"If you wish . . ."
"One thing more, James. Tell Mr. Johnson that we are most interested in the identity of the boy's mother."
Here James laughed. "That may prove too much of a search even for Morley Johnson," he commented. "He might be well advised to start among the prostitutes in St. James Park, or else with that piece of damaged goods who delivered the boy to us."
"No," she replied quickly. "The boy swears she is not his mother."
Surprised, James looked up. "You've already questioned him?"
"Briefly."
"And what did he say?"
Annoyance surfaced. "That the woman driving the wagon was not his mother," she repeated.
Still the denseness persisted. "Did he say who his mother was?"
"James, if he had said that, would I now be asking you to write to Morley Johnson?"
"All right," he said, lifting both his hands as though to stay her anger. As he started toward the door, he muttered, "I knew this would happen. Someone always had to pay for Edward's profligacy. It strikes me as unfair that it is the innocent who always have to do the paying."
"You've been asked to pay nothing yet," she said in an attempt to soothe. "Go ahead and write to Johnson. He'll know what to do."
From the door he looked back. "Aren't you coming?"
"No, you go along. I'll restore the chamber and join you shortly."
"What's to restore? The boy was only here for a—"
"James, please . . ." Over the lamplight she tried not to see his face and failed. "Look about," she said, and as she gestured, she saw for the first time the strewn garments on the floor near the wardrobe. A little surprised, she looked again.
Now James saw them as well. "Why would he do that?" he puzzled, stepping back into the room. "Those are Edward's. Why would he. . . ?"
Suddenly, in her deep need for privacy she felt a residue of weakness sweep over her. The stone floor beneath her feet seemed to waver. She reached quickly out for the table and would have collapsed again had it not been for James.
He escorted her to a near chair, lightly scolding. "You must lie down. The day has been a strain on—"
"I'm fine," she murmured, and saw him still hovering over her, one hand stroking her shoulder as though she were a pet. "Please leave me," she whispered, too exhausted for anything but the truth.
"I won't," he announced in a witless display of husbandly concern. "This room is chill. Come. You need the warmth of a fire." He knelt before her, his voice falling very low. "Let me assist you to your chambers." One hand was now on her upper leg, a shy quality in his voice. "We'll send the maids to the kitchen. Then I'll warm you."
She bent slightly forward, as though a new weight had just fallen
upon her. It had been weeks since he'd made such a request. She had hoped that he had found a cooperative serving maid or two to accommodate his needs.
"Did you hear me?" he whispered. Then, as though he sensed her unspoken objections, he reminded her, "I do have rights, you know."
She felt as though a huge animal were crouching at her feet. He did have rights and she her duty. Perhaps if she were fortunate he would impregnate her and she would be spared her duty for another year.
Now, as the recently mentioned whores in St. James Park surely struck bargains with their clients, Harriet struck a bargain with her husband. "Go and write to Mr. Johnson, and give me an interval of privacy. I'll meet you in my chambers in an hour."
Still incapable of looking at him, she waited for his reply. Even if he agreed, she'd have to hurry. Three brandies dulled the sensations, but she must consume them quickly for them to take effect.
"One hour," he whispered finally, both hands grasping her upper legs.
Then at last, as though aware that he must function on her terms or not at all, he left the room.
Now slowly she moved forward to face her true ordeal, the presence of the young boy with Edward's face, Edward's form and manner. Quickly she skirted the table, her eyes falling immediately on the abandoned satchel. For a moment, conscience stopped her. She had no right to examine its contents.
If he were Edward's son, perhaps the proof would be in that satchel. And perhaps the disproof as well. She wondered which she preferred. She slipped to her knees before the satchel. The single strap fell loose, and with both hands she drew open the luggage. It was too dark where she was kneeling, and hurriedly she rose and carried the satchel to the table, where the lamp was burning brightly.
Her hand moved down and drew forth a shirt, muslin, hand-sewn, a second shirt, identical to the first. Then came a pair of trousers, three belt loops torn, a light jacket, a nightshirt, a small collection of articles of toilet wrapped in white linen, and a soft brushed cap.
All? She tilted the bag toward the lamp and saw a gleam of white, and withdrew a large pamphlet of some sort. In the light of the lamp she read the title, The Great Exhibition—London—1851—The Art Journal Illustrated Catalog of the Industries of All Nations.
She placed the heavy catalog on the table beside the meager collection of garments and plunged her hand into the luggage a final
time. Another book? Hurriedly she withdrew a small white leather Book of Common Prayer. In gold on the cover was stamped the name John Murrey Eden. Inside she found a simple inscription, "With loving devotion on the occasion of your baptism, from your godfather, Daniel Spade."
Daniel Spade. There was a familiar name. Edward's friend, the cause of poor Jennifer's illness.
Again she looked down at the inscription. Edward's sister Jennifer was to have been Mrs. Daniel Spade, but fate and fever intervened, leaving Daniel dead, Jennifer witless. She still spoke of him now and then as though he were due to arrive at any moment and take her away.
Harriet's perceptions of those distant events, her memory of the recent burial and of the young boy lying unconscious in the servants' hall, settled over her like a state of confused reverie. She let the Book of Common Prayer fall from her hand. True, a baptism had been mentioned, but there was no date, no parish registry, not even the name of the church.
Suddenly she resented that such a mystery had been thrust upon her. She'd been doing well enough, Edward safely lost to her, living out his days in London obscurity, his companions, even his financial straits, those of his own choosing.
She'd managed to create a tolerable half-life for herself here, mistress of Eden Castle, with senseless Jennifer for company, and occasionally she would climb the stairs to old Jane's fourth-floor apartment and the two would take tea together, and she'd listen to Jane grumble that her life persisted without point or purpose. The old woman was approaching ninety, the last living link to Edward and James's mother, the beautiful Marianne.
And best of all, Harriet had her two children, open and generous Richard, and lovely Mary, unformed as yet, but promising.
In this attitude of strength, she commenced placing the items back into the satchel. Surely the boy had more than this. Somewhere.
The satchel refilled, she laced the strap into place and was just starting toward the door, lamp and satchel in hand, when she turned back and caught sight of the scattered garments on the floor near the wardrobe. She'd send maids back. She had burgeoning responsibilities of her own.
Suddenly she shivered. She looked slowly over her shoulder as though the abandoned garments had spoken to her.
"Edward . . " she mourned. Carefully she replaced the lamp on the table, abandoned the satchel as well, and returned to the clothes scattered about before the wardrobe.
She knelt and reached out for a near garment, a worn black jacket. Tenderly she arranged it in her arms as though it were a child, rocked with it back and forth, chained to the strange ritual by longing, by loneliness, by guilt for Edward's child whom years ago she had conceived, carried, birthed and given away.
Acutely conscious of what she was doing, she continued to hold the jacket, pressing it closer. And for one blessed moment she had no other activity in view, no reason
for being where she was, and no relationship to her surroundings.
He awakened on a hard cot in a low-ceilinged whitewashed cell with a circle of plain faces staring down upon him.
He closed his eyes briefly, one hand reaching up to his aching jaw, and worse than that, his aching pride. In his conquest of Eden, he'd planned to start on slightly higher ground.
No matter! He would not pass many days here. For now the subject of highest priority was those faces. The entire cell was filled, and beyond, he could see craning necks peering in at the doorway.
He turned toward the nearest face, that of an old man with red cheeks and white hair. He reminded John of his father's old coachman, John Murrey, his namesake. "Are you . . . the butler?" he asked tentatively.
Several of the maids snickered, their prim lace caps quivering. Even the old man's placid blue eyes smiled, as did his slightly too large mouth. "No, lad." He grinned. "Mr. Rexroat is upstairs, seeing to Lord Eden. My name is Dana. I've been a footman here for forty years. But swelling joints has slowed me a bit."
John looked with renewed interest on the man. Now, here was someone to talk to. As always, John had an insatiable desire to know all about every Eden who had preceded him. At last he stood, fully recovered, and glanced toward the old man. "My name is John Murrey Eden." He smiled, extending a ready hand.
But to his surprise, the old man seemed to draw back.
"Come," John said, "take my hand. I assure you, you'll be the first today to do so."
Now apparently the old man found his tongue. "It ain't you, lad," he muttered. "It's just that . . . Well, we don't know who you are," he blurted, "or what to do with you." He looked directly at John.
"You see, lad," he went on, "most of us here remember well your father." He paused. "A good man he was, who went through bad times." He cast a surveying eye over John. "If you ain't his flesh, then the Almighty's playing pranks."
John looked up. "Then what's the problem?"
"It's them, lad," the old man replied, casting his eyes upward. "They're the ones requiring the proof."
In an attempt to ease their bewilderment, John clamped a warm hand on Dana's shoulder. "I assure you, I am my father's son," he said with conviction. "Proof will be along. In the meantime, what are we to do with me?"
Dana appeared to be on the verge of framing a reply when John heard footsteps in the corridor outside the cell. Obviously the others heard them as well, for within the moment there was a pronounced rush on the door as all tried to flee at once, causing an impossible congestion.
Just beyond the door frame John saw a man in black cutaways with high stiff collar, sharply creased trousers and black boots.
"Mr. Rexroat," Dana whispered in John's ear.
John took a step forward. "Good evening," he said pleasantly enough and extended his hand, and withdrew it a moment later, unclasped.
Still the man stood in the doorway, those eyes unblinking. Then he stepped to one side and with a wave of his hand motioned for someone in the corridor to come forward. Within the instant a steward appeared, bearing John's satchel.
John glanced down at the satchel. In truth he'd forgotten about it. "Thank you," he said to Mr. Rexroat. "I'm afraid I didn't have time to retrieve—"
Then the man spoke, his voice as cold as his appearance. "I have just come from Lord Eden," he announced. "It is his desire that you work."
Work! John had had enough of that to last a lifetime. Both in the Ragged Schools and in the Common Kitchen, that's all he had done for the last few years. His father had thrived on it. Not John.
Still he stood as erect as Rexroat himself and met the challenge, because it would serve his purpose to do so. "I'm a good worker," he boasted. "Set me a task and it will be done as expertly as though you'd done it yourself."
A smile broke the iron facade of Mr. Rexroat's face. "We'll see," he said.
"You do that," John countered. "For the short duration of my stay down here"—and he gestured about the small cell—"111 earn my keep."
"You won't be staying here," Rexroat responded, the smile broadening. "Odd-boys sleep in the cellar."
The cellar? Struggling to match the man's enjoyment, John invited, "Lead the way."
Apparently the cheery cooperation was more than Rexroat had bargained for. He lifted one hand, as though to dismiss the suggestion. "Dana will take you down," he pronounced haughtily. "I have other duties to attend to." Now for the first time he addressed the entire gathering. "I would advise the same course of action for all of you. Be off with you now," and with a wave of his hand he sent the congregation scurrying.
Now Rexroat was moving toward him again. "You have brought considerable confusion and consternation into this house," he pronounced firmly. "If it were left to me, you would be taken immediately to the constable in Exeter and charged with fraud. But Lord Eden, being a good Christian, has decided to treat you with . . . compassion. You are to be given shelter and food, which you will take with the lower servants in their hall, and you are never, under any circumstances, to venture up those stairs into the higher regions of the castle. Is that clear?"
"Couldn't be clearer if I'd said it myself." John smiled, amazed and a little pleased at how quickly he'd brought the man to the brink of anger.
"And there will be no fraternizing with the upper servants either," the man added, his voice rising. "Your one and only domain will be the scullery and the stables. Is that clear?"
Stables! Although the last few years had been grim, he'd never had to clear horse dung before. Still he smiled. "I'll do your bidding in all ways."
Suddenly the man's facade dropped altogether. "I don't know who you think you are," he whispered fiercely.
Again John smiled. "Perhaps I didn't introduce myself. My name is John Murrey—"
"See to him, Dana," Rexroat muttered angrily. "Show him his territory and make it clear that he is not to depart it." In his retreat he cleared the door and sent his voice back. "He won't be with us for long, I can assure you of that."
Then he was gone and there were only two in the cell now. Al-
most reluctantly John glanced over his shoulder at Dana, standing a short distance away.
Wearily the old man shook his head. "You may find it hard to believe, lad, but Rexroat has no real power." He laughed softly and shook his head. "Nobody below stairs has no real power now."
Interested in spite of the bleak new feelings which had begun to settle over him, John asked quietly, "And where does the true power reside?"
Dana grinned. "Now, where do you think it would reside, lad? Who do you think is responsible for sending you down here?" Before John could reply, Dana supplied a ready answer. "Her ladyship, who else?"
Then he heard old Dana again, his tone apologetic. "Still, 111 have to deliver you to the cellar," he said softly. Then, as though to halt the gloom, he added, "But we both know it won't be forever, now, don't we, lad? Your friend, that young woman, will send your papers right enough. Then I personally will assist you back up to your father's chambers where you belong."
At last John turned, grateful for the reassurance. He was on the verge of expressing his gratitude when, just beyond the door, he thought he saw something white.
Apparently Dana saw it as well and moved past him. "Wait here," Dana whispered.
John watched as the old man made his way stealthily to the door, stopping short of the threshold. "Miss?" John heard him whisper, his tone of voice gentle.
Obviously he'd found someone, a timid someone who required special consideration. John listened carefully as the old man asked, "May I be of assistance, miss? The corridors are dark. And shouldn't you be at dinner now? It must be approaching nine. Her ladyship will be . . ."
Then the man disappeared, leaving John staring at the empty doorway. He tried to overhear. What now? he wondered. Another objection to his presence? Another challenge to his identity? He turned away from the invisible confrontation, resigning himself to another delay.
; "Lad?" It was Dana again from the doorway. "You . . . have a visitor," he stammered.
"A visitor?" John repeated, his head reeling from the variety of manners to which he'd been treated since his arrival here only a few hours ago.
"Aye, lad." At that, Dana stepped back, and in the next minute an apparition in white appeared, a woman with dark hair streaked with gray which hung loose down her back, a soft fringe of curls about her face.
"Edward," she whispered, and was in his arms before he could protest or seek explanation.
"Oh, Edward, I knew it was you," she murmured close to his ear.
In his confusion he looked up and caught Dana's eye. The man was speaking volumes without saying a word. The message was clear. Apparently Dana felt it important that John return her embrace. Tentatively his hands lifted to her waist, then, finding that area too intimate, moved up to the safety of her shoulders.
Just when he thought he was doing very well, she drew back and he saw tears on her face. "Edward"—she smiled in spite of the tears —"I was so worried. Everyone told me that you were dead." There was a childlike quality in her voice. "But you aren't dead at all, are you?" she asked softly. "Though they have treated you shamefully, haven't they? Oh, I saw them right enough, those wicked men carrying you down here. Just like the time they carried you out of the banqueting hall on Mother's command." Her voice drifted, as though for an instant she'd lost touch with who she was and what she was saying.
In the interim, John again looked beseechingly at Dana. The man stepped forward, and in passing whispered, "It's Miss Jennifer, your aunt, your father's sister. She thinks . . ."
It was clear what she thought, and John remembered her now. How often and how lovingly his father had spoken her name. In fact, John could not remember the name ever standing by itself. Always it had been preceded by "dearest," or "sweet."
Acutely aware of the role he must play where this woman was concerned, he opened his arms wide and summoned her back to him, anything to call a halt to her demented circling. "Dearest Jennifer. . ."Hesmiled.
The Eden passion Page 3