Read Online The Prince of Eden by Marilyn Harris - Free Book Online
Authors: Marilyn Harris
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wrinkled face.
Again he put his arms around her and drew her close, heard her
murmur, "It's his heart. The doctors give us little hope." Then with a certain sternness she straightened her shoulders, dabbed a final time at her eyes. "But, come," she said, businesslike. "He's been asking for you since early morning."
Since early morning! As Edward walked with her through the entrance hall, he repeated those words in his head. Since morning. It had been then when his thoughts of William Pitch had almost overwhelmed him.
A few steps this side of the drawing room, Jane stopped. "The house is filled," she whispered, a slant of annoyance on her face. "I have no idea how word traveled so fast, but you'd think we were still running our salon." She leaned closer, still dabbing at her eyes. "My girls have been kept busy since midmorning, endless rounds of coffee and tea." As she spoke, she fingered the single strand of pearls about her neck. He noticed her hand, thin, blue-veined, and trembling like her shoulders.
"Must I stop in?" Edward begged. "Who am I to them?"
A look of shock momentarily displaced the expression of grief on her face. "Who are you?" she repeated. "Shame! You are Edward Eden, William's nephew and the son of Lord Thomas Eden." He saw a fierce light of pride on her face, her blue eyes as alert as ever, still reveling in her peripheral connection with one of the great names of England.
"Come," she urged now, "the introductions will take only a moment. Your mother would expect it of you."
With an air of fatality, he straightened the buff waistcoat, eyed sadly the staircase leading up to the second-floor bedchambers where the man he loved more than life itself lay dying.
As they entered the drawing room, he narrowly avoided a collision with a young serving girl heavily laden with a tray bearing a tea service. As they passed her by, Jane murmured new instructions to her. "Prepare high tea, Esther. Our guests must be getting hungry."
For a moment, Edward felt a flare of anger surface within him. His aunt, for all her protestations, was carrying on as though her salon was opened again. Then the company was before him, the drawing room crowded, at least twenty people standing in small groups, quietly talking. As they caught sight of Jane, they fell silent. Some balanced teacups. A few of the gentlemen smoked. All were staring.
Edward had counted on a general introduction. Instead Jane took his arm and led him steadily forward to the first small group of guests. Again he felt an urgent need for haste. His aunt, however, was resolute in her attention to proprieties and guided him to a seated gentleman with a broad forehead and a head of wavy, unruly brown hair. As they approached, he stood, one hand stroking the great mustache that
blended with a luxuriant chin beard. The grief which Jane had displayed earlier at the door entirely disappeared as she spoke softly, almost reverently, "Edward, may I present Mr. Dickens."
Edward took the hand extended to him. He'd seen the popular novelist from a distance and greatly admired him, his novels less than his Sketches by Boz. "My pleasure, sir," he smiled.
Mr. Dickens returned the sentiment. "I've heard of you, Mr. Eden," he said. "I only regret that we meet under such sorrowful circumstances. The world, I fear, for a long while will be a dim and colorless place without William Pitch."
Again Edward nodded his agreement and his gratitude. There was a gentleman standing to the right of Mr. Dickens. Now he stepped forward, as though aware that it was his turn.
This time, Dickens performed the introductions. "Mr. Eden, I would like to present my house guest, Thomas De Quincey. Down from Edinburgh."
The man himself stepped forward, the infamous opium eater, reformed, or so Edward had heard. Edward was impressed with the man's face, shy, sensitive, gaunt, as though he'd survived crucibles. De Quincey did not extend his hand, but merely stood as though at attention, as
Again he put his arms around her and drew her close, heard her
murmur, "It's his heart. The doctors give us little hope." Then with a certain sternness she straightened her shoulders, dabbed a final time at her eyes. "But, come," she said, businesslike. "He's been asking for you since early morning."
Since early morning! As Edward walked with her through the entrance hall, he repeated those words in his head. Since morning. It had been then when his thoughts of William Pitch had almost overwhelmed him.
A few steps this side of the drawing room, Jane stopped. "The house is filled," she whispered, a slant of annoyance on her face. "I have no idea how word traveled so fast, but you'd think we were still running our salon." She leaned closer, still dabbing at her eyes. "My girls have been kept busy since midmorning, endless rounds of coffee and tea." As she spoke, she fingered the single strand of pearls about her neck. He noticed her hand, thin, blue-veined, and trembling like her shoulders.
"Must I stop in?" Edward begged. "Who am I to them?"
A look of shock momentarily displaced the expression of grief on her face. "Who are you?" she repeated. "Shame! You are Edward Eden, William's nephew and the son of Lord Thomas Eden." He saw a fierce light of pride on her face, her blue eyes as alert as ever, still reveling in her peripheral connection with one of the great names of England.
"Come," she urged now, "the introductions will take only a moment. Your mother would expect it of you."
With an air of fatality, he straightened the buff waistcoat, eyed sadly the staircase leading up to the second-floor bedchambers where the man he loved more than life itself lay dying.
As they entered the drawing room, he narrowly avoided a collision with a young serving girl heavily laden with a tray bearing a tea service. As they passed her by, Jane murmured new instructions to her. "Prepare high tea, Esther. Our guests must be getting hungry."
For a moment, Edward felt a flare of anger surface within him. His aunt, for all her protestations, was carrying on as though her salon was opened again. Then the company was before him, the drawing room crowded, at least twenty people standing in small groups, quietly talking. As they caught sight of Jane, they fell silent. Some balanced teacups. A few of the gentlemen smoked. All were staring.
Edward had counted on a general introduction. Instead Jane took his arm and led him steadily forward to the first small group of guests. Again he felt an urgent need for haste. His aunt, however, was resolute in her attention to proprieties and guided him to a seated gentleman with a broad forehead and a head of wavy, unruly brown hair. As they approached, he stood, one hand stroking the great mustache that
blended with a luxuriant chin beard. The grief which Jane had displayed earlier at the door entirely disappeared as she spoke softly, almost reverently, "Edward, may I present Mr. Dickens."
Edward took the hand extended to him. He'd seen the popular novelist from a distance and greatly admired him, his novels less than his Sketches by Boz. "My pleasure, sir," he smiled.
Mr. Dickens returned the sentiment. "I've heard of you, Mr. Eden," he said. "I only regret that we meet under such sorrowful circumstances. The world, I fear, for a long while will be a dim and colorless place without William Pitch."
Again Edward nodded his agreement and his gratitude. There was a gentleman standing to the right of Mr. Dickens. Now he stepped forward, as though aware that it was his turn.
This time, Dickens performed the introductions. "Mr. Eden, I would like to present my house guest, Thomas De Quincey. Down from Edinburgh."
The man himself stepped forward, the infamous opium eater, reformed, or so Edward had heard. Edward was impressed with the man's face, shy, sensitive, gaunt, as though he'd survived crucibles. De Quincey did not extend his hand, but merely stood as though at attention, as
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