The Prince of Eden (58 page)

"Well, in that attic storeroom, the grand lady has been confined for eight months," Hills concluded proudly, as though everything had been solved.

But the mystery instead of being solved merely became more complex. "Why?" Edward asked, sending his eyes once again in an inspection of the distant window.

"Why?" Hills exploded in a burst of laughter. "Cause the grand lady is still a maid, sir, that's why." The laughter continued, leaving rims of moisture about the man's eyes. "Don't you see, sir? If you was father to

a grand lady without benefit of husband, and one day you took notice of her swelling belly, now, I ask you, sir, what would you do under those circumstances?" As Hills roared back in his chair, Edward stared, his eyes fixed on the demented features.

"Oh good Lord, sir," Hills gasped, holding his sides. "With all due apology, sleep must still be coating your brain." Again he leaned closer. "She's done opened her legs to some rascal, sir, and that someone left a growing seed and the Powels line has produced a rosy-cheeked bastard."

Edward rested his head in his hands and obscured his face.

"Are you well, sir?" Hills earnestly inquired.

Edward nodded and tried to make of his face a disinterested blank. "Are you—certain of this information, Hills?" he demanded, lifting his eyes.

Hills beamed. "I only just received word this morning that the bastard arrived late last night, a squawking, common brat, or so I was told."

A feeling such as Edward had never known before rose up within him. Memories passed through his mind of a green glen, of a tender, rare love. He found now that he could not look at the man. "And what—is to become of the—child?"

Then all at once the fountain of information dried up. In the peculiar silence, Edward lifted his head and saw Hills stand up from his crouched position at table, his face suddenly on guard. "Don't rightly know, sir," he concluded, moving away. "It occurs I've said enough. I've business to attend to, sir, so if you'll excuse me." And at last he turned and moved hastily across the room, his boots sending back hollow reverberations as they struck the stone floor.

Silence, though inside Edward's pounding head he heard one word.

Son. A very real possibility.

When in the next moment, he discounted the word, it came again.

Son. A probability.

His eyes, as though they possessed wills of their own, moved back to the high fourth-floor window of the estate. Suddenly he stood up with such force that the chair clattered backward.

His son?

His brain felt battered. He had purposefully sought and received specific information. Now, dear God, what was he to do with it? If it was his son— And what of her? She would not abandon her own flesh. Yet neither could she enter into marriage with James with a bastard son in her arms. To write to her, that he must do immediately, to tell

her that he knew. No, that was impossible. To tell her that her long and painful deception had been in vain, that was also impossible.

Still he stood by the window, the room behind him silent. There was no alternative left to him but to write. May she forgive him for his part and forgive herself as well.

When he finished his letter, the gray afternoon was half over. Wearily he left the bureau over which he had crouched for the better part of the day, the rejected wads of papers scattered about his feet. He had at last successfully composed one page, begging her forgiveness, requesting an audience so that together they might discuss the future of their son.

He still could not believe it and now took his disbelief to the window. Above the late afternoon horizon, above that dim yellow light burning in the fourth-floor window, a cold moon was rising. It was strange, he thought, the awesome juxtaposition of death and birth.

She should have told him. He had a right to know. How she must have suffered. Was suffering now.

His eyes closed. The hand that grasped the letter shook.

It was well past midnight. John Murrey was curled up before the dying fire in the dining hall. Gawd! What were they doing in this place? And when would Mr. Eden come to his senses and give John orders to make for London? Well, no matter. Long ago John had given up ever understanding his master. He loved him, to be sure, and if he ever asked for his right arm, John would joyfully give it. So, love and loyalty were there, but understanding? Never!

Abruptly John sat up, annoyed by his inability to get comfortable. As well as he could determine, he needed another chair or better just settle on the floor. It was the cold John hated. Gawd, but he hated the cold, had ever since that bleak winter of '28 when cold had taken everything in Tunbridge Wells, his crops, his livestock, his two pretty babes, his wife—

Half-raised in a sitting position, the old man held still, gazing hollow-eyed into the fire. Moving slowly, he left the chairs, dragging his cloak after him, and settled onto the floor directly before the fire, his thoughts filled with the past

He'd had to wait until spring to bury them, had had to pass the rest of winter knowing what lay inside the three crude coffins in the wood shed. He'd had to fight off" the small foraging animals to keep them from feeding on the carcasses and with the first thaw in April, he had

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dug three holes and had single-handedly dragged each coffin forward and lowered it into the ground. Then taking only the clothes he wore on his back, he'd left that place of grief and had walked to London, where he'd not expected to find life any easier. But at least, if the living wasn't easier, the dying might be. And there it was that the Prince of Eden had found him beneath the bridge, more skeleton than man.

Slowly John Murrey cast a searching eye up the length of the massive stone fireplace, as though even now, years later, seeking an explanation for why he'd bothered. What was John Murrey's life or death to him?

He sighed heavily and lay upon his side, his head cradled on one arm. The sound of wind outside the windows floated to him from afar. The entire inn was asleep, everyone but him. Perhaps in the morning, Mr. Eden would see the hopelessness of his position, his young lady locked behind iron gates, and even if she were not, she was betrothed to his brother. John must teach Mr. Eden the lesson that he himself had learned many years ago, that it served no purpose for a man to remain in a vicinity of pain.

On that note of resolve, he turned about a final time upon the hard floor, drew his cloak beneath his chin, and closed his eyes. In the twilight sleep between consciousness and unconsciousness, John thought he heard voices.

Quietly he turned his head and gazed through the forest of chair and table legs toward the entrance hall, dimly lit by two fixed lamps burning low. Between and around these obstacles he saw what appeared to be a woman's skirts. And standing opposite her, he saw the hem of a man's dressing robe.

Feeling annoyed and shivering, he raised quietly up and peered through the chairs for a better look. He might have known. It was the proprietor, Humphrey Hills.

Stirred to interest and enjoying his position of concealment, John Murrey leaned closer in examination of the female skirt, voluminous, belonging to a large woman, severely dressed in black as though for traveling. She was saying something to Hills, but John couldn't recognize one word. A foreign tongue.

Now John noticed Hills withdraw from the pocket of his dressing gown what looked like a sizable envelope. As he placed it in the gloved hand the old foreign woman smiled for the first time.

Still in hiding behind his fortress of chairs, John saw the woman stoop down and retrieve what appeared to be a large bread basket, a covering over the top, and hand it to Hills. The man received it

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warmly and seemed to be aware of nothing but the basket itself, uncommon interest, or so John thought, for a simple bread basket.

What a topsy-turvey place, with deliveries made at all hours of the day and night by foreigners dressed in black who lacked the good sense to speak the King's English. While he was musing thus, John looked up and to his surprise saw the woman gone. He felt a new icy blast rush across the floor as he heard the front door open, then close.

Shivering from the new blast of cold air, John might have slipped back to his place beside the fire, but at that moment a most bewildering occurrence took place in the hall. He saw that Mr. Hills had removed the covering from the top of the bread basket and was now cursing the loaves of bread, cursing them, "bastard." "Bastard" to loaves of bread?

John held motionless behind his chair fortress. Then he saw Hills return the covering and hurry off* down the hall, moving rapidly in the direction of the kitchen staircase which led down to the rooms beneath the inn. Strange! A most strange place, John brooded.

Insomnia was a general plague that night in the Mermaid. The serving girl, Elizabeth, freezing in her narrow cot at the far end of the servants' quarters, was wide awake. Never had she been so humiliated and she intended never to be so humiliated again.

Now as she lay under the thin coverlet, her teeth chattering, she was aware of a small revolution brewing inside her head. One hand moved slowly up and touched her bruised cheek where that morning Mr. Hills had struck her. No, she would not take it any longer, although she knew what she was, a bondager, a bound woman, in Mr. Hills's employ as partial payment for her mother's debts. Her wages were one shilling a week, paid not to her, but the amount simply entered in Mr. Hills's big black ledger. In exchange for this she worked eighteen hours every day, from sunup to well after dark. Earlier that day, still smarting from Mr. Hills's blow, she had figured up that, at one shilling a week plus interest, she would be eighty-seven years old when she'd successfully paid off" her mother's debt to Hills.

Staring upward at the low black ceiling, she felt an impulse to cry, but there were no tears left. She glanced about at the other sleeping females; all bondagers, from the youngest to the oldest. If she was going to do it, now was the time. The night was dark, the inn silent. If she ran all the way, she could be in Shrewsbury before dawn. There she would gather up her mother and put her in the back of the old goat cart and with Elizabeth herself pulling the yoke, perhaps they could make it to the Welsh border before Mr. Hills set pursuit after her.

Then do it! Stealthily she left the bed, taking care not to disturb those sleeping about her. She dressed hurriedly, pulling her black serving dress over her nightshirt for additional warmth. Beneath the cot, wrapped in a neat bundle, she found her shawl and the worn cloak that she'd arrived with.

In a quiet way, she said her goodbyes and moved silently down the row of cots, pausing before the door which led out into the central corridor. Here she stopped and made a quick decision to take the servants' exit.

As she reached the end of the first passage, she felt a dizziness sweep over her as though at her own daring. Where would dawn find her? Frozen beside the road? It was God's choice. She would abide by it.

Partially restored, she started forward again to the left, the narrow passage which led deeper into the subcellar. No, not that direction. To the right^ to the wooden steps and the door beyond.

Keep your wits about you.

As she was in the process of reversing her steps, she heard something. She held still, thinking perhaps that someone had already discovered her absence and had come in search of her. In fear she waited, trying to hear the sound again.

There it was! Listen! Coming from the direction of the lower cellar. But what? She turned suddenly and looked over her shoulder down the narrow steps which led to the subcellar. At the far end of the passage she saw a faint spill of light. There was the sound again, coming from that direction, a whimper, like a—

Baby.

It sounded like a babe crying. No, she was only imagining it. There was no infant here and God help it if there were. But as she pushed away from the wall, she heard it again, so clearly it could not be denied.

On this lower level there was no mistaking the sound. It was an infant.

Before the door she stopped, the cries so close now. Then she must help it. But as her hand moved to push open the door, instinct warned her back and she went quietly down on her knees and leveled her eye against the keyhole. An instant later, she clamped both hands over her mouth to keep from screaming aloud.