The prince of Eden

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

"When there's no time, there is no choice," she replied. "I'm far richer now than I was an hour ago."

  "Why were you crying downstairs in the corridor?" he asked. "Why did you leave the company?"

  "In search of you."

  "You might have asked for me."

  "Or someone like you."

  He felt a brief stab to his pride. "Then anyone would have served?" he asked.

  "Oh no," she smiled, looking up.

  And again at the sight of her face, a desire came over him, the beauty and mysterious power of love. He shook his head, bewildered by this most peculiar situation. In a kind of bemused detachment, he asked, "And how do we meet during the five days? The events of every day are plotted. How shall we—"

  She shook her head. "Not every hour. The period following luncheon is free. The ladies rest, the gentlemen ride or gamble."

  "And where shall I find you?"

  "At your side. Just look. I'll be there. And I shall claim fatigue every night and retire early, like tonight." She lowered her head. "On the last night-"

  "There will be no last night," he said sternly.

  "I'm afraid there will be, but neither of us shall mind. At the conclusion of that night, we shall be fortified."

  "You perhaps," he protested. "Not me." He bent his head low and kissed her again. In clear longing she leaned into his arms, her hands on the back of his head, guiding his face into the softness of her breast. With his tongue, he tasted her flesh.

  "Not now," she murmured. "The memories must be in order. Sixty years from now I want to be able to stand on this spot and recall it all in sequence. Otherwise it will grow muddled in my head and I shall lose it."

  He watched her for a moment, as she moved back into the full force of the wind, then followed after her, unable to decide whether her clinical plotting was a kind of madness or superior fortitude. No matter. Before these five days ended, she would know, as he knew, that the engagement ball would never take place, or if it did, it would be without the guest of honor. He'd not thought before in terms of marriage, but now he did, a simple ceremony performed in Edinburgh. He would not, could not sacrifice her reputation.

  He came up softly behind her where she stood at the edge of the battlement, gazing out over the channel. He slipped his arms around her waist and felt a pleasing sensation as she leaned back against him. He bent his head low, whispering close to her ear. "Are you cold?"

  "A Httle."

  "What are you thinking about?"

  "How dark the water is and how deep."

  "It poses no threat to you."

  Suddenly she looked back at him. "Did Charlotte Longford die?"

  Again the bluntness of her question caught him off guard. Residual pain there. Old grief. Slowly he nodded.

  Now she seemed to be the one offering comfort. "I'm sorry for you," she said softly, "but not for her. She merely fulfilled her destiny. Before it's over, we'll all do as she did. We'll all go, senseless, to our destinies."

  Again her words were absurd, her manner almost frightening. He drew her close and tasted the salt of tears, as though she felt keenly the tragedy of Charlotte Longford, the presence of some sort of an abyss.

  With passionate sternness he vowed he would not permit it to happen again. This woman would not suffer because of him. There would be no abstract and coldly clinical "perfect now." They had found each other in despair in a darkened corridor, but the rest of their days would be passed in the full freedom of light.

  Though the kiss had ended, he continued to hold her. There would be no abyss for either of them. He would see to it.

  He would see to it ...

  "She does seem to suffer endless headaches, doesn't she?" whispered Mrs. Greenbell as she served Marianne her coffee from the heavily laden buffet in the Banqueting Hall.

  Marianne took the cup with a smile and lightly shook her head, indicating silence. There was talk enough at the far end of the long table where the stragglers and late sleepers of the company were enjoying a lavish breakfast.

  Although there were chairs enough at table to accommodate sixty,

  less than ten lingered over coffee and at the buffet. The rest of the company had already dispersed for various morning activities, some riding out across the moors, others walking the headlands in an attempt to clear their systems of too much food and drink and too little sleep.

  Marianne felt the heaviness herself, a heaviness made complicated by the almost constant absence during the last four days of the guest of honor, Harriet Powels. What a variety of ailments the young woman had laid claim to! And always, after her softly spoken apology and after she had fled the room, her poor bewildered parents had taken up the refrain.

  "Never known a day's sickness in her life," Lord Powels pronounced now, eating heartily in spite of his distress, as he had done at every meal. Clearly he was a man who enjoyed his food.

  His wife was not faring so well. Marianne watched closely as the delicate woman fanned herself with a white lace handkerchief, still eyeing the central arch through which Harriet had just fled. "She refuses a physician," Lady Powels murmured. "I don't understand. I really don't."

  To her right sat Lady Carlisle, who tried to comfort her. "Nerves, my dear, female nerves. Brides have suffered thusly since time immemorial. No cause for alarm, I assure you. Don't you agree. Lady Eden?"

  Marianne smiled and nodded and again took refuge behind her cup. The feeling persisted that she and all of them were sitting in the eye of a storm. The only difference was that she knew it and they didn't. And regarding the young woman with the "shy and sensitive nature," what Marianne had seen of her three days earlier had been neither shy nor sensitive.

  At the far end of the table, she saw Sir Claudius just taking a chair. Following behind him was a steward with a prudently filled platter, dry toast, a small arrangement of summer fruit. Apparently he'd fully recovered from the earlier madness of his amorous advances toward her.

  Then she heard his familiar voice. "With all apologies, milady, but you are looking very weary." His voice, coming from the end of the table, dragged every eye with him.

  With a smile she took in the gaping faces. "We are all fossils here. Sir Claudius, fit only to sip coffee and comment on the aging process as it appears in others."

  Her gentle humor was rewarded with brief laughter. Sir Claudius nodded his head as though accepting the rebuke. "Milady," he smiled,

  wiping his fingers on his napkin. "The comment was not intended as criticism, merely observation." Now he folded the napkin into a meticulous square. "I agree," he went on. "Let the others ride and race the wind. For myself I would be most content if you would join me in the library and permit me the honor of reading to you."

  The fact that there were a dozen others eavesdropping on his proposal seemed not to bother him at all. "I've been told," he smiled, leaning back in his chair, "that I have a pleasant voice, and I've come armed with the latest popular London fiction, a new series by the scribbler Dickens, called Pickwick Papers." He continued to stare in her direction as though impervious to the numerous sets of listening ears. "The middle classes seem to dote on the man," he concluded. "Perhaps, together, we can discover why."

  Apparently the suggestion held great appeal for Lady Carlisle. She sat up, adjusting the froth of lace at her wrists. "Is your recitation open to the public, Sir Claudius? I can't think of a more charming manner in which to pass the morning."

  Others joined in, a genteel though clamoring chorus of old people desperate for some new and innovative way to pass the endless hours.

  If Sir Claudius was disappointed that Marianne's attention would not be his alone, he gave no indication of it. Now like an overworked schoolmaster, he urged the others to hurry along with their breakfasts while he went to his chambers to fetch the man, Dickens. "We shall regroup in half an hour in the library," he announced sternly from the door.

  His private invitation to Marianne clearly forgotten, he left the room. Then at the door she spied a
curious duo, her sister Jane in the company of Sophia Cranford. The annoyance on her sister's old face was apparent. Clearly, at some point between her chambers and the Banqueting Hall she had been ambushed.

  At her sister's slow approach, Marianne stood, lightly kissed her and whispered good-humoredly, "A woman is judged by the company she keeps."

  Jane lifted her walking stick as though she intended to give Marianne a sharp rap for her impudence. "Like a vulture, she was lying in wait for me just beyond the Great Hall." Now, in a quick change of mood, she glanced toward the buffet. "I'm starved," she announced. "Did the gluttons leave a shred?"

  As Jane tulwied her attention to the buffet, Marianne glanced back toward the door. Only Lady Powels remained, in a close huddle with Sophia, clearly giving her the latest bulletin on her daughter's deterior-

  ating health. Marianne knew that Sophia would not take kindly to the news.

  And she didn't. At that moment, Marianne saw Sophia step back, the ever-present notebook pressed against her breast as though the shock were too much. "Well, it's clear, Lady Powels. She must see a physician."

  From where she sat, Marianne saw the stricken look on Lady Powels's face. This was neither the time nor the place to speak of such matters and even if it were, Sophia was totally lacking in all authority to do so. My God, but the woman was a continuous embarrassment.

  Now Marianne sat up straight and literally hurled her voice in the direction of the offender. "It is a matter of no great consequence. Miss Cranford, I assure you. If we summoned a physician for every headache this morning in Eden Castle, there wouldn't be a medical man left in the entire West Country."

  The look of gratitude coming from Lady Powels was incredible, reinforcing Marianne's suspicion that this unmarried daughter must be weighing upon her. Sophia retreated with a subtle challenge. "I do hope you are right, milady."

  Lady Powels hastened to reassure her. "She'll be in the company tonight, I promise."

  Now as though to break up the awkward little confrontation at the door, Marianne called cheerily, "You'd better hurry along. Lady Powels. Sir Claudius is an excellent reader and Dickens quite the rage."

  Again the woman gave her a look of warm gratitude and departed, leaving Sophia standing alone and looking quite useless in the doorway.

  Marianne watched as the tall woman made her way to the sideboard, quickly poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat a distance removed from Marianne. "I'm certain you agree, Lady Eden," she began, never taking her eyes off the shimmering coffee, "that the girl's repeated absences are mysterious."

  "I'm not sure I do agree," replied Marianne. "It may be as Lady Powels has suggested, that her shy and retiring nature is simply not designed for—"

  "Shy and retiring!" harrumphed Jane, settling into a chair between the two women, then leaning to one side to permit the steward to place her heaping platter before her. "Miss Harriet Powels has struck me as being many things, but never shy and retiring."

  "How does she strike you, Miss Locke?" Sophia asked.

  Without looking up from the obvious enjoyment of her breakfast platter, Jane mumbled with mouth half full, "Passed over for one thing, a bit desperate, not for herself, but for her family—"

  Clearly Sophia was listening. "Go on," she urged.

  But Marianne interceded firmly. "Please, both of you," she scolded lightly. "I see neither the reason nor the cause for discussing one of our guests in such a manner."

  But predictably Sophia would not be deterred. "Miss Powels has exalted hopes of becoming much more than a guest of Eden Castle. We have James's future to consider. If there is even the slightest suspicion of—trouble—that alone should provide you with both reason and cause."

  Marianne nodded. "I couldn't agree with you more, Sophia," she smiled. "But I see no suspicion of trouble, do you? Harriet is intelligent, well-spoken, and quite lovely in her own way. If the union does indeed take place, James has every reason to consider himself fortunate."

  But after a dainty sip at her coffee, Sophia sent forth new barrages of doubt. "Then why these repeated absences from a celebration which is primarily in her honor?" she asked.

  "Perhaps she's bored," Jane muttered, piling eggs onto a square of toast.

  Marianne ignored the remark. "I'm not certain that it's our place to account for it, Miss Cranford. She may be suffering from some minor physical complaint."

  "Then a physician should be summoned immediately."

  "No, I don't think that's necessary," Marianne countered. Weary with effort and feeling that the woman had made her point and perhaps won the debate, she concluded simply, "Her mother has promised us her presence this evening. Let's await that moment and treat her, even in our thoughts, with understanding."

  Sophia returned her cup to the saucer without so much as a scrape, and keeping her eye on both cup and saucer, asked quietly, "Has Edward made a decision on James's rightful inheritance?"

  Marianne leaned forward, her hands searching for some diversion on the cluttered table. She found it in her napkin, which she commenced folding as though it were a most pressing task. "Such a subject is not appropriate here, Sophia," she murmured.

  "With all due respect, milady, I disagree," Sophia replied.

  Jane's fork fell ominously quiet over her plate.

  Sophia shifted in her chair. "You see, milady," she went on, "James must know what he possesses before he can make a good marriage— with anyone. Indeed, as you know, in the past it has been his one stumbling block to unions which were far more advantageous than the present proposed one. He, of course, does not wish his brother harm.

  He is quite prepared to care for him, seeing to all his—appetites, giving him the shelter and protection of the castle for as long as his—illness requires."

  Marianne looked sharply up. "Illness?" she repeated, stunned. "What illness?"

  All activity over Jane's breakfast platter had ceased. Even the waiting stewards seemed to be listening.

  Again Marianne demanded, "What are you talking about, Sophia? Illness? Edward ill?" She gave a brief laugh which she did not feel. "Why, I've never seen him looking better. Tired, perhaps, as we all are, but-ill?"

  Sophia spoke with mock consideration. "As it is not a pleasant illness, milady, neither is it a pleasant subject." Now she looked, perplexed, at Marianne. "But surely, milady, it comes as no surprise to you. You, more than any of us, have observed Edward close at hand. Surely you've seen—"

  At last Jane found her voice and the will to use it. "Seen what?" she demanded.

  "The—symptoms," Sophia replied, casting a wary eye over her shoulder at the stewards, standing rigidly at attention. Now she raised her voice in their direction. "Run along, all of you," she commanded with a brief wave of her hand. "I'll summon you when we're through here."

  Marianne watched and listened and felt reduced to the status of guest in her own home. Edward ill? Those two words made a continuous assault on her brain. The stewards had left the room. Why didn't Sophia speak?

  Then she did. She turned in her chair, new color on her face, as though her blood were warming to the subject at hand. "The symptoms are clear," she said.

  "What symptoms?" Jane demanded.

  "The symptoms," Sophia went on, "of an—addict."

  For an instant it was as though neither Jane nor Marianne had heard correctly. "A—what?" Jane demanded again.

  "An addict," Sophia repeated. "Rather advanced, too, in my opinion," she added. "My sources tell me he requires a considerable amount every day—"

  "A considerable amount of what?" Marianne asked.

  "Opium," the woman said without hesitation. And when apparently the fog in Marianne's head still did not lift, Sophia said it again, more bluntly than before, "Opium, milady. I fear that your son is an opium addict."

  Curiously the words had no effect of real devastation on Marianne for she simply did not believe them. Then too at that precise moment, Jane's toneless laughter rang out over the empty table, a reass
uring sound in the face of Sophia's tragic expression.

  "Good Lord," Jane gasped, as though in the throes of great amusement. "Laudanum, Sophia? Are you serious? All of England takes laudanum in one form or another. My traveling cases are filled with it. My old London physician prescribes it for a rainy day. Good Lord," she repeated, dabbing at the corners of her eyes, as though still helplessly caught in the throes of amusement. "You make it sound so horrific. Every babe who has ever sucked a mother's tit has partaken of laudanum. William used to say it was what made us such a placid, good-natured people."

  Sophia sat up, her face stern, more than ready to meet the challenge. "I beg to disagree with you, Miss Locke. The potions of which you speak are readily available to the general populace. But they are also diluted with other elixirs which render them harmless on the face of it." Marianne listened closely. "But Edward's addiction is of quite a different nature, I fear. He consumes it pure, raw, dissolved in alcohol, and worse, his system now demands it." Her head bowed, her voice fell. "Unfortunately I've had experience with such addiction. In Yorkshire it was a common plague among the miners." She shook her head as though in genuine commiseration. "After prolonged use, their effectiveness as men, indeed as human beings is over. They generally retreat to a den, finding greater solace in their dreams and hallucinations than in God's world around them. And at some point, their pleasures become negative, their cravings savage." She ceased talking and looked directly at Marianne. "Ultimately, of course, it annihilates them," she concluded, a look of triumph on her face.

  Marianne felt her heart beating too fast. She had observed something changed in Edward, at times a mysterious weakness which she attributed to fatigue. And she'd noticed too a new gauntness in his usually robust face.

  Sophia moved in closer to the table. "I'm truly sorry, milady, to have to be the bearer of these tidings. With God as my witness, I thought you knew. It's common talk in the kitchen."

  "Who?" Marianne demanded, still not willing to believe and not totally willing to disbelieve.

  "Edward's manservant," Sophia replied without hesitation. "John Murrey, I believe, is his name. He supplies him, then sits with him through the horrible affliction." Sophia sat back, as though delivered. Slowly she shook her head. "Surely, milady, if you've not been