Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5)

by Marilyn Harris

  John blinked up. It was going to be a bit more difficult than he had imagined.

  “What am I asking, Bates, that is so... demanding? I thought my health was of paramount importance to you.”

  The release of hate seemed to provide the old man with a degree of relief. In fact, now he even deigned to smile. “Your health is of paramount importance to me,” he confirmed, inserting one hand in his pocket, an unprecedented gesture for that normally ramrod-straight man, “but Fm not certain that you fully understand your position here, sir.”

  “Explain it to me,” John demanded, still reassured by the ever-occurring “sir.”

  “Gladly,” Bates replied, and waited until the two men who had been carrying John's chair settled in the tall grass, clearly as fascinated as John by the explanation to come.

  When all was quiet, save for the soft whistling wind and a single cart-wheeling gull, Bates stepped back and commenced to speak. “Though your manner and attitude seem to deny it, sir, a woman is dead, was found dead in your arms in a singularly grim tableau which would have brought the full weight of the law crashing down on our poor lesser heads - ”

  “She did not die there,” John muttered, head down, cursing the old bastard for inflicting such pain of memory.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I said, 'She did not die there/” John shouted. “She was dead when I found her.”

  “Where was that, sir?”

  “In her chambers.”

  “How did she die?”

  “I don't know.”

  “But she was dead when you found her?”

  “I said so, didn't I?”

  Precisely what had triggered the weakness, he had no idea. The thought of Harriet dead, all the remembered sorrow, combined with the gaping men who now had been joined by the woman coming softly up behind his chair — curious at first, then stunned into silence, as were the men, by the spectacle with which John was providing them.

  “What... happened?” he heard a gentle female voice inquire from behind.

  “He asked me to... tend him,” Bates repeated, and John thought his voice sounded less imperious now.

  “Tend him?”

  “I don't know, ma'am. He never explained...”

  There was another moment's silence, during which John enjoyed the unique sensation of standing outside himself, looking down on the ill man along with everyone else. Surely, surrounded by all these good Christian hearts, one at least could find it within himself to forgive him.

  Then one did, though it was a most surprising “one” and John wasn't absolutely certain that forgiveness was the motive.

  “I'll tend him, miss,” old Bates volunteered now. “He needs a man. But I want it clearly understood by all, that as soon as his health improves, I am personally escorting him to Exeter. Would you ask him if he understands that?”

  “Why don't you ask him yourself, Bates?”

  Oh, she was a cool one, that one was, who healed bodies in exchange for souls.

  “I said I'd tend you, Mr. Eden, sir, if you wish. But you must understand my intentions. As soon as you are able, we will go to Exeter; is that clear?”

  Yes, John understood all too well. Further, he understood that such a journey would never take place.

  “Did you hear me, Mr. Eden?”

  Then it was John's turn. Slowly he lifted his head. “Thank you,” he murmured, then added brokenly, “...forever in your debt...”

  Even the wind seemed to fall silent out of respect and pity and attention.

  Without looking up, he said to the nurse, “Would it be possible, Miss Mantle, to accommodate all these good men inside the castle? It would be very convenient for them, closer than Mortemouth. Plenty of rooms, and I hate to think of them chilled and hungry.”

  For a moment he wasn't certain if anyone had heard or understood. On either side out of the corner of his eyes he saw Sam Oden and the other giant rising slowly to their feet, their gaze fixed on John with a distinct air of disbelief.

  Bates, as always, was chief spokesman for their confusion. “We... don't understand, sir,” he stammered, though John suspected that he understood all too well.

  “Move into... castle,” John repeated, still not looking directly at any of them. He didn't have to. He knew very well the thoughts spiraling through old Sam Oden's head, and those very same thoughts would be duplicated by the other men from Mortemouth. Never in their wildest dreams had they ever entertained the notion that one day they would inhabit Eden Castle. Eden Castle was, at best, the place where — if one was very lucky — one went into service.

  “Of course,” John murmured weakly, as though on the verge of denying his own idea, “if it's asking too much, please...”

  “You mean you want the men to move in, sir?” Bates prodded further, apparently not understanding at all.

  John nodded. “More... convenient... for them... more comfortable...”

  Then all understood and were stunned into silence. John's muscles were beginning to grow stiff. He needed to move, stand, walk, if he was to function again at all, but he did not relish using a frail woman as a crutch. No, the presence of men in the castle would be a help to John, if no one else.

  “It would mean extra work,” the nurse contributed with typical practicality.

  “Hire... help,” John stammered.

  “Oh, not necessary, sir,” Bates soothed. “These are good men, accustomed to doing their share. They'll pitch in.”

  Incredible! Was this the same man who only a few minutes earlier had condemned John and dismissed him as being the devil?

  “Then it's settled?” John smiled wanly and for the first time looked up at them all, an attentive audience.

  “Settled, sir.” Bates nodded.

  As Sam and Tom Babcock moved into position beside the chair, Bates held up a restraining hand. “No,” he ordered and, shocked, John looked up.

  “Mr. Eden will walk back into his castle,” Bates pronounced. “Come.” He gestured to the two men who had carried the chair thus far. “Lift him to his feet.”

  “Wait a minute,” John protested vigorously, not particularly enjoying this turn of events. He was incapable of walking anyplace. Didn't they all know that?

  “All right, heave!” Bates ordered, and before John knew what had happened, even before he could protest, he felt himself leave the confinement of the chair, felt himself dangle for a moment between the twin towers of Sam Oden and Tom Babcock, felt their generous strength supporting both his arms, and looked down, and to his mortification saw the bathrobe fallen open, revealing his bare knees.

  “Perhaps we should postpone the first walking lesson until Mr. Eden is more appropriately garbed,” Miss Mantle interjected. “Also, I think that one of Eden's endless corridors would be a more reliable setting than this bumpy terrain.”

  Bless her, John thought, and felt the men cover him carefully and ease him back down into the chair.

  He needed clothes. Bates could find them someplace in the castle. He needed to move and exercise the phantom leg. Bates would help him along one of Eden's “endless corridors,” as the woman had put it.

  In short, he needed to become whole again. There were tasks yet ahead of him, and the thought of surrender was intolerable.

  “Select any chamber you wish,” he called out to the men who moved beside him. “And we'll open the Grand Dining Hall,” he exclaimed to Miss Mantle, who was walking beside him. “It will be good to see it in use again. And hire all the kitchen help you need. I don't want you spending all your time in that miserable kitchen.”

  The more he talked, the better he felt. It was over, then, this long night. Anything would be better than the half-death of the past, and until his real family came to their senses and returned to his sheltering wing, then this one would serve.

  “What are you staring at?” he asked of Miss Mantle, who gazed down on him with a curious expression.

  “There's color in your cheeks,” she said in a m
arveling tone.

  La Rochelle House of Detention, Paris, France September 26, 1874

  Still in a state of stunned shock, Elizabeth glanced up at the single burned-down candle and signed what she knew would be her last letter to John, and allowed her signature to dry without benefit of sand, staring at the name as though it belonged to someone else, as though someone else were seated in this cold narrow cell in the bowels of La Rochelle House of Detention under sentence of death for the stabbing murder of Lieutenant Jean Dauguet.

  “My Father Who art...” she murmured quickly, and fought against the rising fear and wished she weren't alone. Even Eugenie Retiffe would be welcome company on this cold September night in this wretched place.

  And it wasn't as if it would all be shortly ended. The French magistrate had ordered that her sentence of death by firing squad be preceded by two months' confinement in the dungeons of La Rochelle. To those women of the communes who had faced the firing squad before her — they had said what a blessing death was after the dungeons.

  Now, at the conclusion of the letter that had left her drained, she was aware for the first time that her fingers were numb. There was no feeling whatsoever halfway up the palms of her hands. Quickly she tucked them beneath her arms in search of body heat and at the same time looked down on her evening's work.

  Letters. Last letters — although she suspected that she would write “last letters” again, as she'd written them twice before. She was always thinking of something else she wanted to say, first to Mary and Burke in far-off America. To Richard in Kent she had written long paragraphs on this peculiar matter of forgiveness. Neither John nor Richard would know any true peace on this earth until one or both found it in their hearts to forgive.

  Abruptly she stood from the low table. Why was she doing this? Then slowly she sat back down again and clung to the edge. Two months to think about it, to envision it. No more! And it wasn't as though she was without hope. Only last night she'd found a crudely penned note pushed beneath her cell door. “Louise Michel does not despair,” it had said simply. Most of the night she had lain awake trying to understand it, thinking that another message might be delivered.

  But nothing more had come, and in this enclosed, low-ceilinged cell she never saw her guards. There was a small door cut into the bottom of the larger one, and through this opening each night was shoved the sustenance of the day. At first she hadn't been able to eat it. In the semi-dark of one candle she could scarcely see it, which had been a blessing, but still there was the odor.

  Don't think about it, she warned herself sternly, and gathered up the letters she'd written this night, another to Mary and Burke in America — she'd promised them to come for the birth of their firstborn — another promise she'd have to break, and a letter to Richard addressed to Forbes Hall in Kent, although God alone knew if he was still there. And last, the letter to John which she had just completed, entreating him to mend the chasms which had sprung up between all members of this family.

  Now she stared at the candle burning steadily toward its end and wished she were just starting the day again, her allotment of one fresh candle just passed through the small door. Since there were no windows, no light source at all, the empty designations of night and day held no meaning. Therefore she was tempted to burn the candle continuously, and in the beginning had done so, until she'd realized that, burning steadily, the candle had limited life. After a few days of experimenting, she'd discovered that it was far preferable to be in blackness for shorter, though more frequent, intervals than to watch the candle bum consistently and know the length of the darkness that was yet ahead of her.

  It was her guess now that she had about two minutes of light left. No matter. She was through writing for the evening. And she was tired — of everything, of thinking, of dreading, of missing, of being cold and hungry, and so terribly tired of being alone.

  Louise Michel does not despair.

  Then neither would she, though she knew that to be only a false show of bravado. Never in her life had she been so afraid.

  At that moment the candle burned out. Left in total darkness, she clasped her hands before her and bowed her head and closed her eyes. And prayed.

  Eden Point October 15, 1874

  Amazed at the miracle that had taken place in just three short months, Alex lifted his glass of port to John in belated but heartfelt tribute. He hoped the others about the table forgave him this moment's intimacy.

  “To you, John,” he said to the top of the head of the brooding man at the end of the table. “To Eden's very own phoenix.”

  Susan Mantle smiled and murmured, “Yes,” directly across from him, and in her eyes Alex saw fatigue and a good sense of accomplishment. The remarkable woman had worked a miracle, though earlier she'd denied all credit, all responsibility, crediting only John and his will.

  “What's a phoenix?” Tom Babcock asked, seated next to Miss Mantle.

  All at once the brooding man at the end of the table lifted his head and looked directly at Tom. He'd been toying with his fork with his right hand — Alex had observed that he seldom used his left — and now he tossed that fork with a clatter onto his plate. “A phoenix, Tom,” he began, his voice low, the speech slightly slowed, as though he were trying very hard not to make a mistake, “is a halfwitted bird who doesn't know when to stop rising from his own great pile of ashes.”

  The cynicism settled heavily over everyone at table, and in the quiet interim Alex once again looked with astonishment upon this motley collection of humanity, all of whom apparently had been invited by someone in authority to sit and eat at the Eden table.

  Directly across from him was the little nurse with the will which almost matched John's. Alex wondered if John would ever know the size of his debt to her. He doubted it.

  And farther down he saw — by God, no one in London would believe this — Bates seated at table in the Grand Dining Hall, eating with the company as though all vestiges of butler had been eradicated, the divisions of a lifetime removed in a few short months.

  But the greatest change of all, he was certain, was John himself. Incredible! Alex thought, leaning back in his chair, watching John still speaking with Tom. As he watched, Alex tried to find a trace of the terribly ill man he'd left here — for dead — less than three months ago.

  Leaner, this John was, a bit bony about the neck. The shirt collar hung too loose and the line of the jaw was a bit too sharp. The hair was longer, the beard untended and flecked with gray, and there was the matter of the left arm, which remained in hiding beneath the table. And of course the most obvious difference of all between the old John and this new facsimile was the silver-topped black ebony walking stick that rested against the back of his chair and was pressed into use whenever John moved, supplying the impaired left leg with support.

  Still, in spite of all this, the recovery had been miraculous, and now it would be a privilege to escort this “phoenix” back to London, if for no other reason than to see the expressions on certain faces who had hoped that death at least would be a worthy adversary for John Murrey Eden.

  Also Alex was relieved to find a relatively hale and hearty John for another and sadder reason. It was only a matter of time before Alex would have to reveal the true nature of this return visit, that letters had gone out to Elizabeth in Paris, to Mary in America, to Richard in Kent, over three months ago, and follow-up letters had gone out six weeks ago, and thus far no one had deigned to reply to the news of John's serious illness, and certainly no one had come rushing home.

  It was Alex's opinion — and Aslam had agreed — that the first family function which might conceivably draw them back would be John's funeral. Of course, he had no intention of putting it in those harsh terms. It would serve no purpose. But if John was still anticipating a warm and all-forgiving family reunion, then he'd better disavow himself of the foolish dream, because it wasn't going to happen.

  Abruptly Alex looked up from his thoughts to see Mrs. O'Donnell, th
e newly hired cook, offering him the decanter of port. “No, please. I've had plenty, and thank you,” he murmured, sensing his moment approaching. John knew — if no one else at table knew — that Alex had not journeyed all this way for a glass of port.

  “I do wish to extend my compliments to the cook, however,” Alex went on, hoping to postpone the set of urgent questions he saw forming on John's face. “How long has Mortemouth been concealing a gem such as yourself?” Alex smiled, not necessarily trying to extend the conversation but curious about the woman's origins. Her cooking did not exhibit the simplicity of a country woman. She knew what all the spices were and used them with the hand of an artist.

  “Oh, I'm not from Mortemouth, sir,” Mrs. O'Donnell answered, clearly nervous that the focus of attention had unhappily fallen on her. “Oh, not that it ain't a pretty little village,” she added hurriedly to the men from Mortemouth seated around her, “it's just that...” Her embarrassment vaulted; her voice drifted.

  John sat up, taking notice. “Tell us where you are from, Mrs. O'Donnell,” he demanded, a tone in his voice which seemed to say that as long as the subject had been launched, let's see it through.

  For a moment the focus slid down the table and landed heavily on the woman. Alex was sorry for that. He'd simply intended to pay her a well-earned compliment.

  Then: “Ireland,” she said, and the silence around the table grew heavy.

  Ireland. John's two sons had been spirited off to Ireland four years ago.

  “Where in Ireland?” John demanded, and sat up at table and reached behind for his walking stick as though he must make ready to move.

  For a moment Mrs. O'Donnell hesitated. She appeared to glance nervously about the table, “Dublin, sir,” she said at last, and bowed her head at the end of the confession and began to fold and refold her napkin, the second glass of port forgotten.