Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5)

by Marilyn Harris

  “If it isn't too much trouble for Mr. Aldwell, he could have a courier — guarded, of course — ready and waiting for us at... say, the Haunch of Venison in Salisbury, an easy ride from London and not too far removed from the turnpike that will take us around the city and down to Dover...

  Alex listened closely, knowing what was coming. It was a sensible idea.

  “...a portfolio with funds, part in English pounds, part in French francs.”

  Then John understood as well, and the gloom of unsolved problems vanished. “Excellent idea.”

  Bates beamed.

  “Well, what do you say, Aldwell?” John demanded.

  Alex agreed. “A workable idea, John, and instead of an armed courier, I'll bring the portfolio myself.”

  He had hoped that the offer might elicit some sort of response. But it didn't. Without a word John went immediately to where Bates stood, and propelled him toward the Great-Hall door, his voice low, issuing a spate of commands. Both men kept their voices down, thus adding to Alex's sense of having been shut out.

  No matter. In a very real way he was ready to be “shut out” of this part of John's life.

  He looked up out of his thoughts and saw Bates just leaving. John appeared to watch him as well, a mixed expression on his face which Alex found impossible to read from that distance. Then there was no need, for John had turned about and was just starting back into the room, head down.

  Alex waited in silence, thinking he should be on the road tonight. Aslam would have to be informed of the impending journey and the need for a sizable amount of funds.

  “John, you must be careful on this journey. I wish I could talk you out of - ”

  “You can't, so save your energy.”

  “It could be very dangerous for you.”

  “How? I don't plan to break any laws, French or otherwise.”

  “The French don't need the excuse of a broken law.”

  “Oh, for God's sake, Alex, what am I supposed to do? Leave her in prison? Don't you think she'd try to help me if the situation were reversed?”

  “Her sentence is nearing its end. At least that's what the messenger - ”

  “No!” John announced with renewed conviction. “I regret every day now that she has spent there. I must go to her, ask her forgiveness for all of my offenses against her in the past and then seek her help in bringing the rest of the family back to Eden.” He shook his head and looked up bleakly. “Oh, Alex, I've made such a botch of everything, haven't I?”

  The honest question stopped Alex altogether. He'd never heard the old John reveal such a perception.

  “In many ways, yes,” Alex agreed, in truth thinking how mild a word “botch” was for the ruined lives which John Murrey Eden had left in his wake.

  Then, almost childlike, John looked up out of his fatigue. “Do you think it's too late?”

  “For what?”

  “You know. To ask them... to tell them... oh, you know. I'm sorry. I am sorry, that sort of thing.”

  As a blueprint for a future apology, it left a lot to be desired. Still, considering its source, it was a remarkable start.

  “Well, I think I'll make preparations for my own departure, John,” Alex announced with sudden dispatch.

  At the same moment, a soft rap came at the door, accompanied by a well-familiar and equally soft voice. “Mr. Eden, I've been appointed your walking partner for the day. Mr. Bates appears quite busy...”

  Alex saw John look up at the sound of the voice. For less than a second he saw something which resembled pleasure on his face, but either Alex was mistaken or else John quickly canceled it.

  “Come,” he called out gruffly, and even before the door was pushed open by the nurse, John muttered beneath his breath, but loud enough for Alex to hear: “Women!”

  Eden Point October 22, 1874

  Susan didn't mind the added chore of walking every afternoon with Mr. Eden. In fact, she looked forward to it, though on occasion it was chancy, what with the mid-autumn rains just beginning to set in. At first she was afraid of the dampness, for Mr. Eden's sake, but in the last week, with the positive action of the journey ahead of him, he seemed to have grown stronger, indomitable almost.

  If the sight of Mr. Eden walking unassisted brought her pleasure, this sight she now viewed seemed to cast her inexplicably into a strangely sobered mood: the grand carriage which Bates had had eight men working on for the last few days now stood waiting and ready outside the castle.

  Gilt and purple, it caught every reflecting ray of the sun and hurled them in colorful profusion about the inner courtyard. To the left, just coming up the steep brick stairs which led down into the kitchen court, was Sam Oden supervising a caravan of young boys from Mortemouth who — for a very handsome day's wage — were now bringing up the trunks belonging to Mr. Bates and Mr. Eden.

  Mortemouth's only tailor, old Mr. Robbins, had worked night and day for the past week in an attempt to make Mr. Eden's old wardrobe fit his new lean frame, though how long it would stay lean, Susan wasn't prepared to say. Under the skillful artistry of the little Irishwoman Rose O'Donnell, the bill of fare coming out of the kitchen was playing havoc with all their waistlines.

  No matter. It was all coming to an end tomorrow morning, as a matter of fact, with the dawn departure of Mr. Bates and Mr. Eden — for Salisbury first, then Dover, then Calais, and finally Paris.

  Despite the fact that Susan was standing in a bright spill of sun, she shivered. Paris. It sounded so far away and so foreign. Down below, she saw Bates in a long dark blue butcher's apron, sleeve rings on his upper arms, directing the confusion with remarkable skill, while to one side stood Mr. Eden...

  There her inspecting eyes stopped. Thank You, she prayed quickly under her breath, and said no more, for she knew that God knew she was thanking Him for that miracle, that man who, a few short weeks ago, had lain paralyzed and partially speechless upon a mussed couch. Now she saw the man standing erect, the lines of illness slowly disappearing, under the patina of late-fall sun, his new lean frame growing taut and supple with the daily exercise, his spirit recovering as well under the anticipation of the journey.

  And how well now he and Bates understood each other and seemed to get on, each responding to the other's needs scarcely before those needs had been voiced.

  John Murrey Eden... She thought the name quietly and to herself, thinking curiously that despite the intimacy of her caring for him, she still didn't know him.

  Suddenly she shivered again and prayed — as she had prayed repeatedly before — for their successful journey. Then she looked up in an effort to see if Mr. Eden was ready to commence their walk. They had emerged from the Great Hall about a quarter of an hour ago and he'd politely begged her patience while he inspected the coach.

  Behind her, coming from the Great Hall itself, she could hear the women who, like their sons, had been hired on the basis of a day, reshrouding all the furnishings and all working under the strict orders of Mr. Bates, who had blossomed into the “grand Organizer” — at least that's what Mr. Eden called him to his face, and it seemed to please both.

  Closed. With sadness Mr. Eden had informed her only yesterday that to the best of his knowledge this would be the first time in the history of Eden that the castle would be completely closed, no one in residence, no staff, no game warden or ground warden, no farm crews, nothing.

  She remembered his face in that moment, a new desolation worse than any she'd seen during the height of his illness. Gently she reminded him that, with God's help, it would only be temporary, that he'd return soon bringing Elizabeth, who in turn would coax the others back.

  John...

  The thought of the name drew her attention down to the man, who now was being taken on a brief inspection tour of the carriage by Mr. Bates, who was at the same time instructing the parade of boys where to place the trunks for easy loading.

  Bates was doing the talking. The other was staring up at her with a directness that caused a blu
sh to erupt on both cheeks.

  Why was he looking at her in that manner, as though he too were having trouble understanding the nature of partings and good-byes?

  Why he felt a compulsion to look up at just that moment, he had no idea. He hadn't even been aware that she was standing there until he'd seen movement out of the corner of his eye and had glanced up, and now he saw her just starting down the steep Great-Hall steps.

  “...and I'm sure you'll agree, Mr. Eden?”

  The question came from his left, the efficient voice of old Bates, who, like Miss Mantle, had worked long and hard on his behalf and for the success of the journey. For one curious moment the realization that others served and sacrificed on his behalf moved him.

  “Mr. Eden, did you hear? Are you feeling well?” It was Bates again, apparently having seen the drifting look in John's eyes and assumed that it was related to his health.

  “Very well, thank you.” John smiled apologetically, and was aware of Miss Mantle approaching him from behind and keenly aware of Bates awaiting an answer before him.

  “I'm... sorry, Bates,” he apologized again. “I'm afraid I was woolgathering.”

  Bates smiled as though he understood. “I was just pointing out the arrangement of the trunks,” Bates explained.

  “I'm sure that under your efficient hands they will be arranged brilliantly,” John said, and meant it.

  Aware of Miss Mantle waiting a few steps away, doubly aware that this would be their last walk together, he stepped forward and brought his meeting with Bates to a close. “You've done a splendid job,” he said, hoping to inject the tone of a conclusion in his voice.

  “Well leave at dawn as scheduled/' He lowered his voice. “On that other matter...

  “Arranged, sir. She's agreed to the morning, though she's quite apprehensive.”

  “Tell her there is no reason. It's her services I seek, nothing more... Well, then,” John exclaimed, stepping back from the coach and joining Susan at the bottom of the stairs. “And what is your opinion, Miss Mantle? Of the coach, I mean. Do you think it will safely transport me to Dover?”

  “I do, sir. It's a grand carriage, and Mr. Bates here has indeed gilded the lily.”

  John saw the humor in her face and saw as well the line of her vision to the rather overgrand gilt coat of arms on both sides of the carriage.

  “Well, it will serve its purpose,” he said, swallowing a minor hurt. He'd rather liked that gilded coat of arms. “You'd be surprised how country inns respond to that gewgaw.”

  She nodded and looked to be on the verge of saying more. Instead: “Shall we go?” she invited.

  He nodded and started off toward the gatehouse, setting an easy pace, smiling at the workmen, some of whom he knew personally from the past, others he did not. As they passed by the Keep, he realized that she was walking a step or two behind and wished she'd catch up. Without thinking, he reached back with his hand and made contact with hers and drew her forward.

  Though he thought he detected a brief look of shock on her face, she covered it quickly. “If you're feeling weak, Mr. Eden...”

  “Not weak,” he countered, “just alone. You don't mind walking with me, do you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Good. Then what will be our direction today?”

  “The headlands?”

  “No, not the headlands,” he said, feeling more exuberant with every step.

  “Then where?” she asked, guiding him in a careful path toward the gatehouse. “Surely you're not going to attempt the cliff walk down into Mortemouth?”

  He laughed at the suggestion. “No, not today. Besides,” he added, glancing about at the bustling courtyard, “it's my guess that most of Mortemouth is up here today.”

  She smiled and nodded and seemed to settle into an acceptance of his hand about hers. He saw a faint though becoming blush color her cheeks. Then he looked ahead and saw the workmen standing back in polite deference.

  “Watch your step,” she cautioned, pointing out the rise which led through the gatehouse.

  “You're lookin' well, sir, Mr. Eden. Long life to ye!” one of the workmen dared to call out.

  John stopped, amazed and moved that the man — any man — would care how he looked or felt. “Who said that?” he asked.

  Then he heard Miss Mantle's voice. “It was you, wasn't it, Charley Spade?” she asked with a kindness that seemed to soften the tension and cause a giant of a young man to duck his head, as though in an attempt to cover the brick-red blush which covered his face.

  “Wasn't it you, Charley?” she asked again, and reassured him further. “I'm certain that Mr. Eden wants only to thank you for your kind interest. That's all, isn't it, Mr. Eden?”

  John nodded. “Of course. I was just... curious...”

  “Come forward, Charley,” Miss Mantle urged, extending her hand to the still-clustered workmen, a few of whom were parting in an attempt to make room for the young giant named Charley Spade.

  John gaped, amazed, as the man moved forward, clutching a worn tricorn hat of ancient vintage between well-blackened hands. He appeared to be well over seven feet tall, with the square broad shoulders of a young Hercules, close-cropped flaming red hair topping a square and massive forehead, small deep-set blue eyes giving an assurance of shrewdness to a face massed into firmness by a compressed mouth and strong chin.

  As Miss Mantle led the man forward, John thought how helpful it would be to have such a man on a journey, and started to initiate a line of questioning, but Miss Mantle launched forth into a most interesting introduction, which briefly proved distracting.

  “Charley Spade, you know Mr. Eden, of course...”

  “I do, miss, yes.”

  “But, Mr. Eden, do you know Charley Spade? You should, you know. According to Reverend Christopher, his grandfather provided a rather unsavory service for your grandfather.”

  “I... don't understand,” John murmured, still fascinated by the man's size.

  Without a word Charley grinned and lifted his right hand, finger pointing at the blackened and immense whipping oak which sat to the left of the Keep.

  “Me grandfather was the premier whipman of the West Country and practiced his profession exclusively for your grandfather Lord Thomas Eden.”

  Whipman? The fact that such an unsavory job would be labeled a profession shocked John.

  “Me grandfather lived on the estate until he died almost twenty year ago,” Charley went on, “and me dad knew yours” — abruptly the massive face softened — “but the Prince of Eden never had no use for such as whips and things.”

  John smiled, affectionately remembering the gentleness of his father. No, his father would never have recognized the intrinsic value of a good whip.

  “Well, so much for the past,” John said gruffly. “You, Charley Spade, what are you up to now?” he asked, finding the massive frame and hamlike hands incredibly suited to his needs and purposes.

  “Working for Eden” — Charley grinned — “just like me dad before me and his dad before him.”

  “What is your employment at the end of this day?”

  “Whatever I can get, sir. Running herring, most likely, but I don't like it. They smell awful, have you noticed?” The massive nose wrinkled, as did the square forehead, and his mates, all fishermen no doubt, jostled him good-naturedly.

  “Do you have a family?” John asked.

  At this Charley Spade laughed heartily, threw back his enormous head, and laughed straight up at heaven. “Now, what self-respecting woman would have me, sir?”

  No family, no permanent trade or profession, able-bodied, apparently suffering some delusion of a bond with Eden. It looked promising.

  “Do you drive a carriage?” John asked.

  “If it has horses I can, sir.” Charley grinned, beginning to enjoy center stage, surrounded by his mates, who from time to time would nudge each other in the ribs with their elbows.

  “Can you repair carriages?” John
asked further.

  “I repaired that grand one there, didn't I?”

  “Have you an appetite for travel, Charley?”

  “Don't know, sir. Never been no place beyond Ilfracombe.”

  “Not even to London?”

  “No, sir. Me parents caught the fever when we was young, and we all scattered and learned ourselves how to put bread in our mouths.”

  John gazed at the man, seeing in all aspects of him an answered prayer. “Who are you responsible to now, Charley Spade?” he asked.

  “No man,” Charley answered without hesitation.

  John smiled. “Then would you have any objection to working for me?”

  Apparently the big man failed to understand. “I just got done working for you, Mr. Eden.”

  “No, I mean on a full-time basis.”

  A murmur of impression arose from the others as all glanced curiously at Charley.

  “I... don't...” Charley stammered, and though he didn't mean to, John lost a degree of patience.

  “Work for me, man,” he shouted, “in my permanent employ, like your grandfather worked for my grandfather.”

  The bewilderment on Charley's face turned to apprehension as he glanced nervously toward the whipping oak. “Oh, sir, I don't think... no whip, you see. Ain't got no... no, I don't think - ”

  “Not as a whipman,” John bellowed, instantly regretful of having bellowed. “As my driver,” he explained, trying to rouse all the patience he could muster. “Mr. Bates and I are leaving for France tomorrow. We need a good steady driver and a strong back in the bargain. Are you game?”

  “F-France?” Charley stammered.

  “I said so, didn't I?” John snapped. He wasn't any good at dealing with these people. He should have summoned Bates and let Bates do the hiring.

  Then Miss Mantle stepped forward with an ease of manner and calmness of spirit. “May I, Mr. Eden?” she asked politely, as though sensing his need.

  “Please,” he muttered, and turned away from the gaping men and again looked with longing at the passing day. Behind him he heard her delicate voice, like a steady melody, followed by the only words he'd really wanted to hear, Charley's agreement, his voice newly sobered by his instantaneous elevation in the world.