The Eden Passion (21 page)

Yes, leave, was what he counseled himself, and was in the process of doing so, casting a final look at the old woman dead on the bed.

Then, "I'm sorry," he heard Harriet whisper.

Embarrassed, he shrugged off her apology. "No need," he muttered. "But what you said is not true," he added. "I know about death. I was there when my father was killed. I held his head in my lap. . ."

Apparently he'd succeeded in moving both of them, for quickly she stepped forward and put her arms around him. "Don't, John, please. . ." she whispered.

Locked in that soft fragrant embrace, his father's death faded in importance and he closed his eyes and slipped his arm around her waist.

Apparently the enjoyment was mutual, for it was several moments before she separated herself from him.

He watched, fascinated, as she restored the handkerchief to her sleeve, all traces of her previous anger gone, her attention now focused self-consciously on the lace of her cuff. "We mustn't quarrel so often," she said quietly. "I have to stay here for a decent interval," she explained then, harking back to the cause of their harsh words. "I was brought up to believe that it's wrong to leave the deceased alone."

"Why?" he asked.

She smiled as though aware that what she was about to say was foolishness. "Satan may come for them if they're alone."

"And he won't come with company present?"

She blushed. "Satan has no power in the presence of love."

He stared at her, thoroughly enjoying her new mood. "Do you believe all that?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, but all my old servants did, all Shropshire-born and full of Celtic madness."

"And what else did they tell you?"

"Oh, hundreds of tales." She laughed, lifting her head to the ceiling as though that was the source of her memory. What a graceful

arch her neck made, like a swan's and how prettily her auburn hair pressed against the lace collar of her gown. "Let me see," she went on, "someone who loved the deceased must kiss the coins that weight the eyes, thus assuring the dead person that when the eyes open, the first glimpse will be of paradise."

"Will you kiss the coins?"

She lowered her head. "Of course. I loved Jane dearly. She was a fortress when I was in sore need of one." Again he heard that warm tone of intimacy, as though she were on the verge of sharing important secrets with him.

With the thought in mind of encouraging this impulse, he stepped closer until he was standing directly beside her. Simultaneously she moved toward the bed and the dead woman. "Thank you for staying with me," she said briskly, "and I'm grateful for the privacy of this moment. I've been wanting to talk with you."

"About what?" he inquired, not really caring as long as there was a remote possibility that at some point, under certain stress, she would put her arms around him again.

"I've received several letters of late from Morley Johnson," she began.

Lost in her beauty, he at first found little meaning in her words. Then he remembered, and with a sigh sat in a near chair. Perhaps the solicitor had managed to uncover something.

As he waited for her to continue, he prompted softly, "And?"

She shook her head. "And nothing, I'm afraid."

It was as he'd thought. Then why had she brought it up? "I suspect"—he smiled—"that Mr. Johnson is simply having a prolonged holiday for himself and spending Eden money in the process."

"It does seem to be taking him ever so long," she said. "He hasn't even mentioned stopping by Hadley Park yet. I'm almost as interested in that report as the other."

"Your home?" he asked, recognizing the name from earlier conversations.

"My childhood home, yes. Naturally I'm curious to learn what my uncle is doing with it. It was such a beautiful estate once." She looked at him. "I would like for you to see it sometime."

A pleasant invitation, a pleasant thought, traveling with her in the seclusion of a carriage. "Then call Mr. Johnson back"—he grinned— "and we'll go and do our own inspecting."

Apparently something he had said or the manner in which he had

said it caught her interest, for she sat in the chair next to him, a light reprimand on her face. "You don't take any of it very seriously, do you?" she asked. "Have you no curiosity about your natural mother?"

He answered honestly, "None," then abridged his reply. "Oh, once I did. When I was very young. I quizzed my father constantly on who she was and where she was."

The interest on her face was intense. "And what did he say?"

John shrugged. "That she was beautiful, that she was a lady, that he had loved her very much, and that she had died giving me birth."

"And that was all?"

"That was all." He looked back at her. "What does it matter?" he demanded. "Do you still doubt my identity?" He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and walked to the center of the room. "There are people in this castle who address me by my father's name. Isn't that proof enough? And if Morley Johnson finds nothing, what will happen then? Will I be sent back to the odd-boy cellar?"

Quickly she stood. "No, never," she said. "I promise you that. It's just that I'm thinking of your future. Beyond Eden."

Beyond Eden! Now, there was a puzzle. All his life the only future which had held any meaning for him was Eden. Now that he was here, he found he could not think in terms of another future. "I don't understand," he said, aware of her hand on his arm.

"You're strong and capable," she said. "The entire world would open to you, if only we could . . ."

"Identify my mother," he said, completing the foolish statement for her.

But she only nodded, obviously unaware of her foolishness. "Whether you like it or not, John, you are a member of a society to whom parentage is very important."

He couldn't quite believe this turn of the conversation. Now he moved away from her hand. "Parentage never seemed to matter much to my father," he said over his shoulder.

"Oh, but you're wrong," she disagreed, following after him. "Edward's bastardy mattered a great deal to him. He suffered acutely because of it. But even there he was more fortunate than you. At least he knew—"

"And what of my future?" he asked, sensing that she was arguing him into a corner. "You brought the subject up. What do you envision for me?"

She shrugged. "A . . . profession. You're capable . . ."

"What kind of profession?"

"Anything you want. Anything that—"

"My father had none."

"He had his Ragged Schools, his social reform—"

John laughed aloud. "All those institutions as well as the dedication belonged to Daniel Spade. My father merely provided the funds." He broke off and stared at her. What was she trying to tell him? That parentage or no, his time here was limited?

Now he wanted to put an end to the conversation. "Then I suggest we wait for word from Morley Johnson," he concluded, "for everything."

Still she was watching him, her eyes blank, as though her mind had momentarily abandoned her.

"Come." He smiled, trying to ease this new tension. "We must keep a close watch out for Satan. As you said, we owe old Jane that much."

She agreed, as though she too were eager to postpone a final decision. Just as she was settling beside him, there was a soft knock on the door, and a moment later Gertrude and Aggie appeared, their arms filled with the paraphernalia of death, a thick, multifolded piece of muslin, clearly a winding sheet, an earthenware decanter exuding the heavy fragrance of oil of clove.

Now all three women gathered about the bed. John leaned forward in his chair, legs apart, and rested his elbows on his knees. Birth and death, the two truly great female rituals. He held still, wondering if he should leave.

When he heard Aggie announce, full-voiced, "Well, then, to work," and when he looked up to see her bodily lift Jane and prepare to strip the nightdress over that gray shriveled face, John decided that he'd seen enough, and he'd just cleared the arch when he heard Harriet calling after him. "Wait, John . . ."

Slowly he retraced his steps as far as the arch, where he halted, his eyes fixed on the grim deathbed ritual.

In the interim, Gertrude was speaking again. "My lady, Mr. Rexroat and the stewards are waiting outside," she said, keeping her voice down, as though fearful of disturbing the now naked cadaver cradled in Aggie's arms. "They want to know if they should raise the black banners."

He heard Harriet's whispered "Yes," and though he was aware of female voices forming a soft hum to one side, all of his attention was drawn forward by the sight of the ninety-year-old female corpse, her

skin wrinkled into reptilianlike folds, the whole horrible specter taking on a gray pallor, and over all, a nauseating odor.

Stunned by the ugliness, he felt the need to turn away. But Harriet was there again, beckoning him to come closer. When apparently she saw his hesitation and its cause, her face softened. "Merely the ravages of years, John."

Then Aggie was there, her voice steady in spite of the rigorous scrubbing she was now giving to a dead leg. "He ain't probably never seen a naked female before, my lady, let alone a dead one."

Still he waited in silence, struggling to digest his feelings of embarrassment and horror.

"Have you, John?" Harriet asked.

He shook his head.

Aggie snickered. Harriet stepped closer. He was aware of her hand extended to him, something in it, urging him to take it. "Do her one last favor," she suggested softly. "She was very fond of your father and served him well when he needed defense."

At last he looked down and saw in her hand two heavy gold coins. "Kiss them"—she smiled—"and place them on her eyes. Surely your kiss will assure her of paradise."

Feeling foolish, but interested in satisfying her and fleeing the room, he took the coins from her hand, pressed each in turn to his lips, then laid them carefully on the still-wide-staring eyes.

"Oh, she's stiffening fast," Aggie muttered. "You all best clear now so I can get on with what I have to do."

Never had John received a command so eagerly. With the placement of the last coin, he'd made contact with the cold flesh. Now, after only a few broad strides, he found himself out in the corridor, where the number of servants had increased as news of the death had spread, all apparently drawn to the grim room, he alone trying to escape from it. As he pushed his way through the gaping faces, the servants stepped back, and as the traffic decreased near the end of the corridor, he looked eagerly toward the steps.

It occurred to him that the schedule for the evening would undoubtedly be canceled. Would there even be dinner? In spite of his queasiness at the sight of death, he felt hungry, and remembering the bowl of dried fruit in his chambers and the appealing thought of a closed door and an interval of privacy, he increased his speed, moving through the shadowy corridors, still struggling with the image of the dead woman and Harriet's insistence that he "come closer."

He would never understand her, he decided wearily, and didn't

want to think about her anymore. Yet he did, and took her image with him all the way back to his chambers, where, closing the door, his eye fell on the enormous rosewood four-poster.

He was beginning to feel the old discomfort, a growing tension. Did it hurt her, he wondered, when a man entered a woman? He wouldn't want to hurt anyone, and how unfair the design if it brought pleasure to one and pain to the other.

Growing breathless from his thoughts, he approached the bed reverently, as though the image he'd projected there had become a reality. He clung to one of the posts, mortified by his ignorance and inexperience. He'd have to find out soon. He could not live much longer with the need. Nor could he go on pretending that the bedclothes were the dark-haired whore named Rosa.

Then what to do? Who could teach him, tell him what he needed to know? Who would reassure him that he was not a monster, but a mere man?

Harriet was never happier than when circumstances called for direct action. Given a crisis, she flourished.

She glanced toward the end of the corridor, hoping to catch a glimpse of John in the faltering state in which he'd left Jane's deathbed. But he was gone, clearly the young boy again, frightened by death, embarrassed by the naked body.

"My lady, you were saying?" It was Rexroat, dragging her attention back to the matter at hand.

"Yes," she murmured. Where had she left off? "Mourning banners are to be raised immediately," she commanded. "And have a messenger go down to Mortemouth. She may have friends there who would want to attend the service. And ask Herr Snyder to pen the obituary and instruct him to place a copy on my bureau for my inspection first thing in the morning."

"Very well, my lady," he said, bowing. "And when will services take place?"

Harriet thought a moment. She would have preferred the following day, but there was something indecent about too great a speed. "The day after tomorrow," she said at last. "That will give the coffinmakers time and the gravediggers as well. She will lie in state tonight and tomorrow. I want two guards posted around the clock at the door, and two stationed within the chamber. But no one who wants to see her is to be denied. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, my lady."

"Then see to it. Aggie will inform you when she is ready. In the meantime, spread the word throughout the castle."

"I feel certain, my lady, that everyone has heard—"

"Lord Eden?"

Their eyes met in a moment of understanding. "No, my lady, but I don't believe he is in the castle."

Surprised, she looked up. "Where is he?"

"I believe I saw him passing through the gates, on foot, shortly after the musicale."

"Were the guards—"

"They were in attendance, my lady." He nodded firmly.

Good. What a burden he was becoming. Yet his course of self-destruction was clear.

"Well, then," she said finally, moving away from the distasteful subject. "See to everything."

He bobbed his head and backed away, a clear look of disapproval on his face. Well, let him snicker, she thought. Let them all snicker. It was her intention to tell the world of Jane's death, to inform them, between the lines, that in spite of the old woman's spotted and infamous past, the present Lady Eden had loved her dearly, had found in the strong-willed old woman an ally.

Renewed with purpose, she moved briskly down the corridor, one-half of her mind moving toward duty, and the other half reviewing recent events. She smiled at the passing stones beneath her feet How brutal of her to have forced him into a close inspection of poor Jane. She'd never seen him so undone. He really was a boy. And how hostile he had been when she had mentioned his future. What precisely did he intend to do, live at Eden in useless luxury for the rest of his life? And his total lack of concern over his parentage, that too was a source of annoyance. And the mystery which loomed large over all—who was the mother? Who was the woman who obviously had offered Edward comfort and love only months after Harriet had rejected him?

For a moment the puzzle seemed to confound her anew, and suffering from a peculiar mix of envy and grief, she thought again on her own ancient secret.

Suddenly she drew herself sharply up. Though the corridor in all directions was empty, she thought she heard a sound coming from . . .