The Prince of Eden (69 page)

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Sitting alone in the front parlor of Miss Wooler's school, surrounded by her trunks, one particularly precious, Jennifer could never have explained the chain of thoughts that made her smile, but the last link in it had something to do with the absolute knowledge that she was leaving here and would never return.

Now arranging her face into a somber slant, she thought again of the shy, blushing ladies, unmarried all, who'd given her advice on the wedded state. In the beginning, she'd felt mortification. Now, only amusement, and in a way, deep pity for them.

Raising her head, she glanced beyond the curtained windows and saw the cold day. No snow yet. The coach ride from Bradford to Leeds would be safe enough. But the train was another matter. What if something should happen?

No! She couldn't bear that, and she stood quickly and walked to the window as though in an attempt to dissipate the bleak thought.

A cold draft coming through the cracks of the window caused her to shudder. Her mind raced ahead to the journey itself: Bradford to Leeds, the train to London and Euston Station, where she would be met by Edward and—

Daniel.

So simple a name to cause such a breaking storm within her. Quickly she glanced back over her shoulder to where her trunks rested, her eye falling on the small one, little more than a traveling case, in which she

had safely stored his letters, those marvelous letters, over three hundred in all.

Gazing at the small traveling case which contained her heart, she felt moved. Part of her grief was her long blindness. When first he'd proclaimed his love for her, he'd informed her that it was not a matter of extravagant news. He'd merely loved her always, even from the time when they had been children together at Eden Point.

Then she was the one guilty of waste, the wasted hours, days, and years they might have spent together if only she'd been a different person. Well, no more. From now on, all her life, all her desires and hopes would be concentrated on this one man, still not fully understood by her, to whom she was bound by a feeling of deep love.

As she looked about at the remnants of her old life, she was horrified with herself, her utter callousness to her own past, to things and habits and people she loved, who loved her: her mother lying desperately ill, who perhaps had been fatally wounded by her indifference; to her brothers, both of whom had suffered more than she; to her dearest friend, the absent Charlotte Bronte, who perhaps more than anyone else had urged, pleaded, exhorted her to listen to her heart.

Walking slowly back from the window, her head was filled with images of Charlotte, gone now, herself launched on a new adventure, a school in Brussels and a chance at a new and better future. She'd promised Jennifer that she would write, but she'd vowed never to write a word if she had to address the letters to Roe Head. "My pen will move only for Mrs. Daniel Spade, of London," she'd smiled.

Well, write your letters, dearest Charlotte, and I promise to respond as Mrs. Daniel Spade.

The thought, so soon to be a reality, swept over her and left her breathless.

Still her agitation kept increasing until she ceased to struggle with it and now she sat with perfect exterior calm on a near chair, lifted the small traveling case into her lap, and withdrew his latest letter, the one she'd received less than a fortnight ago, the dearest one, sealing their plans, speaking of the wedding ceremony which would be performed in the banqueting hall, attended if she wished by all the children, whereupon the two of them would leave for a short journey to Eden Point to visit the ailing Countess Dowager and establish news of their marriage with all who cared to hear.

There! Listen! There it was, unmistakably carriage wheels on gravel. Quickly she returned the letter to the traveling case. At that instant, although she could not say how it happened, the front parlor was filled with women, Miss Wooler leading the way, other teachers following

behind, all pressing about her, placing small gifts in her hand: sachets, lace handkerchiefs, a small red volume of Mr. Shakespeare's sonnets to read on the train.

As she felt herself being passed from arm to arm, she saw two stewards from the carriage make their way through the all-female company and hoist her trunks onto their shoulders. As one man reached for the small traveling case, she called out, "No, I'll carry that one myself. Thank you."

She saw the bewildered look on his face, but how was she to explain? Until she could hold and love the man himself, all she had of substance were his letters, and those she would never let out of her sight until she could replace them with flesh and blood.

The last arms waiting for her at the end of the walkway were Miss Wooler's. "I hate to lose a good teacher," the old woman whispered. "And I hope your young man appreciates the prize he's getting."

Jennifer smiled. "I shall think of you always, and miss you." She might have said more, but couldn't and decided to make her exit with at least a shred of dignity.

As the carriage started down the driveway, she turned rapidly in her seat for a final glimpse. Then, gone, everything was gone. Roe Head left behind, only the turnpike before her and the promise of Bradford a few miles ahead, where undoubtedly other passengers would join her.

Mrs. Daniel Spade, she thought, as she'd thought a hundred times a day every day for the last few months, since he'd first mentioned marriage. Now, under the pressure of the moment, she closed her eyes and prayed quickly for the completion of a safe journey.

As she opened her eyes, she saw that the carriage was just passing the alternate route to Haworth, And now she included Charlotte in her prayers, for a safe journey to Brussels, for a happy future for her wise and compassionate friend.

"Bradford ahead!" the coachman shouted.

Her moments of privacy would soon be over. Then let them end. Contained within her heart was enough love to embrace the whole world.

Let the strangers come. They would have to reckon with her.

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From the top of the stairs, Edward shouted down at the weeping volunteers. "Get them out of here! Now! Let them wait on the pavement, but get them out of this house!"

As the second wave of children filed past him on their way down from the third-floor dormitories, he saw the fear in their small faces and realized that his tone of voice had done nothing to alleviate that fear.

Still the volunteers were moving as though they had all the time in the world. "You, there," he shouted down to a woman in the entrance hall who had collapsed on one of the benches and was now wringing her hands. "Line them up on the pavement until the omnibuses arrive and make sure their linens are covering their faces."

Finally the woman did as she was told, dabbed at her eyes and fell to directing the frightened children toward the street. Quickly he glanced toward the closed door of his chambers. What in the name of God was taking Elizabeth so long? She'd gone to pack a few things, or so she'd said. Hurriedly he cut through the line of children and knocked on the door. "Are you ready?" he shouted. "You must hurry."

Receiving no answer, he pushed open the door, angry to see her merely sitting on the bed, John beside her, his five-year-old face mirroring the horror of what was going on around him.

"What in the—" Edward began and in his own deep fear and grief could not continue.

"We've decided to stay," she announced calmly, tightening her grip on young John. "You'll need help. You can't do it all alone."

Below in the street he heard the rattling arrival of the first omnibuses. Between the bustling activity outside and the stubborn inactivity in his chamber, he momentarily foundered. Drawing deep breath in spite of the poisonous air in his house, he took her hand in his and felt it trembling.

"Please, Elizabeth," he begged. "I'm placing John's well-being in your hands. He can't stay here, you know that, and he won't go with anyone but you."

To one side, he saw his son listening.

"It will only be for a short while," Edward went on, "until the sickness passes. You'll be safe at Edgeware, the air clean. Please," he whispered, tightening his grip on her hand, "I beg you."

"I don't want to leave you," she stubbornly insisted.

"I'll be all right," he reassured her.

"Where's Edgeware?" she asked.

"At the west edge of London, a distance of about an hour, that's all. We've a new Ragged School there, and there's grass and trees. You'll like it, I know, and John as well."

"When can we return?" she asked further.

"As soon as possible."

Still she gazed into his face. "Did old John Murrey die last night?" she asked bluntly.

It had been his intention to keep this death from them. As for himself, he'd not even had time to grieve. Seven deaths within three days, all within the house, the pattern the same, the epidemic of fever and miasma which was sweeping certain sections of London. Dear God, how swiftly it moved. Nausea, diarrhea, cramps, burning fever. Somehow, foolishly, he had hoped that his house would be spared. But three days ago the old cook in the kitchen had collapsed, then five of the volunteers, then old John Murrey, and only last night—

His head lifted in the direction of Daniel's room. He must go to him, but first he must see these two safely out of harm's way. Suddenly he grasped her by the shoulders. "Elizabeth, I beg you. Take yourself and my son out of this place. Without you, I have nothing left."

His whispered entreaty had come from the heart. Apparently she understood, for the stubbornness finally melted from her face. "We're ready," she murmured and withdrew from beneath the bed a small valise.

In a rush of unspent grief he drew both of them into his embrace

and prayed briefly for their safe delivery. He lifted John into his arms and thought with a wave of terror that his brow felt hotter than usual, then decided it was merely his imagination.

Speaking slowly, he gave final instruction to the boy. "You are to go with Elizbeth," he ordered, "and you are never to leave her. Is that clear?"

Solemnly John nodded.

"Now you must hurry," he urged.

As they started out into the corridor, Elizabeth looked up at him with worried eyes. "What of your sister?" she asked suddenly.

But again Edward soothed her. "I'll meet the train tonight." He managed a smile. "She'll be good medicine for Daniel. There will be a wedding, I promise." He knew that, for days, Elizabeth and all the volunteers had looked forward to this romantic interlude, "Mr. Spade wedded to Mr. Eden's sister." He knew further that late at night precious bits of lace had been sewn into worn collars and cuffs, the ancient passion of all women for all weddings.

Now he noticed that his words apparently had reassured her and together they waited at the top of the stairs for a place to break into the line of children. When a pause came, he took it, gently pushing her ahead of him.

Outside on the pavement, the scene was one of chaos. He'd hired three omnibuses. Thus far only two had arrived. The sky overhead had grown gray and menacing, and beyond the pavement he saw a large death wagon rattling by, a convenient disposal for the proliferating corpses.

He embraced John a final time and tried not to dwell on the fear in his face. "More tales of Eden when you return," he smiled.

He'd thought that that would be it, but unfortunately he felt those small arms tighten around his neck. "Let me stay with you. Papa," the boy whispered. "I can help."

His only hope, Edward knew, was to arrange on his face a rigid expression. This he did and at the same time spoke sternly. "Of course you can, but I need your help more with Elizabeth." He drew his son's head down and whispered, "Who is to look after her?"

Slowly he felt the small arms relax, lowered the child until he could see his face, and blessedly saw acceptance there and a kind of pride that he was needed.

At the rear of the second omnibus he found an empty seat and assisted Elizabeth upward, tossing the valise after her.

"God go with you," he whispered.

"And with you," she smiled back. As the lumbering conveyances pulled away from the pavement, he heard her cry, "Take care of yourself."