There was that name again. Elizabeth. The one that Susan herself had recently invoked. “Would you know where she is now?” she asked, thinking that news of the missing woman might mean something to Mr. Eden.
But “Gone” was all the man said, and he said that rather patly, as though he'd been quizzed before on the matter and had simply concocted the most economical answer he could think of. Now he repeated it with ominous variation. “Gone. Along with all the rest of them. And though it pains me to say it, John brought it on himself... yes, he did.”
She considered pursuing the harsh indictment, then changed her mind.
“Come, Mr. Aldwell,” she invited now, “your friend is waiting. He needs you now as he’s never needed you before.”
At the direct and urgent invitation, Mr. Aldwell looked almost pleadingly at her. “Is... he...?”
“Come and see for yourself,” she repeated. “I sense a deep bond of affection between you.”
“Aye,” he agreed readily.
“Then come. I assure you that now he is completely abandoned and we must overlook his offenses of the past, whatever their nature. Let God judge him, as He will judge all of us. For now, our responsibility is not his soul, but rather his body, and that has suffered a grievous blow. Come. You may be the very one who makes the difference.”
She tried to make her voice a soothing instrument. But for several awkward moments she wondered if he intended to heed her or not. Had he traveled all the distance from London to turn his back on Mr. Eden?
“Mr. Aldwell, please...” she entreated. “I must go to him. Feel free to follow or to stay...”
Then, with a sense of dispatch, of getting it over with, he turned sharply on his heels and set a fast pace toward the corridor that led to the library, his head bowed, shoulders elevated and hunched, his entire massive body struggling at a forward-leaning angle, as though he were approaching one of the mightiest storms of his life.
He had not expected it to be so difficult. Nor had he expected to remember so much. The approach to the castle had been nothing compared to the castle itself. There all the years that he’d spent with John and the others had come crashing down upon him, as though he’d just lived them.
The tragic irony of the moment was not lost on him. The remarkable man who had brought them all together and welded them into a family was the same man who had driven them apart, each vowing never to return to Eden so long as John drew breath.
“In here, Mr. Aldwell”
At the specific direction, he looked up to find himself before the library door, the woman beckoning him forward.
“Mr. Aldwell, are you feeling well?”
Apparently the dread had registered on his face, or else she was skillful at reading men’s minds.
“No, I...” he began, and apparently she sensed the nature of his hesitation and moved to offer comfort.
“He's your friend and he needs you. It's that simple,” she said, indicating, if nothing else, her ignorance regarding the past and John Murrey Eden. Nothing that man ever did, had done, or would do could be defined as simple. He was a master of convolution, at pitting one individual against another and always asserting his will above all else.
Strangely enough, this brief excursion into hate and resentment seemed to fortify him, like a glass of good port on a January day, and just as the woman was retracing her steps, ready to comfort further, he found the courage to march past her and into the library.
From where he stood just inside the door he saw the vast shelves stripped, the thousands of rich morocco-leather-bound books gone. Where? To his left, like deserted carriages in a storm, stood a row of the mahagony stepladders used for reaching the higher shelves. The arrangements of tables and chairs and reading desks had been pushed into the extreme northwest corner and the various Oriental carpets had been rolled up and shoved beneath the tables, their fringed ends protruding like snuffed-out cigars.
The room resembled nothing now, its original purpose lost. He stood a moment longer, consciously avoiding the extreme depths of the room to his right.
“This way, Mr. Aldwell...”
It was the woman again, forcing him in the least desirable direction, though in the moment of turning he spied another safe harbor, the massive Alma-Tadema painting The Women of Eden.
Even with the distance of the library stretching between him and the painting, he still could see it clearly. The scale was enormous, each individual woman twice as large as life.
Now those women held him enthralled, all of them as evocative on canvas as they once had been in real life, filling the cold corridors of this ancient castle with their light and laughter and beauty and love.
His favorite was Miss Elizabeth, that proud woman to the left of center. He understood Miss Elizabeth better than the others. No aristocratic blueblood there, except of the spirit, and then she was the bluest of all. Started her days, she'd once told Alex, as a prostitute on the lanes of St. James's and, at fourteen, had ended up in the common cell of Newgate, where she'd had the good fortune to meet Edward Eden, John's father.
“Were they truly that beautiful?” The question came from his left, from the little nurse named Susan.
“Oh, more so.” He nodded. “Though each was unique. Dhari there was a beauty. Aslam's mother, you know,” he explained, “but the rarest jewel and John's favorite was his cousin, young Mary, there at the very edge. Mary was irresistible, alive, vital, laughing, as stubborn as John, loving and now... wounded. And gone. Married an American, she did, without John's blessings, in fact with only his curses. Gone to America, which was as good as being dead.”
“She's lovely,” came the comment from his left. “And of course the other one is John's wife. Lila? Was that her name?”
Alex nodded, suddenly weary, not of the painting but of all the tragedy embedded in the paint. It was over. All of it. Those lives, those women. He hadn't received word from any of them for literally years. Gone — as though they had never existed. And all that remained was this canvas. How could that be?
Now, of his own volition and without any urging or assistance from the nurse, he started forward with a determined step, heading toward the high-backed couch, where he suspected the true tragedy rested.
Behind him he was aware of the woman keeping pace. “Mr. Aid-well, I think you should know...”
This voice bore no resemblance to the soft one that had made inquiry about the beauties in the painting. This one was tense and trying to warn him of something.
Too late. His determined step had carried him too rapidly to the high-backed couch, where, with nothing further to obstruct his vision, he glanced down...
“Oh, my dear Godl”
...and was unable for the moment to mask his shock. Instead, he stepped closer until he was standing directly over the high-backed couch, his attention caught and held by the blank fixed stare in those eyes which appeared to be lost in two black hollows. Then he realized that John wasn't seeing anything, not of this world at any rate.
He watched a moment longer and tried to determine the cause for such a bleak fixed gaze. Then a terrifying thought occurred. “Is he... blind?” he whispered, fearful that John could hear what they were saying.
Quickly the nurse shook her head. “No — at least, I don't think so.”
“Then... what...?”
“It's like a twilight sleep,” she said. “It was Miss Nightingale's belief that they generally are more aware than we give them credit for.”
“They?”
“I've worked with other patients who have suffered seizures.”
He nodded, not absolutely certain that she'd answered his question.
“I'm... sorry, Mr. Aldwell. Perhaps I was remiss in not more adequately preparing you.”
“Not necessary,” he murmured, and waved his hand in dismissal and felt there were a few words that were necessary, a few questions to which he would like to have direct answers.
“Miss...” he began, and stopped
.
“Susan,” she said, and simultaneously stepped forward and without hesitation placed a hand on John's forehead. She held it there for several moments, and as far as Alex could tell, if John was aware of her close proximity or Alex's, he gave no indication of it. The eyes never wavered from their fixed spot on the ceiling, the brows slightly knit, as though someplace in the vicinity of the ceiling was an imponderable mystery.
“Still too warm,” the nurse said quietlv. “I can't understand...”
“Fever?”
She nodded. “Slight, but it does persist.”
“How... long has he been thus?” he asked now, though curiously he turned his back on the couch and took refuge in the painted beauty of The Women of Eden.
“From the beginning,” came the reply, which seemed to carry with it a note of astonishment.
He looked back.
“From the beginning,” she repeated. “From when Bates and his men bound him and carried him — no, dragged him — down here. That's when he suffered the seizure.”
“And there has been no alteration?”
“No, none. Except...”
“What?” Hopeful, Alex drew nearer, but not wanting to get so close he could see the face again.
“He used to weep, almost constantly. Now...”
Alex didn't wait for the full explication. “Does... he speak?”
“Not intelligibly,” came the reply. “He speaks most eloquently with his eyes. And” — her smile grew as though they were merely talking about a misbehaving child — “he swings a most effective right hand.”
Alex looked puzzled. How the weak man lying on the couch could swing his arm, Alex didn't know, and was in no mood to find out.
Suddenly the remaining question in his head seemed massively unimportant. Would he improve? Obviously not. Would the torturous trip to London and skilled physicians make any real difference? Probably not. Was he even capable of being transferred back along the bone-jarring and neglected route without doing greater and more pronounced damage to himself? Most certainly not. And how far removed was death? Not far. Surely not far. The man resembled a corpse now.
Then it was settled. Alex would remain here for a polite length of time, an hour, perhaps two. Then he and the sullen London driver would make for Exeter, a friendly inn, a prolonged rest for the horses, a good charred beefsteak and an endless bottle of bloodred port in which he could obliterate at least the memory of the man lying there. As for the richness of the man himself, that would be with Alex always.
To that end he stood up straight and tried to form the first words of what he hoped would be a graceful exit.
“Well, I thank you for writing to me and informing me...”
“I think we can construct a comfortable litter on which to...”
She was suggesting that he take John back to London!
Now he felt a desperate need to refute such a suggestion.
“He can't possibly travel. Can he?” he asked tentatively, not really caring how she answered. In his own mind he was resolved.
“Oh, I think he can,” she said with exasperating calm.
“You can't be serious.”
“Why not? The damage was done with the first seizure. I have no reason to believe that there will be others.”
“But he looks...”
“His appearance is deceptive. He's lost flesh, true, but he eats little. In London, surrounded by family and friends...”
“He has no friends and no family.”
She stared at him for a moment as though trying to determine if he was telling the truth. “I... can't believe that.”
“Believe it. The family — what's left of it — is scattered literally all over the globe, most of them having vowed not to return so long as John...”
Abruptly he caught himself and looked quickly down on the skeletal face, staring eyes. “Are you certain he doesn't hear and understand?” he asked, his voice low.
Immediately she shook her head. “No, I'm not certain of anything. There's no way of measuring the damage until the patient can speak for himself, can take the initiative in describing his own feeling.”
“And John has not...?”
“No. All he's done, as I've said, is weep. Oh, on occasion, in moments of frustration when he tries to make the body work as it once did, he seems to speak a name, but never clearly. For most of the time he seems placid, content to do as he's doing now, study that one spot on the ceiling.”
John himself had taught Alex long ago that any difference of opinion could be resolved with the proper purse. Then first he had to establish what pay she generally received as a circuit nurse — not much, he was certain. Then all he had to do was double it, triple it perhaps, at least until he could make other arrangements from London. Of course, the only family member available for consultation in the matter was Aslam, and Alex already knew what his judgment would be — practical, and probably right. In London John would be nothing but an albatross.
All right. Then at best Alex was asking for two, possibly three more weeks of the nurse's time. Surely she could afford him that, particularly in view of what he was about to offer her.
“Miss,” he began, and would have continued except at that moment John lifted his eyes for the first time, disengaging them from the ceiling. For a moment they seemed to roll backward into his skull, a hideous image which appeared to leave him sightless. But then they reappeared, and for one terrible moment he seemed to look directly at Alex, the eyes, which only moments before had been fixed on the ceiling, now closely studying Alex's face as though, despite the obscuring veils, something like recognition was stirring.
She saw it as well, and bent down until she was close to his ear, her right hand still caressing his forehead, her eyes trying to chart everything at once.
“Do you know who this is, Mr. Eden?” she asked, smoothing back the matted and tangled hair. “He's a good friend, an old friend. Take a closer look...”
At this suggestion Alex saw the pale brow knit again, the eyes definitely engaged, though as yet nothing registered on his face and certainly no words had been spoken.
Then, to Alex's consternation, the woman was motioning for him to step close. “Come, Mr. Aldwell, the light is dim here, and his eyes...”
She never finished her statement about John's eyes, for at that moment they closed, as though a state of complete exhaustion had overtaken him. His head rolled to one side on the hollowed pillow and, to all appearances, he had fallen instantly asleep.
At least that was Alex's grateful judgment. Under the weight of that brief but penetrating gaze, he'd felt his soul falter. How many times he'd seen that same intense gaze on John's face.
But the nurse was unwilling to give up.
“Mr. Eden, please,” she begged, “look again at Mr. Aldwell. He's come so far to see you, and is so worried. Please... try...”
“I don't think, miss, that he's - ”
“You have to try,” she repeated, and her voice cracked, and this time the admonition was addressed not to John but to Alex. “You see, Mr. Aldwell, he doesn't know what he can do at this point in his recuperation, and I suspect that Lady Harriet's death has taken a toll of his spirit. So you see, he must be urged to try, or else...”
“Or else what?” Alex asked, curious to know the complete prognosis.
She told him without hesitation. “...or else he will die. Unused muscles atrophy. Neither can the loss of flesh persist, though he seems fortunate to possess hidden reserves, both literal and figurative, and I think London will make a difference as well. I understand that London is more his home than Eden, so I'm certain there must still be friends there who are capable of making a difference in his recovery.”
What was she talking about? And by the time Alex had refocused his attention away from his quick exit, he heard what sounded dangerously like a plan of action.
“So I think, with Tom Babcock's help, we can construct a makeshift litter that will fit snugly into the carr
iage, where Mr. Eden will be able to ride with a minimum of discomfort.”
“I... don't...”
But the list of negatives was so monumental that Alex faltered as he attempted to list them, and into the vacuum came the soft though determined female voice.
“I know he'll rapidly improve in London, Mr. Aldwell. He's so cut off here, has been for too long. It would be of great help also if some of the family could be notified and summoned home. In his sleep he sometimes calls out certain names...”
“Who?”
“Harriet, of course, and as often Elizabeth...”
Fortunately there was no need to comment one way or the other on her last request. Harriet was dead, as she knew all too well, and Elizabeth had disappeared across the channel in Paris with her revolutionary friends. Four years ago Aslam had received instructions from her to sell her London house at number Seven Saint George Street, once her greatest pride. Aslam was to place it in the hands of an estate agent and not to sell until he could fetch the highest price. Then the proceeds were to be sent immediately to Elizabeth in Paris.
Recalling all this, his mind grew glazed again. He assumed that Aslam or one of the clerks would still have that address, but what guarantee that she would still be there? Reports coming out of Paris the last few years had been grim. Female incendiaries. Women taking an active part in the revolution.
“And, best of all, you will be able to avail yourself of Miss Nightingale's experience in these matters of seizures. You'll find her almost every morning at St. Thomas...”
He nodded, though paradoxically he still was rejecting everything she was saying. Just as soon as she gave him a chance, he would come forward with a series of rebuttals as impressive as her proposals.
“Now, all that remains,” she added, “is to decide what day to aim for. I think Tom can - ”
“Just a minute, please.”
At least he'd managed one interjection, though if she'd heard it, she gave no indication of it.
“And beyond the construction of the litter, nothing remains to do except to close the castle and, of course, one way or the other to disband the home militia outside the gate, but that shouldn't be too difficult. Old Bates is clearly the ringleader. I think that if he - ”
Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5) Page 10
