Improbable Eden (14 page)

“
You mean they were unkind?”

“
Oh, no. But hard. They expected much of him. It was as if they wanted him to make up for all the others.”
Vrouw
de Koch's round face softened. “A pity they didn't do more to help him. The rest of his family are worthless, especially that meddlesome Rudolf.”

Eden reflected briefly, then risked asking the question that had been taunting her for weeks. “What about that unfinished portrait in the other bedroom? Who is she?”

Vrouw
de Koch suddenly seemed absorbed in brushing errant crumbs from the white whisk that covered her bosom. “I've never seen it. His grandmother, maybe.”

Eden sensed the other woman's evasiveness, but had no opportunity to press the matter.
Heer
Van de Weghe had burst into the room, his usual aplomb ruffled. “An invitation has come, from His Majesty. There is to be a levee at Whitehall two days hence.”

Even though the royal summons was anticipated, Eden didn't feel ready. Anxiously she watched the
hofmeester
scurry off, tufts of hair standing straight up on his balding head like the feathers of an agitated canary.

Almost two hours later, Eden finished her singing lesson, leaving
Signor
Macarelli with his usual severe headache. His eager departure was interrupted by Max, whose entrance all but knocked the little Italian down.

“
Scusi
,” Max murmured, setting the music teacher on his feet and grinning at a startled Eden. “At last! King William's keepers are allowing him to go out in public!”

“
I don't know ….” Eden gulped and passed an uncertain hand over her forehead. “Max, I'm afraid. I've not been an apt pupil. I have no sophistication. I shall embarrass Jack, and you, as well.”

Max gave her arm a little squeeze. “Rot. You're wonderfully real and disarmingly honest. William will appreciate that. Just don't talk much.”

“
Ooh ….” Eden's expression was withering, even as she clung to Max's fingers on her arm and wondered if he remembered their kiss. “You think I'm an imbecile, don't you?”

“
Of course not,” he answered in a reasonable tone. “You've had only a short time to learn history and politics, that's all.” Max took her hand in both of his. “Don't fret, you'll probably have only the briefest conversation at this first meeting.”

Fleetingly, Eden glanced at her hand, imprisoned in Max's long fingers. She felt uneasy, yet comforted by his touch. “You're not still vexed with me?” she inquired wistfully, thick lashes shielding her eyes.

Max looked vaguely puzzled. “Vexed? Oh.” He shrugged. “Not anymore. I've made amends to Lady Harriet, though it cost me almost two months' rent. I must beg Dame Chance's help when next I dice at the coffeehouse.”

Gritting her teeth, Eden withdrew her hand. “You bribed her! What sort of love is that?”

“
What business is it of yours to ask?” Max barked, no longer puzzled or benign.

Eden thrust out her chin in a pugnacious manner. “I need to understand this ‘love' business, as carried on by the nobility. It's certainly not the same in a village.”

Max's face grew dark, though his eyes held an ironic expression. “If that lout at the Bell and Whistle was an example of how you've learned about love, you know nothing about the subject.”

Eden made an angry slashing gesture with her hand. “
Zut
! At least Charlie Crocker isn't mean-spirited! I can't imagine how you could learn of love from Lady Harriet, who seems about as warm as February frost!”

Max reached for Eden as if he intended to shake her, but then restrained himself. “I didn't say I learned to love from Lady Harriet,” he said with quiet dignity before turning to take his cloak from the newel post. His hazel eyes had an intensity that conveyed both searing heat and chilling cold. “I learned all I could ever need to know about love from my wife.”

Eden's jaw dropped, but no sound came from her mouth. With a deliberate step, Max ascended the staircase.

The palace at Whitehall had been the seat of English monarchs since the reign of Henry VIII. William of Orange, however, preferred the country air of Kensington. Plagued by asthma, William found London's reeking atmosphere unhealthy, but deferred to his English subjects by holding court at least once a week at Whitehall. Often these were public appearances, with the King playing the gracious host in the beautiful banquet hall designed by Inigo Jones.

There had been a damp chill in the spring twilight as Eden and Max set out for the palace in a rented coach, a strained silence between them. She had not yet recovered from the shock of learning that Max had had a wife. No doubt that unfinished yet lovely face on the canvas in the empty bedroom belonged to the woman Max had married. There had been no opportunity to question
Vrouw
de Koch during the hectic hours of preparation, but Eden assumed that the poor creature had died. Certainly that would explain a great deal about Max that had puzzled Eden until now.

Nervous and on edge, Eden tried to concentrate on the handsome homes along the way. Almost all of them had been built some thirty years earlier, after the great fire. She gawked openly at the gold and rose-colored brick, the fine wrought iron, the row upon row of windows, the balconies and arches, the colorful parterres.

Whitehall, with its jumble of buildings from a bygone era, struck her as a dowdy matron set among a bevy of fresh-cheeked maids. The company, however, was another matter. Lackeys in green, gold-laced livery held candelabra on the stairs, pages in blue satin trimmed with crimson and gold scurried to satisfy the guests' every whim, musicians in ivory silk played Scarlatti, and footmen in purple and silver served tasty delicacies from gilded dishes.

But it was the noblemen who evoked the greatest gasps from Eden. Not only did they far outnumber the women, but their apparel overshadowed that of the fairer sex by far. Shut up in Clarges Street these past two months, except for her unnerving riding lessons and her visits to the Tower, Eden had only glimpsed the mincing beaux who decorated the better parts of London. Here in the banqueting house at Whitehall, she was confronted by a sea of silk and satin-clad men, as exotic as rare tropical birds. It occurred to her that the elaborate wigs dictated the posing attitudes of their wearers, because they restricted movement of both head and shoulders. Preening on high-heeled shoes, with a gem-studded snuffbox in one hand and a lace handkerchief in the other, many had highlighted their powdered faces with tiny stars, crescents or triangular patches. Eden was relieved that neither Max nor Marlborough aspired to the height of fashion. Max was plainly garbed in his dove-gray breeches with buckles at the knee and a long blue coat decorated with three rows of silver braid. Yet he still appeared ill at ease in his court clothes.

As it turned out, his lack of enthusiasm for dressing à la mode was shared by the King. Indeed, had William of Orange not been sitting in the chair of state, Eden would never have picked him out as her sovereign lord. Though he affected the formal wig, it was unpowdered, and there was no suggestion of the much admired furling horns on either side of the center part. William's nod to fashion was a light shade of brown, which, Eden judged, was probably not unlike his own hair. His eyes were an intense brown, his mouth stern yet malleable, the brows even and well etched. But it was the nose that dominated William's face, large and beaklike, evidence of the aggressive side of his character and strength of purpose that reposed in his frail frame.

The King was a small man, thin and wiry, with an air of weariness about him. Though Eden knew he was the same age as Marlborough, William could have passed for the Earl's father.

At last Eden dared to broach a comment. “He looks so … insignificant,” she whispered to Max behind her fan. “Somehow, I thought he'd look more like Jack. Or even you,” she added, unable to take her eyes off the King, who was listening to an animated monologue by a handsome young man at his left.

Max was accepting a glazed cherry tart from a tray proffered by a buck-toothed page. “He's never been robust,” Max admitted, his tone even but distant. “I fear he's aged greatly since the Queen died.”

“
Sad,” Eden sighed, thinking it was also a pity that William should be so puny and unattractive. But most of all, she fretted over Max's impersonal attitude and his lack of moral support. If ever Eden needed words of encouragement, it was now, when she was about to make the most important impression of her life. Tentatively she put a hand to the claret-colored curls whipped into a gleaming confection by Elsa. “Max,” she began, as the King laughed so hard that he started to cough, “do you think I look … passable?”

Max, however, was looking not at Eden but at the young man who had so amused the King. “That's Joost van Keppel. He's signaling that we may be introduced to His Majesty. Are you ready?” His eyes skimmed over Eden, exhibiting neither approval nor censure. The tight rein he held over his emotions bordered on physical pain. In Clarges Street, she had descended the staircase in a cloud of copper-colored silk and black lace mesh, the candlelight catching the threads of silver in her petticoats and the shimmering curls. Her full ruffled sleeves were decorated with perfect black bowknots that inched their way across the top of the bodice to nestle against her creamy breasts. On her feet were silver slippers with topaz stones set in tiny buckles, and on her hands she wore gloves of spidery black lace. If Max had always considered Eden disarming, on this night he found her utterly breathtaking. But of course he had no right to say so.

Eden's hand tightened around her China fan. Her legs felt weak, and her stomach turned over. “I asked you,” she breathed, her eyes enormous, “how do I look?”

Though he winced inwardly, Max seemed to give her no more than a cursory glance. “Satisfactory. How else after all these weeks of planning and great expense?”

With what felt like all her strength, Eden lifted the lace mesh and silk skirts so that she could turn her back on both companion and King. She could not face the one without the sustenance of the other. If she had cherished Max's kind words before, she hungered for them now. Without his support, her cause—and Jack's—was lost. “I want to go home,” she whispered. “Send for the coach.”

Max was genuinely stunned by her attitude. “Eden—don't be a diddlewit. You're just nervous.”

But she was already pushing through the crowded room, oblivious to the satin toes she trod on and the velvet sleeves she crumpled. She had spent over two months getting ready for this moment, and Max had ruined it with his cold indifference! He was a false friend to Marlborough and a traitor to her cause. Eden hoped he hadn't bothered to follow her from the banquet hall; she preferred not to speak to him ever again.

Tinkling laughter, grating voices and clattering china all but drowned out the musicians playing a lively Italian air. The colorfully costumed courtiers were a blur as she sought the nearest exit. Eden would have achieved her goal had she not suddenly been forestalled by Lady Harriet Villiers, a vision in green and gold.

“
La,” exclaimed Harriet, plying her fan in the most acceptedly languid manner, “I could scarce believe my ears when Max told me he was letting you tag along to meet the King! Did my darling realize how rashly he was behaving?”

No greater change in Eden could have been wrought had Harriet drenched her with a bucket of ice water. Tossing her curls and squaring her shoulders, Eden met the other woman glare for glare. “I was about to take some fresh air,” she retorted, trying not to let the heat rise in her voice, “but now that I know what is so badly spoiled in here, I might as well rejoin my escort.”

Harriet's fine brows shot up like bird wings, and an angry flush filtered through her heavy powder. Before she could counter Eden's remark, Max had joined them, a firm hand on each of their shoulders.

“
I see you two are having a gossip.” His smile was almost convincing. “The King heads this way. Joost has put him in a fine humor, I might add.”

Harriet regained her temper at a visible cost. Her emerald eyes flickered over Eden in an attempt to dismiss her. “Joost is very adept at that, my sweet. Haven't we often spoken of his genius for pleasing His Majesty?”

“
Yes,” Max replied rather absently. Keppel, who was of more than average height, could be seen halfway across the room, but William had been swallowed up by the crowd. “Excuse me,” Max murmured, letting go of Eden and Harriet. “Watch me, then follow.” The command was intended for Eden, but Harriet kept to her side, more gaoler than companion.

Having committed herself, Eden wasn't about to let Harriet distract her. Anxiously she glanced down at the coppery silk of her gown and the matching petticoats. Her high, pleated
fontange
cap was in place, and its copper streamers floated down her back. Max had deemed her satisfactory, but Eden knew she was much more. Even now several men were turning her way, making no attempt to hide their admiration both for her and for the aristocratic Lady Harriet Villiers.

Eden was forced to concede that Max simply didn't find her attractive. His opinion might be valued, but it wasn't important. The only opinion that mattered was the King's. Every word, every gesture, every glance must be directed at winning William of Orange. Eden took a deep breath as she and Harriet paused at the edge of the group of courtiers clustered around Max, Keppel and the King.