To that end, he warmly grasped Miss Wooler's hand and held it between his own. "My dear lady, I thank you for your kindness. Now when I think of Jennifer," he went on, "I shall have a proper setting in which to place her, a setting of warmth and love."
Now he moved toward the door, held it open for Jennifer, and with his arm lightly about her waist hurried her down the hall toward the rectangle of gray afternoon light beyond the front door.
Jennifer was maintaining an ominous silence. As they stepped through the door onto the porch, he saw with sinking heart the Brontes standing beside the gig. Apparently leave-taking was the order of the day. He had mentally prepared himself for another awkward encounter and was thus surprised when Jennifer, still grim-faced, led him directly past the gig and the two gaping Brontes without a word to either.
Alone at last, Edward was in the process of offering comfort when suddenly Jennifer turned on him, her face as white and angry as he'd ever seen it.
"You promised," she whispered, as though in spite of her emotions, she knew the wisdom of keeping her voice down.
"I did not promise," he gently corrected her.
"And what will you do in London?" she demanded, her voice rising slightly. "Who is there to look after you? Will the pattern be altered, or simply reinforced?"
"Daniel is there," he said simply.
"And you expect his assistance?"
"He's given it to me in the past."
Suddenly her anger vaulted. "Dear God, Edward, can't you see how Daniel is using you?"
For just an instant, he felt a flare of anger. He lowered his head in
an attempt to try a fresh approach. "Jennifer, look at me," he begged. "Now tell me truthfully, can you see me passing time in this establishment? Can you see me partaking of afternoon tea with Miss Wooler? Serving as dinner companion to Miss Bronte?"
"She's brilliant," Jennifer interrupted defensively.
"I'm not doubting her brilliance," Edward said quickly. "I'm merely doubting my ability to—"
In an attempt to break the mood, he drew her close and took her in his arms, and for the second time in their four days together, she gave in to tears.
"I love you so much," she whispered.
"And I, you."
"Please," she went on, grasping him tightly. "I beg you. Look to yourself."
"It is my intention to do so."
"And promise me that if you look up one day and have need of a sister, you'll send for me."
It could not go on, neither for him nor for her. Then she stepped up, and lightly kissed his cheek, slipped from his arms, and ran toward the door of Miss Wooler's establishment.
The pavement where he stood was deserted in all directions save for the tentative approach of John Murrey, who had just emerged from behind the carriage. "Then is it London, sir?" he inquired, a crispness in his voice as though nothing had happened.
Edward nodded. With John's assistance he dragged himself upward into the carriage, his eye immediately falling on the place she had occupied for the last four days.
He would miss her enormously. As the carriage started forward, he turned in the seat and caught a last glimpse of Miss Wooler's school. Blessedly he saw nothing but an unfocused whirl of red brick and closed windows and shut doors.
As the carriage picked up momentum, it occurred to him that he and John Murrey had had no conference concerning itinerary from this point onward. Perhaps he should signal to John and have him bring the horses up and confer on places of intervals.
But he changed his mind. For now, it rather appealed to him, the thought of wandering about the Yorkshire moors. No harm. They were expected no place.
Suddenly the weight of a vague future pressed solidly down about him. My God, but his throat was parched, his appetite for the divine repose of opium as acute as ever. What harm? And what virtue, abstinence?
He closed his eyes. The empty landscape outside the window lay like a weight upon him. Annoyed, he became aware of the carriage slowing, John Murrey no doubt lounging atop his high seat, unaware of the need inside the carriage.
Edward opened his eyes. Yes, the speed had been broken. The horses were scarcely strolling now. A man might walk as fast. In growing need, he pulled down the window and shouted, "What is it? Why the-"
From atop the carriage, John Murrey called back, "Trouble, sir. Up ahead. On the other side. Look for yourself."
He slid rapidly across the seat, lowered the opposite window, and leaned out. There up ahead in the dying light of day he saw a conveyance tilted crazily off the road, two-wheeled, one upraised in the air, the other imbedded in the soft loam of the embankment. The driver, in an attempt to extricate the gig, had guided his horse out onto the road and was now attempting to attach the harness at that insane angle, the animal protesting, rearing back on its hindlegs, the hapless driver appearing to do a crazy jig about the horse.
Edward looked closer, some element of recognition dawning in the dim light. The man was hatless and Edward observed a massive shock of unkempt red hair. As he drew even with John Murrey, who was just crawling down, he heard his old friend mutter, "It's him, Mr. Eden, the gentleman you just met back at—"
It was him. Mr. Bronte of the strange questions and strange looks. As the absurd spectacle continued, Edward felt his anger soften into amusement. He'd not thought the man so full of energy, but also he'd thought him more intelligent.
As the horse continued to object to the cutting bridle, it occurred to Edward that the idiot was in real danger. Again and again the horse reared back, then fell, stamping to earth. John Murrey leaned close with an opinion. "He's goin' to get himself killed, sir."
"Then perhaps we'd better stop him," he muttered. As they started forward, John Murrey took the lead by several steps, his whip in hand. He shouted ahead, "T'ain't the way to do it—"
At that moment, Mr. Bronte took his attention off his spinning horse and looked up the darkening road. In the next instant the horse took advantage of his faltering attention to pull loose. She shook her massive head, darting wildly to the far side of the road, and started down the steep incline.
"Now look what you've done," Mr. Bronte shouted back at the two approaching figures. "I'll never retrieve—"
Then apparently recognition struck him as well. He wiped his
sweating forehead and squinted through his spectacles. In his excited state, his voice cracked, "Mr. Eden, is it?" he faltered.
Drawing nearer, Edward smiled and nodded. "I'd not expected to meet you again so soon and certainly not under such distressing circumstances."
At first Mr. Bronte seemed more than willing to return the handshake, but at the last minute seemed to change his mind. "I think you might want to reconsider," he apologized, holding up for Edward's inspection a mud-covered hand.
Edward observed now that the man's entire right side was covered with drying mud and there on the side of his forehead was a small laceration. Edward stepped closer. "You've had quite a tumble, I see. Are you in one piece?"
The man quickly bobbed his head and fell into a hurried restoration of himself. "The horse bolted," he said simply, brushing mud from his shoulder.
As he continued in his attempts to restore himself, Edward withdrew his handkerchief and handed it over. "There's a cut on your head."
Quickly the man raised a hand to the injured area as though just aware of it. "Good God," he muttered. "I'm really most grateful," he added, taking the handkerchief, "for both your propitious appearance on this treacherous road as well as for your assistance."
Edward laughed. "I haven't done much yet in the way of assistance, but let's take a look." As he turned his attention to the up-ended gig, he noticed that John Murrey was there ahead of him, his trained eye already assessing the damage.
"Axle's broke, sir," was his first diagnosis, and as though that weren't bad enough, the old man slid down into the ditch and called out further bad news. "The side's caved in, sir. Even if we drag it out, it ain't going nowhere.
"
Staring down into the ditch, gloomy with dusk, Edward felt a sinking of spirit. Now what? He couldn't simply abandon the man on this lonely stretch of road with a ruined gig and straying horse. Behind him he was aware of Mr. Bronte waiting silently.
"Well, then," Edward said, turning toward the waiting man, who was still dabbing at his forehead. "I'm afraid you're totally dependent upon us, Mr. Bronte. I offer you the security of my carriage and if you'll give us your destination, we shall be on our way."
In the twilight he saw the man's hesitancy. "I can't impose to that extent, Mr. Eden," he replied.
"Nonsense," Edward countered. "You have no choice. And besides, you said that your home was not very distant."
J}:
"I wasn't returning to Haworth," the man suddenly interjected. "I have no desire to return to Haworth,"
Edward thought he detected a bitterness in his voice, as though Haworth, wherever it might be, contained threats. "Then state your destination, sir," Edward urged quickly. "I'm abroad with no pressing destination. Out of respect for the love clearly shared by our sisters, let me assist you."
Again the man looked up at Edward, indecision altering and somehow softening the madness in his eyes. "And ^our destination, sir?" he inquired softly.
Edward repeated himself. Was the man deaf? "None pressing, as I said. London ultimately. At the moment I'm free as the wind."
Both men merely gaped at one another while behind them Edward was aware of John Murrey waiting beside the ruined gig.
"Well then," Mr. Bronte said finally. "May I suggest an interim step? Ahead," he began slowly, "at about two hours' distance is the village of Skipton. May I suggest that we make there for the night? There's a good inn with decent food and clean beds. With your kind permission, I shall impose upon you to that extent."
It seemed a reasonable proposal, indeed the only one, as again Edward saw the rapidly darkening countryside. It was not quite the conclusion to the day that he'd had in mind. But there was a sense of adventure to the whole thing.
The decision seemed to please Mr. Bronte immensely. Edward was about to ask John Murrey to fetch the straying horse when he saw the old man already headed in that direction. As John secured the horse to the back of the carriage, Edward stood beside the carriage door, awaiting the arrival of Mr. Bronte, who apparently had felt the need to linger over his ruined gig.
A moment later he drew near. "I am forever in your debt, sir," he murmured.
"Nonsense," Edward countered. "You'd do the same for me, or any man."
The man halted in his upward progress into the carriage. "Strange," he smiled from his half-suspended position, "the twists of Fate."
Edward nodded, and was in the process of swinging up behind Mr. Bronte when without warning the man halted again. "How fine it would be," he said, "if we could walk away from all wreckage with such ease."
In the simple statement, Edward heard grief.
As the carriage moved forward at a reduced rate of speed to accommodate the horse trotting behind, he was aware of Mr. Bronte
peering closely at him. "May I return your kind concern, sir?" he asked. "Are^ow well?"
"Merely tired," Edward said, wanting now only to dismiss the strange man and his close scrutiny. "Merely road-weary, that's all, Mr. Bronte."
The man persisted. "Begging your forgiveness, Mr. Eden," he began. "But now, as with the first time I saw you, I have the feeling that I am gazing into a mirror."
Then the man disarmed him with a single question. "You are an opium user, aren't you, Mr. Eden?"
For several minutes, there was no sound within the carriage save for the rattle of wheels on packed earth. Apparently Mr. Bronte saw his apprehension and moved to dispel it. "No need for alarm," he smiled. "We're members of the same brotherhood, you and I. Better than Free Masons, actually. No secret word or handshake." His amusement faded rapidly. "Merely something in the eyes," he concluded.
Edward's first inclination was to move away from the discovery. "I've indulged, yes," he agreed. "But I'm in a period of abstinence now."
Softly Mr. Bronte broke in. "You're in a period of hell now, Mr. Eden."
"You, sir?" Edward began hesitantly. "Do you indulge?"
Mr. Bronte laughed openly. "At one time, I consumed it like air. And I suffered." He lowered his head. "Now, I regulate it. No harm is there in an unarmed man arming himself?"
Was the question rhetorical? Edward had no idea. To "regulate it," his very thought.
Mr. Bronte looked at him. Slowly he lifted his portfolio and sent one hand down into the bottom of the bag and in the next minute withdrew a small slim vial. "Do you recall the question I put to you back at Roe Head, Mr. Eden?" he asked. "I believe I inquired whether or not you were prepared for this journey?"
Edward remembered, his eyes fixed on the vial.
"Well, at that time, I'm afraid you would have had to answer no. But now, because of your kindness to me, you can answer yes."
He thrust the vial upward into the air. Incredible the speed with which Edward's eyes followed it.
At first Edward merely smiled, dwelling with great affection upon Fate. Then mysteriously the smile grew to a soft laugh. Amazed, he heard it in echo across the way, Mr. Bronte warmly sharing both his relief as well as his anticipation, the short laugh growing, first from one side of the carriage, then the other, increasing, as though they'd just shared a rich joke, still increasing, irrationally, their eyes focused
upward on the vial, their heads now pressed back against the cushions, Edward laughing as heartily as he'd laughed in months and his companion joining in until the carriage at times seemed inadequate to contain their frenzy of laughter.
As he saw his new friend lift the vial ever higher as though extending it for blessings to Heaven, he dissolved again into helpless laughter and was only vaguely aware of the carriage veering to the left, of the twin road signs outside his window: Skipton to the left, London to the right.
What matter? No matter!
The carriage picked up speed, a small black dot in the vast emptiness of the Yorkshire moors while inside above the clatter of hooves and the rattle of wheels came the incongruous, hilarious, yet mysteriously senseless sound of two men laughing.
^ece^/ny^e^, /SS^
In the light of a single candle Daniel Spade sat in the chill office and stared in despair at the pile of debts before him on the desk.
It could not go on much longer. The volunteer money had long since been exhausted. The teachers had received no pay for two months. The monies he had received from Edward last spring had been disbursed to impatient creditors. There would be no more coal delivery. Only that week he'd closed off the upper floors of the house and had moved all the children to the banqueting hall, where from now on they would study, sleep, and eat communally. For the young it had been an adventure. For Daniel it was a crisis approaching tragedy.
Weary and shivering, he leaned his head forward. It was truly baffling and without precedent. Never before had Edward abandoned him thus. And now the tragedy was that not just Daniel had been abandoned, but seventy-eight children had been abandoned as well.
In a surge of anger Daniel pushed away from the desk and paced rapidly. Something was wrong. Why didn't he answer Daniel's letters? My God, how many he had sent to Eden Point, all unanswered. His rapid pacing diminished as he took note of the empty room. Everything sold, for what little it could bring. He'd even approached his Chartist friends for help, but what a futile exercise that had been. Their own coffers were pitiably low, and revolutions, as Feargus O'Conner had pointed out, required a sacrifice of both blood and money.
"Then what?" he asked the darkened cold room and stood still for a moment as though expecting a reply.
But none came and slowly he returned to the mussed desk, spying among the clutter of unpaid bills the terse letter he'd received that very day from Sir Claudius Potter.
He lifted the paper to the light of the candle and reread the harsh
words. "Under no power am I authorized to support your dubious undertaking—" "Look to your own responsibilities, or you will find yourself in debtor's prison—" "—the entire Eden estates are facing radical litigation—"
That last was puzzling: "—facing radical litigation—"
Bewildered, he let the letter drop from his hands. Coming from downstairs, he heard the hum of children's voices. How to feed and clothe them? How to love them and give them a sense of their own worth and dignity? How, in short, to give them back their lives?
It was a heavy storm that raged within him, so heavy that at first he did not hear the faint knock at the door. Dragging his head upward, he saw Elizabeth. "I was sent to fetch you, sir," she began timidly. "The soup is hot and we were hoping—"
Now she stood erect, her hair brushed and gleaming, her dark blue gown simply cut. The younger students called her the "pocket girl" because every dress she sewed boasted a large pocket in which she could hide her ruined hand. And she was quick, so quick.
If she objected in any way to Daniel's close inspection, she gave no indication of it. "Poor Mr. Spade," she said. "How tir«d and cold you look."
The sentiment almost undid him. "Neither cold nor tired, Elizabeth," he smiled. "Not in your presence."
For a moment she seemed to be regarding him with new interest. "Tell me honestly, sir," she asked. "Will we ever see him again? Mr. Eden, I mean?"
"Of course we shall see him, Elizabeth. One cannot lose a man like Edward Eden. For a while he has been attending to interests elsewhere, but I promise you, he will return."
He had no way of knowing whether she believed him or not. "Run along, Elizabeth. You have my soup for me and leave me alone to write some letters so that one day soon you will look up and there he'll be. How does that suit you?"
According to the smile on her face, it suited her fine. "I'm grateful, Mr. Spade," she beamed. "You write your letters and I'll post them this night."
As she hurried to the door, Daniel waved her on her way. "Not necessary, Elizabeth. I'll do it myself. Help the volunteers with the little ones. I'm told you have a way with them."
The prince of Eden Page 40
