She stared fixedly forward at the dancing candle. Surely Edward had not been involved. She knew him better than that. He was troubled, but not sinful.
As though Daniel's crumpled letter had suddenly spoken to her, she now looked sharply in that direction. As children, the three of them had played together, exploring every nook and cranny of the North Devon coast until such time as Sophia had put her foot down, claiming that two rough boys were not fit company for a young female. Then they had thrown themselves into an exciting game of cat and mouse, the three of them plotting at every turn to outwit and outmaneuver the stern woman.
And how they had succeeded, Daniel, Edward, and Jenny, climbing to the uppermost regions of Eden Castle, crouching low against the battlements while below in the inner courtyard, old Sophia had cried her lungs out.
Growing unaccountably breathless, she held rigidly still, remembering the two boys, grown young men then, while she lagged behind a mere child. In the spirit of harmless knavery they had asked her once
to lift her petticoats, and in the spirit of the adoring tag-along little sister, she had obliged. At that moment, Sophia Cranford had found them.
Her face in the pale light of the candle now appeared drained of color, as though merely thinking on that certain incident, she'd suffered fresh shock. Her parents had been away as always and, as Miss Cranford had put it, the full burden of punishment descended on her shoulders. The two boys had been turned over to Caleb Cranford and, to this day, Jennifer had no idea what had been their fate. As for herself, she was taken from the nursery against Mrs. Greenbell's protestations and confined to the back room of the Cranfords' private apartments, a small windowless enclosure no larger than a closet. There, Sophia had bound her to a chair, had arranged a wooden crucifix on the table before her, and had forced her to sit for two days, denying her all food, denying her even a chamber pot, forcing her to sit in the filth of her own body waste.
Remembering the ordeal, Jennifer closed her eyes. She remembered as well Sophia's exhortation that she focus on the suffering face of Christ and pray that He remove all future temptation from her. And she remembered the most puzzling moment of all, how at the end of the two-day ordeal, sickened by the stench of her own filth, her hands numb and cold from the cord, her eyes swollen shut from weeping, when her hate for the woman was on the verge of annihilating her, Sophia Cranford had come to release her, had taken her lovingly into her arms, stench and all, and had held her throughout her tears, saying over and over again how much she loved her.
Jennifer, the child, had been incapable of understanding the intricate emotions. All she knew was that that incident had marked the beginning of her deep involvement with Sophia Cranford, who surely loved her more than her mother did. And she also knew that that episode had marked the beginning of her fear of Daniel Spade, and all men who were not either her father or her brothers.
Drained by her memory, she sat again on the edge of the cot.
Without warning, the room went black. The candle had burned out. Frightened as though at an unusual phenomenon, she stared wide-eyed into the blackness.
In the darkness she went rapidly down upon her knees, praying, "Dear God, help me," saying the four simple words over and over again, when without warning, there was a soft knock at the door. Incapable of speech, she held still in her peculiar position and prayed now that the intruder would leave. A moment later, she saw the door pushed open, saw the light of a lamp spilling in.
At first she didn't recognize her in the shadowy darkness. Then she
saw her clearly, Miss Bronte, l^kjpig like a little old woman, peering into the dark. "Are you well, Miss Eden?" Miss Bronte called softly in. "I heard an outcry—"
Struggling for control, Jennifer turned away and tried to wipe the tears from her face.
Though still squinting, the keen-eyed Charlotte apparently saw everything. With an attitude of resolution which belied her thin form, she strode into the room and removed the well-worn Bible from Jennifer's hands. "It isn't Sunday," she said. "How weary God must get, hearing our constant whinings."
Jennifer was on the verge of protesting. But something within responded to the woman's bluntness. With admirable forebearance she permitted the Bible to be taken from her hands, permitted the woman to lift her up and guide her considerately to the edge of the cot. In the splash of lamplight, their eyes met and held. Charlotte's extreme nearsightedness gave the impression that the woman was peering effortlessly into her soul. She recalled the young students saying the same thing, that as Miss Bronte tried to fill their heads with rules of grammar, she was capable of seeing the slightest mischief, even with her back turned.
"Now," Charlotte went on, with an air of dispatch, "I see you are packed. According to Miss Wooler, you are leaving tomorrow for an adventurous day which will include a ride on the railways.'*
Jennifer nodded.
Now curiously, Charlotte seemed ill at ease. She stepped back from the cot and peered shyly about the room. "My only regret," she said, in her funny high-pitched voice, "is that our duties with the students keep us so occupied that even at the end of a solid year together, we do not know each other." The smile broadened, though it still looked awkward on the small pinched features. "To me," she went on, "you are simply Miss Eden, Pianoforte, and coming from behind the closed doors of your classroom, I hear sounds so torturous that, on occasion, I find myself praying for the infirmity of deafness."
In spite of herself, Jennifer smiled. "On occasion I myself use two small pieces of cotton inserted lightly into each ear. Or cork works as well."
"I'll remember it in the future," Charlotte replied.
Jennifer felt the need to say something else. But she could think of nothing. In spite of the welcome distraction, the company of the funny-looking young woman with dry, frizzy hair screwed in tight curls seemed only to remind her of how soon her safe refuge here at Roe Head was coming to an end. Finally in spite of her distress, she mustered, "Will you be going home, Charlotte?"
The woman nodded. "Yes, indeedj K^ brother is coming in the gig for me tomorrow."
"Is it much of a journey?'*
She shook her head. "Less than two hours to Haworth, across the moors."
"Are you looking forward to it?"
Charlotte lowered her head. "Yes, very much. It's always good to see my brother and sisters." She looked up, a strained expression on her face. "It would be pleasant, however, if we could stay here."
Jennifer listened closely. She knew that, unlike herself, Charlotte taught to eat, to survive, that it was her keen sense of duty to her family that made her stand apart in a single-minded drive to excel. But now she readily agreed with Charlotte's sentiment. "I don't want to leave either," she confessed. She lifted her head and drew a shuddering breath, the result of her recent tears. "I hated it here when I first came. Now—" She glanced about. "Now," she concluded, "it seems so—safe."
"Is it so hazardous, your home?" Charlotte inquired softly.
Jennifer nodded. "It is, indeed."
For the moment she had the feeling that the woman might press for more specific details. But she didn't. Instead she slipped comfortably into the abstract. "We assign danger," she said bluntly, as though she were back in her classroom, instructing, "as we assign safety. As a child on the moors, I used to see phantoms in every mist of whirling fog." She shook her head and laughed quietly. "How peculiarly barren I've felt since I grew brave and discovered that there was nothing at the center of those whirling mists."
She paced the small area before the cot now and glanced aside at Jennifer's packed valise. With unexpected kindness she said, "Had I known you were dreading it so, you might have come home with me.'*
Touched, though embarrassed, Jennifer murmured, "Thank you." For an instant, she regretted that the invitation had come too late. Softly she smiled. "Be prudent about issuing the invitation next year. I may accept."
Suddenly the pinched look fell away from Charlotte's face. She beamed. "
Oh, that would be lovely."
Then for some reason, she seemed embarrassed. "I'll not bother you further," she said, retrieving the lamp from the table and easing back toward the door.
Jennifer did not want her to leave and said as much. But Charlotte was insistent. "I haven't started my packing," she said. "If I'm not ready promptly at one, Branwell will be out of sorts."
At the door, she turned back with a gentle question. "Are you well now, Jennifer?"
Jennifer nodded. "Not well, but eased. Thank you for stopping by."
The simple reply seemed to please Charlotte. "In spite of what my students say, I do have sound eyes and ears and I know a human outcry when I hear one." Her light mood altered. "The saddest of sounds," she whispered. Then she was passing through the door, calling back, "You must write to me, Jennifer, and tell me about the railway ride. Tell me all about London and North Devon and the people you meet and speak with. Your letters will be most gratefully received."
Then she was gone, leaving Jennifer as she had found her, sitting alone in the dark. But it was a different darkness now, a safer darkness. Slowly Jennifer stood and prepared herself for bed, the young woman's words still inhabiting her mind. We assign danger, and we assign safety. Such control had never occurred to Jennifer.
Weary, yet excited, Jennifer closed her eyes and tried to sleep. But before her in the darkness, she saw a painfully clear cavalcade of the future, her brothers, Edward and James, locked in perpetual warfare, and she saw Daniel Spade, no longer a harmless boy, but in full manhood. And she saw Sophia and Caleb Cranford, trying like the saints that they were and with all their hearts to serve the disintegrating Eden family.
And she saw her mother, nodding here, bowing there, an aging coquette, her stained blood racing through Jennifer's veins, corrupting, condemning.
With some force, she pressed her head backward into the pillow. We assign safety, we assign danger—
Dear Lord! It was so simple and so complex, and for the time being, well beyond her ...
,/SJ^
For Edward, it had been enough.
Five days and nights of tranquil obhvion, floating out of touch with reality on the wings of opium, had been sufficient to dull the memory of what he had found in the dungeon cell of Newgate. It had not been enough to obliterate it. He doubted if there was enough opium in all of India to accomplish that.
But at least he could function now, and functioning he was, sitting upright, washed and shaved and in fresh garments, sitting opposite Daniel in the carriage, on their way to Euston Station to meet Jennifer.
Now he watched Daniel across from him and recalled his numerous visitations to St. Peter's establishment, bringing hot food, of which Edward had eaten little. Had Edward thanked him? He couldn't remember, and did so now. "I'm grateful, Daniel, as always."
Across the way, Daniel smiled. "That's number twenty-five, at least. And, as many times, I say no thanks are needed." He moved a hand up to smooth down the thick red hair. It seemed to Edward that Daniel had taken unprecedented pains with his grooming this evening, preparatory to meeting Jennifer. "I don't approve, Edward," he went on, suddenly sober. "But in view of the—circumstances of the last few days, I understand."
It was as close to a lecture as he'd ever come. And if that was all, Edward found it palatable. For the first time in several weeks, he felt in fairly good spirits, the pleasing opium numbness accompanying him everywhere now as St. Peter had generously shared with him the "art
of the habit," had sold him twenty vials of the pure red-brown laudanum and had instructed him in the ways of consuming it wisely. Of course, Daniel knew nothing of this. It was not important that he knew. The two drops that Edward had hastily consumed in a glass of claret before they had left were working beautifully. He felt relaxed, a quiet peace inside his head only lightly tinged with the memory of tragic events.
"How long is my exile to last?" Edward asked, thinking with regret that soon the multitudinous life outside the window would be replaced with dormant heather and screeching sea gulls.
Daniel looked up out of his own thoughts. "Sir Claudius didn't say. I would imagine for the duration of the summer—"
"The duration of the—" Aghast, Edward could only gape.
Sternly Daniel reminded him, "The charge was attempted murder, Edward."
The voice, so quietly speaking, lay like something heavy on his soul. Attempted murder. Had it not been for the effective reaction of the guards, it would have been murder. Sobered by the realization, Edward again leaned back in the carriage, his eyes dully fixed now on the passing scene beyond his window.
Daniel saw the vacancy and moved to dispel it. "The change will do you good, Edward," he soothed. "You've been separated from your family long enough."
Without looking at him, Edward spoke to the window. "Others find health in the North Devon air. I find sickness."
"Then the fault is your own," Daniel scolded mildly. "It will be quite an event for the Edens, James's engagement, all of you together again for the first time since—"
"My father's death," Edward concluded for him. The two drops of laudanum were not enough. The pleasurable numbness was leaving. He stretched out a hand to the window as though for support. "Her train?" he asked disjointedly. "When is it due?"
"Nine o'clock," Daniel replied. "We've plenty of time."
Slowly Edward closed his eyes. "My mother," he began, his hands tightly interlaced between his legs. "Does she know we're coming?"
Apparently the innocent question fell reassuringly on Daniel's ear. "She does," he smiled. "Sir Claudius wrote to her."
"And who wrote to Jennifer?"
There was a pause. "I did. I thought it would be helpful if she accompanied you."
"As a nurse or a guard?"
"Neither. As your sister."
The black mood was passing in the innocent banter. The trick was to keep the mind occupied and the tongue busy. To this end, Edward leaned forward. "Is she well? Jennifer, I mean?"
Daniel shrugged, the disinterested look on his face as suspect as Edward's new calm. "I don't know," he replied. "Her letter was brief, stating simply the time of her arrival."
Abruptly Edward laughed, looking forward to seeing his sister. "We were quite a trio, weren't we, the three of us—"
Daniel returned his laugh with the warmth of a smile. "Indeed we were. The scourges of Eden, according to Sophia Cranford."
Edward's face darkened in disgust. "The bitch," he muttered. "I suppose she's still there, and Caleb as well. God, how I loathed the both of them."
Daniel tried to soften the harsh sentiment. "Theirs was a difficult task," he suggested, "with your parents away as often as they were."
Edward sat with his shoulders hunched now, as though for protection against what was ahead of him. "We've changed since we were those three scourges of Eden, haven't we, Daniel?" he mused softly.
"Not so much," Daniel replied.
The words were reassuring. Perhaps inside the high-vaulted Doric arches of Euston Station, Edward might find a moment of privacy for the purpose of reinforcing the two meager drops of laudanum. He wanted to be free of memories when he met Jennifer.
The cabs and carriages increased as they drew near to Euston Square. As John Murrey found an empty spot near the pavement, Edward reached stealthily inside his waistcoat pocket. Perhaps in the brief interim while Daniel was giving the old man instructions, Edward could successfully lift the cork and drink from the small vial. Predictably, when John Murrey had brought the carriage to a halt, Daniel in his eagerness was out the door and standing back now, waiting for Edward to follow.
"Go along," Edward called down over the shouts of the thronging crowds. "Tell John to see if he can't find a place close by and wait. She'll have trunks."
Daniel hesitated a moment. Then he advanced to the front of the carriage. As he shouted up at the old man, Edward quickly withdrew the vial and, tilting his head back, placed several drops on the tip of his tongue. W
ith no time to spare, he hurriedly returned the cork and shoved the vial in his pocket, just as Daniel reappeared on the pavement.
"Are you coming?" Daniel called up to him.
With a quick swallow, Edward sent the slightly bitter balm on its way through his system. Heartened by the promise of relief, he stepped down from the carriage. For a moment he lost his balance. Daniel was there, offering his arm. "Would you rather wait in the carriage?" he inquired, concerned.
Edward clung to the support, all the while shaking his head. "No, of course not. I'm fine. Lead the way."
As Daniel checked the high board for arrivals, Edward stood patiently a distance behind him.
"This way," Daniel called now, extending his hand to Edward, his anticipation at seeing Jennifer clear on his face.
Following after him through the crowds, Edward thought again what a pleasing union that would be, Daniel and Jennifer. He would purchase a London house for them as a wedding present and place a generous annual income at their disposal, then sit back and bask in their love and enjoy their progeny and perhaps for the first time in his life be able to point to an accomplishment and say, "That is mine. I brought it about, and it is right and good."
Standing in the midst of the tumultuous station, with the shrieking black monster directly ahead of him belching smoke, scattering cinders, he felt enclosed by a kind of soothing novelty. It was as if in this moment, everything was memorable and worth remembering ...
The journey was not as bad as she had feared. To be true, the black monster had reached incredible speeds. The wind had rushed past her ears, the tranquil green English countryside had been reduced to a blur.
Still, it had been very exciting, and once or twice she'd caught herself smiling back at the other passengers as, together, they had shared this most unique experience of a railway ride. And the speed! She still could not believe it, the boxlike coaches racing over the narrow tracks, approaching, on flat, level stretches, the unheard-of rate of forty miles an hour.
The prince of Eden Page 19
