The Eden Passion (12 page)

It didn't last long, the self-pity, the tears. He'd not cried like that since he was a child. Not that it had accomplished anything. But in that black passageway, certain things were clearer to him now than they had ever been before.

They wanted him to run away, wanted to rid themselves of his awkward presence. With kinship possible, they couldn't very well simply turn him out. So their plan was to drive him away in another manner.

He held still in the dark passage. How stupidly he'd almost played into their hands. For a moment, overcome with his new perceptions, he was tempted to go back to old Samuel and report to work as fit as ever.

But the persistent throbbing in his foot convinced him that perhaps it would be to his advantage to take the time which had been given to him. Using the narrow walls for support, he made his way slowly back to his cell, found his pallet of straw in the dark and fell onto it, too weary even to strip off the smelly heavy smock.

He lay for a moment on his back, and stared unseeing up into the dark. With his face still wet from recent tears, he rolled onto his side, homesick for Elizabeth, for his clean whitewashed room at the top of the stairs in the small house in Bermondsey, for just a small portion of kindness and grace, for his father . . .

Finally all memories slipped away. Then he would sleep for a while, and come dawn, he would rise willingly to cart the dung, to climb the muck heap, to spit the maggots out of his rolls, to perform any duty that was required of him, confident in his determination to survive.

Impatiently Harriet glanced about at the narrow house warden's office, the ledger books scattered on the desk before her, the line of servants still stretching out of the door. She craned her neck to one side in an attempt to see old Dana. Over a half hour ago she'd sent him to fetch the boy. Still no sign of his return.

Now she laced her mask firmly into place and gave the complainer of the moment a warm smile.

It was Esther, a fleshy serving maid who predictably was objecting to having to pay twopence when she exceeded her daily allotment of one quart of beer. "It ain't fair, my lady," the broad-faced girl whined, "comin' out of our wages . . ."

Gently Harriet disagreed. "It's most fair, Esther." She smiled. "And if you think about it, I'm sure you'll agree. A quart of beer should be more than enough per day. Anything beyond that is intemperance. And we all must pay for our intemperance. As for your wages, they are far higher than any you would receive this side of London."

As she launched forth into a mild sermon, she again twisted her head to one side, trying to see into the gloom of the corridor beyond. Where was Dana? How long did it take to fetch one boy from the stables?

"... so I would advise, Esther, that you learn that all-important lesson of moderation. It would be better for your health as well as your purse."

Docilely the large woman bobbed her head and smiled gratefully. Before the next servant stepped forward, Harriet hastily restacked the various ledgers and handed them to Mrs. Swan. "All in order"— she smiled up at the woman—"as I knew they would be."

Mrs. Swan bowed and took the ledgers from her, her lined face mirroring the respect of those around her. "It's a joy to serve you, my lady," she murmured.

Harriet ignored the compliment and asked further, "Is Mr. Rexroat available?" She longed for a confrontation with the stern old man, who, on James's instructions, had banished the boy to the odd-boy cellar.

For a moment Mrs. Swan looked vaguely about, her prim lace-and-lavender cap sitting rigidly atop her gray hair. "I believe, my lady, that he is in attendance upstairs. I can summon him if you wish."

"No, don't bother," Harriet said hastily. Attendance upstairs. That would be James. Now she didn't want the additional delay. She'd see the old butler later and warn him for the future that he was to take all final orders from her, not Lord Eden. She'd thought she'd made it clear to him before, but apparently not.

Thus resolved, she was on the verge of summoning the next servant when suddenly, at the far edge of the line, she spied Dana, his face red with exertion.

Quickly she stood, trying to see beyond him, anxious to catch a glimpse of the boy. But as well as she could see, the old footman was alone.

"Come," she called, waving him forward, motioning for the line of servants to move back.

Slowly the old man pushed forward until he stood directly before her, his black jacket spotted with dust, the odor that of the stables.

"Well?" she demanded, a bit more stridently than she might have wished.

For a moment Dana seemed loath to speak. "I was told, my lady," he began, "that the lad was . . . injured."

His voice sounded far away. Harriet leaned forward. "I . . . beg your pardon?" she inquired.

"Injured, my lady," Dana repeated. "Don't know how or to what extent. Didn't stop to find out. I thought it best if I report back—"

Then she was moving, skirting the desk, ignoring the line of waiting servants, knowing full well that she'd let the mask slip, but unable to help herself. "Where is he?" she demanded.

Dana shrugged. "I imagine he's in his cell," he said. "You wait here and let me fetch him for you. I'm sure Mrs. Swan will—"

But Harriet was not in a waiting mood. Injuredl "Take me to him," she commanded.

Without a word, he led the way the length of the passage and turned at last into the narrow stairwell which led to the buttery. As they crossed through the first cellar and again started down, she felt a discernible change in the air. It occurred to her that she'd never been here before. In those early days of her residency at Eden Castle, she'd explored only as far as the first cellar. This was totally new and disquieting territory.

She looked down now and saw that Dana had reached bottom and was standing in a massive stone chamber of some sort, the lamplight catching on a mountainous pile of rubble near the far wall, clearly an ancient cave-in.

Holding the lamp aloft, he made his way down a line of doors, stopping at last before one. "This is his," he announced, and stepped back as though certain she would command him to do so.

But she shook her head. "You go. He may be . . ." She had thought to say sleeping. But as a wave of putrid odor filled her nostrils, she at last found her courage and moved forward into the dark cell.

With the lamplight only a step behind her, she saw a form crumpled on straw. More truly it resembled a lump of discarded garments carelessly heaped, though now in the faint illumination she saw the angle of an arm, the side of a cheek, eyes closed, the mussed fair hair heavily coated with something, his entire body as motionless as though. . .

"Is he ... r

"Sleeping," came Dana's confident reply. Quickly the old man lowered the lamp and ran it the length of the boy's sprawled body, holding it low over one bandaged foot.

Slowly she knelt, her hand gently outreaching to the reproduction

of that face she had loved. Carefully she brushed back the long strands of matted hair. "Is it. . . ?"

"Appears to be just a cut, my lady. Hell survive."

Oh, yes, she thought firmly, her hand stroking his brow now, her eyes feeding on his beauty, which shone through in spite of the grime. How stupid she had been on that evening several weeks ago when first she'd buried Edward, then had exiled his son, thus denying herself the only source of light she'd ever known.

Now she was keenly aware of Dana closely watching her. "No lasting damage, my lady," the man repeated. "He's a strong one, that one is, like his father."

Hearing it thus confirmed moved her deeply, as though all she'd ever needed was the confirmation from an old footman. Eager now to end the encounter before she revealed too much, she bent over, and with a hand that trembled she tried to rouse him.

"John?" she murmured, speaking his name hesitantly, for in truth another had almost slipped out.

"John? Can you hear me?"

He had been dreaming of a woman, not Elizabeth, some soft female presence whom he could not identify. Thus he was not surprised when, for an instant upon awakening, his dreams matched reality.

Slowly his eyes opened. Lying on his side, he could not at first find support for an upward movement. But within the moment he found the strength to scramble backward, certain that the voice had come to do him harm.

But apparently, seeing his apprehension, she leaned closer. "No, John, please," she whispered urgently. "You're quite safe, I promise."

His brain still sleep-fogged, he rubbed his eyes. And since for the last eighteen days he had been forced to account for every movement, accountability now seemed the order of the day. "I was sent here," he murmured, "by Samuel. With his permission. Ask him if you don't—"

Then the kneeling woman reached out for his hand. "You're finished with Samuel, John, I promise. He'll no longer dictate to you on any matter."

Still blinking, he looked first at the white, well-tended hand covering his own filthy one. Then slowly he looked up into her face. She seemed sincere, but her initial kindness on that first night had seemed sincere as well. "I don't. . . understand," he confessed.

Again she smiled. "A terrible mistake was made. You don't belong here. And I've come to take you upstairs."

Then it occurred to him. The papers from London had arrived, proof of who he was and his legitimacy in this household. "You've heard, then," he said, beginning to relax for the first time since she'd awakened him.

"Heard what?" she asked.

"From London, from Elizabeth."

But even as he spoke, she commenced shaking her head. "No," she murmured. "No word. Not yet."

"Then I don't understand," he said.

With new urgency she grasped both his hands and moved yet closer. "It doesn't matter, John," she soothed. "Once I thought it did, and there are others to whom it's a matter of great importance. But not to me." Her face shone with a most dazzling smile. "It's enough that you are here, and that the tragic blunder which sent you to this place will now be put right."

You sent me here, he thought grimly.

Still she talked on. "You are Edward's son," she pronounced quietly. "Of that I have no doubt. I wish for all our sakes, but most particularly yours, that we could identify your mother. And perhaps one day we can. But in the meantime, it is my wish that you take your rightful place upstairs with the family. Please, if you can, find it in your heart to forgive—all of us."

"No need," John said, now looking up for the first time at the dim figure holding the lamp. "Who . . . ?"

"It's me, sir. Dana."

John smiled, remembering his old friend. As for the lady, John watched her for a few moments, then decided to put her new largesse to the test. "Well, my lady, what now?" he demanded softly.

Then she stirred herself, lifted a hand to Dana for assistance, and rising, looked back down on John. "Can you walk?"

He nodded. "I walked in here."

"Then come"—she smiled—"and we'll walk out together."

"Our destination?"

"Where else?" She smiled. "Your father's chambers, though we must do something to those Spartan rooms." She seemed almost gay now. "Something tells me," she added playfully, "that you do not share your father's devotion to the plain life."

He returned her smile, impressed by her powers of perception, and

dragged himself to his feet. "No, I appreciate comfort, particularly after these two weeks/'

"And you shall have it," she promised. "As soon as you are able, we shall scout the castle together. There are lovely furnishings in the unoccupied apartments. You shall select what you wish."

A splendid suggestion, he thought, and was in the process of saying so when in his eagerness he put his full weight on his injured foot, and the pain took him by surprise.

Dana stepped quickly forward and offered his arm. And she was there, too, reaching for the lamp so that the old man might give John his full support. "You need a physician," she said sternly, staring down at the bloodstained bandage.

"No," John protested, leaning heavily on Dana, wishing now that he'd not indulged in the theatrical of self-mutilation. Then, seeing the waves of sympathy wash across her face, he changed his mind and decided that a wounded animal was always a pitiable sight.

As she started toward the low door, John remembered his satchel filled with meager items, perhaps unimportant compared to the promises of riches to come, nonetheless his, and at the moment all he possessed. "Wait," he called out.

When she saw the cause for his delay, she returned to the straw pallet and began to fill the satchel, her hands lingering on the Book of Common Prayer as well as the catalog of the Great Exhibition.

"Were you . . . ?" she began. "Were you with your father when he . . . died?"

"I was," he replied, puzzled.

Still she held the Great Exhibition catalog, staring down on it. "Would it be asking too much," she said, still not looking at him, "when you're feeling better, of course, for you to tell me about him, your life in London, his . . . death?"

A large order, yet he'd be only too happy to oblige. "I'll be willing to tell you whatever I can, my lady," he promised.

Abruptly she looked up at him. "I wish you wouldn't call me that," she said.

"Call you . . . what?" he asked, bewildered.

"Mylady. . ."

He cast a quick glance at Dana and saw what appeared to be embarrassment on that normally neutral face. "Then what am I to call you?" he asked.

Slowly she rose, bringing the satchel with her, then stooping again to retrieve the lamp. "My name is simple," she said to the floor.

Although he knew, still he asked, "And what is your name?"

"Harriet," she said, now looking at him, the glow of the lamp between them.

"Then . . . Harriet." He smiled, feeling self-conscious, and reached for the satchel in her hand.

Apparently the simple designation brought her pleasure, for she lifted the lamp higher and started toward the door.

Again John exchanged a quick look with Dana, the old man's eyes moving heavenward.