The Prince of Eden (60 page)

Edward agreed, reassured by the calm voice. Clutching the infant to him, they made their way back to the carriage where John Murrey opened the door. Edward stood a moment, awkwardly engaged in shifting the bundle, unable to free a hand in order to pull himself up. Again he glanced helplessly at John.

Without words, the infant was transferred from arm to arm, and Edward pulled himself up, then again looked bleakly down on John. "Fm afraid, my friend, that nothing in my life has prepared me for this moment."

Still holding the baby, John Murrey grinned with pride. "Nothing to it, sir. I assure you. I had two beauties of my own—once."

Edward saw the look of pride in the old man's face sink rapidly into gloom. Hurriedly he moved to dispel it. "Then I shall count heavily on you, John." His own smile faded. "As I always seem to do."

Embarrassed by Edward's show of emotion, John Murrey became very businesslike. "If I may make a suggestion, sir—"

"Please do."

"Unbutton your coat and shirtwaist and keep the child close to your flesh. He'll survive with the warmth there until we can stop later on."

Edward started to protest. But when he saw John Murrey crawling into the carriage to help with the placement of the child, he slowly began to unbutton his garments.

"Good," the old man smiled and Edward watched, fascinated, as the old man pulled off the soiled blanket and dropped it unceremoniously out the carriage door. The sudden exposure to the cold roused the child out of his half-sleep. The small mouth flew open at the indignities being forced upon him. Edward had not thought it possible that so shrill a shriek could come from so tiny a frame. And in the instant of the babe's complete nakedness, both men stared down on him, Edward's eyes lingering on the small chest, the word scratched in charcoal still visible, the cuts no longer bleeding, but still red.

John Murrey too seemed almost overcome. "You should have killed him," he muttered.

"I almost did," Edward commented ruefully. As the child's shrieks evolved into shivering spasms of cold, John Murrey lifted him and angled the small package of flesh down through the opening in Edward's shirt, affixing him in a cradled position, then quickly buttoning the shirt up around him, restoring the jacket and cloak and finally sealing both the infant and Edward inside one of the great fur lap robes.

"Won't he suffocate?" Edward asked in alarm, trying to adjust to the sensation of wriggling flesh next to his own.

"Not likely," John soothed, backing out the carriage door. "Keep his face lightly covered. Warmth is the important thing."

Edward felt the small but persistent limbs pushing against him. And there was a new and disquieting sensation now. "He—feels wet," Edward whispered.

At this John Murrey laughed heartily. "You'll survive, sir. Are we ready? We've wasted quite enough time—"

Edward had never felt less ready, but his old friend was right. Perhaps the infant himself was capable of sensing danger in this place. Seated rigidly on the seat, his arms, beneath the lap rug, laced firmly about the new protuberance on his chest, Edward nodded wearily and said over the child's muffled cries, "Take us home, John, as quickly as possible."

From inside the womb of his garments, he heard the infant crying. And as the carriage started forward, Edward looked quickly out the small window on his left to the silent massive outline of Hadley Park.

His eyes moved quickly to the high fourth-floor window. It was dark now. Apparently her ordeal was over. And for one strange moment he felt his love for her diminish, become less an agony and more a source of quiet grief.

He couldn't bring himself to believe that she had willingly given her child away. Surely she had been coerced, threatened. Yet he now remembered her cold demeanor the night of the engagement banquet. How mercilessly hard she had been, how burdened with her insane sense of duty.

The carriage commenced a rhythmic rocking and this, with Edward's body heat, combined to soothe the infant, his cries not ceasing altogether, but merely whimpers now and soft strainings. Slowly, out of curiosity, Edward pulled back the layers of covering and stole a peak downward into the cavity beneath the lap rug. That small face was becoming silent, the eyes closed, the mouth turning hungrily toward Edward's chest as though in search of a breast.

"I'm sorry," Edward whispered. "I'm afraid I'm ill equipped." He lowered the covering a bit more and saw again the injured flesh of the chest, the word itself. Quickly he wet the tip of his finger and commenced to erase the charcoal brand. The child arched upward as though eager to give him access to his chest.

The charcoal was easily removed. Of a more lasting nature was the carved B, new glistenings of blood seeping out. Edward sat bowed before the sight, his hand, massive against the small chest, taking possession of it, caressing the uninjured side, his fingers cupping about the tiny head covered with a soft cap of blond fuzz.

Though the infant was relaxing under the intoxicating effects of warmth, suddenly he opened his dark blue eyes and seemed to peer up at Edward with an open, questioning look, as though he were inquiring if all passages into life were so difficult, and would it persist or diminish, and was it standard for words to be carved on the chests of new citizens of the world?

Such an honest look caused Edward to catch his breath and again he bowed his head over the small one and clutched the infant more firmly against his chest. He could neither account for nor apologize for the tears in his eyes. If there had been any doubts before, there were none now.

This was his son.

It was a difficult journey from Shropshire to London, a trip which

under normal conditions could be speedily accomplished in three to five days.

But on this occasion the Eden carriage was not traveling under normal conditions. At John Murrey's suggestion, they followed a rather circuitous route, making for the large settlements of Lichfield, Birmingham, Coventry, and Oxford, where their chances of finding wet-nurses would be greatly improved.

Eleven days later, on a crisp bright morning near the end of March, after they'd passed the night in the outlying settlement of Barnet, with his son clasped in his arms and dressed in plain muslin shirt and doubly wrapped in two small blankets, Edward glanced out the window and saw the first spires of London.

Home! The odyssey was over. Now he was returning, greatly changed, yet with the same sense of unidentifiable grief pressing down upon him.

So be it! He would live with it. He would respond to life about him as he had never responded before, for his own sake and for the sake of his son.

Slowly he lowered his son to his lap, luxuriating in the pink face, the bright blue eyes, the skin like angel's skin. Still nameless. He'd have to correct that as soon as possible. Not his own. One Edward Eden had been enough. And not his father's. Then what?

At that moment old John Murrey shouted down, the exuberance in his voice unmistakable. "Oxford Street ahead, sir."

Edward smiled. As if he didn't know, as if he too had not been counting off" the intersections. John Murrey. What in God's name would Edward have done without him?

John Murrey!

A name as simple and direct as the man himself. He stared down into his son's face. "It would suit you," he murmured, "and serve you well. John Murrey Eden."

Suddenly without warning, his emotions took a glorious leap upward and he laughed outright and clasped the infant to him with such force that the child objected in a soft whimper, one tiny fist flailing uselessly against Edward's face.

With a smile, Edward opened his mouth and closed his lips around the infant's fingers. The wide blue eyes became suddenly grave at the disappearance of his hand, the funny expression causing Edward to laugh even harder, a spasm of mixed emotions, for himself, for his son, for merely every living creature who had both the fortune and the misfortune to inhabit this earth.

On this cold but sunny March morning, Daniel Spade stood at the second-floor window in the house on Oxford Street and looked down in anticipation at the crowds below and silently cursed what he'd done earlier that day.

There had been a time when the fight with life had fascinated him. He'd viewed it as little more than a game with a worthy adversary. Now? The game was taking a deadly toll.

What he had done that morning was what he had done every morning for the last six weeks: send a contingent of the older boys out onto the streets to thieve as best they could, to bring the bounty back to him for the purposes of feeding the other children.

Now thinking on the harsh straits into which necessity had forced him, Daniel suddenly brought his fist up against the side of the wall and struck a resounding blow which caused the window to vibrate. Great Heavens, what was he doing? It had been his intention to lift the children off the streets and turn their faces in another direction.

Compounding his distress was another factor, the sense that he'd been abandoned by his friend. Yet that thought too caused grief, for he was not Edward's responsibility. As Feargus O'Conner constantly pointed out to him, "We won't be wanting nothing of the upper class. When the battle lines are drawn, you'll be finding us on one side, them on the other."

Of course he was right. Edward's commitment had. always been at best superficial. And in the last year the Movement had changed radically under Feargus O'Conner's wild and dominating leadership. No more were the Chartist meetings conducted in gentlemanly fashion, attended by men of moderation. Now with Feargus at the wheel, they were rabble-rousing and heated, the downstairs rooms echoing with shouts of revolution. Even the vocabulary had changed: all terms of warfare now, armies, weapons, plans of attack, battle lines.

In quiet moments like this, Daniel privately wondered how it would end. He stood perfectly still at the window. Once when he was younger, he'd had such visions for the world. But what he didn't know then and what he knew now in a hard way was that visions require money.

These thoughts did terrible damage to him and again he sank back into the chair. From where he sat he could just see the end of Oxford Street before its approach to Oxford Circus. From the top of the hill near Regent Street came the sound of church bells. Noon matins.

He saw the carriage while it was still a distance away and thought of its peculiar resemblance to Edward's. But this one was different, incredibly soiled and road-weary. Besides he was not looking for

carriages. He was searching for those half-dozen youthful faces whom he'd sent out earlier that morning. Pray God for their safe return.

Still that carriage was coming closer, the driver, a hunched old man whose white frothy hair blew every which way in the brisk March wind. He looked cold, Daniel thought, as worn as—

Daniel blinked and stood slowly up. That old man. If only he'd lift his head. But those were not Edward's horses. He'd never seen those—

In that instant the old man did lift his head, those familiar features clear and unmistakable—

John Murrey! My God, it was—

As the carriage drew to a halt directly before the house, Daniel continued to watch. Perhaps only John Murrey had returned. Perhaps Edward had elected to remain at Eden. Then all at once he saw something, a boot, a gray-clad leg, a shoulder, a twisted cloak. Then— oh God, a fair head, the hair mussed and unkempt, but instantly recognizable—

Edward!

Then Daniel was running, taking the stairs downward two at a time, encountering three volunteers on the steps who flattened themselves against the wall.

On the front steps he stopped, his eyes fixed on one scarcely recognizable man. Daniel's first impulse was to give a cry of alarm at the sight of his friend. He'd never dreamt such change was possible. It was Edward, that much was true, but an Edward he'd never seen before, an Edward who stood beside the carriage, returning his gaze, a gaunt, wasted Edward with the look of age and total exhaustion in his face.

Then Daniel was moving, his arms opened, and as he drew close enough to see tears on his friend's face, he enclosed him in his arms. For several moments, the embrace held. Finally it was Edward who spoke first. He pulled free of Daniel's embrace and said two words, "I'm home."

Daniel nodded as though to confirm the fact.

At that moment John Murrey joined them, his own worn features slightly damp from the emotion of the reunion. "I told you I'd bring him safely back, sir," the old man grinned.

The note of pride in the old man's face was unmistakable, and Daniel encouraged it. "I'm everlastingly grateful, John. I couldn't have entrusted him to more capable hands."

Behind him now he heard a single footstep and turned to see Elizabeth approaching. Never had he seen those young features so radiant. Daniel smiled. "I told you he'd return, didn't I?"

As the girl ducked her head in modesty, Daniel noticed Edward's face. Apparently he'd failed to recognize her.

"It's Elizabeth," he whispered. "She, more than anyone else, has kept a constant vigil for your return."

Still Edward continued to stare down on her, as though disbelieving. "Elizabeth?" he repeated slowly.

"It's me, sir," she smiled. "I was so worried, but I prayed nightly and sometimes of a morning as well."

The avowal of faith seemed to have a strange effect on Edward. Then at last Daniel came to his senses. "My God," he exclaimed in a burst of energy. "There's no need for us to stand about on the pavement. Let's go inside. You must be weary and I long to hear—"

But as he reached for Edward's arm, the man drew away, clung for a moment to the carriage door, and on diminished breath announced, "I'm afraid I'm not traveling alone."

Mystified, Daniel watched as Edward crawled back into the carriage. A moment later he emerged, a small, blanketed bundle in his arms.

Elizabeth gasped. "It's a babe," and she leaned close over the tiny face, its eyes opening sleepily, then squinting shut at the bright sunlight on the pavement.

Daniel could only gape and wait for Edward's explanation.

And when he seemed disinclined to offer any explanation, Daniel smiled. "And when did you go shopping for that one?" he said, trying to lighten the moment.

But Edward continued to focus on the infant. Elizabeth was clearly beside herself as she hopped this way and that, on tiptoe, trying to get a better look. Finally she found the courage to ask softly, "Might I hold him, sir. It looks newborn, scarce—"

"He," Edward corrected her gently. "And he's two weeks, or there about—"

Daniel noticed Edward hesitate a moment, as though reluctant to relinquish his hold on the baby. Finally he eased the bundle from his arms down in Elizabeth's. She adjusted the small weight and smiled up at both of them. "He's so tiny," she whispered.

Then, the grin still on her face, she turned back toward the steps and approached the waiting volunteers in the spirit of one who has just been awarded a priceless prize.

Within the instant the females closed in around her, all their attention drawn to the infant, a cooing, clucking chorus as they gave her solid escort through the door and into the house. At that moment old John Murrey busied himself with the trunks atop the carriage and Daniel and Edward were left alone on the pavement.

Bewildered by everything he had seen, Daniel did well to shake his head. His first inclination was to question Edward at length about everything. But not here.

"Come, Edward," he urged softly, trying to lead him toward the door.

But still Edward held back, a look of amusement softening the fatigue on his face. "No questions, Daniel?" he smiled.

"Approximately a round thousand," Daniel grinned, "but not now. I'll fetch you hot water. Perhaps Cook has saved a tea leaf or two."

Edward spoke quietly. "I've brought you your youngest student, Daniel. I want you to fill his head with everything that is in yours, and fill his heart as well, and make him in your own image."

Daniel laughed. "Quite an order, I'd say."

At the top of the stairs, Edward turned to him, his face sober. "Will you do it?"

Daniel nodded quickly. "Of course I will. You know that. May I ask," Daniel continued quietly, "why your interest in this particular child? If you wish I can find you hundreds just like him, in need, with no-"

"He's my son."

Daniel blinked. "Your-"

At that moment, coming from the pavement behind them, Daniel heard his name being shouted and looked quickly over his shoulder to see his six young thieves racing pell-mell through the crowded pavement.

"We done it, sir," one of the lads cried, racing up the steps between them, dragging a heavy gunnysack behind him.

Caught for the moment between Edward's incredible announcement and the apparently profitable excursion of the young boys, Daniel foundered. In spite of his confusion, he counted the young culprits as they raced past them, six in all, all safely returned. Thank God.

Inside the entrance hall, the boys proudly displayed their stolen goods, a sack filled with potatoes, loaves of bread, and a pocket purse containing three pounds. A few of the volunteers hovered excitedly about, picking up the potatoes as they rolled about on the floor.

In the excitement of the moment, Daniel forgot about Edward. Now he looked up to see him standing in the door, a shocked expression on his face as he demanded of the boys, "Where did you get these things?" indicating the loot.

The young boys drew back at the tone in Edward's voice. One boy stammered, "It was a spilled waggon, sir, up on Great Portland Street. We was just—'*

Daniel stepped forward. "I sent them," he said, his voice low. "We

have survived for several weeks on the fruits of their labor. And we

shall eat tonight because of their efforts." He paused. "You as well,

Edward," he concluded.

Daniel no longer felt pleasure at Edward's shocked look. As boys,

they had held nothing back, had had no secrets. In this frame of mind,

he walked to Edward and took his arm. "Come," he suggested. "We

both have stories to tell."

As they approached the stairs leading to the second-floor chambers,

Daniel felt himself warming again to the reunion. "And how did you

find Eden?" he asked.

But Edward didn't respond, indeed seemed incapable of response as

though all of his energy were being channeled into the ascent up the

stairs.

Who was the man laboring up the stairs beside him, who had

arrived after a ten-month absence with a newborn babe in his arms

whom he claimed was his son, who had looked with such clear

condemnation upon stolen goods, this rich man-But there were no ready answers, and Daniel was forced to wait, his

immense love for the enigmatic man washing over him in secret sorrow.

Little did Edward know that potatoes stolen that morning at the top of Great Portland Street would be feeding him that evening. Yet there was the truth before him, in that bowl of watery potato soup resting on the crate which served as his desk.

Angrily he turned toward Daniel with the question which he'd asked in dizzying repetition throughout that long afternoon of talk. "And Sir Claudius Potter? You tried to contact him?"

And in similar repetition, Daniel nodded and repeated himself. "I tried," he muttered. "In the beginning he at least granted me an audience, if nothing else. Then about three months ago, he closed his door to me completely."

In a strict act of discipline, Edward reined in his anger. Behind him, near the fireplace, he saw Elizabeth, the baby in her arms, as he'd been all day with the exception of those times when she'd had to surrender him to the wet-nurse. A cousin of the cooks' had been found, a young woman who'd recently given birth to a dead baby. With red eyes and full breasts she'd fed the infant and had promised to stay as long as she was needed.

At that moment Elizabeth looked up at him. Those sober features relaxed into a gentle smile as though to reassure him that all was well.

He turned quickly back to the upturned crate where the bowl of watery potato soup greeted his eyes.

Somehow an apology seemed in order and Edward offered one. "Fm sorry, Daniel," he repeated again. "I had no idea."

Daniel smiled. "I tried to write," he said. "I thought you had elected to stay at Eden. I had no way of knowing you were in the Midlands, pursuing your own dream."

"Nightmare, more accurately," Edward muttered.

"Sometimes the one tends to resemble the other. They are easily mistaken."

Edward nodded. Then as though weary of the inactivity in the room, he commenced pacing. "First thing in the morning," he announced, "Fll go see Sir Claudius. The man had better have a suitable explanation."

"Don't be too hard on Him," Daniel suggested quietly. "Perhaps he was simply looking out for your interests."

"My interests?" Edward parroted angrily. "My interests are your interests. He should know that by now."

Daniel looked up at him. "Are they, Edward?"

Edward heard the question and understood the doubt in his friend's face. "Perhaps once, no," he admitted. "But now, yes." He stood before Daniel. "My journey was not without benefit," he began quietly. "I would like to work alongside you."

In an attempt to lighten the mood which he himself had spun, he smiled. "I have an interest in the future now. You have the ideas," he added, pleased with Daniel's expression of hope. "And I have the money. Let's take the world by the corners and shake it a few times, and see if we can't make things come out better than before."

Daniel shook his head, as though still not believing Edward's words. "There is—so much to be done."

"And we'll do it," Edward vowed. "I promise. We'll establish Ragged Schools all over London. We'll buy additional property and staff them properly, and see to all their needs." Never had he seen such a gratifying glow on Daniel's face. "We'll have street kitchens, capable of dispensing meals, we'll establish funds for the old, for the widowed, for the ill-"

Suddenly, as though unable to absorb the torrent of words, Daniel followed after him, interrupting, "You must meet Feargus O'Conner, Edward. He's-"

"Fll meet anyone," Edward agreed, "anyone who shares our plans." He'd never felt such excitement, although in truth he'd given no

thought to what he was saying. The words had simply emerged, ideas fully born.

Abruptly he stopped at mid-room. He had no idea who that other man had been, or where he had gone to, that selfish, self-indulgent man. Dear God, his future, his purpose had been here all along. It was so simple. Why had he not seen it before?

At some point he was aware of a concerned voice at his elbow. "Are you well, Edward? You look—"

"I've never been better, Daniel," he said. "A new dawn, I swear it," he added.

The quiet declaration had a profound effect upon Daniel. "Then I won't have to close the school?" he asked.

"Close it?" Edward exclaimed. "Indeed not. By the end of the month, it shall be the model on which we shall pattern the others."

With effort Daniel stepped away. "Then I shall go and inform the volunteers."

Edward watched him to the door and was still watching when he turned back with a last question. "Will you work within the Movement, Edward?"

"Why not?"

"It's considered radical."

"Radical means are called for."

"You're an Eden."

Edward smiled. "A bastard Eden. Only now do I realize the tremendous freedom that designation gives me."

There was a moment's pause. Then the door opened. A faint light caught his friend's features and from that distance, Edward saw the look of hope.

"Sleep well, Daniel," Edward called after him. "We will commence tomorrow."

Daniel nodded and closed the door behind him, leaving Edward alone with the silence, the flickering firelight casting soft shadows over Elizabeth and the baby.