The Eden Passion (6 page)

That was all he needed, and he commenced making his way through the clutter, his eyes fixed on the steaming bowl which she'd placed on a low bench, accompanied by a round of dark bread.

She stood back, smiling, as he slid along the bench, lifted the wooden spoon and filled his mouth with the rich tomato goodness of stew.

Three bowls later, the spoon at last slowed. He ran the tip of his

tongue over the burned skin of his upper mouth, a small price to pay for such satiation. And for the first time he looked up to see Aggie sitting in one of the easy chairs, her legs spread, the dog resting his head on her lap, a small clay pipe clenched in her teeth, her eyes narrowed and focused on him.

He'd never seen a woman with a pipe before, and watched, fascinated. Still she stared at him as though seeing him for the first time. Under that relentless gaze he ducked his head. He heard dimly in the distance the voices of the other servants at dinner. With his head down he felt an overpowering need to sleep. Also he felt a terrible awareness of where he was. Two days earlier he'd had a very different conclusion in mind for this night.

Now, as though keeping pace with his thoughts, he heard Aggie ask quietly, "And where do you go from here, lad?"

He shrugged. "To the cellar, I suppose, with the odd-boys."

She inhaled deeply on the pipe. "What if proof of who you are don't come?" she asked bluntly.

Still fighting exhaustion, he tried to address the question. "It will come," he said softly.

"That baggage you arrived with? She don't look none too bright . . ."

Annoyed by the old woman's assault on Elizabeth, he tried to defend her. "She's very kind and she—"

"Is she your mum?"

"No."

"Then who is?"

He shook his head, having no appetite for the subject. "I don't know. All my father told me was that she died when I was born."

"Convenient."

"It's the truth."

Slowly Aggie leaned back in her chair, her face red from exposure to the heat. "Well, not to worry, lad. You won't be exiled for long, I can promise you that. There's too many upstairs that need you, no matter who you are. They'll come and fetch you right enough and carry you off for their own purposes."

He was on the verge of asking her to repeat herself when he heard footsteps in the far corridor and looked up to see a half dozen stewards returning from their dinner. The old footman, Dana, was in the lead and now appeared pleased at the sight of John before an empty bowl.

"So you've eaten." He smiled. "I was just coming to—"

"Of course he's et," Aggie snapped, on her feet now, her gruffness laced into place. Roughly she thrust a lantern at old Dana and gave him a harsh command. "Take him down where he belongs 'fore Rexroat comes blowin' in here. I'm in no mood for his jawin', so take him down where he belongs. I'm sick to death of the sight of him."

Bewildered by her sudden change, John pushed away from the bench. He saw Dana waiting impatiently at the far door, lantern in hand, his face awash with pity, as though he dreaded the errand ahead of him.

Enough, then! On this resolve, John started toward the door, weary of delays. Apparently the subcellar was as low as one could go in Eden Castle. While it had not been his intention to start there, still there was something of a challenge in it. It might, in the end, make the climb out more interesting.

As he skirted the last table, he glanced in Aggie's direction. In that moment he altered his course and moved toward her side. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other servants edging back. He touched her shoulder and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Thank you," he whispered, aware of the shocked silence coming from behind him, acutely aware of old Aggie herself, who turned slowly toward him, a look of confusion on her face, as though twin instincts were waging a relentless war, on one side a clear impulse to smack him for such impudence, on the other a desire to hug him to her.

Obviously the battle was a standoff, with no clear victor. "Go on with you," she muttered, and again turned away.

He moved back through the servants and rejoined Dana at the door. Lifting his voice into a tone of false confidence, he said, "Lead the way, my friend."

Then they were moving again back down the endless corridors, Dana in the lead. To keep his mind off his destination, John counted the torches in their fixed standards; four, six, seven—where was Elizabeth now? Had she made it safely to Taunton? Would she stop there for the night?

Papa, tell me more of Eden. It is beautiful?

At the end of the corridor they came to a wide reception room, two staircases leading off in opposite directions, one broad one which clearly led up and one narrow one which led down. Predictably Dana took the one leading down through a low door to a stone staircase, the descent steep, the only light now coming from the lantern.

John perceived a marked change in the temperature, a damp cold.

Still they moved downward, until at last they came out into a stone chamber with one small passageway on the right and ahead what appeared to be a mountain of stones scattered in profusion, as though a cave-in had occurred, blocking the next staircase down.

Curious, John looked closely at the gray crumbling barrier. "Is that-?"

"Don't know," Dana snapped with unprecedented bluntness, and moved steadily forward into the narrow passageway on the right, lifting the lantern high to light the way.

Finally he stopped before a low door. "Here it is," he announced.

"Thank you, Dana." John smiled, stepping forward and pushing the low door open. He ducked his head and moved into the cell, felt the dirt floor beneath his feet and saw nothing but a mound of straw in the corner. In comparison, the small whitewashed cell had been paradise.

Still Dana held his position in the door, one hand covering his nose in defense against the odors of waste and decay which seemed to be increasing with the dampness. "Ain't fit for stock," he grumbled angrily, "let alone . . ."

At last John agreed. "No, but according to Aggie, it won't last too long." He moved toward the door to speed the old man on his way. "Get some sleep." He smiled. "Come morning, I'll need your assistance. I've never been an odd-boy before."

The old man looked at him affectionately. "At least your duties will take you into the light of day, sir."

Sir! He couldn't have said anything that would have pleased John more. "Then be off with you," he urged.

Finally the old man turned and lifted his hand in salute and disappeared down the passageway.

John watched him the length of the corridor, and was still watching when the lantern light faded and left him in darkness. For a moment his heart accelerated. But in the silence he heard snores in the cell opposite him, and drawing comfort from the realization that he was not alone, he stepped back into his own narrow cell, felt along the floor until he found his satchel, then like a blind man felt farther with the toe for his boot until he felt the beginning of straw.

As he settled on the pallet, he reached for the satchel and withdrew his jacket, meager protection against the damp cold. Reaching farther, he felt for his two books, one the Book of Common Prayer, and the other the catalog of the Great Exhibition. Slowly he withdrew the one which would bring him the most comfort. How he'd

looked forward to it, strolling the central promenade of the Great Exhibition with his father and Elizabeth, leading them ultimately to the wing where those magnificent black machines had been arranged.

He closed his eyes and let the catalog of the Great Exhibition fall limp in his lap, overcome by a sense of disappointment. How hard they had worked. How unfair of fate to deny . . .

But even before his mind had completed the thought, a new awareness moved in, too painful to deal with, the image of his father crushed beneath the machine, the sad journey back to the house in Bermondsey, Elizabeth's speechless grief, the funeral procession, all leading here to this black pit.

His head was heavy with fatigue, and he made no effort to hold himself erect. He slipped down onto straw, the catalog still clasped in his hands.

His mind, equally as numb, made no attempt to make sense out of his surroundings. All he knew for certain in the last minutes before sleep came was that one day he'd close and bolt these mean cells, and if he had need of odd-boys, he'd move them up into the light of day.

When he was Lord of Eden, he'd do all this, and more.

Lord of Eden! Dear God, what a climb he had to make from here to there.

As he began to wonder about the nature of the climb, for some reason he felt inexpressibly sad. It wasn't that he lacked energy. He had that. Or determination. He had that in abundance. And ability as well.

Then why sad?

But sleep came, obscuring both the question and the need for an answer.

London, May 10, 1851

In spite of the fact that he was a halfhearted husband, Morley Johnson liked to awaken with his arm slung over his wife's swollen belly. On occasion, just as he was opening his eyes, he felt the baby kicking, pushing against Minnie's womb as though eager to get out. In quiet moments such as these, the baby, number seven, reminded Morley of himself. Both were trying to break out of encasements of one sort or another.

With his eyes open, he lay in the predawn darkness. Beyond the pillow, he observed the small room filled with used furnishings. In the next room, the other six children were still asleep, noisome stairsteps commencing at two and leading to seven.

Morley rolled onto his back now, taking half the bedclothes with him. Oh, God, but he was sick to death of narrow beds, small rooms and the smell of cabbage filtering down into his law office below.

Still he counseled himself patience. An impatient man made mistakes, a valuable lesson he'd learned from his old mentor, Sir Claudius Potter. And in truth, Morley's rise thus far had been remarkable. In the miraculous time of thirty-eight years, he'd shaken the dirt of his father's Hampshire farm from his boots forever, had walked to London, educated himself, served a tedious but valuable apprenticeship in the Temple, had applied for admittance to the bar, had passed the examinations on the fourth try, and now was entitled to put "Solicitor" after his name.

Rather enjoying the recall of his own accomplishments, he stretched luxuriously in bed, his toes touching the footboard, his

long, lean frame uncurling for the first time after the night's sleep. His mind raced downstairs to his cluttered desk, to the urgent letter he'd received yesterday, delivered by special courier from Lord Eden. Apparently Morley was to play police inspector today, though the letter by and large had been incoherent. His lordship had mentioned the death of his brother, Edward, and the arrival on the doorsteps of Eden Castle of a young man who had claimed kinship with the family. Lord Eden had instructed Morley to launch a search for proof, if indeed proof existed, and to report back to him immediately when and if documentation was uncovered.

He stared up at the ceiling in the darkness. Where to start? Suffering momentary mental confusion concerning the future, he preferred to sink back into his noteworthy past. How fast events had moved the last few years! Morley admitted to the bar, Sir Claudius' death in the riding accident, then the crowning achievement, the humble letter he'd penned to Lord and Lady Eden, applying for the vacant post of solicitor to the vast, though abused Eden estates. He'd presented an effective case, pointing out that as Sir Claudius' clerk how intimately acquainted he was with all the Eden affairs, informing them of his own shiny bronze plaque, morley johnson, solicitor, and begging for the privilege to serve that great family with humility and dedication.

In the next post, he'd received his reply. A trial association of twelve months. If at the end of that time all were pleased, the position would be his.

Now, with the year's trial over, with the Eden ledger books firmly in his command, Morley Johnson was, as they say, a man on his way. He had a rare talent, as great as if not greater than old Sir Claudius himself. To be true, he'd learned from that gentleman how to take in one sum from the estate agents and how to list another in the ledger books, pocketing the difference.

But to the best of his knowledge, certain daring refinements of the game had not even occurred to Sir Claudius. For example, in the past Morley had penned a simple note to Lord Eden. Estate tea due. Selling Piatt number Thirteen due east of Taunton to highest bidder.

Perhaps his lordship had taken all of three minutes to glance at the note, had scribbled his initials and had returned it to Morley, whereupon the estate agent had been notified that a bidder by the name of Ross Gourland had put up the capital and the deed was to be transferred posthaste.

And who was Ross Gourland? Morley smiled. Who else? And who was Sidney Blackston? Who else? He was now the proud though anonymous possessor of two small estates on the outskirts of Taunton. Of course, he must move with care, but that he intended to do, constructing a good solid foundation on which a limitless structure might be built.

He stretched again, then snuggled close to his sleeping wife. Damn that protuberance! He loved to have her when she was half-asleep. Now one hand moved up to her swollen breasts. Carefully he worried loose the tie on her nightdress and eased the fabric down. As his lips closed around her nipple, she stirred.

"No, luv," she whispered sleepily. "Let me ease this 'un out 'fore you slip another in."

Damn! She was right. Still he had a hunger. And since he'd probably pass the entire day tramping through the slum areas of London in search of a bastard's mother, the least she could do was give him a moment's respite in this gray dawn.

"Turn over," he commanded, determined to take his comfort whether she liked it or not.

Again she protested, her eyes wide, as though aware of what he was asking. "No, luv, please. We ain't animals."

"Turn over!"

Reluctantly she did as she was told, dragged her bulbous body upward onto her hands and knees while he lifted her nightdress and mounted her.