Authors: Mary Daheim
“
But no relation to Bentinck. Yet,” Max added under his breath, provoking a curious stare from Eden. “Go on.”
“
There was a plot,” Craswell continued, “hatched by the Jacobites to assassinate King William. It was known that he hunted every Saturday, returning by way of Turnham Green. He'd be done in, as it were, when he crossed the river. Simple, eh?” Craswell spread his now bandaged hands, the snifter propped up between knees and chest.
Max reined in his impatience. “I've heard some of this already. What has it to do with you? Or with me, for that matter?”
Craswell stroked his sharp nose. “I was among the conspirators.” He shot Max a defensive look. “I worked for Sir John Fenwick. But another of us, one Pendergrass, went to Milord Bentinck and warned him in the nick o' time. Now I'm duty-bound to tell my part, too. As for your friend, Marlborough, he's innocent.
I
was at Dover to light the signal fire to alert King James.”
Max folded his arms across his chest and looked as inflexible as steel. “Will you so testify before the King?” Max queried.
Craswell wriggled uncomfortably. “Isn't it enough to tell Bentinck? I almost died for my noble sentiments.”
“
No.” Max was emphatic. “You must tell His Majesty face-to-face. That's the only way to convince him of Marlborough's innocence. Who was chasing you over the rooftops of Westminster?”
Craswell shrugged. “Except for Fenwick, you wouldn't have heard of them. Jacobites all, but small fry. Mostly northerners from Yorkshire and Northumberland, the usual Papist dupes.”
Max poured brandy for himself and looked thoughtful. “Where is Pendergrass now?”
“
Gone to ground, I suppose, waiting to see which way the wind blows. He doesn't know yet if he's a villain or a hero, same as me.” The immediate fear for his life apparently on the wane, Craswell spared an appreciative glance for Eden. “Her Ladyship here, I take it, is privy to Marlborough's business?”
“
Yes.” The single syllable erupted between Max's lips like a rifle volley. Flushing, Eden turned away and busied herself with putting the stopper in the brandy decanter. No one spoke until Master Van de Weghe appeared, announcing Rudolf, Count Hohenstaufen of Swabia.
Max muttered an oath at the prospect of seeing his loathsome cousin and downed his brandy in a gulp. “What's he doing here?” He set down the glass and gestured at his
hofmeester
. “Keep him below stairs, in the withdrawing room.”
But Max was too late. Rudolf cruised over the threshold, brandishing a gold and ivory walking stick. He was almost as tall as Max and possessed the same fair coloring, but his features were less defined. He had a tenaciously boyish air, though Eden guessed him to be close to thirty. If Max seemed disinclined to laughter, Rudolf looked as if his smile had been applied with permanent paint. Despite herself, Eden cringed when the Count looked her way.
“
Such excitement, cousin! Imprisonment in the Tower, Jacobite conspiracies, and now, I'm told, visitors streaming through the windows. Pray introduce me, Max, you know how uneasy I am among strangers.”
Eden thought she could detect Max grinding his teeth. “Milord,” she interposed, dropping as deep a curtsy as she could manage in the lavender dressing gown, “you've caught us in dishabille! Allow me to introduce myself and my brother. I'm Eden Berenger, and this,” she went on with an airy wave at the mystified Craswell, “is Gerard. He was wounded at Namur.”
“
And more recently than that,” murmured Rudolf, taking in the bandages on Craswell's hands and face. “This fellow,” he asked pointedly, “is your
brother
, Mistress?”
Eden beamed at the Count. “He followed me from Kent. We're a very close family.” She edged closer to Craswell and put a hand on his shoulder. “Naturally, he was upset to learn I'd been arrested.”
“
Naturally,” remarked Rudolf dryly. Despite the smile, his blue eyes were hard as he studied Craswell, then turned to Max. “It appears your charity is boundless when it comes to offering shelter to members of theâwhat's the name? Berenger?âfamily, Max.”
“
There are rather a lot of them,” replied Max, casting a swift glance in Eden's direction. “I may have to open up the attic.”
“
Well, you've certainly opened up the windows.” Rudolf grimaced at the shattered casement, then resumed his boyish air. “Such a pity you're so preoccupied with all these fine country folk, Max. I'd hoped we might have our own family discussion today. I'd hate to see you get arrested again before we can sort things out.”
Max's hazel eyes snapped with what Eden perceived as outrage before he regained control and gave Rudolf an overly hearty slap on the back. “Forgive me, it can't be helped, Rudi. Later, perhaps.” Even as he spoke, Max was propelling his cousin into the hallway.
“
You may have waited too long already,” Rudolf called back before he disappeared from view.
Eden was distressed by the threat in Rudolf's voice, but she was not prepared for Max's irate expression when he returned.
“
Well? What was the meaning of that outrageous lie to Count Rudolf?”
Discomfited by his anger, she forced herself to look at him, wishing that he were at least half a head shorter. “I'm not sure. It seemed prudent to lie. The Count doesn't strike me as a very nice man.”
Max's gaze moved from Eden to Craswell and back. “He's not. He's an unscrupulous villain.” The anger was abating, replaced by a grudging sense of gratitude. While Max found himself surprised by Eden's perception, he was even more amazed at how much he savored having her as an ally. “Rudolf and I have often been at odds,” he admitted, though there was an evasive note in his voice. “The reasons aren't pertinent now. He's grasping. Even as a child, he was spoiled and selfish.”
Eden saw the shadows surface in Max's eyes and knew that he was touching upon well-guarded ground. She wondered if he would have said more had Craswell not been there. Instead, he retreated behind his customary cool facade and gestured at the injured captain. “I'll see that
Vrouw
de Koch makes up one of the empty rooms in the servants' quarters.”
“
Isn't there an extra room on this floor?” Eden asked, remembering the third door.
The flesh over Max's cheekbones tightened and the hazel eyes frosted over. “No.” He bit off the word as if it were deadly poison. “The servants' quarters will do.” He left the room in chilly silence.
With the aid of
Vrouw
de Koch, Eden saw to the settling in of Captain Craswell, who expressed gratitude to them both. “The cuts and such will mend,” he said as the housekeeper plied him with stewed chicken and Eden changed his bandages. “ 'Tis facing the King that bothers me most.”
“
It will ease your conscience,” Eden replied, plumping up the pillows and arranging a thick comforter, “For now, you must rest.”
Craswell gave her a grateful smile as fatigue overcame him. Eden and
Vrouw
de Koch tiptoed from the room, assured that their unexpected guest would spend a peaceful night.
When the housekeeper bustled in the next morning with breakfast, Captain Craswell was gone.
B
y the time Eden learned of Craswell's disappearance, Max was already out searching for his missing guest.
Vrouw
de Koch, however, was less than sympathetic.
“
No need to fuss over the likes of a knave who smashes half the house trying to get in,” she huffed, setting Eden's tray next to the bed. “At least he didn't wreck the other half getting out.”
Eden picked up a mug of hot chocolate and glanced across the room to the window, which a hastily summoned glazier had repaired the previous night. “I wonder,” she mused, but said nothing more since she had no idea how much Max had confided in his housekeeper.
Vrouw
de Koch might dismiss Craswell's departure without a pang, but Eden was upset. He might have convinced the King of Marlborough's innocence. The Earl would have been set free, and with his name cleared of implication in the assassination plot, the two men might have reconciled. But with Craswell's disappearance, Eden's hope for her father's future suffered a severe setback.
Despite the distraction caused by Craswell, Max had not neglected his responsibility for Eden. Before she could finish her hot chocolate, one of London's most fashionable dressmakers arrived at the house in Clarges Street. While she was still worn out from the rigors of the past two days, one glimpse of the dressmaker's wares picked up Eden's spirits. There were a dozen bolts of glorious fabric, reams of ribbons, piles of petticoats and high-heeled shoes with pointed toes. Beaver hats, fringed parasols, painted fans, jeweled buckles and fur capes made Eden's eyes sparkle. At home in Smarden, her plain linen, muslin and wool gowns were usually brown or gray or tan.
Making selections was far less taxing than the fitting process. After almost three hours of standing still, Eden was weary.
Vrouw
de Koch and the dressmaker were without mercy. There were still many outfits to be tried and even a corset of whalebone. At the latter, Eden balked.
“
I'm not in the least bit stout,” she asserted, indicating the slim curve of her waist. “Why must I wear something that looks as if it should gird a Crusader?”
“
Then you must wear a busk instead,”
Vrouw
de Koch insisted.
The dressmaker, an exalted creature of French origin, nodded at Eden. “
Regardez
, it is the long look you wish to achieveâtrim,
très élégante
.” She surveyed Eden's chemise-draped form critically, tapping one finger against her cheek. “A fine body,
c'est vrai
, but still, a corset or busk is mandated by fashion. Do you prefer horn or wood?”
Eden was aghast. “Horn or wood? Am I being dressed or constructed?”
The dressmaker exchanged knowing little smirks with
Vrouw
de Koch. “Both,” the Frenchwoman replied. “
Alors
!”
Eden's lack of enthusiasm did nothing to stem the tide of pins and bastings. But the afternoon's ordeal didn't end with the fittings. Eden still had to face Master Cloudsley Clavell, a hairdresser whose pointed features reminded Eden of a ferret.
“
Gorgeous, marvelous, eminently opulent hair!” Master Clavell enthused, tugging Eden's tresses this way and that. “The opulence, oh, the opulence!”
“
It's all my own, at any rate,” Eden remarked crossly, remembering how Max had also fingered her hair. Though he might have made her nervous, his touch had not annoyed her.
“
Excellent, wonderful!” Master Clavell was oblivious to his client's sensibilities. “Now,” he began, suddenly more businesslike, “a center part, then high curls on either side of the foreheadâWe'll have to do some snippingâthere's really more hair here than we can handle.” He clicked his fingers, and a youth wearing a powdered wig so large that it seemed to be wearing him, rushed forward with a long pair of shears.
“
Stop!” ordered Eden, leaning as far away as she could in the chair without falling on the floor. “Don't you dare cut off even one tendril!”
Master Clavell was shocked. “You'll lose the effect, you'll look positively frizzy, like some Nubian attendant in a pasha's seraglio! It's unthinkable!”
Somehow a compromise was reached. Eden permitted a few discretionary snips, while Master Clavell altered his basic design to accommodate more hair than he felt was necessary.
“
It is your choice,” he pouted, but when the coiffure was completed, Master Clavell grudgingly admitted that Eden looked quite comely. “I suppose,” he remarked, hand on chin as he studied her reflection in the mirror, “it does say something about the inner you. A bit of a rebel, eh?”
“
Perhaps.” At least he hadn't said “bumpkin,” Eden thought as she scrutinized the courtly styling. Indeed, she looked most fetching, with the gleaming claret curls piled at her temples and the long coiled tresses trailing over her shoulders and down her back. “Can Elsa manage this?”
“
Ja, ja
,” replied
Vrouw
de Koch, “Elsa can manage anything with hair. Like a good baker, just give her the ingredients and she makes wonderful concoctions.”
Relieved that she wouldn't have to learn the art of hairdressing along with everything else, Eden collapsed on the bed after Master Clavell and his assistant had departed. The day's activities had left her keyed up. She was restless in the sudden vacuum of activity and wanted to go for a walk, but it was growing dark and had started to sleet. She wondered when Max was coming home, and realized with a sense of shock that she missed him. Never in her life, with the exception of waiting for Gerard coming home from the war, had Eden anticipated anyone's return. Aimlessly, she began to walk through the house, her ears attuned for the sound of Max's voice or the tread of his boots in the hallway.
The main floor consisted of a handsome drawing room with lovely old Flemish tapestries, a dining room in the Italian style that could seat no more than twenty, the kitchen area, which Eden avoided, a study with finely bound books in tall oak cases and a small parlor with a trio of wonderful landscape paintings. She admired the pictures for some time, particularly a snow scene in which rosy-cheeked children skated on the ice and a portly gentleman tumbled downhill after his runaway dog.