The Prince of Eden (67 page)

There was the most terrible of all, her sister, her head sunken upon

the pillow, her fair hair cut short for the first time in Jane's memory, butchered by the old nurse who bathed her and who suggested the alteration to keep down lice and fleas. Her eyes were open, though unseeing, fixed, as they always were, on a spot on the canopy.

The paralysis was now complete. The festering bedsores mingling with the ancient scars on her back attested to that. She was incapable of movement save with the aid of two others. She now spent her days and nights lying flat on her bed, her hands lightly clasped upon her breast, no response save for some hand signals which Jane had perfected, a tender communication in which she lifted Marianne's hand, fingers extended, and placed it in the palm of her own hand. If Marianne lifted her index finger, it meant yes. If she raised her thumb, it meant no.

Slowly, now, Jane tried to rise up from the confines of her chair, choosing to think on the few good moments. Marianne clearly enjoyed her daily treat of tea and honey. And early of a morning when Jane's eyes were rested, she would read to Marianne and there too was a source of enjoyment, her sister's face glowing when fictional worlds worked out well, her eyes filling with tears when the heroine of the moment fell on hard times.

Her thoughts were wearing her out. A sharp pain lodged itself in her upper gums and cut a path through to the center of her brain. She needed brandy, though she'd never started this early in the day, and again she was on the verge of pulling herself laboriously out of her chair when suddenly the door burst open and in the dim light she saw the figure of a man.

"Who—is—" she stammered. But then she saw him clearly and recognized him in spite of his dandified clothes and his peculiar hair arrangement. "James?"

She detected a look of apprehension in his face. He seemed incapable of looking her straight in the eye. But then even as a child he'd been unable to accomplish that simple feat. "James?" she murmured, thinking how long it had been since he'd climbed the steps to this chamber. "What a pleasant surprise," she added, smiling, "and how thoughtful of you to come on such a—busy day."

She saw a vivid flush spread over his face. Effortlessly she slipped into her old manners of hospitality. "Come," she smiled, taking his arm. "It's a chill day and bridegrooms must be warm. Here, sit," she invited, offering him her own comfortable chair, and to her surprise, he did, although his position was more a nervous perch on the edge. Quickly she drew forward a straight-backed chair and placed it before him, shutting off the snoring Mrs. Greenbell.

Thus settled, the tension between them seemed to increase. "Well now," she smiled, "tell me of your plans. The wedding is today, I believe, this afternoon."

He nodded, his fingers in his lap lacing back and forth. "Yes," he repeated dully. "Rather soon now."

She nodded. "And the bride? Is Lady Harriet well? We all remember her illness." Abruptly she smiled and lifted an imaginary glass in toast. "To your persistence, James," she smiled. "How fortunate the young woman is to be so zealously loved."

She saw an angry look pass over his face. "I don't love her," he muttered.

Jane leaned forward, not shocked but pretending it. "Then why—"

"It's for the best," he said quickly, staring with dead eyes into the fire. Then mechanically, as though he were quoting someone else, he added, "Love is not necessary and may come in time."

She considered arguing and would have if she thought it would have done a particle of good. She recognized the words and even the intonation, Sophia Cranford speaking behind James's mouth. In spite of the bleak nature of her thoughts, she looked back at James and managed a smile. "I wish you well," she said, "and only regret that I won't be in attendance. Our hearts, though, go with you and your bride."

He seemed not to hear and again looked nervously a.bout.

"Would you like to see your mother?" she asked quietly.

He glanced at her with a simple expression as though she'd just expressed the deepest desire of his heart.

"Over here," she whispered, taking his arm, already fearful for him. "Talk to her," she advised. "She does understand more than anyone knows, I think."

Leaving him to his own initiative, she watched as he moved falteringly forward.

"Take her hand," Jane urged softly. "On occasions her fingers speak."

In response to this, he glanced sharply over his shoulder as though she'd spoken nonsense.

"Her hand," she urged again. "Take it in your own." Lord have mercy, she silently prayed. Would he endure?

Then to her surprise she saw him doing as she had urged, his hand finally making contact and lifting that small dead one into his own.

Although Jane stood a distance of about ten feet from the bed, she knew she should turn away and did so at the last minute to face the fireplace and the now gaping Mrs. Greenbell, who had somehow

managed to drag herself out of the depths of her noisy slumber in time to witness the encounter.

In response to the enormous question mark which was forming on Mrs. Greenbell's fleshy face, Jane merely placed a solitary finger to her lips, indicating silence. The old woman obeyed, though Jane saw her pull herself awkwardly forward in the chair, the better to see the bed.

A waste of effort, Jane thought, because a glance in that direction told her that absolutely nothing was happening by the bed. James still held her hand, but there were no words, no sounds of comfort.

Again Jane silently prayed. She was tempted to reproach him and was on the verge of doing so when suddenly from some mysterious and faraway need, James broke. The strained cord snapped, tears which perhaps had lain dormant from his youth rose up with such violence that his whole body shook. He fell on his knees beside the bed, and without warning Jane saw Marianne's body suddenly turn at a distorted angle.

Behind her, Jane heard Mrs. Greenbell utter a sharp cry as James, still clasping his mother's hand, took it with him in his collapse, clearly unmindful of her helpless state, unaware of the macabre fact that the entire paralyzed body was in the process of falling over on him.

Jane couldn't tell whether James looked up first and saw what he was doing, or whether Mrs. Greenbell arrived in time to wrest Marianne's hand from him. All she knew was that with remarkable gentleness, her old companion separated the two, and concentrated her attention on drawing Marianne back to the safe center of the bed.

As for poor James, the ordeal was clearly too much. Whatever urgent need had persuaded him to climb the stairs to his mother's chambers, now that need abandoned him, and as quickly he abandoned the room, staggering to his feet, his head bowed.

Behind her at the bed, she saw Mrs. Greenbell still fussing over Marianne, saw her lean forward and clutch at her heart, as though feeling a delayed reaction to her recent exertion.

"Here now," Jane soothed, coming up beside her. "You go back to the fire. I'll stay with her."

Carefully and sadly Jane studied the face on the pillow. How much did she know? Had the paralysis extended to the brain? Did those dead, staring eyes signal total death, yet death of the worst kind, for the heart still pumped persistent life?

There were no answers, only a new and heavier silence in the room, the soft crackling of fire, the gentle beginnings of Mrs. Greenbell's snores, the sad realization that somewhere in that cold tomb of a castle, a loveless pair were being bound together for life.

Oh God, no answers to anything, and in her deepening despair she was only vaguely aware of Marianne's face with moisture seeping from the corners of her eyes, and that one small index finger of her left hand working furiously, futilely against the cover.

On March 28, a cold, gray, snow-spitting Thursday, at three-thirty in the afternoon. Lord James Eden wed Lady Harriet Powels.

It was a grim ceremony which took place in the little fourteenth-century chapel on the second floor of Eden Castle. Sterling silver candelabra bearing twenty candles each flanked the pulpit and cast a soft rose glow over the twelve pews. Windowless, in the heart of the castle, the room was damp and smelled of old books and burned-down candles. For this occasion, no particular decoration was added, not even flowers. It was not the season for flowers.

The ceremony was performed by a young Anglican priest from Exeter, a Father Whitehead, who seemed more impressed by his surroundings than anything else. He pronounced the simple ceremony with a low voice and wandering eye, as though he were attempting to record everything so that he might report it later to his associates in Exeter.

It was all over in less than fifteen minutes, including the signing of the marriage document. There had been no nuptial kiss and the two had repeated their vows in voices so low as to be inaudible to anyone save the priest.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, when all the signing was over, the bride, her heavy veil still in place, left the chapel quickly, her lady's maid scurrying after her, and the other actors in the drama were left alone in the chapel, gazing at the empty doorway.

Then because their presence was no longer needed as witnesses, Sophia sent the servants back to their duties. She paid the young priest a handsome sum and likewise sent him on his way, uncaring that the snowstorm outside had increased.

She turned then and bestowed a loving kiss on James and urged that he look to his bride. But the groom merely shook his head and ran from the chapel, turning in the direction opposite to which his bride had disappeared, the stone floor sending back in echo the rapid clacking of his boots.

Sophia and Caleb Cranford extinguished the candles and left the chapel, quietly closing the doors behind them, as though to lock in the mood which was more accurately funereal grief than wedded bliss.

>^^^

In shimmering morning sunshine, Edward sat on the stoop of the house on Oxford Street, the long letter from Eden in hand, and watched as old John Murrey, a doting godfather if there ever was one, led the young John Murrey Eden, now a robust and chubby three-year-old, on his morning excursion to the end of Oxford Street, across to the opposite side, then home again.

Slowly now, almost reluctantly, he reopened the letter bearing the Eden seal which had arrived only that morning. From Jane. He'd recognized her handwriting and now shifted on the hard stoop, propped his arms upon his knees, and commenced to read.

The first paragraph was Jane at her coquettish worst, apologizing for the quality of the writing paper and bemoaning the fact that age and a slightly palsied hand had robbed her of her exquisite penmanship. News of my mother, please, he thought impatiently.

Then the second paragraph, so harmless appearing in the opening lines: "An occasion of some note took place at Eden during the month of March. Your brother, finally, after many foolish stops and starts, wed-"

Abruptly Edward*s eyes stopped. There was a moment of disbelief, that perhaps the palsied hand had written the wrong name. But then he was reading again, a secondhand description of the ceremony—Jane herself had not attended.

In all, Edward read the account three times and though there was more to the letter, he allowed the hand holding the pages to fall limp

between his legs and stared, unseeing, at the pavement. So! There was a new Lady Eden. In that instant he saw her again, that one interval they had passed together.

His head dropped slightly forward under the weight of memory, regretful that his once limitless love for her was now limited in the realization that she had abandoned their son.

Edward reopened the letter and read the final paragraphs, which, he discovered, to his annoyance, scarcely mentioned his mother at all. "She is as well as can be expected, we keep her comfortable. She does love her honey—"

There was a closing paragraph concerning Jane's favorite objects of hate, the Cranfords, and a rather oblique warning to Edward to be careful. There was an affectionate conclusion and her flowery signature and half a wasted page.

He stared at the blankness. Over and above the traffic noises of the street, he heard the vendors calling, the costermongers hawking their wares. A posie crone went by with flowers, announcing to all that she had for sale the same rare hybrid rose that Queen Victoria had carried in her wedding bouquet when last February she had married the German Prince.