The prince of Eden

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  "You must, sir," the old man pleaded. "The lady was here, your mother. She wanted to come in, sir, but I wouldn't let her. You were—" He hesitated, at a loss for words to describe the early stages of an opium trance. "You—were not suitable," he concluded.

  Edward stared up. Slowly he raised himself again from the pillow. "I'm grateful, John," he muttered.

  John Murrey backed away a few steps. "You won't be, sir, when you hear the rest of it," he said ominously. "I told the lady," he began, "that you would come down tonight."

  Edward started to protest, but John cut him off. "It was the only way, sir," he pleaded. "She was carrying on like—" He shook his head, still pleading. "Please, sir, just long enough to let her see you.

  "I'm sorry, sir," murmured John Murrey, seeing the desolate look on his face. Then stepping forward with a daring which spoke of his own

  discomfort, he said, "Don't know why we ever come, sir, beggin' your pardon. Don't belong here. Either of us. Back in London, that's our proper ground, back with the others who don't stand on no ritual. But here-"

  He broke off suddenly and with his arms made a massive gesture of rejection. His face grew reflective. "At home in London, Cook's always nice and gentle, saying, 'Here, John, have yourself a cuppa tea,' or 'John, sit while I fetch you a pint.' " A look of genuine sadness covered the lean old face. "And the young 'uns always laughing and shouting, and Mr. Daniel keepin' things in order, yet kind—"

  Edward listened carefully to the whole recitation, sharing the old man's homesickness. He steadied himself on the bedpost and joined him where he stood a short distance away. Affectionately he rested his arm on the bent shoulders and promised, "We'll go home soon, John." He stopped short of telling the man that they could not return to London. Not at least for the duration of the summer, that if they didn't pass their exile here, they would have to pass it someplace else.

  As though to soften the blow of this unspoken message, he patted John on the shoulder and promised, "I'll dress now, and a bite of food might help." He stood erect as though to make good his vow. "If you said I'll be there, then I'll be there."

  It was approaching midnight when at last he stood before the pier glass, shaved, dressed, and mildly fortified with a glass of claret lightly laced with laudanum. It was his intention to be back in his chambers by one o'clock, a perfunctory appearance, undoubtedly designed to display family unity.

  "You look fine, sir," smiled John Murrey, making a final adjustment to the black dress jacket.

  Edward received the compliment for what it was and turned away from the pier glass. "Help yourself," he said, motioning to the half-filled bottle of claret on the table. Then dreading the ordeal before him, but determined to get it over with, he headed for the door. He stopped and looked back at his chambers, old John Murrey watching anxiously. Grateful for such concern, he promised again, "We'll go home soon, John. Bear with me."

  Without hesitation, the old man replied, "I'm always with you, sir. I'd be in my grave now if it weren't for you." He lifted a hand to his forehead as though in salute. "You lead. I'll follow," he grinned, revealing missing teeth.

  Edward stared at him, remembering the night he'd found him, half-starved under Westminster Bridge, beaten and left for dead by a gang

  of river rats. How changed he was now. Not an excess of flesh, but filled out, a piece of humanity that once had been wreckage. The intensity of Edward's gaze clearly began to cause the old man embarrassment. Quickly Edward averted his eyes and turned to the door. There was a good possibility that he had just turned his back on the choicest company in all of Eden Castle.

  He closed the door behind him and moved toward the end of the passage and was just in the process of taking the short hall which led to the landing when he heard voices coming up the stairs, a chattering, anxious procession, mostly female, though he thought he detected the lower registers of a man's voice.

  Quickly he drew back into a small alcove. He was not ready yet to face the company, but in a way he was curious as to the nature of this procession. Then he heard Sophia Cranford's voice, unmistakable, like a curse from God. He drew farther back and felt a sort of sullen anger as it occurred to him that perhaps this chattering delegation had been sent to fetch him. He heard the voices clearer now, earnest male voices, both James and Caleb.

  "Let us call the physician," he heard Caleb say over the continuous hum.

  And then James, "It might be best. One can't be too careful. Fever is rampant—"

  Then Sophia's voice, scolding. "Oh, for heaven's sake, James, you'll frighten the girl to death. Fever! I've never heard of anything so ridiculous."

  "She just needs to lie down a bit," somebody said. "It was warm below, and—"

  They were in the small passageway now, less than ten feet from where Edward hid. He felt stealthy and ridiculous, but any move was out of the question. He relaxed against the cool stone wall, relieved that they had not come for him. No, someone else was the focal point of their attention, someone who was ill, or who had begged off on the pretense of illness.

  "Please," he heard a woman whisper. "Go back to the ball, all of you. Miss Cranford is right. I only need a—"

  Then he heard Miss Cranford again. "And leave you? The guest of honor? Never. Certainly not. I'll sit with you myself—"

  "It isn't necessary—"

  "Or James," Sophia suggested. "Yes, James will sit with you."

  The pleading voice seemed to grow unduly distraught. "No, please, I beg you. Just an interval alone—"

  Then he heard another female voice, younger, timid. "I'll stay with her, ma'am. She'll be right enough, I promise you. Back at Hadley Park, milady always needs a brief respite during entertainments—"

  Obviously the prolonged speech from the servant had shocked Sophia into silence. But when Miss Powels confirmed her maid's words with a final, "Please, she's right. Go back to the party, all of you," Edward heard a moment's muddled silence.

  "Well, it is warm," Sophia agreed, half-heartedly. "I'll have a pitcher of fresh lavender water sent up."

  "It isn't necessary," the young woman said.

  James stayed for a final inquiry. "Are you sure?"

  "I'm fine," she soothed.

  The voice sounded firm and reassuring. The little company broke up, several moving back down the stairs now.

  Edward held his position in the alcove. He'd heard footsteps on the stairs. He had yet to hear footsteps moving toward the east wing. Then he heard the maid, her voice concerned, "Come, milady. I'll help—"

  "No, you go along as well, Nelda," the young woman insisted. "I need no help. I'll lie down for a moment and if I need you, I'll ring."

  "But, milady, I said that I—"

  Suddenly the well-modulated voice rose, no longer affable and compliant. "I said go along, Nelda. If I need you for anything, I'll let you know." The voice vibrated with emotion, like a survivor clinging to a single piece of wreckage.

  Clearly the servant had not often heard that tone from her mistress and now beat a quick retreat. "Yes, milady," she murmured, her voice fading as she hurried down the passageway.

  He heard a light flurry of footsteps on the stairs, then he heard nothing else, though by his estimate there still was someone standing less than ten feet away.

  With his head pressed back against the wall of the alcove, he continued to listen. Was she going to stand there all evening?

  Then he heard a first tentative step, and something else, a quick inhalation of breath, like a sob.

  He heard it again, a second sharp inhalation of breath, a sound of such consummate wretchedness that he threw hazard over and leaned forward. He saw her standing in the center of the passageway, both hands clutching her midsection as though indeed she were ill. He had never witnessed such inarticulate grief, almost childlike in its manifestation.

  235

  His instinct was to speak. But prudence intervened, and he continued to watch as now she made her way slowly down the corridor, the sobs
catching in her throat. He followed a discreet distance behind.

  Then just as she was approaching the door which led to the guest apartments, she seemed to lean heavily against the wall, her head flung back as though for an instant she'd been unable to draw breath. In one of the most pitiful human sounds he'd ever heard, she moaned, "Oh God, help." Then he saw her slowly collapse against the base of the wall.

  Never taking his eyes off" her, he advanced, sending his voice ahead. "Milady, may I-"

  Again he stopped to see if there was any reaction. There wasn't. From where he stood she appeared lifeless, her face obscured by her position. He was aware of the distant music coming from the festivities below, the orchestra playing out a quadrille, the entire company apparently unaware of the guest of honor collapsed in the upper corridor.

  "Milady," he whispered again, drawing nearer, feeling an increase in alarm as still she showed no signs of life or movement. He knelt beside her and lightly touched one opened hand. When there was no response, he drew her backward from her collapsed position and saw her face for the first time, pale and colorless, still wet with tears, eyes closed.

  Without further hesitation he lifted her in his arms and carried her rapidly into the guest apartments, through the small sitting room, and on through to the bedchamber. There he placed her on the high, canopied bed and fetched the lamp, burning low on the table. Moving rapidly now, he stripped the long white gloves from her arms, drew a light coverlet up over the blue gown, and commenced rubbing her hand. It was cold, without response.

  Frantically, he looked over his shoulder at the scattered items on the dressing table. He saw several small bottles and from that distance searched for one that resembled smelling salts.

  But then he felt her hand stir, lift briefly. He saw her eyes open, then close, the head toss once upon the pillow, then hold still.

  She was back, her eyes open and staring at him. He smiled and stood up from the bed in an attempt to put her at ease. But still her response was one of alarm. As she started rapidly up from the pillow, he stepped forward. "No, please. Lie still," he urged. "For a few minutes anyway."

  At the sound of his voice, her eyes seemed to grow ever wider. One hand moved up to her throat.

  "No need for alarm," he soothed. "I was just on my way down to Hft a toast to you when I found you outside."

  He hesitated, not certain how he should describe her collapsed state.

  She seemed to be surveying him in bewilderment and it occurred to him that perhaps she didn't remember meeting him the night of her arrival.

  "I'm Edward Eden," he smiled. "We met briefly that first night."

  Then he heard her first words. "I remember," she whispered. She lifted her eyes to the canopy overhead. "What I don't remember," she went on, "is how I got here."

  He considered persisting with his lie, the story that he'd simply found her in the passageway. But he changed his mind. "I can't give you details of the entire evening," he began, speaking gently. "I only saw you about fifteen minutes ago as you came up from the ball." He paused to see if the reminder was sufficient. Apparently it wasn't. "There were others with you," he continued. "They thought you were ill."

  Then something registered. Her eyes closed as though she wanted to blot out the memory. "I'm—sorry," she whispered.

  "Why don't you lie still for just a while," he suggested. "Would you like for me to ring for—"

  She shook her head quickly. "No, please." Her hand moved back to her hair and loosened the clip. A moment later a cascade of long auburn hair slipped down about her shoulders, causing her to look younger. "It's so—warm," she murmured, and again she leaned back into the pillows.

  He gazed at her, then walked rapidly to the table where he'd seen her articles of toilette. He lifted a clean linen, poured water over it from the pitcher, wrung it lightly, and returned to the bed. "If you won't let me summon help, then you must accept mine," he said, approaching the bed with the cool damp cloth.

  When she registered no objection, he placed it on her forehead. "Are you feeling better?" he inquired politely.

  The softest of smiles graced her features. "I've never done this before, so I'm afraid I have no gauge for my feelings." Lightly she shook her head and rearranged the damp linen to her liking. "Would you say that I fainted?" she asked, as though genuinely wanting to know.

  "In my judgment, yes."

  The smile on her face grew into a gentle laugh. "So that's what it's like. I had a friend when I was younger who could faint at the sound of a strong wind. I always thought she looked so appealing. I used to

  hold my breath, thinking I could induce a similar condition. But it never worked."

  "I'd say you did something right tonight."

  Again she looked up at him. The smile faded. She seemed on the verge of saying something, but apparently changed her mind. Instead she made an attempt to sit up. "I'm quite restored now," she said, her manner formal, her head bowed.

  "Are you certain?"

  "Yes." She tried to stand, as though to demonstrate the validity of her words. But suddenly she wavered again, both hands reaching out for support. He was there and gently helped her back to the side of the bed. "Please," he urged. "Stay still for a while longer. There's no rush."

  Apparently she had no choice but to obey. As she settled again on the edge of the bed, she fingered the damp linen, her head down as though embarrassed by her weakness. "It was so close downstairs," she began, "the company large and noisy. And the meal was heavy, so much—" She broke off midsentence as though not particularly interested in her own words. She looked directly at him. "I'm really quite well. And you have been very kind. I don't want to inconvenience you any-"

  "You're not inconveniencing me," he hastened to reassure her. "As I said, I was coming to toast the guest of honor. I can't very well toast her if she's not there."

  Almost shyly she glanced in his direction. "There's no reason for you to stand about. Please take a chair—if you wish."

  Without hesitation he dragged a large overstuffed chair from the center of the room and positioned it about four feet from the bed. He watched fascinated as her hand moved over her breasts and up to her throat. She still seemed to be suffering from distress. "Do you suppose they will come looking for me?" she whispered.

  "Most probably," he concurred. When he saw the bleak look on her face, he suggested, "You're not terribly pleased with us, are you?"

  She looked sharply up at his words, a protest already forming. "That's not true," she said apologetically.

  "Isn't it?" he persisted. "Out there"—and he inclined his head toward the corridor—"you did not resemble a gloriously happy future bride."

  She looked at him as though within the moment she had grasped the meaning of his words. As her embarrassment increased, she stood, and using the bed for support, walked around it as though to put a safe distance between them. "Please," she begged softly, "let's not speak on such matters."

  But he persisted. "Why were you crying?"

  Rather defiantly she looked at him across the expanse of bed. "I told you. I wasn't feeling well."

  "Are you going to marry James?"

  Suddenly she turned away from the bed and walked rapidly to the windows on the far side of the room. Her voice when she spoke sounded as strained as it had in the corridor. "I can't understand why there are no views from these windows," she said. "We're certainly high enough and I've heard forever about the vistas of Eden. Where are they?"

  He left the chair and went to her. "Are you feeling stronger?" he asked.

  She nodded.

  He caught her hand and turned her away from the viewless windows. "Then come," he smiled. "I'll show you vistas."

  A strong protest was forming on her face. "We can't go back down," she gasped. "They'd see us and never let us pass."

  Now excited by the idea in his mind, he merely led her forward. "We're not going down," he said. "We're going up." Rather melodramatically he pointed toward the ceili
ng. "Come! The air will do you good, do us both good. I haven't been on the battlements since I was a boy."

  He could see that the idea appealed to her. He made a hasty assessment of the full-skirted ball gown, then warned, "The passage is narrow and steep. Would you care to change?"

  But clearly the adventure had taken hold in her mind and she didn't want to hesitate. "No, let's hurry. They may come back."

  Still holding her hand, he guided her rapidly out of the bedchamber and through the reception hall. At the door he paused, opened it a crack, and peered out in both directions. He looked back at her with a massive shushing gesture, delighted by the look of excitement on her face.

  "Stay close behind," he whispered, exploiting the melodrama of the moment because it seemed to please her.

  Then, still holding her hand, he hurried out into the corridor, moving east along the passageway toward the secret stairway which he and Daniel had discovered as boys, thinking it their unique find until his father had spoiled it by giving them a complete history, telling them how it had been built to accommodate Queen Elizabeth's numerous and unofficial lovers while she had been on state visits to Eden. The stairway ran the entire height of the castle, a narrow

  twisting passage commencing at an unobtrusive door in the east wall and culminating, through a trap door, out on the battlements.

  As they stole like culprits down corridor after corridor, Edward felt the years rolling back. He was a boy again, running with Daniel to one of their secret places. In his growing excitement he felt a peculiar increase in the effects of the opium in his system. Every sound of their footsteps was recorded distinctly in his ear, and since he had been thinking on Daniel, he thought he heard his voice.

  Edward turned sharply and looked back. Harriet was still behind him, her once pale cheeks now flushed with excitement. "What is it?" she whispered.

  "Nothing," he murmured, realizing that it was merely the effects of opium, altering the bonds of both space and time.

  "You're not lost, are you?"

  Returning to himself, he offered reassurance which sounded strangely like the younger Edward. "Lost?" he laughed. "In my own castle? Come, it's not much farther."