The Prince of Eden (70 page)

He did not look up again until the sounds of the horses were no longer audible. As he started up the stairs, he heard another death wagon coming his way. All the bodies had been removed from his house except for John Murrey, who still lay on his bed in the little room off the kitchen.

Edward considered waving to the driver, but changed his mind. He would give his old friend a proper burial, but not now. There was no time. Daniel was waiting for him, and he hurried up the steps, and quickly closed the door behind him as though to shut out death's presence.

He stood for a moment in the empty hall, his hands and shoulders trembling with weariness. His thoughts were torn between Elizabeth and his departed son, and the arrival in a few hours of Jennifer. There had been no way to stop her from coming, no way to get word to her. Still perhaps it would work out. Daniel would rally, the fever clear.

On that note of hope, he started up the stairs, trying hard to dispel the menacing emptiness around him. Suddenly behind him he heard movement. Looking quickly back he saw an old woman, dressed in black, her head covered with a black shawl, just emerging from the kitchen steps.

"Who is there?" he called out.

When she didn't answer, he retraced his steps for a better look and recognized her as one of the dish washers, an ancient scullery maid. "You can't stay here," he said forcefully, "but the conveyances are gone."

"Meant to let 'em go," she said quietly, her old eyes glittering from beneath the black shawl.

Annoyed that she'd disobeyed his orders to clear the house, he stepped still closer. "But you must leave," he commanded, wondering if she was capable of understanding.

"Don't want to leave," she muttered.

"The house is poisonous," he shouted at her, trying to penetrate that glazed expression.

"You're here," she said simply.

He nodded sternly. "Mr. Spade is ill.'*

"And you'll be needin' help."

Slowly he looked down on her, his anger receding, replaced by bewilderment. "The fever is highly contagious. You could die."

"Kept the grave waitin' long enow, as it is, sir."

He found her blunt manner soothing. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Lucy, sir, jus' plain Lucy me Mum named me."

He nodded, feeling peculiarly weakened by her offer of help. She seemed passive and resigned, yet willing to face anything. Now to his surprise, she took the initiative. "Enough jawin'!" she announced. "I've lived through three fevers, sir. You'll be needin' cool water, fresh linen, and a garlic pod."

"Garlic?" he repeated.

She nodded with conviction, and moved closer with a whispered, "You see, sir, it ain't really a fever. It's an evil spirit, that's what it is, ain't it now? A turrible evil spirit that don't like garlic." She laid a finger aside her nose and nodded firmly. "You go along up to Mr. Spade. I'll be up directly."

"With-garlic?"

"With garlic."

He watched, astounded, as she disappeared down into the kitchen. Well, why not garlic, he thought wearily, and again started up the stairs.

The foul odor coming from Daniel's room greeted him at the top of the stairs. In a way he felt as though he were suffering a prolonged nightmare, that at any moment, he would awaken and find the house once again filled with children. It was the silence and the odor and the awareness of what he might find behind that closed door that frightened him.

He had been the one who'd discovered Daniel ill. Only last evening he'd come from John Murrey's deathbed to relate the sad news to Daniel and had found him huddled in a blanket, sitting on his bed, the slop jar to one side filled with his vomit, teeth chattering, and his eyes weighted with a bewildered look. He'd sat with him through the night, had watched the fever worsen, and at dawn had made the decision to evacuate the house.

Outside the closed door he paused and rested his forehead against wood. He could not in any way face the possibility of Daniel's death. Not now. He was on the verge of becoming a bridegroom and there was no Deity in Heaven who would be that cruel.

Thus reassured by irrational thoughts, he pushed open the door as he'd done thousands of times before, fully expecting to see Daniel seated at his desk, his long red hair mussed where he'd driven his fingers through it.

But as Edward stepped into the room, he saw that his friend was not seated at the desk, saw him instead lying on the bed, his dressing gown

half pulled over his naked body, a putrid brown stain spreading in the area beneath his hips, the ravages of diarrhea sapping his strength, and beneath his head a vomit-soaked pillow, the head itself pressed back at a familiar angle—old John Murrey's had been in the same position—the beloved eyes closed in pain.

Edward shut the door and leaned against it. At the sound of the door closing, the head on the pillow stirred, the eyes opened, a smile of recognition crossed the face.

"Edward."

"I'm here, Daniel." Quickly he walked to the bed, his hands outreaching as though they didn't know where to commence working. Finally one rested on Daniel's forehead. The skin there felt like hot coals, and his lips were so dried they had cracked and were bleeding. As he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to staunch the small flow of blood, he saw a new urgency on Daniel's face and decided to let the restoration go, at least for the moment.

"Jennifer?" he heard him whisper, one hand lifting.

"She arrives tonight," Edward soothed, drawing a chair close. "I'll bring her to you, I promise."

As again Daniel tried to speak, Edward considered asking him not to. The effort was painful.

But apparently Daniel would not be denied. "Look—after her," he gasped. "Tell her-"

As the effort became too much, Edward took the feverish hand in his own. "I'll tell her nothing," he smiled. "I'll leave that to you, the bridegroom."

Now he saw a faint smile on Daniel's lips. "I'd—not counted on— this," he whispered, his eyes closed. Then suddenly as though in the throes of deep anger, his head thrashed back and forth across the pillow. "Damn," he muttered, tears on his face.

Edward bowed his head and pressed Daniel's hand to his lips. He felt as though he were drowning, as though he were so inextricably bound to this man that the tears on the fevered face were in reality oceans in which it would be far kinder of Fate simply to let them both sink into oblivion.

But it was not to be, for the bleeding lips moved again. He seemed to be having trouble breathing. His eyes were open and Edward saw that they were unusually bright. Words were audible now, simple direct words. "Complete the work," he whispered.

Edward nodded. "I shall, I promise."

"And thank you—for loving me."

Edward closed his eyes. Suddenly whole series of memories from their

childhood filled his senses, and immediately following that a darkness covered everything. He clung even more tightly to Daniel's hand, as though literally to wrestle him from the arms of death.

He waited patiently for more words, but there were none. He saw now on Daniel's face a peculiar expression of youth. The cares were passing, the sorrows and regrets, the wasted dreams and the realized ones, all were departing from him.

Edward heard him draw three long perfectly gentle breaths. The hand suddenly clasped his own, as though, at the last moment, Death had had a change of heart. But then his head turned a final time upon the pillow. As the mouth fell grotesquely open, Edward felt as though something huge and merciless had struck him and was now threatening to drag him down.

He reached forward and lifted Daniel in his arms, tears streaming, and cradled him, buried his face in his hair and cried out in one bitter cry.

He saw all the dim light in that room shrouded in darkness and felt a portion of his soul quenched forever.

By midnight, with the help of the old woman, Edward had bathed Daniel's body, had placed fresh linen upon his bed, had gently garbed him in the white silk shirtwaist which he'd intended to wear as a bridegroom, had brushed his hair until its auburn tints were shining against the pillow, had placed candles at both his head and his feet.

Throughout all this activity, Edward had been aware of little. If the night had been hard, he knew that what remained to be done in the early hours of the morning was beyond belief. Thus he welcomed the numbness.

Shortly after one, he kissed Daniel for the last time, gave old Lucy orders to sit guard outside the door, then took brief refuge in his own chambers. The room was pitch black save for the yellow spill coming from the gaslight in the street. He wanted it dark and in the darkness made his way to the bed, then dropped on his knees in mute despair.

It seemed that in the darkness he was being watched by a cold judge who looked mockingly down on him. He closed his eyes and wept. He knew that he must spend his grief now, for in a short time he would have to face Jennifer and supply her with strength which he did not have.

There still was the element of disbelief. Daniel was not dead. If he were to go to the door now and call for him, surely he would answer. In a moment of irrationality he considered doing it, then repelled by his thoughts, he gripped the side of the bed and held his position.

What he needed now more than anything was a reason on which to place blame. And he didn't have to look very far for it. Hadn't he begged Daniel repeatedly not to go into pestilentigJ holes like Jacob's Island? And for all his concern, hadn't Daniel laughecJ at him and reminded him of Feargus O'Conner's words: Someone must soil their fingers. The rich won't. A man is not a true revolutionary until his hands are covered with filth and blood.

Around him in the darkness stood a ghost. "Forgive me," he whispered to the power at loose in the room, and as though the bed linen were the face, he leaned over, whispering the two words over and over again.

About an hour later, he heard the night watchman outside the window call two o'clock. Jennifer's train was due at three. Slowly he rose from his crucible, clearly aware that he was merely going to another. Without bothering to light either lamp or candle he went to his wardrobe, withdrew a clean shirt, slipped into another jacket, all the while his mind racing ahead to Euston Station, to Jennifer.

He stepped out into the corridor, and the first sight that greeted him was the crouched old woman about twenty feet away, obediently sitting guard on Daniel's room.

With a conscious effort of will, he lifted his head and brushed away the apparently endless tears and walked slowly down the passage to where the old woman was seated. As he approached he smelled something peculiar, and it wasn't until he was standing directly over her that he saw the pods of garlic clutched in her hand.

Too late. "Lucy, I must leave for a short time. Til return with my sister."

Softly the old woman moaned. "They was to have wedded," she mourned.

He nodded and found it very difficult to keep his eyes away from the closed door. "If it isn't asking too much," he went on, "would you lay a fire in my chambers? And if you can, prepare a light meal. She will have journeyed since—"

To all his requests, the old woman agreed. He reached down and patted the old hand, then hurried back through the darkness of his house. He desired only one thing, to meet Jennifer and see her through this night to dawn. Beyond that, there were no plans of any kind.

In the entrance hall, he stopped and glanced toward the kitchen steps. Somewhere beyond that black abyss, John Murrey was waiting for him as well. But there was no time now, and moving with urgency, he ran through the front door and made his way down the alley to the carriage house. He harnessed the horses himself, then pulled atop the high seat, customarily reserved for another.

Grasping the reins, he urged the horses forward through the narrow gate and out into the deserted street. A short time later, he drew up before Euston Station, abandoned the carriage to a waiting porter and, passing beneath the Grand Entrance, he caught a glimpse of the tracks. All around him he heard the cockney patter of cabmen. In the distance he heard the thundering approach of the train, saw the black engine slowly angling its enormous weight into the station shed, heard the heightened hissing of steam as the engineer applied the brakes.

Then with a sudden shrill whine the iron wheels ground to a halt. A moment later, coach doors all up and down the broad platform flew open and as the passengers spilled out there was a rush of greetings. Now he commenced to push through the crowds, trying to see over the bobbing heads, searching for one face.

He saw her, just alighting from the last coach. He stopped, taking refuge behind a near column, unable to take his eyes off her as she searched the crowds. The pertness of her bonnet, the attractive disarray of her cape, the one loose strand of hair falling gracefully across her forehead caused him to think that he'd never seen her so lovely. He noticed now that she was awkwardly trying to manipulate an armload of parcels, a small traveling case of some sort, a wicker basket, all the time her eyes moving excitedly over the push and crowd of people.

She looked straight at him and even though they still were separated by several feet, her eyes brightened. "Edward," she cried out warmly. He stepped forward and took her in his arms and held her close.

Inside the embrace, she talked happily. "Sweet heavens," she murmured, "every time I arrive here, I think I've been abandoned. Everyone seems to find who they are looking for immediately except me."

He stepped away from the embrace, though still continued to hold her by the shoulders, moved by the change which had come over her.

"Well, my goodness, Edward," she smiled, "are you just going to stare at me? And where's Daniel? Did you two get separated again? Though I wouldn't be surprised. The train was filled and it looks as though everyone has their own private welcoming committee."

As she talked, her eyes moved excitedly over the crowds. "Where is he?" she asked again. "I'll need both of you, I fear, for my luggage. Not that I brought that much. I really didn't. But as I was leaving Roe Head, the ladies surprised me with a small fete. Look," and she lifted the wicker basket for his inspection, singling out certain objects for closer inspection. "Rose potpourri," she beamed.

As long as she talked, he felt safe. When she was not looking at him, he could see her looking over his shoulder. "Where is Daniel?" she demanded now, suddenly losing interest in the contents of the basket.

Still she could not refrain from looking around. Then without warning she looked straight at him. "Don't keep him from me," she whispered, still smiling. "We have years to make up and we can't afford to waste a minute."

At that moment, everything in the world seemed dark and obscure. In that immense, crowd-filled station, nothing was comprehensible.

Apparently the feeling registered clearly on his face, for in alarm, the smile gone, she stepped closer. "What is it, Edward?" she pleaded. "Are you ill?"

Suddenly he reached down for her belongings, balanced the small trunk under one arm, and with the other protectively about her shoulders guided her out of the crush of people to one of the high Doric arches where he found a small harbor of relative quiet. He placed the various bundles on the floor near his feet, then following the dictates of some instinct, rested her gently against the arch.

"No, I'm not ill, Jennifer," he began, trying not to focus on the bewilderment on her face. "But there is sickness in certain parts of London, a fever."

She nodded solemnly. "It was all the talk on the train. Many got off at Oxford, fearing contamination. We'd heard nothing of it in Yorks. Is it very bad?"

He lowered his head, unable for the moment to go on. During his silence she was patient and when he looked up again,* he saw her eyes as bright as ever. "Perhaps it would be wise then," she suggested soberly, "if Daniel and I left London immediately. And you, too, Edward. The three of us could leave for Eden right away. It's foolish to take chances."

Then apparently the unthinkable entered her mind. Once again he was aware of her searching over his shoulder, still looking for one face.

He held still before her, giving her all the time she needed. The question was forming. He could see it, and in those moments of solitary suffering, it occurred to him that there was little point to this earthly life.

"Is Daniel—" She managed only those two words, then pressed her gloved hand to her lips. "Is Daniel—ill?" she whispered.

Edward was aware of a strange lightness in his head. When he did not immediately answer, she looked up at him as though suffering a sudden anger. "Is Daniel ill?" she demanded, stepping closer as though to force a response.

Finally he placed both hands on her shoulders, thinking how simple and commonplace the setting, a railway station in the early hours of the morning with costermongers bawling the price of herring.

"Daniel is dead." There were the words, gently spoken. For a moment the fact that she had received them at all was not evident, as though the message had been beyond the grasp of her intellect. In fact her head turned lightly to one side, her brow furrowed as though he'd spoken in a foreign tongue.

He began to repeat the message. "Daniel is—" Then suddenly she shook her head as though to refute the last word. He felt beneath her cloak a trembling, a seismic upheaval which seemed to start in her shoulders and spread in all directions, until he was forced to renew his grip on her.

"Jennifer, I'm so sorry," he whispered and tried to draw her into the full support of his arms. But at that moment she wrenched free with a single howl which started in the upper registers and stayed there, a high-pitched scream which in its force whirled her about and left her facing the arch, one hand upraised, the other arm wrapped about her midsection as though someone had driven a knife into her.

He stepped quickly forward, and as she slid down he caught her and lifted her in his arms, felt the dead weight of her body, saw her face drained of color, eyes closed.

Behind him he was aware of a crowd of curious onlookers who had been summoned by her scream. He turned to them and shouted, "I need assistance."

But as one the crowd began to move back, their faces clearly revealing their fear. One woman whispered, "It's the fever."

"No," Edward shouted. "Not fever. She only-"

But with the same speed with which they had gathered they now dispersed, gloved hands over their faces, their eyes fixed in horror on the lifeless woman in Edward's arms.

Angrily he shouted after them, "She's not ill, I swear it," and still cradling her in his arms, he looked down on the various bundles left on the floor. They would have to wait.

As he started off down the long platform he tried twice to engage the assistance of porters. And both times they moved away from him with rapidly retreating steps. Alone, he carried her to his carriage, placed her on the cushions, drew the lap robe over her, then closed the door and retraced his steps along the platform, gathering up the small traveling case, two large trunks, and the basket of gifts.

Throughout all this activity, he thought that perhaps it was best, at least for the time being, for her to remain unconscious, though he wished that he could blot out the resounding memory of her scream. With the last trunk loaded atop the carriage, Edward again climbed upon the high seat and brought the reins down over the horses.

A short time later, he guided the carriage into the carriage house, following the beacon of the solitary lantern he'd left burning. Quickly he unharnessed the horses and turned them loose in their stalls and at last approached the door, ready to lift her again in his arms and carry her to his chambers.

But as he approached the door, he stopped. She was sitting upright, apparently having recovered on her own from her faint. "Jennifer," he smiled and extended a hand of assistance. In the shadowy interior of the Carriage house, he could not see her face. All he could clearly see was that she was clutching the small traveling case, both arms wrapped around its awkward bulk.

"Here, let me help," he said, but as he started to take the small case from her, she drew back. Now he saw her face with greater clarity, her hair mussed, the bonnet gone. But it was her face that captured and held his attention. Though she was sitting upright and her eyes were open, there was no movement in her face.

"Come, Jennifer," he pleaded again, trying to provoke a response.

She turned to him with a smile. "Take me to Daniel," she murmured, and so saying alighted from the carriage on her own and stood waiting patiently, still clasping the small box in her arms.

Grateful that she had revived and now apparently was in moderate control, he led the way, moving slowly into the house, aware of her following behind, though hearing nothing from her jexcept an occasional soft sigh.

As they approached the second floor and Daniel's room, Edward saw old Lucy stand quickly from her place of vigil. They stopped before the closed door. "Is he here?" Jennifer whispered.

Edward nodded.

"Then put my trunks in here," she commanded. "And leave us."

Edward started to protest, then changed his mind. How wrong of him to dictate how she should spend her grief. Come morning there would be time for reason. For now, though there was something in that pale face that disturbed him, he pushed open the door, his eye immediately falling on Daniel.

He watched as she at last moved forward, heard her call out lightly, "Daniel, are you there?" Then he could watch no more. Quickly he closed the door, gave a brief order to the old woman, "Leave them alone," then hurried down the corridor to his own chambers where he found the comfort of a fire, but little else.

He'd not intended to sleep. Sleep seemed an obscenity. Yet he must have dozed, for he awakened to find a cold gray dawn outside the

window, the fire burned down, and an ominous silence coming from the house. He sat up in the chair with a start and for one blessed moment knew neither who he was nor where he was. Then he remembered both and within the instant was on his feet and running. He threw open the door and gazed through the residue of sleep toward the far end of the corridor. The old woman's chair was still there, though the woman herself was nowhere in sight.

Jennifer, he thought with panic. Had she wanted something during the night and been unable to rouse assistance? Still trying to shake off sleep, he hurried down the corridor. Surely she'd not passed the entire night in that grim room.

Although he approached the door with certain resolve, he now stopped. Listen! There was someone inside speaking. Muffled it was, but it was Jennifer.

He felt new panic. Slowly he pushed open the door.

She was lying on the bed with him, her loosed hair spread over his shoulder, on her side she was lying, the coverlet drawn over both yet revealing enough of her upper torso for Edward to see clearly that she'd changed her garments. At some point during the night she had slipped out of her dark gray traveling clothes and donned what appeared to be a white lace wedding dress. Scattered about the room in utter confusion were various other garments and what appeared to be hundreds of letters.

Edward grasped the door, unable to move through it or out of it. At that moment she saw him and raised up abruptly from Daniel's body and bestowed upon him a beautiful smile. "It's only Edward," she whispered to the dead face, "come to serve our wedding breakfast. Isn't that right, Edward?" As she clasped the coverlet to her, he noticed her hands trying to bring some order to her mussed hair. "You really should have knocked, Edward. How daring of you to burst into a wedding chamber." Then her expression softened and the fingers which earlier had smoothed her own hair now smoothed Daniel's.

"But we forgive you, don't we, Daniel? How could either of us hold a grudge on such a beautiful morning?" At that moment she left the bed gracefully, revealing bare feet and gazed sadly about at the muss on the floor. "Aren't we dreadful, Edward?" she whispered. "I tried on all my trousseau for him and he said I'd never looked lovelier." With that she commenced to scurry about the room, gathering up the scattered letters. "And then," she went on, "we read our letters to each other, every one of them, some twice," and here she ducked her head, giggling.

He saw one trembling hand coil a strand of loosened hair about her

finger and she stood for a moment in the center of the room, looking blankly about, as though something had, without warning, exhausted her. In spite of her smile, there was a frightening emptiness on her face as she looked up at Edward and murmured, "It was a lovely wedding, wasn't it, Edward? I've never seen such a lovely wedding."

Edward closed his eyes and tried not to see anything, though still he heard the wandering voice which seemed to dwell in the upper registers, like a child's. With his eyes closed, he remembered another face, as vacant, as mysterious. Charlotte Longford.

Then something was pushing against him and he opened his eyes to see Jennifer clinging to the door frame opposite him, her pale face creased into angles of concern. "Poor Edward," she soothed, "how tired you look." She leaned forward as though for a confidence. "Why don't you go back to bed?" she whispered, "and leave us. After all, we are married. I am Mrs. Daniel Spade."