The Prince of Eden (65 page)

There were greater, more pressing goals, and it was to those that Edward looked as he started back down the stairs, trying to ignore the disquieting feelings within him, the painful sense that he was being summoned only for his fortune, that all his pride and dignity and worth as a man rested on that vast portfolio of deeds and leases which his father in a moment of weakness had signed over to him when he had been a mere infant.

There was his cross and his salvation, and there too was the deep well-spring of his grief.

On one of the most dazzling June mornings in the history of man, June 20, 1837, a little knot of people left the house on Oxford Street, on foot and walked through the radiant sunshine a distance of three blocks to the tiny Anglican church of St. Dunstan's. There beneath two simple stained glass windows depicting the Lost Lamb and the Prodigal Son, with rainbow colors falling on their faces, the old parish priest took the infant with the carved B on his chest, a fat three months old now, in his arms and christened him John Murrey Eden while to one side the kind-faced elderly man who had given him his name wept tears of joy.

Others in the christening party were Elizabeth, the only godmother, radiant and beaming in a newly made gown of pink silk with matching bonnet and carrying a small bouquet of pink roses which she'd gathered early that morning from the trellis at the rear of the house on Oxford Street. And Daniel Spade was there, the second godfather, who carried in his hands his christening present, a small white leather Book of Common Prayer with the infant's name engraved in gold on the cover.

And there was a third male present whom, in the midst of the quiet ceremony, Edward surveyed with modest amazement. Feargus O'Conner, the Irishman who had come close to taking up permanent residence in the house on Oxford Street and who since that first night of the Chartist meeting had never ceased to amaze Edward with the force of his personality and his single-mindedness as far as the Movement was concerned.

But for this moment, Edward wasn't thinking of the Movement. He looked lovingly at his son, who was suffering the indignities of having cold water splashed on his forehead, an offense which he was now letting the entire world know about in a sudden shriek of outrage which seemed to upset the old priest, who quickly completed his prayer and handed the squirming child back to Elizabeth's outstretched arms,

where within the moment the child was made quiet by the young woman's gentle rocking.

In the final moments of the closing prayer, Edward looked about at the faces of his friends, the chilled and musty-smelling interior of the small church, his eyes finally coming to rest on his son, John Murrey Eden. And for one moment he experienced a sweeping sensation of pure joy. How faint was the past, the future little more than a remote glimmering, yet for now, he stood in the midst of friends, with his son nearby and felt a physical proximity to the Source to Whom they all were praying.

For one blessed moment, he did not see the pale and haggard faces of the children who filled his three Ragged Schools, children with countenances like old men and women. For this moment he saw only his son, who, like the others, had been early introduced to pain and brutality. But of this Edward was certain and of this he now took a silent vow: his son, from this time on, would know nothing but love. As the prayer came to an end, and heads lifted, Edward reached forth and took his son from Elizabeth and carried him to the altar where, kneeling down, he lifted his face to the Crucifix and closed his eyes and repeated the vow to God himself.

Later that evening there was a small party for the children in honor of the special day, though the guest of honor had long since been put to bed. At Edward's suggestion, the cooks had baked white almond cakes and the three of them, Daniel, Feargus, and Edward, enjoyed standing in the corner of the banqueting hall, watching the children taste the sweet crumbly goodness.

Now it was close to midnight. The children, numbering almost one hundred and fifty, had long since been herded upstairs to bed. A few of the kitchen volunteers were still working in the banqueting hall, sweeping, gossiping about the dying King William and wondering what the young Princess Victoria would wear to her coronation.

After the last of the women had bid the men goodnight, Feargus produced from the folds of his cloak a bottle of good Irish whiskey, proclaiming, "The occasion warrants it, an adult celebration, a toast to life and death. Nothing better for the Movement," he'd announced further, "than the death of that inept old king."

Although Edward was loath to toast death in any quarter, and Daniel too had been less than enthusiastic, still they agreed with the blustering Irishman, sent a volunteer for three glasses, and now sat in awkward positions at one of the small benched tables designed to accommodate children. A single lamp burned low on the table before them.

Across the table, his long legs drawn up like a grasshopper, O'Conner lifted his glass in Edward's direction. "To the day and the happy occasion," he said simply. "Then to work. I've the petitions and St. Katherine's dock yet to look forward to."

Edward sat up. "Give me the petitions. I know St. Katherine's dock, ril take them myself."

But the offer was still resting on the air when Daniel came down with a hard "No!" Edward saw the two men exchange a glance. O'Conner muttered, "My God, man, the last thing we need is you behind bars."

Again it was clear. Of course he must remain free and protected. Who else could make the weekly trips to Sir Claudius Potter's office and return with a cash flow capable of buying property, purchasing goods, paying printing costs for pamphlets and petitions?

Now as though O'Conner sensed his plummeting spirits, he leaned forward across the table, refilled Edward's glass, and commended him on the Blackfriars Road property. "I inspected it today," he smiled. "After the christening. Quite spacious it is. What is your estimate? Two hundred children?"

Edward shook his head. "Two hundred and fifty at least," he commented without looking up.

O'Conner nodded, clearly pleased. "And Daniel informs me that you have made one additional purchase on Toadley Lane."

Edward looked sharply up, becoming resigned to the fact that anything he told Daniel eventually ended up in O'Conner's ear. "Not settled yet," he said bluntly, remembering the old opium den and what personal pleasure it would give Edward to open those locked doors to the light of sunshine. But at this point. Sir Claudius was having trouble locating the original deed, so the Toadley Lane property was still being used by the living dead.

Without warning, O'Conner leaned across the table. "Tell me, Eden, were you truly an addict?"

Edward found the direct question impertinent and the weight of memory insupportable. Still he nodded.

"How did it start?" O'Conner pressed on, apparently fascinated by the subject.

Edward was aware of Daniel stirring uncomfortably. Still he replied quietly, "It started with the death of a dear friend."

"What was it like?"

"It was like being dead and alive at the same time." He closed his eyes, remembering the nightmares, the poison which still manifested itself in his system. Yet it seemed to him in that moment that if a vial

of laudanum were produced, he'd blend the elixir without hesitation into the whiskey before him.

Now as though O'Conner sensed his weakness, he smiled slyly. "Some of my men use it regularly. I have constant access to it."

Suddenly Daniel stood, his voice husky. "It's late," he announced. "No more talk."

Edward sensed his concern and smiled. "No need, Daniel. That war is over. Now we're engaged in another."

Beyond the lamplight, Edward noticed O'Conner's strong features fall into shadows. "I meant no offense, Eden, with my questions," he said kindly.

"And I took none," Edward replied.

"Then again, blessings on your son." The man lifted the whiskey and drank directly from the bottle. "Pray God, our efforts will provide him with a better world, and pray tonight for death at Windsor." He contracted his heavy brows and made a searching survey of the banqueting hall. "And we really must find another place to meet," he commented sadly. "Too cramped, this, too smelly—"

He did not finish his sentence but turned partially away as though his mind were struggling on two tracks at once. "A bitch on the throne," he mused meanly, apparently not even aware of his non sequitur. "A German bitch at that. How England will founder! With death at Windsor, our time has truly come."

Edward watched and tried to crush the uneasy feeling which had arisen within him. The man appeared to have gone temporarily mad. Perhaps drunk. He'd consumed almost half a bottle of whiskey. Yet there was no slurring to his speech.

"Then I'm off," O'Conner shouted now, full-voiced, with a suddenness that jarred the quiet hall. At the double doors, he stopped. "Remember," he grinned. "Pray for the King's death," then he added, "for England's sake!"

With that he was gone.

They continued to sit still for several moments, their eyes fixed on the empty doorway. Finally behind him he heard Daniel's worried whisper, "What are we going to do?"

At last Edward stood. "Watch him," he suggested softly. "No more. He's still a very effective leader."

"Do you have any regrets, Edward?" Daniel asked. "I feel often that I have led you astray, cheated you of your natural role in life."

At the bottom of the stairs, Edward stopped and faced Daniel directly. He smiled. "Is madness a contagion? I'm here because I want

to be, Daniel. Fm on course for perhaps the first time, and you have put me there."

He had intended to say more, but the expression on Daniel's face so moved him that he clasped the man to him.

"To bed now," Edward concluded wearily. "We'll need at least fifty new teachers for the Blackfriars school and I count heavily on your assistance and good judgment."

The two men shook hands warmly. "Goodnight," Daniel smiled and started slowly toward the rear of the house.

Edward waited until he saw Daniel enter his own room, then quietly slipped up to his chambers, his eye falling immediately on the bed behind the partition on which Elizabeth was fast asleep.

He closed the door and stood for a moment. He felt his earlier concerns slipping away. After a brief prayer, he walked beyond the partition to his desk to the mountain of invoices and bills and plans for renovations. He should work. Elizabeth had thoughtfully left the lamp burning.

But his mind would not adjust itself to figures and debits and credits tonight. Instead he slipped into his dressing gown, turned the lamp low, and carried a chair to the edge of the partition. There he settled himself and leaned back and sat guard on the two sleeping, the finely chiseled face of his young son and the motionless beauty of Elizabeth.

The moment was too full for complete comprehension. And wisely he did not try.

Without the help of prayers for death, old King William died during the night. The cries of the newsboys in the street awakened Edward the following morning along with the mournful tolling of church bells.

He opened one sleepy eye, surprised to find himself in bed. He looked toward the partition and knew that Elizabeth was already up and dressed and in the kitchen while the wet-nurse fed his son.

Slowly he left his bed and went to the window. The dawn was dark and brooding. Workmen were already busy hanging black banners from every streetlamp. The early morning pedestrians were subdued somehow and he saw clusters of top-hatted gentlemen huddled in close conversation on the street corner. So! England would now have a queen, the young Victoria. He remembered Feargus O'Conner's remarks from the night before. The man must be watched.

Outside his door, he heard the children parading down for morning prayers and breakfast. Even their small voices seemed subdued. Dear God, how he loathed the presence of death.

Then, as though to outrace the shadow of death, he quickly washed and dressed and hurled himself into the mountain of work on his desk.

He rubbed his hands together and picked up his pen. Lord Shaftsbury's report first, that honorable gentleman having sent his request over a month ago, suggesting that all Ragged Schools be unionized so that they might arrange plans to "assist each other."

Pen in hand, Edward commenced to write and wrote steadily for over an hour, hearing below in the banqueting hall the very children he was describing.

In a very real sense the future swallowed him up. His pen moved faster across the page. In all of London, there were now sixteen Ragged Schools. By this time next year, there would be one hundred and sixty, and the year after that. ..

;^^^

That the demanding letter should come during the last days of mourning for her mother seemed, to Harriet, most appropriate. The gloom was now all of a piece, with no discernible break at any given seam. Nor was there any longer any element of surprise in her existence. She'd known all along that the "unfinished business" at Eden Point would be finished one day.

And now there was her father, sunk in his chair in his study, his customary position since the death of her mother almost a year ago. He was coatless—there was no one to dress for now—his head and shoulders hunched over his writing bureau, lifting the letter with hands that shook, a long strand of iron-gray hair falling over his forehead.