John replied as honestly as possible. “I think so, Bates. I used to count on you to tell me that.”
A quick smile creased Bates's thin lips and was canceled as he ducked his head. “We're all here, sir,” he said on a fresh breath, and at the same time gestured over his shoulder toward the two men who continued to sit frozen atop the carriage seat.
At the gesture, John saw Charley Spade stand as if answering a roll call. Jason waved, his hand lingering in midair for a few seconds, as though he wanted to wave again.
“I... recognized the young lady,” Bates said, still awkward.
“Susan?” John inquired, and wished he knew a way to put the man at ease. “We are going to be married,” he announced simply.
“I say.” Bates brightened. John saw the continuing pleasure on his face and was pleased by it. “Here in London?” Bates asked, daring to step closer, as though not wanting to miss the reply.
“No. At Eden, or — more accurately — Mortemouth. Susan suggested Reverend Christopher.”
“Of course. Ideal.” Bates ducked his head and apparently caught sight of the wicker case. For a moment the color left the man's face. “We... were so worried, sir,” he muttered.
John nodded and thought what a considerate way to deal with a truant. “I'm sorry, Bates, to have bolted like that.”
“It's nothing.”
“But I felt I had - ”
“I know. I know.”
“Who told you I was here?”
It seemed time to change the subject. Perhaps one day they could discuss what had happened in Paris, but not now.
Since the initial greeting they had moved closer together. Now it was Bates who bridged the distance first with a single step. “Aid-well,” he said. “Alex Aldwell. A decent man...”
“He is.” John nodded in full agreement. “But how did Aid-well...?”
As one answer simply provoked more questions, John looked toward the mission, surprised to see everyone still waiting and watching, including Susan, who had ventured several yards away from her friends, yet still a distance from where he stood talking to Bates. The sight of her standing alone — in a no-man's-land, as it were — moved him.
“Excuse me, Bates, just a moment, if you will.” He ignored Bates's puzzled expression and started slowly toward her, trying to read her expression and, in lieu of that, trying to memorize every angle and slant of her features. Then he was before her, unmindful of everything save her desirable presence.
“Shall we go home?” he inquired softly.
“I'd like that.”
“Bates?” he called out, extending a hand to the old man, who still seemed too stunned to move, “when are you taking that... curiosity back to Eden?” He gestured broadly toward the old road-weary carriage.
Bates gaped a moment, as though not understanding the question. “Now, sir. We were on our way out of London when we stopped here to see...
Now?
He looked down on Susan, who held her portmanteau in one hand, her valise in the other. “Why not?” She smiled. “If it's all right with Charley and...”
John nodded and walked back to Bates. “Would it be all right if we...?”
At once Bates beamed. “Nothing would give us greater pleasure, sir. Nothing in this world, I assure you.”
Then John was aware of Susan coming up behind him, saw Bates bob his head and blush crimson. “Ma'am,” he murmured, “it's very good to see you again.”
“And you, Mr. Bates.” She smiled. “You're looking well.”
Abruptly John walked back to the carriage and extended a hand up to both men. “Charley...”
Charley Spade was in a state of awe. He shook his head. “Gawd, I never thought I'd lay me eyes on you again, Mr. Eden. You ain't a ghost, are you?”
John laughed. “Sometimes I feel like one.”
“We looked, sir,” Spade went on. “Didn't we, Jason?”
Jason nodded. “Good to see you again, sir,” he said in that clipped East Indian speech.
Charley Spade bent down. “What is it you're doing in a place like this, sir?” he whispered, as though he didn't want to offend anyone.
John smiled. “Leaving it, primarily. We're going back to Eden,” he added, extending his hand to Susan, who came up alongside him.
A broad grin spread across Charley's face. “That's where we're headed, it is, Jason and me and old Bates. We've had enough of cities for a while, ain't we?”
Jason nodded broadly.
“Here, now,” Charley went on, “why don't you come with us? We got this big carriage and...” Abruptly he stopped talking and hopped down from the high seat to take Susan's luggage and toss both pieces into the backseat of the carriage. “There. It's settled,” he said, still grinning. “It is all right, ain't it, sir? I mean, I was hired to escort Mr. Eden to Paris and back again. Well, the 'back again' part is just coming a little later.”
Bates nodded. “My thoughts exactly, Charley.” To Susan and John he instructed, “You two sit back here, and I'll ride up here to keep an eye on these two.”
So it was settled, though John felt such a draining emotion that for a moment he closed his eyes.
“Are you all right?” Susan whispered, taking his arm.
He nodded, and he was. It was just that sometimes he felt so foreign inside his own skin. This world was so simple, so comprehensible. That other world had had to be dealt with and subdued every day, every hour, constant assessments of the status of enemies, the aggression of competition, constant vigilance against new assaults. Then the mind had never rested, had schemed long into the nights, and had awakened early in the morning.
“Sir, a word, if I might...” The request came from Bates, who held the carriage door while Susan settled in by the far window.
“Of course.” John smiled.
“Sir, my request is simple. If you are returning to Eden, obviously you will be reopening the castle and will be in need of a...” The man broke off. “What I'm trying to say, sir, is that we would consider it an honor if we could serve you again in any capacity...”
John looked toward the carriage and saw Susan listening.
“No,” he said, and saw the surprised, shocked expressions on all three faces, and said it again. “No. Never again will anyone ‘serve’ me or do work I could not do for myself.” He felt Susan's hand tighten around his. “And we do not intend to reopen Eden Castle, Bates,” he went on. “I'll leave that to someone else.”
“I... don't understand.”
“Our destination is Eden Rising and the cottage there. We intend to repair and inhabit it, enclosing the west portico for a small clinic so Susan can... continue to serve.”
“I see, sir,” Bates murmured, the disappointment showing despite his claim of understanding.
“Now,” John continued, drawing a deep breath, “there will be much work involved in such an undertaking, and while I refuse your offer to serve me, I'd be most grateful if you and Charley and Jason would work alongside me. But I swear to God I'll set a fast pace.”
At first nothing moved on anyone's face. All three expressions were identically blank.
“Well?” John urged.
At last Bates stirred, though his first words were little more than splutterings. “I say, sir. I mean, yes, of course. I think I speak for all of... I say, yes, we will join you, won't we?”
“Then let's go.” John smiled, walking away from the carriage back to where he'd left the wicker case. As he stopped to retrieve it, he was aware of everyone watching and was sorry for this sad note coming at such a happy time. When they arrived at Eden he would bury the wicker case containing Elizabeth's gown in the Eden graveyard next to his father, then try to put the past behind him.
When he returned to the carriage he saw Bates standing beside the open door. “Mr. Eden, I - ”
“My name is John.” John extended his hand to the man as though they were meeting for the first time.
Bates nodded, though something seeme
d to be pinching — the past, his training...
Then John had an idea. “What's your given name, Bates? Your Christian name. What did your mother call you?”
All at once the old man blushed crimson. “Bates is my name, sir. It will do.”
“No. If we're to work side by side, you call me John and I'll call you...” He extended his hand as though waiting for Bates to fill in the missing word.
With growing reluctance, Bates maintained an embarrassed silence. Finally, with head bowed, he muttered something John couldn't hear.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Percival,” Bates repeated, a dark cloud of embarrassment gathering on his brow, which remained until John, fighting against a smile, lost the battle and gave in, until he was laughing openly and Bates with him and Susan and even the two atop the carriage, laughing like fools, like people who had called the world's bluff and who — at least for the time being — appeared to be winning.
Mortemouth, North Devon May 11, 1875
Standing before an ancient pier glass, courtesy of Meg Winchombe, surrounded by half a dozen women from Mortemouth who made continuous adjustments to her lovely white silk wedding dress — a miracle of a dress, really, which had been put together in the last three days by Sarah and Martha Turner, artisan seamstresses of Mortemouth — Susan turned slowly on cue while all checked the length of the hem.
As she turned, she suffered an almost overwhelming sense of miracle and remembered this was where it all started, with Reverend Christopher's urgent midnight call.
“Hold still, Susan,” Martha Turner scolded.
Susan obeyed and studied once again that strange woman who stared back at her from the pier glass.
Mrs. John Murrey Eden...
Soon — in less than twenty minutes — it would be a reality, so she'd better adjust to it. On that gentle self-scolding, she drew her attention back to the ladies.
Meg Winchombe saw something in Susan's face. “Now, don't go scared on us, Susan. You're a lovely bride and deserve the best.” The others looked up from their adjustments and nodded in agreement, were still nodding when Meg added ominously, “Of course, only time will tell if you got the best.”
“I believe I did, Meg,” she said quietly, feeling no real need to defend John. She knew what difficulty they were having accepting him as he was now. Most still distrusted him, recalling the imperious monster of Eden, who bore absolutely no resemblance to this thin, slightly bowed, unfailingly courteous man she was marrying within the hour.
Meg nodded, her prim blue hat with the single peacock feather bobbing up and down. “Well, you'll have to forgive us if we content ourselves with waiting and seeing.”
Susan nodded and realized it would take time and hoped John would be as patient with them as he had been with the staff at the mission. As the endless fussing continued, she asked of anyone who cared to answer, “What time is it? We mustn't be late.”
“Three-forty-five,” said Meg Winchombe. “Fifteen whole minutes. Can't you wait?” There was a touch of innuendo in both her smile and voice. “And don't be too disappointed. Mr. Eden just simply don't look like the man he used to be, if you get me point.”
Susan got it. How could she miss it? But the indomitable Meg leaned closer, persistent if not tactful. “Do you have any notion of what will happen tonight? In this very room?” With excited eyes Meg gestured about the small room which Reverend Christopher had said she and John might share after the wedding until the cottage was completed.
“Of course I do, Meg.” Susan smiled, wishing the woman would change the subject.
“Have you ever received a man?”
“No,” Susan murmured, blushing.
A knowing grin passed among the ladies of Mortemouth. “Well, what you lack in experience, Mr. Eden can more than make up for.” Meg grinned.
Susan felt her embarrassment vault and was grateful to Martha Turner, the eldest at seventy, who scolded, “Leave it be, Meg. What Susan and her husband do tonight is between them, and that's as it should be.”
The reprimand was harsh, though lovingly delivered, and a repentant Meg busied herself with something behind Susan and apologized lightly. “Sorry, love. Didn't mean to cause no harm.”
“You didn't,” Susan smiled.
They all worked in silence for several moments, a few still making adjustments to the hem, Meg concentrating on the sheer veil which had been lent to Susan by Meg's aunt. In fact, almost everything had been lent or donated. John's good black suit was courtesy of Bates, who, thrilled over being asked to serve as best man, had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the ceremony. The plain gold ring which John would place on her finger shortly was the gracious gift of Reverend Christopher, who had been positively ecstatic when he'd heard the news, insisting Mr. Eden allow him to offer his dear mother's wedding ring which was serving no purpose locked in the small trunk at the foot of his bed.
In this and in countless other ways their generosity had been moving. Of course Susan knew they were pleased she and John were settling in their community and so close, merely at the top of the cliff walk, behind the old castle in the small cottage on Eden Rising.
At the thought of the cottage she closed her eyes and saw it — not as it was at present — as it could be, restored and shining, the side portico enclosed to form her own clinic.
“There!” a female voice pronounced close by.
She opened her eyes to the pier glass, to the reflection of a woman she failed to recognize at first. Was happiness capable of doing all that?
“And don't forget these.” Martha Turner smiled, presenting her with a stunning bouquet of white roses mixed with heather.
With a smile of thanks, Susan accepted the flowers, and again realized how much had been given to her by these people. At that moment she heard a knock at the door.
“Susan? Are you ready? Time...”
Reverend Christopher.
“Is John — ?” she called out through the door, and was not given a chance to finish.
“Nervous as a cat,” Reverend Christopher called back. “Mr. Bates and the others are doing their best to calm him.”
Poor John, she thought, wanting all at once to get it over with. She took a final look in the mirror and wished her parents were still alive.
“You look beautiful,” Meg murmured.
To her surprise, she discovered she was beautiful. The simple white silk dress — a marvel of tailoring — followed perfectly the contours of her waist and breasts, the tapered sleeves ending in delicate points over her wrists, the tiny buttons of the bodice stopping short at her breasts, leaving a smooth white oval of neck and shoulders, the entire effect enhanced by the lovely lace veil.
Martha Turner smiled. “Don't look like no Susan Mantle I ever knew/'
“It's the same, I assure you.”
The knock came again. “It is time, Susan. Church is filled and Mrs. Hawkins is priming the organ.”
Meg Winchombe drew open the door. On the other side stood Reverend Christopher, dressed in his fancy black clerical robes, his large Bible cradled in his arm. On his face Susan saw a most rewarding expression, a joyous look accompanied by whispered words.
“It's Mrs. John Murrey Eden, I believe.”
With all fears and apprehensions banished, Susan took his arm and went forward to make the statement a reality.
It was approaching nine o'clock when the last well-wisher took his leave from the small garden which fronted the church which had served as the site of one of the most joyous wedding celebrations Mortemouth had ever witnessed.
Exhilarated as she'd never been before in her life, Susan hugged old Martha Turner and thanked her again for the very special wedding gift of the gown. And there were so many others to thank as well. As out of thin air, all evening special treats had appeared on the long table which ran the length of the garden, a lovely table covered with a white linen cloth — courtesy of Sarah Hensley — fresh bouquets of colorful garden flowers and culinary
treats of every description. There were plump roasted chickens, rounds of cheddar cheese, every kind of freshly baked rolls and scones, bowls of ripe fruit and small round barrels of churned butter and clotted cream, pickled herring and sweets in the form of tarts, puddings and small brown cakes, and one beautiful wedding cake with surprises of candied fruit baked throughout.
Now, as Susan waved a final time to Martha Turner, she stood up straight and drew a deep breath, looking around, a little surprised to find the garden emptied except for a familiar circle of men seated at various angles of repose on the steps of the church.
In the gathering dusk, confident they weren't aware of her watching them, she turned to drink in the peace of the evening, luxuriating in the happiness of her heart, and to study from a distance the most remarkable man God had ever created.
Still in his borrowed dress blacks, though the tie had been loos-
ened, John Eden sat at the center of the group, knees raised, listening to something Mr. Bates was saying. Charley Spade was there, as well as Jason, Reverend Christopher, Tom Babcock, and two or three others she didn't recognize in the falling dusk.
She knew they were discussing the renovation of the cottage on Eden Rising. As the whole village had joined forces to make this day memorable, so now they seemed equally willing to lend a shoulder, tools, and time to the reconstruction of the cottage. She knew that all were vastly pleased “the nurse” was settling in their village — accidents and illnesses could now be dealt with immediately. No more waiting for “their turn” on the circuit. Then, too, she suspected there was considerable curiosity about John Murrey Eden, and even more fascination that the clinic would be located on Eden ground, that once-forbidding stronghold of wealth and power at the top of the cliff walk.
Tom Babcock was speaking as though reinforcing an argument. “I just don't think they'll use it. Some won't, I know. They're afraid, some of them, because that's been forbidden to them all their lives, don't you see?”
Mystified both by his intensity and by what he said, Susan looked up and tried to discern the nature of the debate.
Nothing. All heads were now bowed in what seemed to be deep gloom. She focused directly on John, relishing every angle and aspect of that bowed head, wishing, whatever the nature of the problem, they could solve it quickly and John could bid them good night.
Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5) Page 53