The Eden Passion (71 page)

A few moments later John caught up with them, and ignoring the chairs, sat on the floor near Aslam, warning the child to eat slowly and not too much.

Andrew heard the outer door close for the last time, saw Elizabeth and Doris in close huddle in the hall, the girl shaking her head as though giving a negative response.

"Your luggage, John." Elizabeth smiled, reentering the room. "Where is it? I'll send someone to fetch it."

For the first time John looked up from his plate. "We . . . have no luggage," he said.

Andrew offered to prepare a plate for Elizabeth, who was still struggling to digest the mystery of travelers without luggage. "No, thank you," she said. "I'm far too excited to eat." Smiling, she slipped into a chair opposite the young woman. "Dhari," she said softly, as though testing the name on her lips. "Doris is preparing a hot bath for you, for all of you, and afterward, we'll find fresh clothes."

The young woman nodded, but still said nothing. Apparently she understood, but was not as well-schooled as the boy. A short time later, one by one, they pushed back their plates, all only partially eaten.

"Enough," John groaned pleasurably, reaching out and drawing the boy closer. "You see, Aslam, I told you that we all would be warm and dry and well-fed again."

The boy nestled close under John's arm. From where Andrew stood, he could see the questioning look on Elizabeth's face. But still it was not the right time to ask questions. There were more urgent needs to attend to. John, holding the sleepy boy close, spoke of one of them. "Elizabeth, would you be so kind as to give us shelter for the night? Come morning, I'll look for—"

"For the night!" she repeated, shocked. "For this night and all the

others. This is your home. You'll look for nothing come morning but rest and peace and a return to good health."

Apparently the avowal moved John. "I'm without . . . funds," he said.

"I'm not," countered Elizabeth. She left her chair and went down on her knees before him. "Please," she begged softly. "Never let us become separated again." Her voice broke. "I don't think I could endure losing you a second time."

He drew her close, and though the tears were silent, Andrew was aware that both were crying.

Suddenly he felt like an intruder. "Elizabeth," he began, "I'd best be going as well."

"No, don't please," she begged. "Someone had better stay and give us direction. At the moment, I feel quite incapable . . ."

John too urged, "Please stay, Andrew."

A moment later, Doris appeared in the door, her sleeves rolled up. "Hot water's ready," she said, "and I've another kettle boiling for the gentleman and the little boy."

As John pulled himself wearily to his feet, Elizabeth took the boy's hand and extended the other to the young woman. "Come." She smiled. "This is woman's work." To Andrew and John she added, "You two sit and talk."

But John would hear none of it. "No, I'll go with them. They may be frightened in strange—"

"It isn't necessary, John," Elizabeth countered. "They've nothing to be frightened of here." She reached for Dhari's hand, impervious to the fact that the woman had pulled back. Ignoring her hesitancy, Elizabeth walked with her to the door, chattering lightly. "A hot bath and you'll feel right enough." She smiled. "And fresh garments. We'll raid my wardrobe. Green! Oh, yes, green would be a lovely color for you. What is your favorite color? Do you have one? Or yellow?"

At the bottom of the steps, the young woman looked at her, an expression of sadness on her face. She reached out for the boy and started up the stairs after Doris, her head bowed, as though she'd averted her face just in time to conceal her grief.

From where Andrew stood, he saw the hurt in Elizabeth's face. She was accustomed to people responding to her warmth, not ignoring it. Still puzzled, she looked back at John. But he pushed past her without a word, a peculiarly hard expression on his face.

He was midpoint on the stairs, the other two having already disap-

peared down the second-floor corridor, when Elizabeth stepped forward. "John? Have I offended her?" she asked.

He did not reply.

"I only meant to . . ." She faltered. Then all at once an idea blossomed. "She doesn't speak English, does she, John? Of course, that's it, isn't it?"

Slowly he turned. "She speaks perfect English, Elizabeth, flawless English, in the most musical tones."

The strange reply brought comfort to no one. "Then what did I say?" she begged. "Why won't she speak to—"

"Because she can't." These three words were merely whispered, but they seemed to drain John of his last reserve of energy. "We're alive tonight because of her. She aided our escape by betraying her own people." For the first time, his voice broke. "Before they returned her to me, they. . . cut out her tongue."

Andrew saw Elizabeth's back stiffen; one hand reached out for the newel post. By the time they both had recovered, John was proceeding up the stairs. He said nothing further. In the skeletal outline of that one announcement, Andrew's suspicions were confirmed. John had been caught up in a nightmare, and had been dropped back into the civilized world vastly changed, permanently scarred.

Cut out her tongue. The inconceivable words continued to assault him. When he looked up, he saw Elizabeth moving up the steps. As she reached midpoint, he felt a greater urgency to leave, to give everyone under this roof a chance to adjust to each other. To that end he called up, "Elizabeth, I'll take my leave now. You need time to-"

Abruptly she turned, her face drained of color. "No, please. I'll see to their needs. Then I'll come back down." Again she repeated with almost desperate urgency, "Please, Andrew, please stay."

"I'll wait by the fire." He smiled up at her.

Alone, he turned back into the drawing room, still cluttered with the remains of the once festive party. He headed wearily toward the fire, glancing at the chair where the young woman had recently sat.

They cut out her tongue.

Slowly he closed his eyes, still trying to digest the image of pain. But it was not possible.

About a half hour later, Elizabeth returned. From the archway she made a soft incredulous announcement. "He . . . bathed them himself. He sent Doris to the other room, and . . . bathed them . . .

himself. He said that they would require only one bed. Only one bed," she repeated, "for three."

He reached out for her. "Obviously they've gone through much . . . have formed a dependency . . ."

She looked up at him as though wishing he'd talk on, as though needing to hear explication.

Instead he drew her into his arms and held her close, tried to provide a negotiable shelter for her bewilderment. "We'll know everything in time," he soothed.

They settled on the large sofa near the fire and stared into the flames. Neither spoke on what was behind or what was ahead. The spirit of Christmas lay in disarray about them, shattered by a single announcement. The pulse of history had been slowed by the mutilation of a young dark-skinned woman.

Whether or not it would ever commence to pump again at a healthy rate, Andrew had no idea.

London, Christmas Night

The following evening, still at table after three hours, it was Elizabeth who felt the need to break the silence. Seated opposite her, John had just concluded the most terrifying story she'd ever heard, ending with a hoarse account of their arrival six days ago at Portsmouth, their ride to London in the back of a hay wagon, and their appearance the night before at the Christmas Eve party.

At times during the prolonged monologue she'd felt physically ill, had tried not to look at either Dhari or Aslam as John had recounted the specifics of their ordeal. Now, seeing the young woman with bowed head seated on her right, she reached for her hand. "You're safe now, Dhari," she said with conviction. "Do you believe me?" To her incredible joy, the woman smiled.

Beyond Dhari sat Aslam. Not once during the long account had he stirred, his childish restlessness subdued by his interest in his own ordeal.

Next to Elizabeth sat Andrew, the expression on his face reflecting what she felt as a look of relief flooded his features, grateful that the monotone voice had at last talked itself out.

Over the burned-down candles and scattered glasses, she looked at John, saw him shaking his head, staring, unseeing, at the white cloth. "So many died," he murmured.

"On both sides," Andrew said. "It's been put down now, of course, you know. The mutiny, I mean."

John nodded. "I heard only sketchy reports from a dockman at Portsmouth. Tell me more."

As Andrew commenced speaking, Elizabeth dared to relax, though she glanced about her dining room, feeling a need to confirm the reality of this world as opposed to that dark one of which John had just spoken. She looked at Dhari. How different the young woman looked tonight, gowned in dark green taffeta, her black hair, which she'd allowed Elizabeth to brush and style, drawn becomingly back in a French knot. They'd passed the afternoon together, Elizabeth becoming skilled in carrying on a conversation which required no direct answers, Dhari responding without words to the love and attention being heaped upon her. In time they would become fast friends, of that Elizabeth was certain. Clearly John adored her, and on that basis alone, Dhari would always have a home under Elizabeth's roof.

As Andrew and John continued talking, Elizabeth noticed Aslam at last giving in to boyish restlessness. He slipped from his chair and walked around it, his hands slipping in and out of the carved wooden slats, looking quite handsome in his new sailor suit.

And finally Elizabeth looked toward John. Thoughtfully Andrew had brought around a suit of his own when he'd come for dinner, and though ill-fitting, at least John looked warm and clean, his beard brushed, though his hands still trembled and his eyes tended to stare too long on certain inconsequential objects.

In spite of everything, Elizabeth felt suffused with a sense of well-being. He was home, they were reunited, and Edward's spirit seemed very close, no longer confined to the meager belongings in that trunk in her bedchamber.

She bowed her head and gave a prayer of thanks, then looked up in time to hear Andrew announce quietly, "Force was ever the fuel of empires, John. You know that. England's wars have always been nicely balanced between the philanthropic and the belligerent. And whether we contend with a civilized or barbarous enemy, the nature of empire will always lead us to a perpetual battlefield."

Suddenly the male voices at the end of the table fell silent. Elizabeth looked up to see John staring sadly toward Dhari. "For all your rhetoric, Andrew, the price is too high."

"It's not my rhetoric," Andrew said. "It fills the Temple. One can't walk the Common without hearing it. The subject of empire is quite the most fashionable one in London nowadays."

Elizabeth saw John look up, a new light on his face, as though something had dragged his attention away from the horrors of the past. 'The Temple?" he repeated. "The law courts, you mean? What business do you have in the Temple?"

With the spotlight thrust upon him, she saw Andrew blush. "Although at times I'm loath to admit it, I'm a solicitor now," he said.

The news had a pleasing though surprising effect on John. He laughed, a glorious sound after the mood which earlier had permeated the room. "A lawyer?" he repeated. "Quite a step up from Brassey's clerical room." He leaned forward, grasping his friend's arm in affection. "Well, tell me all. How did it happen? And are you a good lawyer? Do you have your own practice?"

Andrew lifted a restraining hand. "I have a practice, yes, a small one." He ducked his head in becoming modesty. "I'm told I'm good, yes, though I've never been tested."

John gazed upon him with an expression of admiration. "How well you have done for yourself, Andrew," he murmured, "and how far I lag behind."

Andrew countered graciously. "I could never have survived what you've been through, John, what all of you have been through," he added, his eyes encompassing Dhari and Aslam.

Briefly the mood seemed to threaten them again, and hurriedly John moved to dispel it. "One additional question." He smiled. "Which I shall toss delicately out for whoever cares to answer." He paused. "How was I so fortunate to find the two people I love under one roof?"

Elizabeth felt a blush on her cheeks and glanced toward Andrew, trying to determine whether he would take the question, or she.

Finally he took it, reaching for the decanter of port, leaving his chair and filling the glasses around as he spoke. "I received a packet of unopened letters addressed to you from the army postmaster in Balaklava. Apparently the army was the first to lose track of you. The postmaster thought I might have a lead on you, which of course I didn't."

He moved beyond Aslam until he was standing near John. "There were two packets of letters," he went on, "one bore Elizabeth's signature and address." He looked toward Elizabeth. "I delivered them, hoping for news of you, and in a way, I've been here ever since."

"Nothing could please me more," John murmured, and lifted the glass in toast to Andrew and Elizabeth. "And the other packet?" he inquired.

Andrew shook his head. "From someone in Wiltshire. I believe Elizabeth still has them upstairs. What was her name, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth sat up, ready to reply, but there was no need.

"Lila Harrington." John smiled.

"Yes, that's it," Andrew confirmed. "Quite a lot from her, really. Who is she, John? Some prize you've kept from me?"

Responding to the good-natured bait, John smiled cryptically. "You will meet her one day." Then he was standing before the table, looking down on Elizabeth. "May I see them? The letters, I mean."

She stirred herself into action, a bit confused as to whether she should drag them all up to her bedchamber or bring the letters down.

John saw her confusion. He turned to Andrew, his good spirits rising. "Have you had the humiliating experience yet of confronting Aslam over a chessboard?"

Andrew shook his head.

"Then now is as good a time as any. It must come to all men, the realization that they can be effortlessly defeated by a seven-year-old boy."