"Come," Willmot urged, taking John's arm. "I propose dinner, a feast if you will, one of Childe's beefsteaks as large as a hindquarter and still smoking from the fire."
"I'm . . . not hungry, Jack . . ." John faltered, head down. "You go ahead. I'll walk a bit."
"John, wait," Willmot called out, and caught up with him only a few steps away. "Please," he urged. "Come with me to Childe's. It will serve no purpose to—"
John smiled. "No cause for alarm. I'm simply following Brassey's advice. Remember? Say your good-byes, he said. Didn't he say that?"
Willmot listened, appalled at how angry the boy still was. He noticed something else, that self-imposed isolation into which he always locked himself when troubled.
A cold wind suddenly gusted in their faces. John turned away. When he looked back, all the walls were intact. "I don't think you'd find it to your liking, where I'm going," he said. "I won't even find it to my own liking," he added, "but I'm going anyway."
"Where would that be?" Willmot inquired.
"I'm going to Bermondsey. I have no one to say my good-byes to, except you, and you apparently will accompany me. So that leaves Elizabeth."
Willmot looked up. This was an unexpected turn. Elizabeth. That name had not been spoken between them for months. To be sure, for a while after John's painful discovery of what she had become, Willmot had tried to help him to understand. But each conversation had always concluded in anger, and ultimately they had made an agreement that her name was never again to be mentioned.
Now John had broken the agreement, and if Bermondsey was indeed his destination, Willmot had sad news for him. But first he had
to make certain that he had understood correctly. "Bermondsey?" he repeated.
"Of course," John said. "I can't leave things between us as they are now, can I? Someone must know where I'm going and care."
Peculiar. Willmot had never heard that before, that hint of self-pity, or was it something else? "Are you so . . . apprehensive, John?" he asked, amazed. "Do you really see potential. . . danger in—"
"Indeed I do," John said, "and I'm amazed at your loyalty to the man."
"Brassey would never engage in any undertaking that might prove potentially harmful to his—"
"Brassey is totally unconcerned with the welfare of anyone but Thomas Brassey."
"That's not true."
"Oh, isn't it? Who will profit if the scheme is successful? Who will the press lionize if that damnable railway is built? Will it be you, or the other foremen, or the navvies who will freeze and be shot at and suffer illness?"
Willmot retreated a step and drew up his collar. "I . . . doubt if we will ever see fighting."
"See it? Did you hear nothing of what was said this afternoon?"
Willmot watched, helpless, as John paced back and forth. Again he tried to reassure him. "Nothing will happen." He smiled. "I give you my word. We will go and do the job for him, as I've done countless jobs all over the world. We'll collect our pay and return to London by spring, richer men, you richer than most."
He stepped closer, still failing to see why the evening wasn't cause for celebration instead of angry exchanges. "My God, John," he said. "Aren't you aware of what happened in that office? Out of all those men, many of whom, like myself, have been with him for years, you were singled out for an opinion, and for advancement. First assistant!" he marveled. "I can think of fifty men who would fall on their knees for such advancement."
"Then seek them out and tell them the job is theirs," John responded coldly.
"I can't do that. Brassey chose you to honor—"
"Or destroy."
If those last words had not been so soberly spoken, they would have been laughingly melodramatic. As it was, Willmot smiled. "Now, why should he want to destroy you, John?"
Newly impressed by the depths of the boy's mood, Willmot had
one last question. "If you feel this . . . strongly, John, why did you agree to go? You're a free agent. It's your right to say no."
For a moment he did not speak. Then all he said was, "I had no choice. In effect he called me a coward. Now I must go and find out if he's right."
From the look on John's face, it was clear that nothing Willmot said could dissuade him from his fears. Apparently he would have to play out the whole ridiculous melodrama, up to and including a "soldier's good-bye."
As John started away, Willmot called after him. "If you insist, let me save you a trip. You won't find Elizabeth in Bermondsey."
John looked back. "I. . . don't understand."
"She's moved."
"Where?"
"If you like, I'll take you there."
Slowly John returned. "How do you know?"
Embarrassed, Willmot shrugged again. "Habit." He smiled. "Since your father's death, I've felt. . . responsible."
Still John stood, his eyes fixed upon Willmot. "Do you love her?"
Willmot had not been expecting so direct a question.
"You do, don't you?"
"I did once." Willmot nodded.
"Is she still. . . ?"
"Oh, indeed, very much so. A peer it was, or so I heard, that purchased her new lodgings for her."
John stared downward at the pavement. "Show me where she is, Willmot."
Resignedly Willmot drew a deep breath. What was the point? She was lost to both of them. With a sense of futility he increased his pace, determinedly leading the way. The sooner they arrived, the sooner they could depart.
About twenty minutes later, the hulking facade of the Admiralty came into view. And beyond that, the Horse Guards, and beyond that the Government Offices. Without breaking speed, he turned into St. George Street, a respectable street inhabited by successful surgeons, a few members of Parliament, and at number seven, Elizabeth.
Not until he'd crossed the narrow street and taken refuge in the shadows near a black iron fence did he look back at John and see the puzzle in that face as he took in the quiet lane and its unspoken wealth and respectability.
"She's . . . here?" he asked, bewildered. "Where?"
Willmot lifted a hand numb with cold and pointed to the house across the way. "Number seven," he said. "She owns it. Some generous gentleman put it in her name."
He might have said more, but slowly John stepped out of the shadows, his attention held by the house. The massive front door was a colorful explosion of stained glass. The lamps were lit in the entry hall. To the right were the heavy drapes of the drawing room. Willmot had never seen inside. The drapes were always closed. But to the left he saw something he'd never seen before, the drapes opened on that room, a dining room, the long table covered with white linen and a glittering array of crystal, while overhead a gold chandelier supporting at least a hundred lit candles shed a bright light on the gentleman at one end, a middle-aged man with graying hair formally dressed in black, and at the opposite end of the table, the woman, scarcely recognizable, her fair hair done up and intertwined with pearls, her gown rose satin, both the lady and gentleman chatting amiably while a maid moved silently about the table.
Willmot watched longingly. How beautiful she looked, how much the "lady" in her new setting. Could one pretend such a look of happiness, and where was the sordid degradation he thought of whenever he thought on her?
The gentleman was saying something now. Then he was on his feet, his hand extending to her. She reached for it and stepped gracefully into his embrace, her head tilted backward to accommodate the force of his passion.
Willmot watched the kiss a moment longer, then turned his attention back to the rigid figure standing on the pavement. "Come, John," he whispered sternly. "We've no right to be here."
But the boy merely shook his head, all of his attention still focused on the window across the street, the kiss ending, the gentleman lifting her into his arms and carrying her out of the room.
Willmot bowed his head, his heart going out to the boy. How could he explain that which he himself did not understand?
For over an hour they stood thus. In the agony of waiting, Willmot had long since ceased to feel the cold. A comforting numbness had set in, which he kept hoping would extend to his brain, or at least to the feeling part of him so that his heart would no longer ache for the young man who had yet to lift his eyes from that darkened second-floor chamber.
When Willmot did not think he could endure a moment longer,
he saw John straighten his shoulders. He seemed to take a final look at that second-floor chamber; then for the first time he turned toward Willmot, his face clearly visible in the spill of light from the near streetlamp, revealing tears which he tried to wipe away with his hands.
Willmot stared at him. What could he say? Nothing, and in silence the two of them turned their backs on number seven and walked steadily through the cold night, the streets devoid of all traffic.
During that long walk back to Warwick Lane, neither of them spoke, except once, when unexpectedly John reached out and placed his arm around Willmot's shoulders and drew him close and said softly, "What would I do without you, my friend? What in the name of God would I do without you?"
"No need," Willmot whispered huskily, embarrassed by the expression of affection, suffering acutely from the cold now, the chilling wind stinging his face, leaving a rim of salt moisture about his eyes.
Eden Castle, December 24,1854
Clara Jenkins could hardly make herself heard over the weeping servants, yet someone had to take charge. "It will serve no purpose," she scolded, "no purpose at all." Then she turned away, weeping.
The word had only just come down. Having received no answer to their morning call, the two guards had entered the chamber and had found his lordship dead, lying in a pool of vomit.
Clara pressed her apron tightly against her lips, striving for control. What were they to do now? Surely there was ritual involved. But what? The word should go out, shouldn't it, that Lord James Eden, fourteenth Baron and sixth Earl of Eden Point, was dead. Though she'd only been a girl at the time, Clara remembered vividly the pomp connected with the death of Lord Thomas Eden.
Sweet Jesus, she groaned, the thoughts distracting her from her grief. How could they be expected to perform all those rituals? And who would even pen the obituary? With Herr Snyder gone, only two of them, herself and Mrs. Swan, could even write.
As the wailing about her increased, she glanced up the stairs, hoping to catch sight of Aggie Fletcher, who bravely had offered to go up and confirm the death. Feeling sick, Clara reached out for the banister.
Craning her neck upward, she peered through the railings and saw the white soiled gown of Miss Jennifer.
Angrily Clara started up the stairs. Someone had to be concerned for the dignity of this disintegrating family.
"Here, now," she scolded gently, taking one thin arm and trying to
turn her about. "Look at you, wandering about these cold corridors without your cloak. Come, Clara will walk with you back to your chambers. I'm sure your maid has laid a lovely fire for. . ."
Abruptly her thoughts stopped. There was no maid. The woman assigned to Miss Jennifer had been let go only last month, along with forty-three others. All that remained of what once had been the largest staff of domestics in the West Country were those weeping creatures below, scarcely more than ten in number.
At that moment, coming from the third floor, she heard a determined step, someone marching rigidly through the chaos. A second later, Aggie appeared on the upper landing.
"He's dead, right enough," Aggie announced, full-voiced. "Been dead the better part of the night is my guess," she added. "Stiffening already. We best move quick or we'll never get him in a box."
As the wailing increased, Clara saw a tinge of red rising on the old cook's face. "Well, we bloody well can't keep it a secret," she snapped. "Now, can we? As for them weak sisters down there, I'll take care of them right enough."
Brushing past Clara and Jennifer where they stood mid-step, she sent her voice ahead in a barrage of abuse, shouting orders, yelling at one to fetch her boiling water, commanding another to fetch the coffinmakers from Mortemouth, and yet another to see to the beef joint she'd left boiling on the cook stove in the kitchen court.
Shielding Miss Jennifer, Clara watched as Aggie sent the weeping servants running, dispatching everyone save old Dana, the footman, who since Mr. Rexroat's departure several months ago now served as senior adviser to the crumbling household.
Oh, lord, Clara couldn't even think on all the tragedies, and there was no time anyway, for she looked down to see Aggie and Dana climbing the steps.
Then Aggie caught sight of Miss Jennifer. "What's she doing here?" she demanded.
Clara explained. "I found her wandering about. Quite chilled, she is. I had thought to . . ."
Aggie stepped forward, her eyes fixed on Jennifer. "Run along, child," she commanded. "Go to your chambers and keep warm."
Suddenly Jennifer wrenched free from Clara's grasp and cowered against the banister, her eyes distended with fear. "I want Daniel," she whispered, tears beginning.
Clara scolded Aggie. "Look what you've done now." She started toward the hysterical woman. "Miss Jennifer, you must . . ." The
weeping only increased. She was on the verge of trying again when she heard a voice coming from the top of the landing.
"Please leave her alone. All of you."
The voice was young, quiet, slightly cracking, midway between boyhood and manhood. Clara looked up to see Richard, his face drawn. "All of you," he repeated gently. "Please move away from her. She'll be fine if you give her her freedom."
As he started down the steps, Mary in hand, Clara wondered mournfully where her two lovely "children" had gone. Though Richard was twelve and Mary almost seven, still they were no longer children. Of all the various tragedies which had descended upon the Eden family, here Clara thought, were the two most pitiful victims.
Below her on the steps, she saw Aggie and Dana retreat, as though contained in this frail and brooding twelve-year-old boy was the only true voice of authority at Eden. Suffering a shock of recognition, Clara realized that the assessment was true. It was not merely Richard kneeling beside his aunt Jennifer. He was now the fifteenth Baron and seventh Earl of Eden Point. Clara wondered if those shoulders could support such a weight.
She watched as Richard knelt beside Jennifer, his voice soothing, telling her precisely what she wanted to hear, that all was well, that he'd seen Daniel himself only a few hours earlier.
As the quiet monologue persisted, Clara reached inside her sleeve for her handkerchief. As embarrassing tears clouded her eyes, she found it impossible to believe that those three, the boy, the child and the madwoman, were all that was left of what once had been one of England's noblest families.
Fortunately she was not given a chance to pursue that bleak thought, for Richard, having soothed and joined Mary and Jennifer, now stepped toward the center of the staircase.
He ran a hand through his long black hair and seemed to straighten his shoulders. "My father," he began. "Is he . . . dead?"
Dana stepped forward. "Yes, my lord. With your permission, my lord," Dana went on, "I recall the ritual of your grandfather's passing, and while I'm afraid that circumstances prohibit us from duplicating all tradition, there are certain steps which could be taken."
Richard nodded. "I'd be most grateful, Dana, for all your assistance."
The old man drew a step closer. "Well, my lord, I know where the mourning banners are stored. Folded them myself, I did, after your
grandfather's passing. There's three good guardsmen left. With then-help, I think we can get the banners flying."
'Then do so, Dana."
"And further, my lord," Dana went on, "someone must pen the obituary. I recall last time, it went out to dozens of newspapers, all the London ones, of course."
Richard appeared to glance about him. With reluctance he said, "I'll do it."
"I'll help, my lord," Clara offered. "Tonight, t
he two of us will—"
"I'll do it, Clara."
Before she had time to fully understand why her offer of assistance had been turned down, Dana went on. "And Mr. Morley Johnson should be notified as well," he said, his voice cold, reflecting his feelings for the London solicitor, who kept sending them smaller and smaller monthly allotments.
But if Richard had any opinions on the subject, he kept them to himself, and again simply stated, "I'll write to him. Anything else?"
Dana paused, indecision on his face. "I was . . . wondering, my lord," he began, "if Mr. John Murrey Eden shouldn't be notified as well."
Clara saw the taut expression on Richard's face. She knew better than anyone how much Richard missed his cousin, how bewildered he still was by his myterious departure from Eden so long ago. "If I knew where to write, Dana, I would have written long ago," he said simply.
The old man nodded. From where Clara stood, it wasn't difficult to follow the progress of his thoughts. How much Eden Castle needed that firm, confident hand of John Murrey Eden. Yet, in a curious way, it seemed to her that the present disintegration had commenced with his arrival, on that rainy May evening.
"Anything else?" he asked of Dana, glancing over his shoulder to where Jennifer and Mary were patiently waiting.
The old man lowered his head. "Well, of course, there's the preparation of the . . . body, but Aggie and I will see to that."
"I'd be most grateful."
"Any particular location in the graveyard, my lord?"
"No, no, of course not."
Clara heard a slight edge to the boy's voice, as though the new burdens were beginning to take a toll.
"A simple service, then?"
"Yes, simple."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes, tomorrow."
"If the gravediggers can break ground . . ."
Clara saw the boy's head lift. "Yes," he whispered.
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