The prince of Eden

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  She stared a moment at the signature, then turned back to the beginning. It seemed that her mother had suffered a seizure, though Jane Locke hastened to reassure her that she was in good hands. But the bulk of the letter concerned Edward, Jane speaking insistently on how pleasant he must be finding the Yorkshire air and how delightful for Jennifer to have her brother's constant company, and if it pleased her, would she see to it that he received his correspondence which had been coming to the castle.

  Finally with a sense of bewilderment, Jennifer completed the letter, the closing paragraph as mystifying as the first, a blunt insistence that Jennifer convey to Edward the family news, their mother's illness, of course, and James's temporary absence and the tragic news he'd learned in Shropshire, that his future bride, Harriet Powels, was apparently suffering from some serious illness and that the wedding had been postponed indefinitely.

  Coming from behind her, from the area of the door, she heard a famiHar voice. "You look desolate, Jennifer. May I help?"

  She turned, surprised to see Charlotte standing there. In her hand she clasped a dark red book, a finger inserted at midpoint, as though she'd been reading.

  In reply to her question, Jennifer murmured, "Distressing news. And so much of it. My mother has suffered a seizure.'*

  "I'm very sorry," Charlotte murmured.

  "It's not too serious," Jennifer hastened to add, "at least that's what I'm told." Her eyes moved back to Charlotte. "And my brother's future bride is suffering from some unknown malady. The wedding has been indefinitely postponed."

  Charlotte stepped across the threshold, a look of interest in her face. "Your elder brother," she inquired politely, "the one we met?"

  "No," Jennifer corrected. "Not that one. James, my younger—"

  The woman nodded as though grateful for the meaningless clarification. "And the—other one?" she stammered, looking uncomfortable in her role of interrogator.

  "They think he is with me," she said. "Look," and she lifted the large packet of letters. "They sent along his mail for me to deliver to him."

  Now at last there was a clear expression on Charlotte's face, as though some suspicion had just been confirmed. "The missing are legion, or so it seems," she murmured. "A member of my family as well has been absent since September. I learned about it last month from my father, who is getting old and likes to be able to account for his children."

  Jennifer listened carefully. "And you think there might be a connection?" she asked.

  "Perhaps not," Charlotte replied. "It's Branwell," she went on. "You met him last September."

  Jennifer nodded, feeling like an inspector in search of clues. "Our brothers met," she concluded, "but they left separately, yours, I think, preceding mine."

  To this mental work, Charlotte nodded. But in the dim light her face seemed to go pale. "Forgive me, Jennifer," she muttered, eyes down, "but I know they share the same—affliction,"

  "Affliction?" Jennifer repeated.

  "They are both opium eaters."

  To which Jennifer hurriedly replied, "No, not Edward. He indulged the habit last summer, but he broke it. I know, Charlotte, I was there."

  Then apparently the woman had nothing more to say except, "Good

  night, Jennifer. I only hope that all our missing will be shortly found." With that she was gone.

  Jennifer continued to stare at the empty doorway. Charlotte had conceived of an alliance between Edward and her brother. But how could that have been possible?

  As she hurried back through the corridor, she glanced into the front parlor and saw Charlotte reading. She considered reopening the conversation, but for what purpose? The hour was late.

  There would be no rest this night, not healing rest. Before the week was out, she knew she would have to reply to Jane Locke's letter, a reply which would be as distressing to certain residents of Eden Castle as the letter from Eden had been to her.

  Unlike Jane Locke's, her message would be simple and to the point. Edward was not with her in Yorkshire, had never been with her in Yorkshire save for that brief interval of one afternoon, and for now and perhaps forever, she hadn't the least idea where he might be.

  Four days later, as Jennifer was instructing plump Louise Merritt in the intricacies of a Chopin Etude, she happened to glance out the narrow, rain-splattered window of the music room in the direction of the rounded driveway. There to her surprise, she saw a two-wheeled gig, drawn by a single horse and driven by a tall, top-hatted man dressed entirely in black. He was not a tradesman, or old Doctor Bennet from Bradford, or any of the half dozen or so gentlemen who had a legitimate reason to call at Miss Wooler's school.

  As the dissonance coming from the pianoforte increased, Jennifer left her chair, her curiosity peaked by the rain-soaked gentleman who was just now crawling out of the gig.

  Behind her, she heard Louise Merritt falter and stop. "I'm—lost. Miss Eden," she whined. "What comes after—"

  "Do the simple scales, Louise," she instructed tersely.

  At that moment, beyond the music room, she heard the front bell ring. Jennifer moved quietly toward the door. She opened it a crack and peered out. One of the young serving girls was just letting the gentleman in. A moment later Miss Wooler approached the stranger, apparently received his introduction, then quickly gave Maudie instructions of some sort.

  He seemed ill at ease, she thought. Then at that moment, she saw-sweet heavens! It was Charlotte. Obviously the gentleman had come to see Charlotte.

  She knew she shouldn't be spying and considered closing the door. But what harm?

  Jennifer watched and saw the gentleman withdraw a small envelope

  from inside his waistcoat and hand it to Charlotte. She appeared to study it for a moment, then slowly walked toward one of the rectangular windows which flanked the front door where obviously the light was better for her failing vision.

  From behind her, coming from the pianoforte, she heard Louise complaining again. "What now. Miss Eden? I did C."

  Annoyed by the distraction, Jennifer quickly instructed, "Then do D and E and F, two octaves up and two back, and no wrong notes, I beg you."

  As again the torturous sounds escaped from the old pianoforte, Jennifer glanced back down the hall to where Charlotte appeared to be endlessly reading by the window.

  Then Jennifer saw her refold the letter with what appeared to be unnecessary vigor. She walked back to where the gentleman was waiting, spoke to him in some manner to which he shook his head, obviously declining an invitation of some sort.

  Then in a remarkably short time he was gone.

  Curious, most curious. The incident over, Jennifer was on the verge of quickly closing the door when suddenly she saw Charlotte lift her head and stare directly at her, as though she knew she'd been spying all along. Jennifer had not expected so direct a look and now closed the door and leaned against it.

  She'd just started back toward the pianoforte when she heard the softest of knocks on the door. She opened it and saw Charlotte standing there, the letter still in her hand.

  "I apologize for disturbing you, Jennifer," she began, keeping both her voice and head down. "I've only just received a message that may interest you."

  Perplexed, Jennifer gazed first at her friend, then at the letter. Now over her shoulder, she called out to Louise Merritt, "Do them all again and keep doing them until I return. I'll only be a moment." Jennifer closed the door behind her, and within the moment, Charlotte thrust the letter at her and urged her to read it.

  As Jennifer took the letter, Charlotte explained further, "It was just delivered to me by my father's assistant, Mr. Weightman. He knew of my concern in the matter and brought it over direct from Haworth."

  Since she seemed disinclined to say anything further, Jennifer glanced down at the rather dramatic handwriting and read the address: Rev. Patrick Bronte, Haworth Parsonage, Yorks

  "Your father?" Jennifer asked, looking up.

  Charlotte nodded.

  The op
ening paragraphs were effusive apologies from, in the words of

  the letter, a failed son. This was followed by someone's sincere hope that his unaccountable disappearance had not caused great anxiety.

  Then one name alone leaped off that page, so unexpected in its appearance that Jennifer tilted the page toward the light at the end of the corridor, as though her eyes had deceived her.

  The letter recounted a most incredible series of events including a broken gig, a late evening rescue by a good Samaritan named Edward Eden, a pleasant interval spent in sightseeing through Northern Yorkshire, and finally a destination in the green idylls of the Lake Country.

  At least no harm had befallen him. Now she would not have to write that dreaded letter to Eden. And thank heavens, she knew where he was for on the back of the letter was a very specific address: Dove Cottage, Westmoreland, The Lakes.

  With a sigh, she looked back at Charlotte and thanked her warmly for sharing the message and was slightly confused by the look of gloom which seemed to have settled permanently over her friend's face.

  But before she could inquire into its nature, Charlotte stepped forward. "The name Dove Cottage means nothing to you?" she asked.

  "No."

  Charlotte retrieved the letter from her, refolded it and tucked it into her pocket. "Dove Cottage is the hideaway of several opium eaters, Hartley Coleridge—"

  "Opium?" Jennifer began.

  Charlotte nodded. "Quite a nest of them. Self-proclaimed, foolishly proud of their addiction." With a visible shudder, she half turned away. "Weak," she muttered, and the simple word came out a curse, "male weakness. At least we know where the prodigals are, and where they are likely to remain," she added ominously.

  Jennifer started to protest her words, but could not. Her mind was now creating an image of Edward drugged, Edward suffering the nightmares, Edward refusing to eat.

  As her thoughts took this black turn, she looked up, surprised to see Charlotte just disappearing around the corner at the end of the hall. For a moment, Jennifer lingered in the corridor, overcome with regret. What could she do? How could she reach him, anchored to her duties here?

  Her mind raced upstairs to the packet of letters addressed to Edward which she had placed in her dresser drawer for safekeeping. Now at least she could forward those, though she wondered if they would make a particle of difference. Then a thought occurred to her, something that might disturb him enough to draw him out: news of Harriet Powels,

  seriously ill, perhaps dying. Even if she weren't, it would be an impressive message. If there was any news on God's earth capable of turning him about, that would be it.

  Jennifer lifted her mind to the third floor, where she would soon commence a letter. With love and concern and entreaty she would commence it:

  "Dearest Edward" ...

  e^i^i/^^^, /SJ7

  The long walks had ceased. The sun had slipped behind a cloud and had not been seen since November. Bronte had taken to locking his study door in the morning and sometimes not emerging for the entire day, leaving Edward to pass long dreary periods alone.

  So the idyll which had held such appeal in the beginning had, over the months, turned into a kind of limbo, Edward feeling, in what few lucid moments were left to him, that the entire world and all of its inhabitants had simply come to a halt, as he had done. Another minor note in this interval was old John Murrey. Disappointment was written on his plain gaunt features for all to see.

  Now on this morning in mid-February, with a cold wind hurling itself against the loosened shutters of the cottage, Edward lay stretched out on a chaise near the dying fire, a feather comforter pulled up over his legs. He was cold all the time now. With shaking hands he pushed back his long hair, his fingers, in the process, brushing over the beard which he had grown. Within the silence of the room, he heard his own heart beating. This was the worst, morning, when there was nothing to do, when the opium was beginning to leave the system, when, comparatively speaking, the mind cleared and certain images returned, uninvited, to sit in silent judgment ... a pale cheek, a strand of auburn hair.

  He moaned and heard a new sound, horses, the hooves making a slapping sound on the wet road outside the window. He heard voices

  343

  then, a man's shout, seeking the identity of the cottage, and he heard a reply, John Murrey's voice.

  There now! What was that? It sounded like knocking. At that moment the door opened and John Murrey appeared, his smock wet about the shoulders, as though he'd recently stepped out into the rain. But it was his face that caught Edward's attention. No longer glum and sullen, he wore a smile of vast proportions. He appeared to be carrying something, but from that angle Edward couldn't see. "Close the door," he muttered, feeling a new chill rush in. "Was that a rider I heard outside?" he asked, closing his eyes.

  "It was, sir," came the enthusiastic reply. "It most certainly was, and look what he brung."

  Edward had never heard that glee in John's voice before and so could not resist opening his eyes. A leather packet of some sort was being offered him, along with a burst of explanation.

  "He come all the way from Bradford," John Murrey gushed. "Said further he'd been hired by Miss Jennifer Eden to deliver this to you by hand."

  Jennifer. Laboriously he pulled himself up to a sitting position.

  Again the old man thrust the packet at Edward, forcing him to take it.

  It was dark brown leather and rain-soaked. Jennifer had hired the rider? How had she discovered his whereabouts? And what news was so important to be delivered thus?

  "Shall I open it for you, sir?" John Murrey offered. Before Edward could reply, the old man leaned over and released the binding.

  "A letter," grinned John Murrey, as though it were the most remarkable object in the world.

  Feeling inside the packet, Edward found others. "The world has found us," he commented quietly. He broke the seal and withdrew several pages. "My Dearest Edward," he read.

  The first paragraph was painless and at least answered one of his questions. She'd learned of his whereabouts through her friend Charlotte Bronte, whose family had received recent correspondence from Branwell. How simple the solution, how circuitous the route.

  John Murrey asked hopefully, "Good news, sir?"

  Edward shook his head and tried to neutralize whatever expression had covered his face and again fell to reading. The second paragraph was more painful. How worried Jennifer had been, how concerned that harm had befallen him.

  For her worry, Edward was profoundly sorry. And in the third paragraph there -was iDcr/5 distress, Daniel Spade. Apparently Daniel's

  needs were growing acute and he'd sent several letters to Eden. And that, obviously, had been the alarm bell. Still he read on. His mother ill? Not serious, or so Jane Locke had said.

  From the fireplace he heard a considerate inquiry. **^Bad news, sir?"

  He nodded. "I'm afraid so. Lady Eden has fallen ill."

  But still there was more, a third page which commenced ominously, "But more tragic news"—he hesitated, then read on—"concerning James's happiness. He has received word that Harriet Powels is dying."

  The word was so small, so simply written.

  Dying.

  How? And why?

  Dear God! He leianed forward suddenly as though dragged bodily forward by the word itself.

  "Please, sir," John Murrey begged, eager to assist in some way.

  Since he was incapable of speech and old John Murrey curious, he merely thrust the page at him.

  Still Edward continued to sit on the side of the chaise, the image of her pressing relentlessly upon him. Then without warning, as though the words had come from someone outside him, he said, "We are leaving here."

  "When, sir?"

  "As soon as possible," Edward replied. At that moment his vision blurred, everything in the room assuming a double image. But if John Murrey saw his weakness, he gave no indication of it.

  Instead he announced, "Then I sh
all ready the carriage immediately," and started toward the door. He called back. "I'll attend to the trunks when I've finished, sir. I propose we be on the road by afternoon."

  Edward listened and nodded. The retreat had come to an end.

  Dying. The miserable word would not leave him alone. He could not imagine her in any mood but the one^n which they had shared the glen.

  Under the duress of great urgency, he tried to stand but his legs buckled and he fell back onto the chaise. Breathless, he tried to slow his pulse. He must try again. He had done it once. It could be done. For the first time in a long time he felt a strong desire to be whole, not weak.

  Again he lifted himself off the chaise and this time stood erect and smiled at his own weakness and spoke cool terse words to it, though he was alone and there was no one present to hear.

  ,-/SJ7

  Her name was Sigfried Halmer. She was from Stockholm and now stood looking out of the narrow fourth-floor window of the elegant mid-Georgian estate known as Hadley Park.

  She'd not seen much of it close hand, thanks to her charge, who lay behind her, silent and swollen, on the bed. Of course in the first two weeks of confinement, she'd been granted considerable freedom, had enjoyed walking down to the Mermaid, where she'd met that interesting gentleman Humphrey Hills. With what miraculous ease they had met, talked, laid their plot, profitable for her, satisfying for him. "A fitting end," the man had said, gleefully, "for the brat to grow up, a servant, in the shadow of Hadley Park."

  Quickly she glanced at the woman on the bed, as though fearful that her thoughts had been audible. At fifty-two Sigfried was thick-waisted and getting thicker. She'd been hired out of Stockholm by Lord Powels himself Sigfried had answered the advertisement in the Stockholm paper. The requirements had been clearly listed. One, a knowledge of medicine and midwifery. Two, a willingness to sign an agreement to the effect that as soon as the job was completed, she'd return to Stockholm and never again set foot in England. Three, she'd take the infant with her and sell it in Stockholm. Four, no knowledge or skill in the English language. The fee, five thousand pounds!