Again he looked about at the faces, amazed at the prominence of the gathering, many gentlemen from Parliament, and there, a renowned Fleet Street publisher, and several well-known illustrators, and Lord Kimbrough. Mr. Gladstone had been here earlier and had promised he'd try to return, "if Catherine nods off early."
Moving around all like a dancing flame was Elizabeth, a vision in red velvet, her fair hair piled high atop her head, speaking to one and all with the greatest intimacy, as though without their singular presences her party would have been a failure. That the gentlemen responded to such flattery was understandable. But the ladies were equally as receptive, kissing her warmly, their eyes lingering in admiration of the diamond necklace that adorned her throat. A Christmas gift from Lord Kimbrough, or so Andrew had heard.
In the far corner, about the pianoforte, a rousing version of "Good King Wenceslaus" broke out, the wassail glasses lifting high, keeping time with the music. In the fire well the Yule log popped merrily, enhanced by several guests throwing pine cones on the blaze.
Perhaps the most popular spot in the entire drawing room, however, was the table to his right beyond the wassail bowl, a heavenly arrangement of tiny cakes and candied fruit and golden buns and a long silver platter arranged with sliced roast beef and goose, and game loaf.
The climax of the evening was yet to come, the promise o f Lord Kimbrough that before the evening was over, a "Christmas tree" would be delivered which they must all decorate in honor of Christ's Mass, a new and curious tradition which had been started at Windsor by Albert, part of his German heritage which still surfaced with shock waves on the placid English world.
All in all it was a glorious scene, the Christmas spirit alive and flourishing in spite of the tragic events which had befallen England this year. Earlier in the evening, as the guests were first arriving, before the warming intoxication of the wassail bowl had taken effect, Andrew had participated in hushed dialogues concerning the tragic mutinies in India, the London Times still filled with horrifying accounts, though the rebels had long since been hunted down and brought to justice.
Oh, yes, the talk was on every tongue, the journalists fanning the fires with explicit accounts of raped white women, dismembered children, the well at Cawnpore. And after all the anger and horror and revulsion, two strong emotions remained: a seething resentment of all dark-skinned people, and two, a rather poignant bewilderment that one of Britain's most promising colonies had dared to revolt against English benevolence.
"Sweet heaven, Andrew, I wish you could see your face."
He looked up from his wassail cup, in which he'd been seeing a cavalcade of tragic events, and into Elizabeth's face.
"I'm sorry." He smiled. "I was only thinking—"
"Not a very wise thing to do," she chided, "particularly at a party. Come, you've been lurking in this corner long enough."
But as she took his arm, he drew her back, longing for a moment alone with her. "You're so lovely," he whispered.
She looked up into his face. "I have much to be thankful for this Christmas," she said. "You, primarily."
He accepted the compliment with a smile, yet knowing that the true basis for their relationship was John Murrey Eden. In the past they had talked endlessly of him, as though as long as they spoke his name, they somehow kept him alive.
Now he pulled her closer, and in spite of the crowded drawing room, kissed her. She caressed the side of his face as though aware of his need. "Later," she promised. "We will watch Christmas dawn together."
It was a generous promise, considering the number of other gentlemen here who would like to share the same experience. But he
believed her and released her hand and watched lovingly as she moved back into the heart of her parry.
Everyone needed Elizabeth's harmony. Andrew wondered how many of those guests laughing with her now knew or even suspected how unharmonious her own inner life was, still in mourning for the dead Edward Eden, suffering nightmares over whether or not she would ever see John again, feeling that she'd failed him, and in turn had failed Edward.
As the voices rose about him, he refilled his wassail cup, recalling the false leads he'd followed in his search for John. All paths stopped at the hospital in Scutari. From there the man had disappeared, and though Andrew had never let on to Elizabeth, after a fruitless two-year search he feared the worst.
At that moment a thunderous shout from the door signaled the arrival of the Christmas tree, and as all rushed in that direction, Andrew looked up to see a massive evergreen being angled through the double doors. With excited cries from all, four workmen carried it across the room and into position by the window, lopsided at first. The entire gathering shouted instructions, and at last the tree was upright, though looking a bit bizarre.
"Most peculiar," he heard someone comment. "They do this at Windsor, you say?"
"It's free of squirrels, I trust," another murmured.
Before the festive mood could be wholly dampened by the natural suspicion that follows innovation, Lord Kimbrough took the floor with his customary exuberance, bidding the little maid Doris to follow after, bearing a tray filled with delicate sweet cakes to which loops of gold cord had been attached.
"I assure you," he bellowed out over the crowd, "it is done at Windsor, and in every other fashionable house throughout London, or will be shortly. We must be the pacesetters. Come, lend a hand. It lacks only decoration." By way of demonstration, he lifted a small cake and fastened it to a bough, where it swung as prettily as a miniature bird's nest.
Within the moment everyone saw how it was to be done and all pushed forward, attaching the cakes and small white candles and nosegays of holly and mistletoe.
Beginning to weary of his observer's position, Andrew noticed Elizabeth standing near the edge of her guests, a glowing smile on her face, as though nothing delighted her more than the delight of others. Thinking to share the moment with her, Andrew drained his
cup and was just starting around the table when simultaneously he heard the front bell ringing and heard Lord Kimbrough signal Elizabeth's attention.
"Needs more decoration at the top, right?" Kimbrough called from atop his chair.
As Elizabeth turned her attention to the question, Andrew held his position, seeing Doris hurrying to answer the door. Damn! It probably was Gladstone, early returned after "Catherine had nodded off." Andrew didn't stand a chance vying for Elizabeth's attention with Kimbrough and Gladstone both on the scene.
Now across his legs he felt the blast of cold air from the open door. Someone was keeping it open for an undue amount of time. He noticed the candles on the wassail table leap higher in the chill draft. Elizabeth was still focusing on the tree, waving one hand toward the bare upper branches.
As Andrew glanced back through the arch, he saw Doris, a most peculiar expression on her face, backing away from something that was still out of sight by the door.
His attention momentarily torn between the drama taking place at the unseen door and the smaller drama of the partially decorated tree, Andrew saw several of the ladies clasp their bare arms as the chill spread throughout the entire room.
He saw Doris hurrying toward her mistress. But Elizabeth could not be deterred from the task at hand, and while she was aware of Doris, she simply placed a restraining hand on her arm and warned Lord Kimbrough to make sure the candles were secured, lest the small flames ignite the tree.
Partly in curiosity and partly because the chill was becoming damned uncomfortable, Andrew was in the process of going and closing the door himself. But at that moment a figure appeared in the archway. Andrew held his position, understanding Doris' dilemma. Obviously a passing beggar had seen the festivities through the window and had barged in, hoping for alms or a sweet cake.
Quite disheveled he was, Andrew noticed, lean, with full unkempt beard flecked with gray, his long hair snow-dampened and plastered about his face, his trousers mottled, ill-fitting, his ragged coat beyond description. In
his hands he held a worn crushed hat which he kneaded continuously while he looked with hollow eyes out over the . . .
Christ!
Soundlessly Andrew whispered the word, squinting toward the specter in the archway.
He took one step forward, when about ten feet ahead he saw Elizabeth at last turn to the urgent whisperings of her maid. No message was relayed. None was needed. The man stood at the exact center of the arch, as though framed for all to see, the cold winter wind racing around him, his eyes, buried in dark circles, moving slowly over the drawing room, coming at last to Elizabeth, where they stopped.
His lips seemed to part as though he'd spoken a word, though none was audible, as the bulk of the party's noisy attention was still focused on the Christmas tree.
But Andrew was aware of nothing but the man and Elizabeth, two mismatched statues staring at each other with an intensity which stretched between them like a solid cord.
Endlessly they stood, generating an invisible energy which slowly attracted the attention of the chattering crowd, who in groups of twos and threes, commenced turning, voices caught in mid-sentence falling until in all corners of that festive room there was silence.
As for himself, Andrew was certain now, though he still could not believe his eyes. Compounding the miracle of the man's appearance was his wretched condition, looking more dead than alive, one hand clearly trembling even from that distance.
John. It was John, or what was left of him.
Then Elizabeth moved, only a step at first, as though fearful the apparition might disappear. After two steps, Andrew heard her whisper his name, as though some instinct had warned her not to go forward until the confirmation was complete, as though she were accustomed to dealing with ghosts.
"John... r
At the sound of his name, he too moved, only a step, but it was enough. Then Elizabeth was running toward him, sobs tearing at her voice with every breath, and as his arms opened to her, Andrew saw a new light on his ruined features, as he literally reached out and pulled her to him, enclosing her in his arms, only his face visible, his lips moving soundlessly, repeating her name over and over, while she sobbed openly and clung to him.
Andrew stepped back into the shadows, smiling and crying all at the same time. Wiping at his eyes, he ached to go forward and join in the reunion. But he dared not. It was too intimate, and he was aware now of the guests as they whispered together, each seeking an
explanation from the other. He saw tears on John's face, one broad hand cupped about Elizabeth's head, still holding her close.
Andrew dug inside his waistcoat pocket for a handkerchief, blew his nose and wiped at his eyes. By the time he looked up, he saw that they were simply gazing at each other, her hand caressing his forehead, her fingers, lingering in examination of a pronounced scar which ran the length of his brow and disappeared into the mussed hair.
From the area near the Christmas tree Andrew saw Lord Kim-brough moving through the crowd until he stood only a few feet away from Elizabeth, as though to remind her that she had guests.
But there was no need, for at that moment she turned and looked past Lord Kimbrough directly toward Andrew, her face still glistening with tears, one hand extended as though beckoning him to come forward.
And he did, without hesitation, observing that John had not yet seen him, had instead turned back toward the doorway as though something of great concern lay in that direction.
It was Elizabeth who summoned his attention by gently taking his arm, whispering something, and stepping back. Then the full weight of those eyes were upon Andrew, accompanied by a puzzled expression, one hand self-consciously smoothing the worn coat, then moving shakily forward. "Andrew?"
Andrew could only grin, silently cursing his damnable emotions. Then, remembering what they had been through together in the past, he found a mere handshake unsatisfactory, and feeling John's arm go around him, he gave in to the embrace.
As he clasped the thin shoulders close, he looked beyond the arch and saw two shadowy figures. He started to take a closer look, but sensed the embrace coming to an end and stepped back, wanting to ask him where he had been and what various crucibles could account for the lines and scars and fatigue on his face.
But he said nothing, and neither did John, and it was Elizabeth who stepped between them. In a scarcely discernible voice, as though words were still beyond her, she addressed the gaping guests. "This is my son," she said simply.
As murmurs arose from the company, Lord Kimbrough suggested considerately, "Perhaps we should leave, Elizabeth. Clearly you have a much more important party to attend . . ."
"No," she said, "I won't hear of it. Now it's truly Christmas," she
added, taking John's arm. "Stay. All of you, please, and share this miracle with us. You see, we thought he was . . . dead."
Her voice broke again, and John put his arm around her and drew her close.
Lord Kimbrough stepped forward and extended his hand. "John Murrey Eden, isn't it?" he inquired softly. "I feel as though I know you. Elizabeth has spoken endlessly of you."
Again silence. Lord Kimbrough rallied first. "Elizabeth," he pronounced, as though to shake the mood, "he looks as though he could go a few rounds of your banqueting table. Shall I escort him to the bounty or will you?"
"I'm sorry," Elizabeth murmured, still in a state of shock. "Come," she said, taking John's arm, "you must be—"
But suddenly he pulled away, his eyes moving back toward the arch. "I'm . . . not alone."
"Someone's with you? Well, bring them in. My goodness, to keep them waiting in that cold . . »"
Even as she spoke, John disappeared around the corner. Standing close behind Elizabeth, Andrew saw her shoulders trembling.
Concentrating on Elizabeth, he was not aware that anyone had reappeared in the archway. What he heard first was a collective gasp from the guests, then the entire room falling into a new silence, a sense of shock compounding the mystery.
Andrew looked toward the arch to a most astonishing sight, John, his arm about the shoulder of a dark-skinned young woman, his other hand clutching a dark-skinned young boy, both the woman and boy staring about the room with frightened eyes, their appearance as pitiful as John's, the woman in a long soiled black skirt, its filthy hem dragging the floor, bits of straw stuck here and there, her small frame lost in a man's coat, a tattered shawl covering her shoulders and matted black hair. And the little boy clung to John's hand, his timidity getting the best of him as he buried his face in John's coat.
The tableau held, as though John were giving everyone a chance to look their fill. Someplace near the edge of the guests, a woman gasped, "They're . . . Indians."
Immediately following, someone told her to hush. John looked down, a tightness covering his forehead. Without looking up, he said, "We've traveled a great distance. We're . . . very hungry."
He might have said more, but Elizabeth came forward until she stood before the young woman. Smiling, she reached for her arm.
"Come." Without another word, she led her toward the banqueting table. Andrew stepped forward and took John's arm. "I haven't eaten yet." He smiled. "I'll join you."
As John looked up, he seemed to lose his balance. Andrew moved to his side, his arm about his shoulder. "Are you all right?" he whispered, hoping to mask his friend's weakness from the curious onlookers.
John nodded. As he took the little boy's hand, he said to Andrew, "I'd not expected to find both faces I love under one roof."
Andrew smiled. "We wanted to make things easy for you."
Suddenly John looked at him with an intense stare. "You are the first, my friend," he murmured, "in a long time."
Before Andrew could reply, he saw John look ahead to the table, where Elizabeth was filling a platter for the young woman, who continued to stand self-consciously to one side.
Before the bounteous spread, John looked down at the roast beef, the golden chickens, the elegantly arranged platters of fruits and cakes
. "If starvation didn't kill us"—he smiled—"this very well might."
From across the table, Elizabeth looked up at the sound of his voice, her recent emotional upheaval still clear upon her face. "I can't believe it," she said. "Is it really you?"
Andrew saw a tinge of embarrassment on John's face. He nodded briefly before he shifted the attention. "This," he commenced, trying to turn the little boy at his side, "is Aslam."
To Andrew's amazement, he heard the child respond in shy though flawless English. "It is my pleasure," the boy said, making an effort to be grown-up.
Taking the boy with him, John moved toward the young woman and completed the introductions, his arm about her waist, a discernible love in his voice as he said, "And this is Dhari."
The young woman did not respond and appeared even more painfully shy than the boy. Upon introduction, she bowed her head, and Andrew noticed John drawing her closer, as though offering support.
They formed a strange tableau, and while the specifics of the ordeal that had rendered them thus were still unknown, Andrew found himself looking with dread to the account which would inevitably come. He'd seen those expressions before, after the Battle of Inker-man, on the heights of Sebastopol, in the faces of men fresh from battle who had taken part in atrocities that had taxed their abilities to endure.
Unfortunately, Andrew realized that they all were causing greater pain by staring. Then, by God, enough! Clearly the other party had ceased, the stunned guests incapable of speech or movement. Then life must originate here, for none of them could survive in this awkward state for very long.
Accordingly, Andrew stepped forward, a volume to his voice that surprised even him. "Come, Aslam." He grinned at the little boy. "Point out what suits your fancy, and we'll fill a dozen platters if need be."
Again the child seemed to hesitate, but at last he let go of John's hand, drawn forward by his own hunger and the dazzling array of food.
The Eden passion Page 55
