The prince of Eden

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  "A fitting end," Sir Claudius nodded. "But in case you failed to notice, Edward's name was kept clear of it, through my efforts and my efforts alone. If the fool had had his way, he would have leapt forward and admitted complete involvement in the matter."

  "Was he—involved?" she asked warily.

  "Of course he was," Sir Claudius snapped. "Involved from the beginning in every way. And further, that once elegant domicile on Oxford Street has now been stripped and serves as a watering hole for every radical leader in London. They meet surreptitiously, but don't think I don't know about it."

  "I thought it was a school," she protested.

  "A front, madam, I assure you, merely a front." He lifted his face as though on a note of pride. "I have eyes and ears, good ones, I might add. My own as well as others'. The list of men passing in and out of those doors could one day spell ruination for this England, as we know it."

  "Go on. Sir Claudius," she said. "But not about Daniel Spade and his activities, I beg you. I have no authority there, let alone influence. Tell me of my son."

  "The two are inseparable, madam, both in body and philosophy. Mr. Spade manipulates Edward as though he were a master puppeteer."

  She sat up, her anger increasing. "I find that hard to believe—"

  "What would you say, madam, to attempted murder?"

  She looked up. "I don't understand—"

  He seemed eager to inform her. "The last time I was summoned to Newgate, less than a week ago, Edward had been charged with attempted murder."

  "Why?" she begged. "Surely it was a false charge. Edward is incapable of—"

  "Was," he corrected her. "I saw his handiwork for myself. The night warden suffered a heavily damaged throat. He could scarcely talk."

  "Then there had to be a reason—"

  "None," Sir Claudius cut in. "The warden had treated him with extreme kindness, had broken all rules to permit him passage to the Longford woman's cell. You see, it was the night before the sentence was to be carried out. I suppose he had some foolish notion of helping her to escape. It wasn't necessary. The woman was dead. He was apprehended himself, imprisoned for the duration of the night. Then only because of my close professional relationship with the magistrate and a sizable bribe was I able to get the charges dropped, on one condition, that he leave London immediately and stay away for a period of several months. Now, I ask you, madam, where is he?"

  "Edward?" she asked vaguely.

  "Yes, Edward," he snapped. "He should have been here days ago. But James tells me he has not as yet—"

  "No, he hasn't arrived," she murmured, "though I expect him any—"

  "The magistrate's conditions were clear. He was to leave London immediately."

  "Please, Sir Claudius," she murmured, "I cannot answer for him. You must ask him yourself."

  "As I intend to," the old man replied. "It was on the strength of my reputation that he enoys his present freedom. He may do what he likes with his own reputation, what is left of it. But he is in my debt now."

  Marianne turned away to the closed window behind her and tried to push it open. Apparently it was stuck. She felt a need for air, a good strong ocean gale to cleanse the small room of the despicable man and his words. He couldn't help but see her struggle, yet made no move to assist her.

  Instead he said sternly, "Then we have no choice but to wait for Edward, that is, if he comes at all."

  She turned back from her futile efforts with the window, relieved that she had something positive to say, "Oh, he'll come, Sir Claudius, I can assure you of that."

  "You've had word?"

  Her confidence was short-lived. "No, but—"

  "Then how can you be so sure?"

  "Jennifer," she said. "Miss Cranford had word from Jennifer. She's coming with Edward."

  The confession that she received word of her children through someone else seemed to increase his pleasure. In a tone of mock consideration, he suggested, "Well, let's leave the dreary subjects behind and discuss the sweeter ones. Is all in order for the coming festivities?"

  For a moment, she had to turn her mind forcibly to the question. Then she remembered. "Lord and Lady Powels," she murmured.

  "Yes," he beamed. "What a happy union that will be, two of the great houses of England united."

  She remembered James's less than convincing avowal of love. "Perhaps we shouldn't push," she suggested. "It can only lead to unhappiness for—"

  "But I don't understand, milady," he demanded. "According to James, it was quite settled." He moved back to where she sat. "Not an hour ago, James himself told me that first banns would be published next month."

  She looked up at him and felt stupid and out of touch. "He's never told me that—" she began.

  Sir Claudius's bewildered anger increased. "And what, pray tell, madam, did you think was the purpose of these festivities?"

  She shook her head, her distress increasing. "I've—never met the young woman," she stammered. "I merely thought that I was—"

  "And does that mean that you have not spoken to her parents?"

  "We've corresponded, yes."

  "On what matter?"

  "On a variety of matters."

  "Dowry included?"

  She lowered her head. "No," she murmured. "It seemed—premature-"

  Apparently shocked. Sir Claudius stepped back. "Great heavens, lady. In your younger days, you had a mind. Now, what's become of it? You are allowing Lord and Lady Powels to travel all this distance without a specific commitment?"

  She felt exhausted under the ceaseless torrent of words. "I did not feel that it was my place to speak of commitments."

  Still he continued to stare down on her as though she were a lesser creature. The anger which she'd detected earlier softened into a kind of

  brutal condescension. "Not to worry, madam," he soothed. "How unfair of us to expect you to know the ins and outs of these arrangements. I really had no idea how well Lord Eden managed for you."

  Her deep resentment was still there and growing, but she simply lacked the will to express it. Before his offensive words she turned again to the closed window and contented herself with staring out into the darkened garden. She listened, struggling to hold back tears of rage.

  "It's quite out of the ordinary," he was saying now, "but I will speak with the Powelses when they arrive. I'm quite certain they have been expecting a discussion of dowry and will therefore in every way be prepared for it. If you wish, madam, I'll handle everything."

  She wondered if he was consciously aware of his attempt to hurt her. At this point she had ceased to care. He was right in one quarter. Thomas had covered for her, lovingly hiding all the unpolished and unknowledgeable edges. She might have married aristocracy, but she was still a fisherman's daughter.

  Now she said, "Do what you like, Sir Claudius. You will anyway. You need no permission from me." She could not abide his closeness a moment longer. "Then if that's all. Sir Claudius, I beg you to excuse me. I have my sister with me, whom I've neglected long enough."

  He sat alone on the window seat. "Ah, yes. Miss Locke," he pronounced, his lips mincing the name, as though to imply the weight of shame behind it. "She must be quite aged now."

  "And in excellent health," Marianne smiled. "We Lockes seem to possess the gift of longevity. Now again, if you'll excuse me—"

  But he didn't. "There is one more item of business, madam," he said.

  She gave him an agonized look. "I can't imagine what we have failed to discuss," she said.

  "The future, madam," he smiled, "merely the future and all that it entails."

  "Then be quick. Sir Claudius," she commanded. "It's late and Fm very tired."

  "As we both are," he concurred. "It's simply this. While neither of your sons, madam, has made a habit of communicating with you, one, at least, has taken me into his confidence and sought my advice."

  "And that would be James, of course," she said.

  "Yes, James," he confirmed. "I shall n
ow apprise you of our plan. We shall see the festivities through to their hopefully successful conclusion," he began, "resulting in the engagement of Lord James Eden and Lady Harriet Powels. There will be a Christmas wedding,

  then next spring, Lord Eden has proposed a simple lawsuit."

  She straightened up from leaning against the table.

  "There will be no lawsuit, Sir Claudius," she said, on diminished breath. "Not while I live. And I warn you further, Sir Claudius, that if you attempt such a matter, I will use all the power at my disposal, which is considerable, not only to block your efforts, but in the process to discredit you as well."

  She moved still closer. "I am not without friends in high places, as you so well know, men of prominence who knew and respected my husband. If you attempt a lawsuit, I will not only attend the hearing, I will speak out fully and without restraint. Whatever alliances you may have formed with certain people in my household, they should not be seriously considered, for the fact remains, it is my household. They are here because of my indulgence and my generosity. Consider that as well."

  He was retreating. "I will never understand you, milady," he muttered, pushing open the door.

  "I'm not yours to understand," she replied quietly. "As my solicitor, your only responsibility to me is obedience."

  It was a bit harsh, but seemed to her only partial payment for his earlier humiliation of her.

  But still he would not totally give in. "The hour is late, madam. "We'll discuss it further when we both are in a more rational state of mind."

  With a smile which bordered on the impertinent, she said, "I'm as rational as you'll ever find me. Sir Claudius." Through the opened door, she could see across the expanse of the Great Hall to the far corridor, dimly lit. Though her eyesight was weak, she could just make out the black, spidery figure of Caleb Cranford.

  "I think we've said all we need to say," she concluded, turning away at last. "We both have people waiting for us. I shall look forward to seeing you at breakfast. Perhaps a morning ride would be nice. The headlands are lovely this time of year, green with June ripeness, and—"

  As she looked back, she did not bother to complete her sentence. He was gone, the doorway empty, the man himself moving rapidly across the Great Hall in a steady line toward the far corridor and the shadowy figure.

  Normally she would not abide such rudeness. But she was so relieved to be rid of his presence that she went to the door and slammed it after him and stood alone in the small room, her mind struggling to assimilate all aspects of the dreadful encounter.

  Attempted murder. Not Edward. He was incapable of such an act. Surely there were extenuating circumstances which Sir Claudius either was not privy to, or had simply chosen not to reveal to her.

  Suddenly she felt the ring on her finger and looked down as though seeing it for the first time. As she remembered the sensation of his kiss, she rapidly stripped the ring from her finger and hurled it across the room. It disappeared into the cushions of the window seat.

  /SJ6'

  Edward was in no rush to leave London. In spite of the splintered beginnings of his reunion with Jennifer, he had thoroughly enjoyed the last few days with her, the two of them exploring London, three of them really, for Daniel accompanied them whenever his responsibilities at the school permitted. The hours had passed quickly and pleasantly as Edward was becoming quite skillful in administering to himself the necessary dosage of laudanum, the precious elixir providing him with a calmness of spirit he had not felt since he was a boy.

  Then the pinnacle yesterday, when the three of them had gone to Masson's and purchased their finest pianoforte, a wonder with rosewood case and inlaid ivory filigree. How Jennifer had protested the expense even as her eyes had shone with unprecedented light.

  Now at dusk he was packed, their trunks already loaded upon the carriage, awaiting the arrival of the pianoforte from Masson, who'd expressed great concern that his handsome instrument would immediately be put through such a tortuous journey. Nothing would do but that a special wagon be hired to transport it

  No matter. It was a pleasant delay, a convenient postponement of the dreaded trip to North Devon.

  As Edward waited in his second-floor chambers, he heard only the street sounds below and the distant laughter of the children in the back garden. Their common room, the banqueting hall, had been usurped by Daniel for some sort of meeting with his friends. Jennifer was packed and in the back garden, passing the time with the volunteers and the children, her habit of schoolmistress too strong to break.

  Directly beneath him, he saw a small black cab pull up to the pavement, saw three gentlemen alight and hurry beneath the eaves of the house. There had been a steady parade of men for the last half an hour entering the doors of his house.

  It was none of his concern. Too often in the past, Daniel had tried to involve him in his zealous activities. And while he appreciated the nature and cause of good works, he could not in all honesty share Daniel's zeal.

  Then suddenly, he heard the rattling approach of a large conveyance, not a cab again, surely. Quickly he leaned forward. Not the wagon from Masson's either, but a large private carriage into which were packed at least eight men who now, one by one, were alighting, common men as well as he could tell, scarcely able to hire such elaborate equippage.

  Curious, he leaned closer as the men continued to emerge from the carriage, four, five, six, stepping down, workmen in moleskin and loosely fitted smocks, followed at last by a well-turned-out gentleman in top hat and cape, a huge man who towered over the others and who now seemed to be herding them toward the door.

  Stirred to interest in spite of himself, and bored with the silent waiting, Edward held his position by the window until the top hat had disappeared beneath the eaves. Then he hurried to the door and opened it a crack. Below in the entrance hall, he heard a swell of male voices, Daniel's predominant among them as apparently he gave the large party the warmest of greetings.

  There was heavy shuffling, the sound of boots moving across the floor, then the banqueting hall door was closed and Edward was left in silence, struggling to digest his curiosity.

  By his estimate there must be close to fifty men in his banqueting hall, all of whom apparently had been awaiting the arrival of the six laborers and the giant man in the top hat.

  From behind the closed door, he heard the sound of muted applause. His curiosity vaulted. If he was careful he could slip in without being seen. John Murrey could inform him of the arrival of the wagon from Masson's. Jennifer was ready and at present well occupied. It might be interesting to see and hear Daniel's friends.

  On that note of resolve, he reached for his cloak and drew it about his shoulders, feeling it would give him a certain disguise as though he'd come in from the street. Outside the closed banqueting hall door, he paused, listening. A man's voice, not Daniel's, was holding forth. Quietly he pushed the door open and slipped inside.

  Quietly Edward joined those standing at the rear of the hall.

  Fortunately no one took notice of him and he was free to blend his attention with theirs, observing first the peculiar mix of the audience, some fairly well dressed, like clerks or scribblers from Fleet Street, others clearly of the lower classes, their crushed hats clutched in their hands, but all turned toward the head table and the man speaking, the giant with red hair saying something about the uniqueness of the gathering.

  "—for the first time, pulling together," he shouted in an eloquent, clearly well-trained voice, "our past differences forgotten under the weight of injustice measured out to these men." He gestured broadly to the six men seated to one side. As one, they self-consciously lowered their heads.

  As for the dramatic speaker, Edward felt recognition dawning. He'd seen him before, his likeness on posters, advertising radical reform. Unless he missed his guess, this was Feargus O'Conner, the radical agitator, recently exiled from his native Ireland, a most dangerous incendiary, according to Blackwood's. Apparently Daniel was n
ow cultivating the madman. But mad or not, he was a most effective speaker, captivating one and all, including Edward, who listened closely.

  "And it is with no sense of pride, gentlemen," O'Conner was saying now, "but rather with profound shame that I present to you these men, as much victims as though they had individually mounted the steps of Newgate and presented their necks to the hangman, men whose lives have been ruined, whose futures are as dim as their pasts—"

  Then with head upraised, arms outstretched, he announced, "Gentlemen, I give you the Tolpuddle Martyrs."

  As the hall erupted in hearty applause, Edward again craned his neck forward. Tolpuddle Martyrs. He remembered the case, in fact he'd had it forced upon his attention by an indignant Daniel, when had it been—three, four years ago? Even William Pitch had written a condemnatory editorial, championing the lost cause of the six laborers from that Dorsetshire village of curious name who had been sentenced to deportation for the technical offense of "administering unlawful oaths" to members of their small union. The government, frightened by unionist activities, had imposed oppressive measures, and had sentenced them to exile in New South Wales. That was the last Edward had heard of them.

  Again a hearty cheer rose from the crowd. Daniel appeared red-faced. He stepped back from the podium and motioned for one of the six men to come forward.

  At first the man seemed hesitant. Clearly the youngest of the six, he

  looked almost pleadingly at the other five as though begging them to relieve him of this duty. But when no relief was forthcoming, he stood awkwardly and adjusted his plain worn brown jacket, then slowly, with Daniel's assistance, he came forward until he stood behind the podium.

  The hall fell into a taut silence, all faces upturned in his direction. Edward felt a wave of sympathy for him. Obviously he was not a talking man. Still mauling his well-crushed hat, he bobbed his head. "I ain't much of a man with words," he began, "an', even if I was, I don't rightly know what it is you're wantin' to hear—"

  In between the man's lengthy pauses, Edward could hear the children laughing in the garden.