The Prince of Eden (71 page)

Then Edward could listen no longer. Seeing her thus, he closed his eyes, backed from the room, and shut the door behind him and leaned against it.

But at that instant, he heard, coming from the other side of the door a whispered, almost lyrical request. "Daniel, love me. I'm your wife. Please—love me—"

He pushed away from the door and ran, unseeing, toward the cold darkness of his own room.

Three days later, Edward stood on the pavement outside the house on Oxford Street and watched with dull eyes as two hired female aides in gray capes escorted a smiling Jennifer down the steps.

Beneath her traveling cloak, he saw that she still wore the mussed white wedding gown. One of the aides had tried to remove it the day before, and Jennifer had set up such a howl of anguish that Edward had forbidden them to go any farther.

Also they had determined during the last three difficult days that in moments of extreme agitation the only object which brought her immediate comfort was the traveling case filled with Daniel's letters. Thus, again on Edward's command, it was never to be denied her.

Waiting at the curb, he saw the new carriage, specially outfitted with an over-wide seat which had been converted into a chaise. Edward had hired four stewards plus the coachman to accompany them, and had the day before, sent a courier ahead to Eden with a letter addressed to his brother, James, explaining as best he could what had happened and begging him to put aside past differences and give Jennifer all the love and understanding that she required.

Now as he looked up, he saw her just descending the steps, flanked on either side by the aides. With a rigid act of self-discipHne, he held himself in check. He knew he must not do anything that would be likely to hinder her progress. Thus at her slow smiling approach, he maintained an exterior mask of perfect calm.

"Edward," she murmured, breaking loose from the aides' grasp, which was a gentle grasp at best. As she went up on tiptoe to kiss him, he caught her briefly in his arms and held her close, amazed at how fragile she felt, as though her broken mind had somehow taken a toll of her physical body.

Still in control of his emotions, he fell into an affectation of brotherly bluntness. "Did you remember everything?" he smiled, trying hard not to see the blankness in her eyes.

With a light motion of her hand, she motioned to the two women waiting. "My maids packed for me," she smiled. Then with utter seriousness, she leaned close and whispered, "You mustn't tell Daniel. He wouldn't approve. Maids for Mrs. Daniel Spade!" Her face suddenly fell into a new seriousness. "You won't tell him, will you?"

Edward lifted his eyes to the sky. "No," he promised softly. "It's only for the journey. You can't make it alone."

She took his arm and walked with him a few steps toward the carriage. "I know, but I'd not planned on making it alone." Suddenly her face grew petulant. "I don't know why he had to leave now. The miners are grown men. I should think they could look after themselves."

The fantasy was hers, one she'd constructed after they had taken Daniel's body away. She'd told Edward quite seriously that Daniel had had to go to the Black Country to hear the grievances of the miners, that she was to proceed to Eden and he would meet her there for the remainder of the honeymoon.

"It's his work," Edward now soothed, gently guiding her toward the carriage.

At the carriage door she gave him a dazzling smile. "Of course it is, and I stand corrected. As his wife, I must share that work, mustn't I?"

Edward did well to nod.

"And thank you," she rushed on, "for the lovely wedding, the prettiest ever I heard the guests say." Suddenly she looked disconcerted. "Where are my letters?" she demanded, looking in all directions about the pavement.

Hurriedly Edward reassured her. "They're safely inside the carriage." He opened the door and stood back so that she might see the small traveling case resting on the seat.

She looked intently at the case for a moment, as though to confirm its presence. Then she pointed to it with a solemn gesture. "That's Daniel," she smiled, her voice drifting. "I have him locked up in that case and whenever I wish, I can take him out and hold him and love him."

Edward looked away, scowling at the pavement. When he looked back, he saw the two aides assisting her into the carriage, one suggesting that she lie down on the comfortable chaise, the other drawing back the coverlet.

But apparently Jennifer had no desire to follow their suggestions. "Good heavens, I'm not sick," she protested lightly.

Edward closed the carriage door. As the two aides settled opposite Jennifer, he leaned forward with one last request. "Please look after her," he murmured. "And write to me immediately concerning conditions at Eden. If they aren't suitable, I'll want you to bring her back here."

Both women nodded. He trusted them and was certainly paying them enough. Then there was nothing more to say and slowly he stepped away from the carriage, watched closely as the stewards and coachman took their places.

At a flick of the reins, the horses started slowly forward. Quickly he turned back toward his house. Inside the entrance hall he found only stillness, though once he looked up toward the top of the stairs, thinking that Daniel had called to him.

A thought occurred to him: The Elixir to Heal all Pain and Bring Forgetfulness to every Sorrow.

For a few moments he stood, his eyes cast downward. So easy it would be.

"No," he whispered fiercely. "No," he said aloud, and tearing himself out of the stillness, he ran back to the door, closed and bolted it, unable to determine whether he had locked the enemy out, or locked him in.

Six weeks later, with the first warming rays of an April sun, the poisonous miasma seemed to lift from the London air. The "Curse from God," as some people called it, apparently was cancelled, though the toll had been terrible and no right-minded man who trusted in the Deity could ever believe that He had sent such tragedy.

As for Edward, he was in complete agreement with that practical-minded old statesman Lord Palmerston, who had urged the religious leaders and the populace in general to "Look to their drains."

Thus in the six weeks between Jennifer's departure and the children's

return, Edward dipped deeper into his purse for a complete renovation of all his schools. He oversaw the ambitious project himself, seeking refuge in work, snuffing out the constant temptation of opium in back-breaking, round-the-clock labor.

Each school was aired, the old furnishings moved out and disposed of. The drains were opened, revealing putrescent mud, a ready poison which in many cases, including the house on Oxford Street, was found to be seeping into the water supply.

Of course this obsession with cleanliness was laughed at by most reasonable men. The radicals, including Lord Palmerston, who made the mindless connection between disease and dirt were labeled "Sanitarians," and for several weeks following the fever they were the objects of much derision and humor. Nonetheless, Edward persisted, stripped his schools, cleaned the drains, whitewashed the walls, purchased new furnishings, and feeling that it was now safe, called for the children's return.

On a mild Thursday evening near the end of April, with the hum of children's voices coming from the third-floor dormitories, after a loving reunion with his son and Elizabeth, Edward started down the stairs to the banqueting hall, to the man awaiting him.

He'd not seen him since before Daniel's death. In fact on that morning when he'd taken Daniel's body to St. Dunstan's, he'd also sent a message around to the man's lodgings in Bloomsbury, thinking that Daniel would want him in attendance at the funeral.

But there had been no response.

At the bottom of the stairs, Edward called out warmly, "Mr. O'Conner," and entered the banqueting hall, smiling at the sight of the large man, his broad frame tucked at an awkward angle beneath the low table designed for the children.

At the sound of Edward's voice, like a grasshopper scrambling, the man tried to stand in greeting. Obviously he finally despaired of ever finding a secure center of gravity and muttered, "Clearly you've spent a fortune here, Eden," bobbing his head toward the freshly renovated rooms. "Why couldn't you have spent a few bob more for a table and chair where a man can sit."

It was a mild scolding. Edward sat opposite him, smiling. "It enhances one's view of the world, Feargus, to see it from the angle of a child."

In spite of the good-humored greeting there was an unspoken weight between them. Edward considered mentioning it, to clear the air so that they could move on to other topics. But at the last moment he changed his mind. Perhaps O'Connor was one of those persons who did not seek an outlet for their sorrow.

But in the next instant, Edward saw his head bow and heard that powerful voice mutter huskily, "We are poorer men this evening, Eden, in a way which has nothing to do with coin or purse."

Edward heard and was on the verge of agreement when O'Connor went on. "Daniel Spade was a mainstay in the Movement, a trusted lieutenant."

The sentiment struck Edward as coarse. A mainstay in the Movement/ Dear God, a man of rich and varied nature was dead, a man who— Abruptly Edward halted his thoughts. It would serve no purpose to quarrel with O'Conner on the matter of Daniel Spade's role as a human being.

"I tried to send word to you," he began. "I sent a courier. He returned with the message undelivered."

O'Conner leaned back, his eyes again moving over the cleaned banqueting hall. "I was out of the city."

"On business?"

"In part," the man replied, as though evading a direct reply. "My God, the fever was rampant. I saw no point in taking unnecessary risks."

Edward stared at him and tried to submerge certain contemptuous feelings. "Where did you go?"

"South, to Rye," came the immediate and unembarrassed response. "A good cleansing ocean breeze, medicinal in every respect." There was a swaggering affectation about him as though to suggest that all the dead were merely fools for having remained in poisonous airs.

Edward felt a rush of blood to his heart. In his mind was his last image of Daniel, lying on the bed, his head pressed back against the vomit-soaked pillow.

Again he felt that this line of conversation was not only senseless, but would render impossible any further discussions. He was aware then of the man opposite him bowing his head, both hands covering his face. "I only learned of Daniel's death upon my return to London a few days ago. I couldn't believe it." He stood now with difficulty and slammed his fist down. "My God, man, the death toll."

Suddenly he wedged himself back between the bench and table and with the tip of his finger drew a hasty outline on the surface of the table. "London," he announced.

How skillfully the man had shifted the direction of the conversation from his own cowardly flight to a vague outline of London drawn upon the table.

"Look, Eden," he commanded sharply. "Let me give you a fascinating geography lesson." On the map outline, he stabbed with his finger

at certain areas which he alone could see. "There, Hyde Park. Fatalities, minimal. There, Regency Park. Fatalities, minimal. There, Mayfair. Fatalities, minimal."

As he spoke he continued to stab at various areas on the map. Edward knew what he was doing. The rich, it seemed, had not succumbed in the same vast numbers as the poor. Interesting, Edward mused, for it had never occurred to him that fever could be a political tool.

"But here," O'Conner raged on, "notice Lambeth, notice Southwark, notice Bermondsey, notice the docks."

Edward's impression of the man's lesson might have been more effective if he could only rid himself of the image of Feargus O'Conner paddling safely in the waters of the English channel.

Acting in a more subdued manner, O'Conner commenced to pace back and forth. "Why did you call me here tonight, Eden?"

The direct question roused Edward out of his grief. "I felt a need to talk."

"About what?"

"About-Daniel."

"Daniel Spade is dead," came the flat reply.

He was aware that O'Connor had stopped pacing and was now standing directly opposite him at the low table. "And what of you, Eden?" he asked.

Edward knew what he meant. Nonetheless he looked up as though seeking additional meaning. "I don't understand."

"Daniel told me once that we could count on you."

"As you can."

"In what capacity?"

"In any capacity."

"As an active participant in the Movement?"

Here Edward hesitated. "In a curious way, I've been cut in and kept out all at the same time. Now I feel a need for questions. And answers. So tell me of your Movement."

O'Conner stared down on him as though he'd asked the most ridiculous question possible. "The goals of the Movement, Mr. Eden, are quite easily explained." He drew his head up and delivered himself of a single word. "Revolution. Does that answer your question?"

Edward shook his head. "Not really. Revolution for what end?"

"For the good of the people."

"But they have unions." Edward smiled, aware that he was playing the Devil's Advocate.

"They have nothing," shouted O'Conner. "Unions!" he scoffed. "A

hectic collection of old men with one hand on the Bible and the other in the workers' pockets? Forgive me, Eden, but those men represent an evil almost as great as your ancestors, for they play precisely into the hands of the upper class, unwittingly become their pawns, do their foul work for them, and in the meantime, the suffering persists, the injustice persists."

At some point Edward had commenced listening closely.

"Then what do you propose, Mr. O'Conner?"

O'Connor smiled. "Forgive me if I repeat myself, Mr. Eden. Revolution!" Then as though he sensed Edward's aversion to the word and all that it implied, he leaned eagerly across the table. "Not of the French variety," he smiled again. "A different sort of revolution will flower on British soil, and it will be fed and watered and brought to fruition by humble toilers of the British Industrial scene, an event which could well stand as among the chief contributions made by our race to the welfare of mankind."