The Prince of Eden (46 page)

Clearly it was the command they had been waiting for as with admirable speed they were down the steps, their triple strengths tearing Edward loose from the confrontation, enduring quite a struggle with him as the outrage of one seemed superior to the strength of three.

As the area beyond the head of the table became a hissing arena of oaths and curses and shouts. Sir Claudius felt a warfnth on his face. Scandalous! The ruined table was pitiful to behold, the guests terrified, the spilled wine, the broken crystal, the bouquets of flowers scattered about amidst the garbage of food, a yellow smear of butter oh the back of James's coat, James himself still in a dazed state, dabbing at the small stream of blood which slipped down the side of his mouth.

But the tempest was not over, far from it. With a watchman restraining each arm, Edward continued to strain futilely against his captors, his body arching, his person undone, his waistcoat askew, sleeve torn, as energy and strength persisted. Old John Murrey hovered a safe distance behind, a look of disaster on his face.

Marianne, still standing, found her voice again and the will to use it. "Take him to his chambers," she commanded, "and lock him in."

The command seemed to work an even greater pain on Edward, although for a moment he returned his mother's gaze with the hypnotic effect of accusing eyes, as a snake's stare holds a bird. But when the watchmen with their superior strength jerked him about, twisting his arms completely behind him in the process and half led, half dragged him away, the struggle was on again. The third watchman joined them

midway up the stairs and grabbed Edward by the feet, thus rendering him totally helpless. The last glimpse that Sir Claudius had of the Prince of Eden was an unceremonious one, the man being hauled face down from the Banqueting Hall.

For a few moments thereafter, the entire company sat in their awkward positions, motionless with horror. In the distance could be heard cries of outrage and protest. Old John Murrey remained a moment longer, his head bowed in consummate embarrassment, his hands kneading the gray cape. "Milady," he murmured to Marianne. "May I—see to him?"

Looking up. Sir Claudius saw silent tears streaming down Marianne's face. "See to him," she whispered.

The old man bobbed his head and hurried up the stairs as fast as his age and the weight of emotion would permit.

Silence again. Sir Claudius expected the motionless guests to stir, Marianne certainly to dismiss them, someone to take charge of the shambles which once had been an elegant table.

But when no one did, he looked back at Marianne, whose attention now seemed mysteriously riveted on a spot halfway down the table. She was looking at her daughter, Jennifer, who was returning her mother's gaze with eyes level and cold, a steady light of hate passing from the young woman to the older one. And even while Sir Claudius was watching, he saw Jennifer stand up at the table and push her chair back, her voice as level as her eyes as she said to Marianne, "You had no right, Lady—"

Marianne started to reply, but she was not given that opportunity as Jennifer continued backing away from the table. "Haven't you caused him enough grief?" she whispered- "Did you have to humiliate him in that fashion?"

She might have said more but her voice broke and she ran from the Banqueting Hall.

Now there was movement, a few heads lifting to see how Marianne would take this public indictment from her daughter. Across the table. Sir Claudius saw Jane Locke's face stricken with alarm as she watched her sister. Marianne would have collapsed had it not been for the rapid movement of Jane Locke and an ashen-faced Mrs. Greenbell, who quickly surrounded her and gave her the support she needed, the bulk of both women obscuring the frail broken figure of the Countess Dowager.

Gently and with apologies to no one they led her from the room by the opposite door.

Good God, enough, thought Sir Claudius angrily. Someone would

have to take charge, and since both Cranfords seemed unwilling, and poor stunned James unable, then it would have to be he.

Clearing his throat, he pushed away from the table. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began. "May I kindly suggest that we retire for the night. The evening has been unfortunate, for all of us, but most unfortunate for this family who has so graciously embraced us with hospitality— Let me kindly suggest that we—withhold our judgment, extend our understanding, and—retire for the evening."

There! That was good. Then why was no one moving? Well, he would simply have to try again. As he opened his mouth, he saw at last faint movement, coming from a most surprising figure, perhaps the central reason for the entire disastrous evening, the young woman who resembled a statue.

Now this slim figure stood and by her stirring seemed to stir a few of those around her, James for one, who extended a hand which was so coldly ignored that he instantly withdrew it.

But for all the splintered emotions around her. Miss Harriet Powels seemed as possessed, as unruffled as though she were indeed made of marble.

Yet as she approached the bottom step, her hands suddenly moved out on either side as though to steady the air about her, and in the next moment she collapsed in a soft white heap, her face as white as her gown.

Her mother screamed, then both father and mother were on their feet running toward their fallen daughter, who apparently had at last succumbed to the events of the evening. With the assistance of a steward. Lord Powels lifted his daughter in his arms, her mother weeping openly now, trying to stroke the white unconscious face, as again the company was treated to an exit of undistilled agony.

Sir Claudius realized that he was still standing, and began to feel weak himself. As he slowly sank down into his chair, he saw Lord Salisbury rise and place a protective arm about Lady Salisbury and lead her from the room. A moment later, others blessedly followed suit, many of the women weeping quietly, the expressions of the gentlemen mirroring his own. For the first time since he'd known Sophia Cranford, even that strong woman seemed destitute and leaned heavily on Caleb's arm, stopping briefly at the head of the table to examine James's wound, then taking him with them to their private chambers.

A few minutes later, Sir Claudius looked up to see the vast room empty, the stewards standing at attention in a rigid line, their faces expressionless, betraying none of the heated emotions of the guests.

At that moment, the memories of events conspired against him and

he afforded himself the crude luxury of placing his elbows on the table and resting his head on the indecorous perch.

Into his quiet distress came the cracked voice of an old steward. "Begging your pardon, milord," he murmured politely, "but shall we clear now?"

On a wave of self-pity, Sir Claudius glared up at the old man. "What do you think?" he snapped and stood and walked across the Banqueting Hall, heading toward his own chambers and the comfort of a full decanter of brandy.

Something had been amiss. And hell-gate was on the verge of opening even wider.

Frightened, Jennifer looked at the grim walls and endless steps which led up to the third-floor corridor and Edward's private chambers. She glanced nervously over her shoulder to see if anyone had dared to follow her out of that horrible room. They hadn't, and with new outrage she began to climb the stairs.

Finally she reached the third-floor corridor, and a distance beyond, she saw Edward's chambers, the door closed and bolted, the three watchmen standing firm, their eyes like those of a mastiff confronting a cat.

Before them, Jennifer halted. Winded from her rapid climb and her weight of emotions, she turned her head away, the better to address them. "I command you to let me pass," she said, her weak voice betraying her false courage.

They merely looked down on her. "Can't," one grinned.

The second one suggested kindly, "You don't want to go in there, milady. Your brother's stark raving mad, he is. Let him—"

She faced them now, her face rigid, and forced herself to speak a certain name. "Then I shall simply have to return to the Banqueting Hall and inform my mother that I cannot fulfill her errand because I was denied passage by her watchmen."

For a moment, the three men continued to stare down on her, their very glances rendering her inferior. Finally, although he shook his head disapprovingly, one of the men stepped to one side and threw the bolt on the door. "Milady," he muttered, bowing low, and with a sweeping gesture indicated the clear passage.

She lifted her head and stepped forward. She pushed open the door. The room was dark, only a small candle burning on the center table, its faint illumination casting a dim light.

"Edward?" she whispered softly, moving a step farther into the room. While there was no reaction from the figure on the bed, she saw the

one slumped in the chair look up, saw in the dim light the emaciated face of John Murrey.

"Milady," he whispered, as though someone were sleeping or ill. "You oughtn*t to be here, you really shouldn't. Please go along with you. Ain't nothing that you can—"

But even as he spoke, she started to shake her head in rebuttal. She'd made it successfully past the three men outside the door. Compared to them, John Murrey was nothing.

Without speaking, she lifted the candle from the table and carried it to the bed. Looking down, she gasped, "Oh my God," and lowered the candle for a closer examination of the incredible sight, her brother lying on his back, his shirtwaist completely undone by the recent struggle, his head without benefit of pillow, his arms drawn over his head and secured to the bedposts with pieces of leather, restrained like a madman, though in truth there was nothing about him now in need of restraint. She saw his eyes open, though unfocused, fixed on some spot on the darkened ceiling, the rest of his body lying limp.

If shock and pity had been her first reactions, anger followed fast behind as she looked accusingly at the old man who stood opposite her at the bed. "John, how could you let them do this?" she demanded.

In a burst of energy he sprang to his own defense. "And how was I to stop them, milady?" he protested.

Quickly she placed the candle on the near table and commenced pulling at the leather straps twisted tightly about his wrists.

Now it was John Murrey who protested. "Milady, they said not to—"

But she looked sharply up at him and commanded, "Tend to his other hand."

Finally he fell to work on the bonds and a few minutes later Jennifer jerked free a strip of leather and hurled it into the shadows. John Murrey pulled his side free and dropped it wearily on the floor.

In a hard way, Jennifer wished she'd left him bound, wished her mother might have seen him thus, the result of her own handiwork. If that selfish, vain woman wished him destroyed, why had she even bothered to give him life? For that matter, why had she bothered to give any of them life?

Recovered from her weakness, made strong by hate, she looked down to see Edward moving. Gently she reached out a hand and touched his hair. "I'm—sorry," she said.

He lifted his head and looked directly at her as though seeing her for the first time. "Jennifer?" he questioned, as though in his distracted state he was uncertain of her identity.

She smiled, glad that she had followed after him. Now again anger moved across her. "They had no right—" she began.

Incredibly the faint light of a smile crossed his face. "Oh, they had every right," he disagreed. "I would have killed him."

While Jennifer, in the past, had enjoyed a degree of skill in bringing comfort to young girls, she found herself totally at a loss for words. All she could think of was a blunt and impertinent question. "Did you—" she began, faltering once. "Did you—love her?"

At first she thought he hadn't heard. There was no discernible change in his posture. And when a moment later, having received no answer, she was on the verge of asking it again, he suddenly thrust himself forward, moving rapidly away from her hand and the question.

"I'm—sorry, Edward," she apologized. "I shouldn't have asked. It was none of my—"

The silence in the room was heavy. Embarrassed, she considered leaving. But where would she go? Back down to the Banqueting Hall and the repellent presence of her mother? To the Cranfords' sitting room and be reminded again of everything that she was not. No! She must start moving away from the Cranfords. It was time. Past time. Then where? To the loneliness of her childhood chambers filled with dead china dolls and memories more painful than her present awkward position?

Lost in her own uncertainty, she did not at first see Edward looking at her. He seemed to stare at her as though he were reaching a hard decision. Then he requested, "Jennifer, would you leave us now. Please."

The dreaded words, so kindly spoken, had a disastrous effect on her. In her own defense she stood a little straighten "I—came to look after you," she smiled.

"And I'm grateful. But John is here. I need no—"

"John is your servant," she protested, hearing the fear in her voice and hating it. "I'm your sister—"

Standing by the door, the old man inquired with bowed head, "Shall I take my leave, sir?"

"No," came the firm voice from the shadows. Then the voice softened. "Please, Jennifer, leave me for now."

The words struck heavily against her. For a moment she tried to digest her dismissal. Intent upon her dilemma, she never noticed the shadow come from behind her, and it was with surprise that she felt a hand on her arm.

Through a blur of tears she looked up into his face. At the very

instant she thought she had been banished, she found herself welcomed back into his love.

Inside his arms, she wept quietly. He held her, murmuring, "Poor Jennifer," as though she were the one who had been dragged up the stairs like a common criminal and placed under guard.

A moment later her tears abated, and he released her and walked slowly back to the bed and sat heavily, his hands clasped between his legs.

She watched him, wondering if, in spite of their recent closeness, she still was under orders to leave. But then came the reprieve she'd been waiting for. "Stay if you wish," he muttered, not looking at her. "Stay as long as you wish. I could not possibly send you to that death outside the door."