The Eden passion

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  Unfortunately, absorbed prematurely in her victory, she was in no way prepared for the lightning-fast speed with which his hand shot forward, pulling himself up within the instant. Nor was she prepared for his other hand, which lifted high into the air over her head, curled itself into a fist and came hurtling down against the side of her face, a blow of such force that she felt her neck crack, the room and everything in it going suddenly dark.

  As she felt herself being carried to the bed, her last conscious thought was one of sadness that there had been no message from John, that she'd let the man in, that living with Edward for all those years had made her weak and foolishly trusting.

  For the most part it was a safe darkness and a safe silence, though

  it faltered once and she opened her eyes to a single shaft of sunlight streaming in through Edward's window. She felt a crushing weight on her body, a familiar thickness between her legs, her back moving rhythmically up and down on the bed, all old and readily identifiable sensations. And teeth were gnawing at her breast, causing great pain, but even that was familiar, as was the chafing deep inside her.

  She was a whore again, back in St. James Park. And that realization caused the greatest pain. Tears filled her eyes. She whispered a name. "Edward . . ."

  Then the obliging fist delivered another blow to the side of her head, then another, and yet another, and she went willingly into this new darkness, leaving behind her the realization of who she was and what she had once again become.

  As Jack Willmot waited in Thomas Brasse/s outer office, one thought and one thought alone brought him enormous pleasure. And that was the realization that little Elizabeth was at last safe, that largely through his efforts, she was in the process of leaving her grief and shame behind and turning her eyes to the future. In a way, Jack viewed it as having settled a debt with Edward Eden.

  Now he looked up in anticipation as another gentleman left Thomas Brassey's inner office. Willmot had been sitting in the plain narrow chamber for over an hour, and during that time dozens of men had passed in and out of the inner sanctum. Something was afoot with the great contractor. Of that Willmot was certain. Bras-sey had built railroads on five continents and Jack Willmot had been his foreman on three. Whatever impossible task he had in mind, Jack would go with him.

  The room was empty now, all the men having come and gone except himself. In the silent waiting, Jack found his thoughts going back to the house in Bermondsey. With his eyes closed, he could see her clearly, her small yet determined figure tackling any job, an impressive display of strength which on occasion faltered as, without warning, she would slip into a mood of grief.

  Jack Willmot was an honest-enough man to admit to himself that she moved him, stirred him in a way that no other female in his entire life had stirred him. Also he was smart enough to understand the reasons and courageous enough to realize that little or nothing would ever come of it. She belonged to Edward Eden, would always belong to him, even in death.

  No, it was best that Thomas Brassey was now on the verge of

  sending him God knew where. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remain in her presence simply in the capacity of friend and adviser. He would always see to her support, he'd promised her that, and he would certainly remain in London long enough to determine that the Common Kitchen was a success, that her female friends, the volunteers from Edward's Ragged Schools, would keep a close and watchful eye on her. And certainly between jobs, whenever fate brought him back to London, he would look in on her and savor her sweetness and take a portion of it with him back into the harshness of his all-male world. A professional foreman was not, by nature, suitable material for marriage.

  At that moment, the office door opened. He glanced quickly in that direction, saw Brassey's familiar form, his arm around the shoulder of the departing gentleman.

  "Within a fortnight," he heard Brassey call out. "And pack your warmest and say your good-byes. I can't even estimate the length of the. . ."

  Then apparently his eye fell on Jack and a warm smile lit the craggy features. "Ah, Willmot." He smiled, hand extended. "Sorry to have kept you waiting."

  As Willmot passed into his office, he was aware of Brassey lingering at the door for a word of farewell to the departing gentleman. In the interim, Jack studied the office, as remarkable as the man who inhabited it, a small room considering the scope of what it represented, a simple desk, well-cluttered, boasting a miniature of his wife and children, several easy chairs, well-worn, a sideboard with a single decanter of brandy and several mismatched glasses, no distinguishing characteristics in the entire room except for . . . that. His eyes lifted to the far wall, covered entirely by an enormous map of the world, flattened, thin red lines indicating Mr. Brassey's past accomplishments, an impressive crisscrossing which to the casual eye seemed effortlessly to link the entire world.

  Willmot smiled and shook his head. From behind he heard a low though forceful voice. "It's enough to make a sane man weary, isn't it?"

  Willmot laughed. "I suppose that's what keeps us safe, Mr. Brassey, a negotiable lack of good sense."

  Brassey shared his humor and seemed to settle more comfortably into his chair, his attention now focused on Jack. "And you, Willmot?" he asked. "What have you been up to besides that glass monstrosity now sitting on the meadows of Hyde Park?"

  For an instant Jack felt a twinge of hurt. He was very proud of the Crystal Palace and of the men who'd helped him to create it. Then at the last moment he saw a twinkle in Brassey's eye, and knew that no defense was necessary. "It was quite an undertaking/' he replied.

  "It was indeed," Brassey agreed, "a remarkable design. The Duke of Devonshire's gardener is to be commended, and I understand that Her Majesty is delighted." He leaned forward across the desk. "I looked for you at the grand opening last month to tender my congratulations, but unfortunately in the crowds I couldn't find you."

  Willmot lowered his head and concentrated on smoothing the wrinkles from his cap. "I wasn't there, sir," he replied. "There had been an accident the night before . . ."

  "So I heard," Brassey replied sympathetically. "It always hurts to lose a good man. You can't help but feel responsible. I've lost only a few, but one is too many."

  Willmot nodded, grateful for his understanding. Then, as though Brassey sensed the painful nature of the subject, he moved away from it. "And what have you been up to since?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, one hand rubbing his chest.

  "Very little, I'm afraid," Willmot replied. 'There were certain affairs that I had to attend to."

  "The dead man's?"

  Willmot nodded. "He left a son, and a woman."

  Again Brassey seemed to understand. In the interim, Jack saw her image, her slim shoulders, her sweetness.

  Then into the silence he heard Brassey's voice again, still compassionate, though quietly warning. "Be careful, Jack, widows are God's great temptations."

  "She's not a . . . widow, sir. They were never married." He looked up at the confession, expecting to see a degree of surprise on the face opposite him. But he saw nothing.

  Then came a blunt question. "And now you've fallen in love with her?"

  "No," Jack said, too quickly, hearing confirmation in his own protest. "Her heart is still quite occupied," he went on, "and will be, I suspect, for the rest of her life."

  For several minutes there was only silence in the room and the ticking of a clock somewhere behind him and muted carriage wheels on the street below. Then "Poor Jack," he heard Brassey mourn. "I offer you my deepest sympathy and offer you an escape route as well, if you want it."

  Grateful, Jack looked up. "I do indeed, sir. I've been in London long enough."

  "Can you successfully leave her behind?"

  To that direct question Jack gave a direct answer. "I must."

  In a burst of energy Brassey reached for the pointer lying on the desk and strode rapidly to the map of the world. He lifted the stick to a broad area directly above North America.
"Canada," he announced, smiling at Willmot. "Five hundred and thirty-nine miles from here"—and he moved the pointer to the Atlantic coast—"to here," and he slid the pointer to the American Great Lakes. He lowered the pointer and dragged it between his hands, confronting Will-mot directly. "It has fallen our lot to connect the two," he said with a smile. "Would you say it's possible?"

  "With you in command, sir, anything is possible. I'd say that you had proved that often enough in the past."

  Brassey nodded, apparently pleased with his response. Still he questioned on. "It's an untrod wilderness," he warned. "Can English navvies survive such a wilderness?"

  "No question about it, sir," he pronounced. "If they want a railway stretching between those two puddles of water, there is only one man in the world who can give it to them, and that's yourself."

  He'd really not meant to be so effusive, but apparently his words had pleased Brassey, who looked on him now with the warmest of smiles, not a man who needed flattery, but perhaps a man who needed confirmation of his legendary abilities.

  "I intend to employ eight crews," Brassey said, "of five hundred navvies each. I have need of eight foremen, with one good man to oversee the lot." He looked directly up at Willmot where he stood as though at attention opposite the desk. "I have signed all save the one good man."

  Willmot grinned. "Correction, sir. You now have signed him."

  "I'm grateful," Brassey murmured, standing, indicating the end of the meeting.

  As Willmot stepped backward, he remembered one all-important point which as yet had not been discussed. "When do we leave, sir?" he asked.

  "As soon as possible," Brassey said. "The first ships will leave from Portsmouth within the fortnight, with both men and materials." He caught up with Willmot and rested his arm on his shoulder. "I'd like for you to be with them."

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  Apparently Brassey spotted both his hesitancy and confusion. "Too soon?" he inquired thoughtfully.

  Willmot drew a deep breath and continuously arranged his hat in his hands. At the door, Brassey looked closely at him. "You are in love, aren't you?"

  "No," Willmot said. "It's just that she's . . . very young, and fate has never been too generous with her."

  Then apparently Brassey saw that there was nothing more to say. He gave Willmot a final pat on the shoulder. "Do what you have to do," he said kindly. "If you change your mind, let me know as soon as possible."

  Hearing this absurd statement provided Jack with needed strength. "Oh, I won't change my mind, sir," he promised. "I'll be in that wilderness with you."

  Brassey nodded skeptically. "If first you can extricate yourself from this one."

  Willmot stepped across the threshold. "A fortnight," he confirmed. "I'll be there."

  The two men shook hands. In a few moments Willmot found himself on the street once more. Canada. Well, he'd wished for the end of the earth, and apparently he'd been granted his wish.

  For a while he walked at random. The afternoon sun was hot, causing the pavement to shimmer. Fierce winters. Can the men survive them? He walked down several streets, then found himself in a public house, a pint of ale before him on the table.

  In spite of the crowds around him, he felt alone. A fortnight! So soon. Was she ready? Was he ready to leave the warmth of that small house in Bermondsey? If Brassey was getting old, Willmot was getting old as well. All his life he'd thought that ultimately he'd settle down with a woman, perhaps have a brood of children and leave the far corners of the earth to the younger twigs.

  Suddenly he lifted the pint and drained the ale to the bottom, annoyed by the confusion in his head. Old? He was scarcely forty, with all his powers and senses intact. But concerning domesticity? Had he lost his mind? Oh, yes, he could just see himself seated at a simple hearth, a babe on each knee, a woman, any woman screaming at him from the kitchen. It would be mostly a fitting-in of domestic jobs, talking about the cost of things, eating frugally and ultimately sleeping without touching her.

  No, thank you! He'd take the red savages any day. And as though with the sense at last of being back on track, he slapped a coin on

  the table to cover the cost of the ale, again adjusted his hat and stepped out into the late-afternoon heat, his steps carrying him forward with purpose now.

  His destination? The house in Bermondsey, where it was his intention to assist Elizabeth with her first night in the Common Kitchen and ultimately, before the evening came to an end, to say good-bye.

  It was almost five o'clock when Jack Willmot turned the corner into the small lane in Bermondsey and looked ahead to see a crowd already gathered out front of the low-roofed cottage. With his hands shoved easily into his pockets, his resolution locked into place, he looked at the small gathering. Was there any news in the world more welcome than the news of a free meal?

  Less than twenty yards away, he looked again, puzzled at a group of three old women, their tattered brown shawls covering their heads, one weeping. A strange reaction to the promise of free food.

  Approaching the house, he was about to address them, asking them to be patient, that soon . . . Then he smelled it, the acrid odor of burned food, and worse, now saw a wisp of smoke creeping out of the window in the area of the kitchen.

  Fear vaulted. "Elizabeth!" he shouted, and violently pushed open the front door, only to be driven back by clouds of smoke. Frantically waving his arms before him, he covered his nose with one hand and cried out again. "Elizabeth!"

  At that moment the smoke cleared through the vacuum caused by the open door and he saw the outline of several men in the kitchen, heavy pieces of burlap wrapped about their arms, their faces covered with kerchiefs.

  What in the . . . ? Again he rushed forward, flapping his arms until at last he gained the kitchen door, and though his eyes were tearing from the smoke, he saw the culprit, kettles scorched and still smoking, the grease from joints boiled over, adding to the flames which the men had just put out.

  "Open the windows," Willmot shouted, "and prop open the back door."

  The men moved into action, unwinding the heavy burlap from their arms, and a few seconds later, cleansing drafts of fresh air began to ease the smoke out. The mystery deepened as Willmot saw clearly the extent of the damage, the entire area around the stove blackened and scorched, the kitchen a ruin, cluttered with upturned

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  chairs and broken pottery, mute evidence of the desperation with which the men had attacked the flames.

  Carelessness was Willmot's first thought. How could she have been so careless? Then, looking about for her in order that he might deliver a lecture, and seeing only the men, he suddenly demanded, "Where is she? Where is Elizabeth?"

  Both men looked down at the floor and seemed to concentrate on the watery black ashes. Why didn't they answer? He was in the process of demanding again when suddenly a third man appeared in the back door, his body tilted to one side against the weight of a bucket of water.

  "A woman's with her, guv," this man muttered, apparently the only one with a tongue and voice. "In there, they is," he added, shifting the bucket. "She's the one that give the alarm. If it hadn't been for her. . ."

  What was he trying to say? Willmot looked over his shoulder into the front parlor. Then he was moving again. "Elizabeth . . ."

  At that moment the door which led to the small bedroom opened. Through the smoke he caught a glimpse of a familiar face, one of Elizabeth's friends, a volunteer from the Ragged School, a pleasant woman by the name of Matilda Clifford.

  Now Willmot saw nothing pleasant on her face. She seemed willing only to open the door a crack, and then she clung to both the door and the frame.

  Stepping close, he saw tears streaming down her face. "Mr. Willmot," she stammered.

  "Where is she?" he demanded.

  The woman held her ground and pressed the hem of her apron to her lips and offered him a tearful, scarcely coherent explanation. "I saw the smoke, I did, sir, from the end of the lane. Elizabeth's a goo
d cook, and I knew that. . ."

  Then tears overcame her, though before she covered her face he thought he heard the words, "She's hurt bad, sir."

  That was enough. Woman or no, he stepped forward and pushed her to one side, his eye falling curiously at first on the shafts of evening sun filtering down upon the bed, alive with millions of particles of dust and ash. And inevitably the beams of light led him to the bed, mussed beyond description, and the woman lying on it.

  "Dear God," he whispered, feeling her suffering as acutely as though it were his own, her position on the bed easily identifiable, mute proof of the nature of her ordeal, her clothes ripped down the

  front, exposing bleeding breasts, teeth marks discernible, her legs spread, one small foot slipperless. But it was her face that seized him, yet made it more difficult for him to draw any closer, her mouth half-open, the lower lip cracked and bleeding, upper lip swollen until it no longer resembled a lip, her eyes shut in pools of dark bruises, one open laceration on her cheek, dripping blood, her arms spread limp at her sides, as though she'd been beaten into unconsciousness and had had no choice but to endure.

  Suddenly he closed his eyes. He'd seen men with amputated limbs, he'd seen them impaled on spikes. He'd seen many atrocities. But he'd never seen anything as pitiable as that slim frail figure on the bed.

  "Here, sit, sir." Matilda's voice came from behind. Apparently she'd recovered enough from her own shock to spy his and was now offering him a chair.

  But to sit was the last impulse in his mind. Coming fast on the heels of horror was anger. "Who?" he demanded, whirling on the woman as though she had the answer and was withholding it from him.

  "I don't know, sir," she said, backing away from his rage. "Like I said, I only just arrived to give her a hand with the old folks, and I saw the smoke . . ." Her eyes grew wide, as though certain he'd hold her responsible. "I was just trying to rouse her, sir, when you come in. She's not said nothing yet. I think she needs a physician, I do, sir. There was bad blows to her head. You can see for yourself. . ."