Improbable Eden (2 page)

Reluctantly, Eden approached the bag. Hauling it over to the kitchen table, she sat down on a small three-legged stool. It was clear that her foster mother had no intention of revealing more to Eden. Yet someone had cared about her enough to see to her upbringing. If not King Charles, then who? Eden scowled as she began stripping the onions of their golden brown skin. No matter what anyone said, it must have been the King. Maybe he'd left a letter or named her in his will. After a while, Eden felt faintly cheered. When the tears began to pour down her cheeks once more, she blamed them not on disappointment, but on the ragged row of onions she had lined up on the table.

G
erard had come home from the Battle of Namur with a stiff leg and a melancholy disposition. The yuletide season had passed all but unnoted in the Berenger household. Though English and Dutch troops had finally succeeded in recapturing an important fortress in Brabant, the victory had proved costly to the elder Berenger son.

Eden tried her best to buoy Gerard's spirits, insisting they hitch up a makeshift sleigh and ride out through the snow-covered apple orchards or slide on the north downs beyond the village. Gerard rebuffed her at first, but Eden was determined to drag him not only out of the house, but out of himself, as well.

“
I need more than sheep for company,” she declared, yanking at his broadcloth sleeve. “We might even ride to Romney Marsh. You've always enjoyed fishing off the spit at Dungeness.”

Gerard gave her a wry smile. “That was before I got hurt. As for you, I doubt you'd be lonely in the village. Smarden's swains are quite taken with you.”

Eden raised both eyebrows. “I prefer the sheep. The local lads are a glum lot, with little humor and less wit. And most are twice as gawky as you, even if they do have two good legs.” She made no effort to ignore Gerard's handicap and refused to patronize him as the rest of the family did. Approaching her nineteenth birthday, Eden had learned to face life squarely—except for that still secret place in her heart that had never stopped crying out for her long-lost father.

“
It's cold,” Gerard protested, his voice peevish. “This weather makes my leg ache.”

Eden got up from the table and moved briskly to the big open fireplace, where she turned the hissing logs with a sturdy poker. “The sun is trying to come out. I'd wager half a crown it won't snow again today.”

Gerard was mulling over a suitable rejoinder when Cybele and Etienne, their faces red with cold, stomped in through the door. Cybele was a recent widow with two children; her figure had grown plump and her countenance sour.

“
Where are our parents?” Etienne asked, a wary expression on his goatlike face.

“
Out,” Eden replied tersely, grabbing Gerard by the back of his shirt. “As the two of us will be shortly. Come, Brother, let us make our way into the village as we planned.”

“
Hold, Brother!” commanded Etienne with an excited wave of his hands. “We have guests coming up the walk even now! Most important business, I assure you.” He gave his foster sister a shrewd look. “You, too, Eden.”

“
Assuredly.” Cybele smirked as she hung her heavy black shawl on a peg by the door. As ever, she was galled by the sight of Eden, whose long, thick hair was the color of claret and tumbled in shining waves down her back. Her wide mouth had a smile that could light up at the very hint of humor, and the huge, dark eyes were set wide under heavy lashes and perfect, dense brows. She was slim, too, with a body growing more lush each day and with skin the color of cream. Eden wasn't much more than average height, but she gave the illusion of being taller and moved with a sprightly grace. “Not the least bit sedate,” Cybele was fond of saying. The remark always struck a responsive chord in Etienne and Genevieve, who never failed to repeat it when they felt Eden was being overly vivacious. Indeed, it was Eden's exuberance and love of life that galled her family most. Even Gerard no longer found her open, expansive nature as engaging as it had seemed before Namur.

Eden was determined not to let the Berengers dampen her spirits. With a purposely winsome glance at Etienne, she started to ask what business matter could possibly concern her when their visitors suddenly materialized on the threshold. At first, the pair of newcomers appeared to be blackamoors from some exotic African tribe. But as the door closed behind them, Eden recognized the two men as Bob Crocker and his son, Charlie, their faces and hands stained by the charcoal they burned from the local iron smelters.

Etienne was greeting the Crockers warmly. With her usual frankness, Eden started to ask why they'd come but Etienne waved her to silence.

“
Be patient!” he admonished. “Bring us hot cider. And rolls, too, if you baked enough this morning.”

Controlling her temper, Eden went to the heavy white crock where the half a dozen potato rolls she'd baked before dawn reposed in a linen napkin. Etienne's tone was more supercilious than usual, the well-bred accent their tutor had drilled into all five children more pronounced. The visitors were expounding on the lamentable state of the charcoal industry.

“
T' bosky trees are all but gone in t' weald,” Bob Crocker explained over the rim of his steaming mug of cider. “We get only half as much wood t' burn nowadays.”

“
A sorry state of affairs,” commented Etienne, holding out his roll to be buttered. Eden slapped a knifeful against it and tried to ignore Cybele's snicker.

“
Why must I stay?” Eden hissed at Cybele, who was seated at her loom, sorting different shades of green yarn. “It may be hours before our parents get back.”

Cybele squinted at two lengths of pale mint wool. “Can't you guess?” Her little black eyes darted in Charlie Crocker's direction. “That great brute of a boy wants to make you his wife.”

Eden stifled an incredulous cry. Only the most strenuous self-discipline prevented her from staring aghast at Charlie, whose eyes seemed to bug out at her from his soot-smudged face. “No!” she breathed, hoping for once that Cybele would show some sympathy.

But her foster sister merely looked smug. “And why not, pray? You may have come to this family with an allowance of sorts, but not with a dowry. Who did you expect to come a-courting, a noble lord from London?”

It was strange how those were the last words Eden heard before the door opened again, this time to reveal Monsieur Berenger and a man with fawn-colored hair under a modish triangular hat. It took only an instant to realize that her foster father was highly agitated. His usually impassive expression was animated, and a little pulse beat at the top of his shiny bald pate. One glimpse of the Crockers all but undid him; he stumbled across the threshold, leaving his companion at the door.

“
Uh … Bob! And Charlie!
Par bleu
, I had forgotten ….” He turned nervous eyes to Etienne. “Have events marched forward?”

Etienne hastily poured more cider to cover the sudden awkwardness. “No, no. We've merely been conversing. Eh, Bob? Charlie, my lad?”

Bob Crocker was too busy staring at the highborn newcomer to reply. As for Charlie, he still had his adoring gaze fixed on Eden. It was she who gestured to the stranger to enter, bestowing on him a gracious if questioning smile.

The man removed his hat and returned her smile, transmitting an aura of warmth and kindness. “Are these your children, my good Berenger?” he inquired in a light, pleasant voice while his host had the presence of mind to close the door.

“
Indeed, yes! That is,” Monsieur Berenger amended, making a frantic motion for Etienne to pull out another chair, “these are my sons, Etienne and Gerard, my eldest daughter, Cybele. And Eden.” His head bobbed in his foster daughter's direction. “Then there is Genevieve, who is married and not here. These others, they are … old friends.” He spoke the last words wistfully, as if he expected the Crockers' status to change momentarily.

“
I see.” The stranger's refined features wore an expression that was at once comprehending and bemused. While he had looked like a young man from the doorway, at closer range, Eden realized he was older, perhaps middle-aged. Taking note of a cat that was sniffing at his high-heeled boots, the man stooped to pick up the animal and cradle it against his shoulder. To Eden's surprise, the cat offered only token resistance before nestling contentedly into the heavy, fur-lined woolen cape.

Shifting his wiry form from one foot to the other, Monsieur Berenger cleared his throat. “My children, my friends,” he said, suddenly gruff, “heed me! This,” he announced all but stretching on his tiptoes in a quest for dignity, “is His Lordship, the famous and excellent Earl of Marlborough!”

Cybele uttered a bubbling gasp, Etienne's thin mustache quivered, Gerard's face showed an unaccustomed spark of life, and both Crockers swung around to gape. As startled as Eden was by the announcement, she was even more surprised to note that their exalted guest was staring at her. She faltered only briefly before remembering her manners and attempting an unpracticed curtsy.

“
Charming,” Marlborough said a bit absently, forcing his gray-green eyes away from Eden. “And your good wife,” he went on, turning to Monsieur Berenger. “When may I have the pleasure of meeting her?”

Brushing at the lank strands of hair at his temples, Monsieur Berenger looked helplessly around the kitchen. “Of course, most certainly—but where is dear
Maman
?”

“
She took some of her special medicine to Genevieve.” Cybele's overbright eyes were riveted on Marlborough and she offered him an artful smile. “My sister is going to have her first baby in the early summer. I have two of my own, but the Lord saw fit to make me a widow.” Her smile faded and she assumed a demure, sorrowful air.

Carefully, Marlborough set the cat on the floor, where it rubbed against his boot and purred. The Earl's face had taken on a pinched look. “May I inquire which is your foster daughter?” The gray-green eyes lingered hopefully on Eden.

Monsieur Berenger wore a pained expression, as if he wished he could foist off Cybele or even the kitchen cat. The Crockers, who had been observing the august visitor with round eyes and open mouths, swiveled in Eden's direction.

“
I'm the one who does not belong.” Eden spoke without rancor. “I'm not a Berenger by birth.” She thrust out her chin, as if daring the others to deny what they had always been quick to maintain. “I'm Eden,” she added, in case the Earl hadn't taken in all of Monsieur Berenger's introductions.

“
Ah.” The Earl was still pale, but his features relaxed a bit. He beckoned for Eden to come closer. “Yes,” he murmured, studying her face, “I was quite certain, but ….” He broke off, giving the impression that his words had been meant only for himself. “Monsieur Berenger, may I speak privately with Mistress Eden?”

Flustered, Monsieur Berenger almost tripped on the cat. “The parlor,” he suggested in his anxious manner. “ 'Tis humble, but tidy.”

Noting how Cybele's glance raked over her with a mixture of curiosity and malice, Eden recognized the eavesdropping possibilities of the parlor and offered an alternative. “I was about to take the air. Perhaps, milord, you'd care to join me in the garden?”

Marlborough inclined his head. “A delightful idea,” he remarked, though his face still wore that strained look.

In the spring and summer, the Berenger garden provided a brilliant splash of color between the river and the High Street. But now, in the dead of winter, the bare branches of the lilac tree were rimed with snow. Eden was suddenly overcome by the bleakness of her family home. Its thatched roof gave no comfort, its plastered walls offered no haven, its oak door promised no warm welcome. Eden turned her back on the house and tried to gaze levelly at Marlborough. To her surprise, the Earl seemed equally disconcerted.

“
You're very lovely,” he said at last, his breath puffing out before him on the cold February air. “Do you have any idea who your real parents might be?”

Startled by the suddenness of the question, Eden retreated a step. “No. I don't think my foster parents know, either.” She swallowed once and frowned. “
Maman …
my foster mother … told me once that I was born in France shortly before the Berengers came to England. They're Huguenots, you see, and their kind were being persecuted by King Louis.” She stopped suddenly, aware that if anyone would know every nuance of past and present politics, it would be the Earl of Marlborough. Eden felt foolish.

But Marlborough was reaching inside his cape to extract a plain linen handkerchief, which he passed over his forehead. “So. You haven't the faintest idea about your father … or mother?”

At the gate, an aged collie was nosing its way between the iron bars. “Well ….” In spite of herself, the ghost of a smile touched her lips. It would hardly do to mention her childhood fantasy, how she used to dream that her father was merry King Charles and she his long-lost princess.

“
No,” she answered, squarely meeting Marlborough's patient gaze, “how could I?”

The Earl was dabbing at his temple with the handkerchief. Despite the freezing weather, he was sweating. Apparently Eden's concern showed, for Marlborough waved the handkerchief at her and shook his head. “Fret not, 'tis but one of my damnable headaches. They plague me most unexpectedly from time to time.” Stiffly, he turned to look toward the High Street. “Where is Max?” he murmured, pressing the handkerchief against his temple. “I must return to the Bell and Whistle. We will speak again,” he assured Eden. “Soon.”