Shocked, Bertie whispered, "I—don't believe you."
"Whether you believe me or not is unimportant." Eden walked back to the window, where Bertie saw the storm raging, the sky blackened with boiling clouds.
The voice rose above the storm. "Only Richard can produce a legitimate heir to the Eden name. Professor Nichols, and, since you lack a womb, then you must be removed from the scene. A young woman of good birth has been selected, and with your departure I'm confident that Richard will recover his lost manhood and perform the function for which he was intended."
"If he doesn't?"
Eden shrugged. "Then I'll send him to prison, without hesitation, for he'll be as good as dead to me, and I prefer that he do his rotting out of sight."
Stunned, Bertie stared at him. He glanced toward Aslam, as though the presence of a third party might alter something. Then all the horror and threats congealed within him and, suffering physical weakness, he stumbled forward and would have fallen except for the trunk, which he reached for just in time. Sitting heavily, he closed his eyes.
"Oh, come now. Professor Nichols," the voice chided from the window. "It isn't the end of the world. In fact, I would suggest that you view it as the beginning of a new one. Will you do that for me, for yourself, as well?"
He could not reply.
**Then I'll take my leave and give you the privacy which you so obviously need. Aslam and I are on our way back to London. We won't stop by to see Richard. Please tell him that I shall look forward to his company during the Christmas Festivities at Eden."
Bertie tried to lift his head, but it hurt to breathe.
*'As for yourself," came the voice from the door, a gentle voice, "I would advise that you see to the conclusion of your affairs here and within the week I'll look forward to seeing you in my London offices." Here the gentle voice altered. "Don't forget, Professor Nichols, that you are still under close scrutiny. If you are not on one of the London coaches by the seventh of December, an envelope will be delivered to the police inspector, and on the morning of the eighth I can promise that both you and Richard will be behind bars. Is that clear? Do you understand everything I have said to you?"
Understand? Understand?
"Good day to you, then. Professor Nichols," the kind voice said. "Al] pain can be borne. If you truly love Richard, tell him goodbye. It will be best for both of you."
"1/ you truly love Richard/*
Fortunately the door had closed when the tears came. But what matter? Bertie had lost everything else before the man. What matter his remaining pride?
The grief did not last long, and in less than a quarter of an hour he was quiet. Seated on the trunk in a slumped position of defeat, he punished himself by hearing again in memory everything that had been said.
He tried to remember the tranquility of Richard's face, specific gestures, the bend of his neck as he dealt with his readers, all the thousand details which in mysterious combination fed his love and reminded him that it was over.
Where was it, his new destination? He couldn't remember. Life was shrinking away from him, and everything about him seemed dead and loathsome. There was no future, here or any place else, and how could he ever make it to safety in that raging storm outside? And where was safety? Surely no place in this world.
The resolution to his suffering came to him like a beneficent smile. He luxuriated in it. It promised both release and relief and, since he could endure no more, he stood mth. purpose.
With calm hands he unwound the length of the rope about the trunk and tested its strength. He climbed up on the trunk, the better to loop and knot it around one of the blackened beams. Effortlessly he fashioned a noose, dropped it around his neck, shrugged off the cloak, for he would not need its warmth where he was going, and stepped off the trunk, filled with books documenting the wisdom
and folly of ancient philosophers, into a safe abyss where neither wisdom nor folly counted for much. . . .
It was approaching midnight when Richard, distraught with worry, ventured out of his warm flat in search of Bertie.
Where is he? He had said that he'd be back in time for six o'clock tea.
Knowing Bertie's propensity for a chat with lonely students, Richard had waited patiently until the clock had struck a quarter to twelve. Then he fetched his cloak and a single lantern with a wind shield and made his way through the bitter cold night and the deserted Cambridge streets to the disreputable rented flat which had served Bertie as home for the last several months.
He hurried up the walk, knocked on the outer door and, receiving no answer, pushed through into the narrow corridor.
"Bertie?" he called, his voice falling back on him in echo.
"Bertie, are you there?" he called again, hfting the lantern in an attempt to send the illumination ahead.
Still keeping to the door, he saw nothing at first but the dim outline of the miserable room, a wretched place to shelter a man as rare as Bertie Nichols.
He saw what appeared to be a blanket hanging from one of the beams and he thought, how careless of Bertie to leave it behind, and, in a way relieved that he'd not found the man himself, he stepped forward, thinking to retrieve the blanket and use its warmth for the cold walk home, when the skittering lantern light ran ahead and he saw boots evolve out of the shapeless blanket suspended off the floor, then trousers, then—
A strong instinct warned him not to take a step further. But he ignored the instinct and ran directly forward and faced the atrocity full-front.
The cry started low in his throat and, burning and scraping all the way up, exploded near the top of his head. There was no escape. The agony was constant, and there before him, that beloved face frozen in a macabre death mask, tongue slung sideways out of the mouth, eyes protruding, the neck twisted at an inhuman angle.
He was only vaguely aware of his collapse, his knees buckling, though he was very grateful to the darkness which obliterated the face and plunged him into an abyss which was deep, but not deep enough.
Cambridge December 5,1870
Through eyes dimmed with sympathy and a twinge of guilt, Mrs. Pettibone watched the silent man seated by the front window, apparently unaware of the activity which swirled about him.
She had really expected him to recover before this. In her opinion, the hardest part was behind him. The funeral had taken place two days ago, Professor Nichols in his final bed, in a pretty little graveyard at the edge of town in the shadow of the parish church. Quite a turnout there had been, too, so many students, some weeping openly. She'd thought that would have brought poor Lord Eden a degree of comfort.
But it hadn't. The man had given her instructions to pack his things, he was going home to Eden, and beyond those few words he'd said nothing to her at all.
Securing the top of the wicker packing case, she thought that things had taken a nasty turn. Who would have expected the man to take his own life? Of course, in a cruel way, and God forgive her, it was for the best. According to that investigator from London, a pretty tea-party had been planned for both Professor Nichols and Lord Eden, and she would have hated to have seen that, all the scandal of a trial, their aber-rations, as the investigator called them, paraded out and gossiped over.
No, God forgive her, but they both were better off. Professor Nichols in his grave. Lord Eden with a second chance to act like a man.
Quickly she emptied the last cupboard. In a way she was eager to
see him gone. There were friends waiting for her at the pub who were dying to hear her firsthand account of the goings-on.
Hurry then! This was the last packing case and all she had to do was aflEx her bonnet, say her goodbyes and take her leave. Oh, there was one thing more. She'd prepared a tiny littie giftie for Lord Eden, nothing much, a small basket of hot gingerbread for the road. She'd baked it early this morning to take her mind oflf things in general, most specifically her part in the sad doings.
She laced the last strap of the packing case into place, caught the
eye of the porter and watched as the hefty man lifted it effortlessly to his shoulders.
Having seen more than enough, and since her job was finished here, Mrs. Pettibone drew on her winter cape, affixed her bonnet and lifted the basket of gingerbread.
She approached the man warily. "Lord Eden?**
When he didn't acknowledge her, she considered just leaving the basket, but something urged her to try again. The poor man looked dead himself.
"Lord Eden? I fixed you this for the road. It ain't much, but you ain't et nothing to speak of and a traveler needs his strength."
He stirred, looking up at her with a concentrated expression as if he were trying to remember something. "Mrs. Pettibone," he murmured, "thank you for your kindness."
" 'Tis nothing," she scoffed, and placed the basket in his lap. "You take care of yourself."
One of the porters appeared in the door. "The carriage is secured, Lord Eden. Whenever you are ready."
She saw him start to pull himself out of the chair. On his feet, he tried to straighten his cloak, which had become twisted. "Here, let me give you a hand," she offered, and stepped forward, adjusted the garment, trying to keep her eyes off the vacancy in his face.
Mrs. Pettibone took his arm and propelled him gently forward, relieved to see him at last moving under his own steam, at least as far as the door, where he stopped and looked back, his eyes seeming to canvass all comers of the comfortable flat, stripped of all furnishings and ready for the next tenant.
Then he was gone, the porter moving ahead down the steps. She stared at the vacancy of the door, then hurried to the window, determined to see the grim departure to its end.
Well, now, how nice, she thought staring down at the garden.
where approximately thirty students had gathered to bid him farewell. That should lift his spirits right enough. But as she watched, she wasn't certain that he even saw the students. They moved back to give him passage to the pavement, where his carriage was waiting. Several reached out as though to touch him, but he made no response and moved slowly through thdr midst, his head down, still clutching her basket of gingerbread.
Then it was over, the carriage pulling away, the students disbanding in groups of twos and threes until the garden was deserted.
She held still. With a jerk she lifted her head and shook off the bleak feeling that two lives had been ended, one dead and buried, the other still walking upright but with the smell of death about him just as strong.
Gawd! She was in terrible need of a pint, of raucous company, of laughter and diversion.
Without a backward look, and vowing never to step foot inside this flat again, she hurried through the door and down the steps, her pace increasing until she was running to her friends as fast as age and girth would permit.
London December 5, 1870
On one of the most dazzling December moms in the history of man, John stood at the top of a hill which gave a perfect view of the city of London and thought that he'd never felt so good in his life.
To his right, about thirty yards away, he saw his driver, who was the cause of this brief stop, A harness had become loosened during the last leg of the journey, and before they descended into the traffic of High Street and Shoreditch the man had requested permission to stop and fix the faulty strap. They were on Upper Hackney Road and, following repairs, it was John's estimate that they were less than an hour from his home.
To his left, stretching his legs after the confinement of the journey, he saw Aslam, the sight of the young man never failing to bring him pleasure.
It had not been John's intention to make a five-day journey of it between Cambridge and London. But events had conspired against him. A missed turn on the Cambridge road, which had sent them to Colchester; this beautiful weather; tiie fact that he was so enjoying Aslam's company; the grim events of the previous two weeks and the realization that more unpleasantness awaited him in London, all this had prompted him to give his driver orders to make for Clacton-on-Sea, a resort on the east coast which had been deserted at this season of the year.
For three glorious days he and Aslam had walked the beach, reminisced endlessly about India, partaken of delicious meals in the grand dining salon of the Shores Hotel, and slowly John had felt the gloom caused by Mary and Richard lifting.
In his new ease, he found that he had a great capacity in his heart to forgive them. As young children, what force had there been in their hves that might have established much needed self-discipline? None! A drunken father who ultimately had destroyed himself, an ill mother who had locked herself away in isolation. No, Richard and Mary had been raised by a handful of semiliterate and self-indulgent servants. No wonder they lacked a steady hand to control their own lives.
He stretched forward in a way that made his joints crackle and fixed his eye on the city below. Well, the unscheduled holiday had been pleasant, but now it was over and there lay reality.
"About finished?" he called to his driver.
"A few more minutes, Mr. Eden," came the reply. "I'd rather deal with this here than down there."
Patience, he counseled himself. He would arrive in plenty of time. Professor Nichols was due about the eighth, the hearing with John Thadeus Delane on the tenth. If all went well, he'd remain in London for an additional week to see to certain business affairs, then he'd pack everyone up and take them to Eden for Christmas.
He was hungry to see Lila, ripe with their third child, and he was eager to see his sons as well.
Christmas at Eden. The thought enclosed him like a caress, A roaring Yule log the size of a full-grown tree in the Great Hall fireplace, wreaths and garlands everyplace. And Harriet would join them this year—he would insist upon it. It would just be the family, and Richard would come home, though not Mary, and she would be missed by all.
But to fill the vacuum caused by her absence, he would invite Lady Eleanor Forbes. With Professor Nichols removed from the scene, Richard might be more inclined to respond to her considerable charms. Yes, he would do it.
Overcome by these visions and feeling the need to share them, he shoved his hands into his pockets and walked the short distance to where Aslam was maintaining a curious vigil on sprawHng London below.
"A bit larger than Cambridge, wouldn't you say?" John smiled, coming up behind the young man.
Without looking at him, Aslam murmured, "How often I've dreamed of this day."
John drew even with him, hearing a bitterness in his voice which
somehow jarred with the joy there. "Was your life at Cambridge so terrible?"
"Just hell."
He stepped closer and offered a gentle reassurance. "Well, that's all behind you now. A new life is beginning for you. You will live with me in my house, and I'll teach you everything you need to know about the firm. You'll complete your studies in the Temple, and one day after you've proven yourself, and I'm sure you wiU, I'U make you a full partner. What do you say to that?"
The look of adoration in Aslam's eyes prohibited him from saying anything. He stepped away, his face as rigid as his stance. "I will make you proud of me, John. I swear it. And further, I pledge to you my loyalty and constant devotion in all matters."
A bit excessive, that, and John could have done without some of the pomposity. Still, the words were pleasing as well as the depth of sincerity behind them.
Caught in the emotion of the occasion, John faltered. He would have liked to embrace the boy, but something in those determined eyes warned him against it and, in the awkwardness of the moment, both spoke at once.
"We should be home in a little over an—"
"Do you think he'll come to London—"
"I'm sorry." John laughed at the muddle of their voices. "Do I think who will come to London?"
"Professor Nichols."
John walked a step down the inchne. "Fm sure he will. We didn't give him much choice, did we?"
"I've never liked him, you know," Aslam said, traihng behind.
"Why?"
John asked, curious.
Aslam shrugged. "He seemed to want to—touch me all the time. He was forever touching my arm, my shoulder."
John looked back, grateful that earlier he'd kept his distance.
Aslam caught up with him. "I hate Sodomites," he pronounced, his eyes focused on London below. "When I first arrived at Cambridge I was told I had to attend an initiation of Greeks." liis voice fell. John sensed that he should stop him, but he didn't.
"I was taken with four other boys to a small shed out in the country somewhere. We were forced to remove our trousers and lie flat in the dirt while one by one the other boys—"
His voice broke. He walked a few steps back up the incline. John
could see his shoulders trembling and, while his heart went out to him, he knew better than to say or do anything. Every man had to deal with his own nightmares.
The horror passed and Aslam looked back. "As you were talking to Professor Nichols, all I wanted to do was to tell him how Fd felt that night in the shed.''
*"! know," John comforted. "But take solace in the realization of where we are sending him. Australia," John pronounced broadly. "Let him play his filthy games with the convicts."
Aslam laughed, the mood lifted and the young man was back on track. "Tell me of this hearing, John," he asked, walking a few steps ahead across the crest of the incline.
Surprised, John called after him. "How did you know about that?"
"My mother wrote and told me. She has written almost weekly for the last two months, though I have not replied."
"Why haven't you answered?"
Aslam looked at him as though surprised by the question. "Surely you know of her—attachment to Andrew Rhoades?"
John nodded.
"Did you know that they plan to marry?"
"I suspected as much."
"And you're not angry?"
John caught up with him and tried to compose a suitable answer. It wouldn't do to tell the son that he was merely tired of the mother. "She's free to do whatever she wishes," he said.
The look of shock on Aslam's face was pleasing. "But she's being —disloyal to youl"
The Women of Eden Page 42