He gave a brief laugh and saw to his amazement what appeared to be genuine compassion in the man's eyes. "Well, I assure you a safe and healthy visit here, sir, and the hospitality of my inn as long as you require it."
Edward bobbed his head. "I'm most grateful."
For a moment both men sipped their coffee, eyeing each other over the rims of the cups.
In an attempt to bring the true subject closer to hand, Edward glanced out of the window at Hadley Park sitting across the road.
"Tell me something of your neighbors, if you will, Mr. Hills," he suggested softly. "As long as I'm forced to make this blasted journey, I've at least tried to learn something of our country while I'm about it. If I understand correctly, Mr. Hills, you could in every sense of the word be considered native to these parts?"
"Oh yes, indeed, Mr. Eden. And my father before me and his father before him, on and on back to the beginning."
"Continuity," Edward murmured, assuming an admiring expression.
"Continuity," Hills nodded, "as good and as lasting, I might add, as thems across the road."
Edward peered at him, his mind responding to several points. For one, the mention of the estate across the road, and for another, the grammatical slippage, which perhaps indicated both involvement and knowledge. The opportunity was too great not to take advantage of it. "I have little use and less respect," Edward commented quietly, "for our noble peers. The world seems to crown them so effortlessly. For example, how many good men, like yourself, can boast a continuity of ancestry? Yet what does it gain you?
"Look at that," and the direction of his vision was clear, still focusing on the great estate, the enormous columns marching grandly from pavilion to pavilion. "Is such a structure really necessary merely to house flesh and blood? I've seen so much of want and need on this journey, Mr. Hills. And then I see—that." Somberly he shook his head. "I fear that England must look to herself," he concluded, "or else the people will look for her and in time make their own tragic adjustments."
The words might have belonged to Daniel Spade. Yet the truth was Edward's. He had seen much on his journey and now he did indeed look with regret on the estate across the road.
It was while he was still struggling with the peculiar sensation of the mask becoming the face that he heard Hills speak, the man's voice as intense as his own. "That don't cover one particle of it, Mr. Eden," the man muttered. "I've lived in the shadow of the Powelses all my life. I've seen and heard things no decent man could believe. I've made it my business, I have, to know all about them, and still I don't understand why I sit here and they sit there."
Edward gazed at him with mixed feelings. How painful a childhood it must have been. Then feeling that the man was truly his, Edward leaned across the table. "Tell me about them, Mr. Hills," he invited quietly. "Tell me what you have made it your business to learn."
Hills seemed to assess both Edward and his question. "I don't generally talk so openly," he protested.
"What harm?" Edward lightly countered. "Fm a mere traveler. When I leave here, you'll never see me again, though I assure you that I shall pass the word to the members of my London club. A good number of them journey frequently to Wales. I assure you that upon my return to London, they shall know of the excellence of the Mermaid."
The man beamed. "I'm most grateful, sir." Then as though an unspoken bargain had been struck, he took a long gulp of the lukewarm coffee. "Well then, sir, let me tell you about the local 'arees-too-crats.'" He stretched the word, mispronounced, into an obscenity and to Edward's chagrin commenced, "From Wales they come, land robbers in 1387."
He'd not expected the man to go so far back, but apparently Hills thought it necessary as he talked on, nonstop, for almost half an hour.
"And now," the man concluded, having made his way up through the centuries.
Edward sat up, newly alert. "And now?" he urged.
Hills gazed at him with delight. "There's a daughter," he pronounced simply. "Only a daughter. I knew her, you know, sir," he announced, pride in his voice.
"Knew her?" Edward repeated. Why had the man used past tense? "Why do you say 'knew her'? Is she—dead?"
"Oh no, sir, not dead," Hills reassured him. The light in his eyes seemed to glitter fiercely. "A bit worse for wear, if you understand what I mean."
No, Edward didn't understand and said as much and instantly regretted the urgency in his voice. Hills looked over at him as though in surprise. Then to Edward's relief the man apparently mistook the urgency in his voice for a depth of emotion similar to his own. "Don't worry, sir," he commented wearily. "She's as good as dead, or will be when it's over."
Concern mounting, Edward shook his head. "When what's over? What are you talking about?"
"We played together, we did," he grinned. "Right out there." Hills stared in the direction of the road, a glaze over his eyes as though seeing more than winter's snow. "I'd be cutting weeds," he mused, "and here she'd come, riding down from that grand palace on her pony. Course, I was no more than a lad myself, but I thought her the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen."
Then without warning the mood changed, grew harsh as he pronounced, "She spoke first, sir, yes she did. She looked down on me
from her high perch and said how hot it must be, me working Hke that."
Edward took full note of the man's expression, love stamped visibly there for just an instant, then followed rapidly by an incredible degree of hate. "Bitch," the man muttered. "Bitch!" he repeated. A full minute passed before he went on. "Then one day that fence you see now went up, on Lord Powels's orders and that same day, my father came upon me with a whip and—"
He could not go on.
When Edward thought the man would not speak again, he spoke, the look of hate spiraling upward. "Do you believe in divine justice, sir?"
The direct question caught Edward off guard. He did well to nod.
"And I, too," beamed Hills, "for that pretty piece that caused me such grief has come to a sad end," he announced triumphantly.
"How so?" Edward inquired, lowering his hands beneath the table to hide their shaking.
"How so?" parroted Hills. He leaned yet closer. "You wouldn't believe the stories coming out of that place," he grinned. "Some say she's gone abroad. To which I say hell! Some say she's fallen seriously ill. To which I say hell! / know the truth of the situation, sir. Humphrey Hills knows. Humphrey Hills made it his business to know."
"And—what is the truth?" Edward prodded.
Incongruously the man snickered and immediately clamped both hands over his mouth as though someone were listening. With a jerk of his head he motioned for Edward to come closer. "You see that fourth-floor window there, sir?" and he indicated the estate across the road. "Near the east end, sir."
Edward found it and looked back at the man.
"Well, behind that there window is an attic storeroom, not fittin' for the grand lady who rode little ponies, now would you think, sir?"
The question required no answer and Edward gave none.
"Well, in that attic storeroom, the grand lady has been confined for eight months," Hills concluded proudly, as though everything had been solved.
But the mystery instead of being solved merely became more complex. "Why?" Edward asked, sending his eyes once again in an inspection of the distant window.
"Why?" Hills exploded in a burst of laughter. "Cause the grand lady is still a maid, sir, that's why." The laughter continued, leaving rims of moisture about the man's eyes. "Don't you see, sir? If you was father to
a grand lady without benefit of husband, and one day you took notice of her swelling belly, now, I ask you, sir, what would you do under those circumstances?" As Hills roared back in his chair, Edward stared, his eyes fixed on the demented features.
"Oh good Lord, sir," Hills gasped, holding his sides. "With all due apology, sleep must still be coating your brain." Again he leaned closer. "She's done opened her legs to some rascal, sir, and that someone left a g
rowing seed and the Powels line has produced a rosy-cheeked bastard."
Edward rested his head in his hands and obscured his face.
"Are you well, sir?" Hills earnestly inquired.
Edward nodded and tried to make of his face a disinterested blank. "Are you—certain of this information, Hills?" he demanded, lifting his eyes.
Hills beamed. "I only just received word this morning that the bastard arrived late last night, a squawking, common brat, or so I was told."
A feeling such as Edward had never known before rose up within him. Memories passed through his mind of a green glen, of a tender, rare love. He found now that he could not look at the man. "And what—is to become of the—child?"
Then all at once the fountain of information dried up. In the peculiar silence, Edward lifted his head and saw Hills stand up from his crouched position at table, his face suddenly on guard. "Don't rightly know, sir," he concluded, moving away. "It occurs I've said enough. I've business to attend to, sir, so if you'll excuse me." And at last he turned and moved hastily across the room, his boots sending back hollow reverberations as they struck the stone floor.
Silence, though inside Edward's pounding head he heard one word.
Son. A very real possibility.
When in the next moment, he discounted the word, it came again.
Son. A probability.
His eyes, as though they possessed wills of their own, moved back to the high fourth-floor window of the estate. Suddenly he stood up with such force that the chair clattered backward.
His son?
His brain felt battered. He had purposefully sought and received specific information. Now, dear God, what was he to do with it? If it was his son— And what of her? She would not abandon her own flesh. Yet neither could she enter into marriage with James with a bastard son in her arms. To write to her, that he must do immediately, to tell
her that he knew. No, that was impossible. To tell her that her long and painful deception had been in vain, that was also impossible.
Still he stood by the window, the room behind him silent. There was no alternative left to him but to write. May she forgive him for his part and forgive herself as well.
When he finished his letter, the gray afternoon was half over. Wearily he left the bureau over which he had crouched for the better part of the day, the rejected wads of papers scattered about his feet. He had at last successfully composed one page, begging her forgiveness, requesting an audience so that together they might discuss the future of their son.
He still could not believe it and now took his disbelief to the window. Above the late afternoon horizon, above that dim yellow light burning in the fourth-floor window, a cold moon was rising. It was strange, he thought, the awesome juxtaposition of death and birth.
She should have told him. He had a right to know. How she must have suffered. Was suffering now.
His eyes closed. The hand that grasped the letter shook.
It was well past midnight. John Murrey was curled up before the dying fire in the dining hall. Gawd! What were they doing in this place? And when would Mr. Eden come to his senses and give John orders to make for London? Well, no matter. Long ago John had given up ever understanding his master. He loved him, to be sure, and if he ever asked for his right arm, John would joyfully give it. So, love and loyalty were there, but understanding? Never!
Abruptly John sat up, annoyed by his inability to get comfortable. As well as he could determine, he needed another chair or better just settle on the floor. It was the cold John hated. Gawd, but he hated the cold, had ever since that bleak winter of '28 when cold had taken everything in Tunbridge Wells, his crops, his livestock, his two pretty babes, his wife—
Half-raised in a sitting position, the old man held still, gazing hollow-eyed into the fire. Moving slowly, he left the chairs, dragging his cloak after him, and settled onto the floor directly before the fire, his thoughts filled with the past
He'd had to wait until spring to bury them, had had to pass the rest of winter knowing what lay inside the three crude coffins in the wood shed. He'd had to fight off" the small foraging animals to keep them from feeding on the carcasses and with the first thaw in April, he had
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dug three holes and had single-handedly dragged each coffin forward and lowered it into the ground. Then taking only the clothes he wore on his back, he'd left that place of grief and had walked to London, where he'd not expected to find life any easier. But at least, if the living wasn't easier, the dying might be. And there it was that the Prince of Eden had found him beneath the bridge, more skeleton than man.
Slowly John Murrey cast a searching eye up the length of the massive stone fireplace, as though even now, years later, seeking an explanation for why he'd bothered. What was John Murrey's life or death to him?
He sighed heavily and lay upon his side, his head cradled on one arm. The sound of wind outside the windows floated to him from afar. The entire inn was asleep, everyone but him. Perhaps in the morning, Mr. Eden would see the hopelessness of his position, his young lady locked behind iron gates, and even if she were not, she was betrothed to his brother. John must teach Mr. Eden the lesson that he himself had learned many years ago, that it served no purpose for a man to remain in a vicinity of pain.
On that note of resolve, he turned about a final time upon the hard floor, drew his cloak beneath his chin, and closed his eyes. In the twilight sleep between consciousness and unconsciousness, John thought he heard voices.
Quietly he turned his head and gazed through the forest of chair and table legs toward the entrance hall, dimly lit by two fixed lamps burning low. Between and around these obstacles he saw what appeared to be a woman's skirts. And standing opposite her, he saw the hem of a man's dressing robe.
Feeling annoyed and shivering, he raised quietly up and peered through the chairs for a better look. He might have known. It was the proprietor, Humphrey Hills.
Stirred to interest and enjoying his position of concealment, John Murrey leaned closer in examination of the female skirt, voluminous, belonging to a large woman, severely dressed in black as though for traveling. She was saying something to Hills, but John couldn't recognize one word. A foreign tongue.
Now John noticed Hills withdraw from the pocket of his dressing gown what looked like a sizable envelope. As he placed it in the gloved hand the old foreign woman smiled for the first time.
Still in hiding behind his fortress of chairs, John saw the woman stoop down and retrieve what appeared to be a large bread basket, a covering over the top, and hand it to Hills. The man received it
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warmly and seemed to be aware of nothing but the basket itself, uncommon interest, or so John thought, for a simple bread basket.
What a topsy-turvey place, with deliveries made at all hours of the day and night by foreigners dressed in black who lacked the good sense to speak the King's English. While he was musing thus, John looked up and to his surprise saw the woman gone. He felt a new icy blast rush across the floor as he heard the front door open, then close.
Shivering from the new blast of cold air, John might have slipped back to his place beside the fire, but at that moment a most bewildering occurrence took place in the hall. He saw that Mr. Hills had removed the covering from the top of the bread basket and was now cursing the loaves of bread, cursing them, "bastard." "Bastard" to loaves of bread?
John held motionless behind his chair fortress. Then he saw Hills return the covering and hurry off* down the hall, moving rapidly in the direction of the kitchen staircase which led down to the rooms beneath the inn. Strange! A most strange place, John brooded.
Insomnia was a general plague that night in the Mermaid. The serving girl, Elizabeth, freezing in her narrow cot at the far end of the servants' quarters, was wide awake. Never had she been so humiliated and she intended never to be so humiliated again.
Now as she lay under the thin coverlet, her teeth chattering, she was aware of a s
mall revolution brewing inside her head. One hand moved slowly up and touched her bruised cheek where that morning Mr. Hills had struck her. No, she would not take it any longer, although she knew what she was, a bondager, a bound woman, in Mr. Hills's employ as partial payment for her mother's debts. Her wages were one shilling a week, paid not to her, but the amount simply entered in Mr. Hills's big black ledger. In exchange for this she worked eighteen hours every day, from sunup to well after dark. Earlier that day, still smarting from Mr. Hills's blow, she had figured up that, at one shilling a week plus interest, she would be eighty-seven years old when she'd successfully paid off" her mother's debt to Hills.
Staring upward at the low black ceiling, she felt an impulse to cry, but there were no tears left. She glanced about at the other sleeping females; all bondagers, from the youngest to the oldest. If she was going to do it, now was the time. The night was dark, the inn silent. If she ran all the way, she could be in Shrewsbury before dawn. There she would gather up her mother and put her in the back of the old goat cart and with Elizabeth herself pulling the yoke, perhaps they could make it to the Welsh border before Mr. Hills set pursuit after her.
Then do it! Stealthily she left the bed, taking care not to disturb those sleeping about her. She dressed hurriedly, pulling her black serving dress over her nightshirt for additional warmth. Beneath the cot, wrapped in a neat bundle, she found her shawl and the worn cloak that she'd arrived with.
In a quiet way, she said her goodbyes and moved silently down the row of cots, pausing before the door which led out into the central corridor. Here she stopped and made a quick decision to take the servants' exit.
As she reached the end of the first passage, she felt a dizziness sweep over her as though at her own daring. Where would dawn find her? Frozen beside the road? It was God's choice. She would abide by it.
Partially restored, she started forward again to the left, the narrow passage which led deeper into the subcellar. No, not that direction. To the right^ to the wooden steps and the door beyond.
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