Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5)

by Marilyn Harris

  “The river!” he shouted to Jason, who sat erect on his horse. “If we could find the river, I think...”

  Jason nodded, as though he'd understood. Damned clever for a nigger, and Charley was the first to admit it. He also now was prepared to admit he hadn't wanted to travel with Jason at all, hadn't thought it necessary.

  But the worst, the very worst, was the fact of the empty pouch inside his rain-soaked coat pocket, the leather pouch that was supposed to have contained the letter of clemency from Mr. William Gladstone on behalf of Miss Elizabeth.

  Walking? In Wales? What man in his right mind went to Wales to do anything? And why couldn't Mr. Gladstone walk about in London if he was of a mind to do some walking? And what would Mr. Eden do now? And how could any of them just stand by and let Miss Elizabeth...?

  He couldn't even think about it, and as he drew his exhausted horse up to a busy intersection, he looked to the left and saw the twin spires of Notre Dame and knew instantly where he was, and knew he didn't have much time before he would have to confront Mr. Eden with the news the mission had failed, and unless God Himself decided to intervene, one of the noblest, rarest, kindest creatures who ever lived would be...

  “Jason!” Without looking up, he called for the man to catch up.

  Without a word, Jason drew even beside him, his dark face glistening from the steady rain which had been falling since they entered the city.

  For a moment Charley stared at him, wondering why he'd summoned him, when for the most of the journey he'd tried to separate himself from this traveling companion. Finally he said, “I... can't...”

  “Can't what?” said Jason, steadying his horse. “Are you ill?” he asked, peering more closely at Charley, as though trying to find a clue there.

  In some exasperation and not wanting to confess openly to cowardice — certainly not before this man — Charley delivered one sharp jab to his horse and shot across the muddy street and realized instantly he should have turned toward the church, not away from it. But in that moment he had found the perfect solution to all his problems.

  Lost! With little effort he could contrive to get lost, and since Jason was even more of a stranger to the city than Charley, and since neither of them spoke the language and as they had been unable to find anyone who spoke the King's English, well...

  For the first time on that wet and miserable journey since he'd left Mr. Eden, Charley smiled. Of course, it wasn't a permanent solution, but it was a good postponement — at least until Charley could think up a report that would make sense and not make him look so bad, one that might even evoke a little pity in the bargain. On that note of faint optimism, Charley bent low over his horse, like a man intent on reaching his destination.

  By the next intersection the traffic had cleared and they were the lone riders on a quiet lane lined with small darkened shops.

  “Is it far?” Jason called from a few paces behind, his voice hushed, reflecting the new surroundings.

  “Not far,” Charley called out, and begged God to forgive him and turned his horse down yet another narrow lane, going farther and farther away from the church, deeper and deeper into foreign territory.

  Would God forgive him?

  He had to forgive him, didn't He? For it was God Himself who had made Charley Spade a weak man, thus a cowardly one.

  Eden Castle November 14, 1874

  It was lovely in the autumn sunset and Susan allowed herself one moment's indulgence because it would be the last.

  With perfect deliberation, like a man drinking a treasured wine after a long period of self-imposed abstinence, she stood on the elevated spot of ground called Eden Rising and saw only beauty magnified. On the western horizon was a solid line of fire, the licking flames of the dying sun performing with great virtuosity in the last moments before darkness.

  Before the fiery backdrop of orange and crimson, claret and purple, every lesser thing was silhouetted in black. Even the great square castle itself sat inert and unmoving, its emptiness somehow manifested in its glazed windows and the tattered banners which hung lifeless from high standards.

  A dying time.

  The words struck against her mind with ecclesiastical accuracy. Quickly she drew her cape about her shoulders and faced in the opposite direction toward the southeast, toward Exeter and London, and the channel and Paris.

  John.

  She closed her eyes, still quite bewildered concerning the nature and most specifically the cure for this new illness which had stricken her and which now threatened to undo everything she'd worked so hard and long to achieve in her life.

  They should have been back by now, Bates and Charley Spade and the woman Elizabeth and...

  John.

  The pain was as precise as though someone had driven something sharp directly into the center of her chest, and so specific she gasped for breath and moved quickly away from the road, thinking to head back to the small gate through which Bates and Reverend Christopher had led her that first night and outside of which she'd left her landau while she said good-bye to the castle, to the cottage, and to the memory of the man who had, without warning, occupied, in the manner of a marauding army, her mind and her heart.

  Now there was one further view she would like to look upon again for the last time, for she intended never to pass this way again. London was her destination now, as soon as she was finished with this sentimental stop, London with its oceans of human need, enough to neutralize and annihilate the most persistent and painful memories.

  Through Reverend Christopher, who had sensed her despair, she'd heard of a man and his wife in London, William and Catherine Booth. Mr. Booth was establishing himself as a dissenting minister concerned with the outcasts and the poor of society.

  The mission appealed to Susan, the localized cry for help, the need to submerge herself in a cause greater than any she'd ever been associated with before. Mr. Booth and his wife were in desperate need of help, according to Reverend Christopher. A simple tent in Whitechapel in the East End of London served as their “Church for the Christian Mission to the Heathen of Our Country.” Concerned for the poor and their lack of faith, Booth was in the process of demonstrating a true Christian ministry to the world.

  “You cannot reform a man morally by his intellect,” Reverend Christopher had quoted Booth as saying. “You must reform man by his soul.”

  Susan liked that. She suspected William Booth had taken a careful look at the organized church and had found little evidence of it being God's earthly residence. With dismay and a degree of disillusionment, she too had witnessed the bishops’ huge salaries, the endless debate on vestments, incense, processions, and ceremonies, rather than its ministry to the poverty-stricken, the hungry, the despairing. The clergy offered the poor only benevolent smiles and occasionally a handshake. Its main concern was to defend its beliefs and uphold Christian orthodoxy against the secular thoughts and intellectual challenges of the day. Help for the poor sat somewhere very near the bottom of the church's list of priorities; income to restore buildings and sustain church personnel, very near to the top.

  Lost in thought, yet excited by a sense of this new mission, Susan looked up from the ruts in the road toward the cottage on Eden Rising, pleased to feel nothing but the excitement of the challenge and the journey ahead.

  Reverend Christopher had assured her she would be welcomed in London with open and very grateful arms, particularly with her medical training. She would be invaluable to the mission. In return for her services, she would be paid nothing, would be provided with a single cot and what food was left over from the common kitchen.

  A chill wind gusted behind her, a harbinger of winter.

  Then accept it she scolded herself harshly. Accept the fact God intended her to serve Him alone — for every attempt at companionship she'd ever tried to cultivate in her life had always failed.

  Besides, how silly she had become in her solitary treks up and down the West Country. At this very moment — no matter w
here he was or what doing — John Murrey Eden probably didn't even remember the name of the nurse who had cared for him after...

  Though she'd been walking with admirable purpose and determination down the road, abruptly she stopped. Ahead twenty yards was the cottage.

  Dear God, how she missed him, that man who probably did not even remember her name, that strange and complex man who once had lightly touched her hand as though testing, allowed it to rest atop hers for a moment before quickly removing it, the same man who stood accused of ruining every life he'd ever touched.

  “I wish you well,” she whispered to the late-evening air, and vowed with simple sincerity never again, under any circumstances, to allow her heart and soul to be invaded as this one man had invaded and conquered hers.

  Love was an illness to be perennially avoided — as she tried to avoid pox and fever and all infections which undermined the system and against which there was no protection.

  Resolution made! Good-bye!

  She turned and ran back down the road, her feet slipping in the ruts, her vision blurred, the natural strain of self-discipline... and loneliness.

  La Rochelle House of Detention, Paris November 14, 1874

  Single-handedly, Madame Charvin had taken the simple bureaucratic activity of pulling strings and had elevated it to a fine art. She was proud to be able to accomplish almost anything within the walls of the prison, anything except a prisoner's escape, and she'd never dared to arrange for that, because, quite simply, if it didn't work, her own head would roll, and she was still quite fond of her own head.

  So when the prisoner Elizabeth Eden had requested a fragrant hot bath and a new blue gown as her last wishes before facing the firing squad, Madame Charvin at the last moment had effortlessly arranged for both.

  As she surveyed the clock on her mantel — shortly before midnight — she wiped her hands on her apron and turned to confirm the readiness of Elizabeth Eden's last wishes. In the center of her comfortable parlor stood an enormous copper tub, large enough for the prisoner to stretch out if she so desired. Halos of steam still rose from the jasmine-scented water, bathing the entire room in a fragrant fog. If everything went on schedule, the guards, friendly ones, bribed ones, would return with Elizabeth Eden in ten minutes. By that time the water would have cooled just enough for comfortable submersion. Then it was Madame's intention to gently wield the scrub brush herself. She could have brought in one of the female prisoners for this menial task — there were plenty of ladies maids among the still-imprisoned female incendiaries who had attempted to put the torch to Paris four years ago — but Madame Charvin wanted this chore for herself, because in truth it was no chore. She felt such a debt to this remarkable Englishwoman who would be dead by this time tomorrow.

  Abruptly she turned away from her fixed gaze on the shimmering copper tub. Something pinched, hurt.

  Dead.

  She lifted her head, and in an attempt to ease the temporary discomfort, she walked quickly into her bedchamber for a final check on the lovely blue gown which had been delivered to the service entrance of the prison and carried up to her apartment in a wicker case safely concealed beneath a layer of fresh linen.

  It was beautiful, Madame Lemel's finest — or at least so Madame Charvin had been assured that afternoon when she'd called personally on Madame Lemel's salon and made her request complete with size and had been shown three blue gowns. She had selected this one with Elizabeth Eden in mind. Silk it was, the color of the sky over Mont Saint Michel on the afternoon of an early-June rain, an azure blue with white watermarks which fell in cascades of elegant silk from the small nipped waist to the floor, not a decoration anyplace on the skirt, for none was needed.

  Again Madame Charvin tried to draw a deep breath and couldn't. She turned away from the blue silk gown and glared at the door. Where was that blasted maid? She'd sent her on this last errand hours ago. The prisoner would be here soon, and Madame Charvin wanted everything in readiness, did not want them to be disturbed until...

  My God, what was the matter with her? Sharply she shook her head in an attempt to clear it of the grim images which continuously presented themselves for her inspection. A cup of coffee might help, or a brandy. Yes, the latter. So what if they both got a little tipsy? It was her intention to sit up with Elizabeth for the rest of the night until the soldiers came for her at six in the morning. She would be allowed a last few minutes with one individual of her choosing; then she would be led out to the courtyard, placed against the firing post, her hands bound behind her, and she would be given the choice of a blindfold or none.

  Take it! A sudden knock at the door caused Madame Charvin to jump. She clasped a trembling hand to her throat. “Come,” she called out, and was forced to say it again, louder. “Come in!”

  A moment later the apartment door was drawn open and one of the prison maids pushed in a small cart on which rested a yellow teapot, two cups, a large covered platter, and a tiered plate containing a lovely arrangement of delicate cakes and cookies.

  “Very good,” Madame beamed, glad for the prompt delivery and doubly glad for the distraction. From where she stood she saw clearly the terror in the young girl's eyes. She knew very well what the meal was and whom it was for.

  “Run along now and tell no one,” Madame ordered the girl. “What you saw here is no one's business, is that clear?” She was on the verge of telling her good night and to close the door when she heard the telltale shuffling of a manacled prisoner.

  Why manacled? Dear God, she wasn't going anywhere.

  “You, girl, run along...”

  But too late. Standing half in, half out of the door, the girl stiffened, her attention fixed on the shuffling feet, joined now by the smart click of heeled boots. The escort, no doubt.

  God be with us and make us strong.

  Madame Charvin prayed quickly and crossed herself and took a final appraisal of everything in order, steam still rising from the copper tub, the smell of jasmine everywhere — like Versailles in early May — a stack of clean white linen, a simple soft white dressing gown, and in the bedchamber, just the corner of the bed visible, the elegant gown itself.

  The footsteps came to a halt outside the door.

  “Madame Charvin?” The male voice seemed strangely out-of-place. Still, she must respond.

  “Come.” For the last time she adjusted her twisted bodice, straightened the French knot which sat at the back of her neck, and turned to greet her good friend Elizabeth Eden from London.

  But as the guards appeared, flanking and supporting between them what appeared to be a very frail and ill woman, all of Madame Char-vin's resolutions faltered. When the two guards and the maid departed the room, Madame Charvin half-walked, half-carried Elizabeth to the nearest chair. The blankness in the woman's face alarmed and frightened her. It happened sometimes — Madame Charvin had seen it before — the subtle diminution of a prisoner's senses as the moment of death appeared, the mind's way of defending itself against what was coming.

  “Elizabeth?” Madame Charvin smiled kindly. “It's me. Remember? The wax flowers you made...”

  “Of course I remember, madame,” came a soft voice, and Madame Charvin knew instantly there was nothing wrong with this remarkable woman's wits. In fact, for the moment the sentence of death seemed to be pressing down on Madame Charvin rather than Elizabeth Eden.

  “Come,” Madame Charvin said, cutting off the thought before it became too destructive, “let me help.” She stepped back and pointed toward the copper tub filled with hot fragrant water. “We'll bathe first,” she suggested, “then I...”

  Elizabeth nodded, and with Madame Charvin's help made her way slowly toward the tub, where her hands commenced to move slowly down the long row of buttons.

  “Here, I'll do it,” Madame Charvin offered, and Elizabeth did not protest, trailing her fingers through the water, a smile on her face, eyes closed as though the sensation was pleasurable beyond description.

  Buttons undone, M
adame Charvin slipped the awful dress down, watching as it fell the rest of the way to reveal a small, almost childlike body, the shoulder bones and ribs visible, the slender legs, shapely save for the two bleeding and chafed bands about the ankles where the manacles had cut deep. If Elizabeth felt any immodesty, she gave no indication of it, instead concentrating on the water, the fragrance.

  “Jasmine,” she murmured. “Thank you. I had no idea you could really do it.”

  A bit offended, as though her reputation had been questioned, Madame Charvin answered in mock indignation. “As I told you, you might have requested anything except...” She had started to say “escape” but changed her mind. Why flirt with false hope? “Anything,” she repeated, “and it would have been yours. I would have seen to it personally. It is the right, you know, of every condemned...”

  She broke off. Not that she'd seen anything on Elizabeth's face that had informed her she'd said too much. In fact, she couldn't see Elizabeth's face at all, for she'd turned back to the tub, leaning heavily against the edge. Across her shoulders and back Madame Charvin saw gooseflesh.

  “I'm... sorry, Elizabeth,” she apologized.

  “No,” the woman said without looking up. “We can't avoid it, can we? So we mustn't be afraid of it.”

  Madame Charvin shook her head.

  “Heaven!” she heard Elizabeth gasp, and looked back to see her just stepping into the hot water. There was a slight wince as the lacerations on her ankles came into contact with the water. But the discomfort was short-lived. With help she eased all the way down into the water, her eyes closed, face lifted.

  “Oh, madame, it is heaven.”

  Madame Charvin, not trusting herself to speak, hovered for a moment to make certain all was well; then she stepped back. “I'll leave you for a while,” she offered, thinking perhaps Elizabeth would want a brief interval to herself.