The Prince of Eden (72 page)

Edward saw the man walk a distance away, where apparently he fell into a close examination of Tudor wood carving, the elegant detritus of a dead world.

Then finally O'Connor turned toward him, his face transformed. "Demonstration," he pronounced. "Not tomorrow, not perhaps even next year, not until we have successfully marshaled the entire working class of England behind us, a million strong. Oh God, .imagine it, Eden, if you can." Head lifted, eyes closed, he appeared now to be rendered speechless by the vision.

"One million men," he went on, "walking silently through London's streets, a silent army, a Chartist army, marching steadfastly from Kennington Common to the Houses of Parliament, the Chartists' demands in the lead, a million men presenting those demands in a most civilized manner."

Again Edward waited, though in a new comprehension. The proposed spectacle would be very effective, unarmed men, impressive in their vast numbers, marching peacefully against that citadel of jurisprudence which thus far had denied them basic human rights.

Still O'Conner hung over the table, those broad hands kneading. "Can you see it, Eden?" he whispered, an imploring quality in his voice. "I desperately need a pair of eyes to share the vision."

Moved, Edward nodded. The man should admit need more often. "Yes, I can see it," Edward said aloud. "And I agree, it would be a most impressive spectacle."

"And effective?"

"Most effective."

"And possible?"

"And possible, though it will require massive recruitment."

On O'Conner's face, Edward saw a new expression, one almost resembling happiness. "Then—you'll help?" he asked timidly.

Edward responded immediately. With the ghost of Daniel beside him, he stood and extended his hand across the table. "It's why I summoned you here tonight."

He saw O'Conner smile. "Then neither of us has any need to mourn Daniel Spade," he said. "The Demonstration was his fondest dream, and on that glorious day, hopefully in the not too distant future, we will leave a space between us at the head of the column and we shall whisper, each in turn, 'See, Daniel, it's happening.' "

Then the moment of vision was over, O'Conner's mind apparently turning immediately to the logistics and execution of his scheme. "You spoke of recruitment," he said now. "We're already at work on it. We've divided England into twenty broad areas and intend to send lieutenants to all quarters."

Edward nodded in complete agreement.

"Such an undertaking will require funds," O'Conner said now, never taking his eyes off Edward's face.

"You shall have them."

"And clerks must be hired to keep the petitions in order as we send them back."

Again Edward nodded. "All," he smiled, "you shall have all your requests taken care of."

Then O'Conner turned away and started out into the entrance hall. "I'll be leaving for the Black Country in a few days," he called over his shoulder. "I'll see you before I go."

Alone, Edward watched until the man was out of sight. Mad? He and Daniel had both thought so once. But surely not. Overworked, easily excitable, perhaps momentarily relieved that his great dream, the Demonstration, would come true. In Daniel's name he had at last made a commitment to Daniel's cause, had pledged a large portion of his fortune, not only to the Ragged Schools, which in certain London circles were beginning to be looked upon with approval. Now he was a revolutionary, a mild one to be sure, but moving hopefully toward a changed world.

He smiled, standing alone on his darkened stoop. Strange, he didn't feel like a revolutionary. In fact he'd never felt less like a revolutionary. What he truly felt like was a doting, bourgeois father who longed with all his heart for the comfort of his son.

With that thought he lifted his head. The coming Demonstration of

a million men didn't stand a chance when pitted against the awesome power of one bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked six-year-old boy.

John Murrey Eden knew who he was and of that there was no doubt. Edward took great delight in asking him, "Who are you, little boy?"

With barely concealed pride he watched as the sturdy, handsome child lifted his head and pronounced in clear tones, "My name is John Murrey Eden and my father is Edward Eden."

"He's growing spoiled," muttered Elizabeth from the door where, three days after the meeting with Feargus O'Conner, Edward was awaiting the delivery of the post. It was a ritual which Edward thoroughly enjoyed. On his orders, his son was to bring him the mail.

Now as the child scrambled into his lap, the small hand clutching thick envelopes, Edward quietly ignored the disapproving look on Elizabeth's face. As she closed the door behind her, Edward asked of the boy, "In your judgment, John, anything important?"

With adult seriousness, the child settled comfortably in Edward's arm and began meticulously to examine each letter, discounting one after another until at last he stopped, his eyes focused on one bearing the red wax seal and Eden imprint.

"This one," he announced, holding the letter up for Edward's inspection.

Edward took it from him and examined the unfamiliar penmanship. Not Jane's. Not the Cranfords'. Then remembering, the mystery was solved. He'd asked the aides to write to him concerning Jennifer.

With childish insistence, John was now demanding that he read the letter to him.

Edward agreed. "If you sit patiently while I read it first, then I'll read it to you."

Solemnly the boy agreed and nestled snugly into the crook of Edward's arm. The seal broken, Edward hugged his son to him, then lifted the letter toward the blaze of May sunshine and commenced reading the laborious hand.

"Dear Mr. Edward Eden," the letter commenced.

Regarding my word of promise to write to you here it is. Things have went well since last we spoke on the matter at hand. Journey to Eden placid and quite easeful for all concerned including Miss Jennifer who laughed at all the cows and sheep and horses. She's done well since and has fitted in well with home folks though her poor mother's

ailing terrible and can't see her or speak to her, but the nicest of all is Lady Harriet, young Lady Eden, who took her right in and treated her with gentlest kindness, a lovely lady, I swear it. She had her made up some white lace gowns so we could rid her of that other one as after the journey it was done in. She likes to sit in the sunshine in her sitting room and she's there now, getting her hair brushed by Lady Harriet-Edward closed his eyes, the letter still in hand.

"Papa? Now?" Young John had detected the pause, the closed eyes. Edward kissed him. "In a moment," he soothed and turned his attention back to the letter, the scrawl beginning to tilt up the page.

—getting her hair brushed by Lady Harriet, and we are doing fine as well, me and Gertrude, enjoying the country air and the grandness of the place and trying to be helpful and earn our bread. There's one here who don't like us none, a Miss Cranford, but Lady Harriet says pay her no mind so we keep to ourselves and to Miss Jennifer who sends you her love and I'm saddened to speak it still talks of Mr. Daniel Spade and fetches his letters everywhere and says to one and all that he'll be coming soon and taking her away. One last thing that brings her pleasure is that pretty pianoforte which she tries to play but can't very well, though Lady Harriet is quite stern about everyone leaving her be. So all in all it's a calm season and as per promised, I and Gertrude will keep you informed.

Your Humble Servant, Estelle Lewis

So all in all it's a calm season.

The simple phrase turned over in Edward's mind. Yet in a way it was true, the sort of calmness that follows spent grief. The woman whom he had loved, who had created this child sitting on his lap, this woman apparently now was bestowing loving kindness on Jennifer.

"Read it now. Papa?" It was John again, his face eagerly upturned.

And Edward read it, exactly as it was written, stopping only to identify the cast of characters. "Jennifer is your aunt, my sister, and she's ill. And Lady Harriet, yes, the kind lady is also your aunt, my brother's wife, and the poor old woman terribly ill is my mother, your grandmother, the Lady Marianne."

John smiled. "YouVe told me about her."

Indeed Edward had.

Long after the letter was read and explained with partial honesty, the two of them continued to sit together in the lengthening rays of afternoon sun, speaking of Eden and sea gulls, of cliff walks and blue water, of the headlands and the grand old castle itself, talking endlessly of a distant world which Edward could clearly see had become for John an obsession.

If asked what had brought about such a miraculous change in her attitude toward her bleak new life, Harriet would have replied, without hesitation, the arrival five years ago of poor wounded Jennifer Eden.

Before that unexpected occasion she had been a dead woman.

Being truly dead except for the faint beating of her heart, she had been capable of enduring anything: the cold, drafty old castle, the fawning falseness of the Cranfords, the endless winters, and on occasion even the awkward, crude attentions of her husband. Fortunately his demands in the beginning had been simple. Over five weeks had elapsed after the wedding before he'd found the nerve to come to her bed for the first time. Then he'd been mildly drunk, had made his demands, a brief uncomfortable ten minutes, no worse than bodily constipation on a cold January morning, mortifying but endurable.

Then in April of the following year, along with nature's thaw, Harriet had experienced a deeper, more significant thaw.

The messenger bearing Edward's letter to James had arrived first, and while Harriet had not been privy to its exact contents, she'd been well aware of the flurry it had caused. Then three days after that the carriage had arrived. With the natural attraction of the wounded for the wounded, Harriet had thrown a shawl over her shoulders and had made the hazardous trip from her fourth-floor chambers to the steps of the Great Hall.

The day had been cold for April and she'd shivered as she'd watched the two aides alight first, had watched with greater interest as they had

reached back into the carriage and had withdrawn what had appeared to be a crushed white flower. She'd still been wearing her wedding dress and how fearfully her eyes had darted across the massive front of the great castle.

Although there had been four of them on the steps that morning, both Cranfords, James, and Harriet, no one had seemed inclined to go forward in greeting, and at last, unable to endure the agony in those eyes any longer, Harriet had stepped forward, had removed the shawl about her own shoulders and had placed it about Jennifer. And out of that allegedly mad face she'd seen such a soft grateful glance.

And now? Look at her now! Harriet had time for a pleasant assessment before her appointment that was so important to others in the castle. She took a moment to survey her sitting room, a lovely rose brocade cave of warmth and comfort. How generous James had been, permitting her a free hand, allowing her to select good individual furnishings from all over the castle and arranged them to her satisfaction.

But of greater satisfaction were the two at her feet before the fire, the lovely Jennifer still clad in white—she would never wear anything but white—and, the miracle himself, one-year-old Richard, named for her dead father.

Harriet allowed the stiff needlepoint to fall into her lap and literally fed herself on the image of her son, born a year ago October, the pregnancy itself easy compared to that first hideous one, and after the mild pain, the old midwife had bent over her and placed her son in her arms and she had clung to him and remembered that someplace far away in a foreign land, she had another son, lost to her forever. But this one was here and all the unused love had rushed from her heart so that the midwife had had to scold her for fear she'd suffocate the child.

Again she looked down at the two stretched out on the fur rug before the fire. Both of them were children really, Jennifer lying on her side, cooing unintelligible words of love, and Richard responding with a dimpled smile.

Harriet smiled. What a miraculous change the infant had worked in all their lives. Jennifer had at last laid aside her traveling case of old letters. No longer did she carry them every place with her. She preferred now to carry the child and Harriet allowed it. And while Harriet couldn't in all honesty say that she loved James, he'd never given her reason not to respect him. In all ways he was attentive though undemanding.

She did not care for the Cranfords and felt uncomfortable when they discussed so openly the Eden affairs. And neither did she approve of

the constant agitation which they heaped upon James, the impending lawsuit against Edward, their barbaric waiting for the Countess Dowager to die.

Edward. As she stared down on Jennifer and the baby, she thought the name again, as though testing it on her sensibihties and was pleased to feel no grief, only a pleasant residue of memories. And in that moment she experienced her greatest triumph, the realization that she had been right all along, that the plot she had constructed for her hfe had worked out. She was Lady Eden, and while she did not now have a great love in her life, she had known one and thus considered herself rich. She had a lasting friend in Jennifer, she had a son and, God willing, would have more. She had wealth, position, legitimacy, and for the first time in many long years, she was at peace.