The Eden passion

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  "And all these men are rich?" she heard him ask.

  "Rich!" Willmot parroted, laughing. "Any one of them could put Midas to shame. And one of the richest of all is Mr. Brassey."

  "What do you do for him?" John asked.

  Again Jack laughed. "Anything he asks me to do."

  "Including building a railway in a country that doesn't want one?"

  Momentarily taken aback, Willmot lowered his head. "I'm not a . . . king," he said, "only a lackey."

  "Why?" John persisted. "You said yourself that any man can rise as high as—"

  "Any man with brains—"

  "You have brains. My father said so."

  The report seemed to undo the large man. "Your father, John," he began, "saw good in every man, frequently where none existed."

  "Still, why are you the lackey and Brassey the king?"

  Again Willmot faltered. Elizabeth hid a smile. She had forgotten, and poor Willmot had never known the boy's relentless curiosity.

  She looked up to see Willmot slowly shaking his head. "I'm satisfied with who I am, John," he said. "I live a simple life, a good life, following orders, enjoying a few . . . friendships." As he said this, he reached out for her hand. She started to withdraw it, but changed her mind. He'd said friendship. Most willingly she would be his friend. It had been his earlier talk of marriage that had put her off.

  Unfortunately at the very moment that she had thought things were going well, she did hear a carriage, unmistakable this time. They apparently heard it as well, for Willmot released her hand. As for John, he seemed unconcerned by it, his interest engaged by Will-mot's earlier statements.

  As he leaned forward, asking, 'Tell me more, Mr. Willmot, about everything, about Mr. Brassey and Canada and the red savages," she did not wait for the rap on the door, and went to open it, wondering what course she should follow now. Send Willie away? She couldn't do that. Send them away? She couldn't do that either.

  As the confusion grew within her, she swung open the door and saw the worn though handsome features of Willie Gladstone.

  Suspended awkwardly in his left hand was a beautiful gilded cage, about eighteen inches tall, and perched gracefully on the little gold

  swing at the center was a delicate, perfectly wrought china bluebird.

  "Willie, how beautiful." She smiled.

  "My dearest," he murmured, "I'm sorry I'm late. I had to track this down in a craftsman's shop beyond Kings Cross Station. An aide saw it and told me about it. I thought. . ." He broke off and looked at her with clear affection. "I thought it might. . . suit you."

  The silence coming from the room behind her was heavy, the silence of two men listening. "It's beautiful, Willie." She smiled, feeling an urgent need to acquaint him as soon as possible with the other two waiting in quiet concealment behind the open door.

  "Please come in," she said. "I confess I was worried about you."

  She had intended to say more, but as he passed her by, he kissed her on the cheek, a gesture which, coming from Willie, meant nothing, but in her awareness of the other two waiting, caused a hot blush to cover her face.

  "Look," he said, still blissfully ignorant that they were not alone. He lifted the little golden cage into the air, wound a small button beneath it, and lowered it for her inspection. Awed, she saw the tiny bird twist its head up and down in a delicate musical birdsong.

  "Willie, I've never seen anything so beautiful."

  "Nor have I," he said, his eyes on her breasts, one hand lifting as though to explore the softness partially concealed beneath white lace.

  "Willie," she said quickly, over the birdsong, "while I was waiting for you, I had two unexpected though delightful surprises."

  He stepped back, perceiving her message. She saw a look of apprehension in his eyes, the look of all men who were blessed and cursed with a double life.

  "No need, Willie," she soothed. "Good friends, these two, and I'd like very much for you to meet them."

  She guided him out from behind the door, her arm tucked through his, the musical bird cage suspended between them, the little china bird at last winding down its song.

  She saw Jack Willmot stand immediately, as though he'd recognized Willie. John followed more slowly, the expression on his face one of distraction, as though he were still trying to work out to his satisfaction the difference between lackeys and kings.

  "Mr. Gladstone," she pronounced a bit formally, suffering a twinge of awe herself. Mr. Gladstone! The Chancellor of the Exchequer, the man who only last week according to the Times was closeted in private conference with Queen Victoria, the man who was

  keeping both the Whigs and the Tories waiting in suspended animation to see to which party he would give his allegiance and considerable voice.

  "Mr. Gladstone, permit me to present Mr. Jack Willmot, a good friend, only recently returned from Canada, and in the employ of Mr. Thomas Brassey."

  He thrust the music box into her hands as though belatedly aware of how foolish he must look holding it. "Mr. Willmot," he said graciously. "And how is Mr. Brassey progressing in the Canadian wilds? While the empire is grateful for his adventurous spirit, it would be bereft if harm should befall him."

  Jack heard him out, smiling. "When I left Mr. Brassey, he was well, sir. I believe he's due back in London any day."

  As the brief exchange came to a natural end, Elizabeth guided Gladstone's attention toward John. "Willie," she said, "allow me to present Mr. John Murrey Eden, the son of Mr. Edward Eden, whom I believe you knew."

  Gladstone extended his hand to John, his voice falling as though in regret. "My boy . . ." He smiled. "No, I never had the privilege of knowing your father personally. I believe my wife had the pleasure of meeting him once, in the company of Lord Shaftesbury. And of course all of London is grateful to him, specifically the thousands of once homeless children who have benefited immeasurably by his Ragged Schools."

  Elizabeth expected to see a look of pleasure on John's face at the generous tribute. But instead she saw annoyance, John only briefly taking Gladstone's extended hand, then stepping back. Now he maintained his silence, which spread like a contagion to the others standing awkwardly about.

  "Come," Elizabeth urged. "Everyone sit down, please. I doubt if there's a salon in all of London with company as distinguished as. . r

  But Willie seemed loath to sit and pulled away from her hand. "I mustn't stay, Elizabeth," he said. "I . . . sense that I've interrupted a reunion, and I wouldn't dream of—"

  Then Willmot was protesting. "No, Mr. Gladstone," he said, skirting the sofa on the opposite end as though in a race for the door. "I was just leaving. Clearly you had an . . . appointment, and . . , n

  As his voice drifted off into an embarrassed confusion, Willmot glanced around the room as though he'd forgotten something. "Ah,

  John," he said, lifting his hand toward the boy. "Come, I suggest we find a good public house. I know of one not far. If it's Canada you're interested in, I have several evenings of stories to tell you."

  Then his efforts became clear, and Elizabeth realized that he was trying very hard to clear her house so that she could keep her appointment. While grateful, she suffered a sense of shame, and following fast on the heels of shame was anger, that she was allowing these two to affect her in this manner. Suddenly weary, she turned away. Let them work it out for themselves. At that moment it mattered little to her who remained, who departed.

  Taking momentary refuge in the arrangement of the music box on the sideboard, she heard two of them speaking simultaneously, Willie offering again to leave, Jack Willmot trying again to summon John out of his innocence. "Come, lad," Willmot practically shouted. "We'll return . . . later. I have stories to tell you unfit for a woman's ears."

  "But I had thought to wash up first and—"

  "Come, you can wash up at the pub."

  "I'm very tired . . ."

  "Then you need a pint. Leave your satchel, and come—"

  Finally she hear
d John's reluctant boots moving slowly behind her. She dared not look at him. She would have to try to explain later.

  She heard Willmot bidding Gladstone a respectful good evening. In an incredibly short time she heard the door open, a scuffle of boots on the stoop, then the door was closed.

  Well, she'd hoped to handle it all with a bit more grace, and she suffered a moment of apprehension, thinking on what Jack Willmot might tell John. And why was Willie standing so solemnly behind her?

  As though to avoid the answers to all those questions, she lifted the gilded music box, turned the button four times, placed it on the sideboard and watched the pitiful efforts of the little china bluebird as it tried to drown out the silence in the room.

  Every time Jack Willmot had thought of her since he'd been away, he'd always imagined her in the degrading position of sin. Yet now, why was he so shocked to arrive unannounced and find her anticipating the arrival of a client, even so distinguished a man as "The People's Willie?"

  Still embarrassed, he glanced back at John and saw the confusion on his face.

  "I should stay, Mr. Willmot," the young man pronounced earnestly, and as he reached back for the doorknob, Willmot warned sternly, "No!"

  Was he really so innocent? Had he no conception of what would shortly take place behind those velvet curtains?

  "Come," Willmot urged, placing his arm about John's shoulders. "I promise we'll return—later. And I would like to lift a pint with you. Is that asking too much, for old times' sake?"

  Under the duress of kindness, the young man softened. "Of course not, Mr. Willmot. It's just that—"

  "And don't call me that. My name is Jack."

  As they walked up the lane in the gathering dusk, he saw the young man glance back twice toward the small house and the handsome carriage standing at the edge of the pavement.

  "Well, a bit of luck, this, wouldn't you say?" Willmot smiled. "I've thought on you often," he went on. "Quite frankly, I never thought to lay eyes on—"

  "I wasn't aware that you knew Elizabeth," John interrupted.

  "Of course I knew her," he said. "If you recall, I was the one who-"

  Again John interrupted. "I mean, after my father's death. I assumed that she returned to London, and that you—"

  Disliking the sensation of being questioned, Willmot broke in. "No, I was still here, and she was in desperate need." He paused, expecting John to interrupt again. "She was quite alone, you see," he pointed out gently. "Loneliness isn't so hard for a man to bear. There are a hundred ways in which we can lose ourselves. But for a woman, particularly for one like Elizabeth, she—"

  "What do you mean?" Abruptly John stopped walking.

  For a moment Willmot thought he gleaned the purpose of the entire conversation. Clearly the young man had his suspicions, but now he needed to have them confirmed. No, thank you, Jack Willmot thought grimly, returning that earnest young gaze, then retreating from it. "She missed your father enormously," he said. "Still does."

  Slowly they commenced walking again, Willmot setting the pace. "Well," he said, "you must talk to me. You know more about me than I know about you. Have you been at Eden for the entire year? And what brings you back to London? A visit? Family business?"

  It seemed a sensible subject. But in the next minute, when the

  young man ignored the questions and posed a different one of his own—"Tell me more of Canada and Mr. Brassey"—Willmot stole a glance at that profile, seeing again the father in the son plus a new characteristic, a certain hardness, a stubbornness, certainly a will to have his own way in all matters, even conversational ones.

  "Well, Canada . . ." Willmot smiled, missing the father's gentleness. "WTiat's to say? It's vast, beautiful in places, harsh in others. Quite insect-ridden in the warmer months." Thinking that perhaps the young man would enjoy a tale of the grotesque as all young men did, he added, "In the North Woods, the mosquitoes are said to inhabit in an incidence of five million to the acre. For the tribes in the area, it is a convenient form of execution. A naked man, bound, is sucked dry of all his blood in three and one-half hours."

  Ah, at last, a look of interest on that young face. "Good God," John whispered, clearly absorbed in the image of such a death. "Did you see it done, for yourself, I mean?"

  Willmot laughed and shook his head. "I was there to build a railroad."

  "Then how did you hear it?"

  "From trappers, mountain men who lived among the Indians."

  "Mountain men," the young man repeated. Then in the next breath he blurted, "I'm sick of England."

  That was all he said, and since they were approaching the Seven Men, raucous laughter greeting them, accompanied by the shrill whine of a fiddle executing a jig, Willmot held all his questions and pushed open the doors and saw a solid crush of people.

  Leading the way, Willmot pushed through the crowds, making it to the safe ground of the opposite side, where thin partitions divided low wooden tables. At last he found an empty one and slid along the bench on one side, motioning for John to sit opposite him.

  Willmot thought it strange that the boy had never been here before. It was the nearest pub to the house in Bermondsey. Surely his father had come here often to quench his thirst.

  Then he looked up to see the young barmaid who'd just appeared before them, a pretty lass with coal-black hair and matching eyes that seemed fascinated by John's blond good looks.

  "What'U it be, gintlemen?" She grinned.

  "A pint of ale and a sausage roll, if they're fresh," Willmot said.

  "The same for me," John added.

  The girl seemed to linger a moment longer in clear fascination of

  John, then reluctantly she turned to respond to a call from across the room.

  As the voices in the crowded pub continued to reverberate behind him, only silence filled their table. Willmot leaned back on the bench. Something was wrong, and while he had no idea what, he was determined to find out. While he had no real responsibility to the boy, he still felt a debt. If only he'd exercised a bit more caution that last night on the Great Exhibition site, perhaps the boy's father would be sitting here with him now, instead of Willmot.

  Feeling paternal, Willmot tried to project his voice over the din coming from the area of the dart boards. 'Tell me of yourself." He smiled. "Did Eden suit you? Quite a change for a lad between this London and that paradise. Were you warmly received? Not a particularly happy homecoming, I wouldn't imagine, though still. . ."

  He broke off, feeling that he was rambling, that little of what he was saying was reaching the ears opposite him. Or if his words were being received, they were being ignored.

  In the midst of this small defeat, he glanced sideways into the room. Near the serving bar he spied the young barmaid. She seemed in close huddle with the barkeep, her hand pointing in their direction, the heavyset man's head swirling about and at last bringing them into focus.

  Willmot continued to stare at them, bafHed by their interest. He looked back to see if John had noticed that they were being stared at. Apparently the boy hadn't. He continued to sit stiffly, his hands gripping the edge of the bench.

  Suddenly, when Willmot least expected it, the boy looked up. "Tell me more about Mr. Brassey, if you will. Everything—'

  "Mr. Brassey?" Willmot stammered.

  "Yes," John said, "the man you were speaking of earlier, the contractor, I believe you said."

  Willmot nodded, not wanting to appear simpleminded. It was just that for the last few minutes Brassey had been very far from his mind. "Mr. Brassey," he repeated, failing to see how that topic could hold much interest for the lad, yet willing to oblige if he could. Stealing a moment to gather his thoughts, he glanced again out over the crowded room. The group at the bar had grown, five or six now, all in a close huddle, all pointing and looking in their direction. What in the... ?

  "What do you do for him?" John asked.

  "T.

  Tm a foreman/' Willmot said. "A professional forema
n, the same as when I first met you and your father."

  "Were you working for Mr. Brassey then?" John asked.

  Willmot laughed. "No, the Crystal Palace wasn't Mr. Brassey's cup of tea, and I'm afraid he still fails to see the practicality of it. No, you'll find Mr. Brassey where there's a job that nobody else wants to do, and where there's money to be made."

  If the young man's interest was intense before, now it bordered on obsession. He leaned over the table. "Is he very rich?" he asked.

  Again Willmot laughed. "Beyond what either of us will ever know or can imagine. I've heard it rumored—though mind you, it's just a rumor—that his net worth is approaching five million pounds."

  "Five . . ." John gasped.

  Willmot nodded, pleased by the boy's attention. "He's the best," he went on, "a true gentleman in a field known for its quacks." He leaned closer. "And most remarkable of all"—he grinned—"is that he told me once that he had arrived in London in 1820 with three shillings in his pocket."

  For some reason, the large room seemed to have grown quieter. It was possible now to talk at a normal pitch. Was the dart competition over so soon? Generally they were only warming up in the early-evening hours. Well, whatever the cause for the new quiet, Willmot was grateful for it. It meant that they could talk, that perhaps he could establish some bond of trust with the boy. Now generously he offered, "I'd be happy to introduce you to Mr. Brassey when he returns to London. I think you'd like him. He has many qualities not unlike those of your father, quite a . . ."

  All at once that blond head bowed.

  "John . . . T

  As Willmot started to lean forward with a concerned inquiry, he was aware again of the increasing silence coming from the room behind him, as though all activity had ceased and the scattered attentions of some sixty-five or seventy people were now otherwise engaged.

  What in the hell was going on? Mildly annoyed, Willmot shifted around on the bench as though to confront the silent starers. He tried to read the expressions on their faces, and from where he sat it seemed as though they were staring, not at him, but at John.