The Eden Passion (23 page)

"But you have a profound need," he said tenderly, "for a friend, a companion, someone to walk with you and talk with you, someone to confide in, someone to soothe and comfort, and . . . protect you."

What an appealing prescription! Never in her entire life had she known the luxury of such a friend. "Very well"—she smiled— "though what if I become too dependent upon you?"

"It is not possible."

"What if one day you come to me and say, Harriet, I want to go out into the world?"

"My world is here, all that interests me."

"What if Elizabeth summons you?"

"Elizabeth has no cause to summon me. That part of my life is finished."

"What if I look up one day in need, and you're gone?"

"I won't be."

"What if. . . you fall in love with a young woman?"

"I am in love."

The simple declaration moved her, the earnest conviction in his eyes. With what ease she stepped into his arms, no passion now, but rather a simple and tenanted shelter, his hands lightly pressing her head to his chest, as though trying to demonstrate that he could be all things to her.

She closed her eyes, a little amazed at the realization that for the first time in years she had nothing to be afraid of, nothing to dread. What kindly providence had sent her this glorious gift, this reprieve from the tomb? How easily they had kissed, how effortlessly they had talked and touched, how simply they stood in a light embrace. No matter the womb from which he had slipped. He was hers now.

She lifted her lips and lightly kissed him. She mustn't stay any longer. And besides, there was no cause for haste. They had a lifetime before them.

Without a word she stepped away from his embrace and walked the distance to the door, thinking on all that had transpired. A miracle, really. Whether it had been old Jane's death, the sudden shrinking of all viable companionship, the silent castle, the abandoned schedule, the prison door of routine thrown open, now, in the darkness of this night, she sensed a new dawn.

"I breakfast alone in my chambers at a quarter past eight every morning," she said to the closed door. "Will you join me tomorrow?"

She knew the richness of the invitation, the reprieve she was offering him, the chance to escape from the children's dining room, from the children's world. But when she heard no immediate response, she turned and looked at him across the chamber. Edward.

He was standing where she had left him, his face reflecting the meaning of the invitation. "I'd like that very much." He smiled, and she thought how courtly he looked, how generous time would be with him, and what fun it would be to train her own lover.

How shy they both had become. "Then I'll see you in the morning," she concluded, and waited a moment for his response. But there was none.

As she hurried down the corridor toward her own chambers, she smiled, then laughed outright as she realized that the only goal in her life now was to look as beautiful as possible for breakfast.

Christmas Eve, 1851

Not generally inclined to listen to gossip of any sort, Clara Jenkins stood at the second-floor window of the nursery and looked down at the inner courtyard, covered with a light scattering of snow. The wagon was just entering the gate. The two had been gone the better part of the afternoon.

Sweet Lord, how the servants' dining room had twittered at lunch, for that matter had twittered at every meal for the last few weeks, the opinions equally divided, half approving, half condemning, as though it were their duty both to approve and condemn.

As for herself, Clara had taken no part in any of the silly debates. In twenty years she'd risen from serving girl to head of the nursery by keeping her mouth closed and shunning all participation in kitchen gossip.

Still, something was afoot, and while she was ill-equipped to say what, there was part of the proof below in the back of the wagon, her ladyship seated in a position of abandonment upon the bare boards, practically buried in freshly cut boughs of fir and pine, two enormous Yule logs dragging the ground, her red velvet hood thrown back revealing her scandalously loosened hair—she wore it in that fashion constantly now—as though she were a girl of sixteen instead of. . .

Behind her, Clara heard Mary playing with building blocks, stacking three atop each other, then knocking them over with glee. Richard was still closeted with Herr Snyder, who'd insisted on lessons in spite of the holidays.

She looked again toward the courtyard, the two of them kneeling in the wagon now, John playfully brushing the snow from her hair. She could hear their laughter as the wagon drew to a stop, the horses obedient under the skillful hands of old Dana, who alone had been chosen to accompany them into the woods in search of greenery for the Yuletide celebration that evening. She saw stewards and watchmen running from all directions to assist with the enormous logs, her ladyship leaning close over John's face, brushing snow with her gloved hand.

Well, what was so wrong in what she saw? she wondered. Since . . . When had it started? With the death of old Miss Jane Locke— that was it, the very week when the entire castle had erupted into a kind of joyful confusion. Of course the funeral itself had been proper enough, a fitting send-off for the old woman. But then all traces of mourning had vanished.

If Clara lived to be one hundred, she'd never witness firsthand so vast a change in any human being as the change which had taken place these last few weeks in her ladyship. She did look younger, girllike almost, her laughter ringing through the cold air, her hands reaching out for John, who moments before had jumped to the ground and was just now offering her his support.

As he grasped her waist and swung her to earth, Clara felt a blush on her cheeks. How close he'd held her for just a moment.

This, then, was the source of the gossip coming from all parts of the servants' hall, this "intimacy" as Gertrude had called it, springing up between her ladyship and the young man. Of course they were intimate, Clara thought, still defending what she saw. Why shouldn't they be? Was there something in the world which prohibited aunts and nephews from being intimate? Her ladyship was naturally warmhearted. The young man was obviously a pleasant diversion from the tragic dissipation of Lord Eden, who scarcely left his chambers.

There! Look! How proudly they stood beside the two massive logs, supported upright by six stewards. And how long had it been since Eden had enjoyed the ritual of lighting a Yule log?

"Come, Mary. Look!" she urged, beckoning for the child to share the pleasing spectacle with her.

The little girl did not need a second invitation. Within the instant she abandoned her blocks and ran to the window, where Clara swung her up into her arms and pointed downward. "Look! Your mama and John. Look what they have brought you."

A high-pitched squeal left the child's lips. Whether it was excitement over the Yule logs or recognition of the two she loved so dearly, Clara had no idea. Then she was struggling for her freedom, clearly wanting to run to the courtyard herself and be a part of the festivities instead of merely looking down.

Clara saw her ladyship lift her eyes to the nursery window, as though she'd sensed her daughter's presence, and for a moment Clara stilled the struggling little girl with the suggestion, "Wave to your mother. Look! She's waving to you."

"Mama!" Mary called out through the glass, delighted that they were looking at her.

A change here as well, Clara thought, studying the rosy-cheeked child, who seemed to have blossomed in the new relaxed atmosphere of the castle. She seemed to be laughing constantly, either atop John's shoulders, which were always available for rides, or simply clasped securely in his arms.

"Let me go," Mary was insisting, and below Clara saw her ladyship nod her approval. Hurriedly Clara fetched the child's warm cape from the wardrobe and swung it over the tiny shoulders. "Careful on the steps," she warned her, "and mind your mother."

Then she was gone, the sound of her running sending back soft echoes in the corridor.

Returning quickly to her position by the window, Clara again caught herself smiling. The scene below was even more chaotic, as several stablemen had heard the excitement and had now run to join the fun.

Certainly there was nothing furtive or secretive in their mutual ease and affection. Look at them now, leaning in on each other in some fresh spasm of amusement, laughing openly, the stewards laughing with them, nothing hidden, their happiness visible for all to see and share.

Then, below her on the steps Clara caught sight of Mary, taking the steps one at a time until at last John spied her and rushed to her aid and lifted her, squealing, high into the air over his head, while her ladyship looked on.

And the look on that face suddenly brought tears to Clara's eyes. Never had she seen such a look of pure joy, as though the sight of John and her daughter sharing such bliss was almost more than she could bear.

When, a moment later, John lowered Mary into one arm, and drew her ladyship close beneath the other, and the three of them

watched as the stewards carried the Yule logs up the steps of the Great Hall, Clara closed her eyes and dismissed all the foolish gossip and prepared herself for the tidal waves of happiness which shortly would fill her nursery.

As she turned away from the window, she decided with a smile that she knew what the trouble was.

It was simply a matter of adjustment. This old castle was so accustomed to gloom and misery and tragedy that happiness seemed out of place here.

Well, the castle and the gossipers had better adjust themselves soon enough, for it was Clara's unschooled opinion that happiness had at last come to Eden to stay.

London, February 1852

She was not a prostitute.

Prostitutes were disorderly, and there was nothing about Elizabeth's present existence which could be called disorderly.

Now awaiting her last client of the evening, she sat relaxed in her easy chair by the window and looked about at the new items of minor luxury with which she had provided herself out of her increased income; the two new brass lamps which softly reflected the light from the fire, the gilt-edged mirror just over the sideboard, the soft rose carpet beneath her feet, and the latest, the little fur cape draped prettily over the opposite chair, too attractive to hide in the wardrobe, the gift, only last evening, from Lord Kimbrough.

Again she looked about, pleased. How different it was from her early days in St. James Park, when she had accommodated gentlemen for a shilling and a crust of bread.

She viewed it as a service and was now bringing much more to the art and taking much more away from it. Undeniably she had acquired a polish during her years with Edward, a soft cultivation and concern for others which meant that she could talk with her gentlemen, hear their problems, all about their cold wives and suffocating homes, could lend them a most compassionate and sympathetic ear. And apparently that alone was a rich commodity, as rich as what she gave them in bed.

The handsome rosewood clock on the mantel, a gift from the banker Mr. Soames, chimed a quarter past nine. He was late, her last client, Mr. G., but then he generally was. Only returned from Naples

that day, or so his note had informed her, hand-delivered by special messenger about noon. He'd mentioned his wife being ill. She was sorry to hear that, being as fond of the wife as she was of the master.

She reached beside her to the near table and poured a small glass of sherry. Generally she did not take spirits before a client. She owed them that much. But she knew from experience that Mr. G., for whom she was waiting, would not require her services in bed. At least he never had. It seemed to suit him well enough just to sit and talk, to breathe the peace," or so he'd put it. With the government, Mr. G. was, and high up, too.

In fact, her entire clientele pleased her, for no other reason than that they were gentlemen and treated her with kindness and dignity. Slowly she tipped the sherry one way, then the other in the fragile crystal glass, the prisms catching the light from the fire and magnifying it through the sherry. In a way she felt pride in what she was doing. How did it differ from what Edward had done, or Daniel for that matter? In their Ragged Schools, they had offered shelter and food, and in many cases like herself, an education to the poor and abandoned children of London. In her establishment she too offered shelter and food, and in certain cases, education to the rich and abandoned men of London. As Edward himself had been abandoned. Surely he would understand that, his ghost would understand, as on occasion she was still aware of his presence in the small house.

Suddenly she sat up, feeling restless. In a way, she wished that Mr. G. would take her to bed. She was lonelier than usual tonight and eager to play her game, when with her eyes closed she'd coax the gentleman of the moment into a giving mood and would replace him with an image of Edward.

Of course, it didn't always work. The gentleman had to be fairly whole himself before she could steal a bit of pleasure for herself. But there had been moments of enjoyment, small assaults on that monumental need brought on by her unreciprocated love for Edward Eden.

She closed her eyes. Beyond the window, she listened closely for carriage wheels. Now, where was he? She leaned close to the window and drew back the curtain. The street outside was dark and shadowy save for one gas lamp directly across the way. She leaned closer, spying a familiar figure, not Mr. G., but rather Jack Willmot's whore's bully.

She gazed solemnly at the shadowy figure, thinking on that piece

of unfinished business. Poor Jack. She received weekly letters from him in Canada, plain, blunt letters which spoke of unbearable cold and red savages, though he claimed that Mr. Brassey's Grand Railway was going well. And the bluntest of all, the habitual closing paragraph, begging her, in the name of Edward's memory, to turn away from her "present activities," and reconsider his proposal of marriage, which was still in force.

Marriage! The word still astounded her, almost as much as her initial astonishment at the man who had mentioned it. Marriage! Oh, yes, she could just envision Jack Willmot married to Edward Eden's "whore," left alone for the better part of every year while he tramped around the world building railroads, waiting for letters to arrive containing the pittance on which she would have to live, supporting a brood of children as well.