This Other Eden (53 page)

London

August,
1794

Toward
noon, in the middle of the hottest August that London had known for three
decades, Thomas Eden sat at the second-floor window of his house on Oxford
Road, searching in vain for a breath of air.

It
was an uneasy summer, with regiments of uniforms filling London's streets,
bright, brash, earnest young men who'd missed out on the war with the American
colonies, but who had come of age in time for the hostilities with France.

In
the two months that Thomas had been in London, he had the habit of keeping a
constant vigil at his upstairs window. The activity in Oxford Road below
fascinated him, the constant comings and goings, the carriages rattling past,
hundreds of little  street dramas played out before him daily.

He
was learning to be a patient man. He shunned all social traffic, had not once
been to his club or any of his favorite coffee or chop houses. He had no
intention of going. He was here for one purpose alone, and until he realized
the accomplishment of that purpose, he would wait and merely witness the lives
of others.

In
two months he had sent around eight different calling cards to the house on
Great Russell Street. So far he'd received no response. After each delivery his
footman had explained how one of two women always answered the bell, plain,
common women, according to the footman, who had received the card, then
politely closed the door.

He
had sent eight cards. He was prepared to send eighty if necessary. His system
had to be cleansed of the girl, and if this was the only way to accomplish it,
then he was prepared to wait, even though at times the waiting seemed capable
of killing him.

Before
him on the airless windowsill was last week's edition of
The Bloomshury
Gazetteer
. In an effort to distract himself from his boredom, he glanced at
the front page to an article concerning one Dr. James Graham who prescribed "bathing
in earth" as a new way of preserving health and constancy.

Bathing
in earth? Thomas lifted the paper and read with interest;

Dr.
James Graham lectures nightly in his large house in Pall Mall, decorated with a
pagan gilt sun and splendid interior furnishings. Possessor of a commanding
figure, an imposing manner and a persuasive voice, he is currently lecturing on
"How to Restore Health and Vigour by Means of Electricity." Large
crowds of people are in attendance, each paying two guineas. Attention is rapt.
At the end of each lecture, the Goddess of Health appears, a beautifully
proportioned young woman, unveiled, who stands regally for the perusion and
approval of the admiring audience. . . .

Thomas
blinked at the small newsprint. The Goddess of Health. What a splendid
spectacle that must be. Quickly he read on.

Following
the lecture, couples may avail themselves of Dr. Graham's Celestial Bed, a
marvel which stands on four glass legs and by means of which the most perfect
children can be begotten. Also, according to Dr. Graham, the wondrous bed is
designed to cure all coldness and hesitancy on the part of reluctant females,
and instill the male with increased efficiency of performance. Charges per
night for the use of The Celestial Bed are five hundred guineas. Included in
this price are three bottles of Dr. Graham's "Elixir of Life," and
appropriate items of stimulation which lead to fulfillment.

Thomas
looked down, unseeing, into the street below. "Appropriate items of
stimulation which lead to fulfillment." "Designed to cure coldness
and hesitancy on the part of reluctant females."

His
breathing increased. He felt an uncomfortable ache spread through his body.
Dear God, how long could she hold out? How long could he? He looked again at
the accompanying illustration of the Celestial Bed.

Abruptly
he strode away from the window as though to leave the thought behind. He could
not try force again. Or deceit. Too much had happened. His own wound for one
thing. He had no reason to believe that William Pitch had become any less
protective of the female in his house during the passage of time. He did not wish
to repeat his last fateful encounter with the man. Then, too, lodged
permanently in the back of his mind were the tragic events which had taken
place during the winter at Eden Castle, the result of male force and male
insistence.

Thomas
shuddered in the August heat, the memories coming in sequence, each more
hideous than the one before. No force, and preferably no deceit! He would
adhere to his noble vow, to court her honestly, to win her trust, at least long
enough to conquer her and perhaps learn her secrets.

On
that note of resolve he turned slowly back to the window, the
Gazetteer
still spread out on the sill, the magnificent Celestial Bed holding enormous
fascination. Almost stealthily, as though someone were watching, he reached
down and carefully tore the front page from the rest of the paper. He folded
the clipping and inserted it into the pocket of his shirt. "Goddess of
Health!" What a spectacle that must be!

As
he was turning away from the newspaper, his eye fell on a small box of print
near the bottom of the third page. "In the absence of Mr. William
Pitch," the article began.

Thomas
took a step toward the cool interior of his chambers. He stopped. "In the
absence of Mr. William Pitch." Slowly the words penetrated. Quickly he
whirled back and grabbed up the newsprint. His eyes fairly raced over the small
passage. "In the absence of Mr. William Pitch who is at present in France,
the Gazetteer is being edited by Mr. Ferrill Temple, a graduate of—"

Again
Thomas read over the opening line. "In the absence of Mr. William Pitch
who is at present in France—"

Suddenly
he ran to the door and flung it open. "Locke!" he shouted.

"Locke?
Where are you?"

A
few minutes later Russell Locke appeared, stiff in his London finery. His eyes
were bloodshot and bleary. Obviously he'd been dozing at his post at the top of
the stairs, his customary position on Thomas' command in order to protect him
from the large and nameless London staff. In return for his loyalty, Thomas
gave him his freedom every evening, where, apparently, he roamed the London
streets, indulging in every vice that the coins in his purse could buy.

"Move
quickly!" Thomas shouted at the figure coming at a slow pace. Thomas
turned back into his chamber, pacing rapidly. Pitch gone! In France. The house
unguarded. The women vulnerable. He couldn't believe it. His noble vow to court
her openly lay in a shambles about his feet.

He
pursued his thoughts with something of the obstinate egoism peculiar to
obsessed persons. How long had Pitch been absent? Was his household in good
condition or disarray? Had he appointed a new watchdog? Was this the reason
that he had not received a response? The females,, with the innate sense of the
prey, knew better than to signal their vulnerability.

In
a burst of impatience for answers, he again shouted, "Locke, where in the
devil are—"

The
young man slipped inside the chamber, running his fingers through his mussed
hair. He appeared to be half-asleep and very embarrassed at finding himself in
such disarray before his master.

"I
hope that for all your present pain at least you enjoyed yourself," Thomas
scolded.

"I
did," Locke confessed, a flush spread across his cheeks.

"What
was her name?" Thomas asked slyly, "or did you bother to find
out?"

"Oh,
yes, sir," murmured Locke, repeatedly rubbing the side of his head as
though that empty globe were on the verge of exploding. "Elizabeth
Parker," he replied. "A young one, yet ripe, only seventeen, from
Shropshire, or so she said."

Seventeen,
Thomas marveled. As young as— His thoughts moved in painful progress to
Marianne Locke. Angrily he snapped, "I hope you have the good sense to
wear armor, Locke. It is not my intention to take a diseased servant back to
Eden Castle."

The
young man looked up, alarmed. "She was only seventeen, milord."

"It
matters little whether she was seven, seventeen, or seventy," railed
Thomas. "Some females are born unchastened. They are virulent carriers. It's
their only device for seeking revenge on the poor unwitting male. They take
delight in our agony, and I would hate for you to learn the need for protection
the hard way."

After
his brief tirade, his thoughts went to Billy Beckford, who merely feared the
dread disease, and others who actually suffered it. It was rumored about London
that the old man, Boswell, kept to his privacy because repeated attacks of the
disease had now affected his brain, and he addressed his servants as
animals—"Mr. Pig" and "Miss Peacock"—and required that they
answer with the noise of their breed.

Truly,
Thomas thought, it was man's scourge, as was woman herself. A short interval
later, he rallied, reconciling the conflict within him, the moral lecture and
the carnal interest.

"Locke,"
he began, pacing. "I want you to arrange a meeting for me."

"Yes,
milord."

"I
want it to be a discreet arrangement, one unknown to any save for myself and
the party involved."

"Yes,
milord."

"There
are others living in the house where I shall shortly send you. They too must
know nothing."

"Yes,
milord."

The
dully delivered refrain was beginning to get on Thomas' nerves. He shouted,
"Do you know what I'm asking?"

"Yes,
milord."

In
despair, Thomas turned away to the waiting bureau and scribbled a brief
message. He moved back to the gaping young man. "You are to take this to the
house on Great Russell Street. You are to station yourself outside in an
obscure fashion and wait for the single appearance of your sister, Miss Jane
Locke. Is that clear?"

Apparently
it wasn't, for the young man suddenly stood at attention. His eyes focused
sharply on the folded note before him. "For the single appearance of—Miss
Jane Locke, milord? Not the—"

"The
single appearance," Thomas repeated, as though communicating with a
dimwitted child. "Do you understand?"

Quickly
the young man shook his head. "I thought it was the other, milord. I
thought it was—Marianne."

Thomas,
never long on patience, found himself totally drained of that rare quality.
Something about the flat, dull, dissipated face querying him on such a personal
matter sent him into a rage. "What you think or don't think is a matter of
monumental unconcern!" he shouted. "All you must do is follow orders,
deliver the note, and bring the reply back to me." Almost pitiably, he
inquired, "Is that asking too much?"

Locke
shook his head, but the expression on his face was still one of bewilderment. In
spite of this he tucked the note inside his coat and bobbed his head in
respectful obedience and departed the room.

Thomas
slumped heavily on the bed, his hands hanging limply between his legs. The room
was stiflingly hot. Not a breeze anywhere. He lifted his head, longing for the
sweet cool air of North Devon.

His
long confinement in his London house was beginning to take a toll. He was a man
designed by nature for uninhibited vistas. He could not wait much longer. If
the girl persisted in her stubbornness, then other plans would have to be
devised.

He
walked back to the window. Perhaps the note would work. Perhaps Miss Jane Locke
would agree to meet with him and shed some light on why his suit had thus far
been ignored. His thoughts moved steadily toward the red brick house on Great
Russell Street. "In the absence of Mr. William Pitch—" If he'd known
two months ago that the guard dog was gone. No! He must conduct himself. . . differently
now. He had no appetite for violence. There wasn't a fly in the world that
couldn't be trapped with honey.

The
dark mood improved with the thoughts of joy to come. Perhaps within the week it
would all be over, his appetite and obsession satisfied, the girl conquered,
her gifts enjoyed for a short period of time, then returned, slightly used but
none the worse for wear. Then Thomas would return to Eden Point and set himself
to the dull but necessary task of finding a wife, the plump daughter of Lord
Salisbury perhaps, an empty-headed, vain, blue-blooded girl who could work at
her needlepoint during the day and share his bed at night and give him sons, at
least a son, an heir to Eden Castle and lands. Then, having fulfilled his
responsibilities to his ancestors, the rest of Thomas' life would be his own.
Perhaps he might travel to America, visit the spot where his brother was
buried, see the foolish experiment in democracy for himself.