Abruptly she leaned back and tried to ease a painful stitch out of her neck. Softly she crumpled to one side. In all the earth, was there any place of sorrow greater than here, any place more weighted with unreceived love? Lying prone on the floor, her maimed hand stroked the side of the trunk. She was weeping again, without a sound, recalling that first night in the Common Cell at Newgate when as a young prostitute she had crawled across the straw and offered herself to Edward. He'd touched her face with such gentleness, had lifted her ugly burned hand and had kissed it, kissed it.
From that moment to this, she had never left his shadow. Now shadows were all she had left. Even his grave was so far away. How pleasant it would have been to put flowers on it and keep it tended.
Sleep, please let me sleep, she prayed, and nestled her head deeper into the crook of her arm. She was just in the process of losing consciousness when she heard what sounded like a step at the front door. She listened closely. The old house had a way of creaking. Homeless ghosts, according to Edward. Still she postponed sleep, wondering now if she'd remembered to bolt the door. When the three of them had been living here, she, Edward and John, she'd never thought of such things. With two men about, why should she?
Now, newly aware of her aloneness, she struggled to her feet and was just turning to the door when a man appeared before her.
"Miss?" he inquired politely, and apparently saw the fear in her eyes and moved back. "I just came to see . . ."
With a surge of relief she recognized him, the tall, broad frame and weathered face of Mr. Jack Willmot, the professional foreman for whom Edward and John had worked at the Crystal Palace, the man who ten days ago had brought her Edward's crushed body, who had stayed during that terrible night and had seen to the coffin, who had kindly lent his own wagon and team of horses and four of his best riders to accompany her on the journey to Eden.
"Mr. Willmot," she whispered, slipping into a near chair, still trying to draw deep breath.
"I'm sorry I frightened you, miss." He smiled, holding his position in the doorway. "When my men reported in last night, I thought I'd come over and see ..." He broke off speaking and seemed to be concentrating on the crumpled hat in his hands. "I . . . we . . . were worried when you didn't return right off. I was on the verge of sending out new riders. . ."
"It was a difficult journey," she murmured, and gestured through the door behind him to the front parlor. "Won't you sit down, Mr.
Willmot?" she invited. "I was just getting ready to fix myself a cup of tea," she lied. "I'd be most grateful if you'd join me."
"I don't mean to put you to any trouble . . ."
"Oh, it's no trouble." She smiled. As she approached where he was standing just inside the door, she saw clearly the direction of his eyes falling on the small trunk.
"His?" he asked, a respectful tone in his voice, which pleased her.
She nodded. "Not much, I'm afraid. Somehow in the last few years of his life, Edward managed to give everything of value away."
"I'll never forget him," Mr. Willmot vowed, his voice breaking.
His sincerity moved her. "Nor will anyone who had the good fortune to know him," she agreed softly. How good it was to have someone with whom she could share her grief. Now she moved past him, lightly touching his arm. "Come, Mr. Willmot. There are comfortable chairs in the parlor, and I'm certain I can find a biscuit or two . . ."
Then she hurried into the small kitchen, filled the teakettle from the rain barrel outside the door and realized with newly sinking spirits that she had yet to start a fire in the old stove.
As though he'd heard both her thoughts and her distress, he appeared in the low-ceilinged kitchen and without a word disappeared into the woodshed and reemerged with kindling in his arms.
A short time later they were seated in the parlor, a tea tray between them. As Elizabeth poured, Jack Willmot opened the tin of biscuits which she'd found at the back of the cupboard, and for several moments still no words were spoken as they sipped the good hot brew.
"And the boy?" Willmot asked finally, as though picking up the thread of an abandoned conversation.
"He stayed at Eden, of course," Elizabeth replied, still seeing John as she'd last glimpsed him, standing alone in the inner courtyard of Eden Castle.
"Will he be. . . cared for?" Willmot asked quietly.
"Oh, I'm sure of it," Elizabeth reassured him. "His father has told him stories of Eden since he was a babe. It's always been his dream."
"Why didn't you stay?" he asked bluntly.
She looked up, surprised by both the bluntness and the question. "I don't belong there," she said simply.
"Why not?" he asked. "As Edward Eden's wife, I should think . . ."
She gaped at him, then lowered her head. "I was not Edward's wife."
The news seemed to have a peculiar effect on the large man. Without looking up, she sensed that he was sitting as motionless as she. With difficulty she lifted the tin of biscuits. "Please help yourself," she offered, trying to dispel the look of surprise from his face.
But Mr. Willmot was not interested in biscuits. "And . . . the boy?" he stammered.
u . . . is Edward's son, not mine. Though I raised him," she added with pride.
She glanced to the left through the open door which led to Edward's room. The corner of the trunk was just visible from where she sat. Lovingly she eyed it and decided that as long as she inhabited this house, she would keep that room just as it was now, his bed linens still on the bed where he'd slept the night before his death, his presence, his soul everywhere.
She was aware of Willmot's eyes upon her, the silence between them heavy with unasked questions. Now she stood, longing to return to her new shrine. "I kept his house for him, Mr. Willmot, and raised his son and saw to all his needs . . ." She hesitated, then added, ". . . save one."
Apparently he was sensitive to her growing distress, and stood as though to take his leave. "I'm . . . sorry, miss," he apologized.
"Elizabeth," she said sharply. "My name is Elizabeth."
"Elizabeth," he repeated. "Perhaps I shouldn't have come . . ." He was backing away from her now, and at the same time fumbling in a pocket of his brown jacket. "I ... we thought . . ." he stammered, "well, what we did was pass the hat." Abruptly he looked at her as though to reassure her. "It isn't charity, no," he repeated firmly. "There's not a rough-jack on that entire crew who hasn't shared bread with Edward Eden, or lifted a pint. So it isn't charity," he added. "Consider it partial payment of our debt to him—for what he gave us."
She watched carefully as he continued to fumble through his pocket. For what he gave us. She knew he wasn't talking about bread or pints. Again she felt her emotions perilously close to the surface.
She sat in a near chair and was aware of him stepping close again. "Here," he said, lifting her hand and placing a stack of notes in it.
"It's not much," he added, "slightly more than twenty pounds. But it will see to your needs for a while."
She looked down at the notes and knew that she had no choice but to remain silent.
In concern, he knelt before her, refilled her teacup and offered it to her. But she merely shook her head and was on the verge of trying to thank him when a knock sounded at the front door, a curious rap of strength in this room of grief. She looked up as though under attack, her eyes filled with tears. Within the instant, Jack Willmot was on his feet. "Shall I see... ?"
She nodded.
He took one step toward the door, then returned to her side and gathered the notes. "Put these in your pocket," he urged. "They were hard-earned and intended for you alone."
Passively she obeyed, viewing events around her now as an endurance test. From where she sat, she heard a man's voice coming from the stoop.
"Only a moment of your time. That's all. I'd be most grateful. . ."
She tried to stand and failed. As she sank back into the chair, she told Mr. Willmot to, "Let him in. It's clear he won't go away until you do."
>
Still reluctant, at last Jack Willmot stepped back from the door, and in the next minute a gentleman appeared, with rosy cheeks and plain clothes. His dark eyes darted over all aspects of the front parlor, then moved to Elizabeth, where they held fast.
No one spoke. Seldom had she been the object of such close scrutiny. His eyes left her face and moved down to her maimed hand. She thought she saw him smile, but she couldn't be certain. When he continued to stare at her hand, she felt a wave of old embarrassment and hurriedly hid it in her pocket, where her fingers found the pound notes which Mr. Willmot had given her.
Then the inspection was over and the gentleman bowed. "I'm sorry for this . . . intrusion, miss," he began. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Morley Johnson. I am solicitor to the Eden family."
Beyond the man's shoulder she saw Jack Willmot still waiting. In a way she wished he would leave. Perhaps the nature of the business was private. Sternly she scolded herself for her pride and invited, "Mr. Willmot, close the door please and take a seat. . ."
Assuming that the two men had met at the door, she dispensed with introductions and waited until both were settled, Mr. Willmot opposite her, Mr. Johnson in a straight-backed chair to her right.
She made an effort at ease. "Would you care for tea, Mr. Johnson?"
"No, don't bother, miss."
"The nature of your business, then, Mr. Johnson, if you will."
The tall man nodded, and he too seemed to sit more erect in his chair, as though ready to approach the heart of the matter. Only Jack Willmot sprawled comfortably opposite her with the ease of a witness.
Then Mr. Johnson was speaking again. "A few questions, miss. That's all. Did you remain at Eden for any period of time?"
A peculiar question. "No," she replied, "though I was invited, by her ladyship . . ."
"A most gracious lady."
"But I declined," Elizabeth added.
"Of course," Mr. Johnson murmured.
Silence. Jack Willmot shifted in his chair, crossed his legs and turned at an angle facing Johnson, as though suddenly interested in the conversation.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, her fatigue increasing.
"Miss?" It was Johnson again, leaning closer. "Some of the questions that I'm required to ask of you may be . . . awkward. I apologize in advance . . ."
"Ask what you like, Mr. Johnson," she replied.
"How long did you know Mr. Edward Eden?"
A harmless question. She was tempted to reply, "All my life," as before Edward Eden she'd had no life. But she didn't. Instead she counted up the years between 1836 and 1851. "About fifteen," she replied, and felt astonished at the figure. Had that been all? A mere fifteen?
"And you met him where?" Johnson persisted.
What now? It would be imprudent of her to say, "As a prostitute in the Common Cell at Newgate," so she lied. A small white one. "In his Ragged School on Oxford Street," she murmured, and looked away toward the small window on her left.
"You were a . . . pupil?"
"At first, yes," she said, looking back. "But I took to my books right enough and later I became a full volunteer, teaching the young ones . . ." Her voice fell as her mind darted back to those blissfully happy days.
Then Mr. Johnson was there again, his manner still apologetic.
"Forgive me, miss." He smiled. "But if I may ask, what was your . . . relationship to Mr. Eden?"
Quickly she glanced at Jack Willmot. No white lie here, not when she'd spoken the truth earlier.
Apparently Jack Willmot saw her discomfort and turned to Johnson with a question of his own. "In what capacity are you here, Johnson, and where are your questions leading?"
As though annoyed by the intrusion, Johnson looked toward Willmot. "Forgive me, sir, but I was about to ask you the same question."
Elizabeth saw Jack Willmot's confidence falter. He seemed to look to her for an answer. And in spite of her weariness, she rallied. Jack Willmot had been far too kind to let him struggle thus. Now to Johnson she said, "Edward had been employed by Mr. Willmot. He was with him the night he died, and without his support I doubt if any of us would have survived from that night to now."
As though moved by her tribute, she saw Willmot lower his head.
Again a feeling of quiet stole over the room. And in that quiet she found the courage to answer Morley Johnson's last question. "The relationship I shared with Edward Eden," she commenced, "was a simple one. I kept his house, and in the later years, his books as well."
Johnson seemed to be listening with interest and at this point withdrew from the inner pocket of his plain jacket a small notepad and point. While he was still in the process of recording something, he asked bluntly, "But you were not his. . .wife?"
"No."
"Did you share his bed?" Johnson asked, still not looking at her, apparently unaware of her embarrassment.
Again Willmot interrupted. "I protest, Johnson. I can't see what—"
"I'm not here to question you, Mr. Willmot," Johnson snapped, all traces of kindness gone from his voice. "Though I may in time," he added.
But still Willmot moved forward in his chair. "I don't give a damn who you've come to question. I'm saying that in certain areas, you've got no right—"
As Johnson turned in his chair to meet the angry challenge, Elizabeth sat up. "Please, Mr. Willmot," she soothed. Then to Johnson she said, "No, I never shared his bed."
He looked at her, clearly disbelieving. "If I may be so bold," he
said. "What was your . . . profession . . . before you went into the Ragged School?"
She gazed at him without speaking. There was something arrogant in his manner now, which suggested that he already knew the answers to the questions he was asking.
"I was a prostitute, Mr. Johnson," she whispered, feeling battered.
He smiled at her. "And yet, you are asking me to believe that you never knew Edward Eden in a carnal way?"
"I didn't," she protested, leaving her chair, her anger dragging her to her feet in spite of her fatigue.
Within the instant Willmot was beside her, the full force of his fury aimed downward on the still-grinning Johnson. "I'm asking you to leave now, sir," he said, his voice taut, as though he were exerting massive self-control.
Sensing an ally, Elizabeth felt strength returning. "No," she said, settling back into the chair. "Let him ask all his questions now and never return."
Apparently Jack Willmot gave in to her judgment, though he did not return to his chair, but instead took up a protective stance directly behind her.
"As I said," Johnson commenced again, a new conciliatory tone in his voice, "some of the questions might be awkward. But you must know that I'm acting under explicit instructions from Lord and Lady Eden."
Baffled, Elizabeth looked closely at him. "What possible interest would Lord and Lady Eden have in me?" she asked quietly.
"Oh, not you directly," Johnson hastened to explain. "It's the boy."
Suddenly everything became clear. Of course. John. Obviously Lord and Lady Eden thought that she was John's mother.
In a way relieved, she leaned back in the chair. "I'm not the boy's mother, Mr. Johnson," she said, "if that's what you want to know, though I raised him and feel a kinship with him as close as flesh."
He nodded as though at last he believed something she had said. "Then would you be so kind, miss, as to shed some light on his origins? Lord and Lady Eden will make it worth your while, I promise."
A flair of leftover anger surfaced. "I want nothing from Lord and Lady Eden," she said sharply, "and I can shed little light on the boy's . . . origins, as you put it."
"Well, he surely didn't appear like Moses in a basket," Johnson
countered, laying his pad and point aside as though there were nothing worthwhile to write at the moment.
"No," she murmured, and tried to turn her mind to that distant day when Edward had reappeared after a prolonged absence, babe in arms. His son, or at least that's wha
t he had told one and alL
"He'd been away . . ." she began hesitantly.
"Where?"
"I don't remember. All I know is that Daniel Spade was quite worried. . ."
"Spade?"
"Edward's good friend who ran the school."
Johnson nodded as though he too were putting pieces of the puzzle together. "And where is this Spade?"
"Dead," Elizabeth whispered, "of the fever. Many years ago."
"Go on." He reached for his notepad again.
"I can't go on, Mr. Johnson," she said. "I don't know the answers to the questions you're asking."
"Well, you must know more," he badgered. "You were there. Think!"
Behind her she was aware of Jack Willmot, ready at the first word from her to toss the man out. Yet in a way the puzzle fascinated Elizabeth as well, that mysterious and unidentified woman who had been the fortunate recipient of Edward's love.
She leaned forward and covered her face with her hands, trying to clear the cobwebs of fatigue and grief from her brain. Then suddenly she had an idea. "St. Dunstan's," she exclaimed. "The little parish church near Oxford Street. We took John there for baptism. Surely . . ."
But all the time she spoke, Johnson merely wagged his head. "Nothing," he broke in. "I was there first thing this morning. The entry is listed, to be sure. But it's a useless document, covered with scrolls and angels. According to that foolish parchment, God was his maker, both father and mother."
She detected the derision in his voice and hated it, his cynicism somehow soiling her memory of that glorious morning. Still she tried to speak civilly to him. "The priest said nothing?" she asked, remembering the kind old man well.
"In his dotage," Johnson muttered. "He remembered Mr. Eden more for his generous donations to the church than for the baptism of his son. Try to remember," he urged. "After Mr. Eden's long
absence, when he first appeared with the babe, did he say where he had come from?"
She shook her head. Then: "I do remember overhearing Edward talking to Daniel Spade," she said slowly.
Johnson sat up.
"He said something about. . .the Lakes."
The Eden passion Page 6
