The Eden Passion (41 page)

Then leave! Go back to the flat on Warwick Lane, pack, leave Willmot a note and go to the docks. India was still beckoning, still pushing against his conscience as though it were an unrealized dream. He had no idea what he would find there, but it could be no worse than what he had here, which was exactly nothing.

Was he a coward?

No! But why must he prove it to Brassey! Damn Brassey! Then leave. A ship may be waiting now. India! Blazing sun, dusty plains, treasures to be plucked from off the ground.

In his excitement, he stepped blindly out into the traffic and heard the neighing of horses reined sharply in, and looked up in time to see a carriage veer to the right, a collision avoided at the last minute, the enormous carriage rumbling past so close he could feel the displacement of air.

"Watch out!" someone shouted.

"Idiot!" another cried.

Quickly he stepped back to the pavement, the driver of the carriage still struggling for control. He looked up, brought to his senses by the near-calamity. Inside the carriage window he saw one small gloved hand draw back the velvet curtains. Then he saw the side of a cheek, a bonnet tied snugly about a small chin, long fair hair arranged over a fur cape, the eyes, the cheek, the chin familiar, all familiar . . .

My name is Lila Harrington. Don't let too much time pass before you come again.

"Wait!" he called after the carriage.

The face was still there, craning forward as though in an attempt to see him more clearly.

"Wait!" he cried again, leaving the pavement in pursuit of the smiling face.

But as the carriage resumed speed, she merely waved at him, her face little more than a flesh-colored disk now, surrounded by the darkness of fur and shadows. Then she was gone.

For a moment he stood on the pavement, shivering from cold as well as from recognition. Had it been her, the same one who'd spoken to him from the apple tree? But it couldn't have been.

Yet, if it hadn't been her, why the smile and the wave? For a few minutes he felt a compulsion to follow after the carriage, to pull the door open and see for himself.

But he didn't. It hadn't been her. That pretty piece of madness who had spoken to him from the branches of the apple tree was safely confined in Salisbury. And concerning India. Good sense intervened there as well. He couldn't just walk away from his responsibilities, thus confirming Brassey's suspicion of him as a coward. And he owed Jack Willmot more than a hastily scribbled note. If it hadn't been for Willmot's kindness . . .

No, India would again have to be postponed. But one day, he was certain, circumstances would conspire in his favor, all omens right, and he would at last gain access to that massive frontier of empire, and pit his ingenuity against its vastness and take away with him what he needed.

For now, he felt bereft, confused, weary.

Ahead of him he saw a prostitute, very young and appealing. There might be sport. Surely he could afford her. But just when he thought he had found his diversion for the night, his spirits sank mysteriously lower, memory always a potent enemy.

Elizabeth. How stealthily and without warning that name entered his mind. In the past, it had been capable of lightening his steps as well as his mind. But now, how barren it made him feel. With his hands shoved into his pockets, he turned his back on the prostitute and his head sank lower between his shoulders, as though matching his thoughts.

Elizabeth. How many men had she entertained? he wondered. And when had she started? The day after she'd taken him to Eden? Had she healed her grief in this fashion, welcoming men to her bed while still deep in mourning for. . . ?

The thought was so awesome that it seemed literally to spin him about. Then he was running, without destination, simply eager to pass the night, to try by any means at his disposal to obliterate the loneliness which again was settling about him.

London, June 1854

Not until Elizabeth held the document in her hand did she fully realize its import and value. Yet there it was, in fine scroll, proclaiming to all men that she was the legal householder of the elegant property at number seven St. George Street.

In spite of the bustle of moving men about her, she glanced up at Lord Kimbrough, who had just placed the deed in her hands. "I. . . don't know what to say, Frederick," she murmured.

"Say nothing." Lord Kimbrough smiled. "It's yours, legally and forever."

She closed her eyes to the complexity of the deed description, strangely saddened by the accomplishment of what she had worked so hard to achieve. Part of it was simply her reluctance to leave this house in Bermondsey, in spite of the fine new house awaiting her only a block removed from Westminster Hall.

Apparently Lord Kimbrough sensed her sadness and thoughtfully invited, "Come. It's not necessary that you remain here." He cast a critical eye over the small front parlor. "The workmen have clear instructions. And you have yet to inspect your carriage. Come," he added gently, "a turn around the park and I shall, with immense pleasure, deliver you personally to number seven."

The carriage! In the excitement of the deed, she'd almost forgotten about the elegant new carriage which had preceded Lord Kim-brough's larger one and which was at this moment waiting beside the pavement, two beautiful brown horses in harness, her own driver, a rotund Father Christmas of a man perched smartly in the high seat.

In spite of the enticement, she begged off. "Not now, Frederick, please." She smiled. "You go ahead. Let me finish here and we will have a late supper together tonight at number seven. Our first."

Apparently her reciprocal gift was adequate to the occasion. With a grateful smile Lord Kimbrough kissed her lightly on the cheek, adjusted his top hat under his left arm and without further protest bowed to her. "It will be pleasant to have so short a journey this evening," he whispered. "A five-minute walk from Westminster and 111 be at your door."

She returned his smile, fully aware of what the move meant to him and to the others as well. No longer would they have to run the hazardous course from Westminster to Bermondsey, through the ever-worsening London traffic, along with the fear that a private investigator or a suspicious wife was trailing behind them. Now, at the closing bell, they could merely slip discreetly out of Westminster, cut a circuitous path across the green and within moments be granted the safe refuge of her new dwelling.

As though to speed him on his way, Elizabeth grasped his arm and again thanked him. "I am grateful, Frederick. It will be a new life."

"In exchange for the one you have given me," he replied gallantly.

Now he walked rapidly down the steps, sidestepping a workman with a crate of china hoisted upon his shoulders. "Not one crack," he called out good-naturedly to the man. "Not so much as a chip. The lady requires beauty and she shall have it, I swear it."

Blushing at the public proclamation of his affection, Elizabeth waved to him and remained on the stoop until his carriage had maneuvered a path through the congestion on the pavement.

Now the confusion in the room behind her caught her attention, and she turned back, the deed still in her hand. "Be careful with that," she warned one of the men who was just in the process of removing the large gilt mirror. She should assist them. It was the reason why she had remained behind. Yet she discovered curiously that she had no desire to witness the dismantling of the front parlor. It was like a dismemberment, and feeling an increasing need for a moment of seclusion, she took refuge in her bedroom, already stripped of all furnishings save one. Edward's trunk.

Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, eyeing the trunk. It was her intention, had always been her intention, to leave it behind. It had no place in the house on St. George Street, certainly no place in her new life.

Suddenly she bent over, the pain of memory too great. She'd

called to John too late. But he hadn't come back. And though she had sent countless messages to Willmot's lodgings in Warwick Lane, none had been answered. Where he was now, and what doing, she had no idea.

She raised her eyes to Edward's trunk. If only he were still alive, how different her life might be.

But at the very moment that she was sinking into a sense of her own degradation, with a conscious act of will she lifted her head and wiped away her tears. What in the name of God was she doing? Edward Eden was dead, John as good as dead.

All she had to do was rise from this bare floor and walk out of the front door and into her own carriage and a brand new life.

Then do it! As she stood, her eye fell again on Edward's trunk. Why should she take it with her? It was filled with nothing of importance.

From the front parlor she heard someone calling. "Miss?"

Quickly she wiped at her face to clear the last residue of tears, then opened the door. A workman stood on the other side, hat in hand, his face glistening with perspiration. "We're done here, miss." He smiled. "Just wanted to know if there was anything else . . ."

She hesitated. Then, "No," she said, "everything else I intend to leave."

She watched him go, rounding up his two mates in the process. Still she stood, gazing at the spill of sunlight streaming in through the open front door. On the pavement she heard the large wagon rumble forward. At last the street was empty and quiet, as was the room around her.

Leave! It was all over for her here. Let someone else inhabit this place of sorrow. Quickly she reached for her valise, avoiding Edward's trunk. Not taking the time to affix her bonnet, she grabbed it with one hand, the luggage with the other, and ran through the empty front parlor and out onto the pavement, where she saw her new carriage, the driver holding the door open for her.

"Miss. . ." He smiled.

She'd wanted to chat with him for a moment, but chatting could come later. It was most important that they leave immediately.

"St. George Street, is it, miss?" he called back as he climbed atop his seat.

"Yes," she replied, amazed at the impatience in her voice.

As the carriage started forward, she closed her eyes and gripped the armrest, trying to keep her mind busy. First she must see to the

dispersing of the furnishings. Then she must unpack her valise. Lord Kimbrough had said a maid would be waiting, someone to shop for her and do her errands. Then the pantry must be stocked, ample quantities of everyone's favorite: port for Lord Kimbrough, champagne for Lord Hopkins, sherry for Willie . . .

Oh, she really should write it all down. Suddenly her shoulders trembled. "Wait . . ." she whispered. Realizing that no one had heard her, she pulled down the window and cried, "Wait! Turn back, please."

She saw the driver angle the carriage about and with an air of confused resignation drive back down the street.

They had traversed only two blocks, and a moment later she looked out of the window at the house she'd just left.

"May I be of assistance, miss?" the old driver called down. "If you forgot something, I'd be more than happy to—"

"In the back room," she said, her voice without inflection, her eyes straight ahead. "There's a small trunk. Fetch it for me, if you will."

A few moments later he returned, Edward's trunk hoisted on his shoulder. "Shall I put it up, miss, with your other—"

"No," she said. "There's room back here. Place it on the seat opposite me."

As she felt the carriage moving again, she at last settled back in the seat, staring at the trunk. Curious. Already she felt a new peace, as though a portion of her soul had been restored to her.

"Edward," she whispered, the image of the man sitting opposite her. "Do you understand?"

The only answer she received was a clearing of the turmoil in her mind. But whatever hopes she once had had of fleeing to a new life, unencumbered, now disappeared. She might very well be fleeing toward new lodgings, but the truth of the matter was that part of her was still held a prisoner in that plain trunk. As for John, that was a sorrow that she'd have to learn to live with.

"Westminster ahead, miss!" the old driver called out. "Not far now."

Not far indeed, she mourned, and felt a peculiar need to cry.

London, December 1854

Though feeling privileged to have been included, nonetheless John stood at the back of the crowded office and listened skeptically to all that was being said.

Brassey was poised before an enormous map of the Crimea, wielding his pointer like a general wields his baton, having earlier pointed out the Black Sea, Turkey on one side, Russia on the other, and the British harbor at Balaklava.

Clustered in chairs around the desk were four army officers—they had been introduced, but their names had escaped John—and standing behind the chairs were Brassey's trusted "lieutenants/' twenty-five of his professional foremen, Jack Willmot among them.

For hours—since midafternoon, and it was now early evening—the military men had sung a grim chorus, graphically describing horror after horror: the climate apparently as effective as the enemy itself, rain, snow and frost making movement a nightmare, clearly stating that the British Army was no longer in a state to bear the burden.

As the voices droned on, John leaned wearily against the wall. He didn't need to listen. During the past year he'd received countless letters from Andrew Rhoades telling him everything. He'd told him as well about the oceans of blood and the constant screams of pain, long letters which suggested more a need to talk than anything, his dreams of a law career apparently forgotten in the carnage.

John had replied as sympathetically as possible, wishing Andrew well and bidding him to take care, and trying to bring him up-to-date on the tedium that was Peto, Betts, and Brassey, and the hysteria that was London.

From where John stood, he saw Willmot glance over his shoulder as though to confirm John's presence. John returned the look with a nod, grateful for the man's concern. What fast friends they had become, despite the years which separated them. Though John had been promoted to head clerk months ago and his weekly salary now was such that he could have had a flat of his own, Willmot had insisted that he stay in his comfortable chambers in Warwick Lane. As Jack Willmot had pointed out, John could put the saved rent into his bank account, which was only nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and fifty pounds short of his first million.

Suddenly the room went silent, and John's attention was dragged forward to the cluster of men about the desk. To his surprise, he saw that Brassey had abandoned his position by the map and had taken a seat behind his desk, focusing on one of the officers, who apparently had been successful in shocking the entire room. Now John noticed all heads slanted toward the officer.

Brassey seemed to straighten in his chair. "Withdraw?" he said, doing little to mask the disgust in his voice.

"It's been suggested, yes, sir," the officer confirmed, holding his shako on his lap, one finger moving nervously back and forth across its visor. "At the British Council of War just last month. You see, sir, after each battle, we seem to come to an abrupt halt Little or nothing can be sustained in the face of—"

"But withdraw!" Brassey exclaimed.

Finally one officer took the floor with renewed aggression, as though he were unaccustomed to the censure of civilians. "I beg your pardon, sir," he pronounced firmly. "It's quite a simple matter to play armchair general from the safety of a London office." His voice fell. "It's quite another to be there and see what happens, and suffer the cold and the—"