Then she was aware of Harriet running past her, both hands extended.
They reached the bed simultaneously, Harriet going immediately to the far side and bodily lifting Jennifer upward, tearing the pillow from her grip and hurling it toward the foot of the bed.
"Is she—" Jane tried to ask the question, but couldn't. In the pressing crush of the pillow, the lavender lace cap had been pushed back, revealing the stiff* shorn gray hair. The head itself was lying at a rigid angle, eyes open, fixed and staring. The lips were blue. Slowly Jane leaned over and pressed her cheek against the lips. Nothing.
As she lifted her eyes to Harriet she saw the young woman look toward Jennifer with an inquisitive expression. "Why?" Harriet whispered, drawing the senseless creature closer to the bed as though to display her own handiwork.
Without speaking, Jennifer tore loose from Harriet's grasp and again leaned over her dead mother. With infinite tenderness she replaced the small volume of sonnets upon her breast, then with one hand lovingly caressed the stubbly gray hair. "No more pain," she said, solemnly, shaking her head in childlike fashion. "No—more—pain," she repeated. And she repeated it still a third time, then a fourth, until it became a soft, mindless chant.
From across the bed, Harriet and Jane exchanged a glance. Murder had beeh done, but something else had been done as well, an act of mercy so complete that Jane could almost feel the absence of pain.
Slowly she looked back down on Marianne. Even the drawn face seemed to be acquiring new life. She heard Harriet whispering fearfully from across the bed. "What are we to do? Ob God, what are—"
Abruptly she stopped speaking as, at that moment, Jennifer leaned over the dead face and lightly kissed the lips. Then as though her work were done, she raised up and stretched; her eyes moved beyond the bed toward the tea table. The soft smile blazed into a broad one as she announced, "Raisin cakes." Both Harriet and Jane continued to watch as Jennifer left the side of the bed and v/ent to the tea table, lifted the silver tray with half a dozen cakes on it, and took it to the fire where she knelt beside the baby and commenced to eat.
Across the bed, Jane was aware of Harriet still waiting, apparently more than willing to let her speak first. Behind her, coming from the fire, she heard Jennifer humming. It would serve no purpose to lock her in an institution. Perhaps when all was said and done, the demented woman had had more courage, more love for Marianne than anyone else in the room.
Still Harriet was waiting. Bending forward, Jane drew the coverlet up over the still face and slowly lifted her head. "Lady Eden is dead," she pronounced simply. "Only two of us know how, and I pledge to you that the knowledge will go with me to my grave. And you?"
She waited patiently for the reply. Slowly at last Harriet nodded. "It would serve no purpose to—" she began and did not finish.
But Jane did. "It would serve no purpose at all." Slowly she reached across for Harriet's hand. "Then we share a secret?" she whispered.
Finally Harriet nodded. "We—share a secret."
They both continued to look down on the dead woman. "I remember her on the occasion when she entertained Lord Horatio Nelson," Jane smiled. "She wore yellow silk, sun-colored, and there were pearls in her hair. She carried a small nosegay of violets and she broke the hearts of over three hundred gentlemen."
Jane lowered herself laboriously to her knees, found beneath the coverlet the now still hand that had held the violets. She kissed it, then pressed it to her forehead.
Behind her, coming from the fireplace, she heard the wandering voice, adding words now to the tuneless humming,
"No—more—pain—"
At four o'clock on Thursday afternoon, November 15, 1847, the Countess Dowager, Lady Marianne, wife of Lord Thomas Eden, Thirteenth Baron and Fifth Earl of Eden Point, was laid to rest in the family cemetery next to her husband and not too far from her father, Hartlow Locke.
The service was private, held in the family chapel, conducted by a priest from Exeter and attended only by family and staff. But when the cortege left the castle walls, there was a gathering of over two hundred
people awaiting them, having seen the black banners flying from the turrets and having received the mournful news. They were citizens of Mortemouth for the most part, many who had known her personally, who had been direct beneficiaries of her kindness. To others, the younger ones, she was simply a legend, the young fisherman's daughter who had risen to the high rank of Lady Eden and who yet somehow never forgot who she was.
This mournful crowd was permitted to accompany the family to the graveyard where six stewards lowered the handsome coffin into the gaping hole and all remained, standing silently in place in spite of the biting Atlantic wind, while the grave-diggers heaped the earth high and patted it with what appeared to be gentle strokes carefully into place.
/S./S47
With ease Sir Claudius perceived the message behind the message. He would have to be an idiot not to understand. Still, did the Cranford woman have to be so coarse?
Marianne was dead. The morning was suited to the message, gray, overcast, chill. He felt poorer somehow.
He was feeling as weepy and as foolish as an old woman. Then to work.
There were two unpleasant tasks before him. One, he must inform Edward of his mother's death. Then he must respond to Sophia Cranford's letter with directness. He must inform her that a lawsuit at this time would be foolish. Why should they go to the trouble of running Edward to ground when he was on verge of doing that himself?
And it was plainly there for all of London to see, the man's association with declared revolutionaries, the proposed and imminent Chartist Demonstration. Dear Heaven, it was the talk of all the coffee houses and private clubs—a million men, or at least that was the rumor that Sir Claudius had heard, marching on Parliament and in the vanguard, who but Edward Eden, flanked on one side by the incendiary Feargus O'Conner and on the other by the assorted rabble who claimed a new dawn for all of mankind.
Thinking on it in this way, it was as though Sir Claudius had at last fully grasped the potential of the situation. Of course, the demonstrators would be met by troops. The Queen was young and engaged in
what appeared to be an endless cycle of pregnancies. But she was not stupid. He had heard that special constables were being trained. It would probably be bloody, and for Edward, it could be fatal.
So, dear greedy Sophia, no lawsuit, no trial. Not yet. Let nature and man's foolish passions take their natural course.
To this end, he now summoned his clerk and dictated a terse yet convincing letter to the Cranfords.
As the clerk was putting the finishing touches on the letter, a dreary thought crossed Sir Claudius's mind. If the tree didn't fall soon, it would be barren of fruit. At the rate Edward was spending, there would be precious little left.
Well, at least Sir Claudius had the good sense to see that his percentage was lifted off the top intact. As for the rest of it, he could only hope that the madness reached its peak soon. With Marianne's death message still on his desk, he realized mournfully that a portion of him had died as well.
"Will that be all, sir?"
He looked slowly up into the face of his young clerk. "One additional letter," he murmured, "and this one I would like for you to deliver yourself."
"My Dear Edward," he began, "it is with sadness that I convey to you word of your dear mother's death. I have received word from Eden Castle that she died peacefully in her sleep on the Fifteenth of November, and was laid to rest beside Lord Eden." He'd started to say your father, but to a bastard those words lacked a certain accuracy,
"I send you my deepest condolences and trust that you will enter into the official period of mourning, designated by your brother. Lord Eden, to last a year from the present date."
There! It was done. "See to it immediately," he called after his departing clerk.
Now he would pray for the departed soul of Marianne. Five minutes would be quite enough, and to that end, he reached
for the small hourglass on his desk, turned it over, and as the fine sand began to filter downward, he lowered his head, though he kept his eyes open lest he exceed his five-minute limit.
Quietly he prayed, "I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth ..."
In spite of the dozen men, including Feargus O'Connor, who were waiting for him in the banqueting hall, it was Edward's wish that he and John go alone to the small chapel of St. Dunstan's. He knew that his son, now a sturdy ten years of age, was bewildered by the sudden
change of mood which had fallen over the house on Oxford Street since that morning when Sir Claudius's clerk had delivered the sad message.
He'd fully expected O'Connor to object. In the past he'd made it clear that nothing was to interfere with the plans for the Great Demonstration.
But tonight, he seemed malleable. "A mother's death," he entoned softly, "leaves a wound on the most dauntless spirit. So, go say your prayers, Eden," he concluded. "You'll be no good to us until you do."
Edward was aware of O'Connor watching. Before him was his son, that mirror image. "Come," he smiled and placed an arm around the boy's shoulder, and thought with sadness that Marianne would never have the privilege of knowing this handsome grandson. Nor would John know her.
Under the weight of this double loss, feeling responsible, yet almost like a link between the two, he led his son out into the dark night where snow was falling on a quiet world, a quiet which persisted during the short walk, John keeping pace with him effortlessly, though clearly in a subdued mood.
As they drew near the black iron fence which guarded St. Dunstan's cemetery, Edward looked out over the snowy darkness in the direction of Daniel's grave. He still felt bitter In a way that he was alive while that rare man was dead.
"Are you warm enough?" Edward inquired.
John nodded.
In spite of the affirmative reply, Edward put his arm about the boy's shoulders. But almost imperceptibly John seemed to pull away, walk faster as though to put distance between them.
Edward watched him, momentarily puzzled. But then he might only have imagined it.
Then he saw John moving ahead of him into the chapel where the temperature varied little from that outside. The pews on either side were empty. Ahead, beyond the altar rail, he saw the plain, unadorned crucifix and its simplicity suited him. Momentarily leaving John's side, he walked the short distance to the altar and knelt.
He bowed his head and experienced a moment of confusion. What was he to say? Thank you for taking her. Our Father Who art in heaven. In all ways is Your Word made manifest.
God! Nothing but empty words and incoherence. Frowning, he leaned farther over the altar rail, now pressing his clasped hands to his forehead, as though to clear the fog there.
Yet nothing would come, nothing suitable to the place and the occasion. Was he so far removed from God?
With a rapid glance over his shoulder, he saw John seated midway down the center aisle, watching him.
Pushing up from his knees, Edward walked slowly back and slipped into the pew in front of him. Without looking at him, he asked softly, "Do you know why we are here?"
Without hesitation, John replied. "Because Grandmama died."
"And don't you think we should say prayers for her?"
"Why?" The question* was blunt. "I never knew her."
"I wish that you had. She would have loved you so much."
"Then why didn't we go home?"
Home! It was the first time that Edward had ever heard him refer to Eden as home. Now he looked back over his shoulder and saw his son's face as stern and unhappy as he'd ever seen it.
When Edward didn't answer immediately, John went on. "You've told me for as long as I can remember that one day we will go to Eden. But we never have. For Grandmama and me, it's too late."
Bewildered, Edward could only gaze at the boy. It had never occurred to him that the journey was so important to him. True, he'd grown up on tales of Eden. Of course it was quite natural that he wanted to see for himself.
"Aren't you happy here?" Edward asked quietly.
John did not answer immediately, but instead fell into a close examination of his hands, several locks of golden hair falling over his face in the process. Finally he shrugged, though he refused to meet Edward's eyes.
"Look at me," Edward commanded. "I must have an answer."
"It's not—home," he murmured, still keeping his eyes down.
"But of course it is," Edward protested.
"Not in the way other people have homes," John countered. "Not like Eden where you lived with your father and mother—" He broke off speaking, as though he knew he were revealing too much of his heart.
Edward reminded him of certain inaccuracies in his claim. "But I'm your father," he smiled, "and I'm here."
Abruptly the boy looked at him. "Is Elizabeth my mother?"
It wasn't that Edward didn't perceive the question. And it wasn't that he was totally surprised by it. Still, it caught him off guard.
When after a few moments, he still had given no reply, John answered for him. "No, she isn't," he said. "She told me so herself."
Wearily, Edward turned back around in the pew. Dear God, what to say? Would the greater harm be to lie or tell the truth? And it wasn't just John that he had to concern himself with. There was a new Lady Eden at Eden Castle now, his brother's wife, and a new son, or so he'd
heard. In telling the truth, those three lives would be totally disrupted. Yet in not telling the truth-Coming from behind, he heard a gentle question. "Is she dead?"
Edward closed his eyes. To John she was dead. To Edward she was dead, as dead as the woman they had come here to mourn. "Yes," he said finally and in the next breath prayed for forgiveness.
He felt John leaning over close behind him. "Tell me about her, Papa," he whispered. "Was she like your mother? Was she beautiful? When did she die?"
"Yes, she was beautiful," Edward smiled.
"A Lady?"
"A Lady," Edward nodded.
"And when did she die?"
"Shortly after you were born."
This last seemed to sadden him. "I'm sorry for that," he mourned. Still in spite of the sorrow on the young face, there was a kind of relief, as though the weight of unanswered questions had at last been lifted.
Still uncertain what he had done, Edward turned back around in the pew. "Shall we pray then," he suggested quietly, "for both our mothers."
Now John rose without hesitation and led the way down the aisle and was already on his knees as Edward knelt beside him. No sooner had Edward closed his eyes than he heard John whispering, "What are we to say, Papa?"
Hiding a smile, Edward thought, at last, true companionship. Two fakes. Still, he whispered, "Pray that God go with their souls," he suggested, "and look after them, and always keep their memories alive in our hearts."
Although Edward thought he'd done very well, John apparently had doubts. "And that's all?"
Edward met his eyes. Wearily he suggested, "Add what you like."
"Aloud or in silence?"
"As you wish."
"Will God really hear?"
"It's rumored that He will."
Again Edward closed his eyes,
A few minutes later, there was a short, curt, "Amen," and even though his eyes were closed, Edward knew that John was standing.
"Shall we go now?" he heard him inquire as though with great dispatch he'd accomplished their purpose.
Edward nodded, speech momentarily beyond him. As they walked back out into the cold snowy evening, he again placed his arm about
his son's shoulder and drew him close and this time the boy did not pull away.
Edward made a promise then. "I'll take you to Eden," he pledged, "as soon as my work is completed here. The two of us will journey to Eden. And I'll show you everything."
He'd expected an exuberant reaction from the boy. Instead John merely walked quietly beside him, apparently fas
cinated by footsteps in the snow.
"Did you hear?" Edward questioned.
"I heard."
"I promise I'll take you home.'*
Solemnly the boy nodded and with absolute confidence agreed, "I know you will. Papa."
r/ai/'S4s
The Great Day dawned cold and overcast.
At eight o'clock in the morning it was still quite dark. Edward had been up since before dawn. He'd spent the time working quietly at his desk for fear of disturbing John. Elizabeth, who now lodged down the corridor, had come for the boy a few minutes earlier to take him for breakfast and then to hand him over to his tutors. Edward had requested that she return as soon as possible. He had important matters to discuss with her.
Now in the interim of waiting, he paced back and forth in his chambers, considering all the ramifications of the day. How would it end? If only he could foresee that. April 10, 1848. How would history treat that date? The potential for disaster was enormous. He'd felt the tension in London streets for several weeks, the silent gathering of workers from all over England.
As for the opposition, they too had prepared themselves. Over the last few days, he'd observed, mingling with the workers an increase of government troops, every street corner and coffee house alive with uniforms.
Edward continued to pace, as though somehow in the quiet room he could manufacture the assurance that he needed. The trouble was that it was almost as if the nation expected violence. With the entire face of Europe in bloody and rioting change, why should England's revolution be any different?
There was no turning back now. O'Connor would come for him
shortly after ten o'clock and together they would ride to Kennington Common. There Feargus O'Connor would briefly address the men. Then the silent march would commence. At this point, what would the government troops do?
He stood now gazing down from his window at the still dark pavement. Generally at this hour of the morning the street was clogged with commerce. Perhaps all had fled to places of safe retreat. Above he saw a dense blanket of gray clouds settling ominously over the still city. Too quiet. He recalled the editorialists who recently had predicted that by nightfall the Thames would be red with blood.
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