The Eden passion

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  And profitable. There was that to be said for her new life and profession. Again from where she sat, relaxing in the tub, she lovingly cataloged the mahogany table and sideboard, the new armchair and sofa covered with pale rose damask, and the variety of little tables and cabinets.

  By craning her neck, she could see into the front parlor, the long velvet drapes at the windows, patterned carpet of intricate frond and lily design, and there, her new prize, the lovely upright piano, a gift only last week from Henry Cardew. And next to the piano, her own bureau for writing and her needlework table, and the elegant wallpaper, heavily patterned in damask and floral design.

  Her eyes satiated, she leaned back in the hipbath as she beheld the center of her profession, the massive four-poster bed, constructed of mahogany and rosewood, with side curtains of velvet which had been delivered to her last month with a simple card, no signature, and a loving message, "For your blessed comfort."

  To this day she had no idea who her beneficiary was. She'd delicately questioned all of her gentlemen, and all had displayed a convincing ignorance.

  At the end of her inspection, as she was preparing to sink deeper into the soothing water, her eye fell on the small trunk in the far corner of the room, Edward's trunk, looking ordinary and out of place amidst the new elegance. Within the instant, her mood of self-satisfaction faded.

  Would there never be an end to it, to the almost penal servitude which his memory demanded of her? How many times she had considered removing the trunk. It did not belong here, certainly not in this room.

  Abruptly her thoughts relapsed into silence, and she stared into

  the still water. How was it possible that she could cure unhappiness for others, yet be so unhappy herself?

  But there was no answer, and as she reached for the sponge, she clung to only one awareness, that in a very real way she was loved, treasured in certain cases, her presence sought out by gentlemen of the highest caliber. And she served them in her own way, and God and the world and Edward must understand that, and she owed no one explanation or apology, and her greatest rewards were not the new luxuries which now surrounded her, but rather the blessed look of relief on a furrowed brow, the slow unclasping of a fist, and the grateful tears which on occasion had streamed from the most manly face.

  Her defense over, she bathed herself carefully, keenly aware of the needs of her next visitor, his note just visible on the silver tray which rested on the sideboard. Delivered by special courier, written in bold, familiar hand, it said simply, "In from Hawarden. Catherine ill again. Must see you at five this evening. Please. W.G."

  Now, if she hurried, she might have time before Willie's arrival to read the latest London Times. He appreciated her being well-informed, clearly enjoying using her as a sounding board.

  Then hurry she did, concluded her bath and stepped out onto the soft carpet, drying carefully, then dragging the Japanese screen forward until it obscured all items of her bath.

  From her wardrobe she withdrew the dressing gown which she'd made months ago from Willie's gift of Florentine lace. She wore it for no one else. Though she'd attached a full silk petticoat to the waist, she'd left the top unlined, and if anyone chose to look, he might see her flesh beneath the patterned lace.

  The clock on the mantel said four-forty-five. Fifteen minutes in which to gather herself together and perhaps scan the newspapers so that she might speak intelligently with Willie. And fifteen minutes in which to send the ghost of Edward away.

  To that end she went about the comfortable parlor making small adjustments to the clutter of knickknacks. From the sideboard, intent on keeping busy, she spied her two large potted palms, pushed away from the window and the direct rays of high summer sun. Now at dusk the light was soft and diffuse, and she went forward hurriedly to push them back in front of the window.

  As she tugged the first palm into place, she stopped to adjust the folds of velvet drapes. From this angle through the window she saw a figure standing across the lane. She pulled back in annoyance. Jack

  Willmofs guard dog was still in place. What a presumptuous and foolish expense!

  For several moments she stared bleakly at the hulking figure. Then she noticed another man, approaching slowly from the left. Two? Had the guard now been increased to ... ?

  Suddenly her hand tightened on the velvet drape. She blinked, the shape of the man growing clearer, the stance, the carriage of the body, the color of the hair as the dying sun struck it, all painfully familiar.

  Edward.

  Abruptly she dropped the drape, both hands pressed against her mouth as though to prevent an outcry. Was she losing her mind? Was the grief that refused to heal turning her into a madwoman?

  She stood motionless. It was only that she had been thinking on him, that was all, only his presence which still permeated the small house in spite of its new furnishings. With strict discipline she ordered herself to breathe calmly. Willie was due any moment. He appreciated as much as anything her calmness and peace of mind.

  Then, as though to test her new calm, she again drew back the drape. Quickly she searched the street in all directions, blessedly finding nothing but the first bully boy, a heavyset man in a loose-fitting jacket who lounged against the streetlamp.

  As for the other, he was gone, if indeed he'd ever been there at all. As she lowered the drape, she thought sternly that she must watch herself in the future. Edward was dead, and all that remained of him was that one small trunk resting in the comer of her bedchamber.

  A knock sounded at the door. The sudden noise startled her, her nerves still on edge. Willie was never punctual. And where was his carriage?

  The knock sounded again. She looked almost fearfully toward the door. Willie never knocked more than once. Then who?

  The knock came a third time, a sharp impatient rap accompanied now by a voice. "Elizabeth?"

  As the voice, rife with familiarity, bore down upon her, she saw the door open, saw first the resurrected head of blond hair, the features identical, dark blue eyes, tender smile, then the whole of him appearing before her in the blaze of evening sun spilling in through the open door, the specter complete, the winding sheet gone, the grave apparently a kinder place than anyone imagined.

  "Edward . . ." she gasped, and as the apparition refused to fade, she felt the room and all the objects in it begin to whirl about her,

  and her mind, in defense against that which it would never understand, simply shut down. Reaching out in an effort to both banish him and draw him closer, she fell to the floor and welcomed the rationality of the unconscious world. . . .

  The faint did not last long, and a few moments later she awakened to find herself on the sofa. He was still there, bent over her in concern, though not the "he" she had imagined, but the nearest duplicate she would ever find this side of heaven.

  "John?" she whispered, unable to believe that the young man who knelt before her was the same boy she'd left standing in the rain on the steps of Eden Castle only a year ago.

  But his relieved grin confirmed his identity and his soft apology anchored it. "It's me." He smiled. "I'm sorry if I took you by surprise. Perhaps I should have—"

  "No," she said, feeling unbearable happiness at seeing him again. Belatedly she opened her arms to him as she'd done a thousand times when he'd been a child, and as he leaned forward into her embrace, she closed her eyes and clasped him to her, feeling the shoulders and torso of a man.

  "Oh, John," she whispered. "How I've missed you. How often I've longed for word . . ."

  Still he clung to her as though reluctant to let go, as though all he needed at this moment was her closeness. At the same time, she sat up on the sofa, still feeling lightheaded. As she made an attempt to straighten the white lace dressing gown, she looked down, feeling a moment of chagrin. Hurriedly she glanced over her shoulder at the rosewood clock. Five-fifteen. Willie due at. . .

  "Come, John," she said, moving toward the sideboard. "I think we both need a drop of s
herry."

  As she filled the glasses, she was aware of him staring at her. "Come," she urged again, lifting a glass, aware of his close scrutiny of the room.

  A few moments later he stood before her and took the glass from her, his eyes still relentlessly inspecting her.

  "You've. . . changed," he said simply.

  "As have you." She laughed. "My goodness, I've never seen such a striking resemblance. If your father were here . . ."

  Abruptly he turned away and walked toward a near armchair. From the angle of his head, she knew he was still inspecting the

  room, trying to draw a conclusion between the humble sparse furnishings he remembered and these new opulent ones.

  Behind her the ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder, as though trying to warn her of the impending collision. "John," she said cheerily, ignoring the clock's warning, "you must tell me everything. How is Eden? Are you here for a short visit? I started so many times to write to you, but I. . ."

  In twin movements, as he sat in the armchair, she sat on the sofa opposite him. Strange, but it had never occurred to her that this moment might take place. She had been so certain that she would never see him again, confident that everything he would ever need was at Eden. Again she looked up to see him staring at her.

  "Well?" she asked gently, longing to shift the focus of attention back to him. "Tell me everything. Ifs easy to see the Devon air agrees with you."

  Still no response.

  "John? Is everything . . . ?"

  He waved his hand before him as though to dismiss her questions. "Everything is well," he lied, and she knew he had lied, but let it pass for the time being.

  "I felt the need to return to London," he said. "I missed you, and was worried"—and again his eyes made a wide arc of the room, still inspecting—"though I see that my anxiety was. . . unfounded."

  She looked down at her glass, wishing she'd known in advance of his arrival. At least she could have put away a few items. Then in the next moment she brought herself sharply up. Why should she have to put anything away?

  She said simply, "I'm doing well, John. I'm sorry if I caused you anxiety. I should have written."

  "And I, too," he murmured.

  Outside on the street, she thought she heard a carriage. As it rattled past she looked down at her glass, surprised to see the amber liquid trembling.

  "Were you expecting someone?" he asked.

  She nodded.

  "Then I must leave," he said, standing.

  "No, please," she begged, seeing for the first time the state of his garments. Most soiled they were, as though he'd not changed in days. She suggested, "Why don't you go up to your old room, wash up, and perhaps have a nap. Later, we'll have a quiet supper together. I'd like that very much."

  It was her guess that he had not slept soundly for days. Now with relief she saw that her proposal held some appeal for him as well. Wearily he shook his head. "I . . . have no place else to go, I'm afraid."

  "You need no place else," she said, coming up before him and taking his hand. "This is your home. Wherever I am, that will always be your home. Do you understand?"

  Never had she seen such a sorrowing expression in one so young. When she couldn't bear the look any longer, she again opened her arms to him, and as he came, she whispered, "I've missed you so much."

  Suddenly there was a knock at the door, a single rap, the clear signal of . . . "No wait," she said as John reached for his satchel. True, she hadn't heard the carriage, but on occasion she'd known Willie to alight a distance away. "Wait," she said again to John. "I would like for you to meet this gentleman."

  Satchel in hand, he paused midway across the room. As she moved past him to the door, she was again painfully aware of his eyes upon her, bewildered eyes. In defense against such a look, she flung open the door in warm greeting to the tall smiling man on the opposite side.

  "Willie, I . . ." Abruptly she stopped. The man was not Willie Gladstone. "Jack . . . ?" she murmured, thinking perhaps that the dim light on the stoop had altered her vision. But it hadn't.

  The man grinned. "Jack Willmot, at your service," he said, and bowed low in a courteous gesture.

  She stared doggedly at his face, all aspects of recognition clear now, from the red hair to the massive shoulders to the weathered and newly tanned complexion. "Jack," she murmured again, thinking what a night of homecoming this was proving to be.

  When she seemed incapable of inviting him in, he invited himself. "It's a long road from Canada"--he smiled—"and I made every step of it thinking of you. I know I'm unannounced, but might I. . ."

  "Of course," she said. "I'm sorry, I. . ."

  As Willmot moved past her, he apparently spied John standing at the center of the room, and for a moment the large man suffered the same shock that Elizabeth had suffered earlier.

  "Is. . . it. . . ?" he gasped, and obviously could not continue.

  With peculiar strength John stepped forward, hand extended, "John Murrey Eden, sir."

  It was several moments before Willmot could speak. "My God,"

  he muttered at last, extending his hand. "Gave me a start, you did. I don't suppose a day has passed since I last saw you that I haven't thought of your father."

  From where she stood just inside the closed door, Elizabeth observed that the confession seemed to annoy John.

  "It's a common mistake," she heard him say. "There have been times when I wished I might alter my physical appearance. It's like living in another man's skin."

  "Oh, don't think that, lad," Willmot cut in. "Your father was a great man, perhaps the greatest I've ever known, and I've known some great ones."

  As Willmot's voice drifted off into ancient grief, an awkward silence filled the room. Elizabeth had looked forward to Willie Gladstone. Instead fate had produced the two most preeminent ghosts from her past. Though her instinct was to retreat, she tried to stir a semblance of life back into the frozen room.

  "I thought you were in Canada, Jack." She smiled, taking his arm. "At least the last I heard—"

  "I was." He grinned, still eyeing John as though in disbelief. "A dreadful country, that is. But we laid the groundwork. Now it's up to the navvies to finish the track."

  That was it, she thought, get him talking about distant lands, and try to remove that grim look from John's face and pray that Willie was detained a bit longer. "Come, both of you," she urged. "What a grand reunion this is, and what a surprise. Let's talk until nothing has been left out."

  But John protested. "You're expecting a guest. . .*

  "But he's not arrived yet," she said lightly, aware of Willmot's eyes upon her, as though in the confusion of greetings he'd failed to see her clearly, and certainly had failed to see her provocative gown. From there, she saw him launch forth into the same surprised inspection of her front parlor that John had just made. There was one small difference. Jack Willmot knew the reason for her new affluence. John, as yet, did not.

  "Come, Jack." She smiled, eager to limit the boy's knowledge for as long as possible. "Tell us all. You have before you a captive audience, two simple islanders who have never stepped foot off their island. So tell us of your adventures in Canada. We'll not interrupt once, will we, John?"

  Relieved, she saw John sit slowly opposite them, his expression still uncertain.

  At the center of attention, Willmot appeared not to know what to do. "I . . . don't know what you want to hear, Elizabeth," he confessed, still trying to digest the new opulence of the room.

  "Anything, Jack," she said, a bit desperately. "Everything!"

  He paused, his eyes moving over the heavy velvet drapes at the window. "Well, I can tell you one thing," he commenced. "I've not sat in a room of such . . . comfort since I left London."

  "What were you doing in Canada, Mr. Willmot?" John asked, and Elizabeth gave him a grateful look.

  Willmot smiled. "Well, that depends on who you talk to, John. Building a railway, according to Mr. Brassey. Extending the emp
ire, according to the directors of the Hudson Bay Company. Spreading Christian principles, according to the missionaries, and stealing their bloody land, according to the Indians." He laughed and shook his head. "Take your pick. I spent six months in that wilderness and I'm sorry to say I'm inclined to agree with the savages."

  "Were they savages?" John asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  Willmot nodded. "Some were, some weren't, like us English."

  "Did you ever see any of them?"

  "See them!" Willmot laughed. "I worked alongside them and lived with them." He lowered his head. "On occasion I preferred their company to that of the Hudson Bay gents."

  Elizabeth listened carefully, her attention torn between what Willmot was saying and the increasingly rapt expression on John's face. Perhaps at last events would go well, though there still was the clock ticking behind her. Almost six o'clock, Willie later than usual.

  "And who is Mr. Brassey?" she heard John ask, his satchel abandoned at his feet.

  "A king." Willmot smiled instantly. "At least, one of the new kings. We breed 'em now without bloodlines, lad. There's scarce a railway or dock in all of England and the better part of the world that Thomas Brassey hasn't had a hand in." He paused, relishing the effect his words were having on John. "You're growing up in great times." He smiled, his attitude paternal. "The classes are crumbling. Any man of talent and vision and determination can rise through the ranks."

  Suddenly he lifted his hand and started marking off an impressive roll call. "In cotton you have Strutt and Peel and Owen, not a blueblood among them, but giants all. In machinery you have Nas-myth and Maudsley, and among the ironworkers, consider Crawshay or Wilkerson . . ."

  As he ran through his illustrious roll call, Elizabeth again glanced at John. Never had she seen an expression of such intense concentration.