Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5)

by Marilyn Harris

  “I was told that no French physician would come out on such a night for an Englishman,” he grumbled.

  Standing, though unsteady, John gaped at him a moment, then with a quick wave motioned him into the room with a brusque announcement. “I have no need of a physician, Charley, particularly a French one. What I do have need of is your effort and your services on behalf of the woman we have come to rescue. Are you willing?” Again Bates retreated to the window, curious as to the nature of Mr. Eden's “needs,” doubly curious why Charley Spade had been chosen over himself.

  As Mr. Eden guided Charley to the fire, the large man pledged his loyalty and his service in any way Mr. Eden saw fit to use them.

  “A journey, then,” Mr. Eden pronounced, settling slowly back into the horsehair chair.

  “A journey. Very well.” Charley nodded, looking up from the small fire and warming his backside. “Where?”

  “Back to London.”

  At the calm announcement, Bates started forward. “An excellent suggestion, sir,” he agreed. “Might I suggest that we all retrace our steps just as soon as - ”

  “No. Just Charley,” Mr. Eden said flatly. “I want you to purchase the fastest horses, change them as often as you need, but do not stop and do not rest until you are standing before the private desk and are in the private company of Mr. William Gladstone.”

  “I... don't... I'll do it, but I... don't...” Out of this incoherency Charley shook his head soundly. “I... ain't equipped, sir, to converse with the prime - ”

  “I'm not asking you to converse with him,” Mr. Eden said. “All I want is for you to hand him a letter, place it directly into his hands and wait while he reads it, and do not leave until he supplies you with an answer. Then you are to leave London immediately bearing that response and return here. Is that clear?”

  From where Bates stood at the window, it was clear. Mr. Eden was making a final desperate bid for clemency for the woman. But according to the confusion and bewilderment he saw on Charley's face, nothing was clear.

  “I... don't... London, sir? Now? I'm not... sure...”

  As Mr. Eden moved closer with surprising patience to explain it again, Bates closed his eyes and wondered if now was the time to inform Mr. Eden of General Montaud's last command. He would have to know sooner or later, and it might relieve him of a torturous second explanation to Charley Spade.

  “Sir, if I may interrupt - ”

  “In a minute, Bates,” Mr. Eden said brusquely. Then back to Charley. “Now, you must look at me, Charley,” he began patiently, “and listen carefully...”

  There was one last pledge of devotion and vows of success, a firm handshake, and then apparently it was time to turn to more tactical matters.

  “Bates,” Mr. Eden called, recognizing him at last, “buy clothes, the fastest horse in Paris, the quickest route to the channel, a knapsack of cheese and rolls so he won't have to stop, and ample funds for more horses, should he require them along the way.” He stopped for a moment, thinking. “Can you do it,” he asked, “within the hour?”

  “I can easily, sir, but - ”

  “Good, good,” Mr. Eden repeated, and looked vaguely about the small room as though momentarily he'd lost his train of thought. “Then be off with you both. Give me the hour in which to pen the letter — possibly the most important letter I've ever written in my life.

  “Mr. Eden,” Bates tried again, “I must tell you something.”

  “Can't it wait?” was the weary response.

  Bates stepped back to make way for him as he moved heavily toward the small writing bureau. “No, I'm afraid it won't keep, sir,” Bates persisted.

  With a slap Mr. Eden opened his writing portfolio, then sat back in the chair as if to say his attention was Bates's, at least for a few minutes.

  “General Montaud...” Bates began, testing the name on the air.

  “Bastard!” John muttered beneath his breath.

  Bates ignored the curse and went on. “He was quite... upset with what happened at La Rochelle to...”

  “As well he should be!” John snapped, voice rising along with his temper. “I've never seen such conditions, unspeakable, not fit for animals, let alone humans. And Elizabeth...” Suddenly he closed his eyes.

  “Sir,” Bates said with renewed conviction and resolution, “you must not return to the prison tonight... or ever, for your own safety.” In the absence of a response, Bates glanced toward Charley Spade, who now seemed to share Bates's concern. “Did you hear me, sir?” Bates asked. “General Montaud said - ”

  “Who gives a damn?” Mr. Eden asked sullenly.

  “You should,” Bates went on undaunted. “Give a damn, I mean, for the general said if you ever returned to La Rochelle he would imprison you.”

  Slowly Mr. Eden looked up from the blank piece of stationery, a look of stunned disbelief on his face. “On... what... charge?”

  Bates drew a deep breath. At last he had the man's attention. “Oh, one of many.” He counted off the fingers of his left hand as he tried to recall the incoherent dancing little man who'd almost set the soldiers on all of them.

  “Attempting to lead a prisoner to escape; attempting to bribe an officer; attempting to plant seeds of revolution in a prisoner's head; attempting to murder an officer of the...”

  Now paradoxically there appeared a smile on Mr. Eden's face. “Is that all the little weasel could come up with?” he asked, as though vastly amused by the whole affair.

  “No, sir, there are others, but I can't remember - ”

  “Nor should you clutter your mind with such...” All at once he looked over his shoulder and saw Charley Spade still warming his backside at the fire. “You still here, Charley?” he asked, peeved. “You'd better be about it.”

  “Sir?” With all the force Bates could muster, he stepped between Mr. Eden and Charley Spade and made an impressive pledge of his own. “If you return to La Rochelle, you will do so alone, and if you walk through those wretched gates, it is my judgment neither you nor Miss Elizabeth will ever walk out of them alive.”

  For a moment it was impossible to tell what was moving behind Eden's taut forehead.

  “I... m-must see her again,” he stammered. “I can't - ”

  “General Montaud said you would be permitted in the prison one-quarter of an hour preceding her execu...” Bates broke off, unable to say the word.

  Mr. Eden seemed to be aware of the thoughtful omission and appeared grateful. Then he turned abruptly about in his chair, reaching for the penpoint, while at the same time issuing a command. “Then move, both of you. It's more important than ever that Charley Spade reach England and sanity. Gladstone will respond. I know he will. He was very fond of Elizabeth. Then let's see what our little French bastard does with an official protest from the prime minister of England.”

  Disbelieving the new and easy acquiescence, Bates stood stock-still.

  “Move! Both of youl” Mr. Eden bellowed. “Must I do everything?”

  Something in the tone sent Charley Spade and Bates hopping for the door. Eden bowed his head until his forehead was resting on the table.

  He resembled for all the world a man who suffers an invisible boot pressing against the back of his neck.

  *

  It was approaching ten P.M. when John stood on the rain-slick pavement outside DuCamp's lodgings and handed over to Charley Spade the letter addressed to William Gladstone, which he tucked for safekeeping inside a waterproof pouch.

  “Guard it with your life,” John said simply, “You have until Sunday evening. Then you must be on the road back to Dover. Do not wait for schedules. Whatever you require, purchase it outright. You have my signature and letter of credit. It will obtain anything you need in London.” He was aware of Bates listening closely, a step behind. Sick with the odds against success, John added, “And remember Alex Aldwell. If you encounter problems, contact Mr. Aldwell immediately and he will...” He disliked having to involve Alex because he was no longe
r absolutely certain of his loyalty. Still...

  “Not to worry, sir.” Charley Spade grinned down from the horse with an encouraging confidence. “It is my plan to reach London no later than Saturday morning bright and early. It is my plan to be speaking with the prime minister before he takes luncheon that same day. It is my plan to be on the road to Dover by Saturday evening, and it is my plan to arrive here at this very spot no later than Sunday evening or Monday morning, when — if you will wait for me to wash the dust off me face — I’ll drive you personal to La Rochelle, where together we can present to the French slime Mr. William Gladstone's angry words.”

  The grin was infectious and the confidence more so. “God go with you, Charley.” John smiled and stepped back with a salute.

  Then with a yell Charley turned the racer about, guided her skillfully through the traffic of Rue Saint Jacob, into the large boulevard which led to the Seine, and opened her up immediately to a canter, then a gallop. The last image John had was of a large man bowed skillfully over a flying horse, both man and beast working in perfect concert, speed the goal of both.

  Talbot House, Dublin, Ireland November 11, 1874

  “If you're fully restored, Mrs. O'Donnell, I want to hear everything.”

  As Lord Harrington settled behind his writing bureau, he wished he were closer to the blazing fire. He looked up at the mullioned windows covered with solid sheets of cold November rain and recalled September, when those same windows had been thrown open so he could hear the boys playing on the green.

  Boys... Stepheny please... Dear God, help him...

  Quickly he crossed himself and reached for his rosary, placed it atop the bureau, and then turned his attention back to Rose O'Donnell, who had only just arrived from her hazardous mission to the North Devon coast.

  “Please, Mrs. O'Donnell, tell me everything you learned as briefly as possible. Then you must go and see Stephen. He is so ill and has been - ”

  “How long has the lad been ill, Lord Harrington?” she asked.

  “Too long,” he replied. “The doctor came once and said...”

  Directly overhead Lord Harrington heard footsteps. The nursemaid, no doubt, moving to comfort Stephen. Worried, Lord Harrington looked up at the beamed ceiling as though he were capable of seeing through it.

  As Rose O'Donnell launched forth into a self-pitying account of the hardships imposed upon one while traveling — particularly “an attractive widow lady” — Lord Harrington put off listening to her and concentrated on the soft tread of footsteps overhead, moving twice back and forth between the bed and the water basin.

  How had the lad fallen so sick so quickly? Just last week he and Frederick had made a steeplechase of the staircase and lower corridor. Old Crosset Fletcher had threatened to leave unless Lord Harrington intervened immediately “on behalf of sanity.”

  “...and you should have seen me, my lord, when I arrived after that ordeal...”

  Lord Harrington nodded, not having one idea which ordeal she was referring to. “Please reach the point, Mrs. O'Donnell,” he urged with an unprecedented display of patience. “I want very much for you to look in on Stephen.”

  “Who's that up there with him now?” she asked, apparently having heard the footsteps as well.

  “Deasy Morgan,” he replied, wearily knowing she would object and the account of what she'd found at Eden would be postponed again.

  While the feisty woman launched a vicious attack on little Deasy, Lord Harrington eased back in his chair and mourned the lack of sweet and gentle femininity in his life. All that seemed to have died with Lila, his beautiful daughter Lila, whom John Murrey Eden had assiduously wooed, courted, wed, and killed.

  Deep inside he felt ancient grief, yet surely he'd spent it all. He had wept for days, nothing and no one capable of comforting him save Elizabeth. Dear Elizabeth, the only decent person he'd found when he moved into that cold tomb known as Eden Castle. Eden... He scoffed privately, only vaguely aware that Mrs. O'Donnell was still crucifying Deasy Morgan.

  “Mrs. O'Donnell,” Lord Harrington interrupted, “I must beg of you, please get on with your report. If Deasy Morgan is indeed inept, then she will need your guiding hand even more upstairs, as will Stephen.”

  Though anger had been her first reaction, as he continued to speak soothingly the flash of anger disappeared, replaced by a benign look of self-righteousness. He knew the look well, had even worn it himself on occasion, the look of all good Catholics who believed they alone held all the truly important keys to divine communication and understanding.

  Irritated, he asked sharply, “Did you find him, Mrs. O'Donnell?” He knew full well she had.

  “Well, of course I found him, I did,” Rose O'Donnell began with admirable directness. “But when I first heard of employment at Eden, they were saying that Mr. Eden was being measured for his coffin.” Abruptly she leaned back and shook her head. “But what I found when I arrived at them crumbling gates was far from a corpse. It was the woman who had died. The Lady Harriet.”

  Lord Harrington bowed his head. The name was beloved, as was the lady who bore it. Harriet dead? Lonely, secluded Harriet, who always wore a veil to cover her blindness.

  “Starved to death, or so they said.”

  To this gruesome announcement Lord Harrington looked up. “Starved to...” he tried to repeat, and couldn't.

  “...and I can't remember her name,” he heard Rose O'Donnell muse now.

  He looked up from his mourning for Lady Harriet to see Rose O'Donnell studying the ceiling. “Who?” Lord Harrington asked, vowing to keep his mind on the matters at hand.

  Above, he heard footsteps again. Dear God, let the fever break.

  “The other one I was told about at Eden,” Mrs. O'Donnell said snappishly. “Not dead yet, but had got herself in a fair pickle. Oh, yes, Elizabeth. That was it, Elizabeth.”

  Still not fully recovered from the shock of Harriet's death, Lord Harrington was unable for the second time to believe what he was hearing. “Not d-dead?” he stammered, denying death even before she had confirmed it.

  “Oh, no, sir, not dead. Just went and got herself locked up in a French prison for...” She broke off and looked about as though fearful someone would overhear her. “...for revolutionary activities,” Mrs. O'Donnell said with impressive melodrama, her arched eyes narrowing to two slits. “Mr. Eden shouldn't have gone, according to his nurse, Miss Mantle, but there was no stopping him, and when he got the ox Charley Spade to go as his coachman and old Bates to run interference for him, she said her mind was easier and that it really didn't make any difference anyway, because Mr. Eden had to go and fetch Miss Elizabeth because he didn't stand a chance of luring the rest of the family back to Eden without the assistance of Miss Elizabeth.”

  “Mrs. O'Donnell,” Lord Harrington said. “Tell me of Mr. Eden. Had he... was he ill?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she went on without inflection. “Yes, Mr. Eden has been ill, seriously ill. And Miss Mantle says - ”

  “Who is this Miss Mantle you speak of?” Lord Harrington interrupted.

  “The nurse,” Mrs. O'Donnell replied, “the little circuit nurse, that's who.”

  “Do you think I should take the boys away, Mrs. O'Donnell?” he asked abruptly. He'd always needed someone to give him direction.

  “Take them away where?” Mrs. O'Donnell asked with admirable strength.

  “I don't know,” he confessed. “Away from here. It wouldn't be too difficult for a skilled investigator to locate us.”

  A curious smile covered her face, which she quickly canceled. “Well, no need to run and hide yet, Lord Harrington. First, let's get Stephen well and out of bed,” she began.

  Suddenly he felt a surge of gratitude to the gossipy common woman. “Yes,” he agreed, smiling.

  “Then — say, about a month from now — I'll make a return trip, just to check on things, if you know what I mean. No employment this time, just a brief look-see on me friends — and I made me one or t
wo while I was cooking there — then I'll be able to tell you if Mr. Eden is back and, if so, what precisely is going on. And on the basis of that journey, then you can make your decision concerning where you want to take the lads — maybe even America.”

  Now Lord Harrington listened with total absorption. America! No, he hadn't even thought of that, and felt certain it wasn't a wise destination and wished he didn't have to take them anyplace. Still... “A good idea, Mrs. O'Donnell,” he said, giving the devil her due. “But I do hate to keep asking you to make that treacherous journey into enemy territory, as it were. Perhaps next time I'll ask Deasy Morgan to accompany you. She could - ”

  “Don't need no one to accompany me, Lord Harrington,” she said with sudden anger. “Least of all Deasy Morgan,” she added with a sneer. “Either I go alone or I don't go.”

  He glanced at her for a moment, still not quite able to fathom the woman. No matter. The journey had accomplished its purpose. The monster had awakened, but he was in far-off France now.

  Mrs. O'Donnell had risen to go to Stephen. “Wait! I'll accompany you...”

  “No need. I know the way.”

  Harriet dead... Elizabeth imprisoned...

  As the two thoughts took root in his mind, he stood up rapidly as though to abandon them along with his chair.

  “Mrs. O'Donnell, please wait/' he called after the woman, who was already halfway up the broad staircase.

  Stephen Eden, age eight, had been asleep and dreaming of a place with long gray corridors. Though he was hot and the corridors were cool, still he was frightened because he was lost and certain he could never find his way back to Talbot House. So he made himself open his eyes.

  The first thing he saw was Grandpapa, who looked like he was lost in a nightmare as well. Stephen was glad to see him, and he lifted his arms, wanting to be held, then realized he was acting like a baby — or worse, like Frederick, who whined all the time for someone to hold and rock him.