Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5)

by Marilyn Harris

  The young man looked up embarrassed from the small table where he was pouring the brandy. He said nothing, but merely glanced at John with dark brooding eyes — which John had seen before, in the Crimea. Turkish eyes, shifting eyes, always looking for advantage and advancement, self-serving eyes.

  As he stooped to hand John a snifter of brandy, Andrd whispered, 'Tell me the name of your prisoner and I’ll try to find her for you.”

  Before John could respond, he'd moved on with the tray to where Bates sat by the door. Stunned by the whispered command coming from such an unlikely source, John watched carefully, thinking the young man would return for the information.

  But he didn't. He lifted the tray and with only the briefest of backward glances left the room, and left John and Bates alone with the madman, who sipped at his brandy, lifted a single rose from a near vase and peeled off all the petals, dipped them into the brandy, and chewed and swallowed them contentedly.

  Thirty minutes later John placed his empty snifter on the table and started to push out of the chair. He'd stared for so long at the macabre face opposite him that he felt if he didn't flee soon he would become as mad. But at the same time, the door was pushed open again and Andre reappeared, still bearing the silver tray, and something else, what appeared to be a gray folder tucked beneath his arm.

  “Ah, Andre,” mourned General Montaud. “Why did you go off and leave me alone with these... English? They are so boring, both of them.”

  As the man appeared to be literally on the verge of tears, Andr6 came close to hover over him and whispered something into his ear, a prolonged message which stretched on and on, the general appearing to listen closely.

  “The name of your prisoner?” the general demanded suddenly, all boredom gone from his face.

  “Elizabeth Eden,” John replied, daring to hope it would be over soon.

  General Montaud continued to study the gray folder; then a grin covered his face. “Correct!” he pronounced.

  “She journeyed to Paris about - ”

  “ — four years ago,” the general read, lifting the folder until it obscured his face — but his voice was audible.

  John sat up on the edge of the chair and noticed Bates in the same rigid position, as though both knew the importance of the folder.

  “Ah, naughty girl,” the general said, still reading, still obscured. “It says here, ‘revolutionary activities...’”

  Damn her, John cursed privately. He would have to talk with her. “If you would tell her that we are here,” he went on, and though no one stopped him, he stopped himself, seeing the general look slowly over the folder, a shocked expression on his face.

  “Sir?” John inquired, bewildered. In this new silence of shocked mysteries, John felt a sudden twinge of terror.

  “Elizabeth Eden,” General Montaud pronounced in a low monotone, not looking directly at John.

  “She is here, then?” John inquired, thinking if he could just establish that, then the mysterious terror would dissipate, for he was certain he could get her out. After all, she was a gentlewoman, and English. Surely the French had no quarrel with …

  “She has been sentenced... twice,” the general said.

  “Twice? I don't under - ”

  “Once for revolutionary activities. That sentence is almost served...”

  “Good...”

  “The second sentence has not been earned out.”

  “Second? What...?”

  “For murder, sir. It appears she murdered a French soldier. She is under sentence of death. The date of her execution is November 15. By firing squad.”

  The terror vaulted and exploded in his head. Then, incredibly, he felt an odd compulsion to laugh. They were joking. The French madman was joking, that was all.

  For murder, sir. She is under sentence of death... date of execution is November 15... firing squad.

  There was the terror again. John pushed hurriedly up from the chair. “I don't believe it,” he said flatly, and reached back for his walking stick. “General Montaud, I demand to see the prisoner. Immediately.”

  Suddenly the little general came to life and jumped to the floor with a screeching sound like a wounded bird. He picked up the gray folder and shoved it at John, the French tongue moving rapidly, a spray of spittle preceding him. Even while the diatribe was still going on, Bates drew closer.

  “He says,” Bates began, meeting John's eye for the first time and revealing a matching depth of terror, “that you are welcome to read it there” — with one hand he pointed toward the thick gray file — “though it is in French, so I doubt - ”

  “I don't want to read anything,” John exploded, angling the walking stick into position.

  Bates merely exhibited a stunned though persistent determination to translate everything the general was saying. Apparently he had been ordered to do so.

  “The name of the murdered man was Lieutenant Jean Dauguet, a good officer, a good soldier,” Bates said, a halting quality giving the flow of words an unreal quality. There was a longer-than-usual pause. Bates looked sharply at the old general, who fairly screeched in English now, “Repeat it as I say it!”

  That, John understood; and he understood more — that the inexplicable terror he felt was perhaps justified.

  “Did you hear?” the general screamed again at Bates. “Say it!”

  John glanced toward Bates and saw a battle being waged on his face. With painful effort and eyes closed, Bates finally repeated it exactly as the general had said it.

  “The... Eden whore... was given special privileges, special comforts due to the fact she was foreign and the government had no real quarrel with her, and in return for these special privileges she repaid us by willfully and with no regret plunging a pair of shears into Lieutenant Dauguet, then watching the lifeblood slip from his body.” Stunned, Bates looked up.

  John ignored the expression on Bates's face and turned immediately on the general, who now appeared to be brooding in hurt silence before the fireplace.

  “Sir, I demand to see Elizabeth Eden,” he repeated. “And I demand to see her now. I don't know how much clearer I can make it. And if you don't oblige, I shall be forced to contact my government and inform them of the treatment of a citizen of the British Empire - ”

  “She is a murdering slut!” the man screamed, so outraged John saw blood veins protruding from beneath the parchmentlike skin.

  Bates again tried to intervene. “Sir. It's true, I'm afraid. Please, we must - ”

  “We must do only one thing,” John countered. “We must find Elizabeth and take her out of this...”

  Suddenly a new terror pressed against him. What brutalities had been visited upon her? Was she able to travel, or would she first require the services of a physician? As the thought of Elizabeth ill or brutalized dawned on him, his rage increased. “I demand to see her,” he said again, striding toward the door as though to say if he was not shown the way immediately he would find her on his own.

  He had expected a new outburst from the general. Instead there was a moment's pause while he turned back to the fire. And when he glanced toward John again, everything was restored and in order.

  “Of course, Mr. Eden,” the general said with suspect kindness. “How propitious your arrival today. The prisoner has seven days left on this earth, more than enough time to - ”

  Then it was Bates who rushed forward with an insane interruption. “Don't, Mr. Eden, I beg you. Do not see her. Let her go. It's for the best - ”

  “Your manservant is wise.” The man grinned. “Much wiser than you.”

  “I do not seek your definition of wisdom.”

  “You should, for you will regret what you are about to do for the rest of your life.”

  “I demand to see her.”

  “And see her you shall.”

  Then Bates was at his side again. “Please. Don't!” he whispered fiercely. “You have your own health to - ”

  “Damn my health!” John exploded.
“I have no need for health without Elizabeth.” Where had the terror come from again? He thought he'd banished it. “Besides, I'm not as gullible as you, Bates. I don't believe a word - ”

  “Then I'll come with you,” Bates offered at last with an air of resignation.

  John and General Montaud — allied on at least one point — said “No” in tandem, General Montaud filling the chill air outside the waiting room with countless official rules. John, in order not to hear what the general was saying, spoke as loudly and as rapidly, giving Bates his own reasons. “If I am to free her, I must talk with her, and she might be inhibited by your presence.”

  Despite the look of sadness on Bates's face, there was also a look of relief, as though the offer to accompany John had been obligatory at best.

  While the general summoned someone with an imperious clap of his hands, John drew up the collar of his cloak in meager protection against the chill and gave Bates last-minute instructions. “Go and wait in the carriage with Charley Spade. Stay dry, both of you, inside, and tell Charley he may be asked to ride back to the channel.”

  “I... don't understand, sir.”

  Neither did John. If there was no truth in the old general's tale, then what was preventing Elizabeth from walking out now with John? On the other hand, if there had been a murder and a mock trial, then the decision must be overturned — and that would require help from high places.

  “Sir?” It was General Montaud, again gleeful as a small contingent of French soldiers appeared in marching formation, their boots muffled on the carpet runner. “These men will accompany you to the place where the condemned prisoners are held until...”

  Without another word to Bates or the general, though he felt their eyes upon him, he took his place at the rear of the soldiers, four in all. Why so many to escort him to the cell of a female prisoner, he had no idea.

  As the parade started down the narrow corridor leading toward the cold arcade and the vastness of the prison beyond, John grasped his walking stick and fell into the rhythm of the march, trying to clear his mind for the reunion and trying not to think on what had transpired in the general's office.

  Ahead he saw the door which led to the open-air arcade, saw the rain increase, coming in solid gray sheets, obscuring the vast courtyard with its mysterious posts and black iron spectators' box.

  Such was the stuff that nightmares were made of.

  She had long since learned the one important lesson of isolation and confinement: Do not think on the past. It was a form of torture more effective than anything her jailers could inflict on her. Neither was it wise to consider the future. The future was as dead as the past.

  Therefore, that left only the present, but there was no need to view it as limiting or limited. There was, for example, this arrangement of wax flowers on which she was working. The wax was left over from burned-down candles, and she could mold and shape it by warming it in the palms of her hands, then forming individual petals and leaves, a graceful and accurate arrangement of roses and lilies.

  Her warden, Madame Charvin, permitted her this activity, even though she knew it brought her pleasure, because upon Elizabeth's death she had promised the arrangement to Madame Charvin. In fact, of late Madame had commenced bringing her colored wax so she could work her artistry into the accurate floral colors.

  Elizabeth enjoyed the work. It was in her memories she suffered most. “Edward,” she whispered aloud, enjoying the sound of the name on the silent chill air. Slowly she lifted her fingers to the small candle flame in an attempt to warm them.

  Dear God, she still was so frightened, still was not ready to die.

  Suddenly she bent over and covered her face with her hands. Both were so cold — but it didn't matter. Neither were as cold as the thought of death, the cessation of life.

  And no one even knew where she was. That was, in a way, both the hardest part and the easiest. Most of the time she was grateful she was going through this crucible alone. Yet sometimes she ached with longing for just a word from someone at Eden, though for what purpose? No one, not even John, could alter this. She had killed a man, with great and perfect premeditation. There had been a trial, hasty and unintelligible, but a form of a trial nonetheless, and the magistrate had passed sentence on her — death by firing squad.

  Well, then, that was it, wasn't it? Nothing anyone could do, not even John.

  With her hands extended over the small flickering candle, she concentrated on the tiny dancing orange-red flame — and saw John.

  Suddenly the flame dipped low and almost went out.

  Oh, dear God, enough! she scolded herself, belatedly realizing she had broken her own rule and was at this moment inhabiting the past. Of course, the unhappy past was not the one capable of doing any lasting damage. It was the blissful past that cut deepest, and those memories were all of one man — Edward Eden. Predictably, the self-inflicted torture took a toll, and slowly she bent over against the pain of ancient happiness. In the process she crushed the wax petal in her hand and, in surprise, looked down on the small misshapen lump. It would have to be done again — but no matter.

  Listen! What was that? Someone coming? She could hear the scrape of boots on the stone floor. It wasn't time for anything. Not food, nor...

  It wasn't November 15, was it? Not yet! She still had seven days in which she planned to pass a lifetime. Then what? And who?

  Fearfully she turned about on the low stool to look through the bars of her cell.

  Please, God, she prayed softly, give me strength...

  It was a descent into hell. As the guards rounded still another clammy gray stone corridor and started down to yet another level, John wished for a chance to catch his breath.

  The four soldiers were chattering among themselves now. Blessedly they broke pace slightly to accommodate their conversation and John was able to do the same and concentrate less on maintaining his balance and more on studying his grim surroundings.

  “How much farther?” he called out, received no answer, and knew he wouldn't, for these four didn't understand him any more than he understood them.

  The corridor now was so narrow it permitted the passage of only one person. As they arranged themselves into single file, he looked over their bobbing heads and shoulders. At the far end he saw the pale yellow flickering of a light — a candle, most likely — the cell itself set apart and isolated from the others.

  Then he saw that the soldier in the lead had come to a halt before the small cell, all of them joking and laughing now, continuously obscuring his vision, one producing keys. Why couldn't they stand still for just a moment so he could see exactly who...

  Then he could. And did. And felt the weight of terror press down upon him, threaten to annihilate him, and simultaneously he prayed that it would — and prayed with equal zeal the image before him would fade from his vision and never reappear again, not even in memory. Despite the shapeless gray of the prison dress and the smudged filth on her face, he knew he had found Elizabeth.

  Then he was aware of the four soldiers standing back, the cell door unlocked, nothing obscuring his path to this pitiful woman whose stylishness and grace and enchantment and warmth once had captivated the most powerful men in London, who now had fixed John with the same haunted vision he fixed on her, her mind clearly refuting what her eyes saw. Only then did it occur to him there had been changes in himself as well.

  Still, he knew precisely the moment when her heart had convinced her head of his identity, for he saw her struggling up from the low stool, either too weak or too ill to accomplish it easily. John, unable to watch the struggle any longer, hurried to her, reached out for her and drew her forcibly to him, and was shocked at how thin she was, more bone than flesh. Yet he enclosed her in his arms, letting the walking stick drop to the stone floor.

  He wept with her and they clung to each other under the staring eyes of the soldiers, who ultimately sensed something rare in the moment and moved down the corridor out of earshot, as t
hough they understood the need for privacy and respected it.

  At various times during her four months of solitary confinement Elizabeth had suffered hallucinations. Therefore, when she had turned at the sound of approaching footsteps and had seen beyond the soldiers to that facsimile of John, at first she'd been certain she was being visited by a vision. On closer examination she'd seen something solid in his face that specters are usually spared — the heaviness of this earth. Still, she hadn't been certain until he stepped to the door of the cell and the candle had shed its limited light on his eyes — Edward's eyes. Though she still couldn't understand the new gauntness, the gray-flecked hair, or the lame left leg, she had known who it was and had tried to stand, had felt her customary weakness compounded by the shock of recognition. And that was when the “hallucination” had taken her into its arms.

  Now she was the one who rallied first. “John?” she whispered, trying to ease out of his embrace in an attempt to see his face close at hand. “Is it... truly you?” She knew, but wanted his confirmation, wanted to hear his voice, his reassurance.

  For a moment he refused to look at her, and still holding her, turned his face away as though embarrassed by his incapacity.

  “John, come,” she beckoned, reaching back for his hand, now spying the fallen walking stick. Slowly she bent to retrieve it, caught sight of her own gray prison garb, and again suffered a sense of misplaced pride. “Here...” She smiled, handing him the stick, attempting to smooth back her tangled hair at the same time. Occasionally Madame Charvin brought her a brush.

  “Come,” she urged again, saddened to see him so changed.

  Under her gentle insistence he took the stick and angled it down. She thought she saw pain across his face as he moved awkwardly forward, and she grieved for the whole and perfect little boy who had darted ahead of her on walks through Hyde Park.

  Near the low stool where she'd been working on her wax flowers she withdrew the bench. “Come, sit,” she urged. Relieved, she saw him start down and sensed an unstable center of balance, and at the last minute reached out a hand in assistance.