The Eden Passion (19 page)

"I don't know, sir," she said, backing away from his rage. "Like I said, I only just arrived to give her a hand with the old folks, and I saw the smoke . . ." Her eyes grew wide, as though certain he'd hold her responsible. "I was just trying to rouse her, sir, when you come in. She's not said nothing yet. I think she needs a physician, I do, sir. There was bad blows to her head. You can see for yourself. . ."

"Then go fetch one," he shouted, still trying to deal with his rage and anguish.

Immediately Matilda abandoned the chair, as though only too happy for an excuse to flee the room.

"And hurry!" Willmot called after her.

He followed the vibrations of her rapidly retreating footsteps across the front parlor, then shouted again at one of the gaping old women at the front door. "Fetch me a basin of clean water, and linen," he ordered. "Be quick!"

On that note of determination he moved rapidly back to the bed. Later there would be time for questions and answers, and perhaps even justice. Gently he straightened her legs, and with tenderness he drew the light coverlet up, stopping short of her lacerated breast. Seeing the damaged flesh close at hand, he again weakened.

He should have been here, he thought angrily. How stupid of him to have left her alone in this part of London, where it was common

knowledge that there was no man in the household, only a young woman alone.

Now, where to start? Where was the greatest need, and greatest pain? Was it better to leave her safely unconscious, or should he try to rouse her? Unable to answer his own questions, he at last sat on the edge of the bed and lifted her into his arms, a sheltering cocoon come too late. He held her close and gave in to tears for her, for her ordeal, for his negligent absence.

Finally his grief dissolved into a gentle rocking motion, though still he held her close, one broad hand supporting her head, the other flattened against her back, her arms hanging limp on either side.

Then suddenly he noticed one not so limp, her hand lifting of its own accord, heard at the same time a soft moan, and quickly he released her to the pillow, where he saw her mouth uselessly working, the bruised lips trying to form words.

"Lie still, Elizabeth, please," he begged.

He saw the swollen eyes trying to open, heard her groan, and again he tried to offer comfort. "Be still, please. A physician is on his way."

Her hand was on his arm now, clinging with awesome strength. She was trying to say something, but he couldn't understand.

Where was the physician? Why was he taking so long?

Still there was incredible effort coming from the bed. She appeared to be trying to lift herself.

"Elizabeth, please. . ."

But at that moment, clearly audible words left her lips, a fear-ridden plea as moving as any he had ever heard.

"Don't . . . leave . . . me," she begged, and continued to pull at his arm, as though seeking the entrance into the security of his embrace.

"Sweet Lord," he whispered, overcome, and lifted her again and held her close, heard the beginning of deep grief-racked sobs.

He had never thought that such human anguish was possible. Still he held her, pressed her more strongly to him. And ultimately, with dread, with resignation, he said good-bye to Canada and Mr. Thomas Brassey. That wilderness would have to be spanned without him. The one here would keep him occupied for a while.

He bent closer over her and tried with all his strength to absorb a portion of her grief and suffering.

As well as she could remember, she had given in to only one moment of weakness, and that was when strong arms had offered her a

belated shelter. Now, no more! There would be no more weakness, for there was no shelter that could be trusted.

Amazed at her capacity to survive, Elizabeth heard her heart beating and she tried to open her eyes and through one narrowed slit of vision saw the man bent over her.

Jack Willmot. She knew that much, though earlier, once, she'd mistaken him for Edward. Then suddenly, without warning, she felt a slipping, a sort of headlong plunging, as though the bed were tilting.

"Elizabeth?"

She heard someone calling her name.

"Elizabeth? Can you hear me?"

Of course she could hear him. A whore's hearing was always intact. As she looked up at him again, she saw to her amazement that his eyes were filled with tears. Why tears? No one had ever wept over her before.

"Who was it?" Willmot was demanding. "Who was it, Elizabeth? I beg you. Give me a name."

She looked up at him, annoyed by the request. What would he do with the name? Go after him, no doubt, and cause more trouble. Besides, good prostitutes did not reveal the names of their clients.

"Leave me . . ." she muttered, and felt a painful crack on her lower lip, felt something cool rolling down her chin. As her discomfort increased, it blended with annoyance. Give me a name! How sadly she'd misjudged Jack Willmot, having once thought him to be a man of intelligence. WTiat would he do with the name of Morley Johnson? Report him to the local constable? A rape trial perhaps, pitting the Eden solicitor against a self-confessed whore?

"Leave . . ." she tried to whisper, and turned on her side and drew the coverlet up until it was almost covering her head. Why didn't he leave? What was there left to contemplate?

With her back to him, she closed her eyes, the better to endure his silent pity. She felt dull and began quietly to plot the future. No more excursions into the realm of charity. No more compassion, no more decency. What decency she had known in this life had been buried along with Edward Eden. And all residual traces had been beaten out of her by Morley Johnson. Apparently she'd been designed by nature for one purpose, and beyond that, her life had no value.

Morley Johnson had said something that had interested her. A charming den, away from the prying eyes of business associates and

wives, where carriages could come and go without fear of being recognized.

A proper house, yes, that's what she'd have, a clean comfortable retreat. She could read and write and do figures now and keep her own books. And if she handled it properly, and she fully intended to handle it properly, she could have security in abundance.

"Elizabeth, please look at me."

There he was again. Aware now that he was bending over her in an attempt to see her face, she held still and feigned sleep.

A few moments later she opened one eye and no longer saw him leaning over her. Thank God. Now she closed her eyes and tried to relax into the pillow. Would this room serve best? she wondered, her mind still turning on the details of her future. It had been Edward's room. She'd wanted to keep it intact. But what foolishness, that! Edward was dead, and in a way the room had already been initiated. Yes, this chamber would work very well, convenient to the front parlor.

At last, in the tumult of her thoughts, her pain was beginning to recede. There would be no more beatings, of that she was certain, although in a way she'd invited it. She'd called him a fool, and while all men were, none liked to hear it from the lips of a whore.

Cleanliness first, she thought, and comfort in pleasant surroundings, gentlemen invited to partake of claret in the front parlor, and herself with a whole wardrobe of pretty dressing gowns which opened easily. And of course the necessary equipment to keep herself clean and unimpregnated. No birthings, please, to ruin her figure, no child whom she might laboriously raise, only to have him turn his back on her as John had done.

A small death there, but she dealt with it, as she continued to deal with her discomfort. It could all be borne. With what matter-of-factness she now contemplated recent events. In fact, how pleased she was to discover that she remembered hardly any details . . .

"Elizabeth?"

The voice took her by surprise. She thought he'd left long ago. What was he staying for? Annoyed, she turned onto her back and with amazement saw his face still streaming with tears, of exhaustion or distress, or both.

"Please," he begged, "tell me the name."

But she kept silent and with pleasure watched his misery, as from now on she intended to draw her greatest sustenance from the misery and dependence of all men.

Eden Castle, October 1851

Disappointed!

He'd not counted on that. Yet, there was the truth of it.

Seated in the Great Hall, with little Mary on his lap, Richard on one side, his aunt Jennifer on the other, John was forced out of the habit of honesty to look around him and admit that he was disappointed.

He felt momentarily sad. How could a life so long dreamt of result in disappointment? He shifted Mary on his lap and quietly rested his chin atop her head and tried not to hear the torturous sounds coming from the quartet grouped around the pianoforte.

The habitual Sunday-evening musicale. Herr Snyder's idea, to torture all the inhabitants of Eden Castle every Sunday from five o'clock until seven with the most wretched sounds this side of hell.

In an attempt to block the dissonance from his ear, he looked discreetly about in an effort to see if others were suffering as he was. His nearest co-sufferer, Richard, had solved the problem simply enough. He saw the boy slumped down in his chair, his black jacket flared out in front to accommodate a slim green volume. From that angle, John could not see the title, but whatever it was, it was captivating the boy completely.

And John knew, without looking, that to his left, his poor senseless aunt Jennifer was not suffering in any profound way. Indeed, out of all the miserable inhabitants of the castle, Jennifer alone seemed to enjoy the Sunday-evening musicales.

As the quartet attempted and failed a spirited allegro, John looked

beyond Jennifer and her nurse to the rotund and dogmatic Herr Snyder, Teutonic to the marrow of his bones. Still John rather liked him because for the most part the man ignored him. He'd taken all of Herr Snyder's initial examinations and apparently had passed with flying colors. Relieved of the "classroom," John was simply given free run of the library. And in a way, he enjoyed his freedom to explore the rich shelves on his own, renewing his acquaintance with certain familiar authors, recalling his father's insistence that he "fully understand" such men as Rousseau and Diderot.

And he greatly enjoyed making new discoveries, delving for the first time into practical, hard-minded books such as A History of the East India Company, a catalog of incredibly wealthy men and how they achieved their riches, this particular book reawakening fond memories of the many times he'd prowled the London docks with his father, watching the arrival of the giant clipper ships from India laden with tea and spices, silks and the smell of money.

He still remembered how fascinated he had been by the white-turbaned, dark-skinned, dark-eyed men who had stared down on them from the high decks, arrogant-looking men who seemed in possession of secrets that it would behoove John to learn.

India! Even the name sounded magical. How many times, in a boyish pout, he had threatened to stow away and sail with the white-turbaned men.

Now again India was providing him with a rich escape from the stifling routine of Eden Castle. If only he'd thought to bring the book with him. If only he'd had Richard's foresight.

Now he looked past Richard to the scattering of upper-level servants who were pressed into service as an audience; there, Mr. Rexroat. And beyond Rexroat, Clara, the children's nursemaid. He liked Clara very much. Her good-hearted nature reminded him of the volunteers in his father's Ragged School.

Beyond Clara were a few favored and trusted maids, plain Peggy, Lady Harriet's favorite, and old Gertrude, the harridan who looked after his great-aunt Jane, who never left her fourth-floor apartment and who, at ninety, seemed bent on outliving Methuselah.

That was all in one direction, and with a slow turning of his head he looked to his right, to the two seated a distance apart from the others, his attention focusing first on his uncle, slouched, legs extended, his eyes puffed and bloodshot. It was common knowledge in the castle that his drinking habit had increased, and also it was common knowledge that the two guards whose shadowy presence in the

far arch John could just barely discern had strict orders from Lady Eden to follow his lordship at all times. According to Clara, who loved to gossip, the two watchmen had been instructed not to interfere in any way with his lordship's various habits and desires, but neither were they ever to let him out of their sight except at night, when he was safely locked into his chambers. And at the first display of drunken violence, they were to fall upon him immediately and by whatever means necessary restrain him.

Now staring at the crumpled man, John felt a surge of pity for him. Had he always been thus, or was something destroying him? Of course, John remembered all too well that alarming first night in his chambers when his uncle in a drunken rage had attacked Lady Harriet. Curious, his sympathy that night had been with her.

Her! At last, as though some instinct had warned him to postpone this scrutiny for as long as possible, his eyes finally rested on her, and in bewilderment he contemplated that female who in rapid and mysterious succession could cause him to feel annoyance and peace, anger and calm, humiliation and pride, hate and love.

Suddenly he shivered and tried to look away, but couldn't. If only she would treat him with a degree of consistency. On occasion, during walks along the headlands with the children, he'd found himself totally captivated by her warmth and beauty, her generosity of spirit, the expression of love which, without warning, would cover her face when she looked at him. And at other times, how painfully he'd endured her coldness and caprice, greeting her warmly, only to be slapped down with a command as frigid as though he were still an odd-boy.

Abruptly he closed his eyes and again rested his cheek atop Mary's silken head. And how, he wondered, would she appear before him tonight for their habitual visit to the fourth-floor wing to see Aunt Jane, another ritual as unbending as all the others, though this one was slightly more depressing, to witness firsthand the ravages of age.