Again Miss Mantle came to the rescue. “And I can assure you she is a gift from God.” The woman smiled, trying to send comfort to the far end of the table, where it was sorely needed.
Grateful, Alex felt the tension was ready to ease in all quarters save one, and that was the man still brooding down the table in the direction of Rose O'Donnell.
“If you are from Dublin, Mrs. O'Donnell, what are you doing on the North Devon coast?'' John asked, stroking the silver head of his walking stick.
“Me... husband,” Rose O'Donnell stammered, “...died. I couldn't pay the landlord and couldn't find me no job. So I thought I'd go to London, where I'd heard all things were possible. But the Lord led me here and that kind lady took me in and I'm not sure where I am, sir, or how long me good fortune will last, but I get down on me knees every night and thank God for it, and for you.”
If the tension about the table had been heavy before, now it was merely paralyzing. The man who had forced the unpleasant confession seemed to be suffering the most.
“I'm... sorry,” John muttered, grasping the walking stick, though he was still seated. “I quite honestly don't remember your arrival.”
“I know, sir. It's as Miss Mantle says, you have your own cross - ”
“Well, welcome to Eden,” he said gruffly, cutting off her expression of gratitude and sympathy and looking nervously around as though he expected someone to get him out of this awkward predicament.
And they did. Or rather she did, Miss Mantle, who stood abruptly and began to gather up the scattered cutlery. “To work,” she announced broadly, as though extending the advice to everyone. And accordingly the men stood up with such speed that their chairs scraped noisily on the floor. They conferred briefly with Mr. Bates for a moment, then started off at a brisk pace toward the door.
“Sorry we have no cigars, Mr. Aldwell,” Miss Mantle apologized, “but I wouldn't let you smoke them in the company of Mr. Eden...”
Alex smiled and nodded. “Never touch them,” he lied.
Then she was gone, hoisting the heavy tray of dishes with only slight visible effort, following after Rose O'Donnell, who had just left the Grand Dining Hall.
As the woman's heels sent back an efficient click, Alex saw John grasp the walking stick with even more strength, that ominous preoccupied brooding expression very much in evidence on his face. As soon as she eased the door closed behind her, John gave in to a relatively quiet explosion.
“Women!” he muttered, as though he knew she was still outside and thus within earshot. “If it hadn't been for that noble gentleman there,” he said, indicating the scarecrow Bates, who now sat conspicuously alone at the far end of the table, “she would have driven me into my grave by now.”
Alex disagreed. “I would say that she has done an admirable job of keeping you out of your grave.”
To this comment John said nothing. “Amuse yourself for a moment, Aldwell,” he snapped, and started away from the table with a pronounced limp, leaning heavily on the walking stick.
For a moment Alex felt a stirring of pity. He was still watching closely as John drew near to Bates. He saw him glance back the length of the table toward Alex. Was that an accusatory look on his face? What the hell? Why were they whispering? Since when had John kept secrets from him? And in his recuperation had he forgotten how untrustworthy old Bates was? Three short months ago he'd wanted John's hide.
Then the conversation at the door was concluded. He saw Bates hover over John as though to make certain all was well. As always, John dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand and watched the man through the door, waited until he closed it behind him, then at last turned to face Alex with the entire length of the room stretching between them.
For a moment Alex wondered if he needed assistance and considered offering it, then changed his mind as he saw John renew his grasp on the walking stick and bow his head into the effort of walking.
“I see you helped yourself,” John called out when he was at midpoint of the table.
Alex nodded and lifted his glass as though to confirm the evidence. “I hope that was all right.”
“Of course. Don't be foolish. In fact, pour one for me while you're at it, and I'll try to arrive there before it evaporates.”
At this small display of self-pity, Alex thought he detected a greater display of effort on John's part, as though the impairment had worsened in the last few minutes.
“Oh, Alex,” John mourned, “I never thought I would come to this, a cripple.”
“Well, I wouldn't call you a cripple, John,” Alex replied. “Perhaps briefly... incapacitated. But if that nurse has her way...”
“Why didn't you want to take me back to London?”
Oh, Gawd! Alex turned quickly away on the pretense of warming his hands. In truth, he needed a moment. So! John had overheard everything. He remembered once suspecting as much but had been unable to bring himself to believe that the lifeless and unresponding man was capable of...
Enough time had passed. “I didn't think you were well enough to travel,” Alex said, turning back to face the accusation.
“She said I was.”
So he'd overheard that as well. “At that time she had her own schedule to pursue. I did not feel she was making that judgment in your best interests,” Alex responded, struggling to maintain at least a degree of outer calm.
“I could have received excellent medical care in London,” John muttered.
“You were receiving it here.”
“Of questionable quality.”
“I don't call the results questionable.”
“I can't walk.”
“Three months ago you couldn't sit up. It will take time - ”
“What is your news? When will they arrive? I need a crew of men out here. Much to be done to get this place ready.”
Stunned by the rapid transition, Alex felt the need for time and distance.
“Well?” John demanded, apparently abandoning his hurt over Alex's lack of loyalty.
For a moment all Alex could do was to shake his head in an idiotic fashion, all the while trying to deal with this man who was making plans for renovation for a family that would never arrive.
“John...”
“Elizabeth. What have you heard from Elizabeth?” John demanded. “Of course, she should have been here by now, but I'll forgive her for her tardiness. Is she still in London? Tell her I need her here. That should draw her away from her dressmakers and her salons quick enough.”
“John, please...”
“Don't tell me. She's not still angry with me, is she? Surely not after all these years.” At some point the demanding arrogance had disappeared and in its place was a small boy, hurt, abused, in need of gentle reassurance.
For a moment Alex found himself seriously considering a small harmless lie. How much easier to say, yes, that Elizabeth was still angry with him than to tell the truth. But he couldn't do that
“John, I'm afraid that...”
“Did she speak of me at all?”
Alex turned away back to the fire. “No.”
For a moment there was only silence and the faint crackling of the flames. Then: “Alex, are you...?”
“Yes, I'm certain, John,” Alex said forcefully, resenting both the man's ability to manipulate and his willingness to be manipulated. “She said absolutely nothing about you because she isn't at her dressmakers or in her salon in London. In fact, she isn't in London at all.”
“Has she married?” John asked with sudden interest.
Unable to see either the point or the relevance of the question, Alex dismissed it. “I don't know. All I know is that the first messenger was unable to find her, and the second messenger was”
For the first time in several minutes, the frown left John's face and he smiled. “Thank God.”
Then Alex could keep still no longer. “The second messenger located her, with great difficulty, in the La Rochelle House of Detention in Paris. He was unable to fi
nd out the nature of her offense or the length of her sentence. He said the French - ”
Before he completed the message, John had angled the chair into position and now sat heavily, his face upraised, brow furrowed, as though Alex was using a foreign tongue and the words were not registering.
“La... Rochelle, a house of...”
“A prison,” Alex said flatly. “That's what the French call it.”
“I... don't...”
“Neither did the messenger, though it was his opinion she'd got caught up in some of the women's antics a few years back, that march on Versailles, burning down half of Paris in the process...”
But if John remembered anything, it was impossible to tell. The mind had apparently caught on one word and could not move past it.
“I must go to her,” came the insane pronouncement from the man slumped in the chair.
“John, that's-”
“ — the only sensible course of action,” John countered, on his feet now as though the forward movement were capable of propelling him across the channel. “You said yourself the French were hostile to-”
“I didn't. The messenger - ”
“No matter,” John said, and dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “She needs me. She... needs... me” And all at once, quite incongruously, he laughed. “That is miraculous, isn't it, Alex? I sit out here concentrating on how much I need her, while all the time - ”
“John, listen to me. It would serve no purpose - ”
“Serve no purpose! My God, I'd do the same for you - ”
“What? What precisely do you intend to do when you arrive in Paris?”
“Get her out, of course. What else?”
“How?”
John faltered. “Hire a solicitor. Get a new trial...”
“You have no jurisdiction and less power in France.”
“Money is power, Alex. My God, I thought you would have learned that by now.”
“In London, yes...”
“Also in Paris.”
“What if she's guilty?”
“Of what?” Again John laughed, a hearty sound considering the nature of their conversation. “My God, Elizabeth couldn't commit a serious crime if she put her entire mind and soul to it, you know that. She used to scold Mary for stealing irises in Hyde Park.”
Alex was forced to concede the truth of this claim but the fact remained that the messenger had located her in a prison.
“I know what happened,” John claimed flatly, and took another chair halfway down the table, as though he were growing tired and too stubborn to admit it. “While Elizabeth was never very good at committing crimes, she was always excellent — first rate, as a matter of fact — at choosing the wrong companions with which to associate.”
True again. Alex could not refute this. “Still, John, I don't think that you - ”
“I'll leave immediately,” John pronounced. He was up to another favorite trick of his, a rare talent for hearing only what he wanted to hear. “The sea air might even be good for me,” he went on, seeming to gain energy as the idea gained momentum. “I'll find her. Yes, I will,” he pledged, “and I'll get her out and I'll bring her back to Eden and I promise I'll forgive her everything, and then the others will come - ”
Abruptly he stopped, some minor key entering the major harmony of this greatest of all family reunions. “I take it you did... not hear from the others?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder, the expression on his face suggesting that he already knew the answer.
“No,” Alex confirmed, and, not wanting to dwell on the absence of news, he took up the theme of his newest worry. “John, listen to me. You can't go running off to Paris. It's a very different Paris now than - ”
“I don't give a damn about Paris,” John exploded, his anger, Alex suspected, aimed at the silent and unresponding family. “I'll fetch Elizabeth and not linger, I can promise you that. You know very well my feeling toward the French,” he muttered. “Yes, we'll leave immediately. See to the arrangements, Alex. I'll go and tell the others. Of course, they are welcome to stay here until our return. I don't want to appear ungrateful...”
Stunned by this new turn of events, Alex tried to choose the right moment in which to jump in with his objections, and when none seemed forthcoming, he jumped in anyway. “John, I - ”
“And I don't want to go by way of London,” John said, talking quite volubly now and keeping pace with his words — or at least as much as the left leg would permit. Without warning, he looked up as though a stunning thought had just crossed his mind. “The f-firm...” he stammered, and briefly all color seemed to have left his face, and for one incredulous moment Alex suspected that this was the first time the firm had crossed his mind.
“...is doing well.” Alex smiled, pleased at last to find some good news to relate.
“Aslam?” John asked.
“You'd be proud of him.” Alex nodded. “Four years ago I wouldn't have wagered one pound on the lad. Now I'd stake my life's fortunes on him.”
“He is... in charge?”
“Absolutely,” Alex said, still amazed that for years John had exhibited no interest in the major effort of his lifetime, the largest, most profitable construction firm in the British Empire. He was prepared and even eager to give him figures, the impressive statistics of growth and good management. “We have a workshop in Scotland now, John. Aberdeen.”
But if the news of expansion penetrated at all, John gave no indication of it. Instead he turned away from the news and walked in the opposite direction, head down.
“John, regarding this... trip to Paris...”
“Yes, as I said, we'll leave immediately.”
“I can't go to Paris with you, and you shouldn't go.”
For several moments John looked back as though bewildered by the blunt announcement, and Alex braced himself for the anger which would surely explode any minute now.
Instead, with complete calm John turned about and looked benignly down on the table. “I didn't ask you to go, Alex,” he said, a raw chill to his voice. “Nor did I ask your opinion concerning my plans.”
“But you can't go alone. Your health - ”
“I have no intention of going alone.”
Suddenly there was a light rap on the door. “Mr. Eden?” The voice, filled with hauteur, was familiar. Bates.
“Come in, Bates,” John called out, and Alex thought he detected a new cordiality in his tone.
The next moment the door was pushed open and the man stood, ramrod-straight, exhibiting an almost militaristic bearing.
“Bates, what would you say to a brief ocean voyage, across the channel and deep into snail-eaters’ territory?”
Despite the hauteur, a look of bafflement crossed the old man's face. “Where, sir?”
“France, man,” John exploded, in remarkably good spirits considering the variety of bad news that Alex had shared with him this day. “I need a man to accompany me on a very important rescue mission. Are you game?”
For the first time Alex saw Bates glance down the length of the table to where Alex stood, as though asking without words why he wasn't going.
“Responsibilities... in London,” Alex said, and hoped that it would suffice.
Apparently it did. Either that or John didn't give him a chance for further inquiry. “We'll need a roadworthy carriage and passage from Dover...”
As John listed his various needs, Alex returned to the fire, suffering a peculiar splintering of emotions. No longer was he John Murrey Eden's “running man.” Obviously someone else had been selected for that role. And he had willingly surrendered the job. Then why was he so resentful of the new association which was being formed at the end of the table, Bates at some point drawing forth a small black leather notepad, still writing after John had ceased itemizing, stopping only with John's gentle humor: “You must escort me, Bates. No choice, for after all, I'm your prisoner.”
Bates looked up from the notepad. His lined face seemed to freeze w
ith thought for a moment. Then a subtle smile rearranged the lines, and though he didn't respond, he did nod.
“Well, then,” John added, “be about it.”
Bates slapped the notebook closed, tucked it safely inside his vest pocket, and asked one simple question. “The time of departure, sir?”
Without hesitation John replied, “Tomorrow morning.”
“Impossible, sir.”
“Why?”
How many times in the past Alex had been confronted with that questioning look! Now, thank God, it was someone else.
Bates met the challenge admirably. “Simple, sir. There are eight carriages in the carriage house and none have been road-tested in over four years. There are wheels to mend, axles to check, interiors to be - ”
Never a man to abide detail, John bellowed, “Then when?”
Again Bates seemed to be flourishing under the weight of his new responsibility. “One week.”
“Five days.”
Bates nodded. “I can do it.”
John beamed and looked upon the man as though he were a national treasure.
“One thing more, Mr. Eden,” Bates said, moving toward the door.
“Yes?”
“We'll need funds.”
All at once John laughed. “Funds?” he repeated, and glanced up toward Alex at the fireplace.
“Your name is credit enough in England, John,” Alex explained. “But it will mean nothing once you reach Calais.”
Bates nodded, a strained but genuine understanding springing up between the two men, a sense of a banner passed.
Apparently John saw it as well. And disliked it. “Well, give him a letter of credit, for God's sake, Aldwell.”
“The French couldn't give a damn about your letter of credit, either, John,” Alex said, grateful now that it was Bates and not he on the threshold of this mad journey.
Stymied, John exploded. “Well, what in the hell do you suggest?”
But it was Bates and not Aldwell who solved the problem with ad-
mirable dispatch. “May I make a suggestion, sir?” he inquired with impeccable politeness.
“Please do.”
Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5) Page 16