The Eden Passion (61 page)

Stirred to new activity by the helplessness of his position, he again struggled to a sitting position, noticing for the first time that his shirt was gone, as well as his boots, as well as one leg of his trousers, slashed at the very place where he'd sewn his English pounds.

In the dark, he dragged himself toward one of the dirt walls and rested against it. His worst enemy was his sense of his own stupidity. What in the name of God had possessed him? As self-abnegation burned into his consciousness, he rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Now and then a fresh trickle of blood slid down the bridge of his nose. He thought grimly though not too seriously that if someone didn't come soon, there was a remote possibility that he would bleed to death.

But two days later, after having tested the bars and found them unmovable, after having tried valiantly to cover his urine and defecation with loose damp dirt, and after having watched the patch of light at the top of the tunnel fade and reappear at twenty-four-hour intervals, he clung to the bars in his weakened condition and found the courage to think the unthinkable.

No one was coming, no one had any intention of coming. He had been placed in this hole for the purpose of starving to death. Who would hear his screams? In all the countless hours he'd spent in this pit, he'd heard nothing at all from above. Who would miss him and come looking for him? Hadn't he stupidly announced that night at Jennings' that he was striking out on his own?

No! Slowly he dragged himself to the bars, lifted his head and shouted with what energy he had left, "Help . . . someone!" continued shouting these two words in sequence until his throat burned and the echo of his voice fell back upon him, unheeded.

Through one entire interval of light he shouted, and when darkness fell, his lips were still moving, though no sound came out.

His last conscious thought was of Harriet. How was it possible in so short a life for a man to take so many wrong steps? Still the temptation gripped him to rise up just once more and tear the net of stupidity and circumstance in which he was entangled.

But there was no energy for such an action. He charted one more interval of light and dark at the top of the tunnel. Or was it two, or twelve?

He lost count.

London, February 1856

Andrew Rhoades sat behind his desk in the outer office of Sir Arthur Chesterton, pushed his lawbooks to one side and studied the brown envelope which only moments before had been delivered to him.

From British Military Command Headquarters in Balaklava, it read. Momentarily the snow falling outside his window in the Temple faded, as did the street sounds of carriages on cobblestone. Both these sounds were replaced by the memories of bursting shell and screaming men.

He shook his head in an attempt to shake off the memories and consciously reminded himself that he was safe in London, facing no greater threat than the gentle disappointment of Sir Arthur over his failure to complete the briefs before him.

Andrew's entry back into civilian life had been easy enough. Armed with the Crimean Medal of War, he'd found doors opening to him that before had been tightly closed. After the senselessness of war, he'd discovered that his earlier dream of a career in law had been even more powerful than before. He'd made application, had passed the initial tests and had been called to the bar. With Sir Arthur as a considerate sponsor, he'd taken joyously to his lawbooks and now found himself working overtime in an effort to pass the final examinations and launch a small law practice of his own.

Thus the war and all its accompanying horrors had been put far behind him. Seldom did he look back except at times like now, when it was thrust into his hands in the form of an envelope from British Command Headquarters in Balaklava.

Curious, he turned the envelope over and felt the shifting of smaller envelopes inside. He rubbed his eyes for a moment and reminded himself again that he must consider the practicality of spectacles. The densely packed print of lawbooks was beginning to take a toll, and with his eyes still closed, he thought incongruously of John Murrey Eden.

There too was a piece of unfinished business, prompted no doubt by the presence of the strange envelope in his lap. Since his return to London over a year ago, Andrew had followed every lead in an attempt to track down his friend. He'd gone by Jack Willmot's flat, thinking perhaps John might have returned there. But the landlady had said she had not seen him, and if Andrew did, to tell him to come and fetch Jack Willmot's belongings, which she'd stored in her attic.

Andrew had even made a trip by Thomas Brassey's office, only to be greeted by an array of new faces, one dour man informing him that Mr. Brassey was out of the country, and no, he'd never heard of the gentleman named John Murrey Eden.

The snow beyond the window had turned to sleet and rattled against the glass. He finished rubbing his eyes and opened them to a million spiraling suns out of which evolved one clear image of his missing friend. If only he knew where else to look!

With the aid of a letter opener he slashed the heavy seal on the back of the packet and upended it over his desk. To his amazement, about thirty smaller letters fell out, some well-worn, mute evidence of their lengthy travels, and all bearing the remarkable name of John Murrey Eden.

Bewildered, Andrew shuffled through them, his hand falling on a single sheet of paper, folded once, the unmistakable stamp of the military on it.

Quickly he opened it, carried it to the window, and in the gray light of the snowy afternoon read:

Dear Corporal Rhoades,

As you well know, the day for which we have fought and prayed is upon us. With the Peace Conference in Paris going well, it has fallen our task to disperse all undelivered post addressed to our gallent men in the Crimea. We are sending along for your inspection and assistance a correspondence addressed to one Mr. John Murrey Eden. We admit that it would be a simple matter to return the various letters to the

senders. But we are loath to return unopened mail from the war zone, as the senders are inclined to think the worst. Unable to locate a fatality sheet on John Murrey Eden, we must assume that he is in transit. A gentleman from Mr. Brassey's expedition has informed us that you and Mr. Eden were close friends. We located your address through army files, and if you know where Mr. Eden is, or where to reach him, we would be most appreciative if you would deliver this correspondence to him.

Major Christopher Denning Army Post-Master General Balaklava

Andrew stared at the letter, slowly returned to his stool and sat heavily. Obviously he wasn't the only one who couldn't locate John Murrey Eden. He looked at the scattered letters.

Slowly he lifted one, observed the delicate penmanship and light blue paper, turned it over and read on the back: "Lila Harrington, Harrington Hall, Salisbury."

Bewilderment increasing, Andrew searched his mind for any reference that John had ever made to one Lila Harrington. But he found nothing.

One by one, he commenced stacking the letters, all addressed in that same hand, all signed by one Lila Harrington. Could there have been two John Murrey Edens?

As he brooded, he continued to stack the letters, an ardent and intense correspondence, all from Lila Harrington. Then all at once he lifted a letter that broke the pattern, the handwriting different, and on the back a new name: Elizabeth Eden, 7 St. George St., London.

To the best of his recollection, John had never spoken this name either. Quickly he sorted through the rest of the correspondence. Out of twenty-four letters, sixteen were from Lila Harrington, eight from Elizabeth Eden.

Andrew thought he had known John fairly well, knew certainly his proclivity for London whores. But he had the feeling that neither of these women fit that description. For one thing, the writing paper in both instances was too fine. Generally whores did not have a stationer's account. Neither did whores live in places called Harrington Hall or St. George Street. But if John had been involved with gentlewomen, wouldn't he have told Andrew?

Obviously not. Well, there was at least one bonus to the mystery. He now had two more addresses, locations where perhaps at this very

moment John Murrey Eden was sitting cozy and warm before a fire, enjoying the companionship of one lady or the other.

Hurriedly he slipped the letters from Salisbury back into the large envelope. Those would have to wait. He had neither the time nor the money for a trip to Salisbury. But the one at St. George Street held promise. He knew the location well, an easy walk which he'd make as soon as he completed the briefs for Sir Arthur. If he found John Murrey Eden alive and well and in the arms of a lovely lady, he'd feign anger before he embraced him. And if he didn't. . .

Abruptly he pushed the thought aside. How he hungered to see his friend. What a reunion it would be!

Then hurry! He returned all the letters to the packet, placed it to one side of his desk, like a treat which he would enjoy later, and drew the law volumes back and tried to concentrate on the difference between specific and general power of attorney.

It was approaching nine o'clock when Andrew stood on the snow-covered pavement of St. George Street looking up at number seven, seeing it dark with the exception of one lamp burning at the second-floor window.

Perhaps he should return at another time. But when? His studies kept him busy. He'd cut his work short this evening in order to make this trip. No, he must present himself and his inquiry now.

On this resolution, he left the pavement and climbed the stairs and knocked once on the elegant door, tried to peer in through the leaded glass panel and saw only darkness. He waited a moment, then knocked again, louder this time.

As he was about to turn away, the door opened a crack and a young maid peered out. "Who is it?" she demanded.

Andrew tried to put her at ease. "I beg your pardon," he apologized, "but I'm searching for one Elizabeth Eden. Would you have—"

"Gone to bed," the maid snapped.

As she started to close the door, he stepped forward. "I'm looking as well for John Murrey Eden. Would you know—"

From the faint spill of light from the lamp, he saw a change on her face. "What would you be knowing of John Murrey Eden?" she asked suspiciously.

Grateful for the reprieve, he smiled. "I'm his friend. My name is Andrew Rhoades. We were in the Crimea together. I have some—"

"You were . . . with him in the . . . war?" she asked, as though this were remarkable news.

Andrew nodded. "The last time I saw him he was on his way home. I just wondered if . . ."

He heard the sliding of the bolt, and a second later saw the door open to him, the little maid stepping cautiously back as though still on guard. "Wait here," she ordered.

She closed the door behind her and circled him wide. "I don't know if she'll see you or not," she warned. "She's been . . . ill, but. . ." Again she hesitated. "You may be good medicine."

As she hurried up the darkened stairs, Andrew felt a slight apprehension. Perhaps he should have sent a card around first.

Too late now, and he shivered in the cold entrance hall. Clearly the reception rooms of this house had not been in use for some time. He peered through the doorway into what appeared to be the drawing room, though he saw the furnishings shrouded in white cloth. A gloomy place, he thought, and somehow a strong instinct told him he would not find John here.

Perhaps he should leave before . . . Then he heard female voices coming from the top of the stairs, one insisting, "Show him in, Doris, please. Don't keep him waiting."

He saw the maid hurrying down the stairs. "She'll see you, she will." She grinned. "It's the first time I've seen her out of that chair in . . . Please, this way, Mr. Rhoades, if you will."

As he hurried up the stairs after her, he thought it unusual for a reception room to be on the second floor, and a moment later he realized with a start that he was being received in the lady's bedchamber. From where he stood in the door, his eye fell first on the mussed bed, then on the lady herself, who stood at mid-chamber, gazing expectantly at him, a frail slim woman, somberly clad in a dark dressing robe, her fair hair loosed about her face and down her neck, mussed, as though she'd not taken the time to groom herself.

But it was her face that held him, a lovely face with delicate features which bore the ravages of illness. The young maid performed the introductions. "Mr. Andrew Rhoades, miss," she said. "And this here is Miss Elizabeth Eden," she concluded, then added thoughtfully, "May I fetch you something, Mr. Rhoades? Coffee? Brandy?"

To both he said no, still concentrating on the woman, who was staring upon him as though he were a ghost risen from the grave. At last, when the taut silence was approaching embarrassment, she seemed to draw herself up. "Forgive me, Mr. Rhoades," she murmured. "I've not received company for so long. Doris, please take his wraps, and two toddies would be lovely."

As Andrew handed the maid his cloak, he noticed the woman walking slowly to the Ere and noticed for the first time a curious sight to one side of the fire, a trunk, well-worn, simple compared to the lavish furnishings in the room, and on top of the trunk, two white candles, the whole spectacle resembling a shrine.

She looked back at him and motioned for him to take the chair opposite her before the fire.

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you," he began, feeling mild discomfort at sitting in a lady's bedchamber.

"You did not disturb me," she replied. "I seldom leave these chambers now, and I seldom sleep. You could have called at dawn and I would have been awake, seated where I'm sitting now."

Andrew struggled to make a connection between this woman and John Murrey Eden. But there was no connection to be made, and as his discomfort increased, he decided to state his business immediately and take his leave.

To that end he withdrew the large packet of letters. "I received this in the morning post," he began, "from the army postmaster in Balaklava. It contains letters addressed to John Murrey Eden."