“Is he alive?'' she whispered to Lord Simmons as he drew even with her, in his arms that curious-looking wicker case. She started to inquire as to its nature, but she saw him shake his head.
“I don't know. I could get no response from him. The General will get two staff members to take him out the back and over to Whitechapel.”
Of course. Catherine should have known.
When she looked up from her thoughts, she found the doorway to the mission empty. She hurried through the mission door and saw a very worried Cassie Helms standing on the staircase which led up to the second-floor dormitory.
“The doctor, ma'am, has he...?”
“Not yet, Cassie. He'll be here soon.”
“She is so ill, so - ”
“Shhhh... Let's take a look. Maybe there is something the two of us can do to make her more comfortable.”
“God wouldn't let her die, would he, ma'am? I... don't understand...”
At the direct and impossible question, Catherine stopped and looked up. “It is not required of us to understand God's will,” she said to Cassie, resuming her climb up the stairs. “All that's asked of us is cheerful obedience, acceptance, and faith. Do you understand?”
The girl nodded and ducked her head.
Catherine sensed tears. With instinctive, warm compassion, she reached out for Cassie's hand and enfolded it between her own. “Don't cry,” she comforted. “If you were our Heavenly Father, wouldn't you want to call home a servant as good and true as Susan Mantle?”
“But we need her here, ma'am,” the girl wept. She withdrew her hand and ran ahead to the top of the stairs, leaving Catherine with the distinct feeling that, while General Booth's recent theatrical display had succeeded, her quiet words of faith had failed.
Perhaps for some the theatrics of God were necessary. As for whether or not He would spare His servant Susan Mantle, that remained to be seen.
Whitechapel Infirmary for Men, London April 1, 1875
For the first three days he didn’t even bother rising to the surface of consciousness. The cool black crystalline depths suited him better, where there were no requirements of thought or feeling.
On the fourth day — although he certainly didn’t will it — he opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of the world from which he had been unable to escape. He found himself in a coffinlike bed, and moving his hands slowly in both directions, he could feel the rough, unsanded pine sides. All they had to do was nail the lid on, dig a suitable hole, and the refuse could be discarded.
He considered lifting his head and discounted it as impossible and was forced to content himself with only what he could see on either side. On his left there was nothing, while on his right he saw a bed similar to his own and the sharp bony profile of an old man.
He lay still, closed his eyes and wondered why he was so cold, wondered where he was and why he was too weak to lift his head, wondered...
Why was he still alive when Elizabeth was dead?
He realized he had spoken only as the name itself formed on his lips.
“Are you in pain, my friend?”
He at first was uncertain whether the voice belonged to the past or the present.
“Do you feel like taking some nourishment? It might help.” The voice didn't go away. In fact, it came closer. “I have something here that belongs to you. I've taken good care of it while you've been ill.”
Who the voice belonged to, John had no idea. But as he felt the slight weight of something settle in on his left side, he lowered one hand and saw the wicker case which contained the remnants of Elizabeth's dress.
Elizabeth.
The cry erupted with such force it literally dragged him up to a sitting position. His hollow, feverish eyes closed against the remembered horror he could neither digest nor pass beyond. Thus imprisoned in the coffin bed and in the agony of the past, he flailed upward with both hands, reaching for the wicker case which brought her nearer to him and which had sustained him on his long odyssey.
But as he reached for the wicker case, something intervened, someone on his knees beside the bed, who intercepted his hands, brought them forcibly together, and then moved over him with gentle insistence. Before John could protest, he felt arms move around him, in a crushing embrace. With his hands pinned, it was impossible to reach for the wicker case.
The grief was still increasing, grief to which he'd succumbed countless times in the past few months, but which never seemed to be truly eased. Rather it grew by what it fed on, which were the memories, the lonely, hideous, graphic memories.
He wasn't alone now. The hands that initially had merely intercepted his reach for the wicker case gently pushed him back on the bed. A voice was now flowing over him, a male voice but bearing none of the natural qualities of the species, neither aggressive, nor arrogant, nor challenging.
It was promising him the one state that had persistently eluded him all his life.
Peace.
“...my friend, it's yours for the taking. Not by might or by power but by God's spirit. There is not enough darkness in the whole world to blot out the shining of one small candle of faith. Do you hear?”
He heard, though the words were not as important to him as the touch of those hands. No one had ever touched him like this before
— except Elizabeth when she had rocked him thus once, a long time ago. Yes, Elizabeth...
Elizabeth, oh, my dearest...
“Easy, friend. God is with you to help you face this hour.”
But again something was rising within him, something unendurable, something from which he must find respite soon or...
Still whispering, the voice asked, “Father, what has Thou for this Thy servant, and where should he go?”
Father? Papa...
“Teach him to walk in a new way, in newness of life.”
Papa, Elizabeth is... dead.
“Hold on to me, my friend. I'm with you.”
The blackness rose about him. The tears came.
“Please, lovest Thou your servant,” the quiet voice begged softly, blending with the deep grief. “There is darkness here, but we will find the path that leads to the heart of God.”
The encompassing arms, the faint rocking motion, the voice promising peace, all were both unbearable and sustaining. But perhaps with grace and forgiveness and the guidance of this gentle voice promising peace, his long-deafened soul could now hear.
Though she had tragic news to deliver, Catherine waited at the door of the Whitechapel Infirmary and saw the moving scene, one which she had witnessed hundreds of times before, General Booth gathering a lost lamb to him with all the love and compassion and sincerity it was possible for one person to feel for another.
At last she saw General Booth stir himself from the stiff position he had held for so long. He rose awkwardly, testing each leg first as though it were necessary to check the circulation before placing full weight upon it. The others went about their various chores. The young woman pushing the breakfast cart turned away and commenced serving the men in the opposite aisle.
Catherine observed a curious look on the faces of all, even the ill old men, who lay back on their beds, a look of shared peace.
She felt it, as well, one more soul brought nearer to God. Perhaps not a true servant yet, but neither would he ever again be the wounded, helpless man he was before.
“Who is he?” she asked softly as General Booth drew near.
“A lost soul,” was all he said, touching her arm lightly, affectionately heading toward the steps which led down to the dormitory below.
A lost soul! She might have guessed that much. Well, there would be time later for identification, perhaps even acquaintances and, best of all, friendships, like Lord Simmons. Many of the men who once had thought themselves dead and who subsequently had known resurrection remained in the Whitechapel mission. According to Lord Simmons, there was no life for him beyond the realm of General Booth and his service to God.
Perhaps t
hat one, lying so still now, one hand resting lightly on that mysterious wicker case, would remain. And serve. And find the peace he had so consistently denied himself.
Catherine jarred herself out of her daydreaming. Sweet Heaven, forgive her. General Booth must be informed of the tragic news. He was needed in the women's infirmary, where Susan Mantle had taken a serious turn for the worse. Dr. Mercer was at a loss to diagnose, beyond the fact she had worked herself in excess of her body's capacity and beyond the fact of the fever itself.
How capricious of God, Catherine thought, as she took a final look at the man sleeping, that He had sent a lost soul to the mission on the same day He took a dedicated, loving servant.
“Please spare her,” Catherine prayed quickly, sensing God's presence still lingering in the room. “We need her desperately.” Then she hurried down the stairs after General Booth, dreading his initial look of sorrow, responding to tragic news first as a man, then a few minutes later with faith, as a man of God.
“William,” she called out, spying him at the bottom of the stairs in conference with Lord Simmons.
She approached quietly and saw a brief look of acknowledgment in Lord Simmons' eyes, but no greeting. Rather, he nodded to General Booth, apparently engrossed in the information being relayed.
“Are you certain?” she heard him inquire, his expression one of surprise.
“No,” General Booth said, “I'm not at all certain. But there is a resemblance, and I saw the man a few years ago and - ”
“I knew that gentleman as well. It simply couldn't be the same,” Lord Simmons said with a degree of authority which crumbled rapidly. “Could it? I mean, he had a large family, to say nothing of his financial empire. His aides would not permit him to descend to the state in which - ”
“You did,” General Booth said quietly, not meanly, just a matter-of-fact reminder that no man was exempt from falls and descents.
Lord Simmons nodded. “But I was very much on my own. No family, certainly no profession, no...”
General Booth nodded sharply. “Still, would you check it out for me? Simply a matter of curiosity, that's all. How interesting if indeed we had today rescued one of the richest men in England.”
Catherine looked up. Despite her reluctance to eavesdrop, it had been unavoidable. One of the richest men in England? What had he meant by that?
“I shall be happy to, sir. How do I go about it?”
“Call his offices here in London. Say nothing that will give him away. He needs time, obviously. Make a simple inquiry as to his whereabouts. Their answer may tell us what we want to know.”
Lord Simmons nodded to everything, and Catherine thought again how unusual these two should get on so well, this blue-blooded peer and the commoner preacher who at thirteen had apprenticed himself to a pawnbroker.
“Then if you'll excuse me,” Lord Simmons said quickly with a bit of humor in his eyes, “I'll now go play sleuth.”
“No, it's not that,” General Booth objected, following after him a few steps. “It always helps us to establish identity if possible. Even in your case...”
“I know,” Lord Simmons said, a look of remorse on his face now, as though he was sorry for the implication.
Catherine kept her distance by several feet to watch the little drama, feeling curiously disquieted by it.
“General Booth, I must speak with you,” she called out, filling her voice with new force as she saw Lord Simmons hurry out the door to fulfill his own mission.
At last he turned to face her, but the vacancy on that normally strong face was alarming. For several moments he looked at her as though she were a stranger.
Alarm increasing, she stepped closer until she was within touching distance of this man who had shared her body and her bed every night since 1855. “William, what is it? Who do you think the man is — besides a lost soul?”
“Ah, Catherine,” he murmured at last, covering her hand with his own. “Where have you been?” he inquired, thus confirming her suspicion he was indeed seeing her for the first time.
“Right behind you, William,” she said quietly. Near the door she saw two young female staff members, red-eyed and quite upset, who were waiting to escort them back to Susan Mantle's bedside.
The two young aides saw them coming and dabbed quickly at their eyes in an attempt to straighten themselves. She knew it had been their hope she would return with General Booth. Too many of these young country girls ascribed far too much power to William, she knew, and knew further he did nothing to discourage such adulation.
In that moment he apparently came back to himself and to the fact she was moving him toward a destination. “Catherine, wait. Where are we...? I must return. Upstairs the new man...”
As his objections came out in fragments, she continued her firm but gentle pressure and tried to distract him with questions. “Where was Lord Simmons going?”
“On an errand.”
“For you?”
“For the mission...”
“Will the new man upstairs be all right?”
“I think so. I want Dr. Mercer to...”
“Who is he? Do you know?”
Then General Booth stopped, glancing rapidly about as though fearful of listening ears. “I think,” he began, smiling in a conspiratorial fashion, “of course, Fm not certain, but I think he may be John Murrey Eden.” He stepped back, a look of immense pleasure on his face.
“John Mur...” she tried to repeat and couldn't. Surely he was mistaken. The John Murrey firm was the largest construction firm in all of London. One could not walk four blocks in any direction without seeing their large signs proclaiming new structures planned or under way. She bowed her head so he couldn't see the disbelief on her face and decided to change the subject.
“Susan Mantle,” she said quietly, feeling new mourning rise within her. “Dr. Mercer said - ”
“Dear God, no!” General Booth breathed quickly. “Hurry!” he called to the two aides, who had parted to make way for him. “We must pray as we move toward her.” All at once his head fell forward and the two young female aides followed suit.
Only Catherine, bringing up the rear, was relieved in a way the message had been delivered, wishing — in spite of her recent Condemnation-General Booth could perform a miracle and restore the woman to perfect health. As she followed after the three who were praying aloud, she looked over her shoulder toward the steps that led upward to the men's infirmary.
John Murrey Eden.
Not very likely.
Grosvenor Mansion, London April 2, 1875
Richard had long since given up asking God to forgive him, though the thought occurred to him every time he shared the large mahogany bed with Aslam. Now, as he stretched pleasurably beneath the coverlet, he felt that lovely tension in every nerve and muscle of his body.
“I do love you, you know,” he whispered, drawing Aslam closer, feeling the young man respond, his hand moving slowly down across Richard's chest.
“And I you,” came the muffled reply, as Aslam pushed beneath the coverlet. The sensuous exploration conducted by those expert hands continued. The moment wasn't far, and it would be good, and as Richard closed his eyes in an attempt to bring the release to full expression, he heard a loud knocking at the outer door and felt Aslam go rigid.
His hands now grasped Richard's shoulders, the dark eyes which only seconds earlier had been hooded with pleasure now alert, the tension destroyed along with the momentum, both killed by a second loud knocking.
Richard felt Aslam push against him in an attempt to leave the bed. The rapturous expression had disappeared into something terrible. Fear. They both knew all too well the consequences of their actions should they be found out. Sodomites were treated on a par with murderers in English courts. Worse. Murderers were condemned to death, while sodomites were sent to prisons where they were completely at the mercy of other prisoners. Death was usually the result, but it came slowly, mercilessly, after weeks of brutality.
“Were... you expecting anyone?” Richard whispered as both men pulled frantically at their dressing gowns.
Aslam shook his head — one sharp gesture — and drew the cord about his dressing gown, pulled it tight, and looked quite lost for a moment until the knock came again.
“Be calm,” Richard advised. “It's just Maudie, and she...”
“...knows nothing,” Aslam whispered, further revealing his depths of fear.
Richard was Sony for the fear and saw himself fifteen years ago. “Go and see what she wants,” he directed, touching Aslam lightly on the shoulder. “Go on,” he urged the young man, trying to communicate a peace and calm he did not feel.
“You wait here,” Aslam said, nodding. “Don’t let...”
“...her see me?” Richard concluded, smiling. “She knows I’m here.”
“She thinks we’re working. It’s late, and - ”
“No, it’s early, not yet nine. We ate early...”
For a moment longer they stared at each other across the mussed bed. The knock came again.
Finally Aslam turned toward the door, his expression splintered. When he looked up, all his defenses were in place. Without a word he passed through the door and drew it partially closed behind him, leaving a crack — a thoughtful gesture so Richard might hear and know the nature of the interruption. For Maudie Canfield’s sake, Richard hoped it was something of vital importance.
“Well, sir,” the woman was saying, “he said it was important — about Mr. Eden, it was — and I knew how worried...”
Richard stepped closer to the partially open door, newly alert. Suddenly into the new silence came a male voice. Someone had managed to talk Maudie Canfield into bringing him right to the very door of Aslam’s sanctum. “Let me apologize for myself, sir,” Richard heard the voice request. “My name is Lord Simmons...” Following this remarkable announcement, there was a second silence, as though Aslam were awaiting further clues to this bizarre, ill-timed interruption. As for Richard, he thought he detected a familiar ring to both the name and the voice. Lord Simmons? Where had he heard that name before?
Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5) Page 44
