Turning about, she looked ahead and saw that the guardsmen were leading them toward a black iron fence which surrounded a small graveyard. The gate was open and beyond she saw a scattering of impressive marble stones, and there to the left, near the fence, she saw
three gravediggers, silently standing, their spades in their hands. Then the grave itself was visible.
Through the narrow^ gate, John guided the horses into a small clearing on the left, brought them to a halt, then sat still for a moment, his head, rain-drenched, inclining slowly forward as though he were aware that his job was done. How she longed to speak to him, to somehow penetrate that awesome silence into which he had fallen. But she knew she couldn't and therefore didn't try and merely looked at him with eyes full of scared sympathy.
She was aware of activity at the rear of the wagon, saw the four guardsmen climbing aboard, each lifting one corner of the coffin and hoisting it down to earth. But instead of carrying it immediately to the freshly dug grave, they placed it at a spot not too distant from where the gentleman stood. The lady with him seemed to be protesting something, what, Elizabeth couldn't tell.
But she saw clearly the brief though heated conference, the gentleman insisting, his last words floating upward over the rain with perfect clarity. "It must be done. We must be certain."
Then Elizabeth saw the gentleman say something to one of the guardsmen, who in turn took from the lining of his heavy coat a piece of metal and as he slipped the metal lip beneath the coffin lid, clearly to pry it open, Elizabeth again averted her eyes.
Edward apparently must first be identified as the true Edward before they granted him the privilege of burying him in this sacred plot. Her eyes blurred by emotion and rain, she turned around in her seat and left the grisly ritual to others. Dear God, who else would it be? Who else would they drag to this dreary place? How much better, Elizabeth thought, to have buried him beside Daniel Spade in tiny St. Dunstan's graveyard. But no. John had assured her that this had been his wish.
She heard the sound of splintering wood and looked back in spite of herself to see two guardsmen lift the lid. The suspicious gentleman stepped forward. Simultaneously the lady retreated and walked rapidly away toward the iron fence, where, for a moment, she stood absolutely erect, eyes straight ahead, as though she'd laced herself into that formal pose and had vowed to let nothing penetrate.
At the instant the gentleman stepped away from the coffin with the soft announcement of, "It's him," she saw the lady reach sharply out for the fence, saw her hand grasp the iron spike, saw the second hand rise to a similar position, saw her standing now like a prisoner behind bars, her head inclining softly forward, a subtle collapse which moved Elizabeth for no other reason than at last she was glad to see that someone in this grim arena had feelings.
The collapse of the lady by the fence was very brief. As the guardsmen replaced the coffin lid, she turned back and to Elizabeth's surprise appeared to be gazing up at her. As yet no words had been spoken between them and Elizabeth thought for a moment that she was coming toward the wagon. But instead she seemed to hesitate, then fell slowly in beside the gentleman, both walking now behind the coffin where the guardsmen were carrying it to the grave.
Suddenly Elizabeth felt a flare of anger. If she wasn't going to be issued a bloody invitation to get down from the wagon, she'd get down without one. She'd not traveled all this distance under these terrible circumstances to sit atop a wagon and view the ritual of Edward's commitment to earth.
As she swung to the ground, she glanced back up at John. "Are you coming?" she asked, trying to stretch the stiff'ness out of her legs so that she might walk erect, like a lady.
Although that pale boyish face lifted and looked down on her, he gave no response.
Well, then— Slowly she turned and started walking through the gravestones, Edens all, she noticed. As she approached the open grave, she saw the lady look at her from out of the depths of the hooded cloak. She tried to read the expression on her face, but couldn't.
Then Elizabeth felt her attention being drawn to the grave, to the coffin being slowly lowered into earth. The rain, she noticed, made a peculiar sound on the coffin lid as though it were hollow. And in that instant, a new sense of loss swept over her.
No words? She glanced quickly about in search of a priest. No words at all? No one to tell the world about this man? Then although she'd vowed not to break, she bent her head over and gave in to one small moan. It sounded rude, out of place, weak, in that death yard, as though mourners and corpses alike must maintain the silence of the grave.
The coffin was lowered now, gone from sight. It was the gravedig-gers' turn and as these three drenched, rough-looking men stepped forward, spades in hand, Elizabeth found she could watch no longer. As the first clods of dirt struck the coffin lid, she turned slowly away and walked a distance beyond the mound of dirt, blinded by her grief, her sense that this was not the way it should be.
What was the connection between the man himself and that almost obscene ritual which was taking place behind her? And all at once, an unexpected memory from an earlier time rose up before her. She remembered Edward as she'd first seen him in the Common Cell at Newgate, recalled how he'd put his arm around her and warmed her with his own cloak. She remembered him in the banqueting hall in the
house on Oxford Street, laughing, Hfting the children into the air, carrying them on his shoulders. And she thought too of certain facts that again had nothing to do with what was going on behind her, of the reality of his seventeen Ragged Schools scattered throughout London which were still functioning, existing quite well now on contributions from charity and from the Union. She thought, standing in that gray, rain-swept graveyard, of the hundreds of abandoned children who had been fed, and clothed and housed and in certain instances, educated, like herself. She thought of the Common Kitchen, the door always open. She thought of his love and tenderness and kindness to all. She thought on all these things and more, and felt her heart fill, not with grief, but with gratitude that she had known such a man.
Then she could restrain herself no longer and wept openly for Edward Eden, for John, and even for the two standing rigidly beside the grave.
She looked back then at the place where the gravediggers were doing their job. Let them! The man himself had long ago escaped and now resided in thousands of human hearts. Try to contain him in mere earth and wood, she thought with a smile.
It could not be done.
Harriet stood atop the stairs outside the Great Hall, in the cold drizzling rain, feeling nothing, seeing little, and completely aware that her awesome strength was fast running out. Behind her, she was aware of James huddled in the shelter of the arch with the children. There were two now, Richard, age eight, and lovely Mary, age three, Harriet's gift to James for having dismissed the Cranfords three years ago. The dampness was bad for all of them. What in the name of God was the delay?
Annoyed, she glanced down at the wagon standing at the foot of the Great Hall steps, its wheels coated with mud from the graveyard. She saw the two in close huddle. She'd never seen the woman before today, a drowned waif really, with an injured hand of some sort. The young boy she vaguely remembered as being the same one who had accompanied Edward to the hearing several years ago in London.
Feeling profoundly sorry for both, she'd issued an invitation for them to take refuge around the fire in the servants' kitchen. They both looked weary to the point of illness. James had objected, but she'd offered the invitation anyway. They were welcome to stay as long as they liked. There would be fresh garments for them, warm food, and cots.
She'd not expected such a simple and humane gesture to be a matter
for discussion. But apparently it was. So still she waited in the cold gray day, consuming what strength she had left in an attempt to keep her mind away from the fresh grave, the realization of the man they had just buried.
Edward. The name still hurt. She was in desperate need of privacy in order
to stifle those thoughts that were too painful and too near to her heart.
She looked again down the steps to where the young boy and the woman were still talking. What was the problem? Nearby she saw two stewards waiting, saw a groomsman ready to lead the horses away. Behind her she heard her daughter's voice, "Mama?" She was cold no doubt and baffled by the curious interlude in the rain.
"In a minute," she soothed.
Then at last she saw the two moving toward the stairs, the woman in the lead, her injured hand carefully concealed beneath her cloak.
"Milady?" she called up, in a curiously aggressive voice. "We thank you for your kind invitation." At that moment, Harriet saw the young boy move up close beside her. He must be about fourteen, Harriet guessed, perhaps fifteen. His face bore a peculiar expression, resolution of some sort. She couldn't tell.
The woman was speaking again, her upturned face damp with rain and tears. Harriet had seen her in the graveyard turn away, weeping. "I will not be staying, milady," the woman went on. "I want to return to London right away."
Was she able? Harriet wondered. She looked done in. Yet she saw the four riders waiting for her at the gate. Surely they would be of assistance to her. Still, she felt pity for the young woman. She looked so thin and cold. Well, she had the boy and the riders to help her.
Considering it settled, Harriet was in the process of retreating back into the sheltering arch with James and the children when she heard the woman speaking again and looked back to see her climbing the stairs. Midway up she stopped as though she did not want to come any farther. "I beg your pardon, milady," she said then. "With your kind permission, the boy will stay."
Harriet turned slowly back. A peculiar request. She couldn't very well say no, for the boy was standing within earshot. "Of course," she murmured vaguely, "if he desires—"
The woman moved up another step, her face tense as though she were trying very hard to say the right thing. "The boy here," she began, looking back over her shoulder, "is Mr. Eden's son."
The word came softly over the wind and rain. "Mr. Eden's—" As Harriet tried to repeat what she thought she had heard, she found she couldn't.
The woman repeated it for her. "His son, milady. I have his papers back in London, his baptismal certificate. I'll send them right away if you wish—"
But at that moment, Harriet was not thinking of baptismal records. Instead she gazed steadfastly down upon the boy who, with matching steadfastness, returned her gaze. She saw it now, although she did not want to admit it, the similarity, the stance, the line of the jaw, the hair coloring, the eyes, especially the eyes. It might have been a young Edward staring up at her.
She looked away over the rain-drenched inner courtyard. My God, she couldn't turn him out. She owed Edward that much, that ancient debt for abandoning his first son. But who was the mother? That poor thin woman on the steps before her?
Incapable of speaking, she gave a vague nod and looked back toward James, as though for assistance. Surely he had heard the same incredible news. But if he had, it had not registered on his face. He appeared hopelessly bewildered and, clearly, in this matter, as in all other matters since the Granfords had left, he would leave the decisions and solutions up to her.
As she turned back to the two waiting patiently at mid-step, she tried to erase all traces of uneasiness from her face. "Of course, he's welcome," she said.
She continued to watch closely as the boy and the woman hurried back to the wagon, was still watching as the boy reached into the back and withdrew a small satchel. A moment later he fell into a close and loving embrace with the young woman.
Still Harriet stood watching, trying to conceal her agitation, telling herself that it was nothing, that of course their solicitor would have to launch a discreet but thorough investigation, perhaps discover the identity of the mother. There was plenty of room in the servants' hall to accommodate a fifteen-year-old boy.
At last the embrace was ending. She saw the boy hug her lightly again and assist her up onto the wagon. There was another quick kiss and a whispered exchange of some sort. Then the young woman quite expertly flicked the reins and the horses started forward, the wagon lighter now, the mud-caked wheels throwing off bits and pieces of graveyard soil.
Everything seemed to wait in the cold dusk as the boy watched the wagon pass through the gatehouse arch. And still everything waited as he seemed content merely to stand and stare toward the now empty gate. Harriet saw him bow his head, as though he'd offered a brief, silent prayer. Then those eyes, Edward's eyes, were staring up at her.
She felt the blood rush to her heart. He appeared so alone now, that
young face gazing at her, his satchel at his feet, both boy and satchel dwarfed by the vast emptiness of the inner courtyard.
Clearly they couldn't stand like this all evening. Someone had to move. Behind her she heard her children fretting to be taken inside to the warmth of the sitting room fire. With an effort of will she pulled away from those intense eyes and issued a command to one of the waiting stewards. "Take him to the servants' hall," she called out. "And see that he has fresh dry clothes and something to eat."
The steward nodded and started toward the boy, his hand already outstretched for the satchel. But at the last moment, Harriet saw the boy himself scoop up the luggage and start toward the stairs. As he drew nearer, she saw that his eyes were clear, almost cheerful, not a trace anywhere of the recent melancholy parting.
Still watching her, he came closer, ever closer. Beyond him she saw the gaping steward, who appeared equally as baffled by the boy's aggressive movements.
As he came steadily upward, approaching the top of the stairs, her first impulse was to withdraw. But she held her ground and was about to kindly redirect him to the servants' door when without warning a dazzling smile broke across those young features.
He stood less than three feet from her now. "If you don't mind," he commenced, in a voice remarkable for its strength and clarity, "I prefer to reside in my father's chambers. It's a waste of time, don't you think, to get settled in one place only to have to move to another?"
Again she found that speech was beyond her and she did well to move quickly to one side as he walked past her, beneath the arch, past James and the children, into the Great Hall itself.
There he turned back. "I know the way," he announced. "I need no assistance."
He proceeded on across the Great Hall, his satchel still in his hand, when suddenly at midpoint he stopped and again looked back. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble," he asked, "a fire would be pleasant. I'm quite chilled from the day and the occasion. My father always said there was nothing worse than a May Devon rain."
Harriet followed a few steps after him. She saw him now glance lightly up at the ceiling of the Great Hall as though he were searching his mind for something.
Apparently he found it, for the smile on his face grew broader. "I believe my father told me that the fire well in his chambers required half a dozen good oak logs, approximately the length of a man's arm." He was silent a moment, assessing her. "If the steward would be so kind as to lay such a fire, I'd be most grateful."
There was not a trace of impudence on the young face, only quiet conviction. Then he turned again and proceeded slowly across the Great Hall, his head erect, shoulders back.
Harriet watched him, noted the swing of his arms, the way he carried his body, the angle of the head. Suddenly and without warning she shivered, though not from cold now, but rather from the incredible sensation that true recognition was just beyond her, that if only she could remove certain veils from her eyes, the mystery of his identity would be solved.
Now she stepped quickly forward and asked in a voice remarkable for its fearful quality, "Who are you?"
Just a few steps short of the far doorway which led into the heart of the castle, the boy stopped. Slowly he turned, an expression of quizzical impatience on his face, as though he was certain that this was old ground that had been gone ove
r before to everyone's satisfaction. He bent over and placed his luggage on the floor by his feet, then stood erect. With visible and awesome pride, he said, "My name is John Murrey Eden. My father was Edward Eden. I have come home."
She saw him pause again, as though to see if there would be further interrogation. And at last he retrieved his luggage and disappeared into the darkened corridor on the far side of the Great Hall.
Behind her, she heard James, trying to articulate something, a protest, she assumed, though it came out as little more than sputtering. She glanced over her shoulder and saw her husband in a crouched position, clutching their children to him, as though they all were in imminent danger from an unidentified threat.
She looked back toward the empty doorway, and stood absolutely still, listening. There were a dozen passageways leading out from that corridor. It had taken her over a month to learn them all. Surely he would return in a moment and confess to being lost.
But he didn't. In fact she heard his step on the staircase now, measured, determined, moving steadily upward in the proper direction toward Edward's third-floor chambers, as though he knew the interior of vast Eden Castle as intimately, as thoroughly as he knew any place on earth.
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The Author:
Marilyn Harris has achieved an international following with her previous novels, This Other Eden, Bledding Sorrow, Hatter Fox, In the Midst of Earth, The Conjurers, and a collection of short stories, Kings Ex, editions of which have appeared in Britain, France, and Germany. An Oklahoman by birth. Miss Harris is married to E. V. Springer, a professor at Central State University. They have two children and reside in Norman, Oklahoma. Miss Harris is currently author-in-residence at Central State University.
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'Jacket illustration by Jerry Harston
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The prince of Eden Page 67