Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5)

by Marilyn Harris

  Reverend Christopher eased back on the top step. “Well,” he began with a light, palms-up gesture, “it doesn't have to be solved now, does it? We all have time - ”

  Without looking, Mr. Bates replied, “The restoration will go quickly, but I see no need for so drastic an action, none at - ”

  Suddenly John stood, stretching his hands over his head. “No, I think Tom's right. I think we must do it, and I, for one, will look forward to it. To prove it, I will strike the first blow.”

  Mr. Bates protested. “Oh, sir, you can't.”

  “I don't know why not.”

  “Still, I don't think it would be... suitable.”

  “You heard the men, Mr. Bates. As far as I can see, there's no other way.”

  “It will weaken the fortress.”

  Bates looked both saddened and worried, a curious counterpoint to John, who looked almost deliriously happy, the confidence of a right solution on his face. Though she hadn't the foggiest notion what they were talking about, she reveled in his face. He must have worn that expression as a small boy.

  Now he looked at Reverend Christopher. “What do you think?” he inquired.

  The old priest shrugged, his most characteristic gesture, wanting peace at all costs. “I suppose it would be the most reasonable - ”

  “Of course it would,” John cut in. “Then it's settled.” To Charley Spade and Jason he said, “Bring your heaviest tools and all the help you can dredge up.” He stopped and laughed. “Tell them what it's for, and I predict the entire village will be on hand.” For the first time he looked up, saw Susan, and discernibly faltered.

  Susan saw on his face the love with which he had received her at the altar of the church. She treasured the expression and knew the time had come to withdraw from people, however kind and well-wishing. Under the intensity of his gaze she felt her knees go weak and abandoned the linen tea towel with which she had been covering a platter of cherry tarts and drew near the steps and the lounging men, who all stood at once.

  Suddenly nervous under their collective stares, she ducked her head and confessed, “I haven't an idea what you're talking about. But it sounds serious.”

  Tom Babcock scooped off his low-brimmed hat before he answered. “Access to your clinic, Miss Mantle... or rather...” Too late he remembered her new name and, embarrassed, didn't try for a correction.

  She smiled in an attempt to put him at ease. “I... don't understand.”

  “Tom, here,” said John, “claims that entrance through the gatehouse and across the open courtyard of the great hall will intimidate and frighten many people. They simply won't make the trip.”

  “What was... the other suggestion?” she asked.

  “Simple.” He grinned. “Knock a sizable hole in the south wall near the cottage. We would have a magnificent view of all of Eden Rising, and your patients could avoid that great pile of stone altogether.”

  Her initial reaction resembled Bates's, shocked, conservative. She looked more closely at John and announced quietly, “I think it's a splendid idea.” Extending her hand to him, she waited as he made his way down the steps and through the men.

  Then he was before her, all the dark emotion in those eyes focused directly down on her. She did well to speak. “It's late...”

  He nodded.

  “Shall we?”

  He looked back at the men, who suddenly — and to her extreme embarrassment — were grinning. “Will you excuse us?” he asked.

  She walked ahead of him, leading the way down the narrow walk which led to the back of the church. Just before she reached the door, he caught up with her and took her hand. “Come, not here. Let's... walk.”

  “Wait a minute.” She smiled, removed her veil, placing it carefully on the stoop, and loosened her hair.

  He removed the black coat and draped it across the stoop with her veil. Thus unencumbered, they started off around the rear of the church.

  The cliff walk loomed ahead of them like a narrow, twisting artery.

  She led the way, running part of the time, though stopping halfway up to look back and see him right behind her, maintaining a good brisk walk and covering the same ground. “Not fair,” she called out. “You have a longer stride.”

  At the top of the walk they both stopped for breath, each turned in a different direction. She was facing out over the channel, enjoying the cooling breeze, while he gazed in the opposite direction, toward Eden Castle.

  He reached back for her hand, and she tried to still her fears. As they approached the gatehouse, a bleak thought occurred to her. “You're not... going in, are you?”

  “No,” he reassured her, though he stood for a moment longer and peered through at the empty courtyard, the darkened and deserted castle beyond. Then he was leading her again around to the south wall, that immense long and unbroken stone barrier that had made the castle a fortress. “Does this place alarm you?” he asked softly, apparently seeing something on her face.

  She nodded, honest at least.

  As they slipped through the low door that led into the vast courtyard of the Great Hall, he again reached for her hand. He was standing very near now, so near she could hear his breathing. With no words spoken, he took her in his arms, drew her close, and she felt his lips, at first gentle and testing, felt them grow more insistent.

  She responded with the needs of a lifetime, and at the end of the kiss when he whispered, “Let’s go home,” she was prepared to make her way back down the cliff walk to Mortemouth.

  Instead, with his arm securely about her waist, he started off in the opposite direction, toward the little-used path which led past the outbuildings and bams, directly into the rich farmlands of Eden Rising and the cottage.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” he asked, his breath forming a light caress on her cheek.

  “I think so.”

  “Do you mind?”

  She looked at him, surprised. “I think it’s perfect.”

  A few minutes later she saw the open meadow which signaled the beginning of Eden Rising, and saw, just on the other side, the cottage that would be their home. They both increased their pace, following the narrow track across the high, blowing meadow grasses, until at last she tore loose from his grasp, and without looking to see if he was following, broke into a run.

  The wind caught in her hair, loosened it, and she lifted her face to the sky and saw a solid canopy of stars. About fifty feet from the cottage he caught up with her. Breathing heavily, he drew her into his arms and gasped, “I love you. I swear to God, I love you.” There was an intensity in his voice that matched her own. At the end of the kiss he stepped back and she saw the need on his face.

  As though by mutual consent, her fingers struggled nervously down the small buttons that Meg Winchombe a few hours earlier had struggled to button.

  Their eyes never shifted from the other’s face as he too began to pull off the white shirtwaist, the obstruction of garments pressed into new service as they fell onto the soft grasses, spread out by each in turn until they formed a second softness. At last they stood before each other and she was in his arms again, every nerve alive to new sensations, a pleasurable pain erupting at the pit of her stomach and moving out in circles.

  He guided her down onto the carpet formed by discarded garments, still down, until she relaxed onto the unorthodox bed and closed her eyes to yet a new sensation, his lips on her breast. As she clasped him to her, she felt a sudden shooting sensation moving back and forth between her breasts and the pit of her stomach, something reacting to the sensation of his body, his weight upon her, the manner in which he gently pushed between her legs.

  She received him, in one clean penetration that caused her to gasp, feeling him push more deeply inside her, still deeper, the emptiness filled, though far from satisfied, something beginning to ache within her as his hands explored all aspects of her body, new sensations which caused the growing tension to increase.

  He was whispering close by her e
ar, but she couldn't hear, occupied by the seismic explosions which were tearing through her, each accompanied by a strange paralysis, until she thought she could not bear it if the sensations subsided. At that moment a paroxysm whose size and nature she had never felt before seized her — and seized him as well. They had no choice but to cling to each other until breath and reason returned and the pleasurable pain subsided.

  She felt more alive than she'd ever felt in her life, pressed him to her and lifted her legs over his as though to lock him into her for all time. After a moment the tension started to build again, the warm core deep in her stomach began to move and push deeper. Before she closed her eyes, the better to savor the new explosion, she looked straight up into the heavens and knew that thanks were due.

  After all, the designs were God's, as were the instincts. Give God the credit...

  Eden Rising, North Devon May 18, 1875

  Standing on a grassy knoll fifty yards from the cottage, John shook his head, amazed and moved by the willingness of strangers to help them. For the first few days he'd recognized all the faces. Bates, of course, who had assumed the role of official overseer, and the indomitable Charley Spade, whose irrepressible whistling could be heard the length of the headlands, and Jason, as lighthearted as John had ever seen him, freed from the limitations London had placed on him.

  But yesterday more had come, men John had never seen before. They came with their tools and materials, their wives with covered picnic baskets. At times John looked up, fearful if he didn't keep the miraculous scene in sight it would disappear. But it was still there, accompanied now by a new sound, the pickaxes and sledgehammers attacking the south wall, providing a new, ready access from the moors directly to the cottage, thus eliminating the need for the villagers to use the gatehouse.

  John heard the noise clearly over the whistling wind. A true breach in the wall, the first since it had been erected in the tenth century. He smiled as he thought of all his Eden ancestors turning in their graves. One would be pleased, though. His father. John had never before felt his presence so strongly.

  Papa...

  Before the good memory overtook him, dragging along with it the bad ones, he started back toward the cottage and caught sight of the one person largely responsible for such peace.

  Susan had just emerged from the front door of the cottage, a child in tow. The clinic was open now, though the portico yet required a sturdy roof. But, as she'd said that morning, as long as there were children, there would be scrapes, cuts, and splinters. She stopped on the top step, speaking to the child.

  John saw it was a boy about nine, a conspicuous white bandage on his hand, which he lovingly protected like a wound of honor. The little boy nodded solemnly to everything she was saying. Suddenly she bent over and kissed the top of his head and sent him running down the steps.

  The mere sight of her moved him. She stood for a moment, stretching, one hand smoothing the band of her apron, the other tucking up a strand of hair the wind had worried loose. He saw her lift her head to the sky, as though for a deep breath before moving on to the next task.

  As she turned back into the cottage, she caught sight of him standing a distance away. Slowly she started down the steps, never lifting her eyes from his. He saw the soft smile on her face, the way the wind was blowing her long skirt, outlining her legs, reminding him of their intimacy every night, splendid love, perfect love, mutually satisfying.

  “I missed you,” she called out, bringing her beauty and goodness nearer.

  When she was close enough, he simply opened his arms, and without a word, she walked into them. He buried his face in her hair and felt her cling to him.

  Still caught in the embrace, he heard her whisper, “Are you all right?”

  “No.”

  She drew back, alarm on her face. “What's the matter? Are you ill?”

  “Yes.”

  She pressed a professional hand to his forehead, checking for fever, and he smiled and confessed, “Ill... with love.”

  He took her face in his hands, looked down, and felt such overwhelming desire for her. “Where can we go?” he whispered.

  She laughed softly. “I'm afraid the cottage is overrun. Tonight, though...”

  He nodded. “Tonight.” The pickaxes grew louder, the shattering of stone more pronounced. “Come on” — he grinned, grabbing her hand — “I want you to see this.”

  Hand in hand, they walked back toward the cottage, where eight women were setting up a long table on the side of the cottage protected from the wind, getting ready to serve the noon meal.

  “Who was the little boy?” John asked after Susan had greeted all the women.

  “Sam Oden's,” she replied. “Tim is his name. Why do you ask?”

  “He reminded me of Stephen, my son, and Frederick,” he answered without hesitation.

  His sons.

  He had had sons, and had lost them...

  As they approached the south wall, where the battering was going on, he saw Mr. Bates standing to one side in shirt sleeves, a look of consummate horror on his face at what was taking place. At least a dozen men were putting their backs, shoulders, and souls and hearts into the destruction of the obstructing wall.

  “Come on, Mr. Bates,” John called out in high spirits, “grab a sledgehammer. I'm sure one of these men...” At their approach, he saw that instantaneous reaction from the men, a reaction he loathed, but one, according to Susan, it would take time to obliterate, a look which spoke of master and servants.

  To his left he saw Charley Spade, bent over, gasping for breath, exhausted from trying to break through the wall.

  “Here, Charley, let me spell you,” John offered.

  Without argument the large man yielded his sledgehammer as the others moved back as though to clear a space for John.

  “No, stay as you are,” he called out. “Come on, all together now.” As he waved them forward, they came, grins beginning to replace the soberness on their faces.

  John stepped directly up to the wall, part of which already lay in shattered fragments over the ground but not yet wholly penetrated. He grasped the sledgehammer firmly, swung it up over his shoulder, and brought it down with one teeth-rattling blow, felt the remaining stones give, and saw for the first time daylight coming from the other side, a jagged glimpse of the moors which had not been seen from this angle since the tenth century.

  All at once a great cry went up from the men watching. A few more well-placed blows from the others shattered the wall even more, until at last a breach ten feet wide opened Eden to the world, and the world to Eden.

  Eden Rising, North Devon July 28, 1875

  For Bates every day dawned like a new miracle, and frequently his eagerness to arrive at the cottage on Eden Rising would drag him out of bed before dawn, when, with the aid of a single candle, he'd fix his first cup of morning tea, then dress quickly and scramble up the cliff walk.

  This morning was like all the others, though marred by a new sadness. The job was done. Today was to be more a celebration than a workday. But what a job they had accomplished. Despite his years and aching joints, he hurried up the cliff walk, wanting to see it all as the sun first struck it, that modest temple which he suspected contained two of the happiest people in the world.

  Sometimes, watching Susan and John, Bates would think with regret on the loneliness of his own existence. But no woman would have had him, then or now, and so he'd adjusted to his small cottage down in Mortemouth very well. And besides, what loneliness? Both Susan and John had told him repeatedly there would always be countless jobs, daily jobs, that would need doing, and as long as he wanted to be with them, he had a place, a family.

  Breathless from the effects of that miraculous word and all that it implied, he stopped at the top of the cliff walk and glanced toward the eastern horizon, over the rim of the world — or so it seemed — and saw the first rose-colored streaks in the night sky.

  For several moments Bates suffered a sharp nost
algia. As there was no need to rush, he walked slowly to the still-barred gatehouse and the ruins of the castle beyond. Why must the world of Eden Castle die? When it had worked, it had worked beautifully, all people by nature secure, knowing their places, servants well treated, happy to serve those they respected, masters compassionate and wise, guiding and leading more than ordering. If this new John Murrey Eden ever chose to be master of Eden Castle again...

  But no. Bates knew better than that. Nothing, he suspected, could ever pry John away from the cottage on Eden Rising. If anyone resurrected Eden Castle, it would have to be Lord Richard, John's half-brother — and how much Bates would love to reunite those two men. For a moment the idea nagged at him — a dream really, the family all returned under happier circumstances.

  “No,” he scoffed aloud, pushed away from the bars of the gatehouse, and looked back, mourning the death of that world.

  By the time he walked the length of the south wall to the place where the new gate had been created, the sun had risen and was shedding rays of pink, gold, and purple over everything — most specifically the cottage that rested peacefully on Eden Rising, glistening under its new coat of whitewash, the contrasting brown window and door trim, the fenced-in barn area boasting chickens, goats, and one good milk cow, all bartered for Susan's services. Now Bates heard the rooster proclaim the morning from the same yard.

  And a fine morning it would be, all of Mortemouth invited to the official opening of the clinic, that spotless little room, which once had been an open portico, now filled with Susan's equipment, a magic room where pain might be eased and hope renewed. He saw the first wisp of smoke coming from the large fieldstone chimney. Someone up, preparing breakfast.

  Bates stood a few minutes, safely concealed behind the wall at the very edge of the gate. Unless he missed his guess, Susan would come through that back door in a moment on her way to feed the chickens. He always enjoyed watching her, the confident way she moved, still as stubborn as on that first bleak night so long ago when she had insisted he direct her to the top of Eden Castle, where John was mindless with grief.