The prince of Eden

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  From the company came a peculiar crunching sound as all munched on the cleansing second course. Then, at mid-table, Sir Claudius saw the craning neck of Sophia Cranford. She seemed to be rigidly focused on the massive arched doorway which led out to the corridor beyond. Clearly the absence of someone was beginning to weigh on her.

  Through the clutter of stewards he saw her lean across the ever-silent Jennifer and whisper something to Caleb. He watched Caleb's stern eyes move toward the empty doorway, then saw the man nod as though in agreement. A moment later, he saw Sophia leave her chair, and move down the long line of chairs until she stood directly behind Lady Powels.

  Sir Claudius watched the whole little drama with a keen eye trained for such things. He'd not passed a lifetime in the law for nothing. And a few moments later, he saw Sophia assist Lady Powels to her feet, withdraw her chair, and walk with her to the doorway, their two heads bent in close conversation.

  At the bottom of the short flight of stairs, Sophia abandoned her and left her to make the next ascent alone, which the woman did, looking strangely limp somehow, her russet-colored taffeta gown accenting the whiteness of her face.

  A short time later, Sophia returned to the table, after first stopping by the musicians and whispering further instructions. Almost instantly the music changed, the pace and tone accelerated, a mazurka of sorts, as though to cover and hopefully drown out the something amiss.

  Sir Claudius breathed deeply, as though for several long moments he had forgotten to breathe at all. As he lifted his fork and aimed it toward the galantine, he suddenly noticed the three women around him, Marianne, Jane Locke, and Mrs. Greenbell, their faces riveted on

  the empty staircase, clearly signaling that they too had observed the whole little drama.

  As his curiosity vaulted, he again considered offering comment and again changed his mind. He had the most pronounced feeling, as he frequently did in Old Bailey, that the final act would be played out soon enough. And on that note, he held out his tongue and placed upon it a gratifying forkful of turkey galantine.

  All along both sides of the table he now heard voices rising as though in competition with the swelling music. The army of stewards moved up and down as though in an attempt to keep pace with both the music and the voices; the third remove, a roast of beef, was now being presented to him even before he had savored the galantine.

  As though helpless to alter the chaos, he saw Marianne lean forward, contributing to it as she attempted to launch into a conversation with Lady Carlisle halfway down the table. As the din rose. Sir Claudius felt his eardrums on the verge of exploding. What had happened to this curious dinner party which only a short time before had appeared to be in death throes? Still the music swelled, amplified to an unbearable extent.

  Sir Claudius took refuge behind his napkin for a moment's respite, his eyes closed.

  It was while his eyes were closed that he heard the musicians halt suddenly in their frenzied rendition of the nameless mazurka. For several moments voices persisted, unaware that the support of music had ceased. He heard a fringe of residual laughter, all voices mysteriously fading now, the sudden silence after the din almost ghostly, as though the same power source for all had been abruptly switched off".

  Slowly Sir Claudius lowered his napkin, caught sight first of Marianne, her hands forming two rigid fists upon the table. In variation, her demeanor was repeated the length of the table, no sound now, all heads turning slowly toward the arched doorway.

  He saw first Lady Powels scurry down the steps, her head bowed as she took her place at table. As she sat quickly, she raised a pale face to Sophia Cranford. Sir Claudius thought he saw her nod, but he couldn't be certain. All he knew was that the once frenzied party had come to a halt. All eyes were focused on the empty archway.

  As this contrasting scene unrolled. Sir Claudius again felt ill at ease. The change had been too stark. Had the entire company gone berserk? Or did everyone know something he didn't?

  Since the latter was not possible. Sir Claudius settled on the possibility of the former and joined the others in their irrational interest of the empty archway.

  Seated at the far end of the table, his vision was blocked by a number of craning heads, the women mostly, straining to see the nothing that there was to be seen.

  Then the nothing turned into a something, an apparition in white satin, appearing suddenly in the door, the guest of honor herself, Harriet Powels. He heard a quick intake of breath from the company. Next to him he saw Marianne crumple softly forward, resting her head in her hands as though she were giving a fervent prayer. Then slowly she lifted her eyes and joined the rest of her guests in an almost savage scrutiny of the young woman.

  With no other alternative open to him. Sir Claudius joined them, although in truth he was still baffled. The young lady had appeared late many times before and had not appeared at all almost as frequently. Clearly she was the sort of female who did only what she chose and when she chose, not a very creditable qualification for a wife.

  Now he noticed that the strangeness, instead of diminishing, was only increasing as the young woman maintained her pose in the archway, standing rigid, as though more than willing to take their judgment upon her shoulders, concealed shoulders, he observed now, in curious opposition to the fashion of the day, the white satin gown almost prim in its severity, all flesh save her hands and face tightly covered, a virginal, cold apparition, the gown in spite of its rich fabric resembling a nun's habit.

  Again, not a very promising omen for James. The dress somehow defied her femininity and left her resembling a scaled dead fish. With a silent wave of bawdy humor, the thought occurred to Sir Claudius that the girl had probably never been touched by any man save her father, a tight virgin and likely to remain so. Poor James, he thought again, his thoughts running ahead to the incongruity of a wedding night with such a creature.

  Well, good heavens, was she simply going to stand there all evening? Now Sir Claudius began to grow nervous for her. She was presenting herself to them relentlessly, as though she were a prisoner in the dock. Would no one go to her? Would no one end the brutal inspection?

  Ah, thank God. At the last minute, he saw Sophia Cranford lean forward and whisper something to James, saw the slight, shy man stand tentatively and step toward his bride-to-be, covering the twenty feet which separated them at a funereal pace which matched the glazed remote look on Harriet's face.

  Something was amiss. Sir Claudius thought again. Now all faces sepmed to be magnetized by the silent young woman who sat stiffly in

  her chair, her back straight, her hands laced primly in her lap.

  Finally, blessedly, he saw Sophia Cranford lift her hand in signal for the musicians. And a moment later the music commenced, softer now, more melancholy, or was it simply Sir Claudius's imagination, the appearance of the girl affecting merely everything? With relief he heard the company beginning to chat softly among themselves, the stewards moving back and forth with the fourth remove. The party was at least partially reviving except for Lady Eden, whose face mirrored the young woman's as though these two shared a secret knowledge.

  Alarmed by what he saw, Sir Claudius leaned close. "Marianne, I beg you," he whispered. "It will pass. Remember yourself as a young bride."

  The words seemed only to depress her further. He leaned still closer to deliver comfort when suddenly above the muted talk he heard a new sound, men's voices raised, out of sight, coming from the direction of the Great Hall.

  He saw Marianne's eyes flash upward, a mysterious look of recognition as though she'd been expecting the voices.

  Wearily, Sir Claudius closed his eyes. No more. Please. The drama of the evening had been quite enough, thank you. But apparently there still was the final act to be played out. Fate obviously was impervious to the toleration of the company.

  They were men's voices, he heard them clearly now, one old, subservient, several younger ones, protesting, and predominant among them, one strong, outr
aged, and very familiar.

  A moment later, looking up, Sir Claudius saw the doorway filled for the second time that evening, no silent apparition in white satin now, but an angry, flushed Edward Eden, dragging behind him his old manservant and three protesting watchmen, their hands outreaching in futile restraint.

  Catching sight of the company, the watchmen fell back, as though belatedly aware that they had penetrated beyond their legitimate territory.

  But not Edward. Coming upon the company and the elegant banqueting table, he halted only momentarily, his eyes seeming to take in the faces that stared back at him. He paused in the door and completed his inspection, his eyes lingering in painful scrutiny of one, the young woman, who sat with new rigidity.

  Now he saw Edward draw himself up as though aware of his position as spectacle in the doorway. For the first time. Sir Claudius noted his garb, traveling clothes, dark gray, a lighter gray cape swinging from his

  shoulders. Even as he spoke, his eyes held rigid on the young woman, who continued to be the only guest at table who apparently felt neither the compulsion nor the curiosity to look up.

  "I beg your pardon," Edward pronounced now, his voice low, though clearly audible as though he were exerting an effort of will. "My apologies for being tardy on this occasion. I had an—appointment," he added, his voice seeming to catch on the last word, his eyes still resting embarrassingly on the young woman. "But since the party failed to appear, I thought it best if I came to fetch her."

  Her? What was the foolish man talking about? Sir Claudius glanced at Marianne, saw her face white. Down the way, he saw Sophia Cranford start from her chair, saw a quick restraining gesture come from Caleb.

  Edward started down the steps, eluding altogether one final and restraining hand from old John Murrey, the servant succeeding only in jerking Edward's cape from his shoulders, Edward continuing, undaunted, to the table, where he stood directly behind James, who sat half turned in his chair as though ready to defend himself as soon as he could identify the threat.

  But in truth there was nothing threatening on Edward's face. To the contrary it bore the softest expression of repentance and the voice followed suit, as extending a hand to his brother, he almost begged, "Forgive me, James. I had no intention of it happening like this."

  But James, clearly as bewildered as everyone else, merely gaped up at him, his mouth open in an imbecilic expression. "No need to apologize," he faltered. "I'm certain you can catch up with us. There's your chair waiting, and—"

  In a rather limp gesture, he motioned toward Edward's vacant chair. He might have said more except that Edward's apology now took the shape of a mildly sorrowing smile. "I've not come for dinner, James," he said.

  Heads up and down the table were turning about in nervous confusion. The musicians had ceased playing altogether. The stewards looked discreetly away from the confrontation at the head of the table.

  James stood then, apparently making an effort at understanding. "Then what?" he asked, taking one step forward, shortening the distance between them.

  For the first time, Edward seemed to be the one who hesitated. The angle of his vision continuously slanted downward on the young woman whose frozen exterior now seemed altered in that her mouth was slightly open as though she were having difficulty in breathing. Still the tableau held, James waiting patiently for an explanation,

  Edward looking hopefully at Harriet Powels, as though he expected her to speak on his behalf.

  And when she didn't, Edward stepped forward and with great intimacy placed his arm about her shoulder and bent close as though to speak. Sir Claudius heard again that intake of air as the shock of such a gesture registered with the guests. But of far greater impact was the reaction of the woman herself who, at his touch, drew rapidly to one side, a moan escaping her lips as though his touch were hot, or had caused pain.

  Sir Claudius was in a perfect position to see Edward's face. In all the many years of his vast and usually repellent association with the Prince of Eden, he'd never seen such an expression on that normally self-assured face, a horribly raw look as though the man were being broken in half.

  And when again, as though disbelieving, Edward reached forward and touched the woman, and when again she moaned even more pitifully than before, Sir Claudius saw James stir himself out of his lethargy and into a kind of zealous chivalry, as stepping forward, he made the foolish mistake of coming between Edward and his agony.

  James drew himself up to his poor height. "I beg your pardon, sir," he pronounced artificially, as though he were delivering words from a play script.

  For the moment, the confrontation held, James, one hand upraised as though physically to prohibit Edward from moving closer, and Edward himself, giving them all the benefit of his face with its confused, embattled expression.

  Then abruptly there was movement at the head of the table, Edward trying to step around James's restraining hand, the movement provoking another outcry from the young woman, as though again she had been touched.

  At that point James's latent chivalry vaulted. "Edward," he pronounced, "the lady is making it clear. She does not desire your company." Then he placed both hands on his brother's shoulders and pushed him back. "I must ask you to—"

  But whatever the nature of James's request, it was never voiced, for suddenly the fatigue and pain on Edward's face blended. He looked down as though in surprise at James's restraining hands and apparently the sight of those hands set the winds of inspiration blowing.

  He started forward and again James restrained him and in that moment, all the civilized propriety of the occasion fell away. In one fluid and incredibly swift movement, Edward drew back his fist and angling his full body weight into his shoulder, delivered a stunning

  blow to the side of James's jaw, a blow of such force that it sent the man reeling backward onto the table, scattering cutlery, crystal, and filled plates in all directions, women screaming now, pushing back in their chairs, a few of the gentlemen starting forward, their attention divided between the unconscious James spread indecorously on the table before them and the clearly deranged Edward, whose face shone with two brick-red spots and whose body was still angled and ready as though willing to take on all comers.

  And when a moment later, a glassy-eyed James seemed to revive and lift a wobbly head and make a futile effort to propel himself off the table, and when Edward stepped forward and grabbed him by his jacket as though to aid him to his feet so that he might knock him senseless again, there was a sudden sharp outcry to Sir Claudius's left, Marianne on her feet, at last stirred to action by the barbaric sight of one son beating the other senseless. As Edward renewed his grip on his still-wobbly brother and when it became apparent to all that he was prepared to deliver another blow, Marianne cried out to the gaping watchmen, "Restrain him, please restrain him—"

  Clearly it was the command they had been waiting for as with admirable speed they were down the steps, their triple strengths tearing Edward loose from the confrontation, enduring quite a struggle with him as the outrage of one seemed superior to the strength of three.

  As the area beyond the head of the table became a hissing arena of oaths and curses and shouts. Sir Claudius felt a warfnth on his face. Scandalous! The ruined table was pitiful to behold, the guests terrified, the spilled wine, the broken crystal, the bouquets of flowers scattered about amidst the garbage of food, a yellow smear of butter oh the back of James's coat, James himself still in a dazed state, dabbing at the small stream of blood which slipped down the side of his mouth.

  But the tempest was not over, far from it. With a watchman restraining each arm, Edward continued to strain futilely against his captors, his body arching, his person undone, his waistcoat askew, sleeve torn, as energy and strength persisted. Old John Murrey hovered a safe distance behind, a look of disaster on his face.

  Marianne, still standing, found her voice again and the will to use it. "Take him to his chambers," she commanded, "and lock him in."


  The command seemed to work an even greater pain on Edward, although for a moment he returned his mother's gaze with the hypnotic effect of accusing eyes, as a snake's stare holds a bird. But when the watchmen with their superior strength jerked him about, twisting his arms completely behind him in the process and half led, half dragged him away, the struggle was on again. The third watchman joined them

  midway up the stairs and grabbed Edward by the feet, thus rendering him totally helpless. The last glimpse that Sir Claudius had of the Prince of Eden was an unceremonious one, the man being hauled face down from the Banqueting Hall.

  For a few moments thereafter, the entire company sat in their awkward positions, motionless with horror. In the distance could be heard cries of outrage and protest. Old John Murrey remained a moment longer, his head bowed in consummate embarrassment, his hands kneading the gray cape. "Milady," he murmured to Marianne. "May I—see to him?"

  Looking up. Sir Claudius saw silent tears streaming down Marianne's face. "See to him," she whispered.

  The old man bobbed his head and hurried up the stairs as fast as his age and the weight of emotion would permit.

  Silence again. Sir Claudius expected the motionless guests to stir, Marianne certainly to dismiss them, someone to take charge of the shambles which once had been an elegant table.

  But when no one did, he looked back at Marianne, whose attention now seemed mysteriously riveted on a spot halfway down the table. She was looking at her daughter, Jennifer, who was returning her mother's gaze with eyes level and cold, a steady light of hate passing from the young woman to the older one. And even while Sir Claudius was watching, he saw Jennifer stand up at the table and push her chair back, her voice as level as her eyes as she said to Marianne, "You had no right, Lady—"

  Marianne started to reply, but she was not given that opportunity as Jennifer continued backing away from the table. "Haven't you caused him enough grief?" she whispered- "Did you have to humiliate him in that fashion?"