The Eden passion

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  John cast a departing look toward Clara, then fell in behind the rapidly moving Harriet, clad in dark blue taffeta, amazed at how much taller he was than she. He couldn't remember such a difference in their heights only a few short months ago.

  Once on the broad central staircase, the traffic thinned. Ahead, Jennifer slowed her pace, which meant that they had to follow suit as well. In the ease of the reduced speed, he became aware of Harriet

  relaxing a bit. "Do you think I was too hard on Richard?" she asked suddenly.

  John smiled. "You probably were harder on yourself."

  She looked quizzically at him.

  "On those infrequent occasions," he went on, enjoying the ease with which they were walking and talking, "when my father felt it his duty to punish me, I'm certain that I didn't feel half the pain that he did."

  He could feel her eyes on the side of his face, and was aware for the first time of her delicately flowered scent; it seemed to emanate from her hair. "And did he punish you often?" she asked.

  He shook his head, amused at the remembrance of his father trying to act paternal. "No, although Elizabeth had a go at it many times."

  Ahead, he heard soft humming, Jennifer trying to prolong the mood of the music. Apparently Harriet heard it as well, and now her thoughts turned in a different direction. "Do you share Richard's critical opinion of our Sunday-evening musicales?" she asked, stopping for a moment, as Jennifer had bent to examine something on the stairs.

  Prudently he paused before answering. "Yes," he said truthfully, then added quickly, "I'm not a connoisseur, however. In the Ragged School, our exposure to music consisted of a polka every Thursday night."

  She leaned back against the banister, apparently more than willing to give the women up ahead all the time they needed. "I've asked you two questions within the last five minutes"—she smiled—"and you've answered both with references to the past."

  Surprised, he looked down on her. It was true, though he couldn't account for it.

  "Do you miss London and all your friends?" she asked.

  "No," he said. "And I have no friends there. My father did, lots of them. But they were his friends, not mine."

  "Have you written to Elizabeth?"

  "No," John replied, "and I should have. And will soon."

  She nodded, and both walked in silence, heads down. How pleasant it was, he thought, and why couldn't they do it more often?

  "Are you happy here, John?" she asked.

  Again he counseled himself prudence. "It was a difficult beginning," he said, "and on occasion I find myself wanting. . ."

  He hesitated, and she rushed in with unexpected urgency. "What?"

  With effort he tried to catalog precisely what was in his head. ''More leisure, I suppose," he said, aware how vague it sounded.

  "More leisure? For what purpose?"

  He smiled down on her. 'To talk, as we are talking now."

  All of her defenses seemed to dissolve. He saw a becoming blush on her face. "We talk," she said.

  "Not very often."

  They were beyond the third-floor landing now. The fixed lamps were few and far between, thus the passage was darker, requiring greater care. Ahead, Jennifer and Peggy seemed to be faring well. As for himself, he felt the gloom increasing, seeming to herald the dismal chambers they shortly would be entering. No one but Jane inhabited the fourth floor.

  About midway up the last flight of stairs, Jennifer suddenly balked and sat on the steps, her face clearly flushed with the exertion of the climb. "Come, Edward." She smiled, extending a hand to John. "Sit beside me while I catch my breath. Daniel will wait."

  Obviously the trance brought on by the music was over and she was back among her ghosts again. John glanced quickly at Harriet. She nodded, giving him permission to respond as his father. He wished she had said no.

  He moved up the steps until he was seated beside Jennifer. "Only a short distance farther. Do you know where we're going?"

  She looked at him and smiled. "Of course I know where we're going, Edward. Why do you insist upon treating me like a child?" Leaning still closer, she reached up and stroked his brow. "How handsome you are, Edward," she whispered. "And how much I love you."

  Embarrassed, with the maid and Harriet closely watching, John ducked his head. "Come," he said sternly. "Surely you've caught your breath by now. Aunt Jane will be very disappointed if we don't appear soon."

  As he reached for her hand, she pulled away and scrambled to the far side of the staircase. "I don't want to go," she whispered, "and you shouldn't either."

  "Why?" he asked. "We come here every Sunday evening."

  "But not tonight," she warned.

  John tried reason and gentleness. "Do you have any idea how hurt

  old Jane will be?" He smiled. "You don't want to hurt her, I know. . ."

  Suddenly she turned her face to the wall, though still she was pleading. "Don't go, Edward. Daniel said don't go."

  Behind him he heard Harriet.

  "She is worse."

  John asked, "What shall we do?"

  "I don't think we have much choice. We'll have to leave her. Perhaps when she sees us walking away, she'll come."

  Now Harriet climbed to the landing and spoke softly to Peggy. "Stay with her until she's ready to leave. She'll be restless tonight. At the first opportunity, please notify Mrs. Swan."

  Still standing at mid-step, John looked down at the trembling figure in white. She did appear genuinely frightened. But of what? They had made this walk every Sunday for the last several months.

  "Are you coming, John?" It was Harriet calling to him from the top of the stairs.

  "I'm coming," he called up, and bent over to touch Jennifer's shoulder. "You wait here, then," he soothed. "I'll be back shortly, and if you like, we'll go looking for Daniel."

  Suddenly from down the corridor in the direction of Jane's chamber came a sharp scream. Harriet looked up, and John as well.

  Then John was moving, taking the remaining steps two at a time, not waiting to see who was following. As he approached the closed door which led to Jane's apartment, he hesitated, and in that instant Harriet caught up with him, took the lead and flung open the door, both reaching the arch which led into the bedchamber simultaneously. Looking sharply down, they focused on the bed itself. Gertrude, the old maid, was standing at the bedside, her attention fixed on the bed, on Jane, motionless, her mouth and eyes locked in a frozen death mask.

  "Oh, no," Harriet mourned softly, and turned away.

  From the bedside came weeping, Gertrude doing her best to explain. "When I come in, my lady, she was right enough. I even plumped her pillow for her and said company was a-coming."

  John listened, feeling awkward in the presence of death, and thought of Jennifer's warning. He went to Harriet's side. "WTiat may I do to be of service?" he asked kindly. "Would you care for me to fetch-"

  "No," she said, walking away from him, approaching the deathbed. "Gertrude can do what has to be done."

  The old maid's tears were subsiding. "Of course, my lady," she murmured, apparently grateful that blame would not be placed. She dabbed at her eyes a final time and reached gingerly for the coverlet to hide the dead face.

  "No, leave it," Harriet commanded. "Go tell Aggie and Mrs. Swan what has happened. Tell them to come up in one hour to prepare her for burial. And tell Aggie to summon the gravediggers. There's a small plot between her father and brother. . ."

  As Harriet issued orders, John retired to a far corner near the window. An hour, he thought grimly. What would they do for an hour in the presence of the dead woman? And worse. Now it occurred to him that there would be a funeral to endure. He'd not been to the graveyard since that rainy May morning when they'd buried his father. He felt no compulsion to go there now.

  A few minutes later the room fell quiet behind him, and he turned to see Harriet on her knees at the bedside. Abruptly she looked up. Her eyes were dry. He watched closely as she raised herself from
her kneeling position and with tenderness lifted Jane's arms and crossed them upon her breasts. Her hand lingered a moment, caressing the dead woman's forehead. "I don't know why I feel so bereft," she murmured. "I've been expecting it for months, years even."

  Without warning a smile crossed her face. "I don't know what I would have done without her in those bleak, early days of my life here."

  Stirred to interest, he stepped away from the window. "Were they so bleak?"

  The smile faded. "Just death," she said, "or a form of it."

  'Why?"

  She looked at him as though taken aback by the direct question. For a moment he thought she would answer. "Harriet," he began, moving directly beside her, "there's no cause for us to stay here now. Why don't we—"

  But she said, "No," said it harshly this time. Then in the next minute she assumed a manner which suggested that he was nothing more than a servant. "You go along," she ordered. "Death never holds much meaning for the young. What a tedious bore it all is when you're young."

  He was on the verge of disagreeing, but she gave him no chance. "Go along with you," she said again. "I had thought that you might appreciate feeling closer to the family—"

  "I do," he broke in hurriedly, annoyed that somehow he had failed her. Did she treat her own children thus, or merely him?

  From the opposite side of the chamber, safe in shadow, she spoke again, not one tone of her voice resembling that other woman who had climbed the stairs with him. "Did you hear what I said?" she asked. "I told you to leave. I don't want you here. Just leave me alone/'

  Yes, leave, was what he counseled himself, and was in the process of doing so, casting a final look at the old woman dead on the bed.

  Then, "I'm sorry," he heard Harriet whisper.

  Embarrassed, he shrugged off her apology. "No need," he muttered. "But what you said is not true," he added. "I know about death. I was there when my father was killed. I held his head in my lap. . ."

  Apparently he'd succeeded in moving both of them, for quickly she stepped forward and put her arms around him. "Don't, John, please. . ." she whispered.

  Locked in that soft fragrant embrace, his father's death faded in importance and he closed his eyes and slipped his arm around her waist.

  Apparently the enjoyment was mutual, for it was several moments before she separated herself from him.

  He watched, fascinated, as she restored the handkerchief to her sleeve, all traces of her previous anger gone, her attention now focused self-consciously on the lace of her cuff. "We mustn't quarrel so often," she said quietly. "I have to stay here for a decent interval," she explained then, harking back to the cause of their harsh words. "I was brought up to believe that it's wrong to leave the deceased alone."

  "Why?" he asked.

  She smiled as though aware that what she was about to say was foolishness. "Satan may come for them if they're alone."

  "And he won't come with company present?"

  She blushed. "Satan has no power in the presence of love."

  He stared at her, thoroughly enjoying her new mood. "Do you believe all that?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "No, but all my old servants did, all Shropshire-born and full of Celtic madness."

  "And what else did they tell you?"

  "Oh, hundreds of tales." She laughed, lifting her head to the ceiling as though that was the source of her memory. What a graceful

  arch her neck made, like a swan's and how prettily her auburn hair pressed against the lace collar of her gown. "Let me see," she went on, "someone who loved the deceased must kiss the coins that weight the eyes, thus assuring the dead person that when the eyes open, the first glimpse will be of paradise."

  "Will you kiss the coins?"

  She lowered her head. "Of course. I loved Jane dearly. She was a fortress when I was in sore need of one." Again he heard that warm tone of intimacy, as though she were on the verge of sharing important secrets with him.

  With the thought in mind of encouraging this impulse, he stepped closer until he was standing directly beside her. Simultaneously she moved toward the bed and the dead woman. "Thank you for staying with me," she said briskly, "and I'm grateful for the privacy of this moment. I've been wanting to talk with you."

  "About what?" he inquired, not really caring as long as there was a remote possibility that at some point, under certain stress, she would put her arms around him again.

  "I've received several letters of late from Morley Johnson," she began.

  Lost in her beauty, he at first found little meaning in her words. Then he remembered, and with a sigh sat in a near chair. Perhaps the solicitor had managed to uncover something.

  As he waited for her to continue, he prompted softly, "And?"

  She shook her head. "And nothing, I'm afraid."

  It was as he'd thought. Then why had she brought it up? "I suspect"—he smiled—"that Mr. Johnson is simply having a prolonged holiday for himself and spending Eden money in the process."

  "It does seem to be taking him ever so long," she said. "He hasn't even mentioned stopping by Hadley Park yet. I'm almost as interested in that report as the other."

  "Your home?" he asked, recognizing the name from earlier conversations.

  "My childhood home, yes. Naturally I'm curious to learn what my uncle is doing with it. It was such a beautiful estate once." She looked at him. "I would like for you to see it sometime."

  A pleasant invitation, a pleasant thought, traveling with her in the seclusion of a carriage. "Then call Mr. Johnson back"—he grinned— "and we'll go and do our own inspecting."

  Apparently something he had said or the manner in which he had

  said it caught her interest, for she sat in the chair next to him, a light reprimand on her face. "You don't take any of it very seriously, do you?" she asked. "Have you no curiosity about your natural mother?"

  He answered honestly, "None," then abridged his reply. "Oh, once I did. When I was very young. I quizzed my father constantly on who she was and where she was."

  The interest on her face was intense. "And what did he say?"

  John shrugged. "That she was beautiful, that she was a lady, that he had loved her very much, and that she had died giving me birth."

  "And that was all?"

  "That was all." He looked back at her. "What does it matter?" he demanded. "Do you still doubt my identity?" He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and walked to the center of the room. "There are people in this castle who address me by my father's name. Isn't that proof enough? And if Morley Johnson finds nothing, what will happen then? Will I be sent back to the odd-boy cellar?"

  Quickly she stood. "No, never," she said. "I promise you that. It's just that I'm thinking of your future. Beyond Eden."

  Beyond Eden! Now, there was a puzzle. All his life the only future which had held any meaning for him was Eden. Now that he was here, he found he could not think in terms of another future. "I don't understand," he said, aware of her hand on his arm.

  "You're strong and capable," she said. "The entire world would open to you, if only we could . . ."

  "Identify my mother," he said, completing the foolish statement for her.

  But she only nodded, obviously unaware of her foolishness. "Whether you like it or not, John, you are a member of a society to whom parentage is very important."

  He couldn't quite believe this turn of the conversation. Now he moved away from her hand. "Parentage never seemed to matter much to my father," he said over his shoulder.

  "Oh, but you're wrong," she disagreed, following after him. "Edward's bastardy mattered a great deal to him. He suffered acutely because of it. But even there he was more fortunate than you. At least he knew—"

  "And what of my future?" he asked, sensing that she was arguing him into a corner. "You brought the subject up. What do you envision for me?"

  She shrugged. "A . . . profession. You're capable . . ."

  "What kind of profession?"

  "Any
thing you want. Anything that—"

  "My father had none."

  "He had his Ragged Schools, his social reform—"

  John laughed aloud. "All those institutions as well as the dedication belonged to Daniel Spade. My father merely provided the funds." He broke off and stared at her. What was she trying to tell him? That parentage or no, his time here was limited?

  Now he wanted to put an end to the conversation. "Then I suggest we wait for word from Morley Johnson," he concluded, "for everything."

  Still she was watching him, her eyes blank, as though her mind had momentarily abandoned her.

  "Come." He smiled, trying to ease this new tension. "We must keep a close watch out for Satan. As you said, we owe old Jane that much."

  She agreed, as though she too were eager to postpone a final decision. Just as she was settling beside him, there was a soft knock on the door, and a moment later Gertrude and Aggie appeared, their arms filled with the paraphernalia of death, a thick, multifolded piece of muslin, clearly a winding sheet, an earthenware decanter exuding the heavy fragrance of oil of clove.

  Now all three women gathered about the bed. John leaned forward in his chair, legs apart, and rested his elbows on his knees. Birth and death, the two truly great female rituals. He held still, wondering if he should leave.

  When he heard Aggie announce, full-voiced, "Well, then, to work," and when he looked up to see her bodily lift Jane and prepare to strip the nightdress over that gray shriveled face, John decided that he'd seen enough, and he'd just cleared the arch when he heard Harriet calling after him. "Wait, John . . ."

  Slowly he retraced his steps as far as the arch, where he halted, his eyes fixed on the grim deathbed ritual.

  In the interim, Gertrude was speaking again. "My lady, Mr. Rexroat and the stewards are waiting outside," she said, keeping her voice down, as though fearful of disturbing the now naked cadaver cradled in Aggie's arms. "They want to know if they should raise the black banners."

  He heard Harriet's whispered "Yes," and though he was aware of female voices forming a soft hum to one side, all of his attention was drawn forward by the sight of the ninety-year-old female corpse, her