Improbable Eden (20 page)

“
There's a reward, I suppose.” She tipped the gin bottle to her lips, discovered it, too, was empty, and swore. “Frankly, he's negligible. The main thing is to keep him from making accusations against Jack. I'm more concerned about your role in all this. William is a puny being, and when he dies—” she stopped to cross herself in a haphazard manner “—Princess Anne will take the throne, and Sarah Churchill will run that poor sow like a pig to market. But in the meantime, Jack must keep his head attached to the rest of him, which could prove tricky. See here, Baby Ducks,” she said, lowering her voice and leaning forward to reveal a bulge of bosom above her bodice, “you're quite a splendid piece. That hair, that face, that lovely body! If only I could climb inside your skin for just one night, I'd ….”

To Eden's surprise, the violet eyes had misted over and the red lips trembled. “Yes?” Eden encouraged, embarrassed by her mother's show of emotion.

But Barbara resumed her brittle manner as her maid entered, announcing that Count Rudolf of Swabia had called and left a note. “That blundering ox!” exclaimed Lady Castlemaine. “Has he come for Fenwick? Or,” she added, with a speculative glance at Eden, “for you? Nora,” she commanded, turning to her maid, “you must put on Mistress Eden's clothes at once and do as I tell you! Hurry!”

Nora and Eden were both flummoxed by Barbara's orders, but they obeyed. As Eden exchanged her clothing for an Oriental shawl, Barbara scanned Rudolf's note. “As I suspected,” she said, crumpling the missive and tossing it into the dish of nuts, “it's a request for me to send Fenwick to France where your sister can hide him. She's a nun, you know.”

Though Marlborough had mentioned another child by Barbara, Eden still found the idea incredible. That her sister should be Catholic and in a religious order was virtual anathema from Eden's Huguenot point of view.

“
You look shocked,” Barbara remarked to Eden as the mystified maid struggled into the rust and amber riding habit. “God's eyes, I'm a Catholic myself.” She crossed herself again, pausing to retrieve the Spanish nut that had fallen into her bodice. “Young Barbara's not exactly a saint, having borne one bastard already, but now that she's a Mother Superior she seems to have settled down.” Getting to her feet, she righted the high-crowned hunting hat on Nora's chestnut curls and nodded with approval. “Be brave. Just start walking for Clarges Street. Your reward will be ample.”

“
Whatever is going on?” Eden asked as the puzzled maid headed out of the house.

Barbara had found a fresh bottle of gin. “I may be mistaken,” she replied, “but I think Rudolf's threats to you aren't inspired by Harriet's jealousy so much as by Bentinck's. Pretty Keppel is rival enough for the dreary old mutt. The last thing he wants is a beautiful young virgin engaging the King's affection. And that's why you must go abroad with the court.”

Eden considered briefly. “But how will I find Max?”

“
Max! Holy goat balls!” cried Barbara, moving somewhat uncertainly to her daughter's side. “Forget Max! Only the King matters! You can be his mistress, you could even be his wife! Why do you care about that impoverished prince?”

In truth, that was the one question Eden would have thought her mother could answer. She stared at Barbara with bleak ebony eyes, hugging the Oriental shawl close. “But I love him!” she blurted, and realized that not only had she proclaimed the truth out loud, but for the first time in her life she had confided her deepest secret to the most natural recipient in the world—her mother.

But Barbara's maternal instincts were unorthodox. “So?” She shrugged, the large ruby winking at her throat. “Eden, the world is full of men! You can love them all! Why waste yourself on just one? Handsome Max may be, but he's poor! What could be worse, unless he were diseased as well?”

Max's poverty might seem pernicious to Lady Castlemaine, but it held no threat for Eden. She was about to say as much when shrieks could be heard from the hallway. An instant later Nora flew into the room, a smudge on one pink cheek, a rip in the rust-colored brocade of Eden's riding jacket.

“
Milady!” she screamed, falling at Barbara's crimson hem. “They tried to make off with me! They had knives! They meant to kill me! Help!”

Lady Castlemaine turned to Eden with a knowing, satisfied expression. “You see? Rudolf followed us, the pawky great stews-monger! Now will you go abroad?”

Staring at the shaking, sobbing figure who knelt before Barbara, Eden couldn't suppress a shudder. No real harm had befallen the maid, but that was because she was Nora and not Eden. A vision of flashing knives wielded by blunt-faced men merged with the clash of swords at the Royal Exchange. Max's blood had already been shed; this time it could have been her own.

Nora's screams had subsided to whimpers while Barbara plied her with gin. But Lady Castlemaine's eyes were fixed on her daughter. “Well?” she demanded in that husky voice.

Eden drew the shawl even closer; she felt chilled despite the fine May weather. “I'll go,” she breathed. “I'll follow the King.”

Barbara raised the gin bottle in a makeshift toast. “Of course you will! You wouldn't be my daughter if you didn't! I was beginning to think Jack had made a mistake!”

Inwardly, Eden winced. Lady Castlemaine was hardly the sort of mother she might have envisioned. Yet despite the ravaged face, overblown figure and unabashed vulgarity, there was some elusive sense of kinship that Eden couldn't deny. Even as Nora removed the riding habit and handed her the items of clothing, Barbara confirmed Eden's belief.

“
You'll find him there, too,” she said, with a trace of the youthful sparkle Eden had seen in the Lely portrait.

Eden blinked as she adjusted the ruffled
steinkirk
at her neck. “Him?”

Barbara flipped the last cherry at Cromwell, who had appeared from under the chaise longue. “Holy rat's bung, don't be dense, Baby Ducks! I have the most dreadful feeling that for you, kings and crowns don't matter a ha'penny! There is only one him, and you'll let the rest of the world go to hell in a handcart before you'll give him up! How,” she wailed, a hand to her head, “could I have had the misfortune to bear such a faithful daughter?”

F
rom a rise overlooking the valley of the Ourthe, Max gazed at Vranes and swore aloud. The House of Hohenstaufen's banner fluttered from the ragged castle keep. The French mercenaries remained in place, no doubt in the pay of Rudolf. Max knew that even if he could rally his villagers and tenants, they would be no match for a fortified castle guarded by professional soldiers.

He was enraged by the Frenchmen's presence, and saddened by the desecration of Vranes. The weathered stone castle that sprawled on a hill in the curve of the river had been Sophie Dorothea's marriage portion, passed on through her Flemish mother and given with Rudolf's grudging goodwill. Max and Sophie Dorothea had made their home within those ancient, mellow walls, with the village clustered around the castle and the farms spread out across the valley. In happier days Vranes had been a gladsome sight, prosperous and peaceful, with the tinkle of cowbells and the scent of newly mowed hay borne on the soft meadow air.

But now the castle walls were smoke-scarred, weeds sprouted from the roofs of village homes, and tangled vines trailed out of jagged windows. Chimneys had fallen down, and some of the narrow streets were strewn with rubble. Even the ancient Church of St. Hubert seemed to exude an aura of defeat.

Squinting against the sun, Max could make out the wing of the castle where he had lain with his bride and where the nursery had been prepared for their child.

Then Sophie had gone into that ghastly, torturous labor. For almost three days her screams had knifed through Max's brain, and the walls of Vranes had reverberated with her sobs. When at last the child was born dead, Sophie had looked straight into Max's dazed face and said, “Forgive me.” With her hand stretched out to him in helpless appeal, she had closed her eyes forever.

Forcing himself to look away from the bedchamber's broken window, Max conjured up an image of Eden. While he dared not hope for the future, he knew it was useless to dwell on the past. He touched his spurs to his mount and turned his back on Vranes.

Her face drained of color and her hands trembling on the reins, Eden sat stiffly in the saddle, awaiting the signal for the hunt to begin. Sidney Godolphin, who had complied with Lady Castlemaine's request for Eden to join the court, watched benignly from his place on a spirited gray gelding. Amiable and avuncular, he had insisted that Eden take part in the hunt at Dieren if she hoped to remedy her initial impression at Whitehall.

“
I've seen boars,” she whispered in a shaky voice as blue and gold-liveried lackeys passed around cups of ale. “They're horrid ugly creatures with big tusks. As for the stags, they're too handsome to kill. I'd rather eat fish.”

“
At the moment you look as if you've eaten something nasty.” Godolphin smiled, raising his voice to make himself heard over the barking of the shaggy
kuishunds
. “See how good-humored William is in the saddle. Why, he even tolerates my tainted company. He'll certainly look more kindly on you after the hunt.” Godolphin motioned with his riding crop toward the King who was exchanging jocular remarks with Keppel and Ned Villiers, Harriet's obsequious brother. “His Majesty looks younger in his homeland, don't you think?”

“
Younger than who?” grumbled Eden. “Moses?” Yet it was true, and she was immediately contrite. Her kindly mentor didn't deserve such impertinence. Not only had he made arrangements for Eden to join the court in the United Provinces, he had augmented the purse from her mother by paying for her passage from Margate to Oostende. She had landed two days after the royal party, discovering that they had already left the Hague for William's favorite hunting ground at Dieren. Now, less than twelve hours after her arrival at the lodge, she was in a fever of anxiety. “I'm sorry I was rude,” she apologized, an unsure hand at her mare's neck. “It's just that I'm so worried about … my father.”

Sidney Godolphin was a perceptive man. “And Prince Maximilian, as well.” He gave Eden a sympathetic look as the Master of the Hunt readied his horn. “No news is good news, Mistress. He's probably in Brabant, pursuing his properties.”

“
Is Brabant far from here?” Eden scanned the horizon, as if she could see beyond the Gelderland to wherever Max might be.

Godolphin considered. “Two days of hard riding. Vranes is in the Ardennes Forest.”

Two days in the saddle definitely daunted Eden. Yet if she could hire a coach …. She jumped as the horn sounded. The
kuishunds
were released, King William raised his arm, and the party was off.

With a maximum of reluctance and a minimum of confidence, Eden prodded her mare, Circe, into a walk. The morning dew still clung to the grass, the sun slanted in shafts of light through the trees, and the wood smoke from the foresters' stone chimneys lingered in the air. As Eden and her mount picked their way across an ancient bridge that led into the Veluwe Forest, she was alarmed at how swiftly the other members of the party were disappearing among the tall trees. Fortunately she could still make out Godolphin's portly form. But to keep up with him, it was necessary to spur Circe into a trot. Gritting her teeth, Eden urged the mare into the next gait as they approached the Warnsborne thicket.

Sunlight, shadow, glossy shrubs, spiky hedgerows, white blossoms on green leaves—the dense spring growth surrounded Eden, cutting her off from the others. Desperately, she tried to remember the route Godolphin had sketched. It was filled with strange, foreign names for swamps and copses that meant nothing to her.

Distraught, she reined in the mare, then cautiously turned her around. Once again, Eden knew failure. There would be no opportunity today to make a favorable impression on the King. The most she could hope for was to find the lodge and avoid the humiliation of having a search party sent after her.

There must, Eden thought, be a way to skirt the thicket. Her blue riding habit had already been caught by brambles, and there was a rip in one kidskin glove. Carefully she dismounted, leading Circe to the left of the clearing. The sound of rushing water guided them to a tumbling brook, which formed a shallow pool among moss-covered rocks. Eden let Circe stop to drink, and her gaze wandered downstream where she saw movement in a little copse of birch trees. The mare also sensed the unknown presence and pricked up her ears. A moment later, a magnificent six-pronged stag emerged. The animal paused, stared suspiciously at both horse and human, then moved toward them with stately grace. Eden could scarcely believe the stag's boldness and smiled in spite of herself.

“
I'm not in the least bit a hunter,” she said in a low, soothing voice. “I don't even like horses.” With a pang of remorse, her eyes darted toward Circe. “Though as horses go, she's rather nice. We won't bother you.” The mare blinked uncertainly at the stag, then resumed drinking.

Remembering that Keppel had given her some paper twists filled with sugar in case she needed to win her mount's goodwill, Eden withdrew them from her riding habit. She had no idea if deer liked sugar, but it wouldn't hurt to try. Carefully bending down to sprinkle the contents of the twist onto a fallen leaf, she frowned. The substance looked too coarse to be sugar. Eden licked her finger. “
Zut
! 'Tis salt!” She gave both animals an apologetic look.