Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5)

by Marilyn Harris

  He looked about frantically and thought he shouldn't be here at all. He should be with Eleanor, enduring the last few days of her pregnancy. Yes, he would leave London in the morning, immediately following a shopping spree during which time he would select rubies for Eleanor, to show his gratitude to her for producing his son.

  For a few moments it helped to plan, but ultimately he'd planned everything and there it still was, Bates's letter with that nightmare message: This is to inform you that Elizabeth Eden was executed by firing squad on November 15...

  London December 15, 1874

  Susan shivered at the back of the freezing tent in Whitechapel and tried to concentrate on the angry words of William Booth, who seemed more like a military man than a man of God. Yet his good works were undeniable, and nightly Susan gave thanks to God for directing her faltering footsteps to this man and his vision, his calling, his service.

  Tall, black-bearded, lean; deep-set eyes which saw clearly every flaw, frailty, and injustice that ran rampant in this London world, William Booth did not speak when he could shout, did not walk when he could run, did not comfort when he could challenge and affront, like now.

  “Look at you,” he cried to the one hundred or so men and women huddled together inside the tent which served as meager protection against the biting December wind. “God demands of you unfaltering obedience under any circumstances, any conditions, and yet you shiver in a faint wind and lack the energy and will and discipline even to raise your voices in a song of thanksgiving...

  As the nightly tirade continued, Susan pulled her heavy cloak more tightly about her, trying hard not to be aware of the creeping numbness in her feet and ankles. Reverend Booth was right. The warmth of God's love should suffice. But it didn't always.

  “This is our Christian mission to the heathen of our country,” Booth went on, his voice strong and loud, resonant in the cold night air, no sign of faltering, never a sign of weakness or hunger or despair or any of those bothersome hells that plagued ordinary mortal men. In most ways Catherine, his wife, was exactly like him. Susan had never seen such zealous dedication to the cause of unhappy, suffering humanity. In the two weeks since she'd joined their Christian mission on a voluntary basis, she'd witnessed acts of selflessness worthy of a saint.

  Reverend Booth's primary enemy — besides the bone-racking poverty and disease which plagued London's dockside population — was the church itself, the organized prosperous church that had totally forgotten Jesus was a friend of publicans and sinners and outcasts, that perhaps before you gave them the sublime knowledge of the love of God you may have to give them food and a roof for the night.

  In addition to the poor, the curious, the cold, and the hungry, the large tent gave shelter to Reverend Booth's entire volunteer task force of over fifty men and women, Susan among them. Most of them were young, but there were a few older, who had been searching all their lives for a cause greater than themselves to which they could give themselves. Like Susan, perhaps they had been running from a certain destructive force in their lives. Now all had come together, hungry as the lost flock for purpose, direction, and knowledge of that greatest of all lights, God's love.

  Suddenly the powerful voice coming from the platform at the front of the tent fell silent. She looked up, to see Reverend Booth bend over the edge of the platform, his hands reaching down to someone, his face obscured by the sharp downward angle of his head. A new hush seemed to fall over the large tent as Reverend Booth helped a man climb up on the platform.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the reverend shouted out over the silent tent, “may I present a lost lamb, a man who in despair turned his back on everything life had to offer him, which was considerable.”

  Leaning from side to side in an effort to see over the tall man standing directly in front of her, Susan caught only fragmentary glimpses of the platform. Standing head down next to Catherine Booth, she saw a lean man, bearded, gray hair, his head bowed, eyes closed as though he was at prayer.

  One phrase stuck in her mind as she struggled to see the “lost lamb” who... turned his back on everything life had to offer him, which was considerable.

  Curious, but in the dock area of London one did not tend to think of lost lambs as having “considerable.” She knew from recent and painful experience that the apparently blessed of this world frequently suffered the most, like...

  John. John Murrey Eden.

  She allowed the name to march very sedately through her mind, as though to test it. As a test, it failed. With the very first syllable the man himself was before her in perfect clarity, his eyes, the line of his jaw, the way the sun struck his forehead.

  For a few moments she lost all contact with the cold tent, the once “lost lamb” standing between Catherine and William Booth. Silently she turned away from the platform, pushed gently through the crowds behind her, apologizing to the few who looked annoyed at the disturbance, but finally made her way to a deserted place near the rear of the tent, where the chill draft was converted into a cold, angry wind that whipped the hem of her long black skirts and sent shivers of cold over her.

  She gripped the stiff canvas and clung to it, appalled she'd not progressed with this private Gethsemane as far as she once had thought. It had been her hope, in leaving, to leave all memory, all feeling behind as well. Instead, his face rose before her, and as she tried to concentrate on the tent, she heard the “lost lamb” introduced as Lord Someone, who had found his silver spoon bitter-tasting and empty.

  Susan listened, trying to discipline her mind to the testimony of service. Yet she continued to cling to her small hold on the frozen canvas tent, and still he was there before her, wholly resurrected, until at last his image and his memory were everywhere, in the howling wind, in the mixed voices coming from the platform, and — worst of all — in the pronounced and prolonged silences of the audience itself. Everyone now was listening intently to what was being said.

  Still she tried not to see or hear him, suffered both sensory illusions and went weak with need. She closed her eyes and wept as she had not wept for two weeks since she'd arrived in London. She couldn't do it, exist without him, or at least without obsessive thoughts of him, for even in the pain of recall she found life more palatable than without his memory.

  “Sister, are you well?”

  The voice of concern came from behind. She brushed away her tears and looked over her shoulder and saw Cassie Helms, the large robust woman who had been the first to receive her two weeks ago at the Christian mission.

  “Sister?” Cassie inquired again, leaning closer, as though a look at Susan's face would reveal all.

  It didn't reveal all, but the sight of tears gave dear Cassie a boost in the wrong direction. “What a good heart you have, Sister Susan,” she murmured, placing one ample arm around Susan's shoulders, “to be so moved by a mere tale of salvation. I will tell Reverend Booth. He will want to talk with you, I know, for he has often said the truest love springs from the fullest heart.”

  The memory of John was still so strong that Susan lacked the energy to offer a correction.

  “Come,” Cassie urged, apparently hearing Susan's mysterious grief increase, “you must meet Lord Simmons for yourself and allow Reverend Booth to see the visible manifestation of your loving heart.”

  Again she lacked the strength or the desire to correct the misinterpretation, adding cowardice to her spiritual weakness. What was the matter with her? She hadn't asked for this frailty, had done nothing to court it, prompt it, or encourage it. She wanted only to be free of it and of him — and of all the pain that was pressing down on her.

  “Come, Susan, a word from Reverend Booth and your grief will abate. I swear it.”

  Don't swear, dear Cassie, she thought bleakly, and knew with a sinking heart she was not yet cured of this most awesome illness, and suspected that if a cure existed, it was to be found in long hours of back-breaking labor. To that course of action she pledged her life, and what was left of her hea
rt.

  Paris December 25, 1874

  Aldwell felt battered after four days of listening to old Bates describe in graphic detail the barbaric death of Elizabeth Eden and John Murrey Eden's subsequent disappearance. He had bolted without funds, without the slightest knowledge of the French language and, according to old Bates, without purpose or destination.

  Aldwell glanced impatiently at his watch and tried not to hear this new description of “that saint's last moments upon this earth.” Old Bates clearly enjoyed his role as eyewitness to the grisly tragedy, and for once Aldwell was grateful to the Yuletide revelers who drank noisily at the tables around them in the crowded Saint Sulpice Coach House.

  He had been in Paris since December 21, and outside of vaguely accomplishing what he had come for, he'd been here exactly four days too long. And yet what he had accomplished had left him strangely dissatisfied, as though there were a major piece to the puzzling disappearance of John Murrey Eden which even old Bates had overlooked.

  In the last few minutes before the coach arrived which would take him back to Calais and the night packet across the channel to England, Alex decided that he was incapable of hearing one more time how Elizabeth Eden had refused the blindfold and had looked her murderers straight in the eye.

  “Bates/' he said sternly. “We can do nothing for Elizabeth now.” He felt awful just saying those words, but there was the truth of it, and the sooner he and everyone else faced it, the better.

  Impatiently he turned to look out of the smudged mullioned windows, where a fine sleet was exploding against the casements.

  “So you think this inspector will be able to locate John?” It was Bates again, newly quieted, as though — at least for the time being — he had talked himself out.

  For that Alex was grateful. For the question itself he was less grateful. It reminded him of the dandified little Frenchman who had applied to their advert. His portfolio had been impressive and he had claimed his specialty was the tracking down of famous and notable persons. Although his price had been exorbitant, Aldwell had paid it on the condition the man report daily to Bates, who was staying on at Monsieur DuCamp's lodging house in the event John came to his senses and returned. Charley Spade and Jason would remain with Bates, at least for a time.

  “About Monsieur Clichy,” Alex went on, finding it somehow very difficult to keep his thoughts moving in a given direction, “be certain to keep your appointments with him every evening, and if he manages to uncover anything, you let me know at once. By special courier.”

  Bates nodded, his face a mask which said this was old territory and no need to go over it again.

  Alex lifted his mug and drained his mulled cider, wondering if he had time for another and hoping he didn't, even though the steaming liquid would be a good protection against the cold drive to the coast.

  “Food, sir?” Bates invited considerately, pointing to the huge side of beef roasting noisily on the spit over the open fire. “It will be a long and cold - ”

  “No. No, thank you,” Alex said, shaking his head. He turned again to the window and peered out. No sight of the coach, but he did see that awful mix of flesh and bone and ragged clothes and cadaverous bodies that always attended the comings and goings of every coach that left from any inn the world over.

  Beggars, most of them were, footpads, thieves down on their luck, all hoping for a coin or two from the travelers, who — or so the beggars figured — must have coin to spare if they were paying someone actual money to take them from here to there.

  Turning away, Alex saw the large coach pulled by eight horses just turning out of the lane at the end of the road.

  “Well,” he said, standing with dispatch, seeing absolutely no need to linger. They had said everything that had to be said at least twice.

  “Safe trip, sir.” Bates smiled, standing as well.

  A bellowing voice shouted out the arrival of the coach, and it seemed to Alex half the crowded inn got up and made their way to the door. His heart sank. There was no way all these Frenchmen would be able to get on. But as it turned out, only eight were boarding the coach for Calais, including Alex. The others were apparently only well-wishers.

  Bates maintained silence until it was Alex's turn to mount the coach. In one hand he held his small portmanteau, with the other he clamped his soft-brimmed hat, so it wouldn't be dislodged in the strong winter wind.

  “God go with you,” Bates shouted over the bustling of the crowd.

  Alex nodded, thinking he'd never felt a colder wind, and knew the channel crossing would be miserable. As he settled stiffly into the window seat, a fat priest settled next to him, smelling of garlic. For several additional minutes the coach bobbed and sank lower under the weight of heavy trunks thrown atop and secured. Grateful he had brought just one small bag, Alex eased it under his seat.

  At that moment the confusion threatened to turn into chaos as the fat priest withdrew from a large case an immense and smelly sausage. Outside the carriage Alex saw the innkeeper, clad in a brown-splotched apron and rolled-up shirtsleeves, wielding the stick end of a large broom, which he swung wildly at the band of beggars, who, tempted by the meat, were creeping ever closer to the carriage, threatening the friends who were seeing off the passengers.

  Despite the ugliness of the moment, Alex's heart went out to the beggars. He'd been one of their brotherhood, had been down and alone without funds and terribly in need. Remembering his own grim days following his return from India years ago, he studied the frozen men, saw them all inadequately clothed against the biting wind. A few wore the old army-issue square cap which had been the uniform of the Crimea. Most, Alex realized, were the approximate age to have served in that senseless conflict — which for some reason made the scene even more intolerable.

  But the innkeeper was having his way, still swinging the handle end of the large broom, dispersing the beggars. Most of them backed away, a few raising their hands in angry and obscene gestures, but most merely retreated, like that one, tall, gaunt, his head totally obscured by a rather decent-looking hooded cloak, which undoubtedly he’d stolen.

  A newcomer to the ranks of beggary, was Alex’s guess. The cloak, for one thing, and for another, that curious wicker case he clutched to his chest even as he turned away from the muddied area around the coach. Alex brooded, finding it easier to concentrate on the retreating beggars than on old Bates’s upturned face.

  At last Alex heard the cry of the coachman and shifted closer to the cold window in an attempt to put at least an inch of space between himself and the priest, who had now devoured over half the long sausage, punctuating bites with low, deep, pleasurable burps.

  As the large coach started forward, Alex lifted his hand to his forehead in salute to Bates and wondered bleakly if the man might as well not be on this same coach with him returning to London.

  Aslam’s voice again cut through the chaos of departure. John staged his own disappearance, as he will stage his reappearance when he's ready.

  Was that true?

  Suddenly Alex shuddered and closed his eyes. John, he thought, and prayed for his safety, wherever he was, and thought how much simpler life would be if he didn’t love him so.

  London December 25, 1874

  Seated alone in the Grand Dining Hall of the mansion in Grosvenor Square, Aslam listened to the silence and waited for Maudie Canfield to appear with his dinner. The silence suited him, as did the state of being alone — and the dinner most certainly would, for over the years Maudie had learned to the letter what he liked. Everyone who served Aslam learned that lesson early on or they did not serve him for long. He was perfectly aware of his imperiousness, and cultivated it as a living tribute to his great-grandfather, who had been the last emperor of the Mogul Empire until the British had turned Delhi into a caldron of hate and distrust, treachery and corruption. Then, as though the bastard trespassers had been unable to live with their own monstrous creation, one peaceful Sunday afternoon they had set the torch to the e
ntire city, burning the Red Palace, his great-grandfather, and three thousand years of history, wealth, and tradition to the ground, and, in the process, cheating Aslam out of his birthright to the Peacock Throne and all of India.

  The silence of the room held. A few moments later he brought his thoughts under control. It might have been better if Richard could have stayed, but he'd remained too long as it was.

  Seated at a table designed to serve fifty, Aslam was certain Richard would never make it to Kent in time for Christmas celebrations. If Eleanor chose to bring forth her child today, she would have to do it alone, and that brought him the greatest degree of pleasure he'd felt all day long.

  Richard would return to him as soon as the woman delivered herself of her awful cargo. Then he and Aslam had vowed to remain constant for the rest of their lives. No more female impregnations, regardless of the sex of this birth. If the Eden line continued, well and good; and if it didn't, well and good. Besides, as Aslam had pointed out to the amusement of both, there were always John's offspring to corrupt the line further.

  Impatiently he looked over his shoulder toward the service door that led down to the kitchen, wondering what the delay was. How long did it take to prepare one hard-boiled egg and a cup of buttered noodles? Not that he was hungry. But he might as well eat now and get it over with. It was simply a bodily necessity, the consumption of food an obscene waste of time.

  Outside the windows he heard a distant tinkle of bells, several shouts of “Merry Christmas!” and a sudden sharp peal of a child laughing. He closed his eyes and envisioned a scene so removed, so distant and foreign to this London world, that for a moment he gazed upon it with complete objectivity. But the longer he kept his eyes shut, the clearer that foreign world became, more than clear, literally upon him, absorbing him, welcoming him. A hot, dusty red-dirt courtyard baking in a high-noon sun, old men sleeping around the shaded edges, like discarded bundles of old rags, and there a trellis with climbing red flowers as large as a man's hand. Beyond the high walls of the courtyard he heard a din of street noises, wagons, livestock, vendors hawking, but inside this courtyard it was safe and peaceful.