The Eden passion

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  He stood a moment longer, then he walked to the front door, and stepped out into the quiet night. A stroll, perhaps that was all he needed, a convenient stroll along the walls of the palace.

  For about twenty minutes he stood thus, contemplating the possibilities of the night. He looked about on either side. The cottages where the children slept were quiet. It occurred to him then that if by some miracle his "stroll" proved successful, if out of one chance in a hundred he could gain admittance to the palace grounds and to the treasure house, then he must be prepared to make a quick exit from Delhi. With that in mind he made a brief detour around the side of the compound in search of the stable where his horse had been lodged. He found it beyond the rear courtyard, found as well a sleeping native boy who never so much as opened his eyes at John's approach.

  He checked on the horse, made sure he had feed and water, and was just heading around the other side of the compound, passing close to the rear rooms, when suddenly he heard a familiar voice, Jennings

  quoting Scripture again, and something else, a low female voice trying to keep pace under duress.

  The window was directly before him, the shade incompletely drawn. Quietly he approached, some stray voice telling him not to, but approaching anyway. He peered through the slit between shade and windowsill and wished instantly that he'd obeyed the voice inside his head.

  The scene was one of copulation, the specifics blessedly obscured by the spread dressing gown on Jennings' back, his bare feet pushing against the foot of the bed while beneath him lay his partner, her ankles loosely secured to the bedposts, her face covered by the crush of his body, only a soft voice escaping over the panting groans of the man who was raping and quoting Scripture at the same time.

  John stood a moment longer, magnetized by the ugly scene. Then he turned away. His eyes in passing fell on an abandoned light blue sari.

  Cautiously he stepped backward; then he was running, his legs devouring the distance to the front gate and the road beyond.

  Not until he reached the north gate of the fortress palace did he slow his pace. Breathless, he leaned against the wall and looked back the way he had come and tried to put the image out of his mind. It was his avowed intention then to seek immediately what he had come for, and to leave this wretched place of mixed gods. He did not belong here. But as long as he was here, he would make an effort to find what he'd come for, then leave before dawn, before he had to face Fraser Jennings again and perhaps carry out the instinct which he'd ignored in the temple of Bindhachal.

  Thus resolved, he looked about at the deserted streets which earlier that day had been filled with people. Twice he encircled the Red Fortress, taking careful note of the torchlight beyond the wall.

  As well as he could determine, there were four main gates giving access to the palace and courtyards. Three were heavily though sleepily guarded by dozing men in black turbans.

  According to Alex Aldwell, the treasure house was removed from the palace. John recalled the man saying that he had followed the old Emperor to a deserted mound. Then it must be in the opposite direction, away from the palace itself, toward the one area where he had seen no protruding structure over the wall.

  The feel of the night was strange. There were sounds, but they seemed to come from no specific source. No matter how hard he tried to discipline his mind, he still saw the image of rape. Running,

  he felt his way along the wall, coming at last to the grillwork gate, the grounds beyond empty, a garden of some sort, only the faint rustling of trees as a breeze brushed through them.

  Without giving himself a chance to debate the wisdom of his actions, he pulled himself up the grillwork, finding ready footholds, and in a remarkably short time dropped undetected on the other side.

  He felt a surge of excitement. How easy it had been thus far. He found himself in a garden which seened to turn on a spiral around several mounds of earth.

  A long avenue of trees confronted him then, leading to the largest mound, the branches indistinguishable against the night sky. He could not see the end of it. It seemed to him that he had been walking along this avenue for too long, and still no end in sight. The mound seemed to be moving farther away. Somehow in the dark he'd lost sight of the other mounds.

  A few minutes later the large mound of earth again came into sight, and he ran across an open space, experiencing a state devoid of good sense, intent only on his goal.

  He approached the mounded earth slowly, seeing to his amazement a small unguarded door. Though he found it incredible to believe that the bastion was not under guard, still he drew nearer.

  He had just touched the metal bolt when he heard, or thought he heard, a single step behind him. Confident that his ears were playing tricks on him, he turned rather slowly to confront the ghost sound, when something of incredible strength struck a blow across the back of his head.

  In a curious way, he had long expected it. He felt his knees give way, his body whirl around in a half-turn.

  Then a second, more powerful blow struck him across his forehead, and all became quiet. There was a white light inside his head and a distant mocking voice which chanted, "Fool!" before the ringing of bells deafened him and plunged him into darkness.

  Upon the instant of awakening, he turned away from the temptation of reason. He opened his eyes to find his face resting on damp dirt. It was dark, but not so dark that he couldn't see the three dirt walls about him and the bars in front of him, the entire cubicle measuring no more than four by four.

  He tried movement and instantly regretted it as pain cut across his forehead and down between his eyes. Reflexively his hand moved up,

  felt a dried substance on his face, coating the bridge of his nose, and his fingers touched the wound itself, a gaping hole which felt as though his forehead had been split open.

  Groaning, he gave up movement for a while and lay back against the dirt, his eyes staring sideways through the bars toward a steep dirt path which appeared to lead upward toward the spill of light at the top of the path. He was buried in earth somewhere.

  Stirred to new activity by the helplessness of his position, he again struggled to a sitting position, noticing for the first time that his shirt was gone, as well as his boots, as well as one leg of his trousers, slashed at the very place where he'd sewn his English pounds.

  In the dark, he dragged himself toward one of the dirt walls and rested against it. His worst enemy was his sense of his own stupidity. What in the name of God had possessed him? As self-abnegation burned into his consciousness, he rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Now and then a fresh trickle of blood slid down the bridge of his nose. He thought grimly though not too seriously that if someone didn't come soon, there was a remote possibility that he would bleed to death.

  But two days later, after having tested the bars and found them unmovable, after having tried valiantly to cover his urine and defecation with loose damp dirt, and after having watched the patch of light at the top of the tunnel fade and reappear at twenty-four-hour intervals, he clung to the bars in his weakened condition and found the courage to think the unthinkable.

  No one was coming, no one had any intention of coming. He had been placed in this hole for the purpose of starving to death. Who would hear his screams? In all the countless hours he'd spent in this pit, he'd heard nothing at all from above. Who would miss him and come looking for him? Hadn't he stupidly announced that night at Jennings' that he was striking out on his own?

  No! Slowly he dragged himself to the bars, lifted his head and shouted with what energy he had left, "Help . . . someone!" continued shouting these two words in sequence until his throat burned and the echo of his voice fell back upon him, unheeded.

  Through one entire interval of light he shouted, and when darkness fell, his lips were still moving, though no sound came out.

  His last conscious thought was of Harriet. How was it possible in so short a life for a man to take so many wrong steps? Still the tempta
tion gripped him to rise up just once more and tear the net of stupidity and circumstance in which he was entangled.

  But there was no energy for such an action. He charted one more interval of light and dark at the top of the tunnel. Or was it two, or twelve?

  He lost count.

  London, February 1856

  Andrew Rhoades sat behind his desk in the outer office of Sir Arthur Chesterton, pushed his lawbooks to one side and studied the brown envelope which only moments before had been delivered to him.

  From British Military Command Headquarters in Balaklava, it read. Momentarily the snow falling outside his window in the Temple faded, as did the street sounds of carriages on cobblestone. Both these sounds were replaced by the memories of bursting shell and screaming men.

  He shook his head in an attempt to shake off the memories and consciously reminded himself that he was safe in London, facing no greater threat than the gentle disappointment of Sir Arthur over his failure to complete the briefs before him.

  Andrew's entry back into civilian life had been easy enough. Armed with the Crimean Medal of War, he'd found doors opening to him that before had been tightly closed. After the senselessness of war, he'd discovered that his earlier dream of a career in law had been even more powerful than before. He'd made application, had passed the initial tests and had been called to the bar. With Sir Arthur as a considerate sponsor, he'd taken joyously to his lawbooks and now found himself working overtime in an effort to pass the final examinations and launch a small law practice of his own.

  Thus the war and all its accompanying horrors had been put far behind him. Seldom did he look back except at times like now, when it was thrust into his hands in the form of an envelope from British Command Headquarters in Balaklava.

  Curious, he turned the envelope over and felt the shifting of smaller envelopes inside. He rubbed his eyes for a moment and reminded himself again that he must consider the practicality of spectacles. The densely packed print of lawbooks was beginning to take a toll, and with his eyes still closed, he thought incongruously of John Murrey Eden.

  There too was a piece of unfinished business, prompted no doubt by the presence of the strange envelope in his lap. Since his return to London over a year ago, Andrew had followed every lead in an attempt to track down his friend. He'd gone by Jack Willmot's flat, thinking perhaps John might have returned there. But the landlady had said she had not seen him, and if Andrew did, to tell him to come and fetch Jack Willmot's belongings, which she'd stored in her attic.

  Andrew had even made a trip by Thomas Brassey's office, only to be greeted by an array of new faces, one dour man informing him that Mr. Brassey was out of the country, and no, he'd never heard of the gentleman named John Murrey Eden.

  The snow beyond the window had turned to sleet and rattled against the glass. He finished rubbing his eyes and opened them to a million spiraling suns out of which evolved one clear image of his missing friend. If only he knew where else to look!

  With the aid of a letter opener he slashed the heavy seal on the back of the packet and upended it over his desk. To his amazement, about thirty smaller letters fell out, some well-worn, mute evidence of their lengthy travels, and all bearing the remarkable name of John Murrey Eden.

  Bewildered, Andrew shuffled through them, his hand falling on a single sheet of paper, folded once, the unmistakable stamp of the military on it.

  Quickly he opened it, carried it to the window, and in the gray light of the snowy afternoon read:

  Dear Corporal Rhoades,

  As you well know, the day for which we have fought and prayed is upon us. With the Peace Conference in Paris going well, it has fallen our task to disperse all undelivered post addressed to our gallent men in the Crimea. We are sending along for your inspection and assistance a correspondence addressed to one Mr. John Murrey Eden. We admit that it would be a simple matter to return the various letters to the

  senders. But we are loath to return unopened mail from the war zone, as the senders are inclined to think the worst. Unable to locate a fatality sheet on John Murrey Eden, we must assume that he is in transit. A gentleman from Mr. Brassey's expedition has informed us that you and Mr. Eden were close friends. We located your address through army files, and if you know where Mr. Eden is, or where to reach him, we would be most appreciative if you would deliver this correspondence to him.

  Major Christopher Denning Army Post-Master General Balaklava

  Andrew stared at the letter, slowly returned to his stool and sat heavily. Obviously he wasn't the only one who couldn't locate John Murrey Eden. He looked at the scattered letters.

  Slowly he lifted one, observed the delicate penmanship and light blue paper, turned it over and read on the back: "Lila Harrington, Harrington Hall, Salisbury."

  Bewilderment increasing, Andrew searched his mind for any reference that John had ever made to one Lila Harrington. But he found nothing.

  One by one, he commenced stacking the letters, all addressed in that same hand, all signed by one Lila Harrington. Could there have been two John Murrey Edens?

  As he brooded, he continued to stack the letters, an ardent and intense correspondence, all from Lila Harrington. Then all at once he lifted a letter that broke the pattern, the handwriting different, and on the back a new name: Elizabeth Eden, 7 St. George St., London.

  To the best of his recollection, John had never spoken this name either. Quickly he sorted through the rest of the correspondence. Out of twenty-four letters, sixteen were from Lila Harrington, eight from Elizabeth Eden.

  Andrew thought he had known John fairly well, knew certainly his proclivity for London whores. But he had the feeling that neither of these women fit that description. For one thing, the writing paper in both instances was too fine. Generally whores did not have a stationer's account. Neither did whores live in places called Harrington Hall or St. George Street. But if John had been involved with gentlewomen, wouldn't he have told Andrew?

  Obviously not. Well, there was at least one bonus to the mystery. He now had two more addresses, locations where perhaps at this very

  moment John Murrey Eden was sitting cozy and warm before a fire, enjoying the companionship of one lady or the other.

  Hurriedly he slipped the letters from Salisbury back into the large envelope. Those would have to wait. He had neither the time nor the money for a trip to Salisbury. But the one at St. George Street held promise. He knew the location well, an easy walk which he'd make as soon as he completed the briefs for Sir Arthur. If he found John Murrey Eden alive and well and in the arms of a lovely lady, he'd feign anger before he embraced him. And if he didn't. . .

  Abruptly he pushed the thought aside. How he hungered to see his friend. What a reunion it would be!

  Then hurry! He returned all the letters to the packet, placed it to one side of his desk, like a treat which he would enjoy later, and drew the law volumes back and tried to concentrate on the difference between specific and general power of attorney.

  It was approaching nine o'clock when Andrew stood on the snow-covered pavement of St. George Street looking up at number seven, seeing it dark with the exception of one lamp burning at the second-floor window.

  Perhaps he should return at another time. But when? His studies kept him busy. He'd cut his work short this evening in order to make this trip. No, he must present himself and his inquiry now.

  On this resolution, he left the pavement and climbed the stairs and knocked once on the elegant door, tried to peer in through the leaded glass panel and saw only darkness. He waited a moment, then knocked again, louder this time.

  As he was about to turn away, the door opened a crack and a young maid peered out. "Who is it?" she demanded.

  Andrew tried to put her at ease. "I beg your pardon," he apologized, "but I'm searching for one Elizabeth Eden. Would you have—"

  "Gone to bed," the maid snapped.

  As she started to close the door, he stepped forward. "I'm looking as well for Joh
n Murrey Eden. Would you know—"

  From the faint spill of light from the lamp, he saw a change on her face. "What would you be knowing of John Murrey Eden?" she asked suspiciously.

  Grateful for the reprieve, he smiled. "I'm his friend. My name is Andrew Rhoades. We were in the Crimea together. I have some—"

  "You were . . . with him in the . . . war?" she asked, as though this were remarkable news.

  Andrew nodded. "The last time I saw him he was on his way home. I just wondered if . . ."

  He heard the sliding of the bolt, and a second later saw the door open to him, the little maid stepping cautiously back as though still on guard. "Wait here," she ordered.

  She closed the door behind her and circled him wide. "I don't know if she'll see you or not," she warned. "She's been . . . ill, but. . ." Again she hesitated. "You may be good medicine."

  As she hurried up the darkened stairs, Andrew felt a slight apprehension. Perhaps he should have sent a card around first.

  Too late now, and he shivered in the cold entrance hall. Clearly the reception rooms of this house had not been in use for some time. He peered through the doorway into what appeared to be the drawing room, though he saw the furnishings shrouded in white cloth. A gloomy place, he thought, and somehow a strong instinct told him he would not find John here.

  Perhaps he should leave before . . . Then he heard female voices coming from the top of the stairs, one insisting, "Show him in, Doris, please. Don't keep him waiting."

  He saw the maid hurrying down the stairs. "She'll see you, she will." She grinned. "It's the first time I've seen her out of that chair in . . . Please, this way, Mr. Rhoades, if you will."

  As he hurried up the stairs after her, he thought it unusual for a reception room to be on the second floor, and a moment later he realized with a start that he was being received in the lady's bedchamber. From where he stood in the door, his eye fell first on the mussed bed, then on the lady herself, who stood at mid-chamber, gazing expectantly at him, a frail slim woman, somberly clad in a dark dressing robe, her fair hair loosed about her face and down her neck, mussed, as though she'd not taken the time to groom herself.