Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5)

by Marilyn Harris

  “State your business, sir,” Aslam demanded with an uncharacteristic lack of grace and diplomacy.

  “May I... come in?” the man requested gently, a distressing counterpoint to Aslam's rudeness.

  Lord Simmons? Where had he heard that name?

  “Yes, of course,” Aslam responded, his voice utterly lacking in sincerity. “That will be all, Mrs. Canfield,” he added.

  Richard held his position by the door, head bowed, curious at the mystery yet regretful it had forced itself upon them at this moment.

  “Allow me to apologize again.”

  As the voice broke the silence, Richard was tempted to steal one look through the partially open door.

  “No need for apology, Lord Simmons. Just state your business quickly.”

  “Of course. And it's simple, really.”

  “Then state it!”

  “It concerns Mr. Eden - ”

  “I’m Mr. Eden.”

  “No, with all apology. I had reference to Mr. John Murrey Eden.”

  “Why?”

  The bluntness compounded the rudeness, and in the echo of both, the tension grew.

  “Why do you inquire about John Murrey Eden?” Aslam demanded.

  There was a pause. Richard heard a peculiar break in the man's voice. “Because... I know him, you see. Old friends, yes, that's what we are. I've been out of touch for several years, and I...” As the voice drifted off into a lack of conclusion, the fact of a lie was confirmed.

  Richard debated again the wisdom of stealing one small glance. Perhaps the face that accompanied Lord Simmons would be familiar.

  “So you see, if you have any word of him, I'd be most grateful. I came here tonight thinking to find him, and again I can only offer my sincerest apology - ”

  “He's not here,” Aslam interrupted harshly.

  Another pause. The man did not retreat so easily.

  “I realize that, but could you — ?”

  “He is dead.”

  Richard heard clearly the reverberating echo of those dreadful words, unconfirmed but spoken with all the authority of wishful thinking. Aslam wanted him dead, and as no one had been able to find him in the labyrinthian underworld of Paris, Aslam had, some time ago, pronounced him dead.

  “I... Lord Simmons tried to speak and couldn't.

  Aslam took advantage of the man's disorientation. “Now, if you will excuse me, Lord Simmons, I must...”

  “Of course. You must forgive me. I'm... stunned. May I ask how... when?”

  “In France. Some months ago. Now, please, I must...”

  “Of course. Thank you for being so kind.”

  “No need...”

  In this muddled exchange, Richard felt a peculiar wave of new mourning, as though he too had heard the tragic news for the first time. Not until he heard the slow measured tread of boots moving toward the outer door did he think to steal a glance. John's unsubstantiated death was not the mystery here. The true mystery was why this man had come at this time with this inquiry.

  He grasped the edge of the door, fearful of moving lest the floorboards in the old mansion creak and give him away. Still, he had to take a chance. With the first glance he saw the man full length, as it were, a bewildering portrait, the initial impression that of aristocrat turned commoner, for the apparel was common in cut and fabric, while the angle of the head and body were clearly...

  Dear God.

  Then he remembered. Lord Simmons, of course. Laurence Simmons. Family seat in Shropshire. Several months ago all newspapers filled with the scandal — Richard remembered the gossip now — a nobleman who had turned his back on everything to follow Christ, or, more accurately, some zealous evangelist in the East End.

  He dared to look more closely, and this time saw his suspicion confirmed. It was Laurence Simmons, once heir to one of the most impressive families and fortunes in the realm.

  “Are you certain, Mr. Eden, of John's death?” Lord Simmons inquired a final time. For some reason, he looked genuinely bereft, yet to the best of Richard's knowledge John and Laurence Simmons had never met.

  Richard eased back from the door, realizing that in his estrangement from John for the last four years he had no idea who he had seen or known or been associated with.

  “Are you asking for substantiation, Lord Simmons?” Aslam de-manded.

  “No, I merely wanted - ”

  “Why should I give you substantiation?”

  “Of course, you have no - ”

  “I’ve extended you the courtesy of an interview at great inconvenience to me.”

  Oh, for God's sake, Aslam, he's a nobleman. Don't speak to him as if...

  “...and I am most grateful, Mr. Eden,” Lord Simmons replied, courteous to a fault even under these trying circumstances.

  In the silence that followed, Richard peered out again, fascinated by the man who had taken the whimsical teachings of the Bible so seriously.

  “Thank you, Mr. Eden,” the man said graciously, his manner confident, his face exhibiting a rare peace, as though the serenity were soul-deep.

  No response from Aslam. Richard saw Lord Simmons reach for the door, push it open, and leave, closing the door behind him. Even after the echo of boots had long since ceased, no one in the chambers stirred, as though each had fallen into his own trance.

  Richard was the first to move. Slowly he drew open the door all the way and reflexively tightened the cord about his dressing gown. He padded with bare feet into the sitting room, all the while keeping his eye on the door, as though the man had been a mirage.

  “Laurence Simmons,” he repeated softly, still stunned that so radical a man had recently passed in and out of those doors.

  “Could you tell me what in the hell that was all about?” Aslam snapped from the shadows.

  Without looking at him, still focusing on the door, Richard said quietly, “He wanted to inquire about John.”

  “I know that.”

  “And you shouldn’t have told him he was dead.”

  “He is.”

  “Unsubstantiated.”

  “Bates says so.”

  “Bates is bored with Paris and the search and wants to come home.”

  “Do you... think he’s dead?”

  At last here was the old Aslam, reasonable, polite, ready to listen. At the sound of that tone, Richard turned toward the desk and tried to answer the difficult question with as much integrity as he could muster.

  John dead?

  “No,” he said at last, wishing curiously that Lord Simmons were still here. “No,” he repeated, “not until I see a death certificate — or better, the body.”

  “Then where is he?” Aslam asked.

  Richard heard new desperation in the young man's voice, as though there was nothing worse or more threatening than an unaccounted-for John Murrey Eden.

  Where was he? Richard had an idea now, but in that instant decided to keep it to himself until he could prove it one way or the other. If John were alive, there was a good chance he was in wretched condition, physical as well as mental and spiritual.

  “Richard, what is it?” The voice of concern was Aslam's. Why hadn't he exhibited some of that concern for Lord Simmons, who truly deserved it?

  “Nothing,” Richard answered. “Well know sooner or later, won't we? Everything.”

  “Why did he come here, that man?”

  Richard shrugged. “He was a friend of John's...”

  “John had no friends.”

  “Maybe he acquired a few in the last four years.”

  “John was insane during the last four years.”

  “We don't know that.”

  “Alex Aldwell said...”

  Aldwell! Richard hadn't thought on the man. “Is he still in Paris?”

  Now Aslam slowly stood and stretched, the bathrobe pulling against his shoulders, then falling open to the waist, revealing the smooth brown chest and tight coils of black hair. “He comes and goes, helping Bates check every lead.”
>
  “Is he in London now?”

  “I have no idea. I've ceased to need him,” Aslam said wearily, and Richard thought it a strange way of phrasing it. “I've found another foreman equally as good, better in some ways.”

  Richard turned slowly and stared directly down into the dead fire. A queer solution to human need. Simply replace them as one would replace a pair of lost boots with new ones.

  “My dearest,” Richard said with affectionate simplicity. He extended his hand across the shadows toward the dark face that brooded endlessly. It was several seconds before he felt the comfort-ing pressure of Aslam's hand in his.

  “He mustn't be alive, Richard,” Aslam whispered, caught in the embrace.

  “Why?” Richard asked gently.

  “Because he'll try to take the firm away from me, and the fight will be bitter.”

  Richard noted the strange prophecy. “And who will win?” he asked, now amused by the young man's sense of melodrama.

  But there was no response, only a tightening of those arms around him, reminiscent of a child clinging to a father.

  “He is dead, isn't he, Richard?” came the last plaintive inquiry.

  While Richard heard, he refrained from answering because he knew his reply would only cause greater distress. No, he suspected John Murrey Eden was very much alive — and worse, right here in London. What's more, he had a fair idea where he could be found. How John had managed the difficult journey back from France, Richard had no idea.

  Locked inside Aslam's embrace, Richard smiled. Why should such a force of nature as John Murrey Eden be stopped by a mere journey across the waters of the English Channel?

  East London Salvation Mission, London April 2, 1875

  The first indication she had she might be dying was the thickness of her tongue. The second was her fever. She was on fire, could feel the perspiration streaming down into her matted hair, trickling down her neck, the pillow soaked despite the number of times Cassie had changed the pillow slip.

  And, of course, there was that third indication, the fact of General Booth bending over her bed. Who was she to attract the attention and take the time of General Booth — unless, of course, she was dying.

  “My dearest,” came the deep voice which she’d heard so often from the revival platform.

  She tried to acknowledge his presence, but couldn’t. It was impossible to form words with that swollen tongue, which seemed to be so enlarged now that surely it was distorting her mouth.

  Then Cassie was there again with her plain, good, and now frightened face. Susan wished with all her heart she could reassure the young girl. But she couldn’t, and as the cool cloth moved over her forehead, she saw the strong, compassionate face of Catherine Booth.

  She closed her eyes, for it hurt to keep them open, and now she felt a hand on her forehead and knew it wasn't Cassie's, yet the touch was cool and encompassing. She shivered in her fever, realizing whose hand it was and recalling there were many workers who considered the touch of that hand to be capable of miracles.

  “Susan, can you hear me?”

  She nodded, hoping it would suffice.

  “Good.” General Booth nodded. In the next moment, and to her extreme surprise, he sat on the edge of the cot, his body pressed firmly against her leg — a premeditated intimacy, she suspected, as though he needed to touch her at several points in order to transmit his strength to her.

  “Then you must listen to me,” he ordered. “You must fight against this poison that is moving through you,” he commanded. “You can, you know. You have allowed something to weaken you, to undermine you, even in the act of service. You must fight it, but you won't be alone in the battle. Everyone at this bedside is now praying for the safe deliverance of your body and soul. Tonight at the meeting hundreds will offer similar prayers, and God... will... heart”

  Those three words were delivered like a trumpet call, the soft voice no longer soft in any aspect, but strong and echoing. All the time his hand pressed, palm down, upon her forehead. Where his fingers touched she felt a curious tension, as though each fingertip was capable of dispensing its own power.

  Thus the weight of his hand on her forehead seemed to be growing lighter. The fingers still touched but were exerting no pressure. She thought she heard someone sniffling close by and knew it was Cassie — poor Cassie, who shed endless tears for the wretched of this earth.

  Catherine Booth appeared to be still at prayer. How fond Susan was of this woman who lived eclipsed in the shadow of the remarkable man to whom she was joined for life.

  As General Booth continued praying, Susan felt herself beginning to float on the low hard bed. There was no sensation of anything beneath her.

  To whom she was joined for life.

  Remarkable words, she thought hazily in her delirium. She pressed hard back against the pillow and feared, not death, but the act of dying, prayed it would be brief, and thanked God very privately for allowing her to know this miraculous world and pledged her continuous deep love for the kingdom of God and vowed there were no regrets — save one.

  Look after him, wherever he is, she prayed quickly, and wished she might have looked upon him one more time.

  “Susan!”

  There was that strong voice again, angry-sounding now, and there were others moving closer, something cool pressing upon her forehead, the high collar of her muslin nightgown loosened...

  “Fetch Dr. Mercer,” she heard someone command, and knew there was nothing Dr. Mercer could do, as on so many occasions there had been nothing she could do but sit and watch, helpless, trying to make the patient as comfortable as possible, as slowly all air was blocked from the lungs.

  Then there were no more voices, only silence. She thought of the Psalms, one of her favorites: They that go down into silence...

  ...and knew then what death was and knew as well how near it was at hand, and thought: Thirty- four years...

  ...and thanked God for the gift of every minute of them.

  Whitechapel Infirmary for Men, London April 2, 1875

  By reaching with one hand beside his bed, he could feel the edge of the wicker case, and that satisfied him. He realized with a degree of relief that for the first time in countless weeks he was relatively at ease. Of course all aspects of Elizabeth still inhabited his heart, and the memory was still so fresh...

  But upon awakening yesterday from a deep, prolonged sleep, he’d discovered a new sensation, like a vacuum almost. Not that he had let go of everything that once had been so important to him; it was just that he was unable to recall what those things were. And if he couldn’t remember what they were, how could he think on them and strive to attain them again?

  And where was he? And how had he come to be here? And was it important that he know the answers to these questions? Or, for now, was it sufficient to concentrate on that single ray of sun over his bed which had slipped in through an unseen window and had now caught, in perfect focus, on the sheer, symmetrical, gossamer beauty of a perfectly formed cobweb hanging suspended from the dark low rafters overhead.

  It was a five-sided miracle, as perfectly aligned and designed as though the spider had used a straightedge in its construction — a more skillful intelligence than most of the architects who at one time had been in his employ in the John Murrey firm.

  Despite the weakness he felt in all parts of his body, he smiled.

  The John Murrey firm! What a colossal bit of arrogance and conceit that had been.

  He closed his eyes with confidence and felt deep within a new calm.

  “Breakfast, sir? It would do you a world of good.”

  Slowly he peered up at the plump, pleasant-looking young girl severely dressed in black with a high white collar. She pushed a small cart before her on which sat a large steaming kettle and several teapots covered with brown cozies. The delicious odor reminded John of the kitchen at his father's Ragged School on Oxford Street.

  “‘Breakfast, sir?’ was what I asked,” the girl
repeated. “You need some nourishment and I got to do these tasks plus me own, plus...”

  He sensed an overworked staff and nodded to the offer.

  “Can you manage, sir, or should I...?”

  As the young nurse posed the incomplete question, she placed a steaming bowl of oatmeal and a cup of tea on the upturned crate which served as a table beside the low bed.

  “No,” he managed, his voice barely a whisper. The awareness of this warm and friendly nurse reminded him of...

  Susan.

  The thought of the name and the accompanying physical image left him strangely weaker.

  Susan Mantle.

  Something different there, something insistent and nourishing, for indeed she'd dragged him back from the edge, single-handedly.

  “I... can manage,” he whispered, and tried to sit up. His quivering muscles refused to cooperate, everything objecting to movement of any kind.

  Apparently she saw the failed effort and grew quite cheery. “Not to worry, sir. Let me pass these out to those 'uns over there, and I'll come right back.”

  Before he could object or express gratitude, she added, “We're short-handed, don't you see?”

  He thought he detected a look of sadness on her face and sensed grief.

  “But it's good to see you feeling better, it is.” The young girl smiled. “You are, aren't you?”

  He nodded and tried again to sit up.

  But the young nurse objected. “Oh, no, sir, please stay put — at least till General Booth gets here. You're kind of a special package, you are, and until we find out precisely who you are...” Abruptly she broke off. A crimson blush, like a new flame, started along the edges of her jaw and climbed rapidly up her face, leaving her normally rosy cheeks rosier than ever. “I'll be back, sir, I will,” she murmured, clearly flustered, having obviously said too much.

  John watched, prone again, though amused. Of course they didn't know who he was. He had no papers and, in all honesty, he couldn't account for his actions with any degree of clarity since...