his voice. Hills looked over at him as though in surprise. Then to Edward's relief the man apparently mistook the urgency in his voice for a depth of emotion similar to his own. "Don't worry, sir," he commented wearily. "She's as good as dead, or will be when it's over."

Concern mounting, Edward shook his head. "When what's over? What are you talking about?"

"We played together, we did," he grinned. "Right out there." Hills stared in the direction of the road, a glaze over his eyes as though seeing more than winter's snow. "I'd be cutting weeds," he mused, "and here she'd come, riding down from that grand palace on her pony. Course, I was no more than a lad myself, but I thought her the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen."

Then without warning the mood changed, grew harsh as he pronounced, "She spoke first, sir, yes she did. She looked down on me

from her high perch and said how hot it must be, me working Hke that."

Edward took full note of the man's expression, love stamped visibly there for just an instant, then followed rapidly by an incredible degree of hate. "Bitch," the man muttered. "Bitch!" he repeated. A full minute passed before he went on. "Then one day that fence you see now went up, on Lord Powels's orders and that same day, my father came upon me with a whip and—"

He could not go on.

When Edward thought the man would not speak again, he spoke, the look of hate spiraling upward. "Do you believe in divine justice, sir?"

The direct question caught Edward off guard. He did well to nod.

"And I, too," beamed Hills, "for that pretty piece that caused me such grief has come to a sad end," he announced triumphantly.

"How so?" Edward inquired, lowering his hands beneath the table to hide their shaking.

"How so?" parroted Hills. He leaned yet closer. "You wouldn't believe the stories coming out of that place," he grinned. "Some say she's gone abroad. To which I say hell! Some say she's fallen seriously ill. To which I say hell! / know the truth of the situation, sir. Humphrey Hills knows. Humphrey Hills made it his business to know."

"And—what is the truth?" Edward prodded.

Incongruously the man snickered and immediately clamped both hands over his mouth as though someone were listening. With a jerk of his head he motioned for Edward to come closer. "You see that fourth-floor window there, sir?" and he indicated the estate across the road. "Near the east end, sir."

Edward found it and looked back at the man.

"Well, behind that there window is an attic storeroom, not fittin' for the grand lady who rode little ponies, now would you think, sir?"

The question required no answer and Edward gave none.