The Eden Passion (17 page)

Then she saw who and recognized him immediately. What had brought him back here? She'd answered all his questions, at least all that she was capable of answering.

He was standing on the pavement now, saying something to the driver atop the high seat. Suddenly it occurred to her that perhaps she should run and bolt the front door and deny him entrance.

But halfway across the front parlor, another thought intervened. What if he had brought her news of some sort concerning John? What if the boy were ill and in need of her, or wanted simply to come home, having found Eden lacking?

Thus, instead of throwing the bolt, as she reached the door she flung it open, apparently taking Mr. Johnson by surprise.

"Miss . . ." He smiled, bobbing his head, then stood curiously to one side, as though eager not to block her vision of something at the pavement.

But she saw nothing at the pavement except the rather overlarge carriage and the driver who sat with suspect rigidity.

"Mr. Johnson, won't you come in?" she murmured, remembering her manners and trying to forget the unpleasantness of their last meeting.

He ducked his head through the low doorway and apparently detected the various good odors coming from the kitchen. He lifted his head, his long straight black hair cupping about his collar in the process. "Smells of my youth"—he smiled—"my mother's kitchen at harvest time."

She smiled, flattered, though still a bit nervous, and watched as he fell into a close examination of the clean well-ordered room, quite a change from the chaos of his last visit. She managed a timid, "Please sit down, Mr. Johnson. May I offer you something? Coffee? Tea?"

"No, no, I don't want to inconvenience you."

"It will be no inconvenience, I assure you."

"It's clear you are expecting guests."

"Guests!" She laughed at the generous description of the wretched humanity who would be seated at the long table in the kitchen that evening. "Not guests, Mr. Johnson," she corrected. "With the help of Edward's friends, I'm reopening the Common Kitchen. The first serving will be this evening."

He seemed perplexed. "Charity?"

She nodded.

He still seemed mystified. "I had no idea." He sat up as though fascinated by the subject. "And where, may I ask, was Mr. Eden getting his funds?"

"Oh, he worked, he did," she said proudly, "as did John. It wasn't much. But we shared everything."

He looked at her now with intense interest. "And how are you paying for such philanthropic acts?"

She was on the verge of informing him of Mr. Willmot's generous support when, without warning, she felt his hand covering hers in an intimate touch, and looked up to see a strange smile on his face.

"No need for deception with me," he murmured, moving closer to the edge of his seat. "Old ways die hard, I know, though God has a reason for everything."

While she was still puzzling this, he stood and moved to the side of her chair, his hand in the process stroking her shoulder. "You've made a pleasant little den here," he went on, lifting his hand just as she was about to draw away, finding the gesture intimate and repellent. "Any man would pay handsomely to pass a few hours in this comfortable retreat. How clever of you to locate here in this remote spot in Bermondsey, where a gentleman's friends are not likely to see his carriage and make a damaging report to an offended wife. May I ask," he said, grinning from the far side of the room, "how many do you . . . feed here in the course of a day?"

What was the matter with him? His manner had become extremely familiar, every word weighted with innuendo. In an attempt to answer his question, she said, "They come at night only."

"Of course."

"And I don't recall how many. As many as I can accommodate."

He was approaching Edward's door, closed now, the room itself tidied, though left for the most part exactly as it had been when he had inhabited it. Mr. Johnson looked back at her again, a look of admiration on his face. "You . . . must have remarkable stamina." He smiled.

"I don't understand," she murmured. "It's hard work, to be sure, but the rewards are great."

"I'm sure they are."

Before she could protest, he pushed open the door to Edward's room and peered in. As his rude inspection stretched on, she considered asking him to leave. "Mr. Johnson, I'm afraid that I—"

"Of course, of course," he said, turning away from Edward's room, though leaving the door ajar. "Business first." He smiled, returning to the chair and with a gesture inviting her to do the same.

Business! Then he did have something of importance to discuss with her. On that note of hope, she settled opposite him. "Does it concern John?" she asked, taken aback by the focus of his eyes, which seemed to be resting on her breasts.

"Yes, it concerns the boy," he said. "I have been authorized by Lord and Lady Eden to undertake an extensive journey for the purpose of trying to discover the true identity of the boy's mother."

Sweet Lord! With a sigh she turned away. Why was everyone so concerned with that ancient mystery?

"I am just now," he continued, "on my way out of London, in my own carriage, as you can see, and I thought it might be wise if I made a final stop here in the hope that during the intervening days since our last meeting perhaps you have remembered something that might seem innocent to you, but that could be of vast importance to a trained mind?"

No, she'd remembered nothing, and lowered her head in an attempt to swallow her disappointment. No message from John, apparently, though still she felt compelled to ask, "And how is he? John, I mean? Have you received news? Has he—"

He seemed annoyed by her digression. "The boy's present state is none of my concern," he said. "But his past is of vast concern to everyone at Eden." He leaned forward in his chair as though to force her attention to the matter at hand. "Do you remember anything?" he asked sternly.

Wearily she shook her head, wanting only to be rid of him. "No more than what I told you the last time you were here."

"You mentioned that on that day long ago, Mr. Eden had returned from the Lakes. You don't remember what part?"

"If he said, I never heard. He was ill. . ."

Suddenly the man leaned forward, as though at last she'd said something that interested him. "111? In what way ill?"

His demanding voice seemed to penetrate all aspects of the quiet

room. Prudently she wondered how much she should reveal of Edward's addiction. It had been a sad chapter in his life, and he was gone, so why resurrect it?

But Mr. Johnson was there again, his face reflecting his interest. She'd had more than enough of him, and now, in an attempt to speed his exit, she confessed softly, "He was an opium eater," then amended her statement, "at that time in his life, he was. After his return with John as a babe, he ceased altogether. Never indulged again." She closed her eyes. "I remember nothing else, Mr. Johnson," she whispered. "I swear it. I'm sorry that again I can be of no service to you."

She was in the process of leaving her chair and heading toward the door. But as she passed him, he reached out and grabbed her hand and with unexpected force drew her close. "You've been of immense help." He smiled up at her. "There are several well-known opium cottages in the Lakes. You have narrowed my search considerably, and I'm grateful."

"I'm glad," she said, embarrassed, not wanting yet to struggle openly for possession of her hand, feeling certain that he would release it.

Her embarrassment increasing, she tried to back away. "It's getting late, Mr. Johnson," she said. "We both have duties to attend to. You must be on the road, and I must make certain preparations for the evening."

As the struggle of hands persisted, he stood and reached for her upper arm and drew her to him in a close embrace. "I'm afraid I haven't made myself clear," he whispered. "I've come this morning on both business and pleasure. The business is over, and I. . ."

Holding her fast about the waist with one hand, he reached up for her breast with the other, and at last his incredible intention became clear. Her first impulse was to laugh. Now she tried to push his hand away, and unwittingly parroted his words. "Nor have I made myself clear, Mr. Johnson," she said, still struggling. "I'm asking you to leave, and if you do so immediately, nothing will be said—"

"Oh, what a pretty lady." He grinned down on her. "And what an eloquent protest. Heightens the fun, eh, what, and warms the blood. No wonder you could please a man like Edward Eden."

Still his amusement increased, along with the activity of his hands. "What a charming switch," he whispered, growing quite breathless close to her ear. "I've seen many a lady behave like a whore. But you're the first whore I've ever seen to take on the airs of a lady."

"I am not a whore/' she gasped, struggling futilely against his superior strength. Both his arms were around her now, pinning her hands at her sides, while she, with rage and fear increasing, tried to avoid his mouth, which was coming closer.

Still not quite able to believe her predicament, she tried reason for a final time. "Mr. Johnson, I beg you. Please release me. You're making a fool of yourself."

"Morley Johnson does not make a fool of himself," he pronounced angrily, "nor does he permit a whore to do so. I came prepared to pay like all your clients. Now I think I'll insist upon a free meal."

Suddenly he spun her about and twisted both arms behind her, a painful wrenching which caused her to moan. Fully conscious of her fate, she commenced a mighty struggle, her fear at last made manifest in a prolonged sirenlike scream as she felt him propel her forward across the room, half-shoving, half-lifting her, but moving her steadily towatd Edward's bedchamber.

Between screams, she begged him to release her, a witless refrain, her mind racing ahead to the ordeal itself, the degradation and humiliation that she thought she'd put behind her years ago.

At that moment, with the bed drawing nearer, she summoned all the strength she could muster, whirled about and brought one knee up, a select blow, carefully aimed, which caused the man to buckle, releasing her altogether as both his hands were summoned to the area of his groin.

She struggled free, as shocked as he by the accuracy of her assault. She watched him a moment, bent over on himself, a sputtering sound escaping his lips. She looked down upon him with contemptuous indifference, confident that she had won, determined now to make it to the front door.

Unfortunately, absorbed prematurely in her victory, she was in no way prepared for the lightning-fast speed with which his hand shot forward, pulling himself up within the instant. Nor was she prepared for his other hand, which lifted high into the air over her head, curled itself into a fist and came hurtling down against the side of her face, a blow of such force that she felt her neck crack, the room and everything in it going suddenly dark.

As she felt herself being carried to the bed, her last conscious thought was one of sadness that there had been no message from John, that she'd let the man in, that living with Edward for all those years had made her weak and foolishly trusting.

For the most part it was a safe darkness and a safe silence, though

it faltered once and she opened her eyes to a single shaft of sunlight streaming in through Edward's window. She felt a crushing weight on her body, a familiar thickness between her legs, her back moving rhythmically up and down on the bed, all old and readily identifiable sensations. And teeth were gnawing at her breast, causing great pain, but even that was familiar, as was the chafing deep inside her.

She was a whore again, back in St. James Park. And that realization caused the greatest pain. Tears filled her eyes. She whispered a name. "Edward . . ."

Then the obliging fist delivered another blow to the side of her head, then another, and yet another, and she went willingly into this new darkness, leaving behind her the realization of who she was and what she had once again become.

As Jack Willmot waited in Thomas Brasse/s outer office, one thought and one thought alone brought him enormous pleasure. And that was the realization that little Elizabeth was at last safe, that largely through his efforts, she was in the process of leaving her grief and shame behind and turning her eyes to the future. In a way, Jack viewed it as having settled a debt with Edward Eden.

Now he looked up in anticipation as another gentleman left Thomas Brassey's inner office. Willmot had been sitting in the plain narrow chamber for over an hour, and during that time dozens of men had passed in and out of the inner sanctum. Something was afoot with the great contractor. Of that Willmot was certain. Bras-sey had built railroads on five continents and Jack Willmot had been his foreman on three. Whatever impossible task he had in mind, Jack would go with him.

The room was empty now, all the men having come and gone except himself. In the silent waiting, Jack found his thoughts going back to the house in Bermondsey. With his eyes closed, he could see her clearly, her small yet determined figure tackling any job, an impressive display of strength which on occasion faltered as, without warning, she would slip into a mood of grief.

Jack Willmot was an honest-enough man to admit to himself that she moved him, stirred him in a way that no other female in his entire life had stirred him. Also he was smart enough to understand the reasons and courageous enough to realize that little or nothing would ever come of it. She belonged to Edward Eden, would always belong to him, even in death.

No, it was best that Thomas Brassey was now on the verge of

sending him God knew where. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remain in her presence simply in the capacity of friend and adviser. He would always see to her support, he'd promised her that, and he would certainly remain in London long enough to determine that the Common Kitchen was a success, that her female friends, the volunteers from Edward's Ragged Schools, would keep a close and watchful eye on her. And certainly between jobs, whenever fate brought him back to London, he would look in on her and savor her sweetness and take a portion of it with him back into the harshness of his all-male world. A professional foreman was not, by nature, suitable material for marriage.