Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5)

by Marilyn Harris

  Feeling the chill himself, Alex looked up from his brooding. Framed in the doorway was old Bates, bracing the door with the full length of his back, clearly holding it open for someone who had yet to appear. As the old man looked disdainfully out over the crowded pub, the voices around Alex fell. How well they must suit each other, Bates and John, Alex brooded, wishing he could remain invisible for the rest of the evening.

  Now John stood framed in the open doorway, ignoring an ox of a young man who hovered nervously about. Clearly he had been told to “help” Mr. Eden, but Mr. Eden seemed to require no help, though Alex determined he looked tired, the flesh stretched tight over bone, and he seemed to lean heavily on the walking stick.

  Amazed he still suffered a degree of love for the man, Alex considered going to him at once, then changed his mind.

  “John,” he called out, and surprised even himself with the force of his voice.

  At once John looked in his direction, then turned immediately with a quick whispered command to Bates, who, within the instant, relayed it to the large man who still hovered, red-cheeked, behind John.

  “John, good to see you.” Alex smiled.

  Almost shyly John returned the smile, shifted the walking stick to his left hand, and accepted warmly the outstretched hand. “The world is a wondrous place, Alex,” he said quietly, glancing about at the pub, where, en masse, the patrons continued to stare back at him. “I’ve been estranged from it for several years, so perhaps custom has changed.” He leaned closer. “Could you tell me? Am I doing something wrong?”

  Alex laughed heartily. How becoming was this new uncertainty, and how promising. “No, I assure you,” Alex said warmly. “You are doing nothing wrong.” He lowered his voice and clasped an affectionate hand on the shoulder, which felt so thin through the thickness of cloak. “You fascinate them, John, as you have always fascinated people.”

  John seemed to dismiss this as so much nonsense, and glanced back over his shoulder, as though checking on his two men.

  “However,” Alex said, “may I suggest we close the door, and they might not stare quite so hard.”

  John obliged with a suddenness that indicated he’d had no idea he’d been causing them discomfort. “I am sorry,” he murmured, closing the door behind him.

  During this brief moment, Alex glanced toward the table by the far partition. Aslam was in solid shadow again, the convenient shadow of the fixed wall lamp, though his papers still lay scattered over the table before him. Alex turned back to Eden.

  “What can I get for you, John?” He watched the man settle with obvious weariness into a chair, his left leg extended stiffly. Alex was certain that Aslam’s black eyes were seeing and recording everything.

  “Nothing, thank you,” John said.

  “But you must be starved,” Alex protested lightly. “It's late and the night is chill...”

  “Nothing now,” John repeated, at last looking up. “The warmth feels good. That's sufficient.”

  “Will your men share a room?” Alex asked, referring to Bates and the strapping lad who still hovered close to John.

  All at once a smile cut through the weariness of John's face. “Bates? And Charley Spade? No, I'm afraid not.”

  Alex nodded and started up. “I'll tell the publican - ”

  “Not yet,” John objected. “Please sit for a moment. I must talk with you.”

  Alex obliged, looking again at the table in the far corner. No sign of movement from the young man. What in the hell was he doing? It had been his idea to come and see John. Then why didn't he?

  “I'm sorry we're late,” John said, at last loosening the tie of the cloak about his neck. “We were detained at Exeter - ”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “No, business. And I must talk to you about it.”

  Business? In Exeter? Alex drew his chair closer and motioned away one of the little rosy-cheeked barmaids who had been inching closer and closer ever since John had seated himself at the table. “All right, this business,” Alex began, settling in the chair at an angle so his back was toward the far corner. Perhaps what he couldn't see wouldn't bother him.

  “Yes.” John nodded and shrugged the cloak all the way off, laid the walking stick crossways on his lap, and stared at it. “Do you recall from your last visit to Eden the woman named Rose O'Donnell?”

  Alex blinked, struggling with the name, never his strong suit. “That wasn't the little nurse, was it?”

  “No,” John said, shaking his head. “This woman cooked for us for a few weeks,” he added, trying to refresh Alex's memory.

  “Yes,” he recalled. “Some mystery to her, wasn't there?”

  “Not really. She was newly widowed, unable to find decent employment in Dublin and on her way to London when she ran out of funds and stopped at Eden to replenish the coffers.”

  Suddenly Alex knew precisely what John was going to tell him. His sons! They were involved. The giant had indeed stirred — Aslam's phrase, not his — and now he wanted his sons back. It had always been inevitable; then why was Alex so surprised as John talked steadily, telling him of this new conspiracy between himself and Rose O'Donnell?

  “...and as soon as I return from Paris with Elizabeth,” John went on, “I shall be returning to Eden. The woman knows to contact me there. But I have no idea how long this silly French business will take, and I have given her your card and London address. You are to reimburse her for every piece of information she sends you, no matter how small and inconsequential.”

  Alex nodded, grateful that Aslam was not present. Handing out banknotes to an unknown Irishwoman in Dublin for information that could not be verified would offend his good judgment. But Alex would oblige — for a period of time-out of his own purse for John's sake. Or, better still, perhaps the female sleuth would not uncover any clue until John and Elizabeth returned from France. Then John could deal with her exclusively.

  “Will you do it for me, Alex?” John asked, a new urgency to his voice.

  “Of course I'll do it. Haven't I always honored your requests in the past?”

  Relieved, John sat back in the chair. “I want my sons back,” he said. “Is it asking too much? Of course not,” he answered his own question. “I had no idea that it would stretch on this long. Lord Harrington has no right. No right at all...”

  “We'll find the lads, John. I swear it,” Alex vowed, though he quickly suggested, “It may take time...”

  “Thank you.” John smiled.

  “Where will she start, this Irishwoman... what's her name?”

  “Rose O'Donnell, and she will start in Dublin or just outside it at Avondale, Mr. Parnell's home. If you recall, Harriet said that's where...” He slowed, then stopped altogether, as though a blockage of some sort had occurred. A few seconds later he picked up the fragmented sentence. “...that's where Lord Harrington was taking the boys.”

  “But that was four years ago, John. Surely he has established his own residence by now.”

  “I would think so.” John nodded. “But Mrs. O'Donnell will be a skillful detective. She appears to be naturally curious and endlessly talkative. I've given her an initial payment which enables her to take decent lodgings and hire a carriage, buy some reputable garments and stay moderately well-fed. Thus armed, I doubt there is anything Rose O'Donnell couldn't accomplish.”

  For the first time a hint of a smile altered the skeletal face, and Alex recalled how much in the past John had adored intrigue.

  “I wonder how they've changed, Alex,” he murmured now. “They were so young...”

  “I’m sure they've changed, John, and I'd be willing to wager they're not so small any longer.”

  Abruptly John changed the subject. He sat up and looked as though he was ready to stand. “Where do you suppose they had to go to find a decent stable?” he asked.

  “Down the street,” Alex replied, equally distracted, though his concern was not the location of a good stable but rather the still-shadowed man who
continued to sit at the table by the far partition. What in the hell was he doing?

  Alex leaned forward. “John, I did not come alone tonight.”

  “And who accompanied you?” John asked, smiling. “A lovely lady, I hope for your sake.”

  “No, I'm afraid not,” he said with only a twinge of regret. “Someone much more important — to both of us.”

  At last he had John's interest. “Who?” he demanded, and Alex detected a new defensiveness in his voice.

  “Aslam,” Alex said simply, and without looking in that direction, pointed over his shoulder toward the corner.

  For a moment it seemed all light and movement had departed from John's face. Considering the skull-like nature of the face, he resembled a poorly done death mask. “Where?” he asked quietly, as though he didn't want anybody else to know.

  Wordlessly Alex glanced toward the far partition, surprised now to see the young man on his feet, as though he'd known at the precise moment when Alex had informed John he had not come alone.

  “A-Aslam?” John stuttered, squinting his eyes into the interior of the pub.

  Alex nodded foolishly, and stood immediately back. John followed slowly, forgetting at first the walking stick he'd positioned across his knees, having to grab for it at the last minute.

  “Aslam, is it you?” John asked, projecting his voice slightly, a new warmth beginning to break through. But he continued to clutch at the walking stick with his right hand while he clung with his left to the edge of the small table, his shoulders stooped, his face slightly flushed.

  As for Aslam, he seemed to be suffering a similar paralysis, though he stood ramrod-straight, as though with military bearing. The shadow cast by the fixed wall standard now covered the top half of his body.

  Still they stood, until Alex sensed something besides nonrecogni-tion stretching between them, something less palatable, which felt uncomfortably like... embarrassment.

  Then Alex understood. It was coming from John, who obviously felt the full weight of his various impairments after his seclusion and illness. He must be aware too of the physical changes which had taken place. After all, he was the one who had to confront the looking glass every morning. Now...

  “It is the lad, John, all grown up. Why don't you go and greet him?” Alex urged again.

  Quickly John nodded, and, as though to hide at least a portion of his disability, he tried to take the first few steps without the aid of the walking stick. Fortunately both Alex and the table were close enough to prevent a serious fall. And, clearly sobered by that prospect, John waited a moment until he regained his center of balance, then pressed the stick into use. He was steady on his feet now, indicated as much to Alex, and this time started forward in full control, with a smile.

  “Aslam,” he called out again, and stood, his arms wide, a familiar gesture between them. Alex had seen him greet the boy thus for years. Now Alex hoped the boy remembered this ritual greeting as well, for from the expression on John's face, he wanted very much to embrace the boy.

  But still Aslam stood unmoving, his hands motionless at his sides. Not until John, with mounting confusion and embarrassment, lowered his arms and looked bewilderedly back at Alex did the young man deign to move. Even then it was with insolent deliberation. Two steps, and he was beyond the protection of shadows, though curiously Alex found himself wishing the young man was obscured again, for his dark face and patrician features revealed a chill objectivity amounting almost to indifference.

  What in the hell was the matter with him?

  “Aslam,” John said, “it's good to see you.”

  In reply the young man simply gave a stiff nod of his head and instantly withdrew his hand, as though physical contact with John was loathsome. “And you,” he said rigidly in that clipped way of his which Alex heard every day, but only now did he realize how wintry it sounded. “I understand from Mr. Aldwell,” Aslam went on, “that you have been indisposed.”

  “Yes.” John nodded, still not fully recovered from the rebuff. “But I'm quite restored now, thanks to a remarkable woman who simply refused to let me do anything but get better.”

  “How fortunate for you,” came the voice of winter. “But then, you always were gifted when it came to finding women who would serve your purposes.”

  Sharply Alex looked up. What in the hell?

  John apparently wondered the same, as briefly a look of bewilderment covered his features. “I... don't... understand,” he stammered.

  “Would you prefer to sit?” Aslam asked, his voice broadening along with his gesture, which took in two chairs at a near table.

  “N-no,” John stammered. “That is, unless you...”

  “No, I stand whenever possible,” the young man pronounced, and seemed to stare for a moment at John's left hand, which had begun to tremble visibly. “I understand from Mr. Aldwell,” Aslam went on, beginning to pace back and forth in the limited area between chairs, “that you have undertaken a rescue mission to Paris on behalf of Elizabeth.”

  “Y-yes.” John nodded, and leaned heavily on the table, an unfortunate position which caused him to slump before the ramrod-straight Aslam.

  “Then I wish you well, for Elizabeth is worth saving.”

  This curious and insensitive statement seemed to create an even greater confusion. “Yes.” John nodded. “She is being detained on some charge at the La Rochelle House of - ”

  “I know where she is, John. It was one of my men who located her for you. According to his report, her sentence is concluded in a few months. You might be wise to leave her in prison until the end of her sentence, help to drive the lesson home, you know.”

  With every word the young man uttered, the look of confusion on John's face grew.

  Alex decided it was time to intervene. He drew forth a chair with a command that left no room for debate. “Please sit, John,” and he was not too surprised to see the man obey. Under the strain of the mystery that was Aslam, John's weakness was increasing.

  All he could say was, “No. I must go and fetch her. You see, she needs - ”

  From where Alex stood, he saw a cold light of amusement on Aslam's face. “Of course, if she needs you...” he repeated, looked back, and blurted out, “I see Richard, you know, quite often.”

  Helpless, John glanced up at Alex for direction. Unhappily, Alex had none to give.

  “And... how is he?” John asked, his voice falling quite low, as though this mere boy was getting the best of him.

  “Richard is fine,” Aslam replied, “...most of the time. Of course, he misses his home Eden, as you know.”

  “He's welcome anytime.”

  “I think not.”

  John nodded slowly, though he did not look up at Aslam but concentrated on the silver head of his walking stick. “Where is... Richard residing now?” he asked.

  “Forbes Hall. Kent. With his wife, Lady Eleanor.”

  At this John looked up, surprised pleasure cutting through the defeat. “Wife?” he repeated.

  Aslam nodded, though the skin on his forehead tightened as though nothing displeased him more than John's pleasure. “Two years now. It couldn't be avoided, as you so well know. It was the pact you had made with her parents. Though both are dead now, Eleanor held Richard to his promise.” There was a pause. “Both are miserable.”

  To this account John gaped wordlessly. Once he shook his head as though to deny something, but Aslam didn't give him a chance.

  “Richard is honorable. He has at last impregnated her. She's carrying the firstborn. If it is a son, he has told me he will never touch her again.”

  Alex listened with shocked indignation. He'd not heard this before. For a moment no one spoke.

  Just then the door flew open and Bates appeared, his keen eyes searching immediately for his master, finding him, and clearly not liking what he saw. Behind him trailed the young giant, who juggled effortlessly two large trunks, one on each shoulder. Hurriedly Bates whispered something to him and pointed to
ward the publican behind the bar.

  “Are you well, sir?” Bates asked in a concerned tone.

  When there was no response, Bates drew closer, on the verge of repeating the question, when suddenly there was movement coming from the far corner — Aslam gathering up his scattered papers, returning them all to a large portmanteau, and reaching for something inside the portmanteau, withdrawing a large flat black leather folder.

  Everything restored to order and to his satisfaction, he walked slowly to the table at which John sat. “Funds,” he said simply, “for your journey. If you require more...

  But John quickly shook his head.

  “I trust you will find Elizabeth well and intact.”

  John nodded and still did not speak or look up.

  “As soon as... you are fully recovered,” Aslam went on, a new strain beginning to show on his dark face, “and, of course, if you are interested, I would like to apprise you of the progress of the John Murrey firm.”

  At last John looked slowly up, as though the familiarity of the name had attracted his attention. “I... would like that,” he said.

  “Well, then,” Aslam said, stepped back from the table, and lifted his head as though in need of air. “I must return to London tonight. I wanted to see...” He broke off as though embarrassed by the unspoken sentence. For a moment it looked as though he would say something else, but at the last minute he changed his mind and walked rapidly around the table, past Bates, past Alex, and was almost to the door when John stopped him with a single word.

  “Wait!”

  Aslam obeyed instinctively. The voice that had spoken that word, though weakened now, once had carried with it all the authority in Aslam's world. So he waited, just at the door, his hand on the doorknob, his head down. “What do you want?”

  Interesting, Alex thought. Both men were positioned with their backs to each other.

  For several seconds it was as though John had forgotten why he'd called out. Then slowly he lifted his head. “Mary. Have you heard from Mary?”