He lifted his head to the delightful sound, amazed as much by its presence as anything. In this vast landscape of misspent and wasted lives, such a heavenly sound seemed to be in direct contradiction.
He listened to it a moment longer. Then with the most conciliatory voice he could muster, he smoothed back his mussed hair and went forward, calling out, “Hallo...”
With luck and grace, God might, on Judgement Day, forgive her a few of her minor and thoughtless sins. But Herr Spindler? Never. For the manner in which she was now butchering Chopin's “Fantasy Impromptu” he would see her punished in that unique hell reserved for the heathen who did not view a pianoforte as a celestial instrument.
Of course, in all fairness, the offense was not totally her fault. Part of it lay with the very handsome though wretchedly cared-for pianoforte itself, dated and labeled in rosewood inlays “Pleyel, Paris 1836.”
That was years before her birth, an antique really, a lavish gift from one Eden to another on some far-distant and happy occasion.
Suddenly she heard a soft groan coming from the library. Within the instant her fingers were again on the keyboard, something simpler this time, Chopin at Majorca.
Between rests in the melancholy piece she turned her ear in the direction of the library. He was, as she suspected, quiet now. Not asleep. She knew better than that. But somehow soothed by the music, even music badly played.
As her fingers formed certain chords, she marveled again that he was still alive. On that dreadful night three weeks ago when they had bound him like a wild animal and half-carried, half-dragged him down from the castle roof, she had been afraid for him, for the duress that he, as well as they, was inflicting on his body. When the seizure had come — and it had been awful, blood seeping from his mouth and nostrils — she knew instantly what had happened, a stroke as Miss Nightingale had called it. Death was the best remedy, she had said further, with the sympathetic but objective judgment which had made her the greatest professional in all of England. Such patients never got any better, and some — for too long — never got any worse, like Mr. Eden.
Every morning she awakened from her cramped position in the big wing chair she'd shoved into position beside his couch in the library, certain that she'd find him dead. But what she had found every morning for the last three weeks had been a pulse, faint at first but persistent. And as the first days had evolved into a week when she'd sat with him through fevers, she prayed that God would be merciful enough to take this servant, for the worst punishment He could send this once-strong man would be a life of impairment.
That had been her prayer in those first days. But at some point when it had been clear to her that either God was not going to answer her specific prayer or that John Murrey Eden was fighting with every ounce of limited strength he could muster, then she had ceased offering up that prayer and remembered, “Thy will be done, not mine,” and devoted herself completely to his case.
As she brought the nocturne to a close, she thought she heard a human voice raised in “Hallo” a distance away. No, only her imagination, the natural result of too much isolation and too little sleep. Once a day — sometimes in the evening — if he wasn't too busy Reverend Christopher would trudge up the cliff walk and bring her a basket of muffins, a round of cheese, and always an encouraging word. But beyond that she was alone in this immense tomb with only a half-dead man and a handful of zealous home guards for company.
Bates...
A fearful man, she'd decided a long time ago, who now had marshaled a vigilante group of fishermen who stood guard night and day outside the castle gates, awaiting the day when Mr. Eden's health permitted him to face the justice that they were forced to face every day of their lives.
Somberly Susan stared down at the keyboard, recalling the words she'd exchanged with the old man — sometimes angry, always futile. The dead woman — “Mr. Eden's victim” — had been buried, without ceremony, in the Eden graveyard three weeks ago.
Still overwhelmed by the madness, Susan shook her head and glanced back toward the library door and wondered if Mr. Eden even knew what had happened to him. She removed her hands from the keyboard, where they had rested for several minutes without striking a note, and abruptly stood. How much longer could it go on? And how much longer could she abandon her other patients on the circuit? She was long overdue now...
Yet what to do? She'd sent three different messages to the John Murrey firm in London. Reverend Christopher had given her a name — a Mr. Alex Aldwell, who, according to Reverend Christopher, was Mr. Eden's close friend and business associate. In each message she'd tried very hard to be precise and yet brief, not clearly defining Mr. Eden's seizure, for she hadn't been certain just precisely what had befallen the man. But what had it gained her? Exactly nothing. No response. Either Reverend Christopher was wrong about the depth of the relationship which existed between Mr. Eden and this Mr. Aldwell, or else that relationship had soured, like everything else in this dreadful place.
Suddenly an idea occurred. What if she were to move Mr. Eden outside into the dazzling sun which shone brilliantly through the open door of the Great Hall. She sat up on the piano bench. Yes, it had always made a difference with the patients in London. Then she would do it. But could she? Even a reduced Mr. Eden was still a large man...
She bowed her head, then caught herself and looked up into the same empty rectangle of sunlight which only a few moments earlier had provided her with hope. She blinked.
It wasn't the same empty rectangle. Something was filling it now, the silhouette of a man, massive, in shades of dark and light, merely standing there, one arm braced against the right door frame as though he were tired and in need of support.
Her first thought was that it was one of the home guard come to ask a favor or to inquire the condition of Mr. Eden's health. They reminded her of vultures waiting perversely, not for the body to die, but for it to live, so they could pounce on it and carry it away.
But in spite of her surprised shock, she looked again across the Great Hall and decided, no, it wasn't a member of the home guard although for a moment or two she was unable to say how she could be so certain.
Would he never speak? Surely he had seen her, though now she noticed that his eyes were caught on a specific room deterioration. Near the top of the high ceiling there were large cathedral windows; three were broken. “It's seen better days,” came the deep, weary male voice from the door. The words seemed to sail effortlessly over the distance that separated them. She thought in a second that it sounded like a voice accustomed to addressing men.
“I'm sure it has,” she replied, and thought how weak and womanly her voice sounded in contrast.
“Would you...?”
She'd thought to ask him his name, nothing more, but apparently he had mistaken the half-formed sentence for an invitation to come all the way into the Great Hall, which in the next minute was precisely what he was doing, at the last minute remembering his short black narrow-brimmed hat, and scooping it off schoolboy fashion, holding it awkwardly before him.
“I'm sorry,” he apologized, and she was amazed to discover how ill-at-ease he was. With the distance of the Great Hall separating them, he seemed confident.
“You are...?” she began.
Suddenly a look of remorse warmed his face. “Oh, Gawd, I'm sorry,” he apologized. “You must have thought... The grin faded as he shook his head in self-abnegation.
“Aldwell,” he pronounced with renewed conviction. “Alex Aid-well, down from London...”
Although she'd only recently been thinking on him, it took her a moment or two to connect the reality of this man to the name she'd addressed on three different occasions. Then she did.
“Yes,” she said, smiling back at him. “Yes, of course. Mr. Aldwell. I wrote to you...”
“Several times...”
“I'm sorry. I had no way of knowing if my earlier efforts...”
“They did.”
“Then I am sorry...�
�
“No need. I tried to get here sooner, but...”
“It wouldn't have made any difference.”
“Are you alone here?”
“Except, of course, for Mr. Eden and...”
“Them?” With that he jerked his head back toward the sun-filled door to the Great Hall. Since there was no one there, she assumed he meant Bates's comic-opera soldiers beyond.
“Yes,” she replied, and wished again they all would go back to their herring boats. Yet at certain moments, particularly late at night, she was glad they were out there.
During the interim, Mr. Aldwell stepped closer and appeared to be staring beyond her, as though looking for someone.
“Mr. Eden is bedridden, Mr. Aldwell,” she said.
Quickly he nodded, as though he'd known that all along, though he added a curious postscript. “Then he's... still alive?”
“Yes,” she replied, “he's still alive, but you won't recognize him. He's not the same man...”
“What happened?”
“A seizure,” she said simply.
“How long had he been ill?” Mr. Aldwell asked now, suddenly lowering his voice as though fearful of being overheard.
“To the best of my knowledge, he hadn't been ill at all,” Susan replied. She was speaking, of course, of physical illness. After having watched Mr. Eden each day and large parts of each night for the last three weeks as he'd cried out, first calling one name, then the other, she suspected that he was suffering from a deep spiritual illness, the outlines of which she could only guess at.
Mr. Aldwell seemed surprised at this information, as though certain that such a serious condition as existed now had to be preceded by earlier and equally serious illness.
As he continued to stare, she tried to explain and gave him a brief accounting of how Reverend Christopher had summoned her to Eden Castle, hoping that perhaps she could alter the impending tragedy which was about to take place on top of the high crenella-tion.
He listened attentively and quietly until she spoke of the dead woman in Mr. Eden's arms. Then his attention vaulted. He started toward her.
“Who...”
“Reverend Christopher identified her as Lady Harriet — Mr. Eden's aunt, I believe he said.”
Mr. Aldwell seemed to be suffering for Mr. Eden now. “God help him...” Then he asked, “How... did she die?”
“My professional judgment — and Reverend Christopher agrees with me — was that she died of starvation.”
“My God!” The pain broke on his face and seemed literally to turn him about and leave him facing the Great-Hall door, where for a few moments she could chart easily the agony as it moved down his neck into his shoulders, everything about the large man visibly collapsing.
Then suddenly she heard his angry voice demanding, “Where were the servants?”
She looked up to see Mr. Aldwell confronting her as though she were responsible for the sad state of affairs at Eden.
“Gone,” she said, taken off guard by the accusatory tone of his voice.
“All of them?” he demanded further, his sense of incredulity growing.
“When I arrived, yes.”
“How did they live?” he asked frantically, and only at the last minute did he seem to realize that his question had been answered in the very fact of the disintegration of Eden. Their eyes met and held, she trying to offer comfort without words, he rejecting it.
“My God!” he repeated, and again his despair turned him about and propelled him forward almost half the distance back to the Great-Hall door.
“You know, I told Aslam,” he called back to her. “Yes, I did. Several times. I said we can't just...” Abruptly his voice broke.
“Mr. Aldwell, don't blame yourself, please,” she begged.
He was silent for a moment and then angrily pointed outside. “What in the hell are they doing there?” he demanded.
“They're waiting for Mr. Eden's recovery.” She came up alongside of him on the top step and joined him in gazing out at the unofficial sentries.
“What is their interest in John?” Aldwell asked.
She stepped back and lifted her face to the sun, which was warm, and nibbed her arms. “They believe there are charges to be brought against him,” she said bluntly.
“What... charges?” Mr. Aldwell asked, altering his line of vision, shifting it to her.
“Serious ones, Mr. Aldwell, though ridiculous on the face of it.”
“What charges?”
“They feel that somehow Mr. Eden was responsible for the woman's death.”
“John? Responsi...?”
Still he appeared more bewildered than anything else. She was on the verge of repeating herself when abruptly he turned away.
“My God!” she heard him whisper, and while she knew it wasn't a prayer, she knew it wasn't a curse either. He went on, his back to her, and the strong channel breeze seemed to blow a few of the words away. “Don't they know...?” He began angrily and never finished, and glanced out at the distant men.
“Why?” he demanded again. “What has John ever done to them but hired and fed and clothed a great many of them?”
“That's not the point, Mr. Aldwell,” she said gently. “Most of the villagers have lived their entire lives in the shadow of Eden. If they have worked inside the castle, the case would be even stronger against the Eden family - ”
“Why?” he demanded, his indignation growing.
“Mortemouth is a poor village,” she said, feeling as though she were commenting on the obvious. “Children starve to death every year down there. Did you know that? Look at the close physical proximity of the two worlds. Questions of equality and justice are bound to occur to the simplest minds...”
His anger appeared to be receding. “Still, John earned...” He broke off mid-sentence and glanced back toward the home guard. “Dear God, how he worked, and how much the firm needs his steadying hand now.”
“I'm sure it does.”
“Is he...?”
“Come, I'll take you to him.”
“No, wait!”
Although she had already turned back toward the Great-Hall door, dreading the impending meeting and wanting only to get it over, she was surprised to find a restraining hand on her arm. Apparently he was dreading the meeting as much as she.
“There's nothing to be afraid of, Mr. Aldwell. He's - ”
“I’m not...”
“He's very ill, that's all. But he's still alive and fairly young...”
He turned away and she saw him fumbling in his waistcoat pocket, and a moment later he withdrew a mussed linen handkerchief and made two awkward swipes at his eyes and blew his nose. She waited with him and saw his line of vision again, aimed straight toward the home guard beyond the gatehouse, and saw, along with him, something new, Bates staring back at them, his rigid thin form like a single black slash on the blue horizon.
“Bastard!” Mr. Aldwell muttered beneath his breath. “I daresay he's waited all his life for this moment.”
“Do you think he can bring charges against...?”
“He can if he wants to. It won't make any difference. I'm taking John with me back to London.” He looked sharply over his shoulder at her. “If he can travel, that is. Do you think...?”
Whereas before she'd been fairly certain that Mr. Eden was capable of surviving such a journey, now she felt fully her responsibility. She knew that Mr. Aldwell would abide by her decision.
“Perhaps... probably. We'll see,” she murmured, safely equivocating. How peculiar! Only a few moments earlier she'd wanted nothing so much as to be freed from this curious duty. Now...
“How soon?” Mr. Aldwell pressed further.
The direct question brought her back to her present dilemma. “I'm... not certain. Care will have to be taken...”
“Of course.”
“The journey will have to be done in stages...”
While he nodded cooperatively to everything, suddenly it occurred
to her to consider Mr. Eden's wishes. What if, even in his diminished state, he had no desire to leave Eden? To force a change of environment upon him could be fatal.
“What is it?” Mr. Aldwell asked, seeing the indecision on her face.
“I... was just thinking...” She broke off.
‘What were you just thinking?” Aldwell persisted. “Were you worried about them?” He jerked his head in the direction of Bates and his guards.
She grabbed at the false excuse. “Yes,” she lied. “Bates was fully prepared to transport Mr. Eden to the constable in Exeter three weelcs ago, immediately following his seizure. It was only Reverend Christopher's persuasion that saved him.”
The indignation on Mr. Aldwell's face escalated to anger. “Well, the bastard has me to deal with now,” he exploded, and swiveled back around, dividing his fury equally between her and the man for whom it was originally intended. “I just wish he would try to stop me,” he said, his voice falling ominously low.
“Come, Mr. Aldwell,” she said with sudden dispatch, weary of postponing this difficult moment. “Maybe it will be your face, your presence, that will penetrate through Mr. Eden's silence.”
He nodded soberly, as though he too were ready to get it over with. “He's... in a bad way, then?” he asked with gruff ingenuousness, and followed anxiously after her back into the Great Hall.
“Yes.”
“Where is he?” Mr. Aldwell asked, coming up on first one side, then the other.
“In the library,” she replied without looking back.
For a few moments she sensed him falling behind, sensed as well his incredulity. “That's... where I left him.”
Interested, she glanced back but never altered her step. “Why did you leave him? And when?”
“About four years ago,” he said, at last drawing even with her, though up close she could see the reluctance on his face.
“And why?” she persisted.
Mr. Aldwell shook his head. “He was...” He hesitated. “Oh, hell, I don't know what he was,” he concluded, annoyance joining his sorrow. “I tried for days, weeks, to reach him. Miss Elizabeth too, before she went to Paris with her friends.”
Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5) Page 9
