Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5)

by Marilyn Harris

“Grandpapa...”

  The small voice carried and thrust a question into Lord Harrington’s mind and soul. Why had God permitted two such innocent lambs to be brought into the world, then abandoned?

  “I’m here.” He smiled, hurrying to the bedside, where the normally robust and ruddy Stephen looked shrunken, diminished by his illness.

  “What is it?” Lord Harrington inquired, concerned, leaning closer. “Can I get you something? Water?”

  The boy shook his head and closed his eyes. He was weak and growing weaker; Lord Harrington knew that much. He’d exchanged harsh words last night with Rose O’Donnell over the boy’s treatment, was prepared to have them again today if the senseless bleeding did not stop.

  “Stephen, what is it?” he asked again, concerned with how pale and lifeless the boy was becoming.

  “I... dreamed,” Stephen began.

  “Of what?” Lord Harrington prodded, curious to know the nature of the nightmares which caused the boy to cry out so often.

  “I... don’t know, Grandpapa,” he whispered, “but it was as real as Talbot House.”

  “It was a house?”

  The boy shook his head and swallowed hard. “Not a house,” he said. “Big. Bigger than Talbot House, with long dark passages.”

  Lord Harrington listened carefully, fearful of the boy’s dream even before he had identified it. “And what else?” he prompted.

  “Frederick was there,” Stephen said, staring up at the ceiling, “but he was real little, just a baby, and...”

  “What happened?”

  “I was in a room, a big room, and it was warm because there was sun coming from... someplace, and I had been asked by... someone... As his memory faltered, he looked up at Lord Harrington as though help could be forthcoming.

  “...to sing,” he concluded. A half-smile altered the paleness on Stephen's face. “I was... scared, I remember...”

  “Of course you were, though without reason. Can you remember who asked you to sing?”

  The boy nodded. “A lady. Her face and head were all covered in black. I couldn't see her face.”

  Lady Harriet. Stephen had seen Lady Harriet, and the long dark passageways were Eden Castle. Yet it had been at least five years ago, the boy a mere babe himself.

  “What else?” Lord Harrington prompted, curiosity joining his concern. How odd! He too had been revisiting Eden via dream and memory.

  “There were... some other ladies present,” Stephen went on. “Several, and some I couldn't see very clearly. There was one... dark, like Indian dark...”

  Dhari! John's mistress.

  “...and there was a nice woman.” Stephen smiled, closing his eyes. “She hugged me as I passed her by, and she smelled so good.” Elizabeth, without a doubt, Lord Harrington thought. He'd once contemplated marrying the woman after his wife had died, after he and Lila had moved to Eden. But she wouldn't have him. Lord Harrington suspected years ago she'd given her heart to John's father, Edward Eden.

  “And Mama was there,” Stephen said at last, his small thin voice filled with sorrow.

  “How... do you know it was your mother?” Lord Harrington asked.

  “I know.” The boy shrugged with supreme self-confidence. “When I finished the song, she hugged me and kissed me and said she loved me more than anything in the world.”

  Lord Harrington turned quickly away from the boy's close scrutiny.

  “Grandpapa?”

  “Yes,” he said kindly, back safely turned.

  “This isn't... my home, is it?”

  He looked back. “For now it is,” he said.

  “But it hasn't always been.”

  “No.”

  “Is my name Harrington or Eden?”

  “You know the answer to that one.”

  “Then Fm an Eden?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Then where is my father?”

  Lord Harrington gaped at the boy who had just voiced the question he'd dreaded having to answer for the last five years. “I... don't know,” Lord Harrington said.

  Just in the process of walking farther away, he looked back to see Rose O'Donnell in the doorway, bearing the various pieces of equipment she'd been using too long in an attempt to cure Stephen.

  “Lord Harrington,” she said brusquely with a sharp nod of her head, as though she sensed his antagonism. “You must let the boy rest.”

  He nodded quickly, hearing a plaintive sound from Stephen, as though the boy had perceived the new presence in the room and the pain which always accompanied her appearance.

  With sudden resolve Lord Harrington vowed not to have it today. He would get rid of the woman first before he'd allow her to continue with the daily bleedings, which clearly were not healing. “Mrs. O'Donnell,” he commanded with unexpected sharpness, then foundered without the least idea what he would say next.

  She raised up from her position bent over Stephen. As yet she'd inflicted no damage, content merely to feel of his forehead. “Sir?” she asked. The backward angle caused her to resemble a large vulture with its prey.

  “I... was thinking...” What? “I... would like for you to... return to Eden for me, if you will, that is.”

  At last the old woman raised all the way up from Stephen's bed, a new light on her face. Something had caught her attention.

  “But, sir, I only just returned from - ”

  “And now I want you to go back.”

  “I... don't understand.”

  “You said Mr. Eden was returning from France with Elizabeth Eden.”

  “He went to fetch her, yes.”

  “I would like to know if they are safely returned.”

  She nodded once, though an expression of bewilderment still lingered on her harsh worn features.

  “Of course you will be justly compensated,” he reassured her.

  “I... was thinking on... him,” she whispered, nodding toward the boy.

  “I think he's beyond danger now,” Lord Harrington said without conviction, wondering how much the boy's mysterious dreams were contributing to his debilitating illness.

  “I don't know.” Rose O'Donnell hesitated. “It seems such a long trip for such a - ”

  “I said you'd be justly compensated,” Lord Harrington snapped.

  The woman seemed to hear the anger more clearly than anything else. She moved away from the bed, her “patient” momentarily abandoned for this new prospect. “And return here immediately?” she inquired, clearly trying to set the limits for her excursion.

  Lord Harrington nodded vaguely. “If you wish, you may take additional time...”

  Slowly she encircled the large double bed, looking down on Stephen but not seeing him. “And you're certain you can handle him?” she asked, coming up alongside the bed.

  Lord Harrington nodded, again without conviction. His first wish was to get her away from Stephen.

  “I'll not be able to make the same time in this weather,” she warned.

  He nodded. “I said to take your time...”

  “Anything else?” she demanded, abandoning the equipment on the side table by Stephen's bed. Lord Harrington saw from a distance the dreaded knife and white crockery bowl into which the blood was spilled, and saw as well the wide look of fear in Stephen's eyes.

  In answer to her question, he thought for a moment and decided. “Yes. Find out, if you can, the disposition of the entire family, how Elizabeth Eden fared during her imprisonment in Paris, and the others as well. All of them.”

  “Including the grand cock himself?” Mrs. O'Donnell smiled coyly, knowing full well the degree of Lord Harrington's interest in John Murrey Eden.

  He turned away from the offensive woman and the equally offensive question. “I'm sure that will be made known to you the instant you pass through the gates,” he murmured, turning back to the window.

  For several minutes he heard no sound, and as the silence stretched on, his curiosity prompted him to look over his shoulder. To his annoyance, he saw t
he old bitch praying over Stephen. He started to stop her, then changed his mind. He didn't want to give his true feelings away. He still needed Rose O'Donnell, who was, if nothing else, greedy enough to serve as a reliable go-between.

  For a moment she looked sternly down on Stephen, then said, “Now, I want only good reports on you when I return, do you hear?”

  Stephen appeared to listen carefully. “Are you going to see my father?”

  Even Rose O'Donnell seemed to be taken off guard. She looked sharply up at Lord Harrington, then back down on Stephen. “Of course not. I don't even know who your papa is. So how could I see him? You are a silly thing...”

  When the door was safely closed again, Stephen looked up. “She lied, didn't she, Grandpapa?”

  For a moment Lord Harrington couldn't reply. If Stephen was capable of seeing through Rose O'Donnell, what would prevent him from seeing through Lord Harrington himself with equal facility?

  “My father isn't dead, is he?” Stephen asked. “That's what everyone has told me, but I know now it isn't true.”

  Lord Harrington moved away from the questions, still unable to reply.

  “I've dreamed of him every night. I've seen him so clearly. He's ill, Grandpapa, and sad — but not dead.”

  How long could he hold them here? How long before...

  Lord Harrington found the thought insupportable. He went directly to the doors, pushed them open, and stepped quickly out to welcome the freezing rain, which cleared his head, if not his heart.

  Paris November 15, 1874

  Evening

  John Murrey Eden had spent the better part of the day trying to obtain Elizabeth’s body — to no avail. Now, Bates thought, he resembles a dead man himself, as though at the exact moment the lifeblood had drained from Elizabeth Eden, it had drained out of him as well.

  “Sir? We’ll be ready shortly. Are you certain you are capable of travel?”

  As he bent close to Mr. Eden, who sat in Monsieur DuCamp’s parlor, he saw the vacancy in the eyes and was stunned anew.

  Yet, despite the seriousness of this new silence, Bates had not been overly concerned. There had been far more pressing matters at the time, such as how Bates was going to drive the large coach back to Calais, all the time attending to Mr. Eden.

  But fate had even managed to provide a solution for that, because as they had made their way back to Monsieur DuCamp’s, Bates had spied a familiar figure slumped across the rump of a horse, an equally familiar — though surprising — figure sitting with a bit more dignity in charge of the reins. The “prodigal” had returned, Charley Spade in the mysterious company of black Jason, both much the worse for wear. There was a slight wound on Charley’s jaw, and both reeked of whiskey; an empty pouch lay beneath Charley's jacket containing... nothing.

  Thank God! Bates had breathed with relief as he'd inspected the pouch. If that had come too late...

  Bates had thought once the unexpected appearance of the man who had been Mr. Eden's most trusted driver, the West Indian named Jason, would make a difference, but it hadn't. Jason himself appeared to be in only slightly better shape than Charley Spade, though apparently it had been Jason who finally with difficulty had led them safely back to Rue Saint Jacob.

  Returning from the ordeal at La Rochelle to find these two disreputable men slumped on one horse, Bates had given them exactly three hours to make themselves ready for the return trip to London.

  “Sir, I beg you,” Bates whispered now, keeping his voice down, as the small room was beginning to fill with dinner guests for the first sitting. “We'll be ready to leave shortly. Would you like...?”

  But there was nothing. It was as Bates had predicted. Two had been murdered this day.

  Beyond the arch he saw the West Indian making a last trip down the stairs with the final trunk. “Jason!”

  At Bates's first call the man deposited the trunk in the hallway and presented himself.

  “Would you please assist Mr. Eden to the carriage while I...?”

  There was no need to complete the command. Jason approached with sad reverence the chair where Mr. Eden sat. Without a word he reached down for the lifeless arms and guided him up, murmuring, “We must go home, sir. We must go home.”

  In the next moment, as Jason was attempting to turn him toward the front door, Mr. Eden's knees buckled. He would have collapsed altogether if it hadn't been for Jason's superior strength. Quickly he lifted Mr. Eden into his arms and carried him, childlike, through the gaping guests.

  Bates hurried ahead to open the front door and encountered a very pale and bleary-eyed Charley Spade just hurrying in.

  “There's a woman outside,” he murmured to Bates, keeping his voice down. “Wants to see Mr. Eden, she does.” That was all he said. He hoisted the trunk effortlessly onto his shoulder and marched on through the door, leaving the muddle to Bates, who peered out and saw an old woman dressed entirely in black slowly approaching him. A heavy dark cloak obscured the specifics of her features, and in her arms she clutched a flat rectangular wicker case — more than clutched it. Clung to it as though it were the only source of life itself.

  Charley Spade, who stood to one side of the old woman, a hand on her elbow, was saying, “Mr. Bates, please. This lady would like very much to speak with Mr. Eden. With your permission, of course.”

  “On what matter?” Bates demanded sternly.

  Charley Spade looked up at the question. “I... don't know,” he faltered.

  Bates drew a sharp breath. “Madame,” he began as kindly as possible, “Mr. Eden has suffered a severe shock today and now requires privacy. If you would be so good as to state the nature of your business with him, I will be happy...”

  All at once, for the first time, that coarsely woven black hood lifted, revealing a worn old French face which, to Bates's surprise, was streaming tears.

  “Madame!” he repeated in concern. “Come,” he murmured, giving in, and took her arm to guide her toward the carriage and the open door, thankful to let her see Mr. Eden.

  To his surprise, the woman seemed to draw away hesitantly at first, as though in protection of the wicker case. Then he saw her look ahead into the carriage, spy her goal, and, still clutching the container under one arm, pull herself into the carriage to settle stiffly in the seat opposite Mr. Eden.

  Bates considered the civility of an introduction and only at the last moment realized he didn't know the old woman's name. “Madame, you must...” he began, and never finished.

  Suddenly she pushed the black hood all the way off her head and in the process revealed the severe dark gray dress of La Rochelle Prison. She clutched the wicker case to her with even greater strength and murmured a splintered introduction of her own.

  “Mr. Eden, I had to see you. I... spent the last night with Elizabeth Eden. My name is Madame Charvin.”

  Should she have come? That question continued to plague her even as she sat opposite the ghostlike man, aware that what she had to say and do would only contribute to the hell he'd already walked through.

  Yet there was her purgatory to consider as well. She'd been dismissed by General Montaud, her funds confiscated, turned out on the street with only the clothes on her back. Of course this mattered, but not so much as the question which continued to haunt her. Could she have stopped it?

  She looked at the man opposite her. Lord, but she felt as though she knew him. In the last week Elizabeth Eden had talked constantly, compulsively, of two men, John Murrey Eden and his father, Edward Eden. The father was dead, and now the son looked as though he would have given his kingdom to follow them both to the grave.

  “Sir, hear me out. I’ll be brief. I had to come,” she went on, and thought surely to capture his attention this time. But still his gaze had not altered. In fact, the only movement discernible was a trembling in his left hand.

  Now there was movement from the old man who hovered just outside the door. “Go ahead and state your business,” he suggested with an air of helplessness. �
�We have no way of knowing if Mr. Eden...”

  As his voice dwindled, Madame Charvin understood. Still clutching the wicker case with its precious cargo, she leaned up. “Did you hear me, sir?” she asked softly. “She talked of you with the greatest of love.” She hoped to comfort, thinking to ease her own pain in the process.

  “I have something I must give to you, but first give me your attention...” Still there was nothing moving in the face opposite her. “Here,” she said, thrusting the wicker case across the narrow aisle, weary of the encounter. “I heard you had requested her body,” she said, hearing the absurdity of her own comment, “and I felt you should know why it was denied you.”

  For the first time she saw a barely discernible movement on Mr. Eden's face. It was only in the eyes, which seemed to lift as though the man were flinching from an anticipated blow.

  “Since the communes four years ago,” she spoke on, her hope buoyed by that one faint movement, “the prison has made it a policy to dispose of all executed prisoners for fear of martyrdom and the rebirth of the movement...”

  “Here, sir,” Madame Charvin said finally, and thrust the wicker case all the way across the aisle. “I was fortunate to get it...”

  At first she saw no alteration in his face.

  “Take it,” she urged again.

  At last she discerned a shifting in the dead eves opposite her. “What...?” was the only word which escaped through the dried lips.

  “It's her dress, sir, the last thing to touch her, and I can vouch for the fact it made her happy, and she looked so beautiful...”

  At first she was shocked by the sound of strangulation. Only when she looked down was she aware all the time she'd been talking she had been unclasping the wicker case, had lifted the lid, and...

  Dear God! Why hadn't she noticed it before in the cellar where the bodies of executed prisoners were taken before secret burial in a monastery graveyard outside Paris. She had a friend who tended these bodies, and he had said she could have the dress. There, in the darkness of the dungeon, she'd failed to see what she saw now: the bloodstained bodice, the blue silk fabric ripped where the bullets had torn through her.