For several minutes neither spoke. John was content with the silence and the closeness, until he remembered both were limited to fifteen minutes.
Once he had had a lifetime, now only minutes.
Though it was the least important matter on his mind, it seemed safe and therefore appropriate and he asked softly, “Where did you manage to obtain that gown? If you're not careful, all female prisoners will demand one as pretty.”
“It... was pretty, once,” she whispered, looking down at the dried bloodstains.
“And still is.” He smiled and carried her to the low stool, where he eased her down, holding on to her for a few moments to see if she could manage for herself.
Now she looked up at him with an expression of intolerable sadness. “I... wish - ”
“For what?” he interrupted, settling himself stiffly on the cold floor before her, holding on to her hand as he used to do when he was a child.
“I wish you hadn't come,” she said.
“Why?” he demanded with mock sternness. “You would have come to me, wouldn't you?”
The simple logic of love seemed to penetrate. And soothe. She reached out her right hand and smoothed back his hair.
“Of course.” She smiled, caressing his face. “Please help me to speak directly, John,” she said quietly, but with new strength and conviction. “I was mistaken earlier when I said I wished you hadn't come,” she went on. “We both know what will take place in a few minutes, but we mustn't think on it now. It will come soon enough.”
Please, don’t! a voice begged from deep inside him, and somewhere the child within him ran away from the nightmare and successfully blotted out everything.
“You must listen,” she begged with greater intensity, as though she knew him well enough to know precisely what he was doing. “If you love me now or have ever loved me,” she said, “then promise me one thing...”
He nodded.
“If I could share the rest of my life with you, I would work diligently for one cause, the restoration of your family, all those people who love and need you and whom you love and need, drawn back to you and to Eden. Do you understand?”
The damned tears could not be controlled, so he dared not look up, and again merely nodded.
“You need them, John, more than they need you, I suspect. Otherwise, you wouldn't have behaved as you did. Please understand, my dearest,” she whispered. “I say this out of the endless reservoir of love I feel for you.”
“I... drove you away as well,” he muttered.
Incredibly, she smiled. It was reflected in her tone of voice. “Yes, but I always knew I would return. I always knew the man I raised and loved as my own son would see the pattern and direction of his life and find it as foreign and as lacking as did all those who loved him.”
Slowly he looked up, weary of concealing his grief. If their last minutes were to be honest ones, then grief must certainly be given its due.
“I... d-don't understand,” he stammered, uncaring if the tears were visible.
“You are your father's son,” she said simply. “Oh, John, promise me further you will find your sons and bring them home where they belong.”
He nodded.
“And Richard and his wife, they must be reinstated, both in your affection and at Eden, for only through them will the line continue.”
Again he nodded.
Now for the first time she reached out for his hand and held on as though it were the only lifeline in a tumultuous sea. “And Mary needs you more than anyone else,” she whispered.
Her voice broke and John saw Mary in memory after the police had brought her back to Elizabeth's house in Saint George's Street, her once lovely hair butchered close to her scalp, rope burns on her wrists, the grisly script of the assault writ clear upon her face — and his hand behind it all, his pact with the three ruffians whom he had hired to frighten her.
But the weight of memory could not be borne, and apparently she felt his pain. She slipped to her knees before him and gathered him to her with surprising strength. For a few moments he closed his eyes and was a child again back on Oxford Street.
“But first and most difficult of all,” she murmured, caressing his hair, the back of his neck, “you must forgive yourself. If you can find it in your heart to do that, the rest will follow, I promise you.”
He held on to her as she had held on to him earlier, and blindly nodded, wishing his life would end here, before they came for her, before...
“Remember me,” she whispered.
John continued to cling to her, and told himself he did not hear the cell door opening.
“Time, madame,” General Montaud said loudly, cutting through the murmurs of promises requested, promises given. “Well, I see she got on her knees for you,” the general went on, “which is more than God can say.”
John started up with a sense of nothing to lose, would have risen instantly to his feet had it not been for Elizabeth's restraining hand.
“Don't, please, John,” she begged. “He can say nothing that will hurt us. Listen to the voice of your father. He's here, speaking to us both. Can you hear?”
From the radiance on her face he was certain she was hearing something not of this world. But as for himself, all he could hear was the crowds outside the cell; and the reality he was facing — the most awesome moment of his life — he was totally ill-equipped to meet.
With a wave of his hand, General Montaud summoned two soldiers into the small cell. “Visitors out!” the general commanded. “I kept my word; now, you keep yours.”
John tried for one last time to memorize her features against the moment they would be taken from him. But every thought process seemed to balk at the effort, and all he was aware of were the two soldiers coming around behind her, reaching for her arms.
At the precise moment he started angrily forward, two more soldiers appeared in the room, though these two were led in by an unexpected ally — old Bates himself, who appeared to position himself between them and where John stood.
Bates looked awful — half-dead with fatigue... and something else. As soon as they had successfully rescued Elizabeth from this wretched place, John vowed to give Bates a holiday.
Now: “Get her things,” he commanded of Bates, at last aware why the old man was here. He'd come to help with her luggage. “Where are your belongings, Elizabeth?” he demanded, outraged to find the soldiers already restraining her.
Her eyes seemed to be trying to warn him of something, but all he could see clearly were the dried bloodstains on the blue silk bodice.
“Release her!” he commanded with all the old authority and imperiousness he could muster.
“Sir, please, I beg you,” came Bates's fatigued voice from behind.
“Get him out of here,” came the second male voice, arrogant, insistent.
“No...”
He heard only old Bates's single protest before he felt his own arms wrenched behind him.
“Take her out of here, Bates. I command you. Did you hear? Make them release her and take her quickly to a place of safety where my father can... You must!” he begged, struggling against the combined strength of the two French soldiers, years younger and in their prime.
“Sir, please come...” said Bates, realizing for the first time that his master was no longer rational.
“Get him out of here,” came General Montaud's command again, and now he felt himself being half-dragged, half-carried to the door, though he continued to struggle for one last look, one word...
As the cell door closed behind him, the two soldiers tightened their grip and continued to drag him toward the low arched entrance which led to the courtyard.
“Please, sir,” Bates continued to plead, hobbling first to one side, then the other, “I beg you. Let me lead you out of - ”
“No!” John struggled again, his arms wrenched backward at a painful angle, until it occurred to him if he were expelled from the prison a second time he would have a
bsolutely no chance of helping Elizabeth to escape.
And escape was still very much a viable possibility- — at least in one part of his mind. He looked ahead through the arched entrance into the courtyard to see a crowd of almost a hundred people — some from the prison community itself, trustees and staff, curiosity seekers, journalists, and a large contingent of officials.
“Sir, please, there is no point, nothing more that can be done...”
Bates again. But John did not respond.
A few steps beyond the arched door, the two guards halted. They said something in French, and he waited, head down, for Bates to translate.
“They asked if you were man enough to walk by yourself to the spectators' box,” Bates murmured.
The second soldier spoke. Bates translated. “General Montaud has given them instructions to stay with you. One more outburst, and you will be expelled.” Suddenly his voice fell silent and he stepped close to John, his right hand extended in desperate entreaty. “Oh, please, sir, let us depart now, before... It will serve no purpose...”
John watched the old man and saw, not fear for himself, for he suspected Bates to be almost fearless, but something else. And as he spoke, the voice of reason and sanity was urging him to listen and take heed.
Ultimately he was left with only silence. Yet he knew what he had to do, had known all along.
Slowly he straightened up, briefly rubbed his upper arms where the grip of the guards had impeded circulation. As he passed beneath the archway and started across the upper end of the courtyard, he was aware the crowds fell suddenly silent, as though with his appearance the main attraction was about to commence.
Papa, who is Elizabeth? Is she my mother?
No, but she loves you very much and you are always to love her.
“Sir, please, the general himself has advised against this.” Old Bates was back, and from the echo of softly treading footsteps, not alone. The two guards were shadowing, but ready to pounce at the least provocation.
If anything happens to me, John, take Elizabeth to Eden and stay with her.
Yes, Papa.
“Sir, please...”
But he merely walked ahead, passing by Bates as though he were invisible. Other voices from other places were filling John's head now. His father was walking with him, as vivid, as real as when they had walked together when John was a child.
Do you love Elizabeth, Papa?
Oh, yes, John, very much.
Why?
Because her heart is filled with love.
The black wrought-iron enclosure had two entrances. John took the nearest and saw half a dozen people ease more closely together to make room. When he turned about, he saw Bates and the two guards standing a few feet away. But of greatest interest to him was the small pompous figure who stood in the far archway, Jules Montaud.
Promise me, John, that you will find your sons and bring them home.
Stephen? Frederick? Where were they?
Directly before him in the enclosure he saw a thick black iron bar which ran the width of the enclosure. He reached out with one hand and found it cool but steady, lifted the other, and held on. Bates had been right. He shouldn't be here, because now he doubted seriously his ability to survive. But what was so admirable about survival?
“Sir, please, there's still time to depart. It will serve no...
No!
Across the courtyard he heard the sound of boots marching and looked slowly up, knowing. He saw a limited formation of six soldiers, rifles at their shoulders, march in under the command of General Montaud himself.
Then all was quiet in the vast courtyard, the soldiers' boots silenced as they aligned themselves perfectly on the firing line, rifles at ease at their sides, heads erect, eyes straight, facing the three tall posts a distance away.
Papa, help me.
John gripped the iron bar.
I love you, Elizabeth.
He held this thought steady in his mind and tried with all his might to use it as a shield against what was coming.
With his eyes focused on the opposite archway, he saw, perhaps even before anyone else, the hem of that blue silk gown, then the woman herself materializing, small between the two guards. Trailing behind, he saw a rotund black-frocked priest, Bible open and in hand, intoning something.
Elizabeth...
He spoke her name softly, under his breath.
The crowd now caught sight of her, and he heard a discernible gasp as her beauty registered. Only as they approached the large central post did he observe her faltering in any way, then only very subtly. The guards led her forward until she was facing the post.
Then John saw her courage desert her, saw her head, once erect, fall heavily forward.
He closed his eyes and cursed the God who would permit this morning to happen.
He stepped forward until his forehead was pressed against the sharp edge of the black wrought-iron cage, tried to clear his eyes of persistent tears, and wished with childlike simplicity the nightmare would end, and realized with mounting waves of grief that, even as a child, the only person capable of soothing his nightmares had been...
“Elizabeth”
He merely whispered the name, but as he did, he felt something break within him, a major disruption in the feeling, knowing, perceiving part of him. He did not mourn its disruption, but rather welcomed it, clung to it, and prayed only that it would not now desert him.
Never before in Bates's entire sixty-seven years had the world seemed so completely without point or purpose as it did at this moment, for two people were being destroyed for no reason save the mentality of a nation that believed “...from time to time it is necessary and wise to kill a few in order to warn the many.”
Struggling to control his outrageously offended sense of justice and humanity, Bates tried to maintain a grip on his own feelings, knowing full well Mr. Eden would be unable to, though at the moment, he seemed the picture of docility. Bates turned to the woman. The priest was making the sign of the cross on her forehead. He thought he saw her turn her head away, but he couldn't be certain. In the next moment both the guards and the priest moved away from the post, all walking slowly and in formation back to the area of safety behind the firing line.
Bates was struck by how quiet it was, no sound. The rifles were ready, all six soldiers in the firing position. All life in the prison courtyard was suspended, along with General Montaud's saber, which he held waist-high, his eyes hurriedly making a final check of everything, stopping to dwell the longest on Elizabeth Eden herself.
Enough! Drop it! a voice screamed in Bates's head.
Then it fell, with a sharply barked command, and the first reports came like the slamming of heavy doors in a wind, accompanied by one single inhuman cry of protest from Mr. Eden, who jerked reflex-ively forward, the cry of “No/” leaving his throat in a continuous torturous trail. The crowd turned and was spared the atrocity which had occurred at the opposite end of the courtyard, the first volley of fire slamming the woman against the post with such force her neck cracked. Now her head slumped disjointedly forward upon her chest, the red target tom away as the bullets ripped through her flesh, another red circle, wet and glistening, taking its place. Blood seeped from other wounds on the slim torso. The head lifted only once after the initial shots; then head, body, legs, all slumped against the bondage, and still blood poured forth, wetting the sandy ground, staining the blue silk.
Over and above it all there still persisted the animal cry of protest which echoed about the courtyard, reverberating off the arcades and ultimately shattering every ear, every heart, and every sensitivity within hearing distance.
Most others looked away at the second volley. Mr. Eden did not. As fresh explosions of blood and flesh ripped through the blue silk gown, the scream ceased at last.
Bates tried to see the remains of the two who had died here, the woman hanging grotesquely on the post by the backward angle of her bound hands, and the second corpse, who st
ill stood upright. Mr. Eden's hands now tried to maintain their grip on the iron bar, but could not for their violent trembling. Bates turned his back on the carnage to face the empty arcade which led ultimately to the street, and bowed his head to do something he had not done since he was a boy of five.
He wept.
Talbot House, Dublin, Ireland November 15, 1874
For several days Lord Harrington had maintained a constant vigil at Stephen's bedside, had watched Rose O'Donnell come and go with her various tortures disguised as ministrations, and had found himself thinking more and more often of the gentleness and ease with which dear Elizabeth had been capable of getting the boys to do anything. After Lila's death and while John had buried himself in his work in London, Elizabeth had become a surrogate mother to the two children.
Now, in the early-morning hours, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, Lord Harrington watched the pale drawn face of his elder grandson and found, curiously, he was unable to keep his thoughts away from Eden Castle and those marvelously happy days at the beginning.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair — it had served as his bed the better part of the night. As he tried to stretch his cramped muscles, he thought how pleasant it would be to see Elizabeth again.
Suddenly he felt a strange suffocation in his throat, as though an air passage had been blocked. He tried to straighten his back, keeping a close eye on Stephen, who continued to sleep restlessly upon his pillow. Twice in the predawn hours the boy had called out, “Papa!” in his delirium. The sound of the small voice uttering that word had deeply moved Lord Harrington, caused him to think on his own lost child. Now, as the inner conflict mounted, he got up and made his way to the French doors which gave a perfect view of the east meadow, where the foals were kept in the spring and where the boys loved to play.
Now there was a chill fog covering the ground, a light chill rain beginning to pelt the glass panes. It was a winter mood, a winter scene, and somehow it suited him.
Behind him on the large feather bed he heard a sudden restlessness. Looking back, he was surprised to see Stephen awake, watching him.
Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5) Page 36
