Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5)

by Marilyn Harris

  though she knew it was useless, as all similar struggles had been useless. She had never won this battle, nor had any woman.

  So, although she knew the battle was lost, had been lost before it had ever commenced, nonetheless she struggled mightily, feeling herself being drawn backward and down, her arms pulled over her head, a rapid and excited exchange taking place between the two soldiers, one giving instructions, the other following, while she found herself flattened on the cool floor, knowing what was ahead for her, knowing there was nothing she could do to alter it in any way, hoping only that it would not be accompanied by brutality and torture as so often it was. Morley Johnson had beaten her senseless first. And the first time it happened, at fourteen, the fat old magistrate had been amused by her fear as he'd held a poker hot from the fire close to her breasts.

  Then suddenly the struggle was over. She moved away from the remembered horrors of the past to the new honors of the present and felt twin pains running the length of her arms and was aware that the soldier behind her was standing on her arms, his boots pinching, while he leaned over her, upside down and smiling. Gathering the two sides of her bodice, one in each hand, with one effort he ripped it open well beyond her waist, where, laughing, the second soldier grabbed for the two ends and tore it the rest of the way. The same was done to her petticoat, until she lay bared before them and saw their sporting ardor change to something else, something more intense, as for several moments they stared down at her, their hands moving over their own garments independent of their eyes, fingers nervously fumbling with buttons and belt buckles, an occasional low comment greeted with a nod, while she closed her eyes and thought of the women, many her friends, who had been massacred on the barricades by men in uniforms identical to these, summary executions without benefit of trial or magistrate.

  As knees roughly forced her legs apart, she looked above and saw the second soldier grinning down on her.

  Then the assault was launched, body violated, soul plundered, pain accompanying the rough penetration, hands uninvited moving over all aspects of her body, while she, with head pressed back, tried to endure and remain intact, for there would be work to be done after it was over.

  As the rhythm of the attack increased, the soldier standing on her arms urged his compatriot on by putting new pressure on her wrists.

  The hobnail boots were cutting into her flesh, which in a way was a blessed distraction.

  Only once did she cry out, and it was her cry that seemed to satisfy him, and he shuddered heavily and slowly withdrew and wordlessly the two changed places and the second attack was under way with no word spoken, merely a satisfied weariness on the part of the first and an eager enthusiasm on the part of the second, and for the second time Elizabeth felt the coolness of air rush across her body, until it was covered by the soldier.

  Only six months, and she'd be home.

  John...

  The pain was increasing. Dear God, help...

  Then, when she didn't think she could endure, she felt the soldier go limp atop her and heard a curious sound above her, applause, and a delighted male laugh, and looked up to see the first soldier applauding the performance of the second. She felt the incredible weight leave her body, felt the despicable sticky moisture between her legs, felt the sensation of hands and teeth still upon her, and most welcome of all, felt the pressure leave her arms as both men exchanged comments, grinning, though neither looked down on her once, not in condemnation, not in pleasure. She had simply served as an inanimate receptacle, something used and now discarded.

  They moved leisurely about her, stepping over her as though someone had carelessly left a piece of refuse in their path.

  They stood with their backs to her now, only the low table separating them, restoring their garments, talking quietly between themselves, their conversation, whatever its nature, frequently punctuated with a low guttural laugh.

  After it was over, there would be work to be done.

  Could she stand? She had to. Only those capable of standing could man the barricades; Louise Michel had said so. The dark blue uniforms were coming again …

  Stand up! Slowly she drew herself forward and onto her knees.

  Hurry! Time was always of the essence. The enemy must not be allowed to anticipate your next move.

  She stumbled once on her torn dress, and was certain the two would turn and see her. But neither did, so engrossed were they in their low conversation, the restoration of endless gold buttons on their tunics.

  Leaning heavily on the wall for support, she raised herself all the way up, impervious to the torn dress. Before her she saw the wicker sewing box which the general had given to her for the purpose of embroidering his daughter's trousseau. And there, next to the basket, the sharp long shears.

  She did not discriminate. She was well beyond the ability to pick one and reject the other. She simply followed Louise Michel's instructions. She held her weapon steady, upraised in her right hand, for her left had been injured in some way by the hobnail boots, and she saw two blue-coated backs before her and she simply moved on the nearest and added strength to her weapon by stumbling on the hem of the tom dress as she brought the shears down, and felt the good resistance of a penetration, the sharp blades going the length of the back with her fall, cutting a swath through fabric and flesh, and before she fell to one side she heard the joyous music of a man's scream of agony, and saw a wake of glistening red spread out over the torn back and, as she fell, she saw him fall in the opposite direction, the shears still protruding from his back.

  She struck her head on the stone floor as she went down, but unfortunately the blow wasn't enough to render her unconscious, and though stunned, she was fully aware of the shocked and angry face now glaring down on her, and she knew in that moment that it was over for Elizabeth Eden.

  She tried for a few sorrowful moments to return the stare of the man standing over her. But then he spit on her, and as she tried to wipe the slime from her face, she felt a displacement of air as he drew his boot back and brought it forward with all his strength against the side of her head, the force of the blow causing her neck to crack, her ears to ring, and leaving her in a semi-black world, aware only that she would never see John again, or Mary, or Richard, or Eden.

  Beware the dangers of a revolution which is not permitted to happen.

  For her the battle was over. Shortly she would be free to go and find Edward Eden, and that was a moment she joyously anticipated. The only time this world had made any sense to her had been in those golden days when she had lived with Edward.

  Then, though unschooled and untutored, she had understood everything...

  Eden Castle July 28, 1874

  Indulging in the classic petulance which he felt was an invalid's right, John slumped beneath the lap robe in the chair on the headland and tried not to listen to the woman's voice, though it was pleasing enough. It was her choice of reading matter which had plagued him for the past two weeks, since she'd first decided that both his soul and his body needed a warming light.

  What in the hell that was supposed to mean, he had no idea. She'd said it often enough, though not once had she ever stopped to explain it. And not that he'd ever asked...

  “Why, O Lord, do You stand far off?'“

  Her voice drew him back with the curious question. Had she read it or spoken it aloud from her heart? He glanced slyly to his left and saw her sitting primly on one of the stone benches which his grandfather had arranged on the length of the headland.

  This woman had bathed, combed, changed, and fed him for a lost number of days. Suddenly the realization gave him pause. How intimately those small hands supporting that dog-eared Bible had moved over him. The second realization was even more astonishing than the first. No other woman in his entire life had ever done for him what this woman had done.

  As she continued to read from the small black leather Bible, he abandoned his train of thought and let his mind drift.

  Harriet dead...


  Suddenly the droning voice fell silent. “Are you in discomfort, Mr. Eden?” she asked gently.

  He shook his head, embarrassed. When would the realization cease to hurt? Harriet dead...

  Either she didn't see the slight shake of his head or else she was determined to force him into speech. “I beg your pardon?” she inquired politely, and from the downward angle of his vision he could only see the brilliant green grass and the dusty hem of her dark blue dress.

  Again he shook his head, feeling embarrassed and childlike before her. She was damned self-possessed for a woman, he’d give her that much. He’d seen her with old Bates and his motley crew. She kept most of them on a short string, without them even knowing it.

  “It would help, Mr. Eden,” came the soft voice on his left, “if you used speech more often. Your impairment will never get better until you try.”

  Angered by the accusation of impairment, he almost responded but caught himself in time, knowing that his anger had been her goal, and now he refused to give her that satisfaction.

  Instead he stared straight ahead out over the channel, which was an almost unbelievable shade of blue on this mild July afternoon. Abruptly he closed his eyes. Her voice resumed its reading.

  “‘Why, O Lord, do You stand far off? Why do You hide Yourself in time of trouble?’”

  Elizabeth?

  When would Elizabeth come home? He needed someone who understood him. Not a stranger. Aldwell had been here... when? Surely there had been time to get a message to Paris by now.

  Aldwell... Bastard. John had seen clearly the way Aldwell had looked down on him. Finished. That’s what his expression had said. John Murrey Eden finished.

  Not that he would have wanted to return to London. He wasn’t ready for London yet, though he was beginning to experience an increasing sense of urgency. Alex Aldwell, though a disappointment, wasn’t his main concern. Aslam held that unique position.

  “‘He boasts of the cravings of his heart, He blesses the greedy and reviles the Lord...

  Oh God, would she never cease? Would he be forced to speak in an attempt to quiet her?

  “When... Aldwell return?”

  The sound of his voice, impaired and halting, intersecting her fluid one, seemed to startle them both. She looked up and blinked, as did he.

  “Mr. Aldwell?” she repeated, trying to make the transition. “I'm afraid he didn't say. If you wish, I can send a messenger - ”

  Quickly he shook his head. He didn't want Aldwell to think he needed him. But a man in attendance would be a pleasant change.

  “I know how difficult it is, Mr. Eden. This waiting, I mean,” she said quietly, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her stretch in a becoming way, both hands planted on her hips near the small of her back, neck extended, the gesture lifting her breasts. She wasn't beautiful — not by conventional definition. But she was fascinating to watch, her self-assurance, her confidence.

  Without warning, she looked up, as though embarrassed by his gaze. “I'm... s-sorry,” she murmured, and glanced down and saw the Bible in her hand and held it up, as though it were a splendid idea. “Shall I read?”

  “No.”

  Confronted with his blunt rejection, she foundered, then slowly lowered the Bible back to her lap and sat like a child chastised.

  “Would you like to exercise?” she asked a moment later, her face once again flushed with the excitement of a new idea.

  To that hideous suggestion he said a second resounding, “No.”

  If given his choice between the Psalms and exercise, he'd choose the former.

  “It would be good for you,” she said, obviously unaware of the depth of his loathing. “I could call Bates and Sam Oden...”

  He was certain she could. The whole ridiculous home guard lounged less than fifty feet away in a patch of sweet fragrant clover — that is to say that everyone lounged except the madman himself, Bates, who stood at a semistiff angle, his gaunt face taut with condemnation of everything he saw, the two of them primarily, but also such gross offenders as the green grass, the brilliant sun, and the lace of whitecaps on the channel.

  In a very definite way John knew precisely what was making old Bates so antagonistic: John himself — for allowing the willful destruction of the world of Eden, the rarefied world of company and festivals and comings and goings, of master and servant. When John failed to keep his world intact, he simultaneously destroyed old Bates's world, for the latter could not exist without the former.

  Ostensibly now — at least according to Bates himself — they had agreed to Mr. Aldwell's terms because they didn't want to let the “prisoner” out of their sight.

  “What's he paying them?” he asked suddenly.

  “Paying them?” Susan parroted, bewildered, obviously having difficulty following the turns of his mind.

  He looked toward the small knot of men lounging on sweet clover. Apparently — though she now understood the question — she still was at a loss to provide him with an answer. “I... don't know, Mr. Eden,” she confessed, seated straighter on the bench. “I believe money did change hands, but how much, I...”

  Plenty, he was certain of that — for two reasons. One: Alex was always good at putting men on the payroll. It had been a bone of contention with them in the past. Then, two: there was the matter of Bates himself. John, if no one else, knew him for what he was, a rigid and unbending but honorable man who had agreed to sell him a portion of his soul. Nothing new there. Men sold their souls, either in part or whole, every day, then conveniently forgot about the transaction. But something in Bates would not let him forget, and John found himself now gazing at the old man with a degree of admiration. A man should be angry when he parts with his soul.

  “Shall I call Mr. Bates for you, Mr. Eden?” she offered now. “Perhaps he can - ”

  “No.”

  Tired of turning his head first in one direction, then the other, he slumped deeper beneath the lap robe and brooded out over the channel. In a way, and in spite of everything, the moment was peaceful, just her silent presence and the good fragrant day and the high warm sun and a curious though delightful sense of no past, no present, no future.

  “Bates, stay close,” John muttered as they approached the gatehouse and the rocking motion of his chair began to take a toll. His back ached, his head ached, his dead left leg had chosen this moment to come briefly, painfully to life, and now a hot shooting pain was running the length of his body, commencing at a point in his calf and shooting all the way up to the base of his skull.

  Also he was aware of the stunned expression on the old pencil of a man walking close beside him. “I... beg... your pardon, sir?” came the chilly inquiry. What gave John hope was the almost reflexive “sir” that appeared on the end of the taut query and seemed to soften it all.

  “I said, ‘Stay close, please’” John repeated.

  “Stay... close?” he heard Bates repeat, the bafflement on his face extending to his voice. “Why, sir?”

  There it was again, that reassuring “sir,” and John knew precisely what it meant and how to exploit it. “Because she's driving me crazy, that female is,” John lied, knowing that it was probably the only explanation to which Bates would relate.

  Right on target. John heard the old man snicker, a good male sound of derision, and a moment later he was joined by Sam Oden and Tom Babcock, the only two within hearing distance. The others had run ahead to throw open the narrow gatehouse doors.

  “It's rumored in the village,” Sam Oden said conspiratorially, “that Susan Mantle will heal your body and take your soul for payment. If you're not careful, that is.”

  “Stay... close, Bates,” John repeated, cursing his sluggish tongue for forcing him to speak with all the fluidity of a village idiot. “I want... you... tend me,” he added, pleased to see that while his tongue might be sluggish, his mind was not.

  He had no use for Bates as an enemy. But he had a hundred uses for him as an ally. And he suspe
cted that down deep, Bates felt the same.

  “I must ask you to repeat what you last said, sir,” Bates demanded, sniffing at the air with a frown, as though in some way he found it lacking.

  Despite the circumstances of the moment, John loved that arrogance and imperiousness. In fact, if the truth were known, it was for those twin characteristics that he'd paid a king's ransom for Bates in the first place.

  “AH right,” John sighed with an air of strained patience. “I... want you to tend me,” he repeated, and abruptly ducked his head, embarrassed by his sluggish tongue and lips.

  “Tend you?” Bates repeated. “I... don't understand...”

  “How much clearer need I...?” Drawn to anger in a very short time, John sat back in the chair and tried to control his impatience.

  Apparently the request at last registered, though Bates's face still was a mask of bewilderment. “I am not a man's man,” he said archly, and drew himself up. “I am a butler.”

  “I know that,” John snapped. “I'll see to it that Aldwell provides you with a purse for your... effort.”

  There! Thank God. One complete sentence. He could do it; he just needed practice.

  His impatience softened by a brief sense of accomplishment, he looked up, wondering what in the hell more needed to be said. They understood each other better than this. Bates had already sold him a portion of his soul. What matter another small piece?

  “Come on, Bates,” he urged now. “What do you say?”

  For a moment nothing moved on the thin old face. His eyes seemed to become completely fixed and lifeless. Then, through pursed lips held so rigid that it was a miracle words could escape at all, the old man spoke.

  “I say to you, Mr. Eden, that you are an insane man, the devil incarnate, and a half-dead man as well. Tend you? I would sooner tend a basketful of vipers. It would be far the safer undertaking, and if I were the last man left standing on this earth and you were to approach starving, naked, and dying of thirst, I would not so much as lift this little finger to ease your pain.”