Without warning the man increased his speed and drew completely away from the group and turned, facing Alex directly for only a moment, then looked into the kitchen, where he saw the woman. With one brief gesture the man motioned her forward and she obeyed instantly. Their hands joined out of sight in the fold of her skirts and the man looked back toward the still-clamoring crowd, touching his hand to his forehead in a kind of salute.
In that moment, in that gesture, Alex knew.
It was John, resurrected from the dead or never dead at all, mysteriously transported from Paris to London, aged, thin — but all these alterations superficial compared to a larger one which Alex could not readily identify but which had made recognition so difficult.
Still, it was John, and Alex continued to gape forward, needing almost constant substantiation, watching closely as he exchanged a few words with the nurse, who nodded only once and quickly removed her apron, dropping it over a near chair, then rejoining him at the door, where he was still fending off the large group who seemed only to want to be near him.
For the width of the room the crowd followed after them until at last they disappeared around the partition. The crowd came to a halt and shuffled aimlessly for a few moments, as though they'd lost their compasses.
As for Alex, he wasn't faring so well himself. The identification had been positive. It was John. But how changed he was. Anyone else might not have even recognized him.
Leave now! Stay! Tell Lord Richard! Tell no one!
As the conflicting voices swirled through his head, he felt paralyzed by an inability to act. As the men started to drift past him, still searching for something to fill the vacuum of their lives, Alex bowed his head to ensure his own safety and heard whispered voices:
“He touched my arm. Did you see?”
“He said he would speak to us later.”
Alex closed his eyes. What was this new John Murrey Eden up to? Should he stay and find out? Did he want to know?
As new questions arose to take the place of all the previous, unanswered ones, Alex at last found the strength to push up from the low table, and still keeping his head down, stumble toward the door, playing no role now, feeling genuinely undone by what he had seen.
He could say in all honesty he was certain of absolutely nothing except one fact, that John Murrey Eden was alive. He and the world would have to deal with that unalterable fact as they had always dealt with it, slowly, cautiously, and with the greatest of care.
Though sadly lacking in physical beauty, it had become their favorite spot, this high, creaking exterior wooden staircase that overlooked the dark alley behind the mission, a place where cats prowled for rats, and dogs for cats, where the rays of the sun seldom penetrated the dank darkness of surrounding structures. It was to this questionable place they now retreated, seeking it out only because it assured them of a moment's privacy.
John led the way without speaking, and she followed, maintaining the same silence, understanding it but saving her words until they were seated on the top steps, which led through a window and into a long corridor, which in turn led back into the infirmary, where recently he had presided over her... resurrection.
Quickly she corrected her thought. That was the trouble, the reason for his despondency. “It will pass, John,” she soothed, sitting on the top step and tucking her skirts beneath her, regretful the words sounded so empty and inadequate.
He sat slowly beside her, resting his head in his hands. Behind this barrier he shook his head. “It's getting worse, and I haven't the vaguest idea how to deal with it or put a stop to it. They are attributing me with powers I do not possess, have never possessed, will never possess. I... He broke off in a new despair and shook his head again.
“Please be patient with them, John, and with yourself,” she counseled quietly, hearing the street sounds coming from the front of the mission, as though from a distance, like the rumor of a world.
“I can't allow it to go on,” he protested.
“There's nothing you can do to alter what you are.”
“I am not what they think.”
“How do you know what they think?”
“I see how they look at me.”
“With love and respect and - ”
“I am not a god, Susan. I can't work miracles.”
“In their eyes you can.”
“Then their vision is faulty and I refuse to be responsible.”
“What do you think they see in you?”
For the first time the rapid exchange faltered. Suddenly he stood, as though to move away from the question. He walked down several steps and peered over the railing into the garbage-strewn passage below.
She waited, giving him all the time he needed. After several moments when there still was no response, she drew a deep breath and offered an answer.
“They see in you a man who has endured and survived many crucibles, more than they, perhaps.” She paused to see if he would comment in any way. He seemed more content to lean heavily against the railing, his arms braced, head down, eyes fixed on the darkness below.
“They also see,” she went on, “a man who, in spite of everything that has happened, still believes in himself.”
At this he looked sharply at her, as though she'd lost her mind.
“Oh, you do, John, and you know you do. Your strength at the core is the most incredible I've ever known... in anyone, save one.” She paused. “You knew her as well. Miss Nightingale. She, like you, possessed an unshakable faith in her own unique vision and individuality. Oh, setbacks would discourage her temporarily, but never for long, and certainly never permanently. She would always - ”
“Miss Nightingale has reason to believe in herself. Her life has been exemplary from start to finish. Mine has not.” The voice that spoke was a monotone. His attention was still largely fixed on the shadows below.
“All the more reason for them to see in you - ”
“ — something that does not exist!” Anger surfaced from someplace. As he spoke, he pushed away from the railing, looking restlessly about the limited area. “I don't want to go backward, Susan,” he said. As quickly as the anger had surfaced, it passed and left him slumped against the side of the building, hands shoved into his pockets, the late-evening sun caught in his long fair hair and beard.
“Once I thought I could do everything, create everything, control everything.” He seemed to collapse against the wall, head bowed, face obscured. “In the process of this... madness,” he concluded, his voice low, “I came very close to destroying everyone I'd ever loved.” He sat heavily on the step, resting his arms on his knees and covering his face with his hands.
She watched for several moments, her heart aching for him, and understood more clearly now why the adoration of the workers and staff disturbed him. He had accurately assessed his weakness, which paradoxically was his strength, his great ability to reach and control people. If he could deny his own power, then he would never again be guilty of misusing it.
Studying him, she tried to conceive of the turmoil within, perhaps worse now than ever before, the world cruelly presenting him with the greatest temptation that could befall him, people willing and eager to be controlled and manipulated.
Still, he mustn't run from it. That was no solution.
Slowly she moved down until she was seated beside him. “John,” she began, longing to touch him but deciding against it, “the past is over. Whatever you did or didn't do is of value to you now only as a lesson. The regret you have expressed today indicates a new awareness...”
He appeared to be listening. She hoped she was making sense.
“Something led you here, wouldn't you say, where your strength could be put to the greatest use among those less fortunate than yourself.” She was preaching. She loathed the sound of it and broke off abruptly, moving back up to the top of the landing, vowing privately not to say another word. How presumptuous of her to tell him what he should do with his life. She hadn't done such
a tremendous job of directing her own.
For several minutes only the distant street sounds filled the silence. Suddenly she heard movement and looked up to see him standing as though on the brink of a new idea, certainly new energy.
“Then you suggest I stay here and deal with it?” he asked, not looking back at her but posing the question straight ahead to the rapidly falling dusk.
Under the duress of the question she faltered. “Why... I... but I’m in no position to...”
“Will you stay with me?” he asked, still not looking at her.
She blinked at him, longing to see his face. Perhaps there was a clue there. “I... don't understand.”
He shrugged and at last looked back at her over his shoulder. “What I said. We seem to fall apart with predictable regularity, you and I, and we both do a pretty fair job of putting the other back together again. I just thought it would save time and be wise to stay conveniently... close.”
“I’m... not sure I... under - ”
“You're not going to turn me down again, are you?” he asked, and sat on the step directly below her, the dying rays of the sun highlighting the rugged beauty of his face, that face so close now, staring at her with such intensity she found breathing difficult.
“Eden Rising,” he said by way of explanation. “I gave you that decrepit cottage once, remember, and you turned it down.”
Of course she remembered. But what was he asking now? She must understand before she replied.
“Well?” He smiled up at her, obviously not at all aware of her confusion.
“I’m... not certain that I... what do you mean, will I... stay with you?”
“Here. At the mission. Help me. Be with me. Talk with me, like we're doing now.”
She nodded. “Of course I’ll do all those - ”
“Marry me.”
“ — things.” Neatly she completed the sentence, then quietly disintegrated. “M-marry,” she tried to repeat
“Me.”
She met his intense gaze directly and felt a searing heat scorch her face, felt her mouth go dry. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get her tongue to form words, which was just as well, for there wasn't one coherent thought in her head.
He reached up, lightly took her hand, and, incredibly, apologized. “Look, I don't think either one of us planned on it...”
“No.”
“It just seems to be the most sensible solution.”
“You don't even know who I am.”
“Who are you?”
“The daughter of an Exeter farmer.”
He grinned, a Eureka! expression covering his face. “Perfect! All my life I've been looking for the daughter of an Exeter farmer. Perfect. And you don't know who I am.”
She felt her heart racing beneath the plain black dress and hoped it wasn't visible. “Who... are you?” she asked, playing the foolish game, feeling herself drowning in his smile and the sensation of his hand on hers.
His grin broadened. “A bastard. Not even a legitimate Eden.” He looked up expectantly at her.
She realized he was waiting for her to repeat his claim. And she did. “Perfect. All my life I've been looking for a bastard.”
His grin exploded into a laugh, and she joined him, finding it difficult to believe this same man had been hopelessly caught in his own despair less than ten minutes ago.
The laugh died and left them staring at each other. The astonishment she felt was mirrored in his face. Doubt surfaced. It was either a magical evening or an insane one.
“John, I...”
“I can offer you nothing - ”
“I require nothing.”
“ — except my love and devotion.”
“They will suffice.”
“I... am difficult sometimes.”
“I know.”
He seemed surprised by her ready agreement, then pleased by it. “Then will you?” he concluded on a deep breath. “Marry me.”
It was inconceivable what was happening. “Yes.”
For a moment she saw the slight relief of a smile on his face. “When?” he asked, moving to the heart of the matter.
“We must ask General Booth first,” she cautioned. “There are a few married couples here, and he doesn't always object, but he does like to be - ”
“Fine. We'll go all the way to Canterbury if that is required.”
“No, that won't be necessary.” She smiled. She no longer fought her desire to touch him, and slowly raised one shy hand to that brow she'd dreamed of so often. With the tip of her finger she traced the length of one ancient scar that ran across his forehead and wondered how it had happened and vowed with moving simplicity that never again would she allow him to endure any kind of pain alone.
As her hand moved down the side of his face, she saw a peculiar tightening about his eyes. In a sudden gesture of pure need he pressed her hand against his lips and she saw tears in the corners of his closed eyes.
Without quite knowing how it happened, she found herself in his arms, her face pressed against his shoulder, a fortress from which she could withstand anything the world had to offer.
He'd had no plan of this, no thought in his mind of marriage. In fact, his only desire as they'd left the common room had been a permanent escape from all those people who attributed to him more power than it was good for one man to possess.
When had the concept of marriage entered his mind?
As he held her and enjoyed her closeness, he tried to move backward through this brief encounter to discover at precisely what point his mind had effortlessly suggested marriage. The fact she was a farmer's daughter from Exeter was unimportant. The fact she had “preached” was unimportant. The fact she had attempted to counsel him was unimportant.
Then when? At what point had the mind said marriage?
Then he remembered. It hadn't been his mind at all that had made the suggestion. It had been his heart and it had spoken to him at the exact moment she'd moved away from him, back up to the top of the staircase, at the exact moment she had withdrawn, clearly fearful she'd said too much. At the precise moment she had “left him alone,” as it were, then he'd found her withdrawal a deprivation of such enormous proportions he'd followed her back to the top of the stairs and had suggested... marriage.
She sat beside him now, his arm about her shoulder, their hands interlaced.
He considered speaking. Perhaps she needed reassurance. Perhaps he shouldn't have mentioned marriage. He'd so failed his first wife. “Susan...”
By way of response she tightened her grip on his hand.
“I will try to be a good husband,” he whispered.
“And I a good wife.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Terrified.”
“So am I.”
On this bizarre declaration of love, they continued to sit, huddled together, foreheads touching like two children exhausted at the end of a long and difficult day.
Catherine knew the purpose of the meeting and thought once she should warn General Booth. But how could he not know? Everyone in the mission knew, and he would have to be blind not to see the new light in their eyes, the way their fingers touched at the slightest provocation, and — most important — the new peace they took with them everywhere and so generously shared with others.
She paced outside his study on the second floor of the mission. He's late, she thought, so perhaps he does know. Her brooch watch said half-past one. The meeting had been scheduled for two, prearranged only yesterday by Mr. Eden and Susan. She thought she'd seen General Booth mark it down on his ledger, but she wasn't certain, as she had been so captivated by the two, so newly impressed with the miracle of love.
Behind her she heard a step on the stair and looked quickly over her shoulder, hoping it was the General. Instead it was the two who somehow had transformed this grim mission into a magical enchantment.
“We had an appointment with General Booth.'' Susan smiled. “I guess we are early...”
<
br /> “No, General Booth is late,” Catherine replied, bobbing her head in greeting to Mr. Eden, who was maintaining a distance behind.
Susan glanced back at John. A question seemed to pass between them. Then, as though she were the appointed spokesman, she said simply, “We can wait for a few minutes.”
Suddenly Catherine found herself hoping General Booth did not arrive. He'd been so churlish and short-tempered of late.
“You're looking well, Susan.” Catherine smiled, leaning lightly against the wall outside the General's study.
“Thank you. I'm feeling well.”
Beyond Susan, Catherine saw Mr. Eden pacing at the top of the steps. The man looked none too strong himself, gaunt and lost in the borrowed oversized clothes of Lord Simmons.
“And you, Mr. Eden?” she asked, wishing to engage him in just a brief conversation before General Booth arrived.
“I'm well, thank you,” he said rather stiffly, as though he felt uncomfortable.
Catherine sensed their presence here was largely Susan's idea, and Mr. Eden, at best, was humoring her. Mr. Eden was not a man who easily asked another man for permission to do anything, which accounted for the pinched look on his face.
“I can't imagine where General Booth could be,” Catherine said weakly, finding the ever-increasing silence awkward.
“We are a bit early,” Susan murmured, though they weren't at all, as Catherine's watch now said two, straight up.
Catherine laughed. “General Booth is always assailing me for my lack of promptness...”
“Susan, we can come back later.” This stern voice came from the man pacing at the top of the stairs.
She saw the small objection on Susan's face. “Let's wait a few more minutes, John, please.”
The request was so softly spoken, no one could have resisted it. And no one did, though he abandoned his pacing and took up a vigil at the window at the far end of the corridor, which looked down on the street.
Susan smiled at Catherine, glanced toward the closed study door, then looked away. It really was becoming too awkward. Perhaps it would be easier if she departed, thus leaving them alone to talk freely. With this in mind, Catherine pushed away from the wall. “If you will excuse me, I'll go and see if I can locate...”
Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5) Page 50
