The prince of Eden

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  He stepped out into the corridor, and the first sight that greeted him was the crouched old woman about twenty feet away, obediently sitting guard on Daniel's room.

  With a conscious effort of will, he lifted his head and brushed away the apparently endless tears and walked slowly down the passage to where the old woman was seated. As he approached he smelled something peculiar, and it wasn't until he was standing directly over her that he saw the pods of garlic clutched in her hand.

  Too late. "Lucy, I must leave for a short time. Til return with my sister."

  Softly the old woman moaned. "They was to have wedded," she mourned.

  He nodded and found it very difficult to keep his eyes away from the closed door. "If it isn't asking too much," he went on, "would you lay a fire in my chambers? And if you can, prepare a light meal. She will have journeyed since—"

  To all his requests, the old woman agreed. He reached down and patted the old hand, then hurried back through the darkness of his house. He desired only one thing, to meet Jennifer and see her through this night to dawn. Beyond that, there were no plans of any kind.

  In the entrance hall, he stopped and glanced toward the kitchen steps. Somewhere beyond that black abyss, John Murrey was waiting for him as well. But there was no time now, and moving with urgency, he ran through the front door and made his way down the alley to the carriage house. He harnessed the horses himself, then pulled atop the high seat, customarily reserved for another.

  Grasping the reins, he urged the horses forward through the narrow gate and out into the deserted street. A short time later, he drew up before Euston Station, abandoned the carriage to a waiting porter and, passing beneath the Grand Entrance, he caught a glimpse of the tracks. All around him he heard the cockney patter of cabmen. In the distance he heard the thundering approach of the train, saw the black engine slowly angling its enormous weight into the station shed, heard the heightened hissing of steam as the engineer applied the brakes.

  Then with a sudden shrill whine the iron wheels ground to a halt. A moment later, coach doors all up and down the broad platform flew open and as the passengers spilled out there was a rush of greetings. Now he commenced to push through the crowds, trying to see over the bobbing heads, searching for one face.

  He saw her, just alighting from the last coach. He stopped, taking refuge behind a near column, unable to take his eyes off her as she searched the crowds. The pertness of her bonnet, the attractive disarray of her cape, the one loose strand of hair falling gracefully across her forehead caused him to think that he'd never seen her so lovely. He noticed now that she was awkwardly trying to manipulate an armload of parcels, a small traveling case of some sort, a wicker basket, all the time her eyes moving excitedly over the push and crowd of people.

  She looked straight at him and even though they still were separated by several feet, her eyes brightened. "Edward," she cried out warmly. He stepped forward and took her in his arms and held her close.

  Inside the embrace, she talked happily. "Sweet heavens," she murmured, "every time I arrive here, I think I've been abandoned. Everyone seems to find who they are looking for immediately except me."

  He stepped away from the embrace, though still continued to hold her by the shoulders, moved by the change which had come over her.

  "Well, my goodness, Edward," she smiled, "are you just going to stare at me? And where's Daniel? Did you two get separated again? Though I wouldn't be surprised. The train was filled and it looks as though everyone has their own private welcoming committee."

  As she talked, her eyes moved excitedly over the crowds. "Where is he?" she asked again. "I'll need both of you, I fear, for my luggage. Not that I brought that much. I really didn't. But as I was leaving Roe Head, the ladies surprised me with a small fete. Look," and she lifted the wicker basket for his inspection, singling out certain objects for closer inspection. "Rose potpourri," she beamed.

  As long as she talked, he felt safe. When she was not looking at him, he could see her looking over his shoulder. "Where is Daniel?" she demanded now, suddenly losing interest in the contents of the basket.

  Still she could not refrain from looking around. Then without warning she looked straight at him. "Don't keep him from me," she whispered, still smiling. "We have years to make up and we can't afford to waste a minute."

  At that moment, everything in the world seemed dark and obscure. In that immense, crowd-filled station, nothing was comprehensible.

  Apparently the feeling registered clearly on his face, for in alarm, the smile gone, she stepped closer. "What is it, Edward?" she pleaded. "Are you ill?"

  Suddenly he reached down for her belongings, balanced the small trunk under one arm, and with the other protectively about her shoulders guided her out of the crush of people to one of the high Doric arches where he found a small harbor of relative quiet. He placed the various bundles on the floor near his feet, then following the dictates of some instinct, rested her gently against the arch.

  "No, I'm not ill, Jennifer," he began, trying not to focus on the bewilderment on her face. "But there is sickness in certain parts of London, a fever."

  She nodded solemnly. "It was all the talk on the train. Many got off at Oxford, fearing contamination. We'd heard nothing of it in Yorks. Is it very bad?"

  He lowered his head, unable for the moment to go on. During his silence she was patient and when he looked up again,* he saw her eyes as bright as ever. "Perhaps it would be wise then," she suggested soberly, "if Daniel and I left London immediately. And you, too, Edward. The three of us could leave for Eden right away. It's foolish to take chances."

  Then apparently the unthinkable entered her mind. Once again he was aware of her searching over his shoulder, still looking for one face.

  He held still before her, giving her all the time she needed. The question was forming. He could see it, and in those moments of solitary suffering, it occurred to him that there was little point to this earthly life.

  "Is Daniel—" She managed only those two words, then pressed her gloved hand to her lips. "Is Daniel—ill?" she whispered.

  Edward was aware of a strange lightness in his head. When he did not immediately answer, she looked up at him as though suffering a sudden anger. "Is Daniel ill?" she demanded, stepping closer as though to force a response.

  Finally he placed both hands on her shoulders, thinking how simple and commonplace the setting, a railway station in the early hours of the morning with costermongers bawling the price of herring.

  "Daniel is dead." There were the words, gently spoken. For a moment the fact that she had received them at all was not evident, as though the message had been beyond the grasp of her intellect. In fact her head turned lightly to one side, her brow furrowed as though he'd spoken in a foreign tongue.

  He began to repeat the message. "Daniel is—" Then suddenly she shook her head as though to refute the last word. He felt beneath her cloak a trembling, a seismic upheaval which seemed to start in her shoulders and spread in all directions, until he was forced to renew his grip on her.

  "Jennifer, I'm so sorry," he whispered and tried to draw her into the full support of his arms. But at that moment she wrenched free with a single howl which started in the upper registers and stayed there, a high-pitched scream which in its force whirled her about and left her facing the arch, one hand upraised, the other arm wrapped about her midsection as though someone had driven a knife into her.

  He stepped quickly forward, and as she slid down he caught her and lifted her in his arms, felt the dead weight of her body, saw her face drained of color, eyes closed.

  Behind him he was aware of a crowd of curious onlookers who had been summoned by her scream. He turned to them and shouted, "I need assistance."

  But as one the crowd began to move back, their faces clearly revealing their fear. One woman whispered, "It's the fever."

  "No," Edward shouted. "Not fever. She only-"

  But with the same speed with which they ha
d gathered they now dispersed, gloved hands over their faces, their eyes fixed in horror on the lifeless woman in Edward's arms.

  Angrily he shouted after them, "She's not ill, I swear it," and still cradling her in his arms, he looked down on the various bundles left on the floor. They would have to wait.

  As he started off down the long platform he tried twice to engage the assistance of porters. And both times they moved away from him with rapidly retreating steps. Alone, he carried her to his carriage, placed her on the cushions, drew the lap robe over her, then closed the door and retraced his steps along the platform, gathering up the small traveling case, two large trunks, and the basket of gifts.

  Throughout all this activity, he thought that perhaps it was best, at least for the time being, for her to remain unconscious, though he wished that he could blot out the resounding memory of her scream. With the last trunk loaded atop the carriage, Edward again climbed upon the high seat and brought the reins down over the horses.

  A short time later, he guided the carriage into the carriage house, following the beacon of the solitary lantern he'd left burning. Quickly he unharnessed the horses and turned them loose in their stalls and at last approached the door, ready to lift her again in his arms and carry her to his chambers.

  But as he approached the door, he stopped. She was sitting upright, apparently having recovered on her own from her faint. "Jennifer," he smiled and extended a hand of assistance. In the shadowy interior of the Carriage house, he could not see her face. All he could clearly see was that she was clutching the small traveling case, both arms wrapped around its awkward bulk.

  "Here, let me help," he said, but as he started to take the small case from her, she drew back. Now he saw her face with greater clarity, her hair mussed, the bonnet gone. But it was her face that captured and held his attention. Though she was sitting upright and her eyes were open, there was no movement in her face.

  "Come, Jennifer," he pleaded again, trying to provoke a response.

  She turned to him with a smile. "Take me to Daniel," she murmured, and so saying alighted from the carriage on her own and stood waiting patiently, still clasping the small box in her arms.

  Grateful that she had revived and now apparently was in moderate control, he led the way, moving slowly into the house, aware of her following behind, though hearing nothing from her jexcept an occasional soft sigh.

  As they approached the second floor and Daniel's room, Edward saw old Lucy stand quickly from her place of vigil. They stopped before the closed door. "Is he here?" Jennifer whispered.

  Edward nodded.

  "Then put my trunks in here," she commanded. "And leave us."

  Edward started to protest, then changed his mind. How wrong of him to dictate how she should spend her grief. Come morning there would be time for reason. For now, though there was something in that pale face that disturbed him, he pushed open the door, his eye immediately falling on Daniel.

  He watched as she at last moved forward, heard her call out lightly, "Daniel, are you there?" Then he could watch no more. Quickly he closed the door, gave a brief order to the old woman, "Leave them alone," then hurried down the corridor to his own chambers where he found the comfort of a fire, but little else.

  He'd not intended to sleep. Sleep seemed an obscenity. Yet he must have dozed, for he awakened to find a cold gray dawn outside the

  window, the fire burned down, and an ominous silence coming from the house. He sat up in the chair with a start and for one blessed moment knew neither who he was nor where he was. Then he remembered both and within the instant was on his feet and running. He threw open the door and gazed through the residue of sleep toward the far end of the corridor. The old woman's chair was still there, though the woman herself was nowhere in sight.

  Jennifer, he thought with panic. Had she wanted something during the night and been unable to rouse assistance? Still trying to shake off sleep, he hurried down the corridor. Surely she'd not passed the entire night in that grim room.

  Although he approached the door with certain resolve, he now stopped. Listen! There was someone inside speaking. Muffled it was, but it was Jennifer.

  He felt new panic. Slowly he pushed open the door.

  She was lying on the bed with him, her loosed hair spread over his shoulder, on her side she was lying, the coverlet drawn over both yet revealing enough of her upper torso for Edward to see clearly that she'd changed her garments. At some point during the night she had slipped out of her dark gray traveling clothes and donned what appeared to be a white lace wedding dress. Scattered about the room in utter confusion were various other garments and what appeared to be hundreds of letters.

  Edward grasped the door, unable to move through it or out of it. At that moment she saw him and raised up abruptly from Daniel's body and bestowed upon him a beautiful smile. "It's only Edward," she whispered to the dead face, "come to serve our wedding breakfast. Isn't that right, Edward?" As she clasped the coverlet to her, he noticed her hands trying to bring some order to her mussed hair. "You really should have knocked, Edward. How daring of you to burst into a wedding chamber." Then her expression softened and the fingers which earlier had smoothed her own hair now smoothed Daniel's.

  "But we forgive you, don't we, Daniel? How could either of us hold a grudge on such a beautiful morning?" At that moment she left the bed gracefully, revealing bare feet and gazed sadly about at the muss on the floor. "Aren't we dreadful, Edward?" she whispered. "I tried on all my trousseau for him and he said I'd never looked lovelier." With that she commenced to scurry about the room, gathering up the scattered letters. "And then," she went on, "we read our letters to each other, every one of them, some twice," and here she ducked her head, giggling.

  He saw one trembling hand coil a strand of loosened hair about her

  finger and she stood for a moment in the center of the room, looking blankly about, as though something had, without warning, exhausted her. In spite of her smile, there was a frightening emptiness on her face as she looked up at Edward and murmured, "It was a lovely wedding, wasn't it, Edward? I've never seen such a lovely wedding."

  Edward closed his eyes and tried not to see anything, though still he heard the wandering voice which seemed to dwell in the upper registers, like a child's. With his eyes closed, he remembered another face, as vacant, as mysterious. Charlotte Longford.

  Then something was pushing against him and he opened his eyes to see Jennifer clinging to the door frame opposite him, her pale face creased into angles of concern. "Poor Edward," she soothed, "how tired you look." She leaned forward as though for a confidence. "Why don't you go back to bed?" she whispered, "and leave us. After all, we are married. I am Mrs. Daniel Spade."

  Then Edward could listen no longer. Seeing her thus, he closed his eyes, backed from the room, and shut the door behind him and leaned against it.

  But at that instant, he heard, coming from the other side of the door a whispered, almost lyrical request. "Daniel, love me. I'm your wife. Please—love me—"

  He pushed away from the door and ran, unseeing, toward the cold darkness of his own room.

  Three days later, Edward stood on the pavement outside the house on Oxford Street and watched with dull eyes as two hired female aides in gray capes escorted a smiling Jennifer down the steps.

  Beneath her traveling cloak, he saw that she still wore the mussed white wedding gown. One of the aides had tried to remove it the day before, and Jennifer had set up such a howl of anguish that Edward had forbidden them to go any farther.

  Also they had determined during the last three difficult days that in moments of extreme agitation the only object which brought her immediate comfort was the traveling case filled with Daniel's letters. Thus, again on Edward's command, it was never to be denied her.

  Waiting at the curb, he saw the new carriage, specially outfitted with an over-wide seat which had been converted into a chaise. Edward had hired four stewards plus the coachman to accompany them,
and had the day before, sent a courier ahead to Eden with a letter addressed to his brother, James, explaining as best he could what had happened and begging him to put aside past differences and give Jennifer all the love and understanding that she required.

  Now as he looked up, he saw her just descending the steps, flanked on either side by the aides. With a rigid act of self-discipHne, he held himself in check. He knew he must not do anything that would be likely to hinder her progress. Thus at her slow smiling approach, he maintained an exterior mask of perfect calm.

  "Edward," she murmured, breaking loose from the aides' grasp, which was a gentle grasp at best. As she went up on tiptoe to kiss him, he caught her briefly in his arms and held her close, amazed at how fragile she felt, as though her broken mind had somehow taken a toll of her physical body.

  Still in control of his emotions, he fell into an affectation of brotherly bluntness. "Did you remember everything?" he smiled, trying hard not to see the blankness in her eyes.

  With a light motion of her hand, she motioned to the two women waiting. "My maids packed for me," she smiled. Then with utter seriousness, she leaned close and whispered, "You mustn't tell Daniel. He wouldn't approve. Maids for Mrs. Daniel Spade!" Her face suddenly fell into a new seriousness. "You won't tell him, will you?"

  Edward lifted his eyes to the sky. "No," he promised softly. "It's only for the journey. You can't make it alone."

  She took his arm and walked with him a few steps toward the carriage. "I know, but I'd not planned on making it alone." Suddenly her face grew petulant. "I don't know why he had to leave now. The miners are grown men. I should think they could look after themselves."

  The fantasy was hers, one she'd constructed after they had taken Daniel's body away. She'd told Edward quite seriously that Daniel had had to go to the Black Country to hear the grievances of the miners, that she was to proceed to Eden and he would meet her there for the remainder of the honeymoon.