The Eden Passion (13 page)

"It won't do," she said patly, watching their struggling approach. Then she issued a command. "Let him rest on the step, Dana, and run ahead and fetch two of the strongest stewards."

Immediately John tried to protest. "No, it isn't necessary— n

"It is necessary," she countered.

Finally John permitted Dana to ease him down on a low step. With his head down, he listened to the old man take the stairs two at a time, and at last far above him he heard the upper cellar door open, then close, then silence.

Still he sat with his head down, feeling foolish. How his father had been able to talk—to everyone. And at last, summoning a degree of courage, he glanced quickly up to see her standing a distance away, holding the lamp close to the piled stones near the far wall.

"I'm surprised that it has never been excavated," he said, referring to the cave-in, recalling his father's account of the tragic day when his father had abandoned his smuggling activities after the cave-in which had claimed the life of his beloved manservant.

Now she looked slowly back at him. "Excavated?" she repeated, clearly at a loss to understand.

He found it difficult to believe that he knew more about Eden than she did. He was on the verge of explaining further when suddenly she moved away from the fallen stones.

"Your father told you a great deal about Eden?" she questioned.

"Everything."

She drew closer now, as though the better to see, yet conversely she lowered the lamp and placed it on the stone floor, casting both of them into shadows. "Did he . . . miss his home?" she asked timidly.

Again he nodded. "I think so. In his own way."

"Why didn't he return, then?"

Gently John hedged. "His work was in London, and his friends. He loved the city, though I could never understand why."

"You didn't?"

He shook his head, pleased that they were at least exchanging words. "No," he said, then immediately altered his statement. "Oh, some of it was pleasant enough. It was nice before we . . ." He paused, not absolutely certain how he should describe that grim July morning when his father had given his fortune away. ". . . when we were living on Oxford Street," he concluded. "It was comfortable."

"Did he teach in his school?" she asked.

"No," John replied. "He was kept busy simply raising funds, seeing to repairs. . ."

"And Daniel Spade helped him?"

He looked up, surprised that she knew that familiar name. "Helped?" He smiled. "It was Daniel's school." Stirred to new interest, he leaned forward. "Did you know Daniel Spade?"

Quickly she shook her head. "I only heard your father speak of him, with love and devotion."

"Did you know my father well?" he asked, and was in no way prepared for her reaction, a slow retreat until at last she took refuge near the pile of fallen stone, her face lost in shadows.

He tried to peer through the darkness in an attempt to glean a hint concerning her new mood. And unable to see, he rose at last, concerned, and limping, gained her side, amazed to find her seated on one of the near boulders, her face buried in her hands.

He held still, awed by such a ready display of grief. "My lady," he commenced, then corrected himself. "Harriet, are you . . . ill?"

Still there was no response, and he found something strangely moving in her bowed despair. "Please," he whispered, reaching out and lightly touching her shoulder. "Let me . . ."

Then her face lifted, and at that close proximity he saw tears. He wasn't certain who reached out first, but before he could say how it had happened, her arms were about his waist, drawing him close.

At first he felt embarrassment at the sudden and unexpected intimacy, and could only think on himself, how pleasurable it was to feel her arms tightening about him, yet how unappealing he must be in his wretched odd-boy garments, and most mysterious of all, how much he wanted to be clean and brushed for her.

At last, sadly, he felt her arms go limp about his waist, and as she looked up, he saw again how beautiful she was.

As he was cataloging the dimensions of her features, he heard steps on the stairs. She apparently heard them as well and moved quickly away. With what incredible speed they both took up their

initial positions, he slumped on the steps, his injured foot extended, while she retrieved the lamp, wiped the telltale moisture from her cheeks and stood as though at attention.

He watched her for as long as he dared, hearing the footsteps growing louder. How much of her life must have been spent in secret warfare, the private face at odds with the public one.

There his thoughts were forced to stop, as behind him he sensed the arrival of three, Dana in the company of two strapping stewards.

"Make an armchair," she commanded. "And take Mr. Eden to his father's chambers on the third floor. Follow me."

In a rush of movement he saw the two stewards bend low and grasp each other's forearms, forming a taut, secure square. Then Dana was there, assisting him upon the human seat, helping him to find his balance on it.

Take Mr. Eden to his father's chambers.

As the feverish activity suddenly ceased, he looked down to find her staring directly at him. "Not a very fitting throne"—she smiled— "but I think we'll make a good enough entrance."

He smiled back at her. "Lead the way."

As they reached the top of the stairs and turned into the broad corridor which connected the various rooms of the kitchen court, they commenced to draw attention. As servants' heads continued to twist out of the narrow doorways, John looked ahead and heard Harriet issuing a spate of orders.

"Fetch hot water," she ordered, "tubs of it," she added, "and two pitchers of lavender water, and lye soap and clean linens. And send Peggy to me and prepare the bed in Mr. Eden's chambers. And fetch the physician from Mortemouth," she added, not altering her pace in the least though at each command a servant broke ranks and fled, apparently to do her bidding.

The sound of scurrying footsteps filled his ear. What fun, he thought, to speak so lightly and scatter so many!

Again she looked back at him, and the light in her eyes might have mirrored his own, as though both were children who knew they were behaving outrageously, yet had not the least compunction to alter their behavior.

"Are you faring well?" she called up to him.

"Never better." He smiled, though in truth his foot was throbbing, his buttocks were aching from the hard shifting seat, and the smell of manure was still accompanying him in an invisible cloud.

Yet with undisguised delight he took in those gaping servants'

eyes, the same ones who had only a few weeks earlier borne silent witness to his banishment.

Then, just as he felt his festive mood increasing, he looked ahead to the end of the corridor and spied a familiar mountain in female form, the grand harridan herself, God's great example of an ugly woman.

"Ah, it's you, lad," cawed the screech-owl voice.

He looked down into the flat face of old Agony Fletcher. For the first time the procession came to a halt, as though in the presence of a new power. He saw Harriet step toward Aggie, even that proud lady approaching the massive cook with a degree of respect

Whatever words were exchanged, John couldn't hear. As the secret conversation stretched on, John began to take pity on the two stewards who laboriously had provided him with support

Struggling down from the precarious elevation, he hopped to one side and was in the process of thanking them when suddenly Aggie's voice descended upon him. "You! There!"

Then he saw her bearing down on him, and to the amusement of all, though to his own humiliation, he felt her lift him into her arms as though he were an object without weight or substance, and without the least sign of stress commence to carry him down the corridor.

Adding to his humiliation was his brief glimpse of Harriet's maternal expression as he was borne unceremoniously past.

Curious, the degree of resentment the expression provoked in him. He'd liked it much better down in the cellar when she'd clung to him with a need that clearly was not maternal.

As he'd been unconscious the last time he'd been carried along this route, now he sat up as much as Aggie's iron grip would permit, and looked about with intense interest at the passing scene, the stone walls less cold now, softened with immense hanging tapestries, the wall fixtures no longer the crude torches which lined the servants' hall, but gleaming ums of polished brass which bathed the entire passageway in soft golden light.

Then, as though the castle itself were beckoning with its splendor, they left the grand passageway and entered the Great Hall. He saw it clearly now, all aspects of the grandeur, starting at the high complex saddle-topped ceiling, interlaced with ornate plasterwork, down to the vast paintings of Roman scenes and on down to the elegant wood carvings.

Long before he was ready, they had passed through the Great Hall and were now moving up the Grand Staircase. As they moved

through the broad upper gallery, he saw the scarlet carpet drop away and noticed the muted shades of Persia, delicate mauves and blues, and the walls were lined with awesome portraits, every Eden since the beginning of time, or so he guessed. Also along this gallery he saw a number of heavy carved doors, all mysteriously closed.

His curiosity vaulting, he was on the verge of addressing a question to the silent lady who walked behind. But at that moment a small army of black-clad serving maids passed them by, their arms laden with pitchers and linens, their steps indicating urgency. So for now he tabled all questions, confident that there would be time later, and gave all his attention over to his triumphant return.

As they gained the top of the stairs and started down the third-floor corridor, John looked forward to his release. It did not serve a man's ego to be carried about, infant fashion, in the arms of a woman.

But women seemed to be the plague of the day, as, approaching his father's chambers, he saw the same army of maids who had passed them in the corridor, joined now by as many stewards, who apparently had climbed the castle via a different route, easily thirty servants in all, some at work spreading fresh linen on the bed, others filling an enormous tub which sat in the center of the room with pitcher after pitcher of steaming water, the unmistakable fragrance of lavender greeting his nostrils, and still others hanging drapes at the windows and others lighting lamps.

Then at last Aggie lowered him to the floor near the tub and commanded him to "Strip!"

All at once, every head, male and female, ceased their labors and lifted in his direction.

"Wait a minute," he tried to protest.

"Ain't got no minutes to wait," Aggie exploded.

Apparently Harriet saw his mortification and moved to ease it. "A moment, Aggie"—she smiled—"for decency's sake."

Then gradually the room began to clear, the stewards in groups of twos and threes casting a backward look over the chamber before they bowed to Lady Eden.

Finally the room was empty with the exception of Aggie, Dana, Harriet, and of course himself, who once again was the object of Aggie's persistent attention.

"Now!" She grinned and as he looked up; he saw her heading toward him, her hands outstretched.

"I'm quite capable, Aggie, of—"

"You're capable of nothing," she snorted, "like all men. Come, now . . ." And again all protest was useless as she bullied him into a position near the tub and was just reaching down to lift the grimy smock when suddenly she stopped.

She glanced over her shoulder. "My lady"—she grinned—"are you sure you have an appetite for this?"

John looked in Harriet's direction and saw a blush creep up the sides of her face. "With your permission, John," she began quietly, "may I stay for a moment?"

Even old Aggie seemed shocked. "He may act like a lad, my lady," she said, "but I assure you, he's more man than boy."

The disquiet on Harriet's face seemed to increase. "I want to see his chest," she whispered. "Then I shall leave him to you."

For a moment Aggie continued to stand between them. Then quickly she grabbed the hem of his smock and pulled it over his head.

Harriet was moving toward him, her eyes focused, not on his face, but on the area of his chest. Everything in the chamber seemed to wait on her careful scrutiny, as at last he saw one hand shyly lift.

Then contact. He felt her fingers on his chest, lightly tracing something. He tried to explain. "An old cut, that's all," he said.

When still she seemed disinclined to speak, he added, "It's getting smaller. Elizabeth says it will be almost invisible in a—"

"How?" The word was scarcely more than a whisper, and still her eyes had not lifted to him.

"I'm not certain," he said.

"You don't remember it?"

"My father said it was from a fall."

"It was deep once."

Again he nodded and looked down. Perhaps there was something about the ancient scar tissue that he'd failed to notice.

When she continued to study it, the tips of her fingers examining all aspects of it, he again felt embarrassment and looked beyond her to Aggie's broad face that seemed to wear an expression as bewildered as his own.

"Lads take tumbles, my lady," she said gruffly. "He'll have a matching one on his foot soon enough."

Then apparently the inspection was over. She stepped back, her eyes at last meeting his. "We were told that the infant that Edward claimed as his son bore a scar on his chest." She smiled self-con-

sciously, as though belatedly aware of the intimacy. "I'm . . . sorry," she whispered. "I had to be as certain as possible."

"Are you convinced?" he asked.

"For now."

What did that mean? But before he had a chance to ask, she was moving toward the door. "We'll find your mother, John, I promise," she said. At the door she stopped and turned back. "And if not the woman herself, at least her identity." Again she smiled, the light from a near lamp catching on her face. "For now," she concluded, "welcome home."

He watched her leave with a strange longing. "Will you be back?" he called after her.