The man finally went on, still kneading the crushed hat. "We're back, as you can see, safe, and maybe not quite as sound as we was 'fore we was sent off. A few of us, right enough, is bitter, feelin' we ain't done nuthin' to bring this down on us—"
He ducked his head. "You see, how it was, we had us a little union, not much, oh Gawd, it weren't much, just a few mates workin' together. But I guess it rightly caused alarm in high places."
Behind him, his five companions had yet to move. They appeared to be listening as closely as the rest of the audience.
"Anyways," he went on, "we found ourselves in irons one day, on a great ship, forced to leave our families behind. We ended up in New South Wales, in a prison colony." He paused and again lowered his head. "Don't rightly know if you want to hear about that or not."
A voice shouted, "Tell us everything."
The man looked up and slowly nodded. "Well, it was hard labor, it was, and a turrible climate. The work was laying roadbeds and the wardens carried whips. Ain't a one of us don't bear the mark of the whip with us, and we'll take it to our grave."
Edward closed his eyes. He wondered if the wagon from Masson's had come yet. No one would know to look for him in here. This was Daniel's domain.
For what seemed an incredibly long period of time, Daniel and O'Conner let the surly mood grow. While fascinated, Edward felt discomfort. The man who had spoken was clearly honest and poor, and his message had fallen for the most part on honest and poor ears. It was a conspicuous quality that Edward felt, the vice of wealth.
Then above the din of the angry audience he heard Feargus O'Conner shouting, his arms raised, calling for quiet and order. After several moments the crowd reluctantly obeyed, settling back onto the long benches, their faces flushed and still angry.
With the expertise of a trained speaker, O'Conner held his place behind the podium, unspeaking, until once again total silence had fallen upon the hall. His face was hard, angry, resolute, and when he spoke, his voice matched his face.
"A simple question," he began, "has been put to us tonight. Who— owns—England?" he demanded, and paused as though to let the question sink in. Then he demanded again, ^''Who—owns—England?'*
Edward now saw O'Conner quickly withdraw a parchment from his inner pocket. He unfurled it and held it suspended before him, and again waited for silence. "I have here," he began, "the seed of the future." He held the parchment up. "The outline," O'Conner went on, full-voiced, "of what I propose we call The People's Charter."
Edward noticed the journalists again bent over their notebooks. The People's Charter. Every word of what was transpiring here would within the week appear in every newspaper in London. He thought ruefully of the reaction to such a charter, the revolutionary nature of everything that had been said here tonight, the six martyrs paraded out, designed to arouse emotions, then Feargus O'Conner stepping in to control and manipulate them. Most skillfully done, the whole thing, yet behind the skill, Edward saw clearly the cause, just, irrefutably just.
Then O'Conner was speaking again. "It's only an outline, a blueprint as it v/ere," he shouted. "As Daniel said earlier, the great work has only begun. But let me share with you this outline. Let me test it on your ears for sound, for reason."
As O'Conner lifted the parchment, all heads seemed to crane forward. "We demand of Parliament," he began, "one, an extension of the franchise. Universal male suffrage."
As his voice continued to explode across the hall, a loud cheer went up after each item. As Edward felt the excitement grow, he grasped the door, realizing fully what was contained on that piece of parchment. They might be the seeds of the future, but they also were the seeds of revolution, which, if implemented, would alter forever the course of England.
Then Edward had seen enough and pushed open the door and welcomed the silence on the other side. He closed the door quickly and leaned against it as though bodily to contain the insurrection which was taking place inside. Daniel was no longer playing with his Ragged School. He was now—
Suddenly he heard a voice calling to him from the top of the stairs. He looked up as though summoned back to the reality of the moment. It was Jennifer, her bonnet in place. "Edward, is it you? We've been
looking everywhere. The wagon has arrived and John Murrey says—"
All the way down the steps she talked. But as she drew even with him, she fell silent. "Were you in there?" she asked, in mild alarm. "What's going on? The noise frightened the younger children. Is Daniel in there? He asked us to call him when—"
But he merely pulled her close under his arm, lifted the satchel from her hand, and walked slowly with her toward the door. "Let's go home," he smiled softly, "while there is still a home to go to."
She pulled away in minor protest. "But Daniel said—"
"Daniel is—occupied," he replied bluntly.
In a way he was pleased by the look of disappointment in her face.
Then Edward saw it, the enormous wagon with the tiny oval of Masson's printed neatly on the side, four horses under harness and two relief horses bringing up the rear and in the middle the gigantic canvas-covered lump, four men stationed about, their hats pulled down over their faces, all serving one purpose, to keep the grand pianoforte rigid and secured.
It was quite a spectacle, somehow made even more dramatic by the echo ringing in Edward's ears. Who—owns—England? The aristocracy.
"Is all secure, John?" Edward shouted up.
"Aye, sir. We've been waitin.' It will be a night journey, I fear—"
"No matter," Edward shouted back. He led Jennifer to the carriage door and assisted her inside. Then he stole another look at the immense wagon, transporting the expensive luxury.
Descend, Thou, and share with us this horrid living chaos of ignorance and hunger—
"Is all secure there?" he shouted back to the two men sitting atop the wagon, reins in hand.
They nodded without speaking, a sullen look in their eyes.
"We'll make it at broken intervals," Edward called up, hoping to remove a portion of the sullenness from their faces. "Feel free to signal at any cause."
Again the men nodded, and again said nothing.
Quickly he swung aboard and closed the door behind him. As the carriage started forward, he noticed Jennifer lean forward as though hopeful that at the last minute Daniel might appear. "He said he wanted to tell us goodbye," she murmured.
"And he would have," Edward tried to reassure her. "But he was quite busy—'*
"With what?"
"A meeting."
"About the school?"
He hesitated, not altogether willing to place upon her the full meaning of what he had witnessed. "In a way," he replied softly.
She leaned forward, as though she had fully understood. "The school is very important to him, isn't it, Edward?"
He nodded, wishing the conversation would end. While he loved her dearly, his mind was still on the turmoil of all he had witnessed. "It's his life," he said simply.
She nodded and gazed out the window. "Do you know what I told him?" she asked, a faint blush visible on her cheeks in the passing light. "I told him there was no reason why I couldn't teach music here instead of at Roe Head."
He smiled, extremely pleased with her change of mind. Lovingly he reached forward and took her hand. "And I agree, and what joy it would be for both Daniel and myself to have the pleasure of your company."
The blush spread. The drawn pallor which he'd first noticed on her face was all but gone. While not beautiful, she certainly was a pleasant-looking young woman. If only he could retrieve her permanently from those cold Yorkshire moors where Sophia Cranford had sent her into exile.
"I shall hold you to that decision," he warned lightly, patting her hand, then releasing it. "And at the first opportunity I personally will assist you in penning your letter of resignation."
He thought he saw a momentary cloud on her face as he pressed her for a final resolution. He watched as she sett
led back into the cushions. Then he did likewise, first occupying himself with an estimate of how long the journey might take. It would stretch throughout the night and well into the next day.
Again, no matter. He welcomed the black silent interval. He needed time to assimilate what was ahead of him, as well as what was behind him.
Who—owns—England?
The traffic was dwindling, the arteries on the western edge of the city free, with easy access. As the carriage picked up speed under John Murrey's skillful hands, Edward permitted his eyes to blur. Thinking now in economic terms, financial security was necessary before one could indulge in the luxury of human decency. Even the reformers would admit to that fact.
As the thoughts continued to jostle about his head, his hand moved surreptitiously to the pocket of his waistcoat.
The vial was there. Across the way he noticed Jennifer safely lost in her own thoughts. One last excursion into the blue endlessness. Daniel
and his frenzied companion would still be there when he emerged, as would Eden Castle and its wretched inhabitants, as would the awful weight of his wealth, and the mocking past. It would all be there, waiting for him.
Sensing future defeats, he tipped the vial to his lips, while the carriage wheels moving rapidly over the turnpike seemed to hammer a steady refrain.
Who—owns—England— Who—owns—England— Who—owns ...
'e'1^092.'
./SJ^
Though seventy-two and considered by all to be dim-witted with age, Jane Locke nonetheless had a shrewd eye and a sharp awareness of the human drama being played out around her.
On this her first morning in Eden Castle, she assessed her sister, the Countess Dowager, and made a blunt diagnosis.
"You're lost,'* she pronounced stiffly. "You've forgotten who you are. Come, let's walk down the cliff to Mortemouth. William always said if the end is muddled, search for clues at the beginning."
Predictably Marianne had protested, claiming much to do, claiming Edward's imminent arrival, claiming all and nothing. But Jane had seen through her protests. As far as she could see, that was part of the problem. Marianne had nothing to do, her every duty usurped by the giraffe, Sophia Cranford. And as for Edward's "imminent arrival," the horizon, as seen from Jane's upper chambers, was clear and unbroken. Knowing her nephew as she did, she had awaited his "imminent arrival" following William's death. To no avail. She knew all too well that Edward's nature frequently permitted him to confuse "imminent" with "never."
Now, however, as she assessed her sister over a cup of breakfast tea, she announced, "We need a long walk-about, both of us. It will do us a world of good. How long has it been since you've made the cliff walk?"
For the first time in what seemed hours, Marianne looked up from her silent brooding, traces of a faint smile on her face. "Ages," she murmured. "Well before Thomas's death."
Jane faked shock. "You've not been to Mortemouth since then?"
Marianne shook her head. "Why should I?" she asked. "I spent the first half of my life trying to get out of that wretched place. Why should I spend the last half trying to get back down to it?"
"We had many friends in Mortemouth once," Jane countered lightly.
"Dead, I promise," Marianne muttered, draining her teacup. "All dead."
Now Jane felt a brief annoyance of her own. "It's a glorious June morning," she wheedled. "Surely we could find someone alive in Mortemouth."
Marianne looked askance at her. "You're really serious, aren't you? Have you forgotten how steep the cliff walk is?"
Proudly Jane lifted her black ebony walking stick with the sterling silver head. "I have three legs, and a spare in my trunk for you," she replied, undaunted.
Marianne rose slowly from the small table on which rested her untouched food. "I had thought we would walk the headland," she suggested. "It's a lovely even walk, culminating in the graveyard—"
"Good God, no," Jane shuddered. "I'll be keeping company with the dead soon enough, as we both will. For what little time is left, I prefer the company of the living, thank you."
For the first time, she thought she detected a soft look of acquiescence on her sister's face. "Mortemouth," she pronounced quizzically, as though still baffled by the proposition.
"Mortemouth," Jane confirmed with a smile. "I want to feel the cobbles beneath my feet again," she said. "I want to smell the fishermen in from their morning run. I want to touch the climbing roses on the walls, and I want to gaze once more upon that three-room cottage where I passed what surely has to be one of the most miserable childhoods on record."
Marianne looked up into her face, and for a long moment the gaze held. Then, unaccountably, Jane saw the beginning of tears. Before they could spill over to the embarrassment of both, Jane put her arms about Marianne's frail shoulders and drew her close.
A few minutes later, Marianne pulled away and dabbed at her eyes. "Then down to Mortemouth," she smiled. "It might be fun at that."
A short time later, with their bonnets and summer capes in place, they stood in a blaze of morning sun on the stairs of the Great Hall. Already Jane thought she detected a becoming flush on Marianne's pale cheeks. Yes, her prescription had been a good one.
As they were just starting down the stairs, Jane heard a strong masculine voice calling to them from the Great Hall. As they turned,
they saw Caleb Cranford hurrying toward them. "Oh God, what does he want?" Jane muttered.
Marianne gave no reply, but Jane clearly felt her stiffen, as though, with the sound of his voice, a battle alarm had gone off within her. Now the man was drawing nearer, his lean, hard face and black hair completing the spider image. "I beg your pardon, milady," he said, drawing even with them on the steps and bowing obsequiously. "I was sent to see if I could be of service. My sister saw you passing through the Great Hall and wondered if—"
Jane drew herself up to her considerable height and adjusted the cerise ruffle about her neck. "If we had required your assistance, Mr. Cranford, we would have summoned it. Lady Eden and I are simply going abroad for a spell, down to Mortemouth—"
The news did not please him. "To Mortemouth, milady?" he asked archly of Marianne.
Jane saw her nod weakly, her head down, as though intimidated by the man's presence.
"May I inquire why, milady?" he asked further.
Enraged, Jane held her tongue at the man's daring and her sister's meek behavior. In the old days Marianne would never have endured such impudence. "We'll only be gone a short time, Mr. Cranford," she replied, still apparently unable to look the man in the face.
He smiled indulgently, like a father to a misbehaving child. "I'm afraid I cannot allow it, milady," he said, shaking his tiny spider's head. "The path is hazardous and unsafe. And I'm certain the populace of Mortemouth has changed. It would not be prudent—"
Then Jane could hold her tongue no longer. "Mr. Cranford," she interrupted, holding her walking stick at midpoint as though to use it as a weapon. "Her Ladyship and I are going down the clifT walk to Mortemouth this morning. I feel certain that we know the hazards better than you. And I strongly protest your interruption. Now, run along to whatever it is you do to earn your keep in Eden Castle, and I would strongly advise in the future that you obey the time-honored ritual of all servants concerning their mistresses, and that is not to approach unless summoned and not to speak until specifically invited to do so."
As they started down the stairs, she saw Marianne look backward, as though to apologize. "For God's sake," Jane whispered fiercely, "remember who you are. Keep your eyes front."
"But-"
"Eyes front," she hissed again.
They had just reached the bottom step when the man apparently
recovered from his shock enough to call after them. "It's her Ladyship's welfare that I'm concerned with," he said, his voice cold now. "If you insist upon this foolishness, I cannot permit you to go unaccompanied."
Just as Jane was turning with an effective volley on
her lips, Marianne stopped her. "Please," she murmured, "please, Jane, don't. No more trouble, I beg you—"
There was something so pathetically urgent in the plea that Jane had no choice but to obey. Still smoldering, she watched through narrowed eyes as Caleb Cranford summoned two uniformed stewards to his side. She continued to watch as the man whispered something to the two men. As the stewards started down the steps, she saw Caleb's triumphant smile. "You arc accustomed to looking after yourself. Miss Locke," he beamed. "Her Ladyship is not."
Jane looked first at the stewards, then at Marianne, who continued to stand as though reprimanded. She glanced back up at Caleb, who stood at the top of the stairs, his hands behind his back, as though he were Lord of the Castle. Merciful heavens, she thought sadly, how times had changed.
As they started across the inner courtyard, Jane was aware of the stewards falling into place about ten feet behind. "I never thought I'd live to see the day. Why do you permit them to stay?" she asked bluntly. "They've passed the point of usefulness to you and your children. Why don't you send them packing back to Yorkshire where they belong."
Again Marianne shushed her as they were approaching the gate and guardsmen. Jane observed quietly as Marianne spoke to them all, calling them by their first names, inquiring of one or two about wives and children. The men responded with respect, quickly drawing up the twin grilles, then standing a distance back for the ladies to pass. To one gnarled old man on the other side, Marianne made a specific request. "Samson," she began, "if my son Edward arrives in our absence, please sound the bell loudly. We're going down into Mortemouth. I can hear the summons from there."
"Aye, milady," the old man grinned. He went on, flattered that the Countess Dowager had singled him out for a personal request. "We've sent riders as far as Taunton to be on the lookout. We'll have word soon, I'm certain, of Mr. Edward's approach."
Marianne smiled, grateful, then again took Jane's arm for the slight incline which led down to the beginning of the cliff" walk. Behind them trailed the two stewards, moving closer now, or so it seemed to Jane, as though their task was not only to oversee, but to overhear as well.
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