The Prince of Eden (78 page)

privacy to test herself against the memory, to speak his name aloud, to imagine him in the same room with her.

A remarkably short time later, she found herself running along the headlands, impervious to the condition of her loosened hair and the tears streaming down her face.

Let them come. Better now than later. Drain them all so that within the fortnight, she could stand erect beside her husband and listen dispassionately and reveal to no one, not even herself, the hideous knowledge that lay buried within her, that she'd opened her body to her husband's brother, that she'd borne her husband's brother's child in secret, that she'd given that child away like a bundle of discarded clothes, that there was no pain, no torment, no torture devised by men for use on men that could even come close to matching the agony of conscience that she now was suffering.

ydys'4S'

Sprawled on his stomach in the middle of Edward's bed, his chin propped up in his hands, John Murrey Eden posed a blunt question.

"What's a bastard?"

Edward looked up from his desk, the letter from Sir Claudius announcing the hearing still in his hand. Edward pretended not to hear and fell again into a rereading of Sir Claudius's prim letter. If only he could grasp fully what it meant. A hearing, an "examination," in Sir Claudius's terms, "of the Eden assets, all parties to be present with the goal being a more equitable distribution."

Equitable distribution? Edward had been expecting a lawsuit, a court case complete with jury. At least this was what his mother had warned him of often enough. But a "hearing"?

"Papa?"

He looked up at his son, who was still waiting for a definition of bastard.

Now Edward tossed Sir Claudius's letter to one side of his desk and walked to the bed and stretched out beside John.

"A bastard," Edward began with mock solemnity, "is a man without a father." As a definition it was too simple and leaked like a sieve. He knew that John would never abide it.

"But you had a father," the boy protested. "Grandpapa." He lifted his head and gazed at the ceiling. "This was his house."

Edward nodded, enjoying himself in spite of the awkward moment. How pleasant his life had been since the Chartist debacle of April 10.

No longer did Feargus O'Conner and his men occupy all of Edward's time. O'Conner had disappeared to lick his wounded pride, though Edward had met him once since, quite by accident, outside the Reading Room of the British Museum Library, in the company of another man, a German, as well as Edward could remember, named Karl Marx. And Edward was now working in distant association with the Ragged School Union, with moderate men whose ambitions did not include remaking the entire world, but merely making the existing world better.

Now he had gloriously long intervals to spend with John, and the other children as well.

"Papa?" It was John again, dragging Edward's attention back to the puzzle at hand. "Why do they call you a bastard?" he asked with a heavy sigh as though it were exhausting work, maintaining his father's attention.

Edward smiled and ruffled the boy's hair. "There's more to it, John," he said softly.

"What more?"

"I had a father, true, but my mother and father were not married at the time of my birth."

"Does that make a difference?'*

"Indeed."

"Why?"

Damn! Elizabeth was right. Perhaps he shouldn't, have mentioned the word in attempting to explain to his son what was going on. "The closeness between a man and a woman that produces a child," Edward explained carefully, "must be sanctified in the eyes of God."

"Why?"

"It's Scripture."

"Just words."

"No. Law."

"Whose?"

"God's."

"Did God write the Scriptures?"

"No. He directed men."

"Men can be wrong. You've said so."

"Yes, but these were holy men."

"W^ho said they were holy men?"

"God."

"Who did He say it to?"

"To the men."

A look of ancient cynicism crossed John's face, followed by a

mischievous grin. "Then I'm a holy man," he said with mock seriousness.

Wearily Edward smiled. "It's not my world, John. I didn't make the rules."

"You could have," John added brightly. "You can still."

"How?"

"By telling Sir Claudius Potter to jump across the Thames."

Edward laughed. "I've already done that, not in so many words, but-"

He was aware of John moving closer, those dark blue eyes alive with intelligence. "Then tell him again. You didn't ask to be born. You had nothing to do with it. Whatever your Papa gave to you is yours to keep for all time."

Edward gazed up at the young-old face. The boy's future as well was at stake.

Purposefully baiting him now, Edward posed a serious question. "Then we should attend the hearing, do you think?"

"Of course," John replied. He was on the verge of saying more when he saw the smile on his father's face. As though he were embarrassed by his own intensity, he flopped over on his back and nestled close in the crook of Edward's arm.

For a moment, Edward held him close, knowing it was not proper for father and son, but doing it anyway.

They rested thus for several moments, gazing up at the ceiling. Then Edward heard another question. "Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Am I a bastard?"

Edward closed his eyes. He could no more have prevented that question than he could have stopped the tide. "Yes," he replied, without elaboration.

"Good."

The response had been instantaneous. Slowly Edward raised up on one elbow, bewildered. "Why— good?"

John looked at him with all the confidence of youth, a confidence bordering on arrogance. "Why not good?" he grinned.

Edward returned the grin and thought of the years of agony that word had caused him. How simply his son had solved the problem. A game occurred to Edward then, a childish game which the two of them had played when John had been a very young boy. "Who are you?" Edward asked.

Quietly the boy raised up on his elbow. His face looked strangely

sobered. "My name is John Murrey Eden," he pronounced simply. "My father is Edward Eden."

In London legal circles of 1848, only the following facts were known about Sir Cedric Dalrymple: age, sixty-seven; unmarried; childless; Aberdeen-born; Edinburgh-educated. As a young law student, he'd distinguished himself at the Scots bar, had established a thriving clientele, and for some unknown reason had abandoned it sixteen years ago and had taken up residence in London. Although he fit easily enough into the encrusted tradition of the Inns, he kept to himself except in the cause of his profession, and on those rare occasions, when he appeared in the Common Hall to quietly dazzle all those privileged enough to be present with his pure, lucid and unbending interpretation of that noble complexity known as English law.

In fact, he was a man seemingly obsessed with his profession, an obsession which a decade ago had finally raised him to the bench, and this lofty elevation had lifted him directly into the status of legend. His girth, considerable, Falstaffian almost, his height, equally as impressive, and his great thick shock of white flowing hair, all were capable of striking fear in the heart of any hapless law student called to the English Bar.

This then was Sir Cedric Dalrymple, the magistrate whom Sir Claudius had connived to sit in on the hearing concerning the Eden fortune. There were barristers who wondered openly over port in the Commons why Sir Cedric was even bothering himself with such a slight case. Complex decisions were more in his line.

But that in itself was part of the mystery, and that was why on this hot, close morning of July 2, 1848, all activity in the Temple seemed to come to a standstill except for the old gardeners watering the roses in the garden of the Middle Temple.

What was it to them, the redistribution of a fortune?

After three bowls of porridge, two boiled eggs, and four cups of tea. Sir Cedric shifted his weight upon the thunder pot and tried to get his bowels to move.

All Hail to Satan, was there ever such a curse visited upon man or beast since Creation? Again he shifted his considerable weight, hiked his nightshirt higher, and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible on the thin porcelain rim.

Suddenly a rolling pain cut down through his lower abdomen; he gripped his stomach and inclined forward. On occasion, that pain was an encouraging sign, indicative of movement. He waited a moment. Now? Nothing.

Weary with effort at eight o'clock in the morning, he leaned forward again and thought what a splendid relief death would be, fairly convinced as he was that there would be no such things as bowels in Heaven.

Of course he'd suffered thus all his life, excruciating body vapors rolling endlessly in his gut. He remembered his grandmother, that grim-faced old harridan who had raised him, telling him that the Devil resided in his bowels and unless Cedric could push him out once a day, the Devil would poison him.

Damn it! He'd have to leave it for now. He was due in his chambers in one hour. The Eden case.

Well, then, dress, he ordered himself, go and preside over the foibles of men, then return to the privacy of this room. To merely get through each day was his goal now, to retire to some country cottage where he could give in to his endless farts and gloomy temper. He was sick to death of London life. Apart from his great height and stoutness and the look of concentration in his face, Englishmen stared at Sir Cedric because they could not make out to which class he belonged. All Englishmen felt most comfortable when they could assign everyone to a proper class and generally they did not rest until that end had been accomplished.

Well, Sir Cedric had dumbfounded them this long, although he didn't know how much longer he could conceal his secret from the world.

Slowly he drew on his robe and gave small thanks for at least two blessings. One, he would not have to walk the distance to the court, and two, that damnable wig could be left on the wig stand. A sobering realization occurred to him then, the fact that after years of passing judgment, he knew that in no area of his life, in no region of his soul was he fit to pass judgment on anyone.

Outside his door he felt the first blast of the hot July sun filtering down through the arcade. As he turned the corner, heading toward his chambers on the lower level, he glanced down into the garden of the Middle Temple, always a refreshing sight with its clipped avenues of green and explosions of roses at the center. The old gardeners were at work, he noticed, men who could plunge their hands into English soil and cause miracles to happen.

Sir Cedric was just on the verge of averting his eyes when suddenly he saw a man talking to the two gardeners, his arm about the shoulders of a young boy. Taking refuge in a spot of shade close to the wall, Sir Cedric narrowed his eyes and continued to look down into the garden. There was something familiar about the man.

Sir Cedric looked closer, trying to clear the veil of age from his eyes. Then, recognition. He'd seen him last—when was it? Ten, fifteen years ago in the court of Old Bailey, the case of the adultress.

He peered closer. The gentleman did not resemble a man whose own brother was trying to relieve him of the family fortune. Nor did he resemble a radical agitator, though the papers had been filled with his name of late in connection with such causes. Before Sir Cedric turned away from his observation, he noticed that the man was changed. He did not remember him being so lean, the line of jaw quite so sharp. Over port, a few evenings ago, hadn't Sir Claudius Potter mentioned something about opium addiction?

Outside his office door he caught sight of the brass plaque which always gave him small pleasure. Sir Cedric Dalrymple, 1832. Then he pushed through the door and confronted his three young clerks whose flushed faces suggested that others had already arrived and the drama was on the verge of commencing.

"Is all ready?" Sir Cedric demanded, enjoying the mild look of fear in all three faces.

In answer to his question, they nodded. One elaborated, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously behind his stiff collar. "Two large tables, milord," he announced, "arranged on opposite sides of the chamber."