This Other Eden (60 page)

Hurriedly,
he affixed his name to the note and withdrew from his pocket five guineas.
"Go to this address," he commanded Locke. "Find the gentleman
whose name is written here and tell him Lord Eden wishes for him to call
tonight." He handed over the guineas and added, "If it's too great an
inconvenience, tell him he can set his price. But he must come to collect. Is
that clear?"

Locke
took both the note and the guineas. Apparently he saw only the prefix of
doctor. "Is she sick, milord?" he asked.

Incredible
how the man could annoy him. "No, she's not sick," he snapped.
"Now be off with you. Go straight there and return."

Locke
backed up to the door, still eyeing the address on the note. "Am I o walk,
milord?" he asked slyly. "If it's haste you're after—"

Thomas
withdrew another guinea and tossed it toward the man's feet.

"Then
take a cab," he said. "Just hurry!"

Smiling,
Locke scooped up the guinea and bobbed his head. "I thank you,
milord," he said with a grin. "I'm already there."

The
messenger under way, Thomas returned to the table and the well-worn clipping
concerning Dr. Graham and his bed. He felt a pang of regret. Things had gone so
well that evening that perhaps he could have won her affection without
deception. But he was wise enough to know that there was a vast difference
between the girl feeling sympathy for him and submitting to him. Perhaps in the
matter of female conquest, there lad to be, out of necessity, something unfair
about the whole business.

He
felt tired and excited all at the same time. He sat heavily in his chair by the
window, legs spread, his mind clogged with fragments of his earlier triumph. It
was like a fever, an obsession, as strange and as unaccountable as Billy
Beckford's tower.

He
took refuge in comparatively safe memories of poor Billy. As soon as it was
over here, he would pack his possessions back into trunks, his newest
possession, Marianne, at his side, and return to Eden Castle, perhaps stopping
off at Fonthill Splendons on the way to display his new toy to Billy.

The
thought brought him pleasure. There was not a reason in the world, if the girl
behaved herself, why she should not pass the rest of her life in luxury. All he
required in return was open access to her bed. He knew countless women who
would bargain their souls for such an arrangement.

Why
was this one different?

There
was a flutter at his feet. He noticed that he'd dropped the clipping concerning
the magical bed. Slowly he bent to retrieve it, his eyes falling on the
illustration of a naked woman designated as the "Goddess of Health,"
standing beside a magnificent bed. The caption read, "A virgin looks
forward to her deflowering."

For
a long time, Thomas stared at the picture. For some reason he could not quite
see Marianne in the same posture, the same mood. Still, perhaps—

He
heard a carriage on the street below and eagerly leaned forward. The carriage
rattled past. Of course Locke had not had time even to get there. Pall Mall was
a distance away. What if the man refused to come? Why should he? The Eden
wealth was known and respected. He was willing to pay anything. Anything!

Thus
he passed the next few hours in considerable turbulence, denying himself sleep,
brandy, food, focusing all his attention on the street outside the window,
coming to know it so well that he could monitor the regular passage of the
night watchman.

It
was after midnight when, sunk with brooding, he heard a carriage drawing near
to the curb, then stop, horses neighing. He heard Locke's voice, slightly
high-pitched as though excited, "This way, sir. How good of you!"

Slowly
Thomas raised up. Below on the pavement, he saw two figures hurrying toward the
front door of his house—Locke's sloping awkward gait, the other man taller,
much taller, carrying himself with dignity.

As
they disappeared beneath the eaves, Thomas attempted to straighten himself.
Under whatever circumstances were necessary, he must have her and be done with
it. If the man whose footsteps he now heard on the stairs could help him, then
he could name his purse.

He
moved quickly about the room, adjusting his person, smoothing back his long
hair, turning up the lamps from where they had burned low.

At
last there was a knock at the door. "Come in," Thomas called. The
door opened and he saw only Locke's face, flushed, his eyes glittering
brightly.

"Well?"
Thomas demanded. "Where is he?"

Locke
crept inside the door and closed it quietly behind him. "He's outside,
milord. I just wanted to say"—he stopped, grinning broadly—"well, I
ain't never seen anything like it. It was—" He hesitated. "Well, the
reason I'm late is—" Incredibly he giggled. "I've never seen such
goings-on, milord," he said, still keeping his voice down.

While
Thomas was mildly interested in Locke's reaction, he was also aware of the gentleman
waiting outside in the corridor. He would receive Locke's impressions later,
such as they were. For now, he commanded, "Show the gentleman in, Locke.
He did not come to idle his time in my corridor."

Reprimanded,
the young man retreated to the door. Thomas felt a degree of nervousness that
was wholly unaccountable, not unlike the days of his youth when the vicar had
come to Eden Castle.

He
stood in the center of the room, continuously making small adjustments to his
person, smoothing down his plain dark brown jacket, wondering if perhaps he
shouldn't have had his hair dressed, or better, wagged.

Where
was he?

As
his nervousness increased, he continued to focus rigidly on the partially
opened door, listening, hearing nothing. He was on the verge of calling for
Locke again when suddenly an odor reached his nostrils, an almost sickeningly
sweet odor, like a bower of honeysuckle in late spring after a rain.

He
lifted his head and drew another breath of the peculiar fragrance, his eyes
fixed on the door, his head inclined as though he were trying to see around it.

Still
nothing. Not a sound. He was ready to step forward when he saw a shadow, a
slanted outline moving across the spill of light from the lamp in the corridor.
The shadow grew in size until Thomas knew that the man himself must be standing
directly outside the door.

But
still nothing. In some perplexity, Thomas inched forward. "Dr. Graham? Are
you there?" he called out.

Without
warning the door was flung open and Thomas caught his first glimpse of the most
remarkable sight he'd ever seen in his life.

A
commanding figure, Dr. James Graham filled the doorway, a sunburst of a man,
swathed in golden satin from the tips of his golden and glittering shoes to
golden stockings, golden brocade knee pants and elegantly cut coat, a froth of
golden lace studded with brilliants at his neck, a high starched gold satin
Elizabethan collar extending from the back of his jacket, like the rays of the
sun, each extension etched with additional brilliants, the sunburst rising as
high as his golden pompadoured wig, laced through with strands of pearls and
diamonds.

Before
such an apparition, Thomas was speechless. Apparently the resplendent Dr.
Graham did not object to the silence, for he now struck a pose, one leg extended
and turned slightly to the right, the other rigid, his left hand resting
lightly on his hip, the right crooked, upraised, the hand opened, fingers
curled gracefully inward, a large ring on each finger, palm spread, as though
he were waiting for someone to place something in it.

As
he continued to stand, as though aware of himself as spectacle, Thomas' eyes
fought their way through the glitter and gold satin to the man's face, which
appeared flabby and colorless, as though unaccustomed to exposure. One feature
was predominant—the mouth, which was slightly opened, limp, with thick lips,
sensuous. The other features were a little heavy, the chin, the nose, and the
eyes; into one was set a monocle which shone like a round blind eye.

There
was an unearthly quality about him. Thomas had never seen anything like him
before, and began to understand Locke's incoherency. When, after several
moments, the man still had given no sign of altering his pose, Thomas cleared
his throat and considered bowing, although in his entire life he'd bowed to no
man save His Royal Highness.

There
would be no bow, but someone had to break the silence. "Dr. Graham, I
believe."

From
out of the flabby face and through the sensuous lips came a deep, sonorous,
persuasive voice. "Do you possess a dog?" the voice inquired, the
posture and pose as rigid as ever, the one good eye staring straight ahead.

"A—dog?"
Thomas faltered. "Not here. No. At Eden Point there are hounds."

"In
the presence of a dog," the man intoned, "we find ourselves in the
presence of Satan."

For
the first time he altered the pose, stepping inside the room, his good eye
moving hurriedly about, resembling an oyster in its own juice.

Thomas
stepped back as the man stepped forward, a subtle ballet. He considered pursuing
the "Dog-as-Satan" thought and decided against it. "No, no dog
here," he murmured. In an attempt to recover himself and get to the point
of the encounter, he smiled hospitably. "I thank you for coming. Dr.
Graham," he said. "I know how—"

Suddenly
the man stirred again. The beringed hand lifted and plunged inside the golden
jacket and withdrew a small wand, about two feet in length, its shaft golden
and studded with amber stones, topped with a golden medallion etched in a
circle of faces which, as well as Thomas could tell, resembled mythological
creatures. Dr. Graham lifted the wand upward into the air and slowly extended
it toward all four comers of the room.

Thomas
watched the curious ritual and felt himself torn between fascination and
impatience. As the man turned this way and that, the high glittering
Elizabethan collar bobbed with its weight, the brilliants capturing and
reflecting the lamplight, covering the walls with explosions of smaller light.
Something in the man's stem concentration warned Thomas against interruption,
so he merely watched as he lifted the wand upward, pointing it toward the
ceiling.

For
some reason the wand seemed to have taken on dreadful weight. Dr. Graham held
it suspended over his head with both hands, the froth of golden lace at his
wrists quivering with effort. He endured the invisible pressure for a moment,
then quickly he broke away.

Within
the moment, he appeared to recover himself. With a certain haughty and bored
distinction he held out his hand. "I am Dr. James Graham," he
pronounced, his voice impressive in its tone and timbre, although Thomas
thought he discerned a faint Scottish burr.

By
way of reply, Thomas murmured, "And I am Lord—"

"Thomas
Eden," the man said with a smile, completing the introduction for him. He
commenced moving about the room, casting small fireworks on every darkened
wall, a living sun. "I have been aware of you for some time. Lord
Eden," he went on, his magnificent voice trailing after him. "I have
felt your pain. I know the kind of brain and body you possess, your family and
society, the time in history into which you were born, all this and more."
Near the wdndow he stopped. He looked back at Thomas, who continued to stand as
in a trance near the center of the room.

Feeling
more and more like an awkward schoolboy, Thomas did well to nod. The fatigue
which he'd felt earlier seemed to be diminishing. Again he was aware of the
peculiar odor, now stronger. Not honeysuckle, he decided. Too sweet. More like—

"Lord
Eden?"

He
looked up as Dr. Graham summoned his attention, and saw the man now hovering
over his chair, the wand still in his hand, seeming to explore every comer of
the crushed dark green velour. "You have suffered
here
recently," Dr. Graham commented, his face heavy with pity. "You have
suffered here, yet the source of your suffering is"—slowly he lifted the
wand and pointed it toward the ceiling—"is there!" he concluded
sternly.