The Eden passion

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  "Oh, come now," John chided, "surely somewhere in this exotic landscape we can at least—"

  Andrew nodded, and as they entered the commercial street again, lined now every twenty or so feet with flaring torches, John again saw the ruin in his friend's face, felt his shivering inside the warmth of his heavy coat

  "Have you been ill?" John asked, knowing the answer, but wanting specifics.

  "A minor wound in the leg," Andrew said, "from a Russian saber, and a not so minor case of dysentery that has sent me to the hospital in Scutari twice."

  "Are you well now?" John asked.

  Andrew laughed. "I've been granted a reprieve, at least a tempo-

  rary one. My commanding officer has assigned me to Mr. Brassey until the railway is completed. Military liaison, I believe they call me.

  "Splendid," John said with enthusiasm. "Then we'll have many such evenings, won't we?"

  Again Andrew gave him a curious look. "I doubt it. We're in desperate need of the railway, John. Without it, we face certain defeat."

  He'd become so earnest. As though just thinking on Brassey had reminded him of certain duties, he sternly added, "I think we had better proceed immediately to the tents. Mr. Brassey gave me strict instructions to bring you—"

  "Damn Brassey!" John exploded. "Damn Brassey," he shouted again. Caught between the ruined features of his friend and the projection of the impossible task ahead, he strode past Andrew, ignoring his startled expression, and led the way through the crowded streets of Balaklava as though he knew precisely where he was going.

  But of course he didn't. A few steps later, Andrew caught up with him, turned him in the proper direction with a soft apology. "I'm sorry, John. It's just that I'm sick of this place. We must end it soon. So many have died."

  Abruptly he broke off. Again John saw the confusion that he'd discerned so often in Andrew's letters, a simple question, obviously still unresolved. What were they doing here? What were any of them doing here?

  Lacking an answer, John pulled his collar up about his face in an attempt to block out the stinging cold and walked silently beside Andrew, at least giving the appearance of passive acceptance.

  London, St. George Street, March 1855

  They have what?" Elizabeth gasped.

  She sat up on the velvet settee in her drawing room, certain that the early-morning hour had affected her hearing. Still half-asleep, her hair undone, she clutched her dressing gown and stared disbelieving at Willie Gladstone opposite her. In spite of her shock, it suddenly occurred to her that she'd never seen him at this hour of the day. She'd seen him last night, to be certain, a pleasant evening spent in the manner of old friends, during which she'd expressed concern that Edward Eden's son and Jack Willmot had apparently disappeared from the face of the earth. Time and again she sent her card around to Jack Willmot's address in Warwick Lane, begging for a reconciliation. But she'd received no reply.

  Thoughtfully Willie had promised to look into the matter himself. Now here he was, at nine-thirty in the morning, seated before her in her drawing room, delivering this most alarming message.

  "I'm afraid it's true," he soothed. "I sent an assistant to Mr. Bras-sey's office first thing this morning. A clerk there confirmed what I suspected. Both Mr. Willmot and Mr. Eden sailed for the war zone the first of January."

  For the second time Elizabeth heard the words, and still she couldn't believe them. "The war. . . zone?"

  He nodded, then stood and commenced pacing before the fire. "Hysteria," he pronounced angrily. "All of England has gone slightly mad."

  His words, instead of soothing, caused great agitation. "Then . . . there's real danger?" she asked.

  Abruptly he stopped pacing. "For them," he mused thoughtfully, "perhaps not. After all, they have gone as civilians."

  Civilians! Elizabeth didn't understand and said as much, and listened carefully as Willie explained the nature of Brassey's expedition.

  All the time Willie talked, Elizabeth heard the words, though at one point her mind wandered to an image of John as a little boy, his abhorrence of violence, how even the sound of a voice raised in anger was capable of unsettling him. Now she simply couldn't imagine him in a "war zone."

  "There's really no cause for worry, my dearest," Willie murmured, sitting opposite her again in an attempt to ease her fears. "I know Thomas Brassey well, a man renowned for his kindness and thought-fulness to his men."

  She looked up from her memories, wanting desperately to believe him, though now there was another worry. Had John gone off to war in an attempt to escape the pain that she obviously had caused him?

  The possibility could not be digested, and she moved away from it, her steps carrying her to the window.

  Willie came up behind her, his hands on her shoulders. "But there's good news as well," he said. "According to my assistant, Bras-sey's clerk said that the project was going so well that the entire expedition expected to return to London by April."

  She turned to face him, grateful. That was good news. By April. Only a month or so away. Then God grant that he return safely, and that he would answer her card and come to see her. Surely in an atmosphere of calm and reason she might help him to see and understand who she was, and that in no way did it have any effect on her deep love for him, and the deeper love she still held in special reserve for his father.

  Edward. At the mere thought of his name and the realization that she had failed his son, her eyes filled with tears, and she saw Willie open his arms to her, and without hesitation she stepped into the embrace. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  "No need," he replied.

  Still drying her eyes, she said, "It's just that I feel a . . . responsibility to the boy."

  "And a deep love," Willie added.

  "He's the only son I'll ever know."

  As though he sensed that what she needed most was brusque reassurance, he gave it to her. "And he shall be returned safely to you. I

  promise it on my name." He guided her back to the fire, his mood altering, his arm still about her waist. "If I could be granted one wish today, it would be to stay here with you."

  She heard the wistfulness in his voice and discovered that it matched her own. At least with company she could keep her mind busy and away from war zones. "Then why don't you?" she asked.

  "Don't tempt me," he said, moving away. "I'll see you tonight. Now I'm afraid I must go and deal with Little Johnny Russell."

  In spite of her disappointment, she recognized both the name and the problem, having heard Willie talk about it at length the night before. A member of the cabinet, Lord John Russell was claiming that the government had no defense against the charges of mismanaging the war and therefore should resign- Willie apparently was in complete agreement with everything except the last, claiming that if the government resigned, Russell would head the new cabinet, and that, for some reason, would be disastrous.

  Whatever the outcome, Elizabeth knew that he was fully preoccupied and she had no right to keep him away from Westminster.

  "I thank you, Willie," she said, reaching for the bell cord. "At least I know now where John is, and with your word on his safe return, I'm sure the days will pass quickly."

  She kissed him farewell and walked with him to the door.

  Back in her bedchamber, she moved close to the fire and tried to perceive of John in something called a war zone. He was just a boy. Didn't Willmot realize that, and she was certain now that it had all been Willmot's idea.

  But standing before the fire, she was forced to abridge her condemnation of Jack Willmot. Obviously he'd stood by John, perhaps when he'd needed him most, certainly when she'd disappointed him so bitterly.

  Remembering that horrible night, she clasped her arms about her, feeling a chill that the fire could not dissipate. Shivering, she turned away and crawled between cold linens.

  From the limited perspective of her pillow, she surveyed her grand surroundings, fully aware of what she'd done to climb to this luxuri
ous setting. Could she ever make John understand? She must try, for now it occurred to her that if he didn't understand, she might be compelled to doubt herself.

  Out of a morning of grim thoughts, this was the worst, and she turned on her side. Without warning, her eyes fell on the small trunk almost hidden in the corner behind the mahogany wardrobe.

  As tears came, she closed her eyes and gave in to her loneliness and regret, and as her grief mounted she buried her face in the pillow and forced herself, in spite of the pain, to take a hard inventory of her deceits, her failings, her emptiness.

  Balaklava Highlands, March 1855

  Shivering, Jack Willmot lay on his cot beneath three fur rugs in the small tent and decided that compared to the Crimea, Canada had seemed like a tropical clime.

  Never had he been so cold, and it was little comfort that everyone felt it as acutely as he did, including John, who had refused even to get undressed for this rest period and who now huddled under his blankets, fully clothed, rereading his last letter from Harrington Hall in Wiltshire.

  Since sleep was out of the question, Willmot turned on his side and studied the young man, fully bearded now, looking not so young. There were new lines on his face from squinting at the snow, and new hollows beneath his eyes from too many sleepless nights.

  What a vast inner change had taken place in the boy as well, Willmot thought. What pride Willmot always felt when he saw John, on horseback, leading Brassey along the line, pointing out this inefficiency and that need.

  Leading Brassey! The incredible words echoed in his head. Yet they were true. Time and again Willmot had seen Brassey seek out John, ask his opinion, listening carefully to his response. Of course there had been violent battles between the two men. In fact, one was raging now, unresolved. But for all the fireworks which erupted from the collision of their strong personalities, Willmot had to admit that never had a Brassey project progressed as efficiently as this one.

  With pride Willmot looked at John across the way. How many times Brassey had told Willmot that he'd never encountered so

  quick a mind in any man. Of course—and this was a cause of bafflement to Willmot—he'd never heard Brassey make these tributes within earshot of John. Quite the contrary; when the two of them were together, they shouted at each other like bitter enemies, though again Brassey had told Willmot that upon their return to London he was planning to give John a contracting job of his own, only a small project in the Scottish Highlands, but nonetheless an opportunity that could lead to a future, if only the two did not kill each other first.

  Without warning, Willmot thought of Edward Eden, and how proud he would be of his son. If only the man had not died so early.

  He was summoned out of his old grief by a rustling of pages, and looked across the tent to see John lying on his back, the letter clasped atop his chest, his eyes staring upward, as though relishing the words he'd just read.

  Peculiar, how much those simple, almost childlike letters meant to him. And from a young girl he'd never formally met. Oh, to be sure, John had told him about Lila Harrington, as much as there was to tell. On occasion he'd even shared her letters, allowing Willmot to read for himself the delicate penmanship on the pale blue writing paper, accounts concerning the antics of her cat, the condition of a winter orchard, the shades of pink in a March sunset, and always, at the end, warning John to take care.

  Most peculiar, Willmot thought again as he pulled the fur rug higher to cover his frozen ears. Yet, perhaps not so. He knew for a fact that John had never recovered from the loss of Elizabeth, and before that, the loss of Eden. In the harsh cold male world of the Crimean winter, Lady Lila Harrington probably appeared before him like a saint, a soft voice and pretty head filled with nothing of greater importance than the care and feeding of her cat.

  In spite of his efforts to keep warm, Willmot shivered. At the faint sound, John looked up.

  "I thought you were asleep," he said, refolding the letter.

  "Who can sleep?"

  "Still you need your rest," John scolded, "if you plan to keep pace . . ."

  Pleased by the realization that John cared for him, Willmot sat up, drawing the fur rug about his shoulders. "I can work you under the bed any day, my friend." He smiled. "As for the navvies, I'm the one who prods them. Remember?"

  John looked across at him. "I don't know what I would do with-

  out you," he said, slipping the letter inside his coat. "God," he muttered, drawing his blanket up. "Will we ever get out of this frozen hell?"

  He sounded so tired. Quietly Willmot reminded him, "By your own estimate, about three weeks should see us on the ship home."

  "Not by my estimate," he corrected. "Those words were Brassey's, not mine. The estimate his as well, and based on his ego, as always."

  There! The outline of John's latest and most violent disagreement with Brassey. When work had first started back in Balaklava in January, at John's urgent recommendation, Brassey had pulled one hundred and seventy navvies off the line, armed them, briefly trained them with the help of the army, and had sent them out to act as scouts. Thus, with this slight protection the other fifteen hundred navvies had proceeded with the blasting and the laying of track. The work had gone well, with round-the-clock shifts, the men driving themselves as never before.

  But now, with the end in sight, Brassey wanted to pull the armed scouts back in. He'd called a counsel only the day before in the large mess tent, with five foremen present, including Willmot, though the true battle, as always, was between John and Brassey. And what a battle it had been, the worst to date, both men shouting at each other from opposite ends of the table.

  Brassey's contention was simple. The Russians had not felt compelled to attack in three months. Why should they marshal a force now when the railway was ninety percent completed?

  John's argument had been valid as well. Why not now? The army did not have the personnel to defend the newly built railway. What a simple matter it would be for the Russians to dispatch a unit to the rear, come upon the navvies by surprise, decimate their numbers, then, working backward, systematically plant explosives and destroy three months of hard labor.

  In a surge of pity Willmot watched John as he stared at the canvas floor covering. Whatever diversion he'd found in the young girl's letter was now gone, obliterated by his conviction that Brassey's judgment was flawed.

  Willmot started to speak, then changed his mind. In a way, he had to admit that he agreed with Brassey. The likelihood of a Russian attack seemed remote. There had been countless times in the past when they might have done so. But according to the scouts, they'd seen nothing in the frozen wilderness but bedraggled and retreating British soldiers. Then too, the job was so near completion.

  Those one hundred and seventy navvies back at work on the line could make a vast difference.

  If only he could convince John of this.

  Suddenly the flap of their tent was pushed open. From where Willmot sat on the edge of the cot, he saw the tall figure of Thomas Brassey, the tip of his nose and cheeks ruddy with cold, the rest of him so encased in cloaks and wrappings that he looked twice his normal size, filling the narrow tent opening and obliterating the still-gray afternoon sky beyond.

  John did not turn, as though he'd identified the man from the expression on Willmot's face. Without acknowledging Brassey in any way, he moved to his cot, retrieved his blanket and stretched out as though the most sensible course of action for all men now was sleep.

  Annoyed by John's rudeness, Willmot stood. "Mr. Brassey . . * He nodded courteously, trying to compensate for the disrespect coming from the cot.

  But Brassey had not come to see Willmot. From the moment he'd entered the tent, his eyes had never left John's face, and now, in spite of the rudeness, Willmot thought he detected a look of humor in Brassey's eyes. "I've come to effect a truce," he announced broadly, looking down on John. "There's enough warfare going on around us. I prefer not to engage in hostilities with my . . . valuable
assistant."

  My God! This was as close to an apology as Brassey would come. And considering that Willmot wasn't absolutely certain that Brassey owed John an apology, he looked down on the young man with increasing irritation.

  But John showed no sign of making a response.

  Brassey stared down on him a moment longer, then took one step toward the cot, his manner changing, becoming more businesslike. "I come with news," he said bluntly. "Czar Nicholas died on the second of March. Alexander has succeeded, and his first official act was to recall General Menshikov."

  The incredible message had been delivered in rapid-fire succession. Brassey smiled. "The Russian Army is in complete disarray, and my courier tells me that a tentative peace conference was opened in Vienna on the fifteenth of this month."

  Willmot grinned. Then it was almost over. Home to an endless hot bath, good English tea and one of Childe's massive beefsteaks. "Did you hear, John?" he exclaimed, puzzled by the continuing lack of reaction coming from the cot opposite him.

  Apparently Brassey was suffering from the same bewilderment. "Well, Eden, did you hear?" he shouted. "Please make a comment, suitable or otherwise."

  At last the head on the pillow shifted. "Our work here is completed, then?" he asked.

  Willmot was on the verge of answering when he saw Brassey's head moving back and forth. "Not . . . quite," he said, stripping off his fur hood. "The government wants us to finish what we've started."

  As though John sensed the man's hesitancy, he sat up, swinging his boots over the edge of the cot, his manner as cold as Willmot had ever seen it. "Why go to the trouble of completing a line that will never be used?"

  "I said ... a tentative peace conference," Brassey repeated. "There's still the matter of Sebastopol."

  John looked up. "The matter being that the Allies have it and the Russians want it?"

  Brassey nodded. "Undoubtedly it will be settled at the peace table."

  "And if it isn't?"

  Brassey hesitated, his pleasure at his own announcement rapidly receding. "It will be," he snapped. "In the meantime—"