Improbable Eden (4 page)

The door swung open and Max slipped into the passageway, a frown etched on his long face. “He's still in pain, but he wishes to speak with you.” The look he gave Eden was frankly unenthusiastic.

“
I know better than to tire out a sick person,” Eden declared with a toss of her head. “Indeed, there are few people in Smarden who know better than I how to attend the infirm.” She gathered up her skirts and lifted her chin as she went around Max. “I could even,” she added with a sharp glance over her shoulder, “do it in Kensington.”

“
At
Kensington. I referred to the palace, not the district.” His tone was ironic.

Eden gripped the doorframe, considered delivering a stinging rebuke and once again reminded herself that Marlborough's well-being was more important than his valet's boorish tongue. Without so much as another glance at Max, she went into the bedchamber and carefully closed the door behind her.

The shutters were latched against the pale winter light, and a single candle burned on a small nightstand next to the bed where the Earl of Marlborough reclined, dressed in shirt, trousers and waistcoat of fine if unembellished fabric. Without his fur-lined cloak and modish three-cornered hat, he was as plainly garbed as his valet—or secretary—and as unprepossessing as Curate Bixby. In one hand he held a damp cloth, and with the other he motioned for Eden to sit in the cane-backed chair next to the bed. While his gray-green eyes were alert, his face was haggard. Eden could see the years more clearly now, and guessed him to be in his forties.

“
How kind of you to come,” Marlborough said after Eden sat down and began loosening the ties of her cloak. “I so hated to rush off, but this damnable headache overcame me as soon as I walked through your door.”

Eden felt like telling the Earl that being under the Berenger roof was sufficient to give anyone a headache, but she held her tongue. “Have you tried the young stems of bittersweet? They're said to cure head pain.”

Marlborough's smile was not without warmth. “You have an extraordinary knowledge of healing. Your foster mother's doing, I believe.”

“
She's quite skilled,” Eden said without any grudge, though in fact she had always resented the attention Madame Berenger lavished on Smarden's sick while skimping on affection for her foster daughter.

Marlborough sat up, his stockinged feet hanging over the edge of the bed. Eden noticed that he seemed quite unruffled entertaining a young maid in such an informal atmosphere. “Your rearing has not been without some benefit,” he remarked, picking up a tiny vial from the rickety nightstand and splashing a few drops of opaque liquid into a pewter cup. “I shan't ask you to share this wretched stuff, nor would you prescribe it, perhaps. There is wine in the cupboard, I believe. Prices in Kent are shockingly high for any brew save beer or cider.”

Eden politely declined his offer. She was too anxious to hear what he had to say to waste time with further social amenities. Having tossed off the draft and made a face, the Earl got to his feet, casually tucking in his cream-colored shirt and flexing his neck muscles. “When I was a young man,” he began gazing into the shadows, “I had to make my own way in the world. I was born John Churchill, and my father was an ardent Royalist who lost everything when the first King Charles was deposed and executed.” He paused. There was a touch of regret but no sign of resentment in his expression.

“
Later, after Oliver Cromwell died and King Charles was restored, this country rebelled against the harsh Puritan yoke. As will happen, an era of great licentiousness followed.” The gray-green gaze was sympathetic. “You must know all this, my dear.”

Eden inclined her head. “Some of it. But,” she admitted candidly, “I'm not very astute at history.”

The Earl looked genuinely perplexed. His interest in the affairs of his native land was so all-consuming that he found it hard to accept another's indifference. But being a tolerant man, he shrugged and took up his tale. “Into this decadent society, I brought my hopes and ambitions. A most influential—and beautiful—lady sponsored me. Her name was Barbara Villiers, Lady Castlemaine, the Duchess of Cleveland. She had been King Charles's mistress for years and had borne him several children.”

Eden recalled that memorable day she had watched King Charles riding to Tunbridge Wells. Had Lady Castlemaine been one of those beauties in the royal cavalcade? Eden thought not—the name evoked a more distant era from the earlier days of Charles's reign. “I have heard of Lady Castlemaine,” Eden put in, lest Marlborough think her an ignorant bumpkin. “She was very promiscuous and drank too much.”

Giving Eden a rueful glance, Marlborough sat down on the bed. “Everything you've heard about her is probably true,” he conceded, his face once again taking on that strained look. The fire in the grate was smoking, the glass in the window was sweating profusely, and the room had grown very close with the odor of medicinal herbs. Eden stifled a yawn and tried to keep her gaze level with Marlborough's. His anecdotes were entertaining, but not the reason for which Eden had braved the barriers of social custom. She wanted information about her parents, not court gossip that was at least twenty years old.

“
You see, Eden,” Marlborough said, taking her hand in his, “Lady Castlemaine showered not only wealth and perquisites on me, but her affection as well.” His mouth twisted slightly and his gaze turned melancholy. “In return, I gave her two daughters. The elder girl is a nun in France.” Marlborough's grip tightened. “The younger child, my dear, is you.”

T
o the astonishment of them both, Eden laughed—a clear, sharp sound that seemed to stir the room's heavy air. The Earl's grip slackened and his forehead creased. Yet for all his bold manner in battle, he was not an impatient man. Composing his features, he waited for Eden to regain control.

Moments later, with much chagrin, Eden's shoulders slumped. “How strange,” she murmured. “For years I've envisioned my father as … someone else.” Her ebony eyes glistened with untapped emotion. “Are you certain? Why do you think I'm the … your child?”

Having unburdened himself, Marlborough relaxed, once again appearing younger. “I shan't try to prettify my own actions. That last night I spent in milady's arms was a mere convenience for both of us. I was in London for a brief stay, and never being one to waste money, I accepted the invitation to sleep under her roof.” He averted his eyes briefly, then gave Eden the ghost of a grin. “Naturally, I ended up in her bed. I was courting my dear Sarah and had sworn over and over again that my liaison with the Duchess had ended. Then, early in the new year, I was sent to France to meet with King Louis on Charles's behalf. Barbara had flounced off to Paris the previous autumn. Imagine my shock when I learned she was about to give birth. It was most embarrassing—indeed, it could have been disastrous to my marriage plans with Sarah.”

Eden was still trying to take in the enormity of what the Earl had told her. The details seemed unimportant. Distractedly, she nodded. “I should imagine,” she said vaguely.

“
Sarah can be the sweetest, kindest, gentlest creature in the world,” Marlborough asserted, his face brightening at the very mention of his wife's name, “but she can also be jealous. Like the rest of the world, she knew about my first daughter by Barbara. But if she had discovered I'd not kept faith with her after my avowals to break off with the Duchess, I might have lost her forever. To make matters worse, my father was insisting on a match with the Sedley heiress. Sarah's family was as poor as mine, and it seemed more sensible for me to wed for money rather than love.” His expression turned wry. “The problem was, you see, that Barbara wasn't inclined to take on yet another child. She was no longer young, and had seen to the other six, after her fashion. To avoid scandal, I agreed to take you.”

Eden was trying to imagine the tiny baby, lying innocently in a cradle in Paris, while an infamous courtesan and an ambitious army officer confronted each other with more thought for themselves than for her. Yet Marlborough was with her now. Apparently his conscience had caught up with him. Eden gave a plaintive little shake of her head.

The Earl patted her hand. “I know, I know, it sounds most callous. Yet … there it is. I did my best, finding a suitable family to raise you. The Berengers seemed ideal—solid, hardworking, honest people who were about to emigrate to England. And after Sarah and I had started our family, I'd tell her about you.”

Eden looked at Marlborough expectantly, but he was grimacing. “Life doesn't always turn out as we plan. Sarah and I had grave disappointments at first. We finally had our wonderful children, but at the time, I couldn't bear to flaunt you. And then, somehow, the years went by.”

So they had, thought Eden, there in the house on the Beult with her silly dreams of being a royal princess and the taunts of her foster family and the sense of never belonging to anyone. And all the while her father had been not a king but a famous noble, and her mother a wanton courtesan with a passel of bastards. It was not the portrait Eden would have painted, but, to paraphrase Marlborough, there it was.

The Earl had finally let go of her hands and was brushing at his hair. “There can be no doubt that you are the child I gave to the Berengers nineteen years ago. Even then your hair was an amazing color, and unlike most babies, you had dark eyes when you were born.” A wistful smile touched his lips. “You may not believe me, but I've carried the memory of you in my heart.”

Eden did believe him. The Earl of Marlborough seemed to wear integrity as easily as he wore his fine linen shirt. But there were still many questions to be answered. “Having waited so long to find me, why now? Why ever, for that matter?” She could not restrain her customary candor even for an earl.

The gray-green eyes flickered. “Duty. Guilt. Curiosity, too. I suspect.” He shrugged, then his eyes seemed to ignite, as if a fire had been lighted behind them. The transformation was so subtle yet startling that Eden winced. Marlborough was taking a deep breath. “I need you. I need a partisan.”

Eden wrinkled her nose. “A partisan? But what of your friends?”

He didn't answer her directly. “I've been on the outs with the King for some time,” the Earl explained, rising from the bed and going to a cupboard, where he foraged among stacks of linen and blankets. At last he emerged with a dusty bottle of red wine, poured some into his pewter cup then scanned the room for another drinking vessel. Eden forestalled him, feeling it imperative that she remain clearheaded during this extraordinary conversation.

Marlborough stood by the cupboard and sipped slowly. “For a time I was imprisoned. King William's anger was unjustified. I'd been absolutely loyal from the start. I was even one of those who had asked him and Queen Mary to succeed Charles's brother, James.” He glanced at Eden. “How much of this do you already know?”

Her face was blank. “I'm woefully ignorant, sir.” Eden had not had much interest in the court or politics since King Charles had died. The Catholic James and his Dutch successor, William, had held no appeal for her.

Marlborough made a gesture with one hand, as if absolving Eden for her lack of knowledge. “I was accused of writing an infamous letter to inform James about an invasion at Camaret Bay. A ship would be waiting to bring him to England where I, along with other alleged Jacobite supporters, would put him on the throne and somehow dispose of William. The letter was dispatched, so the wretched tale ran, through the Prince of Nassau-Dillenburg's offices. All a fraud, but William of Orange believed it. I can't think why.” Marlborough looked genuinely perplexed, as if gullibility and perfidy were strangers to his nature.

Some scrap of recollection surfaced in Eden's mind. “The letter was real enough, though, wasn't it? Perhaps this Prince of ….” She tripped over the unfamiliar name. “Could he—”

Marlborough laughed at the mere suggestion. “Sooth, no, he's a faithful servant to Orange, a kinsman of William's. And,” he added with a diffident shrug, “a loyal friend to me.”

Eden could feel a draft blowing through the shutters, carrying with it the smell of charcoal burning somewhere beyond the village. The Crockers, perhaps, though young Charlie now seemed like an echo from the past. “Where is this bogus letter about Camaret Bay?” For that matter, wondered Eden, where was Camaret Bay? Her geography was as deplorable as her history.

“
I've no idea,” the Earl responded. “I never saw it. If such a forgery exists, it's no doubt in safekeeping at James's puppet court outside Paris, at St Germain.” He spoke mildly but was frowning at the candle, which had almost guttered out in its pewter stand. “How much would they charge for extra light here?”

The question caught Eden off guard. For a great lord, Marlborough seemed overly concerned with economy. Since he had been paying the Berengers for her keep all these years, she found his attitude inconsistent. “Master Bunn is a gracious host,” she said. “Tell me, sir, have political misfortunes straitened your circumstances?”

The Earl didn't evade the candid inquiry. “As I mentioned, I grew up in virtual poverty, a state that taught me to be cautious with money. Most people are too careless. They allow their wants to exceed their needs. Naturally, the loss of my army command was a blow. Our little family would have managed badly had it not been for my wife's post as lady to the Princess Anne.”