The Eden Passion (20 page)

With his eyes still closed, he allowed his mind and a portion of his heart to return to that other life. Elizabeth. How he missed her, that cheerful and predictable little sparrow who had raised him. He should have written to her months ago, simply to inquire as to her well-being. Perhaps after Christmas he would journey to London for the purpose of a visit.

Oh, God, would it never end, that cacophony coming from around the pianoforte? In the next instant he saw the bows go limp over the

instruments, heard the blessed peace of silence, followed by a light scattering of applause.

Again he looked toward Lady Harriet and saw her in a close huddle with the old maid, Gertrude, Aunt Jennifer's keeper. Apparently arrangements were being made for the next step in the routine. Still looking in that direction, he saw his uncle leave the Great Hall, his step rapid, as though he could scarcely wait to reach the sideboard in the small library, where, amidst the decanters of brandy and claret he would start his evening's journey into oblivion.

John looked up now to see Clara standing before him. "Ill take her, sir." She smiled, indicating the still-napping Mary.

He nodded, only too happy to relinquish the small deadweight. "I'm afraid her musical appreciation is sadly lacking."

As the little girl settled, without losing a wink, into Clara's ample arms, the large woman leaned close with a whispered confidence. "Hers, as well as mine, sir."

John laughed and tried to stretch the tightness out of his arms and legs where Mary had been sleeping. Spying Richard, still seated, his nose in the book, he said, keeping his voice down, "He's solved the problem right enough."

"Not for long, he hasn't," Clara muttered. John looked up and followed the direction of her gaze to Lady Harriet, who had just dispatched Gertrude and who had now turned her attention on her errant son.

As she drew near, John thought again how beautiful she was, a grace and dignity to her bearing that he'd never seen before in any female.

Now she stopped a few feet away, not looking at anyone but her son. "Richard, I'm ashamed," she said, her voice bereft, as though the boy had inflicted a wound upon her. "These people rehearse long hours and travel a great distance, all the way from Exeter for our benefit and enjoyment. How must they feel to look out and see you reading a book? How hurt they must be."

So effective was her performance that for a moment even John felt sorry for the musicians.

"But I did not ask them to come, and they play abominably. I thought it best to pass the time in a constructive way," Richard replied, his voice strong.

She seemed to think on this for a moment, as though she knew she was engaged in a delicate battle of wills. "I respect your intent," she said, "but do not approve of your lack of consideration of others.

I think it best if you pass the remainder of the evening in your chambers. And perhaps you'll be able to better think on the lesson without the distraction of supper."

Doubly clever, John thought, looking admiringly down on the boy, whose face now bore the look of one who had set a goal for himself and had achieved it. He'd just been excused from the tedious visit to Jane's fourth-floor chamber and sent to the solitude of his own chamber, which was undoubtedly what he wanted all along.

As the boy rose, apparently eager to see his punishment through, Harriet moved a step closer. Clearly the edict was hurting her more than it was him. "May I ask," she began, "the nature of the book which has led you to such unhappy circumstances?"

Only too willing to oblige, Richard held up the thin volume, one finger still inserted at the page where he'd left off. "Pascal, Mama," he said with suspect calm. "Justice and the Reason of Effects."

Then he was moving, apparently unaware of the faces, one in particular that gaped after him.

Clara was there, apologizing. "He meant nothing by it, my lady," she murmured.

But there was no need for apology. "Oh, I'm aware of that." Harriet smiled, looking after her son with adoring eyes. "Pascal," she marveled softly. "What a glorious future he has ahead of him."

As soon as Richard had disappeared, she stirred herself out of her reflection and looked sternly about, as though having momentarily lost her direction. "Well, then," she said, her eye falling first on John, then moving down to Jennifer who still sat motionless in her chair.

"She's getting worse," Harriet murmured.

"Oh, I think not, my lady," Clara again soothed. 'The music always has a strange effect on her. She's like a child, is all, and must be watched."

Harriet nodded. "Come along," she ordered. "I've sent Gertrude ahead. We'll take tea with Jane."

John cast a departing look toward Clara, then fell in behind the rapidly moving Harriet, clad in dark blue taffeta, amazed at how much taller he was than she. He couldn't remember such a difference in their heights only a few short months ago.

Once on the broad central staircase, the traffic thinned. Ahead, Jennifer slowed her pace, which meant that they had to follow suit as well. In the ease of the reduced speed, he became aware of Harriet

relaxing a bit. "Do you think I was too hard on Richard?" she asked suddenly.

John smiled. "You probably were harder on yourself."

She looked quizzically at him.

"On those infrequent occasions," he went on, enjoying the ease with which they were walking and talking, "when my father felt it his duty to punish me, I'm certain that I didn't feel half the pain that he did."

He could feel her eyes on the side of his face, and was aware for the first time of her delicately flowered scent; it seemed to emanate from her hair. "And did he punish you often?" she asked.

He shook his head, amused at the remembrance of his father trying to act paternal. "No, although Elizabeth had a go at it many times."

Ahead, he heard soft humming, Jennifer trying to prolong the mood of the music. Apparently Harriet heard it as well, and now her thoughts turned in a different direction. "Do you share Richard's critical opinion of our Sunday-evening musicales?" she asked, stopping for a moment, as Jennifer had bent to examine something on the stairs.

Prudently he paused before answering. "Yes," he said truthfully, then added quickly, "I'm not a connoisseur, however. In the Ragged School, our exposure to music consisted of a polka every Thursday night."

She leaned back against the banister, apparently more than willing to give the women up ahead all the time they needed. "I've asked you two questions within the last five minutes"—she smiled—"and you've answered both with references to the past."

Surprised, he looked down on her. It was true, though he couldn't account for it.

"Do you miss London and all your friends?" she asked.

"No," he said. "And I have no friends there. My father did, lots of them. But they were his friends, not mine."

"Have you written to Elizabeth?"

"No," John replied, "and I should have. And will soon."

She nodded, and both walked in silence, heads down. How pleasant it was, he thought, and why couldn't they do it more often?

"Are you happy here, John?" she asked.

Again he counseled himself prudence. "It was a difficult beginning," he said, "and on occasion I find myself wanting. . ."

He hesitated, and she rushed in with unexpected urgency. "What?"

With effort he tried to catalog precisely what was in his head. ''More leisure, I suppose," he said, aware how vague it sounded.

"More leisure? For what purpose?"

He smiled down on her. 'To talk, as we are talking now."

All of her defenses seemed to dissolve. He saw a becoming blush on her face. "We talk," she said.

"Not very often."

They were beyond the third-floor landing now. The fixed lamps were few and far between, thus the passage was darker, requiring greater care. Ahead, Jennifer and Peggy seemed to be faring well. As for himself, he felt the gloom increasing, seeming to herald the dismal chambers they shortly would be entering. No one but Jane inhabited the fourth floor.

About midway up the last flight of stairs, Jennifer suddenly balked and sat on the steps, her face clearly flushed with the exertion of the climb. "Come, Edward." She smiled, extending a hand to John. "Sit beside me while I catch my breath. Daniel will wait."

Obviously the trance brought on by the music was over and she was back among her ghosts again. John glanced quickly at Harriet. She nodded, giving him permission to respond as his father. He wished she had said no.

He moved up the steps until he was seated beside Jennifer. "Only a short distance farther. Do you know where we're going?"

She looked at him and smiled. "Of course I know where we're going, Edward. Why do you insist upon treating me like a child?" Leaning still closer, she reached up and stroked his brow. "How handsome you are, Edward," she whispered. "And how much I love you."

Embarrassed, with the maid and Harriet closely watching, John ducked his head. "Come," he said sternly. "Surely you've caught your breath by now. Aunt Jane will be very disappointed if we don't appear soon."

As he reached for her hand, she pulled away and scrambled to the far side of the staircase. "I don't want to go," she whispered, "and you shouldn't either."

"Why?" he asked. "We come here every Sunday evening."

"But not tonight," she warned.

John tried reason and gentleness. "Do you have any idea how hurt

old Jane will be?" He smiled. "You don't want to hurt her, I know. . ."

Suddenly she turned her face to the wall, though still she was pleading. "Don't go, Edward. Daniel said don't go."

Behind him he heard Harriet.

"She is worse."

John asked, "What shall we do?"

"I don't think we have much choice. We'll have to leave her. Perhaps when she sees us walking away, she'll come."

Now Harriet climbed to the landing and spoke softly to Peggy. "Stay with her until she's ready to leave. She'll be restless tonight. At the first opportunity, please notify Mrs. Swan."

Still standing at mid-step, John looked down at the trembling figure in white. She did appear genuinely frightened. But of what? They had made this walk every Sunday for the last several months.

"Are you coming, John?" It was Harriet calling to him from the top of the stairs.

"I'm coming," he called up, and bent over to touch Jennifer's shoulder. "You wait here, then," he soothed. "I'll be back shortly, and if you like, we'll go looking for Daniel."

Suddenly from down the corridor in the direction of Jane's chamber came a sharp scream. Harriet looked up, and John as well.

Then John was moving, taking the remaining steps two at a time, not waiting to see who was following. As he approached the closed door which led to Jane's apartment, he hesitated, and in that instant Harriet caught up with him, took the lead and flung open the door, both reaching the arch which led into the bedchamber simultaneously. Looking sharply down, they focused on the bed itself. Gertrude, the old maid, was standing at the bedside, her attention fixed on the bed, on Jane, motionless, her mouth and eyes locked in a frozen death mask.

"Oh, no," Harriet mourned softly, and turned away.

From the bedside came weeping, Gertrude doing her best to explain. "When I come in, my lady, she was right enough. I even plumped her pillow for her and said company was a-coming."

John listened, feeling awkward in the presence of death, and thought of Jennifer's warning. He went to Harriet's side. "WTiat may I do to be of service?" he asked kindly. "Would you care for me to fetch-"

"No," she said, walking away from him, approaching the deathbed. "Gertrude can do what has to be done."

The old maid's tears were subsiding. "Of course, my lady," she murmured, apparently grateful that blame would not be placed. She dabbed at her eyes a final time and reached gingerly for the coverlet to hide the dead face.

"No, leave it," Harriet commanded. "Go tell Aggie and Mrs. Swan what has happened. Tell them to come up in one hour to prepare her for burial. And tell Aggie to summon the gravediggers. There's a small plot between her father and brother. . ."

As Harriet issued orders, John retired to a far corner near the window. An hour, he thought grimly. What would they do for an hour in the presence of the dead woman? And worse. Now it occurred to him that there would be a funeral to endure. He'd not been to the graveyard since that rainy May morning when they'd buried his father. He felt no compulsion to go there now.

A few minutes later the room fell quiet behind him, and he turned to see Harriet on her knees at the bedside. Abruptly she looked up. Her eyes were dry. He watched closely as she raised herself from her kneeling position and with tenderness lifted Jane's arms and crossed them upon her breasts. Her hand lingered a moment, caressing the dead woman's forehead. "I don't know why I feel so bereft," she murmured. "I've been expecting it for months, years even."

Without warning a smile crossed her face. "I don't know what I would have done without her in those bleak, early days of my life here."

Stirred to interest, he stepped away from the window. "Were they so bleak?"

The smile faded. "Just death," she said, "or a form of it."

'Why?"

She looked at him as though taken aback by the direct question. For a moment he thought she would answer. "Harriet," he began, moving directly beside her, "there's no cause for us to stay here now. Why don't we—"

But she said, "No," said it harshly this time. Then in the next minute she assumed a manner which suggested that he was nothing more than a servant. "You go along," she ordered. "Death never holds much meaning for the young. What a tedious bore it all is when you're young."

He was on the verge of disagreeing, but she gave him no chance. "Go along with you," she said again. "I had thought that you might appreciate feeling closer to the family—"

"I do," he broke in hurriedly, annoyed that somehow he had failed her. Did she treat her own children thus, or merely him?

From the opposite side of the chamber, safe in shadow, she spoke again, not one tone of her voice resembling that other woman who had climbed the stairs with him. "Did you hear what I said?" she asked. "I told you to leave. I don't want you here. Just leave me alone/'