He appeared to be listening to what she was saying. “I feel lost,” he confessed. “I was so certain the mission was where we - ”
“I'm afraid we were wrong,” she said. “Like you, I had hoped. But God clearly - ”
“Do you believe that?” he interrupted. “That God's hand was behind that... maniac's words?”
“Of course I believe it,” she said, settling comfortably on her heels, “and so do you,” she added, “more or less.”
Either he heard the amusement in her voice or placed it there because he needed it. “Did you know that I was tempted to hit him, to do him physical harm?”
“But you didn't,” she said.
“No, but only because I walked away instead, and even as I did, somewhere inside me was a voice which called out, ‘Coward!’”
“Did you feel like a coward?”
He looked down on her, an expression of bewilderment on his face. “No,” he said with quiet amazement. “In fact, it was one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life.”
She nodded. “Good.” She started to say more, but he went on. “He is insane, you know.”
She hesitated a moment before confirming or denying. She'd known for a long time about General Booth's proclivity — not just to follow God and His teachings, but occasionally to become God. She also knew, for she'd borne witness for months longer than John, that General Booth possessed a power not of this earth to affect and change men's lives. If he was mad and malicious, he was also quite sane and saintly.
“I don't know,” she confessed, looking directly up at him, surprised to see him return her gaze with matching directness. “I thought once... She broke off under his gaze.
His right hand lifted to cup gently about her face, his thumb caressing her cheek. “I’m... sorry about you,” he murmured.
“I don't understand...”
“You were dismissed as well.”
Relieved, she clasped his hand, which still was exploring the side of her face. “I wouldn't have stayed on, anyway. Not without you.”
The quiet confession caused a look of incredulity to appear on his face. “Then we're both on the streets.” He smiled.
“It appears that way.”
“What do you suggest?”
“What do you suggest?”
“I don't want to go back to being who and what I was,” he whispered, so close she could feel his breath upon her skin. For several moments he seemed as content as she, without any further questions or answers. “Then what do you suggest?” he asked finally, not relaxing his hold on her.
“Let's go home,” she said, touching the back of his neck.
“Home?” he repeated. “I thought you hated that... tomb. Wasn't that what you called it once?”
Had she? Probably.
“Not the castle,” she smiled. “The cottage on Eden Rising. You gave it to me once, remember? For services rendered. I accept it now, on one condition.”
“What?” She sensed clearly his relief — and something else, excitement — at the suggestion.
“That I can convert one room into a small clinic and that North Devon people will always have access to it” — she hesitated, wondering if her heart was beating thunderously loud because of her daring or her happiness — “because I don't think it would be... feasible for me to travel the circuit anymore.”
“No.”
“And this way I can still see my patients and watch over the children at the same time.”
“What... children?”
“Ours”
“Children?”
“We do plan to have them, I hope. All my life I’ve wanted - ”
She was interrupted in a most pleasurable way, by renewed strength in his arms, by one hand lifting her face and by the force of his lips upon hers, canceling all words, though that was no great loss, for inside the warm moisture of his mouth she found all her answers.
Yes, they would go home to Eden Rising. Yes, she could convert a room into a small clinic. Yes, the circuit was out of the question, and, yes, most definitely, there would be children.
Grosvenor Square, London May 6, 1875
Shocked and disbelieving, Bates looked at Aldwell. “Are you... certain?” he gasped.
“Certain.” Aldwell smiled.
Bates continued to stare at him in the high heat of the May day. In a way, he wished Alex Aldwell hadn't confided in him. True, it eased his guilt and his grief. But it seemed as though all his life either rumors of John Murrey Eden or the man himself had stepped in and altered Bates's destiny.
Weary from his ghastly trip across the channel, Bates had wanted only to make his report to Lord Richard and Master Aslam, then to leave immediately for his cottage in Mortemouth, where he planned to spend what was left of his days doing nothing more strenuous than watching the tide go out and come in.
Now, as he stood on the pavement in front of the Grosvenor Square mansion, he blinked at Aldwell and felt a curious and wholly unexpected surge of joy at the news.
“Are you absolutely certain, sir?” he asked, aware of Charley Spade and Jason lounging atop the high seat of the carnage, which Lord Richard said they might take back to Eden Point with them.
Even Jason had elected to go with them back to North Devon, as an unholy alliance had developed between him and Charley Spade, leaving Bates feeling like the harried father of two unruly children. Well, he'd managed to keep them under control for four months in Paris. He could manage for another week or two, then, as far as he was concerned, it would be too soon if he ever saw them again in his life.
“You are... certain?” he asked Aldwell again, and wondered why they were discussing such momentous news on the pavement outside the mansion beyond the hearing of Lord Richard and Master Aslam.
Again Aldwell nodded, looking extremely pleased with himself. “I wasn't at first, but I stayed long enough to find out. I saw him, and I saw her as well - ”
“Her?”
“The nurse that old Reverend Christopher sent up when John was - ”
Bates nodded. Susan was her name. He hadn't cared for her at first. But she'd worked like four men nursing Mr. Eden back to health, and in Bates's book anyone who did not shirk his duties warranted at least a degree of respect. “Were they together?” Bates asked.
Aldwell nodded. “It didn't appear that way at first.” He shook his head and looked down at the sun-drenched pavement at his feet. “I... couldn't believe my eyes,” he said quietly. “He's very changed.”
Bates kept quiet as his mind instantly conjured up a vision of John Murrey Eden, an image that had tortured him every day since that tragic morning of Elizabeth Eden's execution. “I... can't believe it,” Bates murmured apologetically, lifting one hand to his forehead, hoping to ease the sense of confusion from which he was suffering, and to ease, as well, Aldwell's own sense of incredulity.
“Was he... I mean, did he appear to be...?”
“Thin. Terribly thin.”
Bates nodded and wondered why his hand was trembling. He hid it quickly in his pocket, but Aldwell saw and asked, “Are you all right, Bates? I know it's a shock. It was a shock to me, seeing him standing there when I'd been told he was in a French grave.”
“The detective was an idiot,” Bates snapped. “I never quite believed him, but I never dreamed Mr. Eden could have successfully made it back to England.”
“Of course, I didn't speak with him,” said Aldwell. “But somehow I had the feeling he...”
“What?”
Aldwell shrugged. “I don't know. If he'd wanted us to know of his whereabouts, he would have come here, wouldn't he? It was almost as if he were in hiding.”
“And that's why you haven't told... the others?” Bates nodded toward the mansion, at last understanding at least one aspect of the mystery.
Aldwell nodded. “Precisely. I assure you John didn't seem addled. He knew where he was, and if he'd wanted Lord Richard to know he had returned, then it would have been a simple matter to
- ”
Bates interrupted. “But how is he living? How did he manage to cross the channel without papers or funds? How did he find...? What did you call it?”
“A charity mission. The man running it is alternately viewed as a saint and the devil.”
“Do you know him?”
“Oh, my, no. Only by reputation. Booth is his name, and he prefers to be called General Booth, though he had nothing to do with the military. He is waging a war for God — or so he claims in newsprint … “
The more Bates heard, the more the mystery was compounded. John Murrey Eden had never endured such nonsense. “How did Mr. Eden...?” Bates began, and never finished, aware of the repetition of his questions.
Sympathetically Aldwell nodded. “I know,” he commiserated. “I've mulled it over a thousand times since I saw him. All I can say is that he appeared the same, and yet very changed.” Abruptly he looked at Bates. “I have told no one but you.”
“I'm grateful.”
“I sensed you felt responsible for his... death.”
“I do... I did...”
“No need now.”
“No.”
The rapid exchange came to an equally rapid halt as self-consciously both men looked across the pavement to where Charley Spade and Jason were lounging, legs propped up against the wind guard, both apparently impervious to the incredible news.
“Should I tell them?” Bates asked, without looking at Aldwell, continuing to feel as uncertain of this new information as he'd ever felt in his life.
Alivel John Murrey Eden alivel Why was he so shocked?
Again Aldwell shrugged. “Ill leave that decision up to you. I still think that when he's ready, John will come forward.”
Bates nodded in agreement. But did he agree? What had happened to Mr. Eden in Paris could not be easily absorbed by any man, a nightmare which even Bates relived every night with awesome regularity.
For several moments they stood on the pavement, each locked in his own thoughts. Bates watched Aldwell pace two or three steps away from him, then retrace his steps to come back with a fresh apology.
“I’m sorry if I - ”
“No, I'm truly grateful.”
“What will you do now?”
An unanswerable question. “Go home, I suppose.”
“Without...?”
“As you said, when Mr. Eden is ready...”
“Yes.”
“Where... did you say this... mission was located?”
Aldwell followed the rapid flight of a flock of birds across the high May sky. “In Whitechapel, not far from Regiment Street.”
Bates nodded quickly.
“Then you do plan to...?”
“No, I... don't think so. As long as he's well...”
Aldwell smiled. “I know now why I told only you. Despite everything that he is and has done and might do, you love him as much as I.”
Bates blinked up at the curious declaration, started to refute it and couldn't, and yet didn't quite know what to make of those times in his life when he gladly would have killed John Murrey Eden.
“Time's passing,” he said vaguely. “I'd best get those two back to North Devon before they wreak further havoc on the world.”
“Safe journey, then.” Aldwell smiled, extending his hand. “I'm sure we will meet again.”
Bates took his hand. “I'm sure we will.”
“Then, again, safe journey.”
“Thank you, sir, for... everything.” At that, Bates stepped off onto the pavement, heading toward the carriage, where Charley Spade and Jason spied him. Both sat quickly upright, clearly eager to be on the road.
Bates had wages in his pocket for both men, for their dubious assistance in Paris. In truth, they had spent most of their time at a little sidewalk cafe across from Notre Dame, drinking endless absinthes and watching the passing parade of French beauties. Wisely Bates decided to withhold their wages until they arrived safely in Morte-mouth. If they wished, they could drink themselves senseless at the Green Man.
At his approach, Charley Spade called down, “The guv didn't go too hard on you, did he, sir?”
“No, Charley, not at all.”
“It ain't our fault, is it? I mean, losing Mr. Eden like that...”
Bates bowed his head and thought how painful those words would have been a scant ten minutes ago. Now?
“No, of course it isn't our fault. They understood...”
“Good. Then shall we head toward God's country and the West?”
Bates nodded quickly, as eager as they to shake the dust of filthy London from his boots. But seconds before he ducked his head to enter the carriage, an instinct as strong as he'd ever suffered in his life sliced down upon him.
What harm would it do? Just a glimpse to confirm the rumor. And a chance to see for himself that the man was well.
“Sir?” It was Charley Spade again, awaiting directions so he might pass them on to Jason, who held the reins wrapped tightly about his hands. “The western route, shall it be? If we hurry, we can make Salisbury by - ”
“No,” Bates said quietly. “Whitechapel, if you please, near Regiment Street.”
“Whitecha...”
Bates ducked quickly into the carriage and didn't linger to deal with the confusion on Charley's face. How could he deal with another man's confusion when he couldn't even deal with his own?
For all those years., he had thought he'd hated John Murrey Eden.
Whitechapel Street, London May 6, 1875
Aware they were no longer welcome at the mission, yet not having a thought in his head how they could get to Eden, John sat on the side stoop of an abandoned building fifty yards from the mission door, the wicker case — his only possession — tucked beneath his legs, waiting for Susan, who had more friends to say good-bye to than he did. He wondered why, with all the problems facing him, he felt such peace and unity with himself, with his father, who now seemed literally to inhabit him. He saw that strong paternal face in every shadow, every high white cloud, every reflection.
Slowly he leaned back, lifting his face to the mild May breeze. Despite his closed eyes, he saw simultaneously an image of his two sons, followed quickly by an image of his father. Curious juxtaposition. Edward Eden hadn't lived long enough to know young Frederick or Stephen. He would have loved them both. He'd loved all children. John recalled how frequently in the Ragged School he would scoop up as many as his arms would hold...
As for John, he'd hated the children then.
But you're my papal I am indeed.
Then love only me! A stray particle of dust, a fleck of lint, a bit of the past, something stung his eyes.
Why should that youthful need stir him so? Before the excursion into memory became too painful, he sat up straight, his elbows propped on his knees, and stared intently at the pavement between his legs.
Susan had told him not to worry, that she had small savings which would purchase them outside passage on a coach to Exeter. And once in Exeter they could always fetch her landau and old Betts, both of which she'd left in the care of a cousin.
Susan...
Thinking on her and feeling her absence, he looked toward the front of the mission a short distance away. The men were beginning to queue up for the evening meal. Orderly, bowed, gaunt, they always reminded John of his father. And thoughts of his father always reminded him of Elizabeth.
Abruptly he stood, as though a change of position would help him move away from the tyranny of memory. But it didn't. The image simply moved with him, a recall so complete he could smell the damp courtyard at La Rochelle, could hear the curiously subdued voices all around, could feel the terror mounting.
Slowly he sat down again, undone by memory. He pressed both hands to his face and felt the wicker case against the backs of his legs. In need, he glanced toward the door of the mission and saw a small delegation just emerging — a half-dozen, perhaps more — all clustered about a very familiar center.
Susan.
> She was beloved here, he knew that. Perhaps it was wrong of him to take her away. But it had been her decision. He vowed now to see to it that it remained that way. No more interference in any life, save his own.
From this distance she looked so small. The recent fever had left her weak. The North Devon air would be good for her, good for both of them.
He recognized Catherine Booth standing close beside her. And plump Cassie was there, and all of the kitchen staff. The tall gentleman would be Lord Simmons.
At last he saw her glance in his direction. He saw her accept a final embrace from poor Cassie, who apparently was weeping torrents of tears.
In her hand Susan carried a bulky portmanteau. Ah, at last there was a legitimate excuse to go to her.
He reached down to retrieve his own wicker case, and just as he looked up, he saw a carriage — most out of place in Whitechapel Street — draw up slowly before the pavement of the mission. From where he stood, it seemed to possess a kind of faded elegance, as though it had been highly fashionable about five years ago.
Susan, who had just pulled free of Cassie's last embrace, looked closely at the two men who sat atop the high seat of the carriage.
What in the...?
Everyone on the pavement now seemed to be focused on the confrontation. At that moment the carriage door pushed open. A black-coated arm evolved first, then a shoulder, then a matchstick-thin torso, and at last the whole man.
John felt Susan's surprise, saw her rush forward with characteristic warmth to clasp the man's hand, then turn abruptly to point directly at him.
“Bates!” John whispered, incredulous, and at that moment identified as well the two mismatched bookends atop the high carriage seat, Jason and Charley Spade. Bates had stood beside him on that bleak morning. Bates had endured all with him, the only man in the world who knew precisely the nature and cast of that most intolerable nightmare.
“Bates?” John grinned, wanting confirmation. As he saw the old man quicken his step, he saw a breaking emotion as pronounced as his own.
“S-sir?” Bates managed. “Are you... well?”
Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5) Page 52
