The Prince of Eden (27 page)

In desperation, she confronted him directly. "He knows my feelings," she cried. "I have never deceived him or led him to any degree of hope or expectation." As her voice rose, the stinging behind her eyes increased. "I have no feeling for him," she declared. "No affection save that of a good friend."

Apparently her words registered. "Poor Jennifer," he mourned. "I fear you have no affection for anyone, are capable of none so long as you maintain that death-line to Sophia Cranford."

Incapable of speech, she shook her head, begging him without words to cease. Seeing her tears, he leaned back, though still pitying her. "Oh, Jennifer," he said^ "how lonely you must be, and how ready is the door out of your prison—"

"I am neither lonely nor imprisoned," she wept. "Now, please, I beg you, leave me be."

This time he obeyed, as settling back into the cushions, he maintained his silence, staring glumly out the window.

As she reached frantically inside the pocket of her cloak for a handkerchief, she tried to draw a deep breath. How warm had been their reunion and how quickly he had plunged her to the depths. She remembered how often Sophia Cranford had warned her away from Edward, condemning him in the same tones as she had condemned her

mother, as corrupting influences, both capable of harm. And what had he meant by the "death-line" which attached her to Sophia, strong, pure Sophia, without whom she would never have survived her childhood?

She struggled for self-control. Abruptly she felt the carriage rocking. Raising her eyes to the window, she saw Daniel hoisting her trunk upward to unseen hands. She heard him shout, "Secure it tightly, John."

Hurriedly she passed the handkerchief over her face in a desperate attempt to look normal. Opposite her she was aware of Edward, sunk into a gloomy silence.

Then Daniel was pulling himself into the carriage, his face flushed with exertion, his spirits high and intact. "What a mob!" he gasped. "Was there anyone left in Leeds? I've never seen so many trunks and-"

Abruptly he fell silent, apparently assessing the tension within the carriage. She was aware of him looking from one side to the other. Then slowly he sat beside Edward, his hands clasped between his legs, the exhilaration on his face passing into blank bewilderment.

Still moved by her recent outburst, broken by grief over the cross-purposes which ran through her life, she turned rigidly away in the opposite direction, refusing to look at either of them.

As the carriage started forward, she felt Edward's boot lightly touching the toe of her shoe. Was the contact accidental? She stole a look in his direction and met his eyes and looked away.

Then quietly into the expanding silence, Edward spoke. "We've quarreled, Daniel," he said. "Within the first hour of our reunion, we've quarreled as though we still were children."

The rest of the ride was conducted in a palatable silence, both men seated opposite her, apparently recovering from the splintered beginning and she recovering as well, gazing out the window at clamorous London, both fascinated and frightened by it, recalling how she had explored it as a little girl with her father's enormous hand wrapped protectively about her own.

On thinking of the man she glanced back at Edward, saw him slumped down in the seat, his elbow resting on the arm support. He looked fatigued, as though their quarrel had drained him of vital resources. In an attempt to alter the bleak look, she asked quietly, "Do you think we'll have time to see the museums and galleries before we leave?"

Without lifting his head, he smiled at her. "We'll make time, all the time you wish."

For some reason, Daniel protested. "Not too much, Edward. Remember, the magistrate said—" Abruptly he stopped, a flush causing his face to redden. "What I mean to say is—" he faltered. "The Countess, your mother, expects you at a—"

"We'll be there," Edward said, cutting him off. "Did I tell you?" he went on, brightening. "Jennifer and I are going to purchase a pianoforte tomorrow and take it with us back to Eden Point. You'd better come with us."

Surprised, Jennifer listened closely. She had assumed that Daniel was coming with them. He had been Edward's shadow for as long as she could remember. "You're not coming, Daniel?" she inquired.

He shook his head, an expression of regret on his face. "Perhaps later. The school is burgeoning. I can't just walk away and leave it in the hands of the volunteers."

"Is it going well?" Jennifer asked now, remembering Daniel's Ragged School and his devotion to it.

"Very well," he smiled. "A few days ago we had distinguished visitors. Robert Owen and John Bright—"

He studied his hands as though modesty forbade him to speak openly."They wanted to see the school," he said quietly. "Owen was particularly curious. He had a grand scheme to establish others throughout London."

"And they will be using yours as the model?" she asked, impressed.

He shrugged. "It seems as though it's a matter of funds. But, yes, if the money can be raised—"

From his slouched position at the window, Edward spoke softly. "Why on this green earth are you worrying about funds, Daniel? Tell your Mr. Owen to establish as many schools as he wishes. The funds will be there when he needs them."

She saw clearly the surprised though warm look of gratitude on Daniel's face. Then there was a brief cloud. "I can't ask you—"

Still without looking at him, Edward cut him off. "You haven't asked. I'm simply donating." She saw a new weariness on his face. "My purpose for living is vague," he said softly. "The size of my purse is not. Establish your schools, for God's sake. Do something about that."

As he bobbed his head out the window, Jennifer followed his gaze to the scene outside where half a dozen children could be seen huddled in an open doorway. In the faint light of the streetlamp, they sat in a pitiful arrangement, the oldest holding the youngest, their hollow eyes staring out at the passing carriage.

She was aware of Daniel staring too, leaning across to their window, his face clearly reflecting what he saw. "I'll send a volunteer back as

soon as we get home," he promised. "They're probably abandoned."

Jennifer Ustened, grateful in a way that the grim young faces had now passed from her vision. "How many children do you care for now?" she asked.

He smiled and shook his head. "Close to seventy, I would say." He sat eagerly up. "But you shall see for yourself," he promised. "We're about home."

Jennifer began to see familiar landmarks, Oxford Circus with its fine linen establishments, then Oxford Street, that old artery of the aristocracy now a muddle of shops. Then they were before the house which in the evening light looked even more dilapidated and out of sorts than she'd remembered it.

Daniel was out of the carriage first. She watched him as he swung upward, apparently to fetch the trunk. In the quiet night and after the cessation of horses hooves on cobblestone, she heard a distant piano in the rippling lively beat of a polka.

Opposite her, she saw Edward, his eyes fixed with peculiar intensity on the linen establishment directly across the way.

Then Daniel was at the carriage door and urging her to, "Come, it's dance night. You can see the brood for yourself. If you're interested, that is," he added quickly.

She was interested and said as much. She looked back at Edward, who had not moved. "Are you coming?"

With a start he looked at her as though she had summoned him back from a great distance. "Right behind you," he' said. "Is that a dance I hear?" he smiled. "Come. If you've never seen tadpoles dancing, you're in for a treat."

He led the way up the steps with Jennifer and Daniel following. A bright lamp burned in the entry hall. To one side she saw a long bench, heaped with a confusion of toys: a rocking horse on his swaying platform with red nostrils, and simple building blocks, a small reproduction of a railway locomotive, a smaller trumpet, and an assortment of rag dolls, all bearing mute evidence of loving devotion.

The piano was louder here, the tempo and rhythm of a polka clearly audible. Then it was Daniel's turn to take the lead, and after he had deposited her trunk near the bench, he pushed open the double doors which led to the banqueting hall and stood back to permit her passage.

Slowly at first she approached. Then she saw a most remarkable scene. The enormous and over-grand room which in the past had known sedate formal dinners was now awhirl with children, the tables had been pushed back against the walls, and in an uneven and slightly ragged circle, the children, paired, their arms raised, were engaged in a

mad, spiraling polka. They all looked so frail and budlike, many of the younger ones already in their nightshirts, like tiny ghosts. Near the end of the hall she saw an old pianoforte, clearly out of tune, but being energetically played by a volunteer, her head, indeed her whole body keeping time.

She noticed Daniel move away from them now toward the far wall where two volunteers presided over a bowl of punch and a platter of sugar cookies. He was saying something to them, pointing back toward the door. A moment later, the older woman nodded and quickly left the room. Jennifer knew where she was going, back to the doorway filled with abandoned children. It was her guess that by the time the next polka night came around, their numbers would be swelled by at least six.

Unable to take it all in at a glance, she looked first one way, then the other. Near the far end of the circle, she saw a young girl break out of the formation. Her eyes appeared fixed on the front of the hall where they stood. She was quite thin, clearly older than the rest, her pretty hair brushed back and tied with a white ribbon. Still she came toward them, her face hesitant, as though uncertain of what she was doing. She seemed to be staring at Edward, who was grinning and bobbing his head in time to the music.

The young girl was less than five feet away from him when he saw her at last, a warm look of recognition on his face as he opened his arms and invited her to, "Come, Elizabeth. How pretty you look tonight."

As though she'd waited all her life for those simple words, the young girl slipped beneath his arm. Jennifer noticed her hand; it appeared scarred and mutilated. And she watched, fascinated, as Edward lifted that hand to his lips and kissed it. Smiling, he now drew the girl close to Jennifer. "This is Elizabeth," he said. His voice moved rapidly into a prouder tone as he said further, "The two of us make it a habit of finding each other. I found her first, and on several occasions she's returned the favor and has found me."

Jennifer hadn't the slightest idea what he was talking about. But apparently it didn't matter as a moment later Edward completed the introduction. "And this is Jennifer, Elizabeth, my sister. She's a schoolteacher in far-off Yorks." The young girl only hurriedly bobbed her head, then immediately turned an adoring set of eyes back to Edward.

Now Jennifer saw her abruptly motion for him to bend his head to her. As he did so, she whispered something into his ear, some message that at first produced a horrified look, then a warm, hearty laugh.

"Why not?" he exclaimed. As he shook off his cloak and handed it to Jennifer, he laughed, "Stand by to pick up the pieces. This temptress is luring me into the madness of the dance."

As he approached the circle, the younger children squealed with delight at his presence. The volunteers broke into applause and the pianist at the end of the hall craned her neck about and, beaming, proceeded to play even louder, tempo increasing.

As Jennifer folded his cloak in her arms, she watched, laughing, as the young Elizabeth arranged Edward opposite her. He towered over her, yet seemed as compliant and agreeable as a puppet.

Jennifer saw without question that everyone in the crowded room was pleased by his participation, his head bending and bobbing, his long legs lifting, literally flying about the circle now. Still she watched the pretty heads as they swirled about her, the tempo increasing until she felt herself swept up in the excitement of the music.

Then she saw Daniel beside her, lifting Edward's cloak from her arms, taking her portfolio with it, his face close, challenging her. "Shall we show them how it's done?"

Instinctively she protested. "Oh no, Daniel, I couldn't—"

"Why not?"

"I've never danced the polka in my life," she gasped.

"Neither have I," he smiled. He bobbed his head toward the room where figures large and small passed them by in a blur. "I really don't think that expertise is required. Just a certain amount of nerve and a strong constitution—"

Again she tried to protest, but he'd hear none of it. Edward's voice came now in a shout as he passed them by. "Catch us if you can," he called out, lifting the young Elizabeth literally off her feet.

"Come on," Daniel urged. "Let's behave like children. Perhaps it's safer that way."

She glanced up at him, amazed at the ability of his thoughts to follow hers. Then with a shake of her head, as though she knew that resistance was useless, she removed her bonnet and cloak and gloves and stood before him. "I'm afraid you'll have to support me the full distance. I am a true novice."

For just a moment she saw a look of extreme gratitude in his face, as though she had just expressed his fondest desire. Before she could catch her breath and long before she was ready for it, she found herself approaching the circle, Daniel's arm about her waist, their hands uplifted, a look of studious intensity in his eyes as he counted off the beats. Then he lifted her and whirled her into the circle, the room and all aspects of it blurring about her as the tempo filled her head, her

feet returning to the floor long enough to execute the steps, then whirling again, her head thrown backward as she clung to him, both of them laughing now, the children urging her on with shouts, Daniel's face always before her, his strong arms guiding her through the simple manuevers, the world and everything in it suddenly gone beautifully topsy-turvey as they defied gravity, defied old fears and new anxieties, defied everything save the madly mounting rhythm of the polka.

For Jennifer, the sensation was akin to a starving man who has grown accustomed to sustaining himself on a crust. Now she had a whole loaf and she gorged on it.