The Prince of Eden (68 page)

Quickly now Edward gathered together the pages of Jane's letter as he saw, coming from his left, a miniature golden-haired sailor, running toward him, arms outstretched, his small face tilted back and laughing, old John Murrey following dutifully behind. At the last minute before he stood to scoop the child up in his arms, Edward saw, clutched in that tiny fist, the remains of a cinnamon bun. But impervious to the sticky mess he slipped his hands beneath the two small arms, crushing the letter from Eden in the process, and lifted the child, whirling, into the air.

As delighted shrieks along with cinnamon crumbs rained down on his head, he looked up into the small grinning face and found it impossible not to smile back, found it equally as impossible to take anything in life too seriously, at least for the moment. All he needed in this world was contained in the almost weightless bundle of squirming, shrieking life which he held over his head.

Suddenly overcome, he lowered his son into his arms and kissed the cinnamon-covered cheeks and was aware that the little boy was merely enduring. After a moment, Edward released him with a quick warning to stay close and looked back over his shoulder to see John Murrey grinning like a magpie.

"He led all the way, sir," the old man announced.

"A fitting epithet," Edward replied. "Pray it will be the story of his

life." As he looked back at the boy, Edward noticed that he had dropped the cinnamon bun and had retrieved the crushed pages of Jane's letter. Now like a miniature reproduction of Edward himself, the boy sat on the stoop, in Edward's exact position, the pages clutched upside down in his chubby fingers, "reading."

Drawing nearer, John Murrey laughed heartily. "Monkey see, monkey do," he said. "Shall I take him in to Miss Elizabeth, sir?"

"No, leave him with me for a while," Edward suggested. "The children are still in class. I'll keep him until Elizabeth is free. Go along to the kitchen with you," he added fondly. "You've earned refreshment."

John nodded, and as he passed the boy on the stoop lovingly ruffled his hair. Edward noticed a subtle movement, the child drawing away and quickly smoothing down his hair with a characteristic expression, frowning eyes and smiling lips, so that one was never quite certain of his exact mood.

Settling beside him on the stoop, Edward fought off the impulse to take him in his arms and sat now with easy informality, two "men" passing a June morning.

"Did you have a nice walk?" he inquired softly, marveling at the dark lashes which covered the downward eyes.

No response. All the child's attention seemed to be directed at the crumpled pages in his hand.

"What did you see?" Edward prodded further. "Tell me everything."

But apparently nothing he'd seen on his walk was as fascinating as the broken red wax seal on the back of the letter bearing the Eden coat of arms.

"What's this?" he demanded now, holding the pages up for Edward's inspection.

"A letter," Edward replied.

"No," the boy insisted. "This," and with one pudgy finger pointed to the Eden seal as though put out with his father's slow wits.

Edward nodded as though at last understanding. "A coat of arms," he said, "belonging to the Eden family."

Suddenly a dazzling smile broke across the soiled cheeks. "I'm a Eden family," the child grinned.

Edward nodded. "Indeed you are. Not a family, perhaps, but a member."

The boy seemed to think on this for a moment. Then with an almost sad expression he looked back up at Edward. "What are you?" he asked soberly, clearly imitating Edward's tone of voice.

"I too am an Eden," Edward smiled.

The information seemed to please the boy and for a few moments he contemplated the pages with childish seriousness. Then all at once he looked up at Edward. "Is this Eden?" he asked, his face still serious.

Edward laughed. "No, this is London. Eden is a long way from here."

Before the child spoke again, Edward sensed the question that was coming. And it came, a mildly pouting expression on the young features. "Why are we here in London, if we live in Eden?" he demanded.

Edward shook his head. Daniel and Elizabeth both had warned him. The child was a question machine. "Because my work is here," Edward replied, hoping it would suffice.

It didn't. John turned to face him. "I want to go to Eden," he announced, his voice revealing a spoiled tone that Edward didn't care for. Elizabeth had warned him. The boy was overindulged. Still Edward couldn't quite bring himself to correct him. Instead he smiled sorrowfully and asked, "And leave me and Elizabeth and Uncle Daniel and your Grandpapa, for we must stay here. I'm afraid if you went, you'd have to go quite alone." He felt certain that this would make a difference.

But to Edward's surprise and mild shock, the child stood on the stoop, in an attitude of complete resolution, and calmly announced, "I'll be back."

"Wait!" Edward called out, amazed to see the child toddle down the steps, apparently perfectly willing to take his chances alone on the crowded pavement. He caught up with him in a few short steps and lifted him in his arms, removing the letter from his hand, and endured his shrieks of outrage. As he carried him, flailing, back to the stoop, he saw, inside the door, the classes breaking for the morning. "There, look," he pointed out quickly in an attempt to distract the boy. "You'll have some playmates now."

With a guarded expression, the boy ceased his flailing and glanced through the door. "Don't want to play," he muttered.

"Well, then," Edward sighed. "If you are truly going to Eden Point, I'd better tell you how to get there and something about it. You might not like it, and how sad to make that long trip for nothing."

Instantly the boy settled peacefully into his arms, the defiance momentarily gone. What amazed Edward as he started up the stairs with him was that his son, with some inner wisdom, had known he was an Eden and had now demanded an explanation of his roots.

Well, then, Edward would give him one, and continued to carry him into their second-floor chambers, where he closed the door, placed John

in the middle of the large bed, stretched out beside him and commenced speaking.

"It's beautiful, Eden is," he began, smiling as he noticed the little boy assume his identical position, lying on his side, one hand propping up his head, "in a part of England known as North Devon. Miles from here it is, but you'll see it one day. I promise."

The boy's interest was intense. It was as though something in that young soul had already made the connection, and all that he required of Edward was confirmation.

Later that afternoon, Edward's intention in seeking out Daniel was merely an attempt to speak privately with him on the nature of the Chartist meeting scheduled to take place that evening. He didn't think he could stand another interval of O'Conner's ranting, his systematic rejection of all the other Unionists in London, capable men who saw both the need as well as the wisdom of working by strictly constitutional methods. How often Edward had tried to persuade O'Conner to their point of view. And how often he had failed.

He had knocked twice and, receiving no answer, opened the door a crack and to his surprise saw Daniel seated, as though transfixed, at his desk, a ray of late afternoon sun falling across his hair. Before him on the desk, Edward saw a scattering of mail, all unopened save for the letter which he held in his hand.

Quietly Edward stepped into the room and closed the door behind him and continued to stand, unnoticed, for several moments. "Not bad news, I hope," he said softly.

As Daniel looked sharply up, Edward saw first a look of surprise that he was no longer alone. Then Edward took careful note of the second expression, not at all the look of a man who'd spent the entire day dealing with festering sewers and ill children. For a moment, faced with such an expression, Edward didn't speak. He'd come to talk of Radical Agitation, yet there was nothing radical on Daniel's face except what appeared to be a drenching, all-consuming look of—

Love?

Bewildered, Edward tried to make a subtle retreat. "I'm sorry I disturbed," he began. "I can—"

"No, wait," Daniel called out.

As Edward turned back into the room, he saw his friend once again eyeing the correspondence in his hand. "I—can't believe it," he whispered. Then looking up at Edward, as though wanting confirmation of what he couldn't believe, he murmured, "Look! A letter—from

Jennifer, it is." He beamed. "Look," and suddenly he was on his feet, displaying for Edward's amazed inspection the heading:

Roe Head,

Bradford,

Yorks.

Edward did well to nod. Daniel took the floor, his face moving excitedly as he paced back and forth, still clutching the letter.

"I wrote some time ago," he began. "I don't believe I told you, did I?"

Edward shook his head.

"No, of course not. I—didn't think it was necessary, and I was fairly certain I'd never hear from her. It was in connection with the schools," Daniel went on. "Well, we do need teachers," he added almost defensively. "Music teachers more than anything. I've interviewed countless volunteers in search of one with mastery in pianoforte. There are none, Edward, I swear it."

"Well, go on," Edward interrupted impatiently. "What did she say?"

Daniel stopped pacing and placed the letter lovingly before him. "She didn't say no," he murmured, "and more important than that, she replied, with her own hand. Look!"

Quietly he shook his head. "Of course, it's a proper letter," he added hastily. "And she inquires after you, and tells me of her own life." His face sobered. "They suffered a fierce winter," he said. "She speaks of constant cold, of her students."

Edward watched as Daniel slipped away again, his face clearly transfixed by loving memories. "Wouldn't it be fine," he whispered to the letter, "if she came?"

The question needed no reply. Edward leaned across the desk. "Then you must write to her again," he urged, "weekly if necessary. You must keep your penmanship before her constantly, you must warm that chill of which she speaks with accounts of our life here."

At some point, Edward was aware of Daniel closely listening. "Yes," he murmured, the idea taking hold. "Yes," he agreed again with greater conviction. "She invites me to write. She does! Look!"

"Good," Edward confirmed, ready to leave him to his pleasant task. As he reached the door, he heard Daniel call after him, "My apologies, Edward. I assume you wanted to see me about something?"

From the door, Edward looked back. "No," he smiled, convinced that Radical Agitation and Parliamentary revolution were just about the farthest items from Daniel's mind. "No," he repeated again. "I just

wanted to check on your well-being. I worry about you. You're so vulnerable to disease on Jacob's Island."

But Daniel was not giving a thought to disease or how he'd spent his day. He'd already fetched up a stack of new paper from the bottom drawer and his pen now stood poised over the page, his brow knit as though his mind were sorting through the proper beginning.

As far as Edward could tell, Daniel wasn't even aware when he left the room. And a moment later he found himself in the corridor outside, head bowed, half listening to the sound of the children in the playroom upstairs.

He smiled. Never had he felt so mysteriously filled with thoughts of home, the result no doubt of his time with John, and the result no doubt, too, of Daniel's news.

He hesitated a moment longer, then took the steps downward, calling out a single name.

"Elizabeth."