The Prince of Eden (7 page)

beside him was a polished and brushed beaver hat which he'd thought once to wear, but now upon studying it, he changed his mind. He'd come to see, not be seen. Old Jane would forgive him.

While he was still eyeing the hat, the carriage stopped. He looked out. "No, John, it's just ahead—"

"Can't get no closer, sir. Look for yourself."

Quickly he leaned out of the window. On both sides the street was lined with carriages, as many as a dozen, blocking the passage in front of William's house. What in the—

Puzzled, he alighted the carriage, gave John instructions for waiting, then started down the pavement on foot. He passed a knot of idle coachmen having a pipe and a chat, their liveries clearly bespeaking the importance of their masters.

Looking up, he saw a gentleman in a black frock coat just emerging from the red brick house. Then Edward was running, his fears increasing with his speed. He took the walk at breakneck speed and saw in his mind's eye for just a flash a young boy, seven or eight, running belatedly for dinner, his younger brother trailing behind him, both grimy from their play in the empty fields.

"I beg your pardon, sir—" His breath caught in his throat as he approached the departing priest. "Could you tell me—"

Then beyond the priest, standing in the opened doorway, he saw his Aunt Jane, her figure still slim and erect at seventy, a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Her gown was black, her face a contortion of pain.

"Edward?" she inquired gently as though age and tears had dulled her vision.

It was a distance of a dozen steps from where he stood to her outstretched arms, and with every step, Edward prayed. Don't let him be dead.

Then he was standing beside her on the threshold, trying to read the grief in her face. Gently he took her in his arms, felt her frail body press closer to him as though for protection.

"I just sent for you," she whispered. "He's been asking for you over and over—"

Edward closed his eyes. Thank God. He held her a moment longer, breathing deeply of her lavender scent, the young boy within him as insistent as ever. Let Aunt Jane fix it. Come, Aunt Jane will hold you.

"What happened?" he asked quietly, trying to send the boy away.

She stood back, making a valiant attempt to control her tears. "Late last night, he was working—at his desk. I heard him call for the girl, and the next thing—" A fresh wave of tears coursed down her wrinkled face.

Again he put his arms around her and drew her close, heard her

murmur, "It's his heart. The doctors give us little hope." Then with a certain sternness she straightened her shoulders, dabbed a final time at her eyes. "But, come," she said, businesslike. "He's been asking for you since early morning."

Since early morning! As Edward walked with her through the entrance hall, he repeated those words in his head. Since morning. It had been then when his thoughts of William Pitch had almost overwhelmed him.

A few steps this side of the drawing room, Jane stopped. "The house is filled," she whispered, a slant of annoyance on her face. "I have no idea how word traveled so fast, but you'd think we were still running our salon." She leaned closer, still dabbing at her eyes. "My girls have been kept busy since midmorning, endless rounds of coffee and tea." As she spoke, she fingered the single strand of pearls about her neck. He noticed her hand, thin, blue-veined, and trembling like her shoulders.

"Must I stop in?" Edward begged. "Who am I to them?"

A look of shock momentarily displaced the expression of grief on her face. "Who are you?" she repeated. "Shame! You are Edward Eden, William's nephew and the son of Lord Thomas Eden." He saw a fierce light of pride on her face, her blue eyes as alert as ever, still reveling in her peripheral connection with one of the great names of England.

"Come," she urged now, "the introductions will take only a moment. Your mother would expect it of you."

With an air of fatality, he straightened the buff waistcoat, eyed sadly the staircase leading up to the second-floor bedchambers where the man he loved more than life itself lay dying.

As they entered the drawing room, he narrowly avoided a collision with a young serving girl heavily laden with a tray bearing a tea service. As they passed her by, Jane murmured new instructions to her. "Prepare high tea, Esther. Our guests must be getting hungry."

For a moment, Edward felt a flare of anger surface within him. His aunt, for all her protestations, was carrying on as though her salon was opened again. Then the company was before him, the drawing room crowded, at least twenty people standing in small groups, quietly talking. As they caught sight of Jane, they fell silent. Some balanced teacups. A few of the gentlemen smoked. All were staring.

Edward had counted on a general introduction. Instead Jane took his arm and led him steadily forward to the first small group of guests. Again he felt an urgent need for haste. His aunt, however, was resolute in her attention to proprieties and guided him to a seated gentleman with a broad forehead and a head of wavy, unruly brown hair. As they approached, he stood, one hand stroking the great mustache that

blended with a luxuriant chin beard. The grief which Jane had displayed earlier at the door entirely disappeared as she spoke softly, almost reverently, "Edward, may I present Mr. Dickens."

Edward took the hand extended to him. He'd seen the popular novelist from a distance and greatly admired him, his novels less than his Sketches by Boz. "My pleasure, sir," he smiled.

Mr. Dickens returned the sentiment. "I've heard of you, Mr. Eden," he said. "I only regret that we meet under such sorrowful circumstances. The world, I fear, for a long while will be a dim and colorless place without William Pitch."

Again Edward nodded his agreement and his gratitude. There was a gentleman standing to the right of Mr. Dickens. Now he stepped forward, as though aware that it was his turn.

This time, Dickens performed the introductions. "Mr. Eden, I would like to present my house guest, Thomas De Quincey. Down from Edinburgh."

The man himself stepped forward, the infamous opium eater, reformed, or so Edward had heard. Edward was impressed with the man's face, shy, sensitive, gaunt, as though he'd survived crucibles. De Quincey did not extend his hand, but merely stood as though at attention, as though with the slightest of movements, he might shatter like glass. "I do not generally attend death, Mr. Eden," he commented softly. "I've met the fellow too often in other spheres to be much impressed by his company. But the world went black for me several years ago, and the only man who offered me a lantern was William Pitch."

Apparently the man had succeeded in moving himself for quickly he turned away. Behind him, Edward heard Jane sniffling. Before him stood Mr. Dickens. The man now leaned close. "May I suggest that you take your leave, Mr. Eden," he murmured. "This company will wait. The man upstairs may not."

Grateful, Edward started to follow the sound advice. But Jane was at his side again, indomitably leading him around the room, omitting no one. If the faces were meaningless, the names were not: G. H. Lewes, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Carlyle, Mr. Thackeray, of course. Edward had met him before in this very drawing room under happier circumstances. Also there was an elegant, though stony-faced woman who introduced herself as Harriet Martineau, and next to her, an arrogant-looking gentleman who extended a limp wrist and identified himself as Thomas Babington Macaulay. Pompous old Tory. Briefly Edward wondered what he was doing here in this liberal atmosphere. But of course. Then he remembered. William took no sides, political or

otherwise. The world was of a piece, he'd said, human impulses not that far removed from each other. And there, standing by the door, the most dignified of all, his face glazed, Robert Southey, poet laureate of England.

At the conclusion of the introductions, Edward realized with wonder that all the literary lions of London were now gathered in William Pitch's front parlor, the men and women who under other circumstances and in different times had quite effectively torn each other and society in general to shreds, armed only with their pens.

Now reduced to unity by common grief for one man, they stood in silent circles, sipping tea and gazing blank-faced out the windows, their tribute mute and therefore highly effective.

But enough, and Edward signaled as much when approaching the door again, after having made the full circle, he begged of Jane, "Please, now take me to him."

And she did, apparently satisfied that he had met everyone.

As they took the stairs, he had to slow his pace for the enfeebled Jane. Heavily she leaned on his arm, her other hand pressed against her breast as though her heart were beating too rapidly. "Oh, for the ease of youth," she mourned. "I can remember the days when I took these stairs two at a time, generally in rage and ill-temper."

He smiled considerately. "You're doing fine, Aunt Jane."

She dismissed his lie for what it was. At the top of the landing, she came to a complete halt, gasping for breath. While she was still recovering, she said, "I've agonized all day for your mother, Edward. I wish she were here." With peculiar force, she added, "She should be here."

Edward tried to offer comfort. "If she had known, I'm sure she would have made the effort. You know as well as I how difficult it is to pry her loose from Eden."

Jane looked at him, a strangely soft expression on her face. "All my life I've tried to keep them apart. Now I'd give my last breath to be able to bring them together."

She walked ahead of him down the long corridor, leaving him to puzzle her last comment. Near a door at the end of the corridor, he saw two gentlemen in close huddle. They parted as Jane approached. The three of them were talking quietly as Edward drew near. Again there were introductions, two physicians, Doctor Someone and Doctor So-and-so, the blank, unrevealing expressions of all medical men on their faces.

"Only a few minutes, Mr. Eden, if you will," one of them suggested. "He needs his rest." Then one of the physicians had him by the arm

and was guiding him into the dimly Ht chamber. The drapes were drawn on the one broad window, partly obscuring the pink dusk which had begun to fall outside.

Edward closed his eyes and silently cursed the stern dictates of age. His memories of the man at his prime were painfully before him, playing horseshoes in the back garden, William teasing Edward for losing so soundly to a one-armed man.

Again the physician passed him by. "Only a few minutes, Mr. Eden," he repeated.

At that moment, the white head on the pillow stirred. From behind the closed eyes came a voice only slightly diminished by his faltering heart. "Pay no mind to the old cutthroat, Edward. Only by the grace of God have I survived his ministrations for all these years."

The eyes were open now, a smile warming the once lifeless features. "Come," he muttered to Edward, waving his good left hand in the air. "Earlier today I dreamed you were here. Come, let me touch you and see if the vision has substance."

As the nurse and physician retreated, Edward stepped toward the edge of the bed. A game of marbledores, Uncle William? the child within him cried.

As the door closed softly behind him, Edward drew a chair close to the bed, leaned forward, and took the hand extended to him. It felt like a piece of thin white parchment, cold, with sharp blue ridges like a relief map. "I'm here, William," he said. "You're not dreaming now."

The old man tried to shift his position on the bed. His sunken eyes peered intently into the dimness. "Why in hell are the drapes closed?" he grumbled. "Open them, Edward. A man has a right to light."

Quickly Edward went to the window and threw open the drapes. A stream of soft pink dusk flooded the room. "That's better," the old man sighed. "Now, come back," he urged, patting the edge of the bed. "We have business to discuss."

Edward returned to the chair and again enclosed the thin hand between his own. In the increased light he saw a purple tint to William's lips. The sight caused Edward's alarm to increase. The man resembled a cadaver. "I mustn't stay too long, William," he said. "There are others—"

"Damn the others," William snapped. "Vultures, most of them, come to pick the bones clean."

Again Edward smiled. "Not vultures, William. You should see your front parlor. It's a galaxy of stars, the cream of London's literati—"

"Curdled now," the old man snapped. "Dickens is writing sentimental slop. Macaulay is arrogant as ever, and Carlyle's spouting like a

great beached whale on such subjects as Chaos and Necessity, the Devil, and Universal Warfare—" He broke ofT. A smile softened his features. "Carlylc's the only man I know whose very voice can render a capitalization."

He chuckled softly and shook his head upon the pillow. For an instant his eyes fell on the tops of emerald trees beyond the window. "Not a Boswell on the horizon," he mourned, "to say nothing of a Johnson." He looked back at Edward, a gleam of pride in his eyes. "I knew them both, you know, in my youth." He closed his eyes. "I can't account for much in my life, but I can say I knew the gods."

Abruptly he shook his head as though to rouse himself out of his nostalgia. "But enough," he scolded. "Let the fools wait. I'll have to endure their farewell speeches soon enough, a fitting prelude to Hell—" Again he shifted upon the bed, as though experiencing mild discomfort. Edward noticed his nightshirt, sleeveless on one side, tailored in the fashion of all of William's garments, to conceal the absence of his right arm.

How many times Edward had heard the tale of how he'd lost it, and he'd never tired of hearing it, how William had been in Paris in '93, at the height of the Revolution, how he'd stepped before an assassin's bullet and spared the life of Mr. Thomas Paine, and in the process lost his arm.

Now as he waited for the old man to recover, he felt a strangely oceanic sense, as though all of London had dropped away and left the two of them stranded in this small room.

"Great God, what a face, Edward," William now was scolding. His left hand floated weakly up and lightly brushed across Edward's brow. "What a pretty brow," he smiled. "Still a pretty brow. Your mother's brow," he added, the delight on his face softening into sorrow.