The Eden Passion (76 page)

To this impassioned plea John simply repeated himself. "I'm not going. You run along, Andrew. You can handle it all very well. In fact, you'll be far better at it than I would be."

Andrew shook his head, still not able to believe what he was hearing. "You're . . . joking, of course, John."

"I'm not joking at all."

"But you have responsibilities, obligations. . ."

Without warning, John exploded in a burst of anger, slamming the glass down upon the tray, shattering it in the process. "Don't

speak to me of obligation and responsibility. I've put in eighteen-hour days for the last two years meeting both. My enterprises are now feeding and clothing hundreds of people and will continue to do so in the future. I build buildings, Andrew," he concluded, his anger receding. "Does that mean that I have to socialize with their inhabitants?"

Before this outburst, Andrew retreated. "No," he conceded softly. "But the ball was your idea."

"And I'm certain it will be a success." Almost in surprise he looked down at the shattered crystal on the tray, his manner apologetic. "The hotel is no longer mine, Andrew, indeed it holds no interest for me. I built it, but now it belongs to others, like yourself, and all those ladies and gentlemen who will partake of Laguerre's sumptuous feast."

A brief smile crossed his face as he quoted from the flowery newspaper account. Though they were no longer shouting at each other in anger, still Andrew was almost beside himself at this sudden change of plans. My God, the Lord Mayor would be there, a guest list which represented every titled family in England.

He watched as John sank into a near chair, lifted his bare feet to the ottoman and smoothed back his long mussed hair. "I'm tired, Andrew," he confessed softly. "Do this favor for me, will you?"

Did he have a choice? Of course he didn't. "What will you do?" Andrew asked, still not resigned to the ordeal yet ahead of him.

At the direct question, John smiled. "I don't inquire into all aspects of your life, do I?" He shrugged. "I feel the need for fresh air. I may take a brief journey. . ."

"Where?"

"No more questions," John begged, lifting both hands in a restraining gesture. "Look at the clock, Andrew," he added. "You'll be late as it is. You'd better hurry. Make my apologies to Elizabeth and Dhari, and lift a glass of that French champagne for me. We certainly paid enough for it."

All at once he leaned his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes, his customary signal for the end of a conversation.

At last resigned, Andrew backed away. He did look tired. But they all were tired. And what journey was he talking about? And how could he ever explain such a notable absence to such an illustrious company?

At the door he lifted his cape and top hat and looked back at the sprawled figure of one of the new "kings." Unfortunately, at that

moment he looked most unregal. Although Andrew still had a hundred questions, time did not permit him to pose any of them. Someone must keep the machine running, and in a terse voice he called back, Til report to you later," and received in reply a sleepy, "You do that."

Still angry, Andrew slammed the door and hurried down the stairs, taking the marble entrance hall in a dead run, and emerging at last on the darkened pavement to see his carriage, and parked in front of it, John's large one, the four horses stamping at the cobbles. Lounging against the door he saw Alex Aldwell.

"Alex?" he called out, mystified at the presence of the large man, who was lightly snapping the whip against the side of his leg.

"Good evening to you, Mr. Rhoades." Alex grinned. "You look right smart tonight, you do. A big occasion, ain't it?"

Andrew ignored the remark and drew close. "Where's Jason?" he asked, looking about for John's customary driver, a West Indian whom John had hired about eight months ago.

Alex shrugged. "Asleep would be my guess."

"What are you doing here?"

"Mr. Eden told me to have the carriage waiting at ten o'clock, and here I am."

Andrew stepped closer, loathing his role as spy, but knowing from past experience that when Aldwell drove, John was up to no good. "Did he say where he was going?"

"Didn't say and I didn't ask," the man replied, displaying his blind loyalty to the man who'd lifted him out of the ranks of workmen and made him foreman, an awesome task which Andrew was forced to admit that Aldwell performed brilliantly.

Momentarily stymied, aware of passing time, Andrew stepped wearily toward his own carriage, calling back, "Look after him, Alex."

"I always do, Mr. Rhoades. I owe him this grand life, as we all do in a way. Ain't that right?"

Andrew did not offer a rebuttal. He gave his driver instructions and pulled himself up into his carriage.

What was John up to now? Where was he going? And what possible excuse could Andrew give to the waiting dignitaries? As the carriage pulled out and around, Andrew looked back at the mansion, dark except for the lights on the top floor, where at the moment of his greatest triumph the new "king" sat brooding in solitary confinement.

Would Andrew ever completely understand him? Probably not,

and on that note of despair he called out for his driver to, "Hurry! Please hurry!"

At ten o'clock, clothed in a dark cloak and carrying one small portmanteau, John walked across the pavement toward his carriage.

He tossed the portmanteau to Aldwell, and watched as the man secured it atop. As he was crawling back down, John spoke his destination for the first time.

"Do you feel up to a drive tonight, Alex?" he asked.

"Name it and I'll take you there, John."

"Wiltshire. Salisbury."

Alex grinned. "Are we going to prayer?"

"Perhaps, among other things."

"It'll be a night's drive."

"Make an easy one of it. Stop when you wish. I'm in no hurry."

"Then it will be pleasant enough," Alex added, holding the door open. "It's the rushing about that gets to a man."

As John pulled himself up into the carriage, he smiled back. "In a while, I'll come and ride up there with you. We can pass the night telling tales of India."

The man nodded enthusiastically. "I'd like that!"

As the carriage started forward, John admitted to himself that he would enjoy it as well. How many pleasant hours he and Aldwell had passed, reliving their experiences in that dark mysterious world. Of course, John suspected that each tale grew a little taller with the telling, but out of the hundreds of people who moved through his world now, Aldwell was the only man who knew and understood that terrifying chapter from his life.

The carriage was picking up speed now, heading toward the western edge of the city, and for the first time in several hours John dared to relax, though he still carried with him the angry bewilderment of Andrew Rhoades.

Perhaps he should have attempted an explanation. But how could he have explained what he himself did not understand, his need for a brief interval away from the committees and charts and stockholders' meetings and arrogant architects? Days ago he'd made his plans to flee the city on this night. The very thought of the festivities chilled his blood, the fawning and obsequiousness, the rather tasteless opulence which he himself had created.

He shuddered, relieved that the ordeal had been avoided. Of course, he would have to mend his bridges and tender countless apol-

ogies, but for one brief interval he wanted to stand in a world that had nothing to do with the past or the future, to lounge beneath an apple tree in the warm August sun and perhaps hear a sweet voice inquire from the upper branches, "Where are you going? You look weary."

And he felt weary. At least he'd spoken one truth to Andrew. But as the speed of the carriage increased, he was aware that this sojourn might well be a mad goose-chase. Well, nothing new there. He'd been called mad often enough, and he'd had only limited contact with Lila Harrington since his return to London two years ago, through her letters, which continued to move him by their innocence and her deep concern for him.

With what obvious devotion she continued to fill page after page, spirited epistles informing him of the "great" events in her life: the nest of newly hatched robins in the tree outside her window, Wolf's refusal to let the field mice alone in spite of his well-fed belly, the miraculous night she'd seen three shooting stars over the horizon . . .

He smiled, remembering these dear letters which he kept hidden in a special drawer in his bureau. One, two, three letters might have been forgotten. But seventy-nine! Now he at least owed her the courtesy of a personal thanks for her continued devotion.

Glancing out of his window, he discovered that they were on the outskirts of the city. He lowered the window and let the breeze blow over him, cleansing his mind of the turmoil of the last two years.

Abruptly he laughed. After so many days of meticulous planning, weighing somber architectural masses and figuring to the last decimal point percentages and cost overruns, the sheer whimsy of his present escapade began to have a medicinal effect on him. He leaned up and rapped on the front window, signaling Alex to bring the horses to a stop.

As the man did so, John crawled out of the isolation of his carriage and hoisted himself atop the high seat, took the reins from Alex's hand, slapped them gently across the horses, urged them to top speed and shouted over the whistling wind, "Did I ever tell you about the Thuggee temple at Bindhachal?"

"No, I don't believe you did," Alex shouted back in a good-natured lie.

John glanced over and saw his friend grinning in anticipation of the tale he'd heard at least a hundred times before. And catching the spirit of the occasion and the romantic excitement of the night, both

men commenced laughing, their hilarity joining with the wind as the carriage sped down the narrow dark turnpike.

The following afternoon, after a comfortable morning's sleep at the Red Lion Inn in Salisbury, John directed Alex to leave the turnpike and take the dusty road heading south toward Penselwood. About a half mile later, the surrounding landscape grew familiar, the orchard on the left now, the sandstone towers of Harrington Hall just visible on the right beyond the rolling downs.

In anticipation, John sat up on the edge of his seat and allowed Alex to pass the orchard by. Then he shouted, "Bring the horses about."

Slowly John crawled down from the high perch and thought of the difference between now and that hot morning so long ago when he'd trod this same path, leaving Eden behind him, the burden of a murdered man on his conscience, Harriet occupying his soul.

He clung to the side of the carriage, weakened by his thoughts, as though no time at all had passed, as though nothing had healed. He looked westward, as though if he looked hard enough he might see Eden miles away. He must return one day. He couldn't put it off forever. Too much of his heart still resided there. But he couldn't go back yet, not now. He must be stronger, more invulnerable to what he might find.

He continued to stare toward the top of the hill, seeing through the shimmering heat waves the young boy with dusty boots and soiled garments, alone.

As sweat rolled down his forehead and into the corner of his eye, he rubbed the stinging sensation and realized that in spite of all his success, in spite of his five hundred workmen, his mansion in Belgra-via, his various building projects, in spite of Andrew and Alex and Elizabeth and Dhari and Aslam, he was still, after all these years, alone.

In the stillness of the hot August day, the perception, so unexpected, worked a strange magic on him. Abruptly he looked in the opposite direction, down the hill toward the orchard.

"Wait here, Alex," he instructed. "I have no idea how long I'll be. You may want to wait inside the carriage. It will be cooler."

"I'm fine, John," came the quiet reply, "and take your time."

John walked away, moved by the loyalty of the man who obviously was not at all curious why John had directed him to this lonely, isolated spot.

Or if he had questions, he kept them to himself, and John proceeded alone down the hill, his eyes moving ahead to the orchard. A few moments later he left the road, as he'd done on that other hot morning, and headed toward what he thought was the same tree. In spite of feeling self-conscious, he found himself looking up into the high branches. But he saw nothing but the leafy green ripeness of August, the slight breeze blowing cool against his sweat-soaked shirt, his boots, he noticed, as scuffed and dusty as that other boy's.

He looked in all directions. Perhaps he had the wrong tree, and he walked deeper into the orchard, seeing nothing but the skittering play of sunlight and shadow. From this vantage point he looked over his shoulder and discovered that he could not even see his carriage, and briefly the limitations of time and space disappeared and he sat heavily in the shade upon the moist earth and rested his back against a tree trunk.

Perhaps the young lady was married now. He assumed that for her it had been a fashionable diversion to pen letters to the Crimea, and later to a scarcely known gentleman in London, her devotion the result of boredom as much as anything.

Well, then, it had been as he'd suspected, a fruitless interlude. Not a total loss, however. At least he'd confronted one ghost from the past, that young boy who'd walked from Eden and taken refuge in the shade of these trees. He'd come this far on this occasion. Perhaps on his next flight from the pressures of London, he'd find the courage to make it as far as Taunton. And the time after that, Barnstaple, and the time after that, to Eden.

Thus resolved, John pulled himself up, dusted off his trousers, and commenced walking back toward the road. He was not particularly looking in the direction of the towers of Harrington Hall, but as he stepped up onto the road, out of the corner of his eye he saw something atop the crest of the far down.

He looked away, then looked back. From that distance, recognition was impossible, but it appeared to be a woman, the wind blowing her skirts, one hand raised to her eyes as though she too were squinting into the distance.