"I didn't forget you, Jawster," the man called up. "Here! Catch!"
Within the instant the precious bottle was sailing upward toward the railing. Eagerly Jawster reached out and grabbed it before it started the downward descent. It was port, blood red and capable of warming a man on the coldest night.
"I thank you, sir," Jawster grinned, eyeing the bottle lovingly, seeing in it the promising temporary relief from loneliness and a wasted life.
At this, the new turnkey's indignation reached its height. "You— can't," he stammered. "That's b-bribery, that's what it is. It isn't—right, sir, beggin' your pardon, but I'm afraid I must—"
Jawster had had enough. He looked over at the boy with clear contempt. "You must what?" he demanded.
The new turnkey looked back. His eyes were sly and cautious. "The handbook says—"
"Damn the handbook!" Jawster exploded. "I run the Common Cell, have for over thirty years. I don't need no green twig telling me about handbooks and the like." He was aware of a small audience gaping up
from the floor of the Common Cell. And he had his satisfaction in the stricken face of the boy. "Now, go along with you," he commanded, a portion of his anger receding. "Look in on the Women's Ward. Their snores should calm you right enough. There's no place in the handbook where it says prisoners can't snore."
The boy backed meekly away, tripping once on nothing whatever. A moment later, he disappeared, almost running into the black interior of the prison.
Jawster continued to focus on the prison door through which the lad had passed. His eyes were heavy, a small nerve in his left temple jumping. Perhaps he shouldn't have dismissed the boy like that.
But at that moment, he heard his name being called from below. "Jawster Gray?"
He looked down. The Prince of Eden was staring up at him. His face in the light from the wall torches was a shadowy arrangement of eyes, a patrician nose and opened mouth, the appearance of one who has been sharpened by a kind of hunger into an impression of devilry.
"You called, sir?" he replied, not really wanting to ally himself with that face, yet powerless to prevent it.
The mysterious features softened. "Who was the lad?" he asked, head tilted back.
Jawster tried to dismiss it. "Merely the new turnkey," he muttered, eyeing the bottle of port. "The wages draw them off the farms and out of the factories and we have to put up with their bloody virginity." He shook his head, feeling more regret than was healthy for him. He was a man aware of his responsibilities.
Still he tried to minimize his feelings. "Pay it no mind, sir," he called down. He knew that countless bribes had passed countless hands even for Eden to be standing there in the Common Cell. What was this bottle of port compared to the coin that now rested in the night warden's pocket?
His feelings assuaged, Jawster grew expansive. "You mentioned business, sir," he called down. He tried to hide the bottle of port, but there was nowhere.
"In a minute," the man called up. "Warm yourself with that in your arms and shortly I'll call for the ladder."
Jawster nodded. He eyed the bottle. Apparently you could trust God to make allowances, but not new turnkeys. Again he turned the bottle admiringly over in his arms. Taking a bribe was one thing. Drinking on duty was another. No, he'd wait until dawn, until he was released for the morning. Then he'd go to his flat on Charing Cross and drink himself senseless.
He hurried now to his small office at the north end of the catwalk, a
cell as mean and narrow as those scattered throughout the prison. Beneath the stained pillow on the low cot where he sometimes stretched out in the dead of night, he stashed the precious bottle and moved back out onto the catwalk. The Common Cell below was almost quiet, the gin a powerful sleeping potion. And there—his attention fully engaged—there near the far wall he saw the Prince of Eden bending over the young woman, the woman herself as lifeless as ever.
Jawster moved quietly around the catwalk. As far as he could tell, the man was simply staring down on her. Then Jawster saw him remove the black cape and place it over her. Still Jawster watched with held breath. There was whispering out of his range of hearing. But there was no response from the young woman. Obviously the shock of her harsh sentence had plunged her into a deep, safe sleep.
Jawster watched fascinated as the man looked up, saw him with a single hand summon two whore's bullies to his side. Again, there was a whispered exchange, and a moment later Jawster saw the two bullies take up a vigil close by, one seated near her head, the other at her feet, a curious yet effective guard.
Then he saw the Prince of Eden moving among the other prisoners, bidding them a whispered goodnight as a loving father attends to a large family. Within a few minutes the vast Common Cell was completely quiet except for the one tall figure who continued to move among them, offering solace, bidding them not to fret.
To Jawster's complete astonishment, he felt his *eyes mist. His emotions were in a turbulent state. If what he was witnessing was wrong, he had no working definition of right.
Then the man was standing below him, whispering urgently, "The ladder, please, Jawster, if you will—"
He stared down at him, hesitating. With distance between them, Jawster stood a chance. But finally he lowered the ladder, and as the man scrambled effortlessly up, Jawster backed away, as though already lacing his defenses into place. Eden stood directly before him then, towering over him, his form lean and hard beneath the crimson waistcoat, his eyes seeking Jawster's face as though hungry. Again Jawster backed away until he felt the support of the railing behind him, and tried to steel himself against the man's invisible strength.
He leaned helplessly back. "Your—pleasure, sir?" he mumbled.
"Not here," the man said. "We might disturb them." He gestured toward the sleeping convicts. "May I suggest your office?"
Meekly Jawster led the way back to the small cell which served as his office. Once inside, Eden glanced quickly about and apparently seeing no chair, elected to stand. /
"The cot, sir," Jawster apologized. "I'm afraid it's the best—"
But Eden dismissed it and continued to stand against the wall. When at last he spoke, his manner was kind, as though he was well aware of what Jawster had already sacrificed on his behalf. "How long have you served here?" he began, obviously starting a considerable distance from the heart of the matter.
Jawster didn't mind the distance. It was the heart of the matter that alarmed him. "Well onto forty-two years," he replied, eyeing the comer of the cot, thinking he'd be more at ease off his feet.
Considerately the man suggested, "Why don't you sit, Jawster? You probably cover quite a distance on that catwalk each night."
"I do indeed, sir. Round and round and back again." He laughed self-consciously and sat on the edge of the cot.
"Do you like your job, Jawster?" Eden asked then, confronting him, forcing Jawster to look up from the boots.
"I've risen," he grinned with pride, "from slop boy to head turnkey. Must fit me in some way."
But Eden quietly disagreed. "A man can rise and still have no appetite for what he does."
While Jawster was pondering this, the man moved on, the heart of the matter drawing closer. "You have a new guest tonight, I see," he commented.
Jawster's uneasiness was becoming constant. "Aye," he concurred.
"Do you know her?" Eden asked, pacing again.
Jawster laughed. "The only way I could not know her would be if I was blind and deaf."
"And you are neither."
Jawster shook his head. He felt childlike, undergoing the man's interrogation. He was the authority here and as such he must take the lead. On this new determination, he stood up, his scant stature a poor match for the man opposite him. "Look, sir," he began, "I feel an awful weight of pity for her, same as you, but there ain't nothing I can do to—alter circumstances. Ain't nothing no one can do, not even you-"
But Eden stopped him as Jawster knew he would. "I want her out of here
," he demanded. "Tomorrow if possible, certainly well before her appointment in court."
Jawster looked back and laughed. "Sometimes wants and gets sit at opposite ends of the church, sir, even for the likes of you."
Rather pleased with his little humor, he reached for the door. Again Eden stopped him as though Jawster had said nothing at all. "I want her out of here," he repeated.
Jawster looked back, amazed. "Sir, a sentence has been handed down—"
"You can open doors."
"And find myself in the Common Cell with your friends!"
"No." Eden stepped closer. "Help me get her out of here, and you'll never be coming back."
Jawster caught a look in the man's eyes which frightened him. "And where would I be going, sir?" he asked cautiously. "And what doing?"
Eden stepped still closer. "With a thousand pounds in your pocket, I'd say you could go and do as you wish."
Jawster gaped as though suddenly the man had moved a fearful distance closer. "A thous—" he stammered.
"A thousand pounds," Eden repeated, smiling, "merely to get her out to safety. After that, another five hundred to get you out of the country."
Jawster felt old, wrinkled, without wits. "Leave England, sir?'*
"It would be safer, at least for a while."
"It's my home."
"With a full purse, you could easily find another."
Jawster felt a curious anger at the outrageous proposal. "There are ten barred doors between us and Newgate Street, sir—"
"And you have keys to all of them."
Before such a confident manner, Jawster turned away. A thousand pounds plus five hundred. All the money in the world. His tongue played pleasantly about his mouth. His earlier ambitions came back to him now as something faintly comic. A piece of land all his own, a good mule, a woman— But he was sixty. The devil had come too late. He gave a little gulp of astonished laughter and moved closer to the low-burning lantern on the table. A thought came to him, pleasing in that it was a diversion. Slyly, he looked up across the lantern. "Was it you, sir, interloping in the lady's bed? Was it you scrambled to safety?"
A curious expression crossed Eden's face, partly surprise, something else that Jawster couldn't read. "That's beside the point," he smiled. "Don't you think?"
Politely Jawster disagreed. "A man has a right to know what he's bargaining for."
But again Eden sidestepped the question. "Your answer, please," he demanded. "Will you do it, or shall I move on to someone else?"
To God it was only a moment. To Jawster a lifetime. "I need an interval to think, sir," he muttered. He thought of his own death. It might come more easefully with a purse of fifteen hundred pounds.
Eden seemed to understand this. Kindly he placed his hand on
Jawster's shoulder. "Take the time," he said. "I'll be leaving in the morning. But I'll be back."
Jawster watched unprotesting as the man passed from the room. He heard, as in a trance, the elevated heels striking the metal catwalk, heard the quick scramble down the ladder.
Wearily he rose from the edge of the cot where he'd slumped under the weight of fifteen hundred pounds. He couldn't do it. Could he? Aimlessly he ran his hand over the stone wall near the door like a blind man trying to find his way down a street. In spite of the chill he began to sweat and he had an appalling thirst.
In an attempt to leave both discomforts behind, he hurried out onto the catwalk and quickly withdrew the ladder, as though to put distance between him and the temptation below. His eyes scanned the darkened cell.
As well as he could make out, everything was as he had left it, the prisoners sleeping, with the exception of the two bullies, and they sat erect, vigilantly guarding the prostrate young woman.
And the other? Where was he? Frantically Jawster searched the cell, as though feeling the need to keep the man forever in his sight.
At last he found him, a shadow towering over the sleeping bodies, standing now by the heavy barred doors, as though to protect them from outside intrusions, the man himself, the Prince of Eden.
What a world of irony was contained in that cold dark Common Cell for Edward Hartlow Eden!
He held his position by the door, aware of poor old Jawster agonizing upon the catwalk. Fifteen hundred pounds! He'd not intended to be quite so generous. But on seeing the man's hesitancy, he'd had no choice.
He felt weary, yet he could not rest, not as long as old Jawster crouched up on the catwalk, wrestling with the devil. Edward watched him. The man seemed frozen in his indecision. Finally, as though tired of the battle, the old turnkey fled back to his office, there undoubtedly to seek solution to his dilemma in the bottle of port.
Edward was grateful for the man's absence and now slid slowly down the door until he was sitting on the floor, knees raised. He folded his arms upon his knees and rested his head, eyes closed.
In this double darkness he saw again the terrible scene in the courtroom, Charlotte, pitiful in her prison garb, yet head erect until the moment of sentencing. God! What had possessed the bastard? A sentence as barbaric as the magistrate himself. Yet, Sir Claudius had counseled Edward to keep silent.
Ruefully he shook his head. Silence! That silence was now on the verge of annihilating him. He'd followed his solicitor's advice, at least until they had carried Charlotte from the courtroom. Then Edward had kept his own counsel, charted his own course, which had led him— here.
He looked up as though to confirm his destination. He'd been here before, knew it well, knew old Jawster intimately. What if the man refused to help him?
He wouldn't. In the end Edward knew he couldn't. Of course Edward would have to see Sir Claudius in the morning and raise the fifteen hundred pounds. But that should present no diflficulties. And he would have to endure sermons from Sir Claudius. But Edward was accustomed to sermons. What would be less simple to endure would be his mother's face. On thinking unexpectedly of her a gentle melancholy rose within him. When would it cease to matter, the pain of that relationship?
Around him he heard snores rising. If he blurred his eyes, the soot-covered red brick walls of Newgate disappeared and in their place he saw Eden, the castle in rosy tints, and beyond, the headlands, and beyond that, the channel. It had been months since he'd seen his home.
Home. The word caused only a little additional discomfort. His eyes steadied their focus. The mud-colored walls returned and with them the smelly confinement.
Once again, he buried his face in his arms. No difference. It mattered little whether he passed time here or at his house on Oxford Street, or in a blackened alleyway with his street friends, or in the luxuriant splendor of his castle in North Devon. All that differed were the surroundings, the color and texture of walls, the softness of his pillow, the fullness of his belly.
What never varied was the feeling inside, the lostness, the abandonment, the slow even roll of the designation. Bastard.
Oh God, how he longed for the peace of indifference. But according to William Pitch, his mother's old friend, a man who'd spent most of his life searching out his own beginnings, it would never come, the relief of indifference. One always cared. And that care had terrible manifestations. The best one could hope for, according to Pitch, was an air of hopeless triviality. Pitch had in the past pointed out with kindness the difference between them. Edward knew who he was, had always known. His father was Lord Thomas Eden, his mother. Lady Marianne, the cause of his bastardy merely the absence of legal wedding vows. It was simply the world that failed to recognize his legitimacy.
Suddenly Edward hungered for William Pitch. He'd not seen him in over a month, since the scandal of Charlotte Longford had broken. Now he resolved to seek him out before nightfall the following day. He was in sore need of his wit and medicinal countenance.
The torment was worse this evening. He was shivering now almost continuously. The ache was no longer inside his head. It was something outside, something small, a noise, a smell, a voice—
"Sir?"
He looked quickly up. The ache was crouched before him, a young girl, no more than sixteen, her eyes pale and frightened in the dim light.
Embarrassed, he tried to adjust himself to her presence. "I didn't hear you," he murmured, not looking at her.
"Him," she began, "him says I should come to you."
He looked up and followed the direction of her gaze toward Thad Bottoms, a Sandwich Man and one of the most skillful pickpockets in London. The old man bobbed his head and touched his forehead in a kind of salute, as though acknowledging Edward's attention.
Then Edward looked back at the young girl. "Come to me?" he repeated, puzzled.
"You know, sir," she grinned. "Comfort you. That's what he says."
Edward stared down on her. She was thin, dirty beyond description, and wore a tattered brown dress. Her hair, nondescript in color, hung about her face in matted strands.
"What's your name?" he asked, keeping his voice down.
"Elizabeth, sir."
"How old are you, Elizabeth?"
She smiled. "Don't rightly know, sir. Him says I'm old enough."
"Old enough for what?"
She sat on the floor before him, in a childlike position. "You know, sir, to please a gentleman." Her face lifted on a light of pride. "I been in the park less than a month, but I earn more than me Mum. The gintlemen likes 'em young. Least that's what him says."
"Is your mother here?"
She giggled, then clamped her hand over her mouth. "Oh no, sir, her wasn't workin' the night we was caught up. Her was at home with me sister, swearin' at her something awful for swelling up."
Edward looked down at her, still puzzled. "Swelling up?"
"You know, sir, with the baby way she was and all and it comin' and all the blood goin' all over the place, and her swearin' at her, me Mum swearin' and shoutin' and saying the devil was going to come and fetch her and the baby—"
Apparently the remembrance of the scene had a sobering effect on the young girl. She lowered her head, her hands limp in her lap. In the faint light Edward noticed her right hand, mutilated, two fingers missing, the skin red and puckered with fresh scar tissue. Concerned, he reached for it, but hurriedly she dragged it out of sight and hid it beneath her. "Pay that no mind, sir," she whispered. "I keep it beneath me while I'm comforting gintlemen. Some don't like the sight of it."
The prince of Eden Page 2
