Now she shivered in the morning chill and to keep her eyes away from the coffin, she lowered her head and concentrated on the puddles left by the early morning rain. In all directions the street was so quiet. She'd hoped that some of the people would come to see him off*. She knew the word had spread, had been aware, in spite of her grief, through the night of whispered conversations taking place all around her.
Yet there was no one here save for the men and Jack Willmot and herself, still wearing the yellow dress which she was to have worn to the Great Exhibition, walking proudly between Edward and John.
At this thought she looked slowly up at the young boy already seated atop the wagon, the reins in his hand. She was worried about him, but didn't know how to reach him. How could she begin to ease his loss when the emptiness within her was still so painful. When, at some point during that endless night, he'd suggested that they must take his father home, she'd felt a strong objection rising in her throat.
But on this matter, John had been adamant and vocal and had sworn before witnesses that his father had repeatedly voiced the request
that if something should happen, he be taken home.
Lacking both the will and energy for argument, Elizabeth had agreed. What matter now? Again she raised her eyes to the empty street, then back to the wagon, where she saw Jack Willmot's men lacing the coffin into place.
Then she saw Willmot jump down from the wagon and walk toward her, the effects of the grim night clearly visible on his face.
"All's ready now," he said softly, touching her arm. "I've instructed the men to go the full distance. You'll have to make the journey without intervals." He lowered his head. "They'll see to fresh horses."
She nodded to everything and drew the cloak around her. "I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Willmot," she murmured. "I don't know what-"
"See to the boy," he interrupted abruptly, clearly embarrassed by her expression of gratitude. "Try to make him understand."
Make him understand what? she thought angrily. Then she checked herself. "The boy will be fine," she murmured. "He's going home. It's what he's always wanted."
Now embarrassed by the intense stares of the waiting men, she said, "Well, then," and closed the door of the house and walked rapidly to the wagon. As Willmot assisted her up, she heard him speak to John.
"Take 'em slow through the city," he warned, gesturing toward the horses. "Then give 'em their head on the road."
As Elizabeth settled herself on the high seat, she noticed John staring straight ahead. His face was a mask. Perhaps it was just as well. The journey would be long. Time for talk later.
Now she saw Jack Willmot step away from the wagon and lift his hand in salute. On the other side, the riders were just climbing onto their horses. She took a quick glance back at the small house and instantly averted her eyes. There was nothing there for her now.
She saw the horsemen take their places, two on one side, two on the other, saw John's hands tighten on the reins, and in that instant the wagon moved forward with a rattling start. Again she looked in all directions.
It did seem to her that at least a few might have come and told him goodbye. Was it asking so much? But apparently it was, and as the wagon approached the corner and swung wide for the turn, she settled back against the seat and consoled herself with the realization that it would have meant nothing to Edward, whether people came or not. She lowered her head. Oh God, when would the thought stop hurting, the awareness of what was behind her in the coffin?
Tears again then, though they were brief compared to the floodgates
of the night. Still no reHef, though. The hurt was lodged permanently in her heart.
Thus it was that through glazed eyes she looked up and saw a small knot of people standing on the corner just ahead. She recognized them as residents of Bermondsey and was grateful when the men lifted their hats as the wagon passed. A few moments later she glanced behind, surprised to see these few walking quietly after the wagon. How kind of them, she thought, even to go a short distance.
She was on the verge of pointing out their presence to John when just ahead she spied several others, emerging from doorways, rising from stoops where apparently they had been waiting. Six, maybe a few more, and they too fell silently in behind the wagon.
"John, look," she whispered and was about to direct his attention to those behind the wagon when up ahead at the approaching intersection she saw still more, a much larger gathering, this one, thirty, forty, men mostly, a ragged crew if she'd ever seen one, but all with hats removed, their eyes wide and solemn as they too fell in, not waiting for the wagon to pass, but coming silently forward to greet it, then parting and taking their places at the rear.
Elizabeth sat up, suddenly alert, turning first in one direction, then the other, as people continued to appear, emerging from all quarters now, a never-ending stream, spilling out of tenement doors, out of alleys and grim inner courtyards, some on crutches, she noticed, hundreds now was her estimate, still coming, women clutching children by the hands, men with protective arms about the women, all, all falling silently in behind the wagon, more people than Elizabeth had ever seen. Now it was as though every inhabitant from Lambeth, from Southwark were joining them, still more appearing from off Ken-nington Common, a silent, moving wave of humanity, and there, Jacob's Island, still more appearing, men coming individually, in pairs, in groups of eight and ten, a swelling tide which, raising up from her seat, she noticed extended as far behind as she could see.
"John, look!" she gasped, clutching at the back of the seat for support.
Dear God in Heaven, still they came, every human being in the world, or so it seemed. Turning rapidly in all directions, she couldn't begin to take it all in, thousands now, surely thousands of silently marching men, women, and children, their faces, their eyes fixed on the back of the wagon, on the coffin bearing-One of the horsemen riding nearby drew close, his plain face aglow with a smile, the first she'd seen in ever so long. "It's for him. Miss," he whispered, "for the Prince of Eden."
She nodded quickly and made no attempt to hide the tears streaming down her face. She glanced again at John, his eyes still fixed on the pavement ahead, the reins wrapped so tightly about his hands that the skin showed white.
While she wished that he might have expressed appreciation for the incredible spectacle of humanity walking silently behind him, for the moment she didn't care.
All she knew was that Edward Eden was being given a grand send-off. Very stealthily she reached her hand behind her, slipped it through the slats of the high wagon seat, and with tenderness touched the unresponding wood of the coffin.
Over her shoulder, she saw them, still coming, a gray-brown-black crowd of thousands, yet not one sound but the muffled tread of boots, and the upturned, quietly grieving faces of men whose lives had in some way been touched, changed, warmed by the Prince of Eden.
At ten forty-five on the glorious morning of May 1, 1851, the Royal Procession was forming within the high black iron gates of Buckingham Palace.
In the lead, following the dictates of history and precedence, were the Coldstream Guards. Immediately following them was the Royal Carriage, open in honor of the May sun and the special day, containing Her Royal Highness, dressed in pink and silver, wearing her Garter Ribbon and the Kohinoor Diamond, a small crown and two feathers in her hair. Also in the carriage rode Prince Albert, the dreamer of the Dream, and their two eldest children, Victoria Adelaide Mary Louise and Albert Edward, Prince of Wales.
At the head of this splendid procession rode the Commander of the First Battalion of Coldstream Guards, Colonel Nigel Stevens. His was an awesome responsibility, and from where he sat astride his horse, waiting for the procession to fall in, he ran the route in his mind: beyond the gates, one circle past the Mall, then into the Serpentine Road and a short distance beyond through the main Hyde Park gate to the doors of the Great Exhibition. A brief journey. What could go wrong?
Earlier that mornin
g he'd noticed that thousands had already lined the Mall, hoping to get a glimpse of Her Majesty. If he'd had his way, the Royal Carriage would have been closed, not open. One couldn't be too careful.
Look! There! From where he sat at the head of the procession, he could see the trees opposite Buckingham. All seemed to have burst out suddenly into a crop of eager boys who, in spite of the warnings of the
police, seemed to think every tree a legitimate spying point. In vain did the constables look up and threaten the youthful branches. Mere urchins, those. But if they could climb, so could an anarchist, or an anti-royalist, a radical agitator. And London, on this great day, was full of foreigners, come to see the Great Exhibition, a few to wish England well, but more, he suspected, to wish her ill.
Still he knew what his duty was. At the first whiff of trouble, he and his men would rapidly encircle the Royal Carriage and lead it forward out of danger. If any foreign dissident had designs on the Queen, he first would have to slaughter Colonel Stevens and his seventy-five men, then wade through their blood.
Quickly now he glanced over his shoulder, taking enormous pride in himself and his men. The cream, that's what they were, top-rank. Then at that moment, still looking over his shoulder, he saw the signal from the rear guard that all was in order. He turned smartly in his saddle, raised his hand to the Keepers of the Gate in signal that the gates could now be opened. Her Majesty was ready to commence.
In the throes of an overwhelming awareness of who and what he was, he glanced briefly to the right. At first he saw nothing but the curious parting of the crowd, as though they had mistakenly thought that the Royal Procession would be moving from left to right toward Birdcage Walk and Parliament.
He looked again more closely, slowing his horse. A distinct parting it was, even the conveyances drawing close to the pavement, the crowds there looking not toward Buckingham and the Royal Carriage, but rather in the opposite direction.
It occurred to him that he should rein in his horse completely and check further, but instead he proceeded on for several yards. Out of the corner of his eye, as he was just in the process of executing the turn, he saw what appeared to be a wagon, a single wagon, followed by—
Christ! What was it? From where he sat it looked like an army, unorthodox to be sure, but hundreds, all moving silently behind the wagon, coming steadily forward. The near crowd now saw it as well and grew ominously silent.
Quickly Colonel Stevens reined his horse and thrust his hand up into the air, signaling his men to do the same. If they proceeded to move forward, they would be on direct collision course with the steadily approaching marchers. For an instant his emotions vaulted as his mind turned over the horrendous possibilities. Mobs had marched on Versailles. Was this the same?
For a moment his horse whirled rapidly as though in imitation of his whirling brain. Then he drew himself up and gave his emotions over to
training. He knew where his position should be. Hurriedly he shouted to a near captain. "Take ten men and see to the nature of it!" Then sharply he brought his horse about and galloped rapidly back toward the Royal Carriage. Behind him, he heard the others following, good men, who like himself had sensed the danger and were now moving into protective position around the Royal Carriage.
As he approached, he allowed his eyes only to skim briefly over the occupants, then rapidly he took up a position directly to the right of Her Majesty. He did not speak or offer explanation concerning the delay. It was not his position to do so, though he heard a little girl's voice whisper, "Mama, what is it? Why did we stop?"
Then he heard a man's voice, faintly tinged with German. "Hush, be patient."
Still he kept his eyes straight ahead, searching for the Captain. Fortunately the Royal Carriage had not yet passed through the gates. There was at least a measure of protection, though he noticed the stillness which had fallen over the inner courtyard of Buckingham, a tense interim of waiting as all eyes apparently focused on the gates and the single wagon which was now passing directly before them. He could see it clearly from where he sat, a rough conveyance, a boy on the reins, as well as he could tell, a young woman seated beside him. Flanking the wagon on either side were four riders, and behind them, just coming into view the beginning of the silent marchers, Christ, even more than he'd first imagined, a thousand strong at least, an impressive match, if such was their inclination, for his men.
Where was the Captain?
Then, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a small white-gloved hand, rather stout, lift from the pink and silver gown and rest itself on the edge of the carriage. The voice was high and thin and it too bore traces of a German accent. "What is it?" this voice now inquired, almost plaintively. "Who would spoil this day?"
He lowered his voice. "I'm not certain. Your Majesty. I would respectfully suggest that you—"
But at that moment he spied the Captain galloping rapidly toward him. He held his position and let the man come to him. There was a brief whispered exchange, something to do with a death, a funeral procession, then slowly he lifted his head and held his horse steady beside the Royal Carriage and waited for the invitation to speak.
"Well?" The white-gloved hand lifted slightly, then settled again into a firm grip on the side of the carriage.
"It appears to be a funeral procession of some sort, Your Majesty," he explained. "It seems that one of the workers was killed last night on
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the Exhibition site. I can disperse them easily enough if you so desire, Your Majesty. They are not armed. It would be a simple matter."
There was a pause. He lowered his eyes the better to see the white-gloved hand. The fingers were short, almost like a child's, though the hand itself was fleshy, the glove stretched taut. The littlest finger lifted now, a graceful movement. "No," came the reply. "Give them their moment." Then the entire plump little hand seemed to go limp against the edge of the carriage. "Poor man," she whispered, and Colonel Stevens heard a kind, almost maternal mourning in the voice.
So he waited and kept a tight grip on his reins and watched, as best he could, the ragged procession still streaming past Buckingham Palace.
Who was the man? he wondered. Rabble, no doubt.
Give them their moment, she'd said.
As the silent mourners continued to file past, he sat erect, keeping his eyes opened, his nerves alert. They were rabble, he saw that much, all the rabble of London or so it seemed. In a way they alarmed him, in spite of their peaceful march. There were their vast numbers, their silent, drawn faces, the muted shuflfle of their worn boots. In the quiet moment, in the blowing of a mild wind barely perceptible upon his face, he felt a mysterious depth of power dominating the hushed crowds.
Give them their moment, he thought wryly, and hoped that Her Majesty was more prudent than that.
Give rabble such as that a moment, and watch carefully lest they steal an age.
In the late afternoon of May 2, 1851, having left the mildness of spring behind in London, in a cold rain, Elizabeth looked up to see the gray silhouette of Eden Castle in the distance.
Beside them now rode only three riders on horseback. At Taunton that morning, the fourth had galloped ahead to inform the inhabitants of Eden Castle that Edward Eden was coming home.
Approaching exhaustion, Elizabeth looked with pitying sympathy at John. Not one word had they exchanged during the entire journey. Not once had he partaken of food or drink, and not once had he relinquished his control of the reins although all the riders had offered repeatedly to spell him, as had Elizabeth herself.
But apparently there was a turmoil inside his young head that compelled him to keep silent. And silent he had been and silent he was now as, looking up, she saw that he too had caught his first glimpse of Eden Castle.
Suddenly she closed her eyes, unable to look at him any longer,
unable as well to view the great hulk of that castle drawing nearer. Her one thought now was to have done with it and return im
mediately to London. All she was bringing home was a broken shell. The spirit and memory of Edward Eden still resided in London, in the hearts of those men and women and children who had followed the wagon to the extreme western edge of the city before they had commenced to fall back. She belonged with them, and although she hadn't the faintest idea how, she fully intended to continue his work and reopen the Common Kitchen, to feed, clothe, and give shelter as best she could to anyone who came to her door in need.
Up ahead now, just emerging from the castle gates, she saw half a dozen riders on horseback, carrying lanterns in their hands. What was yet ahead of her? she wondered. Was Edward pleased to be home?
As the six riders approached, they joined the three who had accompanied them from London. Two of the men exchanged words of some sort and the third relayed a message to John. "Follow them," he shouted. "They'll show you the way."
Passing beneath the gatehouse now, Elizabeth looked up into the driving rain at the awesome facade of the castle itself. Grander than Buckingham, or so it seemed to her. Ahead she saw a small group of people moving down a flight of grand steps, all clothed in rain-wet black, a man and a woman as far as she could tell, while at the top of the stairs, inside the shelter of an arch, she saw, an old woman, clutching two small children to her skirts. And at that moment, she saw as well and recognized immediately poor Miss Jennifer. In stark white she was, hiding behind one of the arches, a box of some sort clasped in her arms, a fearful expression on her face.
Elizabeth had thought that the wagon was headed toward the steps, but suddenly the lead rider veered sharply to the left and led them down a narrow lane which skirted the castle wall, the north facade of the castle looming over them. As she looked up, she saw white-faced servants in prim lace caps peering down from mullioned windows. Every window, it seemed, contained a face.
Again she shivered and drew her cloak about her though it did no good, for the cloak itself was soaked through, as was the yellow dress. As she glanced behind, she saw the man and woman following steadily behind the wagon, their heads down and covered by thick heavy black-hooded cloaks.
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