Now, no one demanded more of her but Lord Kimbrough and Willie Gladstone, and she preferred it that way. She felt a bond of affection for both men, and there were other concerns filling her life now, namely her one consuming passion, which was to locate John, to make amends to him in whatever way was necessary, and to resume a life with him, giving him the support and loyalty she'd given to him as a child. With Willie Gladstone's help, surely they would locate him soon and bring him home safe and sound to her.
For several moments she knelt before the trunk, her hands flat-
tened on top. "Pray God keep him safe," she whispered, and vowed to work overtime during these summer days at the large warehouse near Newport Market, where volunteer women met daily to prepare parcels for the front.
Thus resolved, she turned her attention back to Edward's trunk and with childish delight dragged it out from its hiding place behind the wardrobe and into a position where the lamplight was bright. In a state approaching reverence, she had just lifted the lid when suddenly she heard a sound in the entrance hall below.
Newly alert, she listened, her hand suspended in midair. She'd given Doris the night off and had extinguished the lamps in all her reception rooms. Then she'd locked the front door and had taken refuge in her bedchamber. She was expecting no one.
She heard it again, a discernible step on the stairs, and as her pulse increased, she drew herself slowly up from her seated position. It occurred to her to call out for the identity of the interloper. But at that moment she heard an enormous crash, a splintering of glass and a deep hoarse "Dammit!"
The voice was familiar if the curse was not, and feeling a surge of relief, she was on the verge of calling out his name when suddenly her door burst open and there stood the man himself, his gray cloak hanging limp off one shoulder as his hand massaged his knee.
"Willie!" she gasped, stifling a smile. "You're not hurt, are you? What in the world . . ." In addition to the rather comic appearance of one of England's most prestigious cabinet members rubbing a bruised knee was her own somewhat bewildered state. "I wasn't expecting you," she murmured.
With a smile she urged him, "Come, sit by the lamp and let me examine your wound. You gave me quite a start, you did."
He followed after her, his hand smoothing back his long graying hair. "Why did I startle you?" he asked. "There are only two keys loose, aren't there? Mine and Freddie's? Surely you knew it would be one or the other of us."
Belatedly she remembered. "Of course. You're right. I'm afraid I wasn't thinking clearly."
"Are you sorry," he asked, "that it's me and not Freddie?"
Taken aback by the question, she drew her dressing gown about her and considered restoring Edward's belongings to the trunk. "I'm always delighted to receive you, Willie," she murmured tactfully, "and I miss you sorely when you're gone."
He sat wearily in the comfortable wing chair, his long legs spread
before him, seeing for the first time Edward's belongings scattered about the floor. "If I knew that you spent every night of my absence with a ghost, I'd have no cause to worry."
"You have none now." She smiled and knelt before him, blocking his vision of Edward's trunk. As she settled comfortably between his legs, she lifted one hand to the injured knee and commenced a gentle massage, while he responded by stroking her hair.
"You loved him very much, didn't you?" he asked, a sadness in his voice which she couldn't quite understand.
"He was a remarkable man," she said, and hoped he'd let it go at that.
But he didn't. "How often do you go through his things like this?" he persisted.
"As often as I feel it necessary."
"Does it bring him closer to you?"
"He inhabits me now. He can come no closer," she said. In a way she regretted the direction of the conversation. Edward occupied a portion of her heart which she allowed no other man to enter. "What has brought you to London?" she asked.
"You," he said.
There it was again, that sadness, as though he were facing a dreaded ordeal. "What is it, Willie?" she asked, settling back between his legs.
"I have . . . news, a most difficult message."
Again she heard it, that ominous tone, as though he were trying to warn her of something. Alarmed, she pulled free of his arms. "What message?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I considered sending a letter," he muttered, not looking at her. "But I found the courage to come myself."
A thought was forming in her head which she rejected. "Willie, what is it? Have you received word concerning . . ."
Still she could not speak the name. Then she had no need, for he inclined his head forward, confirming her fears.
"I received the dispatch while I was in Wales," he began, his normally rich voice a monotone. "I'm afraid it's several days old. There was an attack on civilian navvies by a large Russian contingent at a place called Section Three below Sebastopol." His voice broke. "Over two hundred fatalities, and scores wounded, the rail link destroyed by explosives."
As his voice rose, she realized that at some point she'd ceased hearing individual words.
His name is John Murrey Eden and he's my son, she heard Edward say, as clearly as though he were standing beside her.
She looked up into Willie's face. "John . . ."
He nodded. "He was in charge of the crew, along with his friend Jack Willmot. We've not received a complete fatality list, but. . ."
Silence closed about her. She glanced up toward the window, where the moon shone through the mist. Briefly she breathed her fill of stillness. Then someone was calling her name, but she had no idea who. All sense of the room, the house, even her own name vanished. She was cut adrift.
"Elizabeth, please," someone begged close behind her. But the terrible silence continued to encompass her, giving her the impression that she had destroyed something. Again Edward's voice came to her from a distance.
If something happens to me, take care of my son for me. Promise?
Then the voice disappeared, taking all light and warmth and hope with it, leaving her with the sensation of arms about her, trying to support her grief.
Aboard the Belle Poule, First Night Out of Malta
From his table for two near the bulkhead beneath the oil portrait of Louis-Napoleon, John looked apprehensively out over the crowded dining room, his eyes fixed on the far arch through which at any moment would appear the albatross with which he'd been burdened for the duration of this lengthy voyage.
Now look at him, palms sweating, out of sorts, awaiting a man he'd never met, a "cultivated English gentleman," Captain Desfosses had said, "the only other single civilian gentleman besides yourself, Mr. Eden, and with the dining room filled to capacity with officers and their families, would you be so kind as to allow this gentleman to share your table?"
But that was not the worst of it. The worst had come as the sly dapper little French captain had been departing from John's stateroom.
"Fraser Jennings is the gentleman's name," Desfosses had announced. Not until he had been halfway out of the door had he turned back, grinning. "Reverend Fraser Jennings, it is, Mr. Eden. Mercil"
John had called him back, or tried to, but by the time the awful realization had fully swept over him, that he would be taking every meal for the next six months with Reverend Fraser Jennings, it had been too late. The cheeky little French captain was no place in sight.
Reverend Fraser Jennings!
Damn! It wasn't fair, not fair at all, and he was on the verge of leaving his chair and letting his absence speak for itself, when, at
that moment, a most unusual sight appeared in the archway. Now, there was a suitable dinner companion. Why couldn't Desfosses have guided that specimen to John's table, an Indian gentleman clearly, tall, most distinguished-looking in his slim white coat and wrapped leggings, an elegant white turban encasing his head.
So dramatic was his appearance that John noticed others looking up, a hush falling over the once
chattering room. Strange, but John did not remember seeing an Indian embark at Malta. Now he leaned up in his chair as the gentleman continued to stand in the arch, as though aware of himself as spectacle.
A moment later John saw Captain Desfosses appear at the gentleman's side. Of course, what else? The scheming captain had kept this prize for himself. His annoyance mounting, John was in the process of looking away when suddenly he saw Desfosses take the Indian gentleman by the arm and point him toward . . .
John sat up. They were heading his way, the Indian carrying himself with great dignity through the crowded tables, both men drawing nearer, until at last they stood directly before John where he sat at the table.
"Ah, Mr. Eden," Desfosses beamed, "allow me to present your dinner companion, the Reverend Fraser Jennings, and, Reverend Jennings, may I present Mr. John Murrey Eden. I'm certain you two gentlemen will. . ."
But John was certain of nothing. As the man inclined his head in a formal Indian greeting, John slowly rose from his chair, his attention drawn to the "Indian's" eyes, as blue as Wedgwood plates, and to the fringe of sandy blond-gray hair which was visible beneath the white turban.
"Reverend. . . Jennings?" he stammered.
"Mr. Eden," the "Indian" responded stiffly. "I thank you for the generosity of sharing your table and I trust that my companionship will not be too tedious for you."
Still John gaped and was only vaguely aware of Desfosses slipping away, as though he'd done his duty. Then he saw the "Indian" withdrawing the chair opposite him, sitting erect and launching immediately into the fruit salad, leaving John in a rather predominant standing position with the weight of approximately seventy sets of eyes upon him.
"Please do sit down, Mr. Eden," the man murmured. "We've provided theater for the others long enough."
At last John came to his senses and sat rapidly, aware of the sound
of cutlery scraping against an empty bowl. In less than a minute the fruit salad opposite him had been devoured, and now he saw Reverend Jennings lift an imperious hand to the nearby steward, informing him without words to bring the next course.
Never had John seen such an appetite. In less than twenty minutes, without a word spoken between them, the man had consumed the complete menu, two stewards hovering over them now, one to accommodate Reverend Jennings, one to serve John, who was just commencing his oxtail soup.
Well, thus occupied, the man would require no conversation, although now curiously John found himself suffering from an acute desire to learn all about this blue-eyed Indian.
But to his disappointment, he saw the man conclude his cherry tart with a flourish, wave aside the offer of coffee, press his napkin primly to his lips and start to rise from the table.
"I thank you again, Mr. Eden," he said stiffly, "and because we must share this table, I see no reason for us to intrude into each other's privacy. I shall not be a burden to—"
Quickly John cut in. "I assure you, Reverend Jennings, you are not a burden. In fact, I was wondering if you would care to join me later in an after-dinner drink."
"I do not consume spirits, Mr. Eden," the man said, looking down his long slender nose, "and for the first three months of this voyage, I will not partake of any of the public rooms."
"For the . . . first three . . ." John tried to repeat, his bewilderment increasing.
"I am in a state of mourning, Mr. Eden, having recently buried my wife of forty-seven years."
Sobered by the grim announcement, John murmured, "I'm sorry . . ."
"Don't be, Mr. Eden. May was a good woman, a faithful partner, but she loathed India. There was a sense of shared relief as I lowered her into her English grave. Now, if you will excuse me . . .*
And with that he was gone, moving with dignity back through the tables, leaving John with his mouth open.
It was several moments before he shook the strange mood completely. At the same time, he made a quick reassessment. Whatever Reverend Fraser Jennings was or wasn't, he would not be a bore. In fact, John found himself eagerly looking forward to breakfast.
But the place opposite him was empty the next morning, and remained empty throughout luncheon, and it wasn't until nine
o'clock that evening that John caught his next glimpse of Reverend Fraser Jennings, clad again in Indian garb, blue this time, matching his eyes.
"Ah"—John smiled as he approached the table—"I missed you this morning and at luncheon. I trust you are—"
"I partake of only one meal a day, Mr. Eden," the man said. "God frowns on dietary excess," and following this rather pompous announcement, he launched forth into one of the most impressive displays of gluttony that John had ever seen, consuming everything in sight as rapidly as possible. Throughout the silent meal, John found himself fascinated at the speed and skill with which the man could transport food to his mouth.
As the platters were emptied, John leaned forward, determined to engage the curious man in at least limited conversation. To this end he pushed aside his own dinner and subtly inquired, "May I ask your destination, Reverend Jennings?"
The man looked up as though startled both by the question and by John's presence. "You must make up your mind, Mr. Eden," he said sternly.
Taken aback, John faltered. "I. . .don't. . ."
"Do you want conversation or not? When I approached this table last night, I felt a negative presence, a resentment that I—"
"What nonsense." John laughed nervously.
"It isn't nonsense, Mr. Eden. Mother India has taught me much. Generally I can discern a man's thoughts with great accuracy."
Embarrassed, John took momentary refuge in his napkin. "Perhaps in the beginning I was skeptical," he confessed.
"But you're not now?"
Damn! Why was it necessary to hold a discourse on the art of social conversation?
"You anger very easily, Mr. Eden. Did you know that? It could be a fatal flaw and should be checked."
Truly annoyed now, John was in the process of continuing his dinner, when without warning the man across from him laughed.
"Of course, I don't deny that this tedious voyage would be more pleasant with companionship," he said, a degree of warmth in his voice which John had never heard before. "But the desire must be mutual. In the process of talking, we will reveal parts of ourselves to each other, give ourselves away, as it were. Is that a gift you are prepared to receive, Mr. Eden?"
Dumbfounded, John did well to nod.
"Well, then"—Jennings smiled—"in answer to your question, my destination is India. Where else? I have a mission school in Delhi, established it thirty-five years ago. I've turned many a native eye toward redemption, Mr. Eden."
As the words tumbled out, John briefly regretted his insistence on conversation. Abruptly he caught himself. If the man could read thoughts. . .
"Born in Alfriston on the southern coast of England," Jennings went on, "and received my call from God while a boy of thirteen beneath the very tree where John Wesley preached his first sermon."
Still the words came, his voice growing lighter, a brightness in his eye which did not seem wholly appropriate for a grieving husband who had just buried his wife of forty-seven years.
"Educated at Oxford. I speak French, German, Arabic, Italian, Persian and Urdu. I prefer the rationalist philosophers such as Locke and Hobbes, and I play an aggressive and warlike game of chess. Do you play chess, Mr. Eden?"
Taken off guard by the direct question, John nodded. "On occasion I-"
Reverend Jennings beamed. "Then we have found our true salvation. Come, my boy. I never travel without mankind's two major supports, the Holy Bible and a chess set. Come, we'll have coffee in my stateroom, and I warn you, watch your queen. I'm barbaric where queens are concerned."
Before John could protest or decline, Jennings was standing behind his chair, taking him by the arm and literally propelling him through the dining room.
Great God, what had he done? Condemned himself to six months of chess, that's what
he had done, condemned himself further to the companionship of a man who in a good clinical sense could be considered totally balmy.
"Come along, Mr. Eden." Jennings grinned again. "What an adventure we have before us! The only accurate way for one man to get to know another is over a chessboard. There true colors are revealed, philosophies made clear, souls purged. What a stroke of good fortune for both of us. Wouldn't you say?"
Then John heard it again, that slightly nasal Oxford purr. 'Too late for doubts, Mr. Eden. At least for the duration of this voyage, we are bound together. At your insistence, if you will recall. . . ."
Six months later, John stood on the deck of the Belle Poule watching the crowded dock at Bombay, certain in his mind that he never wanted to see another chessboard as long as he lived.
In spite of his present irritation, he was forced to admit that the tedious and at times hazardous voyage had passed fairly rapidly. Not that he had learned a great deal more about Reverend Jennings. The man played chess the same way he ate, with an astonishing single-mindedness which did not permit too many verbal exchanges.
Still John was relieved that their companionship was coming to an end. He glanced over his shoulder now, waiting for the man to appear so that they might say their good-byes.
Below, John looked out over the dock at the fascinating scene with rising excitement. India! How often he had dreamt of this moment. The Great Adventure, the new horizon which had beckoned to him since he was a boy. Looking down, he saw hundreds of dark-skinned people, women with their faces concealed behind veiled saris, a solid crush of ox carts, cows roaming at will.
"Quite a pageant, isn't it? Can you imagine the challenge of diffusing among those inhabitants the light and influence of the Truth?"
John recognized the voice without looking, having heard it shout "Checkmate" countless times. "Reverend Jennings"—he smiled, extending his hand—"I wanted to say good-bye and thank you for an . . . interesting voyage."
"A pleasure, my boy," the old man replied, as though touched by sentiment. "Your chess tactics are rudimentary but sound. Stick with it and you could be a master one day."
The Eden passion Page 44