Startled by the sudden clear image of the beginning, Bates shook his head to dispel all negative feelings on this day and heard the latch on the back door of the cottage slide open.
A moment later, there she was, a pail of feed in one hand, a broad white apron tied over what appeared to be a special dress for this special day. She paused for a moment in the first warming rays of the morning sun to lift her face heavenward.
There was the source of John's new peace and serenity.
He swallowed hard and heard her voice, “Good morning, Mr. Bates. You're up early. Best come in for a cup of tea and some fresh scones.”
How had she known he was herey in hiding behind the wall?
“Mr. Bates?”
“Coming.”
Sheepishly he emerged into full view, smoothing back his thinning hair, baffled — as he had been every morning for the past month — at her ability to detect him in his place of concealment behind the wall.
It was seven o'clock in the evening, and for the first time since seven o'clock that morning Susan sat, exhausted, in one of the chairs John and Mr. Bates had arranged on the grassy knoll fronting the cottage, to enjoy the peace of the evening, the warmth of good friends who had come this day, and — the richest sight of all — John, like an overgrown child himself, seated on the clinic steps surrounded by an adoring group of children, captivating them with melodramatic and slightly exaggerated tales of his adventures in India.
Close to Susan sat Mr. Bates, puffing on a pipe like a ready-made grandfather. Now, as John's voice drifted into her range of hearing, she asked Bates softly, “Did all that really happen?”
Mr. Bates smiled and let a thin trail of smoke escape from the comer of his mouth. “If John says it did, it did.”
She nodded, enjoying the old man's company, finding it hard to believe this was the same pompous man who had reluctantly led her into Eden Castle a year ago. Transformations all about — and within as well, for she too had changed.
At the sound of John's laughter, she looked up suddenly to see him enclosing a small boy in his embrace.
“He misses his sons,” she said quietly.
Bates nodded immediately, as though he'd made the same observation. “They are all he talks about during the workday. I've even considered writing to Alex Aldwell,” he went on, quite hesitant, “and...”
Susan leaned forward. “And what?” she prompted. Once, not too long ago, the same idea had occurred to her. “And what, Mr. Bates?” she urged, keeping her voice down, not wanting it to travel as far as the cottage steps.
Abruptly the old man fell maddeningly silent. He appeared to stare with a fixed gaze at the group on the steps.
“Mr. Bates, please. Do you think Mr. Aldwell might...?”
Even as she spoke, he shook his head. “Oh, Aldwell will do whatever we ask, I'm certain.” He paused and looked at her with a directness that startled. “The problem is, what do we want to ask?” For a moment they stared at each other. She realized it was John's radical transformation that was causing the problem. If it were merely reported, it would not be believed. Even seeing it as she was now, still on occasion she shared the startled bewilderment of the villagers.
“Well?” Mr. Bates asked. “I'll write a letter, if you'll phrase it.” Was that a challenge or an offer? She looked sharply at him. “I want him reunited with his family, most specifically his sons.”
“My desires precisely.” The old man nodded. “But they may not be shared by the family. Unhappily, that man succeeded admirably in driving them all away.” He bobbed his head toward John.
She rushed to correct him. “No, Mr. Bates, that's just the point. It wasn't that man. That man is gone forever.” They both looked in the direction of the storyteller.
“So do I do it?” Mr. Bates asked with a degree of apprehension in his voice.
She looked back at him. “What's the worst that can happen?”
“That they'll all ignore us.”
“They've done that for years.”
“Precisely.”
“You think Mr. Aldwell is the one?”
“Oh, yes. He's the connecting link between all members of the family.”
“And what will be your message?” she asked, suddenly aware Mr. Bates had obviously given this a great deal of thought.
He shook his head. “A request, simple and direct, for the family to return to Eden for the purpose of meeting Mr. and Mrs. John Murrey Eden, now in residence in the cottage on Eden Rising.”
“And whom will you ask that he send it to?'' she asked.
“Lord Harrington is in residence in Dublin, I believe. He has custody of John's sons.”
John's sons...
“And, of course,” Bates went on, “Lord Richard and Lady Eleanor in Kent. I understand there is a new child, a son.” The old man beamed. “Continuity, you know.”
She smiled and nodded. Please, God, a child...
“And Lady Mary and her American husband,” Bates continued, “though of course the distance from America undoubtedly would be too great for them. Does that meet with your approval?” Mr. Bates asked.
“Yes, it does,” she murmured.
“Then I'll do it tonight and post it tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“And then will come the hardest part.”
“What?”
“Waiting.”
At last she looked at him, hearing a new seriousness in his voice. “And I would suggest,” he went on, “that you say nothing to John...”
“No, of course not.”
“If they refuse to come, we can shoulder the disappointment for him.”
“Yes.”
They were whispering furtively back and forth and apparently John saw them and suffered an attack of curiosity. He concluded his story in the next few minutes and stood up among the children, keeping his eyes on Susan and Mr. Bates.
“Enough! He sees us,” Mr. Bates ordered. “Do you want to read the messages before — ?”
“No. You'll handle it well, I know.”
“No more. He's coming.”
She looked up and saw he was dragging a trail of children behind him, carrying one in his arms, a little girl who was running her small hand through his hair. Still several yards away, he called out, “You two look very secretive over here.”
Susan could not reply, but Mr. Bates did. “We were discussing the possibility of a second garden. Susan wants to try one, anyway. I offered to help turn the plot.”
Hesitantly she nodded. Not a bad idea.
Then he was upon them, the children scrambling everyplace, sur-
rounding him, a few grasping for his hands, others his arms, the young ones content with clinging to his legs.
“Susan, I'm taking these monkeys home. Do you want to...?”
“No need.” Bates smiled, rising stiffly from his comfortable chair. “I must go as well, and Im going in that very direction. I'll deliver each to the proper doorstep.”
John seemed hesitant. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I'm sure. Otherwise I wouldn't have offered.” Bates looked about at the laughing, chattering children who were now darting off in several directions. He viewed the chaos a moment, then stood erect. “But we shall do it my way.” Suddenly he clapped his hands exactly twice in two ear-shattering explosions which instantly summoned every child's attention.
“All right, line up,” he commanded. “Now!” It was the “now!” that set most of them into motion. With startling obedience they fell into line behind him.
Susan smiled, thinking he'd probably organized the enormous staff of Eden Castle with the same air of authority.
John moved behind her and put his arms about her waist, drawing her back against him, and confirmed her suspicion. “Give Bates something to organize and he's never happier.”
Finally all was ready, and on Mr. Bates's command the parade started, with the tall, lean man in the lead, like a grasshopper Pied Piper, his young and uneven “t
ail” elongating behind him, marching toward the new gate in the south wall. Susan and John watched until the last one had passed through the gate.
John, with his arms still about her, tightened them and drew her closer still.
“They adore you,” she murmured, leaning back against him, certain sensations beginning to grow under the influence of his closeness.
“It's reciprocal,” he said, and tightened his arms about her even more.
She felt his breath near her left ear and knew that all remaining chores would have to wait. As his lips commenced a teasing path down the side of her cheek, on down her neck, and across her shoulder, one of her last coherent thoughts was for Bates and the message which would be posted tomorrow.
Dear God, let them come...
At that moment she felt his hands turning her about, felt his lips on her forehead, moving directly down until they found their proper home on hers.
Though close, they were not close enough, and without a word he scooped her up, cradling her in his arms. She clung to him, knew their destination, and approved of it — more than approved, wondered if she could survive until they reached it.
Grosvenor Square, London August 4, 1875
Lord Richard was aware of Alex Aldwell and Aslam staring at him as he read the remarkable message from Bates. Although he'd read it twice, he read it again because he needed time to form a response.
“I don't trust him,” came the flat, clipped condemnatory voice from behind the desk. Aslam. The young man seemed unduly agitated.
“Well, I do,” countered Aldwell, “but then, you didn't see him down at that mission like I did.” He shook his head. “I tell you it wasn't the same man who - ”
“But what does he truly want?” Aslam went on, implying the letter was a scheme.
“I don't think he wants anything,” Aldwell replied.
“Surely you don't believe that?”
“Yes, I do.”
Richard heard the pause in the arguing voices, then heard a question which involved him.
“Richard, what do you think?” Aslam asked quietly.
He looked up from the prim penmanship, not quite ready to get involved in open debate. “I... don't know,” he faltered. “In a way, I've always expected such a letter would come. I didn't know from whom, and generally I envisaged it on the occasion of John's... death.”
“He's far from dead.” Aldwell smiled. “According to the letter, he has initiated half a dozen projects, including the clinic.”
Interested, Richard glanced down at the part of the letter which described the free clinic, the shared farmlands, the pooling of equipment to produce larger crops so the community would no longer be totally dependent upon the whims of the herring. Also the letter mentioned a “wife.”
“Who is the woman?” he asked, remembering Lila and fearing for any woman unfortunate enough to fall in love with John.
“Oh, that one.” Alex grinned. “I've had dealings with her.” Abruptly he stood and moved to the sideboard, where with careful deliberation he poured a small snifter of brandy. “Her name is Susan. She's a nurse, and one does not encounter her lightly.”
He lifted the snifter as though in toast to the absent Susan, took a brief swallow, made a wry face at it, then returned to the settee, where Richard was still studying Bates's letter.
“You know her, then?” Richard asked.
“Of course I know her,” Aldwell boasted. “In fact, I could have predicted last year when John was so ill and she was caring for him that he might at last have met his match.”
For a moment the large room was quiet, save for the street sounds floating up from four floors below. It had been mercilessly hot of late, and the casements were pushed open all the way to receive the maximum breeze. Richard felt the heat, felt a single drop of perspiration course down the small of his back, and recalled Eden, the place of his birth, the scene of his childhood, the longings and fears he'd suffered in that drafty old castle.
He looked back up in an attempt to gauge Aslam's reaction. That he was upset, there was no doubt. John had always intimidated him, a kind of spiritual bullying. Now, of course, he felt threatened anew. The man himself had apparently come roaring up out of a premature grave, wanting... What?
As the unanswered question echoed bleakly through Richard's mind, he saw the continued alarm on Aslam's face and wished he could alleviate it. But he couldn't, for two reasons. One, there had never been any successful way to predict what John Murrey Eden would do under any given circumstances, and, two, for all Richard knew, Aslam's fears were perfectly justified. He really couldn't believe a man like John would be content forever to preside over a rural free clinic and a row of cabbages.
At the preposterous thought Richard smiled. On the other side of the room Aldwell and Aslam were still at it, one terribly threatened, the other terribly pleased, while Richard sat at the far end of the settee puzzled, lost in indecision.
What if Bates had lied or exaggerated? What if Aslam's fears were well-grounded? Did he really want to take his wife and son into close proximity with a monster who was well known for his unique ability to destroy people?
“Gentlemen,” he said, suddenly rising, weary of hearing the bickering voices, weary of the debate raging in his own heart, “Mr. Bates set September 6 as the date of reunion. There's time to make a prudent decision, and I think for all concerned it must be the most prudent decision we are capable of making.”
As he spoke, he saw approval on Aslam's face, disappointment on Aldwell's. He was sorry for that, but between now and the date specified in Bates's letter he had much thinking to do. What if Bates's words were true? He disliked hating anyone or anything. If only John had not given him such just cause... Still, hate must ultimately be transformed into forgiveness if life was to flow again.
Now, without warning, as though his soul were testing him, he thought of the man he had first loved, Bertie Nichols — driven to suicide by John Murrey Eden. The memory took a deadly toll. The world had been denied that rare man and his gifted presence by John's arrogant self-righteousness. Despite the hot breeze which fluttered the casement curtains, Richard for a moment felt only the chill of recall, that winter night in Cambridge when he'd gone to Bertie's flat and found him hanging, his face already swollen and distorted.
Dear God, he'd not expected it to still be so painful. For a moment he couldn't breathe. In a sorrowing instant of perception he realized he'd spent all the intervening years since Bertie's death trying to find another Bertie. He never had and he never would.
Slowly he sat back down on the settee, saw Bates's letter in his hand and stared at it as though curious how it came to be there. Suddenly — though he once thought he'd expended all his hate for John Murrey Eden — he crushed the letter and hurled it across the room, watched it fall under a low footstool, and made no attempt to retrieve it.
As he bowed his head in an attempt to deal with the ancient grief, he was aware of the others watching.
“Richard, are you all right?”
He nodded to Aslam. It was all he could manage.
The next question came tentatively from the sideboard. “Will you be returning to Eden with me in September?” Aldwell asked. “It would mean a lot to John.”
At that he looked up. Did he really give a damn what meant a lot to John?
When he didn't answer, Alex prodded again. “Will you? Be going back to Eden, I mean.”
He gaped up at the direct question. Would he be going to Eden? He thought on it for a moment, then answered truthfully.
“I... don't know...”
Talbot House, Dublin, Ireland August 19, 1875
Who was it said that all discord was harmony not understood?
Lord Harrington couldn't recall, and decided whoever said it was a fool, anyway, as he sat behind his writing bureau, dreading the weekly post of bills overdue, and decided further he was more than ready for a particle of understanding, for the discord in his household was beginning to
take a dreadful toll, of himself, of his limited staff and — most important of all — of his two grandsons.
He looked up through the mullioned windows, which gave a perfect view of the meadowlands, which generally were the boys' favorite haunt. At first he couldn't see them and started up out of his chair.
Then he spied them where he least wanted them to be, near the big oak with the half dozen men Charles Parnell had transferred out to Talbot House several days ago — along with four large sealed crates which the men had hidden in the bam under bales of scattered hay.
Arms. Of that Lord Harrington was certain, both from the size and weight of the crates and from the care with which the men had handled them. As he had tried to quiz Parnell about both the men and the guns, he had been dismissed as though he were nothing more than a curious child.
The men need a safe refuge for a few days; then they and their cargo will be gone.
Gazing with fixed vision out of the window, Lord Harrington recalled the words as well as the voice and face of the man who had spoken them. His good friend Charles Parnell was changing, had changed. His dislike of the British had escalated into full-fledged hatred. Now he couldn't abide anything British and was advocating, both publicly and privately, a full-scale attack on British imperialism.
Lord Harrington suspected that his tools were the motley crew just beyond the big oak, who were lounging in various positions of relaxation, his grandsons in slavish attendance, apparently clinging to every word that was said, though from what Lord Harrington had heard earlier, they were scarcely capable of speaking the King's English. Rabble, all of them, ex-convicts he was certain, hired to perform unsavory services and ask no questions.
For a moment longer Lord Harrington stared at the bizarre scene, the meadow idyllic and green in summer ripeness, marred by that one ugly knot of humanity. Even the innocence of his grandsons seemed to be in the very process of becoming corrupt.
Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5) Page 55