The Women of Eden (54 page)

She laced the last strap of the packing case into place, caught the eye of the porter and watched as the hefty man lifted it effortlessly to his shoulders.

Having seen more than enough, and since her job was finished here, Mrs. Pettibone drew on her winter cape, affixed her bonnet and lifted the basket of gingerbread.

She approached the man warily. "Lord Eden?**

When he didn't acknowledge her, she considered just leaving the basket, but something urged her to try again. The poor man looked dead himself.

"Lord Eden? I fixed you this for the road. It ain't much, but you ain't et nothing to speak of and a traveler needs his strength."

He stirred, looking up at her with a concentrated expression as if he were trying to remember something. "Mrs. Pettibone," he murmured, "thank you for your kindness."

" 'Tis nothing," she scoffed, and placed the basket in his lap. "You take care of yourself."

One of the porters appeared in the door. "The carriage is secured, Lord Eden. Whenever you are ready."

She saw him start to pull himself out of the chair. On his feet, he tried to straighten his cloak, which had become twisted. "Here, let me give you a hand," she offered, and stepped forward, adjusted the garment, trying to keep her eyes off the vacancy in his face.

Mrs. Pettibone took his arm and propelled him gently forward, relieved to see him at last moving under his own steam, at least as far as the door, where he stopped and looked back, his eyes seeming to canvass all comers of the comfortable flat, stripped of all furnishings and ready for the next tenant.

Then he was gone, the porter moving ahead down the steps. She stared at the vacancy of the door, then hurried to the window, determined to see the grim departure to its end.

Well, now, how nice, she thought staring down at the garden.

where approximately thirty students had gathered to bid him farewell. That should lift his spirits right enough. But as she watched, she wasn't certain that he even saw the students. They moved back to give him passage to the pavement, where his carriage was waiting. Several reached out as though to touch him, but he made no response and moved slowly through thdr midst, his head down, still clutching her basket of gingerbread.

Then it was over, the carriage pulling away, the students disbanding in groups of twos and threes until the garden was deserted.

She held still. With a jerk she lifted her head and shook off the bleak feeling that two lives had been ended, one dead and buried, the other still walking upright but with the smell of death about him just as strong.

Gawd! She was in terrible need of a pint, of raucous company, of laughter and diversion.

Without a backward look, and vowing never to step foot inside this flat again, she hurried through the door and down the steps, her pace increasing until she was running to her friends as fast as age and girth would permit.

London December 5, 1870

On one of the most dazzling December moms in the history of man, John stood at the top of a hill which gave a perfect view of the city of London and thought that he'd never felt so good in his life.

To his right, about thirty yards away, he saw his driver, who was the cause of this brief stop, A harness had become loosened during the last leg of the journey, and before they descended into the traffic of High Street and Shoreditch the man had requested permission to stop and fix the faulty strap. They were on Upper Hackney Road and, following repairs, it was John's estimate that they were less than an hour from his home.

To his left, stretching his legs after the confinement of the journey, he saw Aslam, the sight of the young man never failing to bring him pleasure.

It had not been John's intention to make a five-day journey of it between Cambridge and London. But events had conspired against him. A missed turn on the Cambridge road, which had sent them to Colchester; this beautiful weather; tiie fact that he was so enjoying Aslam's company; the grim events of the previous two weeks and the realization that more unpleasantness awaited him in London, all this had prompted him to give his driver orders to make for Clacton-on-Sea, a resort on the east coast which had been deserted at this season of the year.

For three glorious days he and Aslam had walked the beach, reminisced endlessly about India, partaken of delicious meals in the grand dining salon of the Shores Hotel, and slowly John had felt the gloom caused by Mary and Richard lifting.

In his new ease, he found that he had a great capacity in his heart to forgive them. As young children, what force had there been in their hves that might have established much needed self-discipline? None! A drunken father who ultimately had destroyed himself, an ill mother who had locked herself away in isolation. No, Richard and Mary had been raised by a handful of semiliterate and self-indulgent servants. No wonder they lacked a steady hand to control their own lives.

He stretched forward in a way that made his joints crackle and fixed his eye on the city below. Well, the unscheduled holiday had been pleasant, but now it was over and there lay reality.

"About finished?" he called to his driver.

"A few more minutes, Mr. Eden," came the reply. "I'd rather deal with this here than down there."

Patience, he counseled himself. He would arrive in plenty of time. Professor Nichols was due about the eighth, the hearing with John Thadeus Delane on the tenth. If all went well, he'd remain in London for an additional week to see to certain business affairs, then he'd pack everyone up and take them to Eden for Christmas.

He was hungry to see Lila, ripe with their third child, and he was eager to see his sons as well.

Christmas at Eden. The thought enclosed him like a caress, A roaring Yule log the size of a full-grown tree in the Great Hall fireplace, wreaths and garlands everyplace. And Harriet would join them this year—he would insist upon it. It would just be the family, and Richard would come home, though not Mary, and she would be missed by all.

But to fill the vacuum caused by her absence, he would invite Lady Eleanor Forbes. With Professor Nichols removed from the scene, Richard might be more inclined to respond to her considerable charms. Yes, he would do it.

Overcome by these visions and feeling the need to share them, he shoved his hands into his pockets and walked the short distance to where Aslam was maintaining a curious vigil on sprawHng London below.

"A bit larger than Cambridge, wouldn't you say?" John smiled, coming up behind the young man.

Without looking at him, Aslam murmured, "How often I've dreamed of this day."

John drew even with him, hearing a bitterness in his voice which

somehow jarred with the joy there. "Was your life at Cambridge so terrible?"

"Just hell."

He stepped closer and offered a gentle reassurance. "Well, that's all behind you now. A new life is beginning for you. You will live with me in my house, and I'll teach you everything you need to know about the firm. You'll complete your studies in the Temple, and one day after you've proven yourself, and I'm sure you wiU, I'U make you a full partner. What do you say to that?"

The look of adoration in Aslam's eyes prohibited him from saying anything. He stepped away, his face as rigid as his stance. "I will make you proud of me, John. I swear it. And further, I pledge to you my loyalty and constant devotion in all matters."

A bit excessive, that, and John could have done without some of the pomposity. Still, the words were pleasing as well as the depth of sincerity behind them.

Caught in the emotion of the occasion, John faltered. He would have liked to embrace the boy, but something in those determined eyes warned him against it and, in the awkwardness of the moment, both spoke at once.

"We should be home in a little over an—"

"Do you think he'll come to London—"

"I'm sorry." John laughed at the muddle of their voices. "Do I think who will come to London?"

"Professor Nichols."

John walked a step down the inchne. "Fm sure he will. We didn't give him much choice, did we?"

"I've never liked him, you know," Aslam said, traihng behind.

"Why?" John asked, curious.

Aslam shrugged. "He seemed to want to—touch me all the time. He was forever touching my arm, my shoulder."

John looked back, grateful that earlier he'd kept his distance.

Aslam caught up with him. "I hate Sodomites," he pronounced, his eyes focused on London below. "When I first arrived at Cambridge I was told I had to attend an initiation of Greeks." liis voice fell. John sensed that he should stop him, but he didn't.

"I was taken with four other boys to a small shed out in the country somewhere. We were forced to remove our trousers and lie flat in the dirt while one by one the other boys—"

His voice broke. He walked a few steps back up the incline. John

could see his shoulders trembling and, while his heart went out to him, he knew better than to say or do anything. Every man had to deal with his own nightmares.

The horror passed and Aslam looked back. "As you were talking to Professor Nichols, all I wanted to do was to tell him how Fd felt that night in the shed.''

*"! know," John comforted. "But take solace in the realization of where we are sending him. Australia," John pronounced broadly. "Let him play his filthy games with the convicts."

Aslam laughed, the mood lifted and the young man was back on track. "Tell me of this hearing, John," he asked, walking a few steps ahead across the crest of the incline.

Surprised, John called after him. "How did you know about that?"

"My mother wrote and told me. She has written almost weekly for the last two months, though I have not replied."

"Why haven't you answered?"

Aslam looked at him as though surprised by the question. "Surely you know of her—attachment to Andrew Rhoades?"

John nodded.

"Did you know that they plan to marry?"

"I suspected as much."

"And you're not angry?"

John caught up with him and tried to compose a suitable answer. It wouldn't do to tell the son that he was merely tired of the mother. "She's free to do whatever she wishes," he said.

The look of shock on Aslam's face was pleasing. "But she's being —disloyal to youl"

John offered comfort. "I've learned, Aslam," he said quietly, "that you cannot hold anyone's affection against their will. It is your mother's happiness with which I'm concerned, and if I can no longer provide her with that happiness, then I will not stand in her way of seeking it elsewhere."

His voice just barely topped the gentle wind, and he saw such a look of adoration on Aslam's face that again he felt himself moved to touch.

But he controlled the instinct and let Aslam come to him, faltering at first, then at last stepping shyly into his arms, where John received his awkward, boyish embrace and heard his whispered confession, "I love you so much, John. I will never leave you."

The embrace held for several moments, John looking sideways out

over sprawling London. How good the moment was, how kind of God to send him this gift of a young man's love when he so sorely needed it!

Together they walked back to where the driver was just climbing aboard his high seat. '"All secured, Mr. Eden," he called down. "She can withstand anything now."

So can I, John thought, as Aslam held the door for him.

It was approaching noon—the traflEc had been worse than usual— when Belgrave Square came into view. Across from him sat Aslam. Since they had entered the city, the young man had craned his neck out one window, then the other, commenting on the changes that had taken place since he'd last been there.

Thus it was Aslam, still leaning out the window, who spied the carriages parked before the house and sounded the alarm. "I thought you said my mother was staying with Elizabeth," he commented, the chasm between mother and son deepening.

John leaned forward, amazed by the number of carriages parked on the normally quiet pavement before his house. Dhari's was instantly recognizable, as well as Elizabeth's. In addition there was a sturdy black one with john murrey firm emblazoned on the side, which meant that Alex Aldwell was present as well.

As soon as his carriage had come to a halt, John jumped down, angry to see such a congregation. Usually they held their dreary family meetings in Elizabeth's drawing room.

"Come!" he shouted back at Aslam.

Even before he reached the steps he saw the front door open, saw a steward relay a message back into the house and, taking the steps two at a time, John pushed through the door in time to see the lot of them emerge from the drawing room, Elizabeth dressed in grim black, her eyes as swollen from weeping as they had been when he'd left her over a fortnight ago with Mary in tow.

My God, he thought. Does the woman do nothing but weep? Perhaps it has something to do with her middle years. But before he could solve the puzzle he saw the others behind her, an equally grim parade. There Dhari, also dressed in black, and behind her, Andrew, his face drained of color, and next to him, Alex Aldwell.

As his annoyance escalated into fear—something had happened— he held Elizabeth at arm's length and tried to force an explanation out of her.

"What is it?" he demanded. "What has happened?"

Through fresh tears, she wept, "The first courier came three days ago with the terrible news that she was ill. Then yesterday, only yesterday—"

As she covered her face with her hands, John tried to put the scant pieces together. Who is ill? Mary? Pray God, no . . .

"Tell me, Ehzabeth," he commanded, reaching out for her.

The voice came from behind and belonged to Andrew Rhoades. "It's Lila," he said. "The second message arrived yesterday, signed by Lord Harrington and Lady Harriet. I'm so sorry, John. Lila is dead."

The black and white marble entrance hall seemed to be filled with motionless, silent people. In spite of the sunlight streaming in through the windows, it resembled dark night. John turned away, taking in all the faces that stared back at him, fully expecting one to refute the message.