His throat went dry at the thought. Six short steps at best to oblivion. Slowly he turned his head in that direction as though he'd already accomplished the distance. He raised himself on one elbow. The room and all the objects in it remained steady.
As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, he saw them clearly for
the first time and stared incredulously down. They were not his limbs, not those pale wasted specimens. No wonder they refused to support him. There was not enough flesh there to support a child. His mind could not put thoughts together and merely passed individual words through his consciousness. Breakfast—Hadley Park—Four steps—
He moved forward, left the support of the table, his hands ever outreaching. One step, then two, the cabinet coming closer, three steps, the surface of the floor like water, threatening to wash over him.
He devoted what little energy he had left to angling himself around to the front of the cabinet. His hand reached for the small knob and pulled it open. There it was, the temple of his need.
His right hand lifted toward the square-cut vial, gleaming as though at its core was heat. The glass itself felt cool to his touch. He grasped it firmly and with his teeth removed the small cork and spat it out. With the vial clutched in his hand, he was in the process of lifting his head when suddenly on the top shelf of the cabinet, his eyes fell on a reflecting mirror.
The face stared back at him. It was the image of a madman, or a dead one, the hair long, twisted, streaked with new gray, the eyes less visible than the fields of dark shadows into which they were sunk, the tint of the skin yellowed, the mouth open, listless, a monstrous face, detailing every step and twist of the dishonored past, a fool's face that did not know its state of death and thus still moved, aping the expression of a living man.
With one motion he lifted the vial to drink, saw the decayed fool do likewise, and on a last eflfort of will, instead of drinking, hurled the vial toward the reflection, heard the shattering of glass at the double destruction.
His limited energy totally exhausted, he sank to the floor to deal with the need, expecting to find comfort in his self-denial, but finding nothing but cold stone floor, the craving still within him and growing.
Exhausted, he pressed his forehead on the floor. Had he the strength for life? Or the appetite? Could he wage this battle and win it?
The reply came softly and settled over his numbed limbs.
He must, or he was nothing.
On the next to the last Saturday of one of the most glorious Septembers that had ever graced the North Devon coast, the Countess Dowager, Lady Marianne, broke out of her prison of silence and seclusion. Against the stern advice of both her sister and Mrs. Greenbell she broke out, arising before dawn and dressing herself in one of the plain black gowns left over from Thomas's mourning.
She was tired of self-imposed imprisonment, and she knew all too well what day this was, who was departing, and why. It might be, as Jane had testily suggested the night before, merely another encounter of humiliation. But in a way, even that curse would be a comfort after the death of a summer, proof at least of life and a capacity to feel.
All Marianne wanted to do was tell her children goodbye. Was there anything so unusual in that? And certainly they'd made no attempt to keep their departure a secret. For the last week, the entire castle had buzzed with the news.
Then three days ago, there had been the parade of stewards bringing the trunks up from the storeroom. No, a departure was clearly at hand and Marianne intended to be there. Whatever had happened the night of the engagement party, it was over now, the young lady and James safely betrothed. All that remained was to fix the date and for that they were awaiting word from Shropshire. In her one and only communication from Lady Powels, she'd learned that Harriet's mysterious illness was persisting, and until they could discover the cause and effect a cure, the physician had prescribed isolation.
So be it. For now, this isolation must end and thus she would end it. Off in the distance she heard voices. Holding herself erect, she moved with good speed out of the room to the top of the stairs and started down.
Now beyond her she saw the opened arched door which led from the Great Hall to the steps. And there near the bottom of the steps was Edward's carriage.
She felt the excitement of the journey everywhere.
She closed her eyes, remembering the same excitement as when she and Thomas had journeyed to London, to everywhere. Then a voice was speaking to her, an old voice, unschooled, yet full of courtesy. "Milady, I'd hoped to see you, to thank you for your kindness to me—"
Quickly she opened her eyes and brought into focus the old face of John Murrey. "It was my pleasure, John," she smiled.
John Murrey appeared to blush. In his hand was a soft crushed hat which he kneaded constantly. In an attempt to put him at ease, Marianne added, "And I have cause to thank you as well, John, for your obvious devotion to my son."
"He's my master," he replied simply. "Course he don't like to hear me say that, but that's what he is right enough. When a man gives you your life, I figure you owe him something in return."
"Then I'm grateful," she smiled. She looked beyond John Murrey into the Great Hall. "W^ill—he be coming soon?" she asked.
John Murrey nodded. "He's on the way, milady, with Miss Jen-
nifer." Abruptly the hands stopped kneading the old hat. "Be warned, milady," he said. "He's been ill."
She watched as the old man hurried down the steps. Then she heard movement, coming from the direction of the Great Hall, slow steps as though someone was walking with great difficulty.
For a time the heavy shadows falling in the center of the Great Hall obscured the two, their heads bent in apparent effort, their arms about each other in support. Once while they were still a distance away, she saw them stop, still not aware of her, Edward's head heavily hanging down, Jennifer beside him. Marianne heard her strong encouragement, "Only a few steps further."
At the moment that he lifted his head to reassure Jennifer, he caught sight of Marianne.
She returned their gaze. As she caught a clear glimpse of her son's once beautiful face, the world fell into silence.
The frozen moment of recognition over, she saw the change on Jennifer's face from warm support to guarded suspicion. The two of them were moving again, Jennifer's support as firm as ever, though now she was whispering something to him.
What it was Marianne had no idea, but she noticed a kind of renewed strength in Edward's movements, as though he were exerting all his strength in putting on a good show for her. They stopped less than ten feet from her.
As though in self-punishment, Marianne forced herself to focus upon Jennifer. When she spoke, her voice was as soft as the still September morning. "I had word that you were leaving," she began, looking only at Jennifer. She gave a light laugh in an attempt to alter the tension. "It seems as though you just arrived."
Jennifer returned her gaze. "I have passed the summer here, milady," she said with merciless politeness. "Now I have to return. I have students waiting for me."
"Of course," Marianne murmured hurriedly. She saw Edward reach out for the hand railing on the opposite side of the steps, thus relieving Jennifer of his weight. As though to rest her eyes from such devastation, Marianne looked back at Jennifer. "Have a safe journey," she smiled. "I shall keep your beautiful pianoforte safe and in good condition until your return."
Jennifer didn't seem to know how to respond to this. She ducked her head and Marianne thought, how young she looks. And when the young woman seemed incapable of saying anything further, Marianne added, "I apologize for the summer, Jennifer. I'm certain it wasn't an ideal holiday for you."
Then something cold crossed that young face. "It was quite a traditional summer, milady, reminiscent of my childhood. I assure you, misery becomes the place. I felt quite at home.**
Marianne watched her daughter's hands lift and twist a pair of black traveling gloves. Jennifer went on, as though gather
ing courage. "At least this summer was not a total loss. I've enjoyed a warm and gratifying reunion with my elder brother."
"And for that, I'm grateful," Marianne nodded.
"Well then," Jennifer concluded. "I shall take my leave." It was after she'd started down the stairs that Marianne heard her call back, "Stay well, madam. You look tired."
Marianne felt exhausted, as though she*d just fought and lost a battle. She knew that Edward was waiting, but for a moment she did not dare to advance.
But when she heard his voice, and when she saw him standing with both arms opened, she went, with disgraceful affection, her eyes nearly blind with tears.
The embrace lasted for several moments. As he became aware of her tears, he disengaged her. "No need," he whispered kindly, his face, in spite of the wreckage, warm with compassion.
"No need?" she repeated incredulously. "Dear God, how can you say that?"
"Because it's true," he countered lightly. "Because the summer is over. All aspects of the summer," he added pointedly. "If the truth were known, I think we've all enjoyed our martyrdom."
Like Thomas, Edward had the ability to lift her out of grief and into a kind of defensive anger. "The summer has been nothing more than a variety of death," she said. "Look at you. You—"
"I do owe you an apology," he was saying now. "It was not my intention for events to go as they did." In a self-deprecating manner, he added, "It is never my intention for events to go as they do. But I assure you, I will cause no more grief, not to others, not to myself. It is my intention to escort Jennifer to Yorkshire, then return as soon as possible to London." He smiled. "I'm quite certain that by now Daniel is convinced I've fallen off the edge of the world." He seemed to become very reflective. "What an extraordinary thing the well of memory is," he murmured, and she saw again the depths of his desolation.
Even as he spoke of the well of memory, he seemed to have fallen into it. And Marianne too remembered the scenes from early summer, Edward and Harriet slipping cut of the castle, daring in their escapes.
She felt a question forming. "Did you love her so much?" she whispered.
In his eyes, she had her reply.
"And did she return your love?" she pressed on.
"I thought she did," he murmured. "She led me to believe so."
"Then what happened?" she asked, as though it were her maternal right to question him thus.
All at once the memory lifted from his face. The gloom was instantly converted into a kind of bemused irony. "I've passed the summer, madam, in search of that answer. Now," he whispered, "all that remains is that I learn to live with the unanswered question."
"Will you return here before you go back to London?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I think not. I've been away far too long. Daniel needs me."
She thought this declaration a bit absurd. While she was fond of Daniel Spade, in his relationship with her son, she knew very well who needed whom. "Is he well?" she asked quickly as though to squelch the judgment.
"When I left, yes," Edward replied. "I suspect he's plotting revolution," he added, smiling. "It seems the fashionable thing to do now."
Marianne felt mild shock. She remembered a gentle young red-haired boy who would pass the slaughterhouse in a wide arc to avoid hearing the squealing animals. "Revolution?" she repeated. "And who is he revolting against?"
Without hesitation, though still smiling, Edward replied, "You, I imagine, and perhaps me. The poor weigh heavily against him. And rightly so. They have become for him a kind of religion."
"Is he serious?"
"Oh, deadly serious," Edward replied.
"And what is your part in all this?"
Again without hesitation, Edward looked down on her and replied simply, "I love him."
Coming from the carriage, she heard a firm voice. "Edward, my apologies, but we must hurry. The first interval is a full day's distance—"
At the sound of Jennifer's voice, neither Edward nor Marianne looked toward the carriage. But rather their eyes met, a hundred unspoken messages passing back and forth.
"I scarcely feel as though you've been here at all," she murmured quickly.
"I've been here," he smiled.
Beyond his head, she saw a detached mass of early morning clouds. "Rain this afternoon," she said vaguely, "but I think you'll escape it."
"The carriage is tight and warm, John Murrey a skillful driver."
"Will you write?"
"As often as I can."
"Any word will do."
"I promise."
"Are you strong enough for the journey?"
"I am, and Jennifer has promised me the healing airs of Yorkshire."
"Dampness that kills, or so I've heard."
"No matter."
"It matters to me."
At precisely the same moment, they exhausted their supply of small, meaningless words. "Oh, my dearest," she gasped.
She was in his arms, grasping him as though she were drowning and he were the lifeline.
He responded, drawing her close, his face buried in her neck, his voice muffled as he whispered over and over again, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," a regret so enormous as to encompass the world and everyone in it.
Without another word, he kissed her lightly on the cheek and tore himself away. John Murrey hurried up the steps to his side, offered him his support, and together they made their way slowly down the steps.
Marianne lifted her head and maintained a pose of perfect control as she watched John Murrey climb laboriously atop his high perch, affix the worn hat on his head, reach for the reins, and with a soft shout bring them down over the horses' backs.
She even managed to wave as the carriage rattled slowly forward, although no one waved back. She noticed a few curious servants peering around the wooden door which led downward into the kitchen and the watchmen on the wall staring down on the departing carriage. She was still watching as the guardsmen drew up the twin grilles and continued to watch as the carriage moved slowly through the gatehouse and out beyond to the wide and open moors.
Dear God, keep him safe.
They were well beyond Exmoor, beyond Cheddar and Bristol even, at a point of midafternoon, just approaching the green valley which led into old Bath when Edward spoke for the first time. Then what he said, with his eyes fixed on the view beyond the window was, "The countryside is lovely."
In the quiet of the carriage Jennifer let her eyes fall on her once
handsome brother. "The Bastard Eden," she'd heard him called by witless villagers in Mortemouth. She remembered now how she had questioned Sophia Cranford about the word, had received at first nothing in the way of response. It had been later, inside Sophia's private apartments that Jennifer had found herself upon the "learning chair," her young mind already safely past the unknown word, but now reminded of it again in a grim way—Lust out of wedlock, without God's blessing, the cursed parents cursing the son. But worst of all, Edward does not belong, has no right to the name of Eden, is doomed from his frst breath to his last.
Jennifer shivered at the thought. Then she had believed Sophia and for a period of time had avoided Edward, fearful that bastardy was a contagion. Now? No, of course not. The child is innocent of the sins of the father.
Still there was one point of belief. Doomed from his frst breath to his last. That had the ring of truth to it. And there was the proof, sitting opposite her, as sunk as he had been since early morning, a peculiar look of continuous effort on his face.
Now as the carriage approached Bath, she heard John Murrey shouting at the horses in an attempt to keep them in line in the rapidly increasing traffic. She knew that it was John's plan to make it at least as far as Gloucester before stopping for the night. Now, seeing in the distance the beautiful hills and valleys of Bath, it occurred to her that perhaps, for Edward's sake, they should stop early. Perhaps there was a chance she could persuade him to partake of the warm, health-giving mineral waters. Then after dinner they could s
troll the Crescent and take the evening air, his mood improved with the knowledge of a world beyond Eden.
As the idea gained momentum in her head, she again assessed her silent, staring brother. "Edward," she said, softly, trying to enter his privacy as gracefully as possible. "It's just occurred to me that perhaps we should lodge in Bath for the evening. We could—"
"The afternoon is young yet," he interrupted. "We would lose good daylight hours. I believe John said Gloucester."
It had not been a reprimand, merely a quiet suggestion that they adhere to their schedule. "I just thought the waters might be good for you," she murmured, settling back into her corner.
For the first time, he looked directly at her. "You are my medicine," he smiled. "I need no waters, just your loving company."
She returned the smile. "You have it, Edward, as you shall always have it."
Bath abandoned, she leaned her head back against the cushions,
certain that the matter was closed and again it was time for silence. Thus she felt a slight shock when a few moments later she heard his voice again.
"And our mother?" he queried gently. "Surely there is enough affection in that vast reservoir beneath your breast to give a portion to her who is in such sore need."
She'd not expected this. "I don't know what you mean," she said.
"I mean," he persisted, "that you are a daughter and that you have a mother who is dying for lack of affection."
She looked directly at him. "Our mother may be dying," she said, firmly, "but I doubt seriously if it's from lack of affection. She's had that in sinful amounts all her life."
She was acutely aware of Edward still looking at her. His voice when he spoke was laced with kindness. "Why do you hate her so?"
By way of answering, she simply asked another question. "Why do you love her?"
"She's our mother."
"And what is that supposed to mean?" she demanded, amazed at how rapidly he had brought her to the edge of anger. "We slipped from her womb to be sure, we share her blood, but that's scarcely motherhood."
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