The prince of Eden

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  We have met here today to rechart the course of English History.

  Edward could still hear the words over the steady downpour. He smiled, a stray wave of humor suddenly washing over him. Only that morning, he'd feared bloodshed, and with what melodrama he had given poor Elizabeth instructions in the event of—

  He was silent for a moment, then suddenly, almost convulsively, he started laughing. The impulse came from somewhere deep inside him, so deep he could not recognize its source, yet the impulse was there and strong and he gave in to it and continued to laugh, aware of his own foolish self as spectacle, a laughing man standing alone in the middle of a wagon. Oh God, he couldn't catch his breath, yet still he laughed, his voice echoing in hollow tones around the deserted Common.

  Slowly he shook his head as though still not able to believe what he

  had just witnessed. So much for communal effort, for vast demonstrations designed to "aher the course of history." It didn't work, Daniel, he whispered. Perhaps the only effective revolution always took place in the heart of one man. And if that were true, then let the new revolution start here, on this cold, rainswept abortive day, with a laughing fool standing alone on the bed of a wagon. Laughed out and momentarily dreamed out, Edward climbed slowly down from the wagon.

  It was a long walk from Kennington Common to Oxford Street, yet he accomplished it, strangely impervious to the cold rain, still smiling now and then to himself, thinking on all that had been lost, and all that remained yet to be done.

  With a stifled, sputtering sound. Sir Claudius Potter pressed his white linen handkerchief against his lips and gazed with repressed amusement at the pamphlet of caricatures open before him on his desk.

  He wasn't laughing. Never in his entire life, to the best of his memory, had he ever committed the rudeness of an open laugh. But they were clever, these caricatures which had just arrived on London's streets this morning to be eagerly devoured by its citizens, who only now were beginning to draw deep breaths of relief after the "revolution" of last week.

  Again Sir Claudius pressed the handkerchief to his lips. Take that one for example, and Sir Claudius adjusted his spectacles and again bent low over the pamphlet. Look at that, the background clearly Kennington Common, the knight on horseback with the long leash in his hand the Police Commissioner, and attached to the other end of that leash was one green baby dragon with red hair and the face of Feargus O'Conner.

  And that one, the best, the central figure again O'Conner, disguised as a small boy, standing in a pouring rain, holding up an extinguished torch which the caricaturist had cleverly labeled, "England's Revolution."

  With his handkerchief firmly in place. Sir Claudius quickly perused the others, a dozen in all, some emphasizing the three black taxis, others dramatizing the empty halls of Parliament and the reception table on which the Chartists' petition had been placed, ignored, and ultimately to be covered with the soothing dust of history.

  Well, so much for the revolution, he thought. Now there were other matters at hand and he glanced quickly at the letter resting just beyond the cartoons, a demanding letter which he'd received only that

  morning from an impatient Sophia Cranford. It was clear that someone had rapidly conveyed the bad news to her, that Edward had survived the comic opera revolution, indeed was now spending the Eden fortune with even greater abandon than ever.

  Slowly he adjusted his spectacles. The Cranford woman was right. Now was the time to legally take steps to remove what was left of the Eden fortune from Edward's hands and place it in the hands of Lord James Eden.

  Warming to the possibilities of such a suit, Sir Claudius stared fixedly at his desk. The legal complexities were endless and unique, brother suing brother, legitimate heir turning on the bastard, one the plaintiff, one the defendant. Definitely not a jury case.

  Slowly now. Sir Claudius arose from his chair, warming to the challenge. Well, then, it was up to him to find the right forum, the proper legal atmosphere so that the change could be effortlessly and painlessly brought about, painless that is for everyone but Edward.

  His momentum carried him to the handsome marble fireplace where in the deep well a warming fire crackled. He stood for a moment, leaning against the mantel, his mind turning over and discarding certain possibilities. A simple hearing, yes, conducted in private offices. With his customary brilliant objectivity. Sir Claudius could present the case to a reasonable magistrate.

  Here his thoughts stopped. A reasonable magistrate. That presented a problem. The bench was arrayed now with soft-hearted and softheaded liberals who would clasp Edward's philanthropic activities to their breasts as a mother would a wounded child.

  No! Sir Claudius must take charge here as well. He must choose the magistrate with great care. Yet, and this was where the skill came in, the choice must not be too obvious, not one of the old blueblooded magistrates like old Erskine at the club. No, not Erskine, and for many of the same reasons, not Walsh or Johnson. Then who? Who among the present magistrates could Sir Claudius count on for the right decision, all the while giving the careful impression of impartiality?

  Then a name occurred to him. Sir Cedric Dalr)^mple, that dour Scotsman who'd arrived on the London scene about sixteen years ago, Aberdeen-born, Edinburgh-educated, "sour Cedric" the journalists called him, who had distinguished himself during the Palmerston murder case with a judgment as harsh as the Old Testament, as well as the Charlotte Longford trial.

  Sir Claudius turned from the warming fire, delighted with his idea. Sir Cedric would be the man. How offended he would be by Edward's

  irresponsibility. How sympathetic to the dutiful younger son!

  Now he must write to the Cranford woman and tell her that all was being readied for the suit and that she could rid her heart of all anxiety, for by the end of summer, at the latest, the Eden wealth would again be under the protective control of the legitimate Lord Eden.

  When Harriet opened the door to her husband's private chambers, she felt dread. Her recent illness had taken a toll of her emotions. Now James had to excuse her from making the trip to London for the hearing. However much she prepared herself, she knew she could not go through with it.

  She paused a moment, listening. She'd hoped he would be alone, but now she heard voices. She was just turning back toward the door when she heard James's voice. "Harriet, is that you?"

  He seemed surprised, and why shouldn't he be? In five years of marriage, she'd never once come to his private apartments. He came to hers on occasion, and they met daily in the safe neutrality of the reception rooms. But she'd never come here before.

  "I wanted to speak with you," she murmured, opening the door to speed her exit. "But I see that you are engaged, so I'll—"

  "No, wait."

  As she looked back, she saw his perennial expression where she was concerned, a guarded bewilderment, as though even after all these years, he still could not be absolutely certain what to expect from her. "No," he smiled, drawing closer, one hand extended. "It's—fine. Is something wrong? Richard—"

  Quickly Harriet shook her head, pleased as always that although there was no love between the two of them, James did adore his son. "He's fine," she said, edging out the door.

  The voices which she'd overheard earlier coming from the sitting

  room had grown mysteriously quiet as though listening. She knew who they were and this conviction served to speed her on her way. "Later, James," she said, "it's not important. We'll speak later."

  Now, "Is that you. Lady Eden?" Sophia called out, her voice changed, Harriet thought, grown lighter, almost giddy since word had arrived from Sir Claudius concerning the date for the hearing.

  "I didn't mean to interrupt," Harriet called back.

  "Interrupt?" exclaimed the lean, hard, old woman, drawing closer, pushing James aside as though he were an object without substance. "You could never do that, my dear," she smiled. "Come, we were just having tea and discussing our great journey to London. My goodness, i
t's been years since I've been to London. And it won't be all business, I promise you. Perhaps the two of us can sneak away for a look at fashions. Wouldn't that be splendid?"

  Harriet had never seen the woman so garrulous. Now she felt Sophia's hand on her arm, guiding her without question into the sitting room where the scarecrow, Caleb, was on his feet, grinning as inanely as everyone else.

  "Look who we found lurking in the corridor," Sophia announced, propelling Harriet toward the end of a plump sofa where before her on a low table she saw the scattered remains of tea.

  Clearly there was nothing to do but see it through and wait for the first tactful moment to take her leave. As Harriet settled on the edge of the sofa, James hurriedly sat beside her. Opposite her Caleb settled back into his chair, balancing a teacup which he'd just retrieved from the table.

  Sophia thrust a cup of tea at Harriet and invited her to sit back and relax. "You look—tense, my dear," she murmured as she sat in the chair opposite her brother. "Are you quite sure that you're recovered?"

  Harriet nodded quickly. The miscarriage had been three months ago. The physical discomfort had been mild, but she'd mourned the little seed and had somehow in her mind connected it with that other babe she'd lost. "I'm quite well, thank you," she said quietly to the cup of tea, and wished with all her heart that she'd kept to her own chambers, to the good quiet company of senseless Jennifer.

  "Well, there will be others, I'm certain," Sophia said. "And perhaps it's just as well. If you had gone full term, the journey to London would have been quite uncomfortable for you."

  Harriet looked sharply up. "If I'd gone full term, Miss Cranford, I wouldn't be making the journey to London." It embarrassed her to talk of such intimate matters before the men. Still the avenue of thought seemed to be leading in the right direction. Perhaps now was as good a

  time as any to inform them that she would not be making the trip to London.

  "James," she began, turning to her husband, for it seemed to concern no one but him. But as she saw the expression of deep sadness on his face, she broke off. For the first time, she reaUzed that the miscarriage had affected him as much as it had her.

  Predictably Sophia rallied first. "You both need a change of air," she pronounced, setting her cup on the table. "How fortunate that events have arranged themselves as they have. In the excitement of London, I assure you, you both will regain your zest for living. Isn't that true, Caleb?"

  The man nodded and continued to sip noisily at his tea. Harriet sipped her own tea, grown disagreeably cool. She gazed over the rim of the cup at the two opposite her. Somewhere deep within her the old aristocratic bonds were beginning to pinch. They were servants. Whatever were they doing sitting here?

  She halted the thought, returned the cup to the table, and moved to ease the pinch. She stood and, taking a final glimpse at the high blue sky beyond the window, smiled warmly. "I will not be going to London, Miss Cranford. It would serve no purpose, and the hearing holds no appeal. Besides, Fm not fully recovered and feel that I would serve best by staying behind."

  At last she looked at the three huddled about the sofa. As well as she could determine, no one had moved. Despite the tableau she concluded her explanation. "Jane is old, devoted, but old. I would do nothing but spend my time worrying about Richard. And Jennifer. We must remember Jennifer. The servants don't always know how to handle her. And since you. Miss Cranford, dismissed the two aides last month, I feel a greater responsibility to make her life as comfortable as possible."

  Still no movement. "Well, then," Harriet smiled. "I'll leave you alone. Again my apologies for interrupting. Richard and I are walking the headlands this afternoon, James. Feel free to join us if you wish."

  She'd made it as far as the archway when behind her she heard Sophia stir. "Lady Eden," she called out, a portion of cordiality gone from her voice.

  Harriet looked back and saw the smile again in place, though now it seemed a contemptuous smile. "I must ask you to return for a moment," Sophia went on.

  "I don't wish to return. Miss Cranford," she announced. "I wish to fetch my child and take him for a walk in the warming sun. There's a constant coldness to this place. We must all take advantage of the sun."

  She heard James's voice. "Harriet, I beg you," he pleaded, catching

  up with her at the door. "Please join us again for a few moments."

  "It would serve no purpose," she said. "My mind is quite made up. Vd hoped to speak to you alone on the matter, but—"

  Then Sophia was there again. "Close the door," she ordered James, "and bring your wife back."

  Anger rising, Harriet started to protest. "I will not be detained. Miss Cranford. I have other things—"

  "You have nothing," Sophia countered, all semblance of good will gone from her face. "Bring her back," she muttered to James, and walked away from both of them as though with utter confidence that her command would be obeyed.

  Shocked by the woman's crude manner, Harriet paused to see if James would object to the treatment she was receiving. But as she looked at the bowed, slightly graying head of her husband, she saw nothing that even remotely resembled objection.

  Now Harriet followed the woman back into the sitting room, certainly with no thought of cooperating, but rather to inform her of the dangerous extent to which she was overstepping her boundaries. "Miss Cranford," she began.

  "Sit down," the woman interrupted.

  Then anger surfaced, as raw as any that Harriet had ever felt. "I will not sit down," she said, "and I think you should know that your position here—"

  "It's not my position that's under discussion," Sophia replied, turning rapidly on her. "It's quite obvious," the old woman went on, "that you understand exactly nothing."

  "I understand more than you think," Harriet replied, loathing the confrontation, but determined to see it through. "I can understand and recognize a servant who—"

  Again without warning the woman cut in, with what sounded like a non sequitur. "How do you think we live here, my dear?" she asked.

  Momentarily thrown by the transition, Harriet faltered. "How do I think-what?"

  "A simple question," Sophia said. "Surely not beyond you. How do you think we live here? Who provides us with tea and cakes?" Here she gestured toward the tray resting on the table, some dreadful look of determination in her face. "Well?" she prompted when after a few moments Harriet still had not answered.

  On guard more than ever, Harriet looked over her shoulder to where James stood and saw his face filled with embarrassment. "My husband," Harriet began vaguely, "Lord Eden—"

  "Your husband has nothing," Sophia cut in sharply. "We live on an

  allowance, my dear, all of us, including your husband, a handout as it were, from his brother, Edward, a paltry handout too, I might add."

  Harriet listened, not particularly shocked, but considerably embarrassed. Never in her life had the tasteless subject of money ever been so openly discussed in her presence.

  She was on the verge of saying this when Sophia took the floor again. "Lady Eden," she began, coming around the sofa, as though she knew she must retain at least a facade of decorum. "I beg your close attention. You are a comparatively new member of the Eden family. But there are some of us here who have worked for long years to see an ancient wrong made right. For your husband's sake, for your sake, and for the sake of your son, control of the Eden fortune must be returned to the proper hands, and that is the point of this hearing, and that is why it is so important that you accompany us. It's your future as Lady Eden that is at stake, as well as the future of the line."

  Sophia gripped the back of the sofa as though plagued by a painful weakness. "You mentioned my dismissal last month of the two aides. Done with regret, I assure you. But I found I was unable to pay their wages, and they, quite naturally, were unwilling to stay on in a voluntary capacity."

  Harriet had not known this. She looked over at James. "Is this true?" she asked quietly.

 
He nodded.

  Now she had the feeling that all three were waiting for her response. And never had she felt less capable of clear thought. Edward was still there, in her memories. In her confusion, she simply walked away. "And what of Edward?" she asked quietly.

  At first she thought no one would answer her. In the next instance she was aware of Sophia Cranford, hovering close. "And how does Edward concern you? You are Lady Eden, James's wife. Look at your priorities."

  Harriet closed her eyes and leaned heavily against the windowsill.

  "A simple hearing," Sophia was saying now, "allied with your husband and son for possession of what is rightfully yours." She paused. Harriet felt the woman's hand again on her arm. "What decent mother would do less?"

  With her eyes still closed, Harriet tried consciously not to think on him. She had never in her most hideous nightmares conceived of a moment when she would have to face him again.

  Suddenly she ran from the room. Someone was calling after her, but she was in no mood for further delays. Forgetting her son, she ran through the passages of the vast castle, longing only for an interval of

  privacy to test herself against the memory, to speak his name aloud, to imagine him in the same room with her.

  A remarkably short time later, she found herself running along the headlands, impervious to the condition of her loosened hair and the tears streaming down her face.

  Let them come. Better now than later. Drain them all so that within the fortnight, she could stand erect beside her husband and listen dispassionately and reveal to no one, not even herself, the hideous knowledge that lay buried within her, that she'd opened her body to her husband's brother, that she'd borne her husband's brother's child in secret, that she'd given that child away like a bundle of discarded clothes, that there was no pain, no torment, no torture devised by men for use on men that could even come close to matching the agony of conscience that she now was suffering.

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