The Eden passion

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  He was just offering the young man a glass, confident that they could sit and talk calmly, like gentlemen. Thus he was in no way prepared for the young man's sudden movement, his hand reaching out like a piston and knocking the glass aside, where it crashed to the floor, that same hand now moving toward Morley himself, where it

  grasped his neck and pushed him backward against the window seat, the man whispering fiercely, "What did you tell her? What did you tell her?"

  Physically Morley was no match for him. All he could do was talk, as fast and as hard as he'd ever talked in his life. "I brought her a message, sir, I did, nothing more, a message and a messenger which I thought would bring her great happiness. I still don't understand, but Mr. Hills there, he's the one to tell it. I beg you, sir, speak to him. I'm merely the go-between, nothing more."

  Flattened on the window seat, the hand still gripping his throat, Morley had taken the only course open to him, and had passed the responsibility on to someone else, to the little man lurking in the recesses of the room.

  "You!" John called out.

  Hills stepped forward, drew back a near chair from the table and sat. "I am the messenger," he began, a sense of pride filling his voice. "The one Mr. Johnson spoke of."

  "What was your message?" the young man demanded again.

  Morley listened halfheartedly to the now familiar tale, detecting a slight change in the performance taking place at the center of the room. When Hills had told the tale to Lady Harriet, he'd been much more delicate, never mentioning the word "bastard" once. There was in his attitude now a witless attempt to make the tale as grim as possible, a foolish tactic, Morley thought, for the young man was not to be trifled with. The outrage still was present He was simply holding it at bay.

  "So when the old Swedish midwife confirmed my suspicions," Hills went on, "I made her an offer for the babe, provided of course it was delivered safe and sound with ten fingers and toes, if you know what I mean."

  Humphrey stopped talking for the first time and leaned back in his chair, clearly assessing the infant grown to manhood. Then he reached the climax of his tale, the very information that had sent Lady Harriet out of the room locked in that fearful silence. "But fate conspired against me that night," he went on. "Cruel fate that arranged for a Mr. Edward Eden to be a guest in my inn, and his old manservant by the name of John Murrey."

  From where Morley sat, he thought he saw the young man step back as though to avoid the information.

  "And those two undid me, beat me, left me for dead and kidnapped the bastard babe who was rightfully mine."

  There was no sound in the library save for the newly risen breeze off the channel. From where Morley sat, the young man's reaction was almost identical to that of Lady Harriet, his head inclining forward, his hands reaching quickly out for the support of the table. And the expression on Hills's face was the same as before, one of enormous self-satisfaction, as though a score had been settled, a debt paid.

  At last the young man stirred. "I. . . don't believe you."

  Challenged, Humphrey Hills rose to meet it. He stood from his chair and pointed at the young man. "If I may be so personal," he began, "may I ask if you bear a small scar on your chest?"

  Morley saw the young man push away from the table.

  "Only a small scar it would be." Humphrey smiled. "In the shape of the letter B, if I remember correctly." His manner changed. "It was, I believe, a birth injury of some sort," he stammered uncomfortably.

  All at once the young man turned away.

  Hills concluded, "If you still bear the scar, then I must inform you that you are indeed Lady Harriet's bastard."

  So engrossed was Morley in Hills's strutting manner that he did not at first notice the young man, his eyes lifting to Hills, his hands reaching out and finally the violent lunge forward, his whole frame seeming to shiver as he effortlessly grasped Hills's throat, in the process pushing him back and down, a single shriek leaving Hills's lips, his own defense as useless as Morley's had been against the superior strength of the boy.

  The two of them stood upright for a moment, then crashed backward, Hills's head striking the round mahogany table with a fearful blow, the pupils of his eyes rolling upward, the boy atop him now, both on the floor, while Morley tried to encircle the thrashing turmoil of arms and legs, shouting, "Don't, I beg you, Mr. Eden. Release himl"

  But still the young man pinned the now motionless Hills, his hands planted about his throat, channeling such awesome strength down into his fingers that his shoulders shook.

  In rising desperation, Morley pushed roughly though ineffectively against the young man. "Let him go. You must let him go. You are doing murder."

  But apparently that was precisely the young man's intention. Morley watched for as long as he could, and was just starting toward the door to issue a cry for help when at last he saw those hands lift from

  that throat, saw the boy on his knees straddling Humphrey Hills, saw Hills himself, his tongue slung grotesquely to one side of his mouth, a blue tint to his skin, his eyes white ovals, and a small spreading stain of red seeping out beneath his head.

  From the door, Morley took in the scene, his pulse racing, fearful that the young man's murderous instincts had not been satiated and now he would turn on him.

  But he didn't. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The boy lifted his hands and looked imploringly at Morley, as though at last the commanding voice which had ordered him to murder had ceased, leaving him alone with the sprawled lifeless body beneath him.

  Still Morley kept to the door, not faring so well himself. That Humphrey Hills was dead, there was no doubt. That John Murrey Eden had committed murder, there was even less doubt.

  He gaped at the appalling scene. Unwittingly he had set grim forces in motion by coming here. He still could not even imagine why the two, Lady Eden and the boy, had reacted as violently as they had.

  Well, there was no time to mutter to himself. There was a need for positive action. But what kind? Under ordinary circumstances he knew precisely what to do. Murder had been done, and Morley Johnson had been an eyewitness. Under normal circumstances he would take the young man into immediate custody and deliver him before nightfall to the authorities in Exeter.

  Under normal circumstances this is precisely what he would do, what English law dictated that he do. But! How often he had heard Sir Claudius Potter say that the Edens were a law unto themselves, and now that Morley Johnson was filling the role of Eden solicitor, it might behoove him to acquaint himself with Eden law as thoroughly as he was acquainted with English law.

  He felt his mind move into action, providing him with a welcome distraction from the bleak scene at his feet, the young man at last finding the energy to remove himself from his close proximity to the dead Humphrey Hills, although that energy failed him as soon as he reached the first chair and he now sat slumped sideways.

  Morley watched him, then stealthily slid the bolt on the library door, making certain that no one entered the death chamber until he'd had time to think through to a course of action which would be beneficial to all.

  Beneficial to all! There were the key words. If Morley's perceptions were accurate, Lady Eden surely would not appreciate seeing

  her newly discovered and handsome son hauled unceremoniously off to prison. And no Eden, he recalled Sir Claudius Potter saying, enjoyed the public spotlight, particularly since the days of Lord Thomas Eden and his obsession for the fisherman's daughter.

  And what could be more public, more humiliating than a murder trial, the case perhaps even moved to London due to the importance of the principals involved.

  Good heavens! As the hideous projections whirled out of Morley's mind, he glanced at the boy. His life and future in England would be ruined. He would have to emigrate after prison, an act which undoubtedly would cause his mother great grief.

  No! There would be no custody, nor any hurried trip to Exeter, no "prisoner" to deliver to the authorities.

&nbs
p; Then what? Then concealment, although there were risks there as well. He could do it, pass the corpse off as the victim of a domestic accident, and in the process forge the final bond of dependency and trust with the Eden family. They would be in his debt, including the young man who might conceivably rise to a position of considerable power within the family.

  "Mr. Eden, I beg you listen," he began urgently. "You must leave here immediately. Pack only what you can safely carry on horseback, wait in the stables for cover of night, then ride directly to London."

  He paused for a response from the young man. When none seemed forthcoming, he shook him soundly by the shoulders, fearing him no longer. "Can you sit a horse? Answer mel"

  At last the young man looked up. "Yes . . ."

  "Then good. You can't stay here. I want no trace of you when the constable arrives. Do you understand what I'm saying to you? Look at me! Do you understand?"

  Slowly the young man nodded, though his eyes fell on the sprawled body of Humphrey Hills at his feet. "Is . . . he dead?" he asked.

  Morley nodded broadly. "Oh, I assure you he is dead, Mr. Eden."

  In spite of the need for haste, Morley felt a strong wisp of moral outrage. "I begged you, sir, repeatedly to cease. I even tried physically to dislodge you. But to no avail. And now that the deed is done, we have the entire family to consider. And as you have only recently been proven a member of this noble family, I offer you my advice and assistance. If you will depart here tonight under cover of darkness, I believe I can conceal the true nature of the crime." He paused for emphasis, wanting to make certain that the boy under-

  stood precisely what he was doing on his behalf. "It will not be easy," Morley went on, hovering close, "and you must understand that I am jeopardizing my own career, my own future as well."

  He broke off speaking, pleased to see the new expression on the young man's face, one of gratitude. Still, when he seemed incapable of movement, Morley grasped him by the shoulders, urging him to, "Hurry, I beg you. Pack only what you need, and wait in the stables until nightfall. Then, make for London."

  "And . . . there?" the boy stammered, as though at last beginning to understand.

  Momentarily stymied, Morley gaped down on him. Would everything be left for him to figure out? "Surely you have friends," he scolded. Then an idea occurred. "The woman Elizabeth," he whispered. "The little house in Bermondsey would be perfect. Go there."

  At last the young man moved under his own volition, though it was merely a step away from Morley's side, where apparently the sight of Humphrey Hills stopped him again. "I . . . did not ... intend to. . ."

  Enough, Morley thought. Time was passing, the corpse at their feet growing colder. In London now, scientific advances were such that a medical inspector frequently could determine the approximate hour of death. Morley prayed that such advances had not yet made their way to the rural western edge of the country, for it was his plan to saturate Mr. Hills with brandy and have him drunkenly fall against the table about four hours from now, whereupon Morley would sound the alarm, send a courier for the nearest authority, wait "grief-stricken" for the death certificate and then bury the man as quickly as possible in the first public cemetery. Of course, in addition to all his other responsibilities, he would have to pen an aggrieved and diplomatic note to Mr. Bobby Berents at the Mermaid in Shropshire, and pray to God that the man did not force an inquiry.

  Again he turned his attention toward the distraught young man. "You must hurry," he implored. "I will not sound the alarm until you are safely removed from here."

  Morley waited until the young man had disappeared up the staircase. Then, confident that everything was going precisely as he had planned it, he slammed the library door, slid the bolt and sat awkwardly on the window seat, trying to keep his eyes off the lifeless body.

  Sweet God! Who could have predicted this? As his agitation mounted, only one thought brought him comfort, the realization that though his present plight was hazardous, if he could make his way safely through this storm, he might just conceivably face a lifetime free from any other storms. Or if they came, he need have no fear of them, for the Eden wealth was an enormous, all-protective umbrella, and with his actions here today he had, for all time, earned himself a privileged position under that rich shelter.

  The trick of life, according to his mentor, Sir Claudius Potter, was to take black disaster and convert it into golden opportunity.

  For the first time in several hours Morley smiled, pleased at how skillfully he had mastered that lesson.

  He knew what he had done.

  He knew better than anyone what he had done, had been aware of the very moment when life had departed from the despicable little man's body, and even now he recalled how regretful he had been that there had not been additional life to extinguish.

  As John rounded the landing on his way to the third-floor corridor, he stopped and leaned over the banister, thinking with extraordinary calmness that he was a murderer.

  As he neared the third-floor landing, he heard a mix of voices coming from the far end of the corridor outside her chamber door. It was as though every servant in Eden Castle had selected that spot in which to wail.

  Keeping to the safety of the shadows, John longed to join them, considered even pushing his way through them and demanding entrance to her chambers. But he didn't. It was a reluctance as complex as the day. Instead he felt his way down the corridor to his chamber door, pushed it open and slipped inside.

  He moved his hands over the wooden door as though longing for a way to seal it. Had the man named Hills spoken the truth? Was Harriet the beautiful lady who, according to his father, had died giving birth to him?

  "Damn him!" he whispered to the door, seeing his father's face before him, a lying face now. "Damn him!" he cried, and lifted both fists and drove them into wood.

  Behind him he heard a voice. "If it does any good, 111 come and help . . ."

  He whirled on the voice, thinking he was alone. Then he saw him

  standing in the far corner of the room, the long, lean figure of Dana, the old footman who had first befriended him.

  "I did not send for you," John snapped, turning away before the man read his face too deeply.

  "No, but I'm here anyway," Dana replied.

  "Then leave," John commanded. "I have no need of you."

  Slowly Dana emerged from the shadows. "I suspect you will never have greater need of me."

  His anger still rising, John shouted, "Get out."

  When still the man refused to obey, John lunged at him, more than willing to duplicate the crime he'd just committed downstairs.

  But Dana offered no resistance. In fact, as John sprang forward, the man appeared to open his arms as though to receive his assailant, and at last the one-sided grappling match changed in nature, and as John felt Dana's arms move around him, he suddenly grasped the man and pressed against him in an awkward embrace.

  All at once John felt a need so acute that his legs refused to support him, and Dana was still there, going to the floor with him, holding him tight until at last John had no choice but to let the man cradle him as though he were a child.

  How long he lay thus in Dana's protective shelter, he had no idea. When he opened his eyes the sun was falling in crisscross patterns on the floor. Then certain imperatives filled his mind, and still aware of the hand resting lightly on his forehead, he spoke. "I must leave here, Dana," he murmured, and felt the force of the words for the first time as he spoke them aloud. Leave here. Leave her.

  Dana agreed. "It would be best."

  "Have you. . . seen her?" John asked.

  "I have. Briefly. I brought the surgeon up."

  "Isshe. . . ?"

  The man seemed to hesitate. "She will survive."

  John at last dragged himself upward into a sitting position. He leaned back against the side of the bed as Dana was doing, both of them seated upon the floor. A thought occurred to him. He wondered how much Dana knew, how much any
of the servants knew.

  He returned the man's gaze, seeing neither condemnation nor accusation. Finally the need to share the weight became too great and he asked quietly, "How much do you know?"

  A red tinge seemed to creep up the sides of Dana's face. He lowered his head. "I know little, sir, and prefer to keep it that way."

  John understood, though still within him there was some terrible

  need to confess. But better judgment intervened. There were only two who must share this burden of guilt, who would live with it every day of their lives.

  He left the bed and went to the wardrobe, where on the floor in the corner he found the satchel with which he had arrived. He emptied it of the old garments, too small for him now, and refilled it with a single change of clothes.

  "Where will you go?" Dana asked.

  "Back to London, where I came from."

  He thought he saw an objection forming on the man's face. "You belong here," Dana muttered.

  "I'll return one day," John promised.

  An awkward moment followed, the two of them surveying each other. As though to break the mood, Dana commenced to fish through his pockets, his manner gruff. "I doubt seriously if you have a shilling on you."

  Before John could protest, Dana was thrusting a pound note upon him, shoving it at last into his top pocket.

  "I'll repay you one day," John promised.

  "Don't want repayment," the man grumbled. He glanced up at John. "A word now and then, though, a letter. . ."

  How curious, John mused, that sadness that always invested love. Now he found that he could say nothing, and merely dropped the satchel to the floor and reached out for his friend and clasped him to him.

  "Well, now"—John smiled, hearing the man's sniffling and realizing for both their sakes, he must depart immediately—"one last favor, Dana," he asked. "I need a horse, a good sturdy one to carry me to London. I trust your judgment. Would you prepare one for me and have him waiting outside the door in the east wall?"

  Dana nodded, as though grateful for the chance to flee the room. Then he was gone, letting in the sounds of mourning coming from the end of the corridor, shutting them out again as he closed the door behind him.