The rigid stance maintained for over an hour began to take a toll. A curious high-pitched siren erupted in his ear, his eyes watered under the effects of the increasing heat, and the heavy weave of his jacket seemed to be encasing his arms in lead.
About ten feet from where he stood was the inviting shade of a yew tree. What a simple matter it would be to lift his luggage and walk the distance into that inviting shade. But he couldn't do that. Without looking over his shoulder, he knew that eyes were still watching him from the window of the second floor. Oh, how he hated them, the raucous, inarticulate students with whom he had been forced to waste two years of his life!
Where is Richard?
Again he looked down the road past the fields and low cottages,
the crest of the hill covered by a hazel copse which sloped downward into a marsh.
Because his mind was in need of diversion, he tried to recall the landscape of his birth, the crowded streets of Delhi in which he had passed his early years, daily running with his mother between Fraser Jennings' Methodist Mission School and his grandfather's Red Fortress. Would he ever see it again? Did he desire to see it again?
No, of course not. What was there in Delhi for him now? It was only with the greatest of effort that he could recall his native language, a mix of Persian and Urdu, and even then certain words escaped him, having been replaced by English counterparts.
"Aslam?"
He looked up at the sound of the voice, having lost contact with who and where he was. With what ease he had woven the spell of memory and ensnared himself, a trap so complete that he had failed to hear the rattling approach of Richard's carriage.
"Aslam?" Richard called again, as he started across the road. "Are you-"
"Ready," Aslam replied, reaching for his luggage, trying to brush the effects of his recall away and meet the man with fair skin and light eyes who was coming to greet him.
Then Richard was upon him, clasping his hand, a torrent of apology filling the air. "Late, I'm afraid, as always. Professor Nichols had a last-minute reader who was foundering in the depths of Homer." He smiled. "I'm not certain John will understand that explanation, but you'll help us explain, won't you?"
Aslam returned his smile, grateful only that he would no longer have to stand on the road exposed to the eyes at the window. "I suspect that John will have sufficient diversion," he said cordially. "Our late arrival will go unnoticed."
As they approached the carriage, Aslam swung his valise up to the waiting driver, then stepped forward to receive the hand of Professor Nichols, who was leaning forward through the opened carriage door, his full blunt features as sweat-soaked as Aslam's.
"Good morning!" The large man smiled affably. "In the event that Richard hasn't already placed guilt, I take it all on my own shoulders. I trust we haven't kept you waiting long."
Aslam shook his head and murmured something about being late himself, and for a moment the three of them jostled awkwardly
about in the small interior, no one quite certain how the seating arrangements should go.
"You sit across from me with Professor Nichols," Richard said at last. "I shall be an attentive pupil at the feet of the two most brilliant minds in Cambridge,"
As Professor Nichols scoffed at the compliment, Aslam took the appointed seat, moving as near to the comer as he could. He would have preferred for the two of them to sit together.
As Richard secured the door, he suggested, "Why don't you take off your coat, Aslam, You look wilted."
"No, Fm fine."
"Well, I need no second invitation," Professor Nichols said, and in spite of the motion of the accelerating carriage the large man commenced to strip off his jacket.
During the awkward maneuver, the carriage took a sudden roll to the right, in the process causing Professor Nichols to lean against Aslam. "Sorry," he murmured and pulled his arms free, tossing the jacket to Richard, who folded it and placed it on the seat beside him.
Aslam watched the procedure and pushed closer to the window until he felt a ridge of metal pressing against his arm. Across the way he took note of Richard's face, which seemed filled with gloom, as though he knew all too well the reason for Aslam's shy isolation.
As the painful silence within the carriage persisted, Aslam felt shrunken with humiliation. They knew that he knew, that everyone knew, everyone except John and a few other residents at Eden who refused to see.
"Aslam, you're very quiet today," Richard commented. "No trouble, I hope, in getting off for a fortnight?"
"No. No trouble."
"And your studies?" Professor Nichols asked, joining in the enforced conversation.
"Fine," Aslam replied, unable to look at either man.
"We hear only glowing reports," Professor Nichols went on. "By Professor Kelsey's own admission, you frequently leave him far behind."
Aslam could think of no response and offered none.
"Aslam, are you happy here?" The blunt question had come from Richard, who leaned forward in his seat.
Embarrassed, Aslam nodded. "Of course. Why shouldn't I be?"
"You have no close friends."
"I desire none."
He'd not intended for his voice to be so sharp. He glanced at Richard, sorry for the look of hurt on his face. "My studies keep me very busy, Richard, as you know. I don't believe that John sent me here to make friends."
"Still, a friend or two does help to ease our passage," Professor Nichols said.
"All my hours are filled and need no easing." He dared to hope that was the end of it, but it was not to be, for in the next minute Professor Nichols raised his arm and rested it on the cushion behind where Aslam sat and asked warmly, "Would you do me a favor, Aslam?" he began. "Out of all the countless times we have made this journey together, I've longed to ask questions, but have refrained. All you must do is say no and I'll retreat."
On guard, Aslam sat erect.
"Tell me of India," Professor Nichols asked gently. "I know you were only a child when you left there, but there must be certain strong memories. I would love to hear it all from your lips. Do I know you well enough to impose on you in this manner?"
In spite of himself Aslam smiled, feeling a breach in that wall of resentment he'd been building toward the man. "Not an intrusion. Professor Nichols," he said honestly. "My thoughts were of India when you—"
"Then speak!" the man invited again with enthusiasm. "I'm certain that you've talked endlessly with Richard on the subject, but—*
"No." Richard smiled. "Out of all the conversations that I've enjoyed with Aslam, not once have we spoken of India."
"Well, then"—Professor Nichols grinned—"we have just defeated the tedium of this journey. Come, Aslam, clear your throat and your head and take us back with you to the origin of your birth. And leave nothing out, no memory of sight or sound or smell or touch. Share everything. Please."
Aslam smiled. Never in all the years that he'd spent in England had he been issued such an invitation. Warming to Professor Nichols' invitation, he leaned forward in the seat and stripped off his hot jacket, a gesture which was greeted with approving applause from the two men.
"India," he pronounced with soft bewilderment. . . .
Eden Castle May 12, 1870
Mary spotted them first, the turrets and towers of Eden Castle, rising like a solitary jewel from its setting on the headlands of the North Devon Coast. Briefly she suffered a curious mix of anticipation and dread.
In an effort to cancel the splintered feeling, she said, "Look!" to Elizabeth, who sat opposite her and who had been strangely quiet during the entire journey.
As Elizabeth leaned forward, Mary lowered the window and received her first scent of sea breeze mingled with heather. As a sense of homecoming swept over her, she murmured, "How lovely it looks! Banners and flags at every tower."
Ehzabeth settled back in her seat, the prim feather on her bonnet keeping time with the rhythm of the carriage, as it had done for the past two days. In her lap was her notebook, which she had studied since they had left Bridgewater early that morning, going over her hst of fifty invited guests. John had granted all of them the privilege of issuing fifty invitations to private friends.
The invitations had gone out months ago. Why was there now a need to endlessly study those names? Yet all of Mary's attempts at conversation had been blunted, and sensing that Elizabeth was stiU angry with her, the journey had been passed in silence.
"You'd best close the window, Mary," Elizabeth counseled. "Your hair will be—"
The sentence was never completed, and again Mary felt that silent anger. Mary was willing to make apologies, if she only knew what to apologize for.
Reluctantly she obeyed, drew up the window and smoothed back a wisp of hair that had been dislodged by the force of the wind. As she settied in the seat an idea occurred to her. Perhaps Elizabeth's mood was not aimed at her at all, but rather at her disappointment that Charlie Bradlaugh had not been able to accompany them.
Mary knew that Elizabeth was very fond of the man. Yet how surprised she had been when early Sunday morning Elizabeth had directed their driver around to Mr. Bradlaugh's rooms in Turner Street, Stepney. They both had taken morning coffee with him, while Elizabeth had practically begged him to accompany them now to Eden. But he'd declined, and Mary had thought wisely so. She was certain how John would have reacted to Elizabeth's arrival in the company of the notorious Charles Bradlaugh, radical, reformist, possessor of one of the most powerful personahties in all of England.
"Elizabeth?"
At the sound of her name, Elizabeth looked up, though her eyes merely skimmed over Mary's face before moving on to the passing moors outside the carriage window.
Now, as horsemen approached, the carriage slowed. One rider glanced in the window and, seeing the occupants, lifted his gloved hand in salute and waved the driver on.
As the carriage picked up new speed, Mary realized she had less than fifteen minutes to penetrate that cold mask which had fallen over those normally warm features.
"Elizabeth?" she tried again. "Would the presence of Mr. Bradlaugh have made this journey more tolerable for you?"
"It's been quite tolerable."
"No, it hasn't. Not for you." Mary reached for Elizabeth's hand. "Please talk to me," she begged. "Are you still angry over what happened at Jeremy Sims'? It was so innocent, and I said that I was sorry."
Elizabeth's forehead tightened. "Not innocent, Mary," she corrected sternly, "and I'm not blaming you entirely. A large portion of responsibility rests on my—"
"Why must anyone be blamed?" Mary asked. "Jeremy Sims runs a respectable establishment."
"I don't think John would agree."
"And who is John to agree or disagree?" Mary retorted. "If poor old Jeremy Sims offends John, think ahead to Friday and the arrival of Chariie Bradlaugh—"
At last Elizabeth looked directly at her. "They are my friends/' she murmured.
"Exactly," Mary agreed. "Your friends and your life. What right does John have—"
"That's enough!" Elizabeth snapped, bringing the exchange to a halt. "The point of all this confusion has been carelessly ignored by both of us."
"And what would that be?"
"Simple," Elizabeth replied. "It is that I can no longer take full responsibility for your—well-being—"
Mary sat up.
"—that John must make other arrangements for you, that we each have our own lives to lead, and—"
Stunned, Mary only half-heard the words, but understood the meaning behind them, the pattern of her entire life, being passed from hand to hand, thinking at every turn that at last she'd found a secure haven, when in truth she'd found nothing.
"Mary, please try to understand," Elizabeth begged, apparently seeing something on her face that alarmed her.
"I understand," Mary said. "I'm in your way."
"That's not true."
"I seem to have an unfortunate propensity of getting in everyone's way. What precisely did God intend for young women to do? Why can't I have a cause and goals as you do, and friends as Richard does, as John himself? Why must I sit docilely and wait for someone's permission to live my life?"
At some point her voice had risen along with her emotions and, unable to deal with Elizabeth's abandonment, she gave in to anger and saw through a blur the outline of the Gatehouse drawing nearer. It reminded her of a prison, the prison of her childhood and now her adult prison. Elizabeth, the jailer, handing her over to John, the jailer. Where would they send her next? How many locked doors would she have to endure before—
Nol She couldn't and wouldn't endure passively any longer, and though she lacked a scheme, she waited until the carriage slowed for the curved approach to the Gatehouse; then, without warning, she pushed open the carriage door, abandoning bonnet, gloves and Elizabeth, as she had been abandoned, not caring where she was going so long as her steps led her away from the coldness in the face opposite her and from the rising double grilles of the Eden Gatehouse, which
now loomed before her as menacing as the double doors of Newgate Prison. . . .
"Mary! Come back, Mary!"
Elizabeth called her name twice and, without thinking, was just starting out the small door in pursuit when without warning the carriage started forward. Balanced half in, half out, she clung to the door.
Her cry of distress summoned the attention of the driver, who brought the horses to a halt just outside the gate. Still struggling for balance, she saw several guards running to her assistance, saw as well a top-hatted gentleman in the carriage ahead peer back at her predicament.
Her attention torn between her own narrow escape and the fleeing Mary, she scarcely took note of the score of men, led by the gentleman, who hurried toward her. Not until they were upon her did she realize the seriousness of her perch. If she had fallen to the ground while the carriage was moving, she would have been crushed under the wheels.
"I say, are you—" The gentleman arrived first, his hands reaching up in an offer of assistance.
Elizabeth took his hand, and it wasn't until she was standing on solid ground that she glanced up at the gentleman's face, seeing in the concerned features some element of recognition.
He shared the recognition. "Elizabeth? My God, it is you! What in the-"
Her attention still torn between Mary's sudden disappearance and the man smiling before her, she foundered. Briefly she closed her eyes and lost her balance and would have fallen had she not felt his arm about her shoulders.
"I'm quite well," she lied, and looked up into the familiar face. John Thadeiis Delane. She hadn't seen Delane in years, not since she had closed her salon upon John's return from India.
In an attempt to mask the awkward situation, she offered a weak explanation. "The carriage door fell open."