The Eden Passion (56 page)

"Reverend. . . Jennings?" he stammered.

"Mr. Eden," the "Indian" responded stiffly. "I thank you for the generosity of sharing your table and I trust that my companionship will not be too tedious for you."

Still John gaped and was only vaguely aware of Desfosses slipping away, as though he'd done his duty. Then he saw the "Indian" withdrawing the chair opposite him, sitting erect and launching immediately into the fruit salad, leaving John in a rather predominant standing position with the weight of approximately seventy sets of eyes upon him.

"Please do sit down, Mr. Eden," the man murmured. "We've provided theater for the others long enough."

At last John came to his senses and sat rapidly, aware of the sound

of cutlery scraping against an empty bowl. In less than a minute the fruit salad opposite him had been devoured, and now he saw Reverend Jennings lift an imperious hand to the nearby steward, informing him without words to bring the next course.

Never had John seen such an appetite. In less than twenty minutes, without a word spoken between them, the man had consumed the complete menu, two stewards hovering over them now, one to accommodate Reverend Jennings, one to serve John, who was just commencing his oxtail soup.

Well, thus occupied, the man would require no conversation, although now curiously John found himself suffering from an acute desire to learn all about this blue-eyed Indian.

But to his disappointment, he saw the man conclude his cherry tart with a flourish, wave aside the offer of coffee, press his napkin primly to his lips and start to rise from the table.

"I thank you again, Mr. Eden," he said stiffly, "and because we must share this table, I see no reason for us to intrude into each other's privacy. I shall not be a burden to—"

Quickly John cut in. "I assure you, Reverend Jennings, you are not a burden. In fact, I was wondering if you would care to join me later in an after-dinner drink."

"I do not consume spirits, Mr. Eden," the man said, looking down his long slender nose, "and for the first three months of this voyage, I will not partake of any of the public rooms."

"For the . . . first three . . ." John tried to repeat, his bewilderment increasing.

"I am in a state of mourning, Mr. Eden, having recently buried my wife of forty-seven years."

Sobered by the grim announcement, John murmured, "I'm sorry . . ."

"Don't be, Mr. Eden. May was a good woman, a faithful partner, but she loathed India. There was a sense of shared relief as I lowered her into her English grave. Now, if you will excuse me . . .*

And with that he was gone, moving with dignity back through the tables, leaving John with his mouth open.

It was several moments before he shook the strange mood completely. At the same time, he made a quick reassessment. Whatever Reverend Fraser Jennings was or wasn't, he would not be a bore. In fact, John found himself eagerly looking forward to breakfast.

But the place opposite him was empty the next morning, and remained empty throughout luncheon, and it wasn't until nine

o'clock that evening that John caught his next glimpse of Reverend Fraser Jennings, clad again in Indian garb, blue this time, matching his eyes.

"Ah"—John smiled as he approached the table—"I missed you this morning and at luncheon. I trust you are—"

"I partake of only one meal a day, Mr. Eden," the man said. "God frowns on dietary excess," and following this rather pompous announcement, he launched forth into one of the most impressive displays of gluttony that John had ever seen, consuming everything in sight as rapidly as possible. Throughout the silent meal, John found himself fascinated at the speed and skill with which the man could transport food to his mouth.

As the platters were emptied, John leaned forward, determined to engage the curious man in at least limited conversation. To this end he pushed aside his own dinner and subtly inquired, "May I ask your destination, Reverend Jennings?"

The man looked up as though startled both by the question and by John's presence. "You must make up your mind, Mr. Eden," he said sternly.

Taken aback, John faltered. "I. . .don't. . ."

"Do you want conversation or not? When I approached this table last night, I felt a negative presence, a resentment that I—"

"What nonsense." John laughed nervously.

"It isn't nonsense, Mr. Eden. Mother India has taught me much. Generally I can discern a man's thoughts with great accuracy."

Embarrassed, John took momentary refuge in his napkin. "Perhaps in the beginning I was skeptical," he confessed.

"But you're not now?"

Damn! Why was it necessary to hold a discourse on the art of social conversation?

"You anger very easily, Mr. Eden. Did you know that? It could be a fatal flaw and should be checked."

Truly annoyed now, John was in the process of continuing his dinner, when without warning the man across from him laughed.

"Of course, I don't deny that this tedious voyage would be more pleasant with companionship," he said, a degree of warmth in his voice which John had never heard before. "But the desire must be mutual. In the process of talking, we will reveal parts of ourselves to each other, give ourselves away, as it were. Is that a gift you are prepared to receive, Mr. Eden?"

Dumbfounded, John did well to nod.

"Well, then"—Jennings smiled—"in answer to your question, my destination is India. Where else? I have a mission school in Delhi, established it thirty-five years ago. I've turned many a native eye toward redemption, Mr. Eden."

As the words tumbled out, John briefly regretted his insistence on conversation. Abruptly he caught himself. If the man could read thoughts. . .

"Born in Alfriston on the southern coast of England," Jennings went on, "and received my call from God while a boy of thirteen beneath the very tree where John Wesley preached his first sermon."

Still the words came, his voice growing lighter, a brightness in his eye which did not seem wholly appropriate for a grieving husband who had just buried his wife of forty-seven years.

"Educated at Oxford. I speak French, German, Arabic, Italian, Persian and Urdu. I prefer the rationalist philosophers such as Locke and Hobbes, and I play an aggressive and warlike game of chess. Do you play chess, Mr. Eden?"

Taken off guard by the direct question, John nodded. "On occasion I-"

Reverend Jennings beamed. "Then we have found our true salvation. Come, my boy. I never travel without mankind's two major supports, the Holy Bible and a chess set. Come, we'll have coffee in my stateroom, and I warn you, watch your queen. I'm barbaric where queens are concerned."

Before John could protest or decline, Jennings was standing behind his chair, taking him by the arm and literally propelling him through the dining room.

Great God, what had he done? Condemned himself to six months of chess, that's what he had done, condemned himself further to the companionship of a man who in a good clinical sense could be considered totally balmy.

"Come along, Mr. Eden." Jennings grinned again. "What an adventure we have before us! The only accurate way for one man to get to know another is over a chessboard. There true colors are revealed, philosophies made clear, souls purged. What a stroke of good fortune for both of us. Wouldn't you say?"

Then John heard it again, that slightly nasal Oxford purr. 'Too late for doubts, Mr. Eden. At least for the duration of this voyage, we are bound together. At your insistence, if you will recall. . . ."

Six months later, John stood on the deck of the Belle Poule watching the crowded dock at Bombay, certain in his mind that he never wanted to see another chessboard as long as he lived.

In spite of his present irritation, he was forced to admit that the tedious and at times hazardous voyage had passed fairly rapidly. Not that he had learned a great deal more about Reverend Jennings. The man played chess the same way he ate, with an astonishing single-mindedness which did not permit too many verbal exchanges.

Still John was relieved that their companionship was coming to an end. He glanced over his shoulder now, waiting for the man to appear so that they might say their good-byes.

Below, John looked out over the dock at the fascinating scene with rising excitement. India! How often he had dreamt of this moment. The Great Adventure, the new horizon which had beckoned to him since he was a boy. Looking down, he saw hundreds of dark-skinned people, women with their faces concealed behind veiled saris, a solid crush of ox carts, cows roaming at will.

"Quite a pageant, isn't it? Can you imagine the challenge of diffusing among those inhabitants the light and influence of the Truth?"

John recognized the voice without looking, having heard it shout "Checkmate" countless times. "Reverend Jennings"—he smiled, extending his hand—"I wanted to say good-bye and thank you for an . . . interesting voyage."

"A pleasure, my boy," the old man replied, as though touched by sentiment. "Your chess tactics are rudimentary but sound. Stick with it and you could be a master one day."

John bobbed his head in thanks and reached behind for his valise. As he started toward the gangplank, a thought occurred to him. "One last favor, Reverend Jennings. Would you be so good as to direct me to the nearest railway station. As I said, Delhi is my destination and I—"

But he was not given a chance to finish, his voice obscured by the sudden laughter coming from Reverend Jennings. "Railway station?" the man gasped at the end of the mindless hilarity. Now he drew closer, still wiping at his eyes. "My poor boy," he mourned, "to the best of my knowledge, the nearest railway station is Euston in the north part of London. There is a narrow-gauge which departs from Calcutta when the times and the spirit permit, but. . ."

Shocked by the news, John lowered his valise to his feet and stared with sinking spirits out over the bustling dock.

It was several moments later before he was aware of Reverend Jennings standing beside him, his arm about his shoulder in a paternal gesture. "God's hand again." The old man smiled benignly. "He brought us together six months ago, and now He is insisting that we stay together. As long as we are both going to Delhi, we might as well extend our companionship and travel as one."

Everything within John resisted the invitation. But how many options did he have? There was not a doubt in his mind that Fraser Jennings knew India, perhaps better than any other white man on the ship. And looking out again over that crowded dock, John was at last forced to admit that perhaps a trained and knowledgeable hand could be of assistance to him.

"I don't want to . . . intrude," he faltered.

"What intrusion!" Jennings responded expansively. "Come. Leave your luggage. We'll have it brought north at a later date. I have an extra pack. Fill it with what is essential to your comfort and soul. And don't be alarmed. Mother India will provide us with everything we need. She always has and always will."

Before John could speak, the tall lean man strode away to where the luggage was being disbursed. John saw him say something to the Indian porter, and a few moments later he heard Jennings calling to him from the top of the gangplank.

"Come, Eden," he shouted. "The greatest adventure of your young life awaits you." Without waiting to see if John was following after him, he started in great strides down the gangplank, his head lifted, shoulders back, as though he were marching toward Paradise.

In that instant John heard the foreign tongues on the dock raised in excited cries and shouts. He looked about once again at the elegant and safe decks of the Belle Foule, and he caught the spirit of the adventure and ran after Reverend Fraser Jennings, shouting, "Wait!"

Harrington Hall,

Salisbury, Wiltshire,

February 1856

Although she was capable of enduring much, it was as though the season were testing her.

From where she sat at her window seat, with Wolf curled comfortably beside her, Lila Harrington looked out over the frozen dusk. She had not enjoyed fresh air for days. According to Max, it was too cold for safety's sake. Thus denied the endless variety of her world, she'd been forced deeper into her imagination. But even that rich resource had faltered when confronted with events around her.

Her mother was seriously ill, the physician in constant attendance, her father plunged into deep grief. Lila had been forbidden to enter the sickroom.

There had been a tragic carriage accident on the road near her apple orchard. The injured, a woman and three small children, had been brought to Harrington Hall before being transported to Salisbury. All last night she had heard their cries.

And the worst, the open letter in her lap, usually the source of incredible happiness, now thrusting her deeper into a mood as frozen as the day.

Again she lifted the soiled, mussed paper, foolishly thinking that perhaps the message had altered since she'd first read it at noon. From John it was, dated May 1855, so long ago, and written in haste from Constantinople. When Max had delivered the envelope to her and she'd seen the familiar handwriting, she'd thought that it was an announcement of his homecoming. Instead she had read:

My dearest Lila,

Great news! At last circumstances have conspired in my favor, all omens are right and I'm off to India. Although I could write volumes, I must keep my message short, as time is pressing upon me. Suffice it to say that a dream is coming true for me, and I will try to the best of my ability, and when time permits, to share with you all the sights and sounds and sensations of my destination. I know it shall be a marvelous adventure, and although I don't know when I shall return, I will think of you always with fondness and devotion. Please give my best regards to Wolf and your parents. Find India on your world globe and think of me in my new happiness.

Your humble servant, John Murrey Eden

She closed her eyes and let the letter fall limp in her lap. "Oh, Wolf," she whispered, "will we ever see him again?"

The big cat pushed lightly against her and lifted his chin so that she might stroke his whiskers.