Sophia and Caleb Cranford extinguished the candles and left the chapel, quietly closing the doors behind them, as though to lock in the mood which was more accurately funereal grief than wedded bliss.
>^^^
In shimmering morning sunshine, Edward sat on the stoop of the house on Oxford Street, the long letter from Eden in hand, and watched as old John Murrey, a doting godfather if there ever was one, led the young John Murrey Eden, now a robust and chubby three-year-old, on his morning excursion to the end of Oxford Street, across to the opposite side, then home again.
Slowly now, almost reluctantly, he reopened the letter bearing the Eden seal which had arrived only that morning. From Jane. He'd recognized her handwriting and now shifted on the hard stoop, propped his arms upon his knees, and commenced to read.
The first paragraph was Jane at her coquettish worst, apologizing for the quality of the writing paper and bemoaning the fact that age and a slightly palsied hand had robbed her of her exquisite penmanship. News of my mother, please, he thought impatiently.
Then the second paragraph, so harmless appearing in the opening lines: "An occasion of some note took place at Eden during the month of March. Your brother, finally, after many foolish stops and starts, wed-"
Abruptly Edward*s eyes stopped. There was a moment of disbelief, that perhaps the palsied hand had written the wrong name. But then he was reading again, a secondhand description of the ceremony—Jane herself had not attended.
In all, Edward read the account three times and though there was more to the letter, he allowed the hand holding the pages to fall limp
between his legs and stared, unseeing, at the pavement. So! There was a new Lady Eden. In that instant he saw her again, that one interval they had passed together.
His head dropped slightly forward under the weight of memory, regretful that his once limitless love for her was now limited in the realization that she had abandoned their son.
Edward reopened the letter and read the final paragraphs, which, he discovered, to his annoyance, scarcely mentioned his mother at all. "She is as well as can be expected, we keep her comfortable. She does love her honey—"
There was a closing paragraph concerning Jane's favorite objects of hate, the Cranfords, and a rather oblique warning to Edward to be careful. There was an affectionate conclusion and her flowery signature and half a wasted page.
He stared at the blankness. Over and above the traffic noises of the street, he heard the vendors calling, the costermongers hawking their wares. A posie crone went by with flowers, announcing to all that she had for sale the same rare hybrid rose that Queen Victoria had carried in her wedding bouquet when last February she had married the German Prince.
Quickly now Edward gathered together the pages of Jane's letter as he saw, coming from his left, a miniature golden-haired sailor, running toward him, arms outstretched, his small face tilted back and laughing, old John Murrey following dutifully behind. At the last minute before he stood to scoop the child up in his arms, Edward saw, clutched in that tiny fist, the remains of a cinnamon bun. But impervious to the sticky mess he slipped his hands beneath the two small arms, crushing the letter from Eden in the process, and lifted the child, whirling, into the air.
As delighted shrieks along with cinnamon crumbs rained down on his head, he looked up into the small grinning face and found it impossible not to smile back, found it equally as impossible to take anything in life too seriously, at least for the moment. All he needed in this world was contained in the almost weightless bundle of squirming, shrieking life which he held over his head.
Suddenly overcome, he lowered his son into his arms and kissed the cinnamon-covered cheeks and was aware that the little boy was merely enduring. After a moment, Edward released him with a quick warning to stay close and looked back over his shoulder to see John Murrey grinning like a magpie.
"He led all the way, sir," the old man announced.
"A fitting epithet," Edward replied. "Pray it will be the story of his
life." As he looked back at the boy, Edward noticed that he had dropped the cinnamon bun and had retrieved the crushed pages of Jane's letter. Now like a miniature reproduction of Edward himself, the boy sat on the stoop, in Edward's exact position, the pages clutched upside down in his chubby fingers, "reading."
Drawing nearer, John Murrey laughed heartily. "Monkey see, monkey do," he said. "Shall I take him in to Miss Elizabeth, sir?"
"No, leave him with me for a while," Edward suggested. "The children are still in class. I'll keep him until Elizabeth is free. Go along to the kitchen with you," he added fondly. "You've earned refreshment."
John nodded, and as he passed the boy on the stoop lovingly ruffled his hair. Edward noticed a subtle movement, the child drawing away and quickly smoothing down his hair with a characteristic expression, frowning eyes and smiling lips, so that one was never quite certain of his exact mood.
Settling beside him on the stoop, Edward fought off the impulse to take him in his arms and sat now with easy informality, two "men" passing a June morning.
"Did you have a nice walk?" he inquired softly, marveling at the dark lashes which covered the downward eyes.
No response. All the child's attention seemed to be directed at the crumpled pages in his hand.
"What did you see?" Edward prodded further. "Tell me everything."
But apparently nothing he'd seen on his walk was as fascinating as the broken red wax seal on the back of the letter bearing the Eden coat of arms.
"What's this?" he demanded now, holding the pages up for Edward's inspection.
"A letter," Edward replied.
"No," the boy insisted. "This," and with one pudgy finger pointed to the Eden seal as though put out with his father's slow wits.
Edward nodded as though at last understanding. "A coat of arms," he said, "belonging to the Eden family."
Suddenly a dazzling smile broke across the soiled cheeks. "I'm a Eden family," the child grinned.
Edward nodded. "Indeed you are. Not a family, perhaps, but a member."
The boy seemed to think on this for a moment. Then with an almost sad expression he looked back up at Edward. "What are you?" he asked soberly, clearly imitating Edward's tone of voice.
"I too am an Eden," Edward smiled.
The information seemed to please the boy and for a few moments he contemplated the pages with childish seriousness. Then all at once he looked up at Edward. "Is this Eden?" he asked, his face still serious.
Edward laughed. "No, this is London. Eden is a long way from here."
Before the child spoke again, Edward sensed the question that was coming. And it came, a mildly pouting expression on the young features. "Why are we here in London, if we live in Eden?" he demanded.
Edward shook his head. Daniel and Elizabeth both had warned him. The child was a question machine. "Because my work is here," Edward replied, hoping it would suffice.
It didn't. John turned to face him. "I want to go to Eden," he announced, his voice revealing a spoiled tone that Edward didn't care for. Elizabeth had warned him. The boy was overindulged. Still Edward couldn't quite bring himself to correct him. Instead he smiled sorrowfully and asked, "And leave me and Elizabeth and Uncle Daniel and your Grandpapa, for we must stay here. I'm afraid if you went, you'd have to go quite alone." He felt certain that this would make a difference.
But to Edward's surprise and mild shock, the child stood on the stoop, in an attitude of complete resolution, and calmly announced, "I'll be back."
"Wait!" Edward called out, amazed to see the child toddle down the steps, apparently perfectly willing to take his chances alone on the crowded pavement. He caught up with him in a few short steps and lifted him in his arms, removing the letter from his hand, and endured his shrieks of outrage. As he carried him, flailing, back to the stoop, he saw, inside the door, the classes breaking for the morning. "There, look," he pointed out quickly in an attempt to distract the boy. "You'll have some
playmates now."
With a guarded expression, the boy ceased his flailing and glanced through the door. "Don't want to play," he muttered.
"Well, then," Edward sighed. "If you are truly going to Eden Point, I'd better tell you how to get there and something about it. You might not like it, and how sad to make that long trip for nothing."
Instantly the boy settled peacefully into his arms, the defiance momentarily gone. What amazed Edward as he started up the stairs with him was that his son, with some inner wisdom, had known he was an Eden and had now demanded an explanation of his roots.
Well, then, Edward would give him one, and continued to carry him into their second-floor chambers, where he closed the door, placed John
in the middle of the large bed, stretched out beside him and commenced speaking.
"It's beautiful, Eden is," he began, smiling as he noticed the little boy assume his identical position, lying on his side, one hand propping up his head, "in a part of England known as North Devon. Miles from here it is, but you'll see it one day. I promise."
The boy's interest was intense. It was as though something in that young soul had already made the connection, and all that he required of Edward was confirmation.
Later that afternoon, Edward's intention in seeking out Daniel was merely an attempt to speak privately with him on the nature of the Chartist meeting scheduled to take place that evening. He didn't think he could stand another interval of O'Conner's ranting, his systematic rejection of all the other Unionists in London, capable men who saw both the need as well as the wisdom of working by strictly constitutional methods. How often Edward had tried to persuade O'Conner to their point of view. And how often he had failed.
He had knocked twice and, receiving no answer, opened the door a crack and to his surprise saw Daniel seated, as though transfixed, at his desk, a ray of late afternoon sun falling across his hair. Before him on the desk, Edward saw a scattering of mail, all unopened save for the letter which he held in his hand.
Quietly Edward stepped into the room and closed the door behind him and continued to stand, unnoticed, for several moments. "Not bad news, I hope," he said softly.
As Daniel looked sharply up, Edward saw first a look of surprise that he was no longer alone. Then Edward took careful note of the second expression, not at all the look of a man who'd spent the entire day dealing with festering sewers and ill children. For a moment, faced with such an expression, Edward didn't speak. He'd come to talk of Radical Agitation, yet there was nothing radical on Daniel's face except what appeared to be a drenching, all-consuming look of—
Love?
Bewildered, Edward tried to make a subtle retreat. "I'm sorry I disturbed," he began. "I can—"
"No, wait," Daniel called out.
As Edward turned back into the room, he saw his friend once again eyeing the correspondence in his hand. "I—can't believe it," he whispered. Then looking up at Edward, as though wanting confirmation of what he couldn't believe, he murmured, "Look! A letter—from
Jennifer, it is." He beamed. "Look," and suddenly he was on his feet, displaying for Edward's amazed inspection the heading:
Roe Head,
Bradford,
Yorks.
Edward did well to nod. Daniel took the floor, his face moving excitedly as he paced back and forth, still clutching the letter.
"I wrote some time ago," he began. "I don't believe I told you, did I?"
Edward shook his head.
"No, of course not. I—didn't think it was necessary, and I was fairly certain I'd never hear from her. It was in connection with the schools," Daniel went on. "Well, we do need teachers," he added almost defensively. "Music teachers more than anything. I've interviewed countless volunteers in search of one with mastery in pianoforte. There are none, Edward, I swear it."
"Well, go on," Edward interrupted impatiently. "What did she say?"
Daniel stopped pacing and placed the letter lovingly before him. "She didn't say no," he murmured, "and more important than that, she replied, with her own hand. Look!"
Quietly he shook his head. "Of course, it's a proper letter," he added hastily. "And she inquires after you, and tells me of her own life." His face sobered. "They suffered a fierce winter," he said. "She speaks of constant cold, of her students."
Edward watched as Daniel slipped away again, his face clearly transfixed by loving memories. "Wouldn't it be fine," he whispered to the letter, "if she came?"
The question needed no reply. Edward leaned across the desk. "Then you must write to her again," he urged, "weekly if necessary. You must keep your penmanship before her constantly, you must warm that chill of which she speaks with accounts of our life here."
At some point, Edward was aware of Daniel closely listening. "Yes," he murmured, the idea taking hold. "Yes," he agreed again with greater conviction. "She invites me to write. She does! Look!"
"Good," Edward confirmed, ready to leave him to his pleasant task. As he reached the door, he heard Daniel call after him, "My apologies, Edward. I assume you wanted to see me about something?"
From the door, Edward looked back. "No," he smiled, convinced that Radical Agitation and Parliamentary revolution were just about the farthest items from Daniel's mind. "No," he repeated again. "I just
wanted to check on your well-being. I worry about you. You're so vulnerable to disease on Jacob's Island."
But Daniel was not giving a thought to disease or how he'd spent his day. He'd already fetched up a stack of new paper from the bottom drawer and his pen now stood poised over the page, his brow knit as though his mind were sorting through the proper beginning.
As far as Edward could tell, Daniel wasn't even aware when he left the room. And a moment later he found himself in the corridor outside, head bowed, half listening to the sound of the children in the playroom upstairs.
He smiled. Never had he felt so mysteriously filled with thoughts of home, the result no doubt of his time with John, and the result no doubt, too, of Daniel's news.
He hesitated a moment longer, then took the steps downward, calling out a single name.
"Elizabeth."
mys4^
Sitting alone in the front parlor of Miss Wooler's school, surrounded by her trunks, one particularly precious, Jennifer could never have explained the chain of thoughts that made her smile, but the last link in it had something to do with the absolute knowledge that she was leaving here and would never return.
Now arranging her face into a somber slant, she thought again of the shy, blushing ladies, unmarried all, who'd given her advice on the wedded state. In the beginning, she'd felt mortification. Now, only amusement, and in a way, deep pity for them.
Raising her head, she glanced beyond the curtained windows and saw the cold day. No snow yet. The coach ride from Bradford to Leeds would be safe enough. But the train was another matter. What if something should happen?
No! She couldn't bear that, and she stood quickly and walked to the window as though in an attempt to dissipate the bleak thought.
A cold draft coming through the cracks of the window caused her to shudder. Her mind raced ahead to the journey itself: Bradford to Leeds, the train to London and Euston Station, where she would be met by Edward and—
Daniel.
So simple a name to cause such a breaking storm within her. Quickly she glanced back over her shoulder to where her trunks rested, her eye falling on the small one, little more than a traveling case, in which she
had safely stored his letters, those marvelous letters, over three hundred in all.
Gazing at the small traveling case which contained her heart, she felt moved. Part of her grief was her long blindness. When first he'd proclaimed his love for her, he'd informed her that it was not a matter of extravagant news. He'd merely loved her always, even from the time when they had been children together at Eden Point.
Then she was the one guilty of waste, the wasted hours, days, and years they might have spent togethe
r if only she'd been a different person. Well, no more. From now on, all her life, all her desires and hopes would be concentrated on this one man, still not fully understood by her, to whom she was bound by a feeling of deep love.
As she looked about at the remnants of her old life, she was horrified with herself, her utter callousness to her own past, to things and habits and people she loved, who loved her: her mother lying desperately ill, who perhaps had been fatally wounded by her indifference; to her brothers, both of whom had suffered more than she; to her dearest friend, the absent Charlotte Bronte, who perhaps more than anyone else had urged, pleaded, exhorted her to listen to her heart.
Walking slowly back from the window, her head was filled with images of Charlotte, gone now, herself launched on a new adventure, a school in Brussels and a chance at a new and better future. She'd promised Jennifer that she would write, but she'd vowed never to write a word if she had to address the letters to Roe Head. "My pen will move only for Mrs. Daniel Spade, of London," she'd smiled.
Well, write your letters, dearest Charlotte, and I promise to respond as Mrs. Daniel Spade.
The thought, so soon to be a reality, swept over her and left her breathless.
Still her agitation kept increasing until she ceased to struggle with it and now she sat with perfect exterior calm on a near chair, lifted the small traveling case into her lap, and withdrew his latest letter, the one she'd received less than a fortnight ago, the dearest one, sealing their plans, speaking of the wedding ceremony which would be performed in the banqueting hall, attended if she wished by all the children, whereupon the two of them would leave for a short journey to Eden Point to visit the ailing Countess Dowager and establish news of their marriage with all who cared to hear.
There! Listen! There it was, unmistakably carriage wheels on gravel. Quickly she returned the letter to the traveling case. At that instant, although she could not say how it happened, the front parlor was filled with women, Miss Wooler leading the way, other teachers following
The prince of Eden Page 53
