Daniel shook his head, as though still not believing Edward's words. "There is—so much to be done."
"And we'll do it," Edward vowed. "I promise. We'll establish Ragged Schools all over London. We'll buy additional property and staff them properly, and see to all their needs." Never had he seen such a gratifying glow on Daniel's face. "We'll have street kitchens, capable of dispensing meals, we'll establish funds for the old, for the widowed, for the ill-"
Suddenly, as though unable to absorb the torrent of words, Daniel followed after him, interrupting, "You must meet Feargus O'Conner, Edward. He's-"
"Fll meet anyone," Edward agreed, "anyone who shares our plans." He'd never felt such excitement, although in truth he'd given no
thought to what he was saying. The words had simply emerged, ideas fully born.
Abruptly he stopped at mid-room. He had no idea who that other man had been, or where he had gone to, that selfish, self-indulgent man. Dear God, his future, his purpose had been here all along. It was so simple. Why had he not seen it before?
At some point he was aware of a concerned voice at his elbow. "Are you well, Edward? You look—"
"I've never been better, Daniel," he said. "A new dawn, I swear it," he added.
The quiet declaration had a profound effect upon Daniel. "Then I won't have to close the school?" he asked.
"Close it?" Edward exclaimed. "Indeed not. By the end of the month, it shall be the model on which we shall pattern the others."
With effort Daniel stepped away. "Then I shall go and inform the volunteers."
Edward watched him to the door and was still watching when he turned back with a last question. "Will you work within the Movement, Edward?"
"Why not?"
"It's considered radical."
"Radical means are called for."
"You're an Eden."
Edward smiled. "A bastard Eden. Only now do I realize the tremendous freedom that designation gives me."
There was a moment's pause. Then the door opened. A faint light caught his friend's features and from that distance, Edward saw the look of hope.
"Sleep well, Daniel," Edward called after him. "We will commence tomorrow."
Daniel nodded and closed the door behind him, leaving Edward alone with the silence, the flickering firelight casting soft shadows over Elizabeth and the baby.
He glanced in that direction, saw the love in her eyes as she kissed the tiny hand.
Was that the miracle?
Abruptly he realized that for the first time in his life, he felt truly like a rich man. The hot wind had raged itself out; its howl went silent within him. The long-deafened soul could now hear.
At ten o'clock the following morning. Sir Claudius Potter sat behind his mahogany desk and looked up into a ghost face.
My God, it was him. In an effort to regain his aplomb, Sir Claudius leaned back in his chair. In this position of ease, he was able to assess his mid-morning caller who had just burst in, unannounced, and who now stood before him, changed in all aspects from dark encircling hollows about his eyes to the slightly bent back, head inclined, as though strength were limited.
Sir Claudius had seen such faces before in the opium addicts who had come up before the court in Old Bailey. A terrifying thought occurred to Sir Claudius. Was the man drugged now? "Edward?" he began, as though he needed help with the identification.
The man bowed slightly. "My deepest apologies. Sir Claudius," he smiled, "for coming upon you like this."
Polite enough. Sir Claudius thought. Still on guard. Sir Claudius invited, "Well, do sit down, Edward. I must confess you were the last person I expected to see this morning."
"Why?"
Sir Claudius laughed. "According to my last reports, youVe been among the missing for several months."
"And whose reports would those be?" Edward asked, seating himself at last.
"From Eden, of course," he replied lightly.
But the man was relentless. "From whom at Eden?" he asked.
The clock was ticking on the mantel across the room. "From just— everyone," Sir Claudius safely replied, his eye falling on the last letter from Sophia Cranford, delivered only a few days ago.
With his eyes down he inquired softly, "Have you heard of the distressful illness of your dear mother?"
"I've heard," Edward said. "I've had no recent word. I'd be most appreciative if you'd share it."
Quickly Sir Claudius shook his head. "I know little. She's confined to her bed. Apparently it was a seizure of some sort. She has difficulty in speaking. Her sister is there and a great comfort."
"And what else did Sophia say?" Edward inquired bluntly.
Sir Claudius felt a hot blush creep up the sides of his neck. "Yes, I receive all my news from Sophia Cranford. Apparently her hand is the only one atEden capable of holding a pen."
Edward smiled. "Sophia Cranford will be capable of holding a pen on Doomsday, Sir Claudius. She is God's great example of a woman with steady nerves."
Sir Claudius felt a surge of anger. "I wouldn't malign her if I were you," he snapped. "She's holding your house together for you, under most difficult circumstances."
Again Edward smiled. "Beware the servant who creates a climate of total dependency." He laughed outright now and shifted in the chair. "You bring out the best in mc. Sir Claudius. Fve never quoted my father on any subject, but those words are his, not mine."
"And true," Sir Claudius agreed, "though in this case I don't think they apply."
For a moment both men retreated into silence as though aware of the stalemate. Then Edward spoke first, relaxing into the chair. "And James?" he inquired. "What's he up to?"
"Distraught," Sir Claudius replied, "The year has been doubly tragic for him. His intended, the young Lady Powels, has been stricken with a mysterious illness. He's journeyed twice to Hadley Park in an attempt to see her and twice he has been denied an audience."
"Tell him to try a third time," Edward commented softly.
"I beg your pardon?"
But he merely shook his head and rose abruptly from his slumped position. "I'm grateful for this information. Sir Claudius. But for now, I've come on business."
Sir Claudius expected as much, but now had a few questions of his own. He began delicately. "Would it be rude of me, Edward, to inquire about your whereabouts for the last few months?"
The man stopped pacing. "Not rude," he said. "Irrelevant though. All that matters is that I'm back now and quite, displeased with circumstances in my house on Oxford Street."
Sir Claudius looked surprised. "How so?" he asked blankly, though he knew all too well how so.
Edward stood directly before the desk. "I returned home yesterday to find what bordered on chaos. I was told that my accounts have been closed, that on your orders, my creditors had shut off all credit, and that on several occasions you refused to grant Daniel Spade even the courtesy of an audience."
Sir Claudius nodded to all the charges, feeling secure in his position. "I thought it was in your best interests," he began, though he never had a chance to finish.
"My best interests?" repeated Edward. "You know that the inhabitants in that house are totally dependent upon me, that without my support they would starve, which, I might add, they were on the verge of doing."
Sir Claudius leaned up to meet his anger. "I doubt, Edward," he began kindly enough, "if your father had wholesale charity in mind when he deeded the estates to you. And I doubt if James—"
Again he was cut off midsentence. "What in the name of God does either my father or James have to do with it?" Edward demanded. "The estates and revenues are my own to do with as I please."
"True, but irresponsible—"
"You are not paid to pass judgment on responsibility, Sir Claudius."
"I do my best."
"Not for me, you don't." Now as though aware that anger would accomplish little, he settled heavily into the chair opposite the desk.
From where he sat, Sir
Claudius could see the man's hands trembling. "Are you well, Edward?" he asked considerately.
But Edward continued to sit in silence. At last he raised his head, a look of resolution on his face. "I did not come to argue. Sir Claudius," he said quietly. "Debate is not included in our relationship." He stood up again. "I want the accounts opened immediately," he ordered. "I want all creditors informed of my return, and by four o'clock this afternoon, I want fifty thousand pounds delivered to my house on Oxford Street."
"Fifty thous—" Sir Claudius pushed back in his chair as though he had been physically assaulted. My God, the man was mad.
"And furthermore," Edward went on, "I would like the books for the last ten months. I assume you have them and they are in order."
Sir Claudius found for the moment that he was literally unable to speak. Fifty thousand pounds! Now on a burst of resolve he stood up. "Of course I have the books," he said. "They are always open for your inspection. And I shall most certainly honor your first two requests. But on the matter of the—"
"Fifty thousand pounds," Edward repeated, giving him no margin for discourse, "delivered this afternoon by four, if you please."
"But that's impossible."
"Nonsense," Edward countered. "I may look like a fool. Sir Claudius, and on occasion may act like one. But I'm not playing the fool now. I intend in the future to keep a steady and watchful eye on all matters concerning the estates. I would appreciate your assistance, but I don't require it." He stopped pacing and confronted the desk again. "The cash reserve is there," he smiled. "I know it."
"It was my intention to invest it."
"My intention as well. Sir Claudius. You see, we're not so far apart."
But Sir Claudius was suspicious of everything. "How?" he demanded. "Where?"
"Like all good investments," Edward replied, "in the future."
It was a vague answer. But Sir Claudius knew the unspoken specifics
of Edward's reply. Now he settled back slowly into his chair. They had come to the crux, the solitary subject on which Sir Claudius might in the future base a successful lawsuit.
He leaned further back in his chair, supremely confident and spoke a single word. "Irresponsibility," he pronounced, mentally preparing his case. "There are those who contend that you are acting irresponsibly. Edward, please," he begged, "do you honestly believe that your father intended for his fortune to feed and clothe the garbage of the city of London?"
Still Edward held his silence and Sir Claudius was grateful. The point was to help the man see from another point of view. "I'm afraid, Edward, that you've allowed yourself to fall into bad company. I'm fully aware of your affection for the man Daniel Spade, but I can't help but wonder if you, in your blind way, are aware of his— reputation. Quite scandalous it is, and it has grown more scandalous in your absence. Radicals have been seen at all hours passing in and out of your house. I fear that revolutionary fires are being banked there, and you cannot, must not allow yourself to be duped by them. They are dangerous enough now, but if you throw the weight of your fortune behind them—" He shuddered involuntarily as though overcome by such a thought.
Throughout his long monologue an unusual silence reigned in the room. He kept a careful check on Edward's mood, trying and failing to discern how his words were affecting him.
"Why don't you go home, Edward," he suggested kindly, "back to Eden, to the bosom of your family who love and need you. Leave things here to me. I'll have your house cleared by the end of the week, the trash thrown out on the street where they belong. They are not your responsibility, not even Daniel Spade. He's fattened his larder long enough through the generosity of the Eden family. If you persist in your relationship with him, it will only bring you to grief. Your one, your only responsibility is to yourself, to your family, and to the perpetuation of the Eden wealth, one of the noblest fortunes in all of England. You must do nothing to jeopardize it, for if you do, you only succeed in jeopardizing yourself"
By God, but it had been an impressive speech, surely one of his best off" the cuff* so to speak. If only now he could gauge the effect his words had had on the man.
"Edward?" He spoke the name gently, hoping for a gentle response. He saw the man lean with both hands upon the desk and look directly down with an expression which seemed to resemble—
Pity?
Sir Claudius couldn't believe it, but there it was, a clear, unmistakable look of pity. "My apologies again, Sir Claudius," Edward said, "for disturbing you unannounced. It was not my intention to—"
He broke off and to Sir Claudius's amazement started for the door, as though the interview were over. But at the door he stopped. "It is with genuine sadness. Sir Claudius," he said, "that I terminate your relationship with my family."
Sir Claudius started slowly to his feet. Edward was dismissing him as though he were nothing more than a common clerk, as though his quarter of a century of service to the Eden family amounted to nothing. But the most unsettling fact now raging through his mind was the realization that Edward Eden had a perfect legal right to do what he was doing and Sir Claudius was powerless to stop him.
Still the man talked on. "I had hoped to have your assistance," he smiled, "as you gave it so loyally to my father and mother, but I see now that I was wrong in that assumption. I can't really believe that on any occasion, no matter how trivial, you dared to dictate to my father on the disbursement of his funds." He stepped backward. "So you leave me no alternative but to cast about for another solicitor. Please send all the books around this afternoon. I shall settle your fee with the new solicitor. And there shall be a bonus for your—loyalty."
With that, the man turned on his heels and would have departed altogether had Sir Claudius not found his tongue and the will to use it. "Wait, Edward-"
Thank God he obliged, and in the silent interim gave Sir Claudius a chance to think clearly on what he was losing. No, he could not let that rich plum slip from his grasp, not now when it was on the verge of falling squarely into his lap. How totally dependent his own comfortable standard of living was upon the Eden estates. To lose it now would be financially and spiritually disastrous.
Then he must backtrack, must apologize if necessary. He was too old to suffer the indignities of poverty and too tired to cultivate a new fortune. "Edward, please," he muttered weakly, waving the man back. "Clearly I've overstepped my boundaries and I offer my deepest apologies."
To his relief, Edward smiled warmly. "No apologies are necessary. Sir Claudius. We see things differently. It's your right as well as mine."
Sir Claudius sank back into his chair. "I shall do your bidding—in all matters," he concluded, loathing the words. "It is your right to discharge me, but I beg a second chance. Consider the memory of your
father, your dear ill mother. In all modesty I know that news of my dismissal would add to her grief, and I'm certain that neither of us wants that."
For a moment Sir Claudius wasn't certain if Edward agreed with him or not. But then, "I agree. Sir Claudius," Edward said. "You know far too much about all of us to turn you loose in the world. But if our relationship is to continue, it must be on my terms. I will pay your generous fee only if you clearly understand that your role is that of solicitor, not adviser."
Meekly Sir Claudius nodded.
"And that door is never to be closed to me, as it has been closed to Daniel Spade in the past. Is that clear?"
Again, with difficulty, Sir Claudius nodded.
"And the accounts will be opened, the creditors informed of my return?"
Another nod, though he could scarcely look at the man.
"And the Eden books and fifty thousand pounds will be delivered to Oxford Street by four this afternoon?"
Oh God, could he do it? He must. "I'll do my best," he mumbled.
"I'm sure you will."
With dim eyes, Sir Claudius watched as Edward waved from the door. "Then I'll take my leave. I thank you again for your cooperation. From now on we will be wor
king in very close concert.. I trust, for both our sakes, that we'll do our best to make it as pleasant as possible."
With that he was gone, though Sir Claudius heard him call out a cheerful farewell to his clerk, commenting inanely on the glories of the morning.
Still Sir Claudius sat at his desk. With effort he tried to settle back in his chair in an attempt to digest the unpleasantness of the morning. But suddenly it occurred to him that the man would be moving across the courtyard below in a few moments, and as though he required one last chance to try to fathom the mystery of it all, he hurried to the broad windows, carefully concealing himself behind the heavy velvet drapes.
From this furtive position he looked down on the small common. Then predictably the man himself appeared, walking briskly through the bright morning sun, not a trace of weakness or addiction visible about him. With the exception of the simple clothes, it might have been Lord Thomas Eden himself, a single thrust of high Tory arrogance.
Derisively Sir Claudius shook his head. It wasn't Tory arrogance he was looking down upon, nothing so admirable as that. It wasn't even
that imitation known as Whig confidence. It was worse than that. It was Radicalism, that witless amalgam of Christian charity and revolutionary zeal.
God! He could look no more, and turned back to his desk.
Then suddenly the most beneficent thought occurred to him. Why the agitation? Sweet Lord, how witless he himself had been. Why bother directing the man to the straight and narrow? Let him spend thousands, millions if necessary on his radical causes. Let his name be smeared across every page of newsprint in the kingdom. Then when the time came, and it would come, he would face Edward Eden in a court of law and defeat him with his irresponsibility. And judiciously he would place the vast Eden fortune in James's inept hands, and being a generous man. Sir Claudius would give the Cranfords a purse for their efforts in the whole affair and end up, as he had always planned it, with the lion's share for himself.
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