Yet what could he do? He was indebted to Charles Parnell, who had lent him funds when he'd left England so hurriedly, taking his grandsons away from the influence of their father. Parnell had even located and acquired this secluded estate for him outside Dublin. In the past, anything Lord Harrington or his grandsons had ever needed had been instantly supplied by Parnell himself. Now perhaps it was time for Lord Harrington to return some of the kindness and accommodation.
He shook his head and broke the line of vision that was causing him such trouble, closed his eyes a moment to rest them, and in that instant saw a perfect and clear image of Eden Castle.
John... dead.
Could the woman Rose O'Donnell be believed? If so, then would it be safe to return the boys to their family seat? And who was in residence now at Eden, and would they welcome the sons of John Murrey Eden, or would they...?
As always, there were no answers to his questions. With a sigh he returned to his bureau and began to sort through the various envelopes. One from his estate agent in Wiltshire, who was having trouble liquidating his English property because of taxes; and of course there were the endless bills, more each month; and an announcement for an auction over in Trilby; and...
Hello, what was this? He placed the bills to one side and a small, thin envelope slipped from the larger ones. He saw instantly its difference, an English stamp, a worn, well-traveled look to the envelope, and — most important — an unfamiliar hand. He lifted it free of the others, pushed back in his chair, and angled the penmanship toward the bright August sun. Not until he turned it over and saw the familiar crest of the Grosvenor Square mansion in London did his excitement mount, along with a curious sense of dread.
Who? News of John? Aslam? What and why?
Even as his mind presented these frantic questions, his hand was splitting the seal, drawing back the flap, and pulling free several pages of correspondence, pages which did not seem to be of a piece.
He unfolded the first, a rather lengthy two pages which appeared to have been extremely well read and which were addressed to Lord Richard Eden.
Lord Richard.
Even before he commenced reading, he turned to the second page and saw at the bottom a neat, proper signature of one Percival Bates.
Percival Bates?
He looked up, confident he had never heard that name in his life. Bates... John's old butler years ago was a Bates, if he remembered correctly. One and the same?
Then he began to read. He read straight through the remarkable document, then read it again, then a third time, and was just commencing the fourth when suddenly he placed the pages heavily on his bureau, aware for the first time he was in need of a deep breath of air.
It was from the old butler Bates, though a very different Bates, who spoke of hideous matters. John's terrible illness, his long recuperation and ultimate excursion to Paris in search of Elizabeth, his ordeal — and this Lord Harrington could not bear to read again, could not even think on it.
Elizabeth... executed?
It was the words in combination that did the damage. Needing help to perceive them, he bowed his head into his hands, made the sign of the cross upon his forehead, and prayed for the salvation of Elizabeth's soul.
Minutes later, far from being restored, but curious about the second note, he opened this second letter and found the gold-embossed Eden seal at the top of the page and Lord Richard's elegant penmanship informing him of Bates's request to reunion at Eden Castle the sixth of September, 1875.
No! Never!
He looked up from reading, still mystified. John alive? Perhaps. John changed? Never! John's soul reformed? Not possible. Living in the cottage on Eden Rising? There was no cottage on Eden Rising, only a shack in the process of falling down, beaten to earth by years of weather and neglect. And living with his... wife?
Wife! That angered him most of all. How many wives was a man entitled to destroy? The monster had already destroyed one, his beloved Lila.
Reformation, redemption, forgiveness — these were the themes of old Bates's letter. Exaggerated, all exaggerated, no doubt.
Suddenly from outside the window he heard a cry, followed by the sound of men laughing, and looked up to see Stephen suspended, one man holding his ankles, another his wrists, swinging him through the air, his protestations clear but no one paying the least attention to them, little Frederick standing to one side, frightened, while the pleas of both boys were ignored by the laughing, jeering, bored men.
Enough!
In mounting anger, Lord Harrington pushed away from the bureau with such force his chair tilted and clattered backward. He didn't stop to right it. He stopped for nothing except to retrieve the curious letters which had arrived from London.
“Stop it!'” he shouted, running across the green. “Stop it, I say, this moment!'' he shouted again and thought: Why not take the boys back to Eden? Then thought, no, he mustn't, for John Murrey Eden had killed their mother. Thought: Yes, go and see if the monster has changed. Thought: No. And took his confusion and the debate with him as he increased his speed in an attempt to arrive before Stephen was hurt, all the time shouting, “Stop it! You must stop it. He's not been well...”
Eden Rising, North Devon September 6, 1875
Concealment had been the most difficult problem of the day. Unfortunately, Susan had never been very good at concealing anything from anyone. Yet since early morning until now — late afternoon — she'd had to conceal everything: the large amounts of foodstuffs she'd prepared if and when they came; her own physical disposition, of which she knew the cause but John as yet did not. Most difficult of all, she'd been forced to conceal her own nervous state, as well as that of Mr. Bates, who had come very close to driving her crazy as every hour he had gone to check the road leading off the moors, prompting John to comment, perplexed, “What's the matter with him?”
Compounding all this had been the constant stream of patients who had passed through the clinic on this day, one of the busiest since they'd opened. As luck would have it, all the children in Morte-mouth had chosen this day to cut their fingers on whittling knives, fall and scrape both knees, eat too many green apples.
Now, at five o'clock, Susan looked up to see the small whitewashed clinic empty, not an ailing child or adult in sight. At first she couldn't believe it; then a sudden draining fatigue washed over her.
She reached out for a chair and sat slowly, trying not to hear the silence coming from the porch outside or the world beyond.
If they were coming, they should have been here by now.
She rose slowly and gathered up a bouquet of wildflowers one of the children had brought her, pushed open the door and felt that pleasurable early-autumn freshness in the late-afternoon air. The sun was still high and warm and very golden, but somewhere close behind the warmth and the gold was the ominous gray sense of winter.
She stood on the top step of the porch and consciously breathed deeply, looked to her left... and saw him.
John.
He was in the garden seventy-five yards away, turning the soil in preparation for it to lie fallow during the winter months. It had been a marvelous garden and he'd produced enough squash, tomatoes, onions, lettuce, and cabbage to feed themselves and anyone else who came to the door. She continued to watch, very grateful now neither she nor Mr. Bates had given him a hint as to their hopes for this day. Once they had considered telling him, but both had decided against it in the event...
Quickly she looked toward the new gate in the south wall, thinking she'd seen movement. She'd seen movement, all right. Mr. Bates, his hoe still in hand from where he'd been working with John in the garden, making what was easily his hundredth trip to check the road.
As Bates turned about, he apparently caught sight of her, and glancing first toward the garden to see if John was watching, he hurried to her. “The bastards!” he cursed under his breath as he stopped short of the steps.
“There's time yet,” she soothed, unconvincingly. “Ma
ybe they were... delayed.”
“Maybe no one's coming,” the old man snapped, as though it were her fault.
“Well, we knew we were taking a gamble from the beginning.”
“I should have delivered the letter to Aldwell in person. Or, better still, insisted upon a reply of some sort.”
He looked so disappointed she moved down the steps to offer comfort. “Don't blame yourself, Mr. Bates.”
“But they should have given him a chance.”
“Perhaps they will, in time. The wounds were deep — you said so yourself.”
“Bastards!” Bates grumbled again, and glanced back toward the garden and the man working. “He is so... changed,” he marveled quietly, a depth of emotion in his voice that moved her. Before she could reply, he went on. “You didn't know him in those days, Susan. He was... Unable to say precisely what he had been, the old man faltered and broke off. “Now... I've never known a man so kind, so...” He shrugged, embarrassed. “I just think they should... give him a chance, that's all.”
Suddenly she felt such a depth of gratitude to this man who had started out as an enemy and had now become the best friend they had. Realizing she'd never expressed this gratitude, she started to speak, when suddenly he warned, “He sees us. I'd better get back.”
She looked down toward the garden to see John staring up at them.
“Back to work,” Bates muttered, and started off, dragging his hoe behind him like a dejected schoolboy.
Susan was left to watch the two men meet and exchange a few words, then resume their labors, carefully turning the rich soil that would supply them with another garden next spring.
The cycles of life and death.
You didn't know him then, Susan...
No, she didn't, but she knew him now, frequently watched him with patients in the clinic, saw his gentleness, his almost desperate need to touch, as though only now had he discovered the vast love that was stored, unused, within him.
Dear God, please let someone comey she prayed quickly, then went to prepare tea for the two men working in the garden.
At seven o'clock that evening she was in the clinic rolling bandages for the next day, aware of John waiting for her on the steps outside to join him for their evening walk along the headlands, an end-of-the-day ritual that had become important to both of them.
Where Mr. Bates had gone to after tea, she had no idea. Probably back down into Mortemouth or to the Green Man to dull his massive disappointment in several glasses of stout. Her own disappointment was massive as well, though she'd tried to work it off, to keep her mind away from it, and to concentrate on the man himself.
Hurry! Complete the bandages! She wanted to walk with him, to feel his hand around hers, to stop as they frequently did at the farthest point for a kiss. Sometimes they talked quite volubly of everything under the sun, and at other times they were silent the length of the headlands and back again. Sometimes she'd watch him as he studied the massive facade of Eden Castle, a look of bemusement on his face, as though he knew something now he'd never known before.
Hurry! She wanted to be with him.
“Susan?”
At the sound of his voice coming through the open door, she looked up. “What is it, John? I'm almost finished.”
“Bad news, I'm afraid. I think you have another patient. There's someone coming.” From where she stood she could see his line of vision, eyes focused on the gate, squinting at someone who had just appeared.
Fatigued and disappointed, she closed her eyes and wondered who it could be and hoped the ailment could be treated rapidly and simply.
She smoothed down her apron and tried to digest her disappointment at this delay and joined him on the porch, gazing with him toward the gate. At that moment she saw a solitary man silhouetted against the fiery evening sun. Quite large, he was, and he paused now and seemed to return their stare. From this distance she couldn't recognize him.
“Who is...?”
“I can't tell.”
Suddenly the man waved and started directly toward them. Because of the blinding setting sun and the angle of shadows, identification still was impossible. But he didn't walk as though there was anything wrong. In fact, he appeared to increase his speed, waving again, and at last-in what appeared to be great exuberance — he scooped off his hat and did a peculiar thing. He tossed it up into the air. Just gave it one gigantic upward spiral and...
All at once her attention was no longer focused on the rapidly approaching man but rather on John, who squinted into the sun, his face taut with inner tension as though he'd already made an identification but needed one clear confirmation.
From a distance she heard the man shout, “John, is that you?”
Then she saw John start slowly forward, a faint hint of a smile beginning to alter the confusion on his face. She heard him whisper a name. Though it was only a whisper and only a single name, she heard such an incredible weight of love and pleasure behind it.
“Aldwell” was what he'd said. Daring to hope, she looked for herself, and saw that it was.
As the mountainous man drew closer, his ruddy face was a map of delight. He shouted again, “John, don't you know me?”
At that the tentative grin on John's face splintered and he was on his feet, down the stairs, and moving toward his old friend with the same degree of delight that Aldwell was moving toward him.
Susan saw beyond the imminent reunion to the gate, where Mr. Bates stood. Though his features were obscured by distance, she could sense his extreme pleasure.
She looked back at the two men approaching each other, more slowly now, and saw to her amazement that in the last instant they had stopped short of each other. Brief words were exchanged — she couldn't hear what, but it didn't matter, for in the next moment John opened his arms, as did Alex, and they embraced each other. Susan found herself grinning at nothing at all and felt a tickling in her nose. She rubbed it away just as the two started back toward her, their arms still about each other.
As she went down the steps to greet Mr. Aldwell, she recalled their first awkward meeting, when John had been ill. There had been tense moments between them then. She hoped he'd forgotten or forgiven by now.
“Mr. Aldwell...” She smiled in greeting, wondering if he had news of the others, who obviously were not coming. She extended her hand in greeting and found it totally ignored as he enclosed her in a massive bear hug as earlier he had embraced John.
“Well, you've gone and done it now.” He smiled down on her at the end of the embrace.
Blushing, she looked up. “I don't...”
“You should have been content just to be his nursemaid. Now you've gone and become his wife. Heaven help you.”
She laughed and reached back for John's hand. “Heaven has already helped me, Mr. Aldwell.''
She heard John, just marveling, “I can't believe it,” clearly delighted to see his old friend. “What are you doing wandering so far afield of London?”
“Come to see you, I have,” Aldwell blustered abruptly, then stopped, and she suspected both men were assessing each other with new intensity. Aldwell leaned back against the banister that led up to the clinic. To John he said, “If you feel half as good as you look, I'd say you were restored.”
She felt John's arm about her waist and heard his voice. “I feel whole, Alex,” he said quietly, simply. “For the first time in my life. I consider myself the most blessed man in the universe.”
His words hung like a benediction on the still evening air. Susan bowed her head and saw Aldwell do the same. No one spoke for several minutes.
Then, as though he knew he had to restore the small gathering to high good spirits, John stepped to Aldwell's side, a new lightness in his voice and manner. 'Well, come on, man, where's your luggage? Of course you're staying with us. But be warned, I'll work you during the day like a common laborer, and it will do you good, I...”
Though Aldwell was smiling and nodding, his attention seemed to be fo
cused on the gate.
She looked in that direction and saw Mr. Bates standing back, as though there was someone concealed behind the wall. Apparently John had yet to notice the splintered focus, continuing to talk volubly of projected plans.
Suddenly Alex interrupted. “John, there is someone waiting who wants very much to see you.”
John fell silent and looked quizzical at the curious announcement, then followed Aldwell's gaze back to the gate, where...
Susan blinked in an attempt to clear her vision and knew someone else had come and felt the beginning warmth of forgiveness.
She saw John focus once again on the gate, at the spot where she saw a man — this one slight of build, hesitant. Once through the gate, he paused as though he'd collided with an invisible barrier. Following behind him she saw a woman, stylishly dressed, and following behind her a short, squat figure in black carrying what appeared to be a baby in her arms.
“Do you know who it is, John?” Aldwell asked quietly.
Still squinting, John shook his head, though something suggested to Susan he knew very well who it was and was frightened.
The small entourage had resumed speed, was now walking rapidly toward them. The lady lifted high her skirts over the grassy terrain and turned back twice to check on the progress of the nursemaid and the babe.
Whereas before John had gone forward to meet Alex, now he held his position, watching the approaching party with a splintered expression of pleasure, disbelief, and apprehension.
Susan saw Alex step back as though to remove himself from the impending encounter, and she did the same, easing subtly back to the bottom step. She could see the approaching group clearly now. The man in the lead had fixed his eyes on John and had never lifted them, his expression stem, though his face seemed pale, drained of color. Still they came, walking now with determination, drawing nearer, until at last the man stopped less than four feet from where John stood.
She could see John's face and failed to see the joy with which he'd greeted Alex Aldwell. Now, unfortunately, she saw a degree of pain and remorse.
Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5) Page 56