The Prince of Eden (84 page)

Suddenly embarrassed by her vanity, she stood still, listening. She thought she'd heard the door open downstairs, but there was no sound now. Perhaps they were playing a joke on her. Stealthily she crept to the door and opened it a crack. As always she'd left a single lamp burning on the downstairs table, and from her angle of vision at the top of the stairs, she saw John.

"Is it you?" she called down, thinking to make a grand descent. But first she must be certain that she had both their attentions. "John, is it-"

At that moment, she saw another face peering up, a man she'd never seen before in a black corduroy jacket with ruddy weathered face. He stood with his arm about John's shoulder, and she saw his face take on a terrible expression.

Moving slowly forward, Elizabeth started down the steps. Midway down she saw four other men standing near the door. None seemed inclined to speak.

"John?" she inquired softly, puzzled by the strange gathering.

The boy hesitated, seemed incapable of looking at her. He bowed his head. "There's been an accident—"

She clutched at the folds of the yellow dress. "What—" But her breath caught.

One of the men stepped toward her as though to come to her aid, but she drew herself up and decided to move whether her heart was beating or not. "Where—" But again the words choked in her throat.

There was movement then, the four men departing through the open door. John crumpled into the chair by the table. The man still stood with his arm about his shoulder.

But Elizabeth kept her eye on the doorway and on the black night beyond. She felt safe as long as that doorway was empty. If the four

men would only be kind enough not to return, she might endure, her heart might start up again and—

Then they were there again, carrying something between them. All at once she felt incredible relief. It wasn't Edward. Merciful God, thank You, it wasn't Edward. It was merely a rolled piece of canvas, something heavy to be sure, but it wasn't Edward, though it was peculiar how gently they carried it.

Still clinging to the bannister, she stared down into the small room at the mysterious activity, the men now with great tenderness placing that old roll of canvas on the floor before the fire. Feeling sudden anger, she was on the verge of calling out, asking them kindly to remove it. Lumpy it was, she noticed, with dark spreading stains.

The large man in the black corduroy jacket had now moved away from John and was bending over the canvas. Was he weeping? Why should such a strong strapping man weep over a—

Her thoughts stopped. The man kneeling on the floor ceased fumbling with the cord and drew back the upper portion of the heavy canvas.

The moan commenced at the base of her throat and climbed upward, culminating in a single howl. Then she was moving, aware of the men retreating, but aware of little else as at last she knelt beside the still face, thinking that life for her, from now on, would be impossible. No sooner had she touched the cold forehead than the coldness spread, moved up through her fingers, across her shoulders, lodging somewhere near the base of her skull.

Sounds floated to her from afar. Who was talking behind her? What were they saying? Something had fallen? And who was weeping? No matter. All she wanted to do was carefully, lovingly catalogue his face, her fingers brushing across his features, his eyes, nose, the line of his jaw. How she loved him, would love him always.

Then at last she began to cry. She bent over and embraced him, lifted his face to her breast and held him close. Someone still was talking, a gentle gruff" voice uttering words of comfort.

Didn't he know? Didn't they all know? There was no comfort possible. From now on, in every street, on every corner, inhabiting every shadow, there would be only silent grief and loneliness. Her sun had set. There would be no more laughter, no more walks in the park, no more quiet moments before the fire with the shadows playing gently on his face.

She cradled his head in her arms, and commenced rocking with him back and forth. A low^ continuous moan escaped her. She pressed as

closely to him as she could, so close that she could see only the gleam of his face in the darkness.

The month of May occasionally belies its character for merriment with unexpected fits of gloom. It had rained in the early morning hours, but by ten o'clock on that morning of May 1, 1851, the London sky was filled with glorious sunshine. Larks were singing in the parks, and the splendid glass palace which had risen like a miracle on the meadows of Hyde Park stood ready and waiting for the arrival of the Queen and the Royal Family and the magnificent opening which would signal to the world that England was still supreme, her strong, hardworking hand securely on the helm of the ship which she modestly labeled "All Mankind."

But on the pavement of the narrow lane in the slum district of Bermondsey, the sun did not shed its warming rays. At ten o'clock on this morning, a hollow-eyed Elizabeth watched, without feeling, as four men loaded a simple coffin into the back of the wagon. The large man, whose name she had learned was Jack Willmot, was the overseer of the procedure, as he'd overseen everything during that long nightmare.

Standing to one side, she saw the four horsemen who had arrived only moments before, again Jack Willmot's idea. He'd felt they would need escort through the city on this bustling morning so he had appointed four of his strongest men to ride alongside the wagon.

Now she shivered in the morning chill and to keep her eyes away from the coffin, she lowered her head and concentrated on the puddles left by the early morning rain. In all directions the street was so quiet. She'd hoped that some of the people would come to see him off*. She knew the word had spread, had been aware, in spite of her grief, through the night of whispered conversations taking place all around her.

Yet there was no one here save for the men and Jack Willmot and herself, still wearing the yellow dress which she was to have worn to the Great Exhibition, walking proudly between Edward and John.

At this thought she looked slowly up at the young boy already seated atop the wagon, the reins in his hand. She was worried about him, but didn't know how to reach him. How could she begin to ease his loss when the emptiness within her was still so painful. When, at some point during that endless night, he'd suggested that they must take his father home, she'd felt a strong objection rising in her throat.

But on this matter, John had been adamant and vocal and had sworn before witnesses that his father had repeatedly voiced the request

that if something should happen, he be taken home.

Lacking both the will and energy for argument, Elizabeth had agreed. What matter now? Again she raised her eyes to the empty street, then back to the wagon, where she saw Jack Willmot's men lacing the coffin into place.

Then she saw Willmot jump down from the wagon and walk toward her, the effects of the grim night clearly visible on his face.

"All's ready now," he said softly, touching her arm. "I've instructed the men to go the full distance. You'll have to make the journey without intervals." He lowered his head. "They'll see to fresh horses."

She nodded to everything and drew the cloak around her. "I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Willmot," she murmured. "I don't know what-"

"See to the boy," he interrupted abruptly, clearly embarrassed by her expression of gratitude. "Try to make him understand."

Make him understand what? she thought angrily. Then she checked herself. "The boy will be fine," she murmured. "He's going home. It's what he's always wanted."

Now embarrassed by the intense stares of the waiting men, she said, "Well, then," and closed the door of the house and walked rapidly to the wagon. As Willmot assisted her up, she heard him speak to John.

"Take 'em slow through the city," he warned, gesturing toward the horses. "Then give 'em their head on the road."

As Elizabeth settled herself on the high seat, she noticed John staring straight ahead. His face was a mask. Perhaps it was just as well. The journey would be long. Time for talk later.

Now she saw Jack Willmot step away from the wagon and lift his hand in salute. On the other side, the riders were just climbing onto their horses. She took a quick glance back at the small house and instantly averted her eyes. There was nothing there for her now.

She saw the horsemen take their places, two on one side, two on the other, saw John's hands tighten on the reins, and in that instant the wagon moved forward with a rattling start. Again she looked in all directions.

It did seem to her that at least a few might have come and told him goodbye. Was it asking so much? But apparently it was, and as the wagon approached the corner and swung wide for the turn, she settled back against the seat and consoled herself with the realization that it would have meant nothing to Edward, whether people came or not. She lowered her head. Oh God, when would the thought stop hurting, the awareness of what was behind her in the coffin?

Tears again then, though they were brief compared to the floodgates

of the night. Still no reHef, though. The hurt was lodged permanently in her heart.

Thus it was that through glazed eyes she looked up and saw a small knot of people standing on the corner just ahead. She recognized them as residents of Bermondsey and was grateful when the men lifted their hats as the wagon passed. A few moments later she glanced behind, surprised to see these few walking quietly after the wagon. How kind of them, she thought, even to go a short distance.

She was on the verge of pointing out their presence to John when just ahead she spied several others, emerging from doorways, rising from stoops where apparently they had been waiting. Six, maybe a few more, and they too fell silently in behind the wagon.

"John, look," she whispered and was about to direct his attention to those behind the wagon when up ahead at the approaching intersection she saw still more, a much larger gathering, this one, thirty, forty, men mostly, a ragged crew if she'd ever seen one, but all with hats removed, their eyes wide and solemn as they too fell in, not waiting for the wagon to pass, but coming silently forward to greet it, then parting and taking their places at the rear.

Elizabeth sat up, suddenly alert, turning first in one direction, then the other, as people continued to appear, emerging from all quarters now, a never-ending stream, spilling out of tenement doors, out of alleys and grim inner courtyards, some on crutches, she noticed, hundreds now was her estimate, still coming, women clutching children by the hands, men with protective arms about the women, all, all falling silently in behind the wagon, more people than Elizabeth had ever seen. Now it was as though every inhabitant from Lambeth, from Southwark were joining them, still more appearing from off Ken-nington Common, a silent, moving wave of humanity, and there, Jacob's Island, still more appearing, men coming individually, in pairs, in groups of eight and ten, a swelling tide which, raising up from her seat, she noticed extended as far behind as she could see.

"John, look!" she gasped, clutching at the back of the seat for support.

Dear God in Heaven, still they came, every human being in the world, or so it seemed. Turning rapidly in all directions, she couldn't begin to take it all in, thousands now, surely thousands of silently marching men, women, and children, their faces, their eyes fixed on the back of the wagon, on the coffin bearing-One of the horsemen riding nearby drew close, his plain face aglow with a smile, the first she'd seen in ever so long. "It's for him. Miss," he whispered, "for the Prince of Eden."

She nodded quickly and made no attempt to hide the tears streaming down her face. She glanced again at John, his eyes still fixed on the pavement ahead, the reins wrapped so tightly about his hands that the skin showed white.

While she wished that he might have expressed appreciation for the incredible spectacle of humanity walking silently behind him, for the moment she didn't care.

All she knew was that Edward Eden was being given a grand send-off. Very stealthily she reached her hand behind her, slipped it through the slats of the high wagon seat, and with tenderness touched the unresponding wood of the coffin.

Over her shoulder, she saw them, still coming, a gray-brown-black crowd of thousands, yet not one sound but the muffled tread of boots, and the upturned, quietly grieving faces of men whose lives had in some way been touched, changed, warmed by the Prince of Eden.

At ten forty-five on the glorious morning of May 1, 1851, the Royal Procession was forming within the high black iron gates of Buckingham Palace.

In the lead, following the dictates of history and precedence, were the Coldstream Guards. Immediately following them was the Royal Carriage, open in honor of the May sun and the special day, containing Her Royal Highness, dressed in pink and silver, wearing her Garter Ribbon and the Kohinoor Diamond, a small crown and two feathers in her hair. Also in the carriage rode Prince Albert, the dreamer of the Dream, and their two eldest children, Victoria Adelaide Mary Louise and Albert Edward, Prince of Wales.

At the head of this splendid procession rode the Commander of the First Battalion of Coldstream Guards, Colonel Nigel Stevens. His was an awesome responsibility, and from where he sat astride his horse, waiting for the procession to fall in, he ran the route in his mind: beyond the gates, one circle past the Mall, then into the Serpentine Road and a short distance beyond through the main Hyde Park gate to the doors of the Great Exhibition. A brief journey. What could go wrong?

Earlier that morning he'd noticed that thousands had already lined the Mall, hoping to get a glimpse of Her Majesty. If he'd had his way, the Royal Carriage would have been closed, not open. One couldn't be too careful.

Look! There! From where he sat at the head of the procession, he could see the trees opposite Buckingham. All seemed to have burst out suddenly into a crop of eager boys who, in spite of the warnings of the

police, seemed to think every tree a legitimate spying point. In vain did the constables look up and threaten the youthful branches. Mere urchins, those. But if they could climb, so could an anarchist, or an anti-royalist, a radical agitator. And London, on this great day, was full of foreigners, come to see the Great Exhibition, a few to wish England well, but more, he suspected, to wish her ill.