The Eden Passion (69 page)

Sensing an impasse, John reached into his pocket and withdrew one of the gems. He handed it to Aslam and said, "Tell them that in exchange for food and shelter, we will give them this."

Aslam looked at the ruby, then extended it toward the priest. Suddenly the men standing behind leaned forward.

The old priest shouted them back, and with the cunning of a bargainer grinned slyly at Aslam.

The boy translated. "He wants to know if you have more."

John tried to stare the old man down, but realized ultimately they could take whatever they wanted, including their lives. Reluctantly he dipped into his pocket and produced the remaining two gems. Reverently the priest studied the stones. A broad grin cut across his face as he handed the emerald to one of the waiting men, kept the larger ruby for himself, and apparently suffering from some sense of fair play, returned the smaller ruby to John.

The men drifted off, appeased, admiring their new wealth. Slowly the old priest stood. John started up after him, struggling to ask the

most difficult question. "Dhari . . ." he whispered to Aslam. "Ask him about. . ."

Drawing Aslam close as though for protection against what they might find, they followed the priest around the goddess Kali, down a corridor to a cell near the rear of the temple. The old priest pushed open the door, then stepped back, allowing them access to the room, to the low bed and the figure of the woman lying prone, another priest bending over her, applying what appeared to be a coating of moist red mud to the inside of her mouth.

John moved to the foot of the bed and stared down on a glorious sight, Dhari alive, her eyes open, one hand lifting toward him.

He knelt beside her while the priest applied the curious compound, which, up close, smelled of herbs.

Suddenly he felt shy. Were thanks due? And to what god? Surely not to Kali, whose heritage was strangulation and death?

Then who? Lacking an answer, he merely drew Aslam beside him and let their closeness and the fact of their survival suffice for prayer.

Three weeks later, he stood on the crowded docks of Howrah outside Calcutta, with Dhari and Aslam waiting in the cart behind him, and tried to do business with Captain Lewis, whose sailing ship the Bluebeard would be the last to leave India for the next six weeks.

"Full!" the old English captain pronounced. "Full, as you can see," he gumbled, motioning behind him to the stream of people filing up the gangplank.

John saw all too well, had been watching for most of the morning the procession of women and children with meager belongings, all victims of the mutiny, whose carnage had spread, or so John had heard, as far as Cawnpore, where not one man, woman or child had been left alive.

"Please," John begged, trying to keep his voice down, not wanting to alarm Dhari and Aslam. "We'll take any accommodations."

The ruddy-faced man laughed. "Any accommodations," he parroted sarcastically. He pointed toward Dhari and Aslam waiting in the cart. "With garbage like that, even if I had room, I'd have to put you in the hold. No decent Englishwoman would want to breathe the air with the likes of them."

John lifted his head and tried to look beyond the mean-faced old man to the ship itself. "The hold will do fine," he said. "Name your price."

But the captain merely glared at John's persistence. Then some-

thing crossed his face, the look of the predator. "Two thousand pounds," he pronounced flatly. "For the three of you, that is, for yourself and the garbage."

John turned away. He'd hoped to make the transaction using the ox cart and two horses which the old priest at Bindhachal had given them.

"Two thousand pounds," the man repeated, grinning.

John looked over his shoulder toward the cart. Dhari gazed back at him, her beautiful face fully restored now, not one sign of her ordeal visible even to the most careful eye. But he knew all too well the full extent of her agony, the persistent difficulty in swallowing, the painful recuperation, and the even more painful acceptance that she was condemned to a life of silence. How often he'd found her kneeling in prayer in that small cell behind the pagan goddess Kali. Gradually her spiritual strength had returned, along with her physical strength, and both John and Aslam were becoming quite skillful in reading her eyes. Not since that first night had she made any sound at all. And John suspected that she never would again.

Yet, curiously, without speech she had grown more beautiful, her serene spirit more articulate than ever.

"Two thousand pounds," the captain repeated. "Take it or leave it," and immediately he turned away as though certain that he'd closed the door.

But John caught his arm and turned him back and reached into his pocket for the remaining ruby. He held it up for the man's inspection and saw the light of new interest spread on the corrupt face.

"Ah . . ." He grinned. "You're taking more than garbage with you out of Mother India, I see."

As he reached eagerly for the gem, John withdrew it. "Three beds," he demanded, "and three meals a day and transportation from Portsmouth to London when we reach England."

"My Gawd," the man muttered, "do you want me to piss for you as well?"

"Take it or leave it," John said, still holding the gem just beyond the man's reach.

"Oh, I'll take it right enough." The captain grinned. "And do your bidding." He shrugged. "What's it to me what you take back with you?" He smiled and leaned close. "I understand the woman right enough," he whispered. "She'll bring you a pretty penny on the London market. But the boy, what in God's name do you plan to do with him?"

John felt his right arm stiffen, felt that if he did not escape the man's presence soon, the Bluebeard would not have a captain. Yet, paradoxically, at the moment he felt the need to strike out, he felt equally old and tired, felt as though his shoulders were sagging, that if he were to walk away now, he would not be able to walk erect.

"Then it's settled," he said, and thrust the gem into the waiting palm and hurried back to the cart. Without a word he motioned for Dhari and Aslam to get out. He nuzzled Black's nose and looked around the crowded dock. No one there was in need of a cart and three horses. They were all fleeing this place with the same urgency as was John. At the edge of the dock he spied an old Indian, footsore, his hand outstretched, begging.

John brought the horses about and guided the cart to where the old man stood. He placed the reins in the man's hand, ignoring the surprised look in the face. Hurriedly he hugged Black one last time and ran back to where Dhari and Aslam were waiting, aware that they both had been closely watching.

"Must we leave him?" Aslam begged.

"We must," John said, wishing his voice had not sounded so sharp.

With his arm around Dhari's shoulder, Aslam's hand in his, he led them toward the gangplank, where he was suddenly aware of white women drawing back, clutching their children to them.

Well, at least they would be left alone, John thought grimly, and proceeded with head erect to the top of the gangplank, where Captain Lewis was waiting.

Their accommodations were only slightly larger than a closet, with three hammocks and one washstand. But it was dry and private, and that evening as the Bluebeard set sail with the tide, they were on deck, John feeling the sea breeze, daring to relax for the first time in several long weeks.

Homel The simple word resounded like a temple bell inside his head. London. Elizabeth. He hungered to see her, and warned himself that she must be allowed her life as he was his. He'd seen enough anger and hurt and pain and death. It was time to build bridges, design a future.

Homel As the wind filled the sails, he felt his excitement increasing and drew Dhari and Aslam close beside him. He'd come to India for treasure, and unwittingly he'd found it.

"Wait until you see London, Aslam," he promised excitedly.

But as he looked down on the little boy, he saw tears in his eyes,

and turning to Dhari, he saw the same expression, both of them looking out over the water at the dim outline of land slipping farther into the distance.

He was going home. They were leaving theirs, and he tried to think of consoling words. But remembering the night he'd left Eden, he realized there was nothing he could say to ease their pain.

"Come," he urged kindly, sheltering them against the cool wind and diminishing land, intent upon turning their eyes away from what was behind to what was ahead, hoping with incomprehensible need that it would be better, for all of them.

London, December 24, 1857

From his position near the wassail bowl, Andrew looked out over the crowded drawing room, amazed that there were so many lonely people in London. Elizabeth had warned him in advance. Only the lonely attended her Christmas Eve party.

Again he looked about at the faces, amazed at the prominence of the gathering, many gentlemen from Parliament, and there, a renowned Fleet Street publisher, and several well-known illustrators, and Lord Kimbrough. Mr. Gladstone had been here earlier and had promised he'd try to return, "if Catherine nods off early."

Moving around all like a dancing flame was Elizabeth, a vision in red velvet, her fair hair piled high atop her head, speaking to one and all with the greatest intimacy, as though without their singular presences her party would have been a failure. That the gentlemen responded to such flattery was understandable. But the ladies were equally as receptive, kissing her warmly, their eyes lingering in admiration of the diamond necklace that adorned her throat. A Christmas gift from Lord Kimbrough, or so Andrew had heard.

In the far corner, about the pianoforte, a rousing version of "Good King Wenceslaus" broke out, the wassail glasses lifting high, keeping time with the music. In the fire well the Yule log popped merrily, enhanced by several guests throwing pine cones on the blaze.

Perhaps the most popular spot in the entire drawing room, however, was the table to his right beyond the wassail bowl, a heavenly arrangement of tiny cakes and candied fruit and golden buns and a long silver platter arranged with sliced roast beef and goose, and game loaf.

The climax of the evening was yet to come, the promise o f Lord Kimbrough that before the evening was over, a "Christmas tree" would be delivered which they must all decorate in honor of Christ's Mass, a new and curious tradition which had been started at Windsor by Albert, part of his German heritage which still surfaced with shock waves on the placid English world.

All in all it was a glorious scene, the Christmas spirit alive and flourishing in spite of the tragic events which had befallen England this year. Earlier in the evening, as the guests were first arriving, before the warming intoxication of the wassail bowl had taken effect, Andrew had participated in hushed dialogues concerning the tragic mutinies in India, the London Times still filled with horrifying accounts, though the rebels had long since been hunted down and brought to justice.

Oh, yes, the talk was on every tongue, the journalists fanning the fires with explicit accounts of raped white women, dismembered children, the well at Cawnpore. And after all the anger and horror and revulsion, two strong emotions remained: a seething resentment of all dark-skinned people, and two, a rather poignant bewilderment that one of Britain's most promising colonies had dared to revolt against English benevolence.

"Sweet heaven, Andrew, I wish you could see your face."

He looked up from his wassail cup, in which he'd been seeing a cavalcade of tragic events, and into Elizabeth's face.

"I'm sorry." He smiled. "I was only thinking—"

"Not a very wise thing to do," she chided, "particularly at a party. Come, you've been lurking in this corner long enough."

But as she took his arm, he drew her back, longing for a moment alone with her. "You're so lovely," he whispered.

She looked up into his face. "I have much to be thankful for this Christmas," she said. "You, primarily."

He accepted the compliment with a smile, yet knowing that the true basis for their relationship was John Murrey Eden. In the past they had talked endlessly of him, as though as long as they spoke his name, they somehow kept him alive.

Now he pulled her closer, and in spite of the crowded drawing room, kissed her. She caressed the side of his face as though aware of his need. "Later," she promised. "We will watch Christmas dawn together."

It was a generous promise, considering the number of other gentlemen here who would like to share the same experience. But he

believed her and released her hand and watched lovingly as she moved back into the heart of her parry.

Everyone needed Elizabeth's harmony. Andrew wondered how many of those guests laughing with her now knew or even suspected how unharmonious her own inner life was, still in mourning for the dead Edward Eden, suffering nightmares over whether or not she would ever see John again, feeling that she'd failed him, and in turn had failed Edward.

As the voices rose about him, he refilled his wassail cup, recalling the false leads he'd followed in his search for John. All paths stopped at the hospital in Scutari. From there the man had disappeared, and though Andrew had never let on to Elizabeth, after a fruitless two-year search he feared the worst.

At that moment a thunderous shout from the door signaled the arrival of the Christmas tree, and as all rushed in that direction, Andrew looked up to see a massive evergreen being angled through the double doors. With excited cries from all, four workmen carried it across the room and into position by the window, lopsided at first. The entire gathering shouted instructions, and at last the tree was upright, though looking a bit bizarre.

"Most peculiar," he heard someone comment. "They do this at Windsor, you say?"

"It's free of squirrels, I trust," another murmured.

Before the festive mood could be wholly dampened by the natural suspicion that follows innovation, Lord Kimbrough took the floor with his customary exuberance, bidding the little maid Doris to follow after, bearing a tray filled with delicate sweet cakes to which loops of gold cord had been attached.