The Prince of Eden (63 page)

Dead. The price was becoming increasingly dear. Could she pay it? She must. All the way up the stairs, she was aware of Nelda following closely behind her, her father's servant now, pleading his case. "The animal was poorly," she whispered. "He hadn't taken food in—"

Still Harriet moved forward, grasping the bannister for support, doing all her weeping invisibly, moving resolutely back to her prison.

As she drew near to the door of her apartments, she glanced ahead and saw the dark narrow staircase which led to the fourth-floor storage attic. Once, a month ago, she had vowed to herself that she would never again in her life set foot in that grim room.

Now she cast a searching eye in that direction. A shudder crept over her. Then she was moving again, a curious lassitude settling over her limbs while behind Nelda protested vigorously, "No, my Lady. You don't want to go up there no more. Come with me. We'll—"

Who was that speaking behind her? She couldn't identify the voice and it made no difference anyway. She wanted to sec again for herself that place of horror. There was always the remote possibility that it would help to alleviate the new pain which had invaded her body.

To that end, she slowly climbed the narrow staircase and pushed open the door, then closed it behind her and shut out that voice which was still pleading with her. For a moment she stood in silence in the room.

There it was before her, that cot, old linens still stacked on the near table. And there, the partitions still in place which had separated the old Swede's bed from her own. And there, still attached to the iron frame of the cot, were the strips of muslin which had held her wrists and ankles rigid.

As a soldier revisits an old battlefield in search of new meaning to meaningless pain, so Harriet methodically, deliberately took note of all aspects of her battlefield. Of purpose there was little, of meaning, none. And the only activity which even came close to raising her out of her misery was when she took up her position on the cot, first leaning forward and rebinding both her ankles to the iron frame, then stretching backward, her hands clasping the frame from behind, as though they too were bound.

Thus self-restrained, she closed her eyes as if in a hypnotic trance, welcoming the memory of pain, the memory of dead Falstaff", of the green glen, of the son lost to her forever, of Edward ...

'i;/sj7

Elizabeth turned over on her bed, under the new down coverlet whose smooth hemmed edges almost touched her face. Though late, almost nine o'clock, it wasn't bedtime and she was far from sleepy.

Nearby, so close she could touch it, was the pretty new cradle, and inside was the babe. Now, as though to confirm the baby's nearness, she reached out and touched the polished rosewood, and with a shiver of delight withdrew it quickly, as though happiness, like pain, was best taken in small doses.

Fully clothed in her new dress of pale blue, she lay still beneath the coverlet, gazing up at the ceiling where the fire shadows formed images of dancing bears. Coming from the other side of the partition she heard his pen scratching.

Him!

She closed her eyes and again shivered. Was it heaven? Was this what the old priest at St. Dunstan's meant when he spoke of "the peace that passeth all understanding"? How had she been so gloriously transplanted from that dismal other life to this?

Again, in bewilderment, she looked about her and tried, in her limited way, to assess the changes. Surely they had commenced on that miraculous day two weeks ago when she'd chanced to glance out the third-floor window and had seen the dusty carriage, had seen old John Murrey, then had seen him.

Yes, that had been the start. And since then, the changes had come so fast she could scarcely keep track of them all. Endless deliveries had

been made to the house on Oxford Street. First the beds, not only her new one, but beds for the children as well with real feather mattresses and stacks of warm blankets and new linens.

And while that parade had been coming in the front door, an equally long parade of tradesmen had been coming in the back door bringing fresh meat, white flour, sugar, coffee, tea, eggs, sausages.

Lying still beneath the coverlet, she found herself smiling in the semidarkness of her little partition. What was it that he called her now, his nursemaid, and her only duties entailed looking after the baby, that mysterious little bundle who was turning rosy and fat at the nipple of the wet-nurse in the kitchen.

For just an instant a small cloud marred her brow. His son, or at least that's what he said, with the cuts on his small chest, healed now. Still—where was the mother? Had he loved her? Had she loved him? And if so, why wasn't she here?

Well, Elizabeth knew this much. If it had been her—and at that moment she reached out and lightly rocked the cradle. In a way, it was her now.

As though to confirm her thoughts of him, she threw back the coverlet and moved slowly to the foot of the bed, to an angle where, leaning slightly forward, she could just see him, sitting at his bureau, in the light of an oil lamp, his head bent over ledger books.

For reasons she was not capable of understanding, her eyes filled with tears. At that exact moment, to her chagrin, he looked up from his ledger, as though summoned by the intensity of her gaze.

"Elizabeth?" he murmured. When she didn't respond immediately he laid down the pen and lightly folded his hands over his work. "Is anything wrong?" he inquired kindly.

Quickly she shook her head. She pulled the coverlet over her and held it clasped under her chin as though taking refuge behind it. In the expanding silence she knew she had to speak, but all she could think of was the silliest question. "This bed, will it always be mine?"

Softly she heard his words. "The bed is yours, Elizabeth, will always be yours."

She nodded as though to assure him that she understood, that now he could get back to his figures and books and she'd not bother him again.

But he didn't. Instead he leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his neck and stretched as though he were fatigued and continued to look at her.

Dear God, how she loved him. She shouldn't be staring at him so. How was it possible that he made her feel so beautiful when she was so

ugly? How was it possible that now, under his gaze, she felt that if she spoke, she would be witty and quick and clever?

How were all these things possible? She had no idea, none at all. . .

Nor did he, though Edward had found something in her face which had stirred him deeply, even though now there was knocking at the door and an urgent call of, "Edward, it's me, Daniel."

The door opened and Daniel appeared, flushed and excited. "Are you ready? They are starting to arrive."

Edward nodded that he was. "Might we take a moment first?" he asked, closing the ledger books before him and pushing them to one side. From behind the partition he heard his son whimper, heard soft cooing as Elizabeth spoke to him. A moment later she emerged from behind the partition, the baby in her arms. Cradling him close, she said softly, "He's hungry, Mr. Eden. I'll take him to the kitchen."

Although he was well aware of Daniel waiting, still Edward chose to spend a minute in a personal way. He'd been so busy of late. His moments with his son were usually stolen, like now. "Bring him here," he asked gently.

The weight was minimal. Still his knees felt peculiarly weak as he held his son. Behind him he was aware of Daniel drawing closer, reminding them both that a christening was in order and soon. "The old priest at St. Dunstan's could do it," he smiled, "with his namesake serving as godfather."

"And you as well," Edward added, "and Elizabeth as godmother."

He saw the expression in her face as she looked up at him. "Do—you mean it, sir?"

He nodded. "Of course I mean it. I can think of no one more qualified."

She grinned and seemed to want to say more, but instead clasped the infant to her and walked from the room with new dignity.

Both men watched. As she closed the door behind her, Daniel reminded him, "They're beginning to gather, Edward. You will come, won't you?"

"I promised I would," he smiled. "Indeed I look forward to it." As he commenced straightening the desk, he asked, "Tell me something about your Mr. O'Gonner. You've mentioned him briefly, but I would like to know more."

Across the desk, Daniel shrugged. "He's taken the reins," he smiled. "For the first time in the history of the Movement, we have a leader."

"The right one?" Edward inquired.

"I think so."

"He's Irish?"

"Oh, indeed," Daniel laughed. "In fact, there are certain men who claim that O'Conner is first an Irish Nationalist and second an English Chartist."

"Is he?"

Daniel paused as though carefully framing his reply. "To be honest, he's both," he said. "But first and foremost he's for the people, be they Irish or English."

Edward nodded. From the scathing editorials he'd been reading in London papers, the mere name Feargus O'Conner was capable of striking fear in the bastions of management. Good! Then with the proper leadership on one hand and the Eden fortune on the other, they might just stand a chance of effecting certain desperately needed changes. How he would love to be a part of it, a kind of legacy to leave to his son.

He stood up from his chair, his enthusiasm mounting, when abruptly Daniel stopped him. "One additional word, Edward, if I may. You might find tonight," he began, "some resistance coming from O'Conner-"

"Resistance?"

Daniel nodded. "I fear he views you as the natural enemy."

Surprised, Edward moved back, putting the desk between them. "Why?" he demanded.

"Oh, not you personally," Daniel hurriedly reassured him. "What you stand for. You are a man of great wealth. You did not earn it and therefore, according to Feargus, that makes you an—exploiter and, I'm afraid—the enemy."

Edward laughed to put him at ease. "Am I still the enemy if I choose to use that fortune in the execution of O'Conner's schemes?"

Apologetically Daniel murmured, "Of course not, not to me."

"But to Mr. O'Conner, yes?" he asked, wanting confirmation.

"I'm afraid so."

Edward hadn't counted on this. He had assumed that both he and his purse would be a welcome addition to the radicals. Now apparently he would have to go through a period of proving himself. Well, no matter. Perhaps Feargus O'Conner had already suspected the truth, that to Edward, the Movement wasn't nearly as important as the need to bring about rapid and effective change.

Since his return from Shropshire, Edward had already scouted other locations for Ragged Schools in London, had tentatively picked out half a dozen crumbling London properties that would lend themselves

to his purposes, his and Daniel's. If the Irishman wanted to go along, very well. If not—

"Come, Daniel," Edward invited now, "I hear boots below. We mustn't keep Mr. O'Conner waiting and thus confirm his opinion of me as a member of the leisured class."

As he walked beside Daniel down the stairs, he caught his first sight of the men gathering in the entrance hall below, a solid crush of rough, craggy men in well-worn clothes. Edward heard a shout.