This Other Eden (50 page)

Against
the wind which had risen in his ear he bowed his head, more than bowed it,
brought it forcibly down upon the rough sharpness of the boulder.

He
fell upon his knees, senseless, and thus remained, as if in prayer.

The
five months comprising winter and spring of 1793 were a tumultuous period for
the rest of the world as well as for Eden Castle. The cave-in which had
occurred on that cold January afternoon was repeated in variation across the
English Channel.

Revolution
marked the day. The head of Louis XVI was separated from his body, a grim
signal for the official commencement of the Reign of Terror. Marat was murdered
unceremoniously in his bathtub by Citizen Corday. Thirsting for additional
blood, the French then murdered Queen Marie Antoinette, then the Duke of
Orleans, then the Duchess of Orleans, then the Duke of Everything, the death
machine devouring up to a thousand in one day.

News
of this madness reached Eden Castle in the forms of bulletins which generally
fell into the unlikely hands of Russell Locke, the only hands which were steady
enough to hold the pages and comprehend the bloodbath, and wonder how long it
would be before the insanity reached England. Not that he ever really felt
threatened. God could not be so merciless as to take from him that which he had
worked so hard to achieve.

There
were several subsequent developments after the cave-in. The very next day,
Billy Beckford, stirred to his senses by the rising horror taking place around
him, summoned his servants and carriages and fled back to mild Wiltshire. There
he buried himself in the plans for his tower, a paragon of reason and good
sense compared to his unhappy stay at Eden Castle.

Lord
Eden lapsed into his deepest and most prolonged "religious period," wearing
black constantly, eating little, drinking nothing. He spent hours in the
chapel, refusing to let anyone rehinge the carved door, slipping in through the
crack for long intervals of prayer, emerging whitefaced for walks along the
headlands, unprotected from the elements except for the simple black jacket which
he wore constantly, letting the garments dry on his back after they'd been
soaked by rain.

He
made few requests. No social traffic passed in or out of the castle gates. He
insisted that for what few needs he had, he be attended by one man alone. Russell
Locke. And Russell attended him gratefully, relishing every step he took up the
scale of authority. He felt old Ragland's mantle settling comfortably on his
shoulders.

Still,
on occasion, his Lordship's behavior puzzled him. In March, at the coldest point
of midwinter. Lord Eden made a curious request, more than a request, he
commanded Russell to move his father, the old and now completely mindless
Hartlow Locke, up to the safety of Eden Castle. He gave the old man lodgings in
the warmth of the servants' kitchen, and demanded nothing of him in return,
simply free quarters and board and endless hours in which the old man sat,
still clutching the stuffed calico elephant, bearing the scars of countless
mendings, the handiwork of Jenny Toppinger, who'd come with him and who
assisted Dolly Wisdom with the staff of the castle.

Now,
when Russell went below for a cup of tea, it was as though he were still
sitting in the kitchen of his childhood cottage. All the familiar faces were
there, aged, but otherwise unchanged.

There
was one other important alteration to life at Eden. Shortly after the cave-in,
Lord Eden called a halt to all smuggling activity. This was a serious blow to
the men in the smuggling ring as well as the poor tenants and fishermen up and
down the coast, who now had to pay full excise for their simple pleasures or do
without. But on this point Lord Eden was adamant. There was no attempt to
excavate the cave-in. The door leading down to the underground chamber was
boarded and nailed shut. Russell, with the assistance of four other men,
dragged a boulder to the mouth of the exterior cave and wedged it tightly into
place. The underground cavern became Ragland's crypt. On the specific orders of
Lord Eden, it was to remain that way.

With
the exception of these changes, life at Eden Castle was placid, the Banqueting
Hall and all the great rooms silent and unused. His Lordship moved on a set
course which varied not at all and included the walk from his chamber to the
chapel, and now and then a longer excursion out onto the headlands, where on
occasion he requested that Russell accompany him.

Russell
always obeyed, and watched closely for the slightest hint to the substance of
his Lordship's thoughts. Generally he found nothing but a pale, drawn face and eyes
which appeared to be in perpetual mourning. On one occasion he had confided to
Russell that as a child he had seen a drowned man. He had found the body on a
summer day, and had not been at all afraid, but at night he had dreamed
terrible dreams. He said he'd seen a sea where every wave rolled a dead man to
his feet.

He'd
concluded the tale of the dream with the soft comment that it was so with him
now.

On
a dazzling morning in early spring, Russell sat at the table in the servants'
kitchen, enjoying a cup of tea, waiting for Dolly and Jenny to prepare the
breakfast tray which he customarily delivered to Lord Eden sharply at nine
o'clock after his Lordship's morning meditation.

The
door at the top of the wooden staircase was open, permitting the sweetest of
breezes to waft down and over him, a honey-scented washed sea breeze which had
a medicinal effect.

He
looked up toward the direction of the breeze. It still was a hazard for his
eyes to get past the dark emptiness beneath the steps, the place where the girl
had been found hanging. He'd never confessed this to anyone for fear it would
make him appear womanlike. He certainly never discussed it openly as did old
Dolly, who relived the hideous morning almost daily for the benefit of Jenny
Toppinger, who'd had the misfortune to miss the entire event. He'd heard Dolly
proclaim that she never looked at the staircase, not even now, months later,
without seeing the soiled white nightdress, the poor child's head hanging
awkwardly to one side, the tiny feet pointed and dangling.

"God,"
he muttered, and sent his eyes quickly away to the interior of the room. As he
spied his father in the comer, sitting on the stool before a dead fire, his
expression changed again. The sight of his father pleased him. The old man's
present good fortune was due solely to Russell. Hadn't his Lordship said so
time and time again? That he owed Russell a great deal, his life even? He did
wish that his father were capable of response. It would have been satisfying to
have the old man aware of Russell's accomplishments. But of course Hartlow
Locke was aware of nothing, had been aware of nothing since the morning of the
Public Whipping.

Dolly
was leaning over him, refilling his teacup, scolding him mildly. "What a
black look, Russell, on such a glorious mom. You'll chase the sun away if
you're not careful."

Russell
ignored the rebuke and continued to focus on his father. "Do you think
he'll ever speak sense again, Dolly?" he asked.

The
old woman raised up and stretched a kink out of her neck. "Not in this
life, he won't. His heart's broke and you can't stitch one of them back
together with needle and thread." She lifted the teakettle in the air, and
again scolded gently. "He's happy enough, though, just sitting there. Sometimes
of an afternoon, when just Jenny and me are in the kitchen, we'll hear him
laughing and he speaks to her now and then."

"Who?"

"Now,
who do you think? Marianne, of course."

Of
course. Angrily Russell turned away and lifted his cup and sipped at the hot
tea. "Is the tray ready?" he snapped, sending his attention back
toward the open doorway atop the kitchen steps.

His
breath caught. There, silhouetted before the blaze of morning sun and filling
the doorway, he saw the figure of a man. His vision was rendered useless by the
explosion of light. It wasn't until he heard Dolly gasp, "Milord, is all
well?" that he struggled to his feet. Was he late with the tray? Was the
system of bells by which Lord Eden summoned him broken? Had he been so
engrossed in his own sense of accomplishment that he'd failed to hear?

"Milord,"
he murmured, "my apologies."

When
Lord Eden failed to respond, Russell suspected the worst, that he was late. He
scurried up the steps, got halfway up, then shouted back to Dolly, "The
tray. Is the tray ready?" To Lord Eden in a gentler voice he promised,
"I'll bring it right along, milord."

At
last there were words evolving out of the silhouette. "No need,
Russell," the voice came, as calm as the spring morning.

"But
your breakfast, milord."

"I'll
breakfast later. I want you to walk with me now. Heaven does not intend for us
to pass such a glorious hour imprisoned in stone. Come. We'll walk."

Russell
blinked at the voice, deeply registered, like organ music. "Yes,
milord," he agreed, and hurried up the steps. He stood back, expecting his
Lordship to lead the way. But instead Lord Eden held his ground, his eyes
seeing something. He was clothed in black, black boots, black knee trousers,
loosely fitting black jacket minus shirt, the bare flesh of his chest showing
in a small triangle beneath his chin, his hair growing long and unruly, his
whole bearing that of one who has survived excruciating pain.

When
he refused to vacate the doorway, Russell inquired, "Are you well, milord?
Shall I-"

Slowly
Lord Eden lifted his hand and pointed down to the broad oak planks. "Is
that the place," he began, "where the girl—"

"It
is, milord," Russell quickly confirmed. Below him in the kitchen he heard
not a sound.

When
apparently he'd looked his fill, he turned rapidly and started off across the
cobblestones, setting a fast pace, leaving Russell to catch up. Only once did
Lord Eden alter his rapid rate of walking and that was as he drew near the
whipping oak. He'd almost passed it by when suddenly he stopped, as though the
oak had addressed him.

Russell
watched as Lord Eden approached the oak, touched it, encircled it, considered
its length and breadth, examined the base where it penetrated the earth.

Standing
a short distance away, Russell saw him lift both hands and push back the masses
of hair which fell over his eyes. His face appeared to be drained of all color
as though from the ravages of sickness. He smiled at the whipping oak, then
stepped forward and embraced it.

Russell
started forward in concern. "Milord—"

"Stay!"
Lord Eden commanded sharply.

Russell
obeyed. He watched, bewildered, as his Lordship tightened his grip on the oak,
his hands struggling to meet as though ropes were binding him, his legs spread
apart, the classic position for punishment.

Russell
felt his heart accelerate at the terrifying spectacle. "Please,
milord," he begged.

But
the man did not respond except to close his eyes. Beyond on the castle walls,
Russell was aware of the watchmen staring down on them, their vigil interrupted
by the curious sight

Then
Lord Eden stepped away, his face like that of a man witnessing a shipwreck.
"My God," he whispered.

He
straightened himself, pushed back the unruly hair, and posed a direct question.
"Do you think you could survive such an ordeal, Russell?"

Russell
hesitated. "I hope, milord, that I never have to put my endurance to that
test."

"Your
sister did."

"She
was disobedient, milord."

"No,
she wasn't. She merely imposed her will on mine. Was such an act deserving of
this?"

Russell's
bewilderment mounted. "I'm afraid I don't understand, milord," he
admitted honestly.

Apparently
it was a good reply. Lord Eden smiled in agreement. "Nor do I,
Russell." Then, as though experiencing a complete change of mood, he
straightened his shoulders and walked rapidly past the whipping oak. He led the
way through the castle gates and out onto the headlands, moving in an easterly
direction to a place where Eden Point softened into crests of broad wooded
hills and glens cut square.