The Eden Passion (7 page)

It was over in less than five minutes. He felt reasonably better, and she certainly was none the worse for wear.

In fact, as she rolled back over, she giggled prettily, her mussed brown hair spread across the pillow. "Oh, you're dreadful, Morley." She smiled. "You really are."

As he climbed off the bed, he looked back down on her. She'd enjoyed it, he was certain, in spite of her protests. All women protested, he thought, as he commenced his toilet, undoubtedly considered it their duty to do so.

He lit the lamp near the washbasin and was constantly aware of her eyes on him, admiring eyes, of course.

"Where is it you're headed today for, luv?" she asked, still nestling in the bedclothes.

"On a search," he said, trimming his jaw whiskers in the wavy glass.

"You're not a detective," she protested. "You're a solicitor."

"When you serve the Eden family," he said to her reflection, "you play any role they ask you to play."

"What if the boy is who he says he is?" she asked sleepily.

"I'll have to find the mother before anyone can prove that, now, won't I?" He lifted the lamp from the table, thrust it toward the wardrobe and withdrew a plain black jacket, twice patched, and matching trousers.

At that moment the door to their bedchamber opened and three young faces appeared. One announced, "Mama, I've wet . . ." As she put her arm around the offender, Morley decided there would be no breakfast for him this morning. He'd stop at a coffeehouse along the way.

As the other three children appeared following the younger ones, the smell of soiled linen filled the room, and every place he looked he saw a small white ghost in a nightshirt.

Thank God for whatever wild-goose chase would take him out of this place. As he sidestepped small bodies, he saw Minnie's distressed face. "I'll fix your breakfast."

"Not now," he called back, moving eagerly toward the top of the stairs.

"It will only take a . . ."

But he didn't stop, and pretended not to hear as he hurried down the stairs and through his narrow office, retrieving the letter from Lord Eden from off his desk, then moving quickly out into the early-morning traffic of Holborn, relieved to shut the door on all domesticity.

He stood a moment, the push of traffic increasing about him. Then he unfolded the Eden letter and read it again, the tone strident for the normally placid Lord Eden. Clearly something had momentarily dragged his attention away from his hounds and horses.

And the object of this agitation? A young man, according to the letter, fifteen, sixteen, no one seemed to know for sure. Apparently he answered to the name of John Murrey Eden, and most important of all, he claimed to be the son of Edward Eden.

Morley stepped to one side in order to permit the passage of a large cart heaped with fresh fruit. As the peddler passed him by, he snagged a ripe red apple and was on the verge of fishing through his pockets for a halfpenny. But apparently the peddler hadn't noticed. So why should Morley call it to his attention?

Now blessed with free breakfast, he proceeded slowly down the pavement, munching on the fruit contentedly, still eyeing the letter

from Eden. He really couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. The young man, whoever he was, posed no real threat to the Eden fortune. Ten bastards of Edward Eden could surface, and not one could lay a legitimate claim to any portion of the Eden inheritance. On that foolish July morning in 1848, when Edward Eden had given up all claim to his own fortune, he had rendered his line bereft as well.

True, the boy had a right to reside at Eden, and the Christian impulses of Lord and Lady Eden would assure him of clothes to wear and food to eat. But by the same token they could toss him out anytime they chose. At best he would never be anything but a peripheral family member.

His jaws, still munching the apple, suddenly ceased. With the tip of his tongue he shifted the seeds from the core to the front of his mouth and spit them out. According to the letter, the young man in question had arrived bearing Edward Eden's body, in the company of a woman known only as Elizabeth.

Morley commenced walking again down the pavement, appalled by the size and challenge of the undertaking. In all of London, there probably were ten thousand Elizabeths. He looked again at the closing paragraph. Ah, a bonus! This Elizabeth, it seemed, had a maimed hand.

Then, with renewed purpose he turned the corner, heading toward Oxford Street. Perhaps there still was someone in the neighborhood who remembered Edward Eden and his Ragged School, someone, more importantly, named Elizabeth with a maimed hand.

As his speed increased, the thought of failure never entered his mind. Sooner or later he would uncover the boy's true identity, not that it mattered to him, but only because it seemed to be of such monumental importance to Lord and Lady Eden. He was at last beginning to understand that invaluable lesson which he'd learned at the knee of Sir Claudius Potter.

Keep your client contented, for their contentment leads to their apathy, and their apathy leads to your enrichment. . . .

Bermondsey, May 10, 1851

As Elizabeth knelt on the floor before the small trunk in the back room of the house in Bermondsey, she closed her eyes. The bright sun had begun to hurt them.

Of course she knew that the cause of discomfort was much more than mere sun. Commencing on the first of May with Edward's death, until now, May 10, she'd never closed her eyes for more than two hours at a time. The journey back from Eden after the funeral had been difficult.

But they finally had glimpsed the spires of London late last evening, and after prayers of thanksgiving, the four riders of Mr. Jack Willmot's had taken themselves off for reunions with their families.

Of course she had thanked them profusely. And after their departure she had lit the lamp and carried it into this small back room, Edward's room, and had spent the night lovingly going through his belongings, weeping for him anew at the sight of each worn object, and trying to keep her thoughts away from the riddle of her future.

Now she shifted positions upon the bare floor and gently lowered one of the shirtwaists into the open trunk. She still had a vivid sense of the man himself, which somehow, mysteriously, seemed to be growing stronger. Countless times throughout that long night she'd heard his voice, the weight of his foot on the front stoop, his laughter.

In a wave of new grief, she bent over the trunk. Both of them were gone now, John and Edward. How mildly hurt she'd been by John's decision to stay at Eden. Yet not surprised. Eden had been his dream for as long as she could remember.

Abruptly she leaned back and tried to ease a painful stitch out of her neck. Softly she crumpled to one side. In all the earth, was there any place of sorrow greater than here, any place more weighted with unreceived love? Lying prone on the floor, her maimed hand stroked the side of the trunk. She was weeping again, without a sound, recalling that first night in the Common Cell at Newgate when as a young prostitute she had crawled across the straw and offered herself to Edward. He'd touched her face with such gentleness, had lifted her ugly burned hand and had kissed it, kissed it.

From that moment to this, she had never left his shadow. Now shadows were all she had left. Even his grave was so far away. How pleasant it would have been to put flowers on it and keep it tended.

Sleep, please let me sleep, she prayed, and nestled her head deeper into the crook of her arm. She was just in the process of losing consciousness when she heard what sounded like a step at the front door. She listened closely. The old house had a way of creaking. Homeless ghosts, according to Edward. Still she postponed sleep, wondering now if she'd remembered to bolt the door. When the three of them had been living here, she, Edward and John, she'd never thought of such things. With two men about, why should she?

Now, newly aware of her aloneness, she struggled to her feet and was just turning to the door when a man appeared before her.

"Miss?" he inquired politely, and apparently saw the fear in her eyes and moved back. "I just came to see . . ."

With a surge of relief she recognized him, the tall, broad frame and weathered face of Mr. Jack Willmot, the professional foreman for whom Edward and John had worked at the Crystal Palace, the man who ten days ago had brought her Edward's crushed body, who had stayed during that terrible night and had seen to the coffin, who had kindly lent his own wagon and team of horses and four of his best riders to accompany her on the journey to Eden.

"Mr. Willmot," she whispered, slipping into a near chair, still trying to draw deep breath.

"I'm sorry I frightened you, miss." He smiled, holding his position in the doorway. "When my men reported in last night, I thought I'd come over and see ..." He broke off speaking and seemed to be concentrating on the crumpled hat in his hands. "I . . . we . . . were worried when you didn't return right off. I was on the verge of sending out new riders. . ."

"It was a difficult journey," she murmured, and gestured through the door behind him to the front parlor. "Won't you sit down, Mr.

Willmot?" she invited. "I was just getting ready to fix myself a cup of tea," she lied. "I'd be most grateful if you'd join me."

"I don't mean to put you to any trouble . . ."

"Oh, it's no trouble." She smiled. As she approached where he was standing just inside the door, she saw clearly the direction of his eyes falling on the small trunk.

"His?" he asked, a respectful tone in his voice, which pleased her.

She nodded. "Not much, I'm afraid. Somehow in the last few years of his life, Edward managed to give everything of value away."

"I'll never forget him," Mr. Willmot vowed, his voice breaking.

His sincerity moved her. "Nor will anyone who had the good fortune to know him," she agreed softly. How good it was to have someone with whom she could share her grief. Now she moved past him, lightly touching his arm. "Come, Mr. Willmot. There are comfortable chairs in the parlor, and I'm certain I can find a biscuit or two . . ."

Then she hurried into the small kitchen, filled the teakettle from the rain barrel outside the door and realized with newly sinking spirits that she had yet to start a fire in the old stove.

As though he'd heard both her thoughts and her distress, he appeared in the low-ceilinged kitchen and without a word disappeared into the woodshed and reemerged with kindling in his arms.

A short time later they were seated in the parlor, a tea tray between them. As Elizabeth poured, Jack Willmot opened the tin of biscuits which she'd found at the back of the cupboard, and for several moments still no words were spoken as they sipped the good hot brew.

"And the boy?" Willmot asked finally, as though picking up the thread of an abandoned conversation.

"He stayed at Eden, of course," Elizabeth replied, still seeing John as she'd last glimpsed him, standing alone in the inner courtyard of Eden Castle.

"Will he be. . . cared for?" Willmot asked quietly.

"Oh, I'm sure of it," Elizabeth reassured him. "His father has told him stories of Eden since he was a babe. It's always been his dream."

"Why didn't you stay?" he asked bluntly.

She looked up, surprised by both the bluntness and the question. "I don't belong there," she said simply.

"Why not?" he asked. "As Edward Eden's wife, I should think . . ."

She gaped at him, then lowered her head. "I was not Edward's wife."

The news seemed to have a peculiar effect on the large man. Without looking up, she sensed that he was sitting as motionless as she. With difficulty she lifted the tin of biscuits. "Please help yourself," she offered, trying to dispel the look of surprise from his face.

But Mr. Willmot was not interested in biscuits. "And . . . the boy?" he stammered.

u . . . is Edward's son, not mine. Though I raised him," she added with pride.

She glanced to the left through the open door which led to Edward's room. The corner of the trunk was just visible from where she sat. Lovingly she eyed it and decided that as long as she inhabited this house, she would keep that room just as it was now, his bed linens still on the bed where he'd slept the night before his death, his presence, his soul everywhere.

She was aware of Willmot's eyes upon her, the silence between them heavy with unasked questions. Now she stood, longing to return to her new shrine. "I kept his house for him, Mr. Willmot, and raised his son and saw to all his needs . . ." She hesitated, then added, ". . . save one."

Apparently he was sensitive to her growing distress, and stood as though to take his leave. "I'm . . . sorry, miss," he apologized.

"Elizabeth," she said sharply. "My name is Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth," he repeated. "Perhaps I shouldn't have come . . ." He was backing away from her now, and at the same time fumbling in a pocket of his brown jacket. "I ... we thought . . ." he stammered, "well, what we did was pass the hat." Abruptly he looked at her as though to reassure her. "It isn't charity, no," he repeated firmly. "There's not a rough-jack on that entire crew who hasn't shared bread with Edward Eden, or lifted a pint. So it isn't charity," he added. "Consider it partial payment of our debt to him—for what he gave us."

She watched carefully as he continued to fumble through his pocket. For what he gave us. She knew he wasn't talking about bread or pints. Again she felt her emotions perilously close to the surface.

She sat in a near chair and was aware of him stepping close again. "Here," he said, lifting her hand and placing a stack of notes in it.

"It's not much," he added, "slightly more than twenty pounds. But it will see to your needs for a while."

She looked down at the notes and knew that she had no choice but to remain silent.

In concern, he knelt before her, refilled her teacup and offered it to her. But she merely shook her head and was on the verge of trying to thank him when a knock sounded at the front door, a curious rap of strength in this room of grief. She looked up as though under attack, her eyes filled with tears. Within the instant, Jack Willmot was on his feet. "Shall I see... ?"