The Eden Passion (26 page)

"The bitch again, is it?" Bobby asked curtly, his fingers tapping lightly on the folded piece of paper. "What would you do, Humphrey," he asked with suspect lightness, "if you were to learn of her whereabouts?"

"What would I do?" he repeated. "An academic question, dear Bobby," he said. "The lady is quite gone from my life."

"But not from your mind."

He shook his head. "No," he said, staring with glazed eyes at the small white square of paper. "She will haunt me all my life," he concluded simply.

Abruptly Bobby laughed. "You asked about the new guest, Humphrey, and did not give me a chance to reply. Do you still want to hear about him?

"The new guest," Bobby entoned. "From London, he is," he began, "a solicitor, or so he says, here on business."

"Solicitors are always involved in business," Humphrey said. "They never rest. It's what makes them so—"

"But fascinating business, this," Bobby interrupted.

Humphrey looked up. "What exactly is the nature of your fascination with the man?" he asked.

"Oh, he's not my fascination, Humphrey"—Bobby smiled—"and his name is Morley Johnson." Again he lifted the piece of paper. "But he might be an object of some fascination ... to you. Mr. Johnson is here on business for his client. According to Mr. Johnson, his client desires a complete report on the present state of . . . Hadley Park. Mr. Johnson's client is curious about her childhood

home. She wishes to know about its physical condition and the disposition of several favored childhood servants, and she also wishes to know. . ."

At some point Humphrey had ceased hearing words. "I . . . don't . . . understand," he faltered.

At that, Bobby laughed. "Of course you understand, Humphrey. My God, man, wake up! I've just provided you with a road map to the demon-bitch who has damn near sucked your blood dry. And there's more."

He lifted the paper and read, his words precise, incredible. "His client, or so Mr. Johnson says, is Lady Eden. Lady Harriet Eden." Slowly he shook his head. "Sweet Lord, how often I've heard that name, Harriet, before. And Eden. I've heard that as well. Have you heard of them, Humphrey?"

But Humphrey wasn't faring so well. There still was a blanket of disbelief covering everything. A device—thafs what it was—of Bobby's, to lift his spirits. "It's an . . . error," he stammered, "clearly an—"

"Good God," Bobby shouted. "Are you deaf? Shall I take you by the hand and escort you up to the man himself? There is no error. His client is Lady Harriet Eden. Yes, her maiden name was Powels. Yes, she is alive and well and residing at Eden Castle on the North Devon coast. Yes, she's married to Lord James Eden, fourteenth Baron and sixth Earl of Eden Point. Yes, the man had a brother, dead now, named Edward Eden."

The cries of yes became a refrain in Humphrey's ear. A feeling such as he had never known before rose up within him. He sat on the very edge of his chair, his mouth half-open. There still was an inclination not to believe.

Bobby leaned close, no longer shouting. "I'm only grateful that I could deliver this information to you, Humphrey, I who know better than anyone the depths of your agony. Now perhaps you can exorcise her once and for all, and be truly mine."

It wasn't that Humphrey didn't hear the expression of affection. It was simply that his mind was still spinning on other matters. How could such important news bring so many unanswered questions? Lady Harriet Eden? Edward Eden? What was that connection? And why had fate sent Mr. Morley Johnson on this night when Humphrey had been almost doubled over with memories of the past?

"By God!" he exclaimed at last, full-voiced, certain possibilities be-

ginning to occur to him. But he needed more information, needed to interview the man himself.

On that note of resolve, he pushed away from the table, stumbling once in his eagerness, hearing Bobby call after him, but refusing to stop, moving steadily across the empty dining room, his eyes fixed on the doorway and the entrance hall, and beyond that the staircase and the second-floor guest chamber where, with luck, Mr. Morley Johnson could tell him precisely what he wanted to know, a glorious stroke of good fortune, the first time in his long and bitter life when fate had said to him, "Now, Humphrey Hills! You call the tuner

Eden Castle, April 1852

Although he was forced to operate within the boundaries of limited experience, John Murrey Eden knew, with a certainty that defied reason, that he would never again, under any circumstances, be as happy as he was now.

Though he was totally absorbed in his own happiness, he was not impervious to hers. Or for that matter, the happiness of the entire castle, save for that one gloomy besotted chamber in the west wing where his uncle dwelt and from which that now constantly inebriated man never emerged.

But for the rest of them, it was a castle at last truly named, a rapturous place grown more rapturous with the coming of spring, all the casements thrown open, letting in the freshness of sea breeze and early-blooming lilacs, a gluttony of happiness filling all quarters.

On this mild April evening, he stood behind her where she sat before her dressing table, her hairbrush in his hand, and carefully guided the bristles through her luxuriant hair. It had become a ritual which brought both of them immense pleasure.

"It resembles the color of autumn," he murmured, stroking her hair, his hand cupped about her head.

She laughed and lifted her face. "Do you think Mary's will take on the red tint?"

He shook his head. "She's destined to be blond, like my side of the family, and it will become her."

John smiled, remembering how that very afternoon Mary had kept pace with him and Richard as they'd scrambled down the steep cliff

to the ocean, then back up again. How he adored her, adored them all, having found at last the family he'd never had.

"Penny?"

He looked up to her reflection in the glass.

"For your thoughts," she added softly.

He laid the brush aside and sat in the near chair, his long legs outstretched, spying caked mud on his boots from their afternoon outing. "You know my thoughts," he murmured.

"I know," she said, "but I like to hear you speak them." When at first he did not reply, she prompted, "Are you happy, John?"

He laughed and pressed his head back against the cushions of the chair. "My father always said that it was wrong of a man to expect too much happiness. It spoiled him for day-to-day existence."

"Do you think he was right?"

"He was always right." He crossed his arms over his chest and again stared at her. During the daylight hours, he felt complete satisfaction in her closeness, her affection, the touch of her hand, the manner in which she spoke his name, the thousand little intimacies which seemed to satisfy and blunt the need for the greater one.

But on occasions, like now at night, when they were alone, he felt the hunger and wondered how long it would suffice merely to brush her hair and hear her speak his name lovingly.

"John?"

She was there again, leaning forward in her chair. "What is it?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"No," she disagreed, and left her chair and knelt before him. "You looked . . . desolate." She frowned.

"I'm sorry," he said, his hand cupped about her face. Then playfully he lifted her chin. "Will you marry me?" He grinned. "Will you come away with me and be my wife?"

At first she looked surprised. "Come away where?"

"India."

She laughed prettily. "Why India?"

"Why not? It's a world away from England, a new horizon, a place where we could—"

"And what about Richard and Mary?" She smiled, still playing the game.

"We would take them with us."

"And never return to Eden?"

"Oh, yes, we'll come home one day, as husband and wife."

Now she looked longingly at him, the sense of play diminishing.

Encouraged, he leaned closer and repeated himself. "Please come away with me and be my wife."

"But I am married, sir," she replied. "England frowns on a woman with two husbands."

"You have no husband," he countered. "I doubt seriously if you've ever had a husband."

Gently she broke loose and settled back on her heels, still at his feet. He noticed one hand drawing the dressing gown more tightly about her.

Without warning he slipped to his knees beside her on the floor, took her in his arms and kissed her, a bit crudely, but what matter? There were years separating them, to be sure, but he knew he would never love anyone else as he loved her.

At the end of the kiss, he caught a glimpse of her face and thought he saw despair there. Now he watched as she pulled herself to her feet and walked away, no words spoken.

Had he offended her? They'd kissed many times, even during the day with the children scampering ahead, and always at night she bade him farewell with a kiss.

"Harriet?"

But she merely hushed him with a raised hand and continued to walk away, to her bedstand now. When at last she looked back at him, there was an expression on her face that he'd never seen before, the kind of splintered peace that comes with hard-fought resolution.

Slowly she approached him, a small volume in her hand. "Do you know it?" she asked.

"The Book of Common Prayer. I have one of my own."

"Turn to page seventeen," she commanded.

Torn between her stance before him and her perplexing command, he did as he was told, and at last found it, page seventeen, the Ceremony of Marriage.

Again he looked up, then slowly rose, his eyes never leaving her face. "I. . . don't understand," he said.

Again she retreated, as though determined to keep a safe distance between them. "Have you ever made love to a woman before, John?" she asked.

Still grasping the prayer book, he looked down, embarrassed by the truth he knew he must speak. "No."

'Then what do you know of the union between a man and a woman?" she prodded.

In despair, he clutched the book. "Nothing," he snapped, anger

joining his embarrassment, "but I did not realize it was a tutorial matter to be discussed along with the Dialogues of Plato."

"It isn't," she replied, her voice as level as his was rising. "Still, it must be understood—"

"What must be understood?" he demanded. "What must be understood beyond the fact that I love you, will always love you, will never love another as I love you . . ."

The impassioned repetition began to sound childish in his ear. In despair, he turned away and took his embarrassment to the window, where he saw the high April moon casting a warm light on the inner courtyard. He closed the book in his hand, seeing clearly her purpose now, a gentle dissuasion, trying to talk him out of his love.

"I'm sorry I brought it up/' he said. "It was wrong of me."

"No," came the voice behind him, a conciliatory voice, offering hope. "And I'm not sorry you brought it up. I think we've both known since"—she paused as though searching her mind for a date— "since the night of old Jane's death that neither of us would be capable forever of. . ."

Slowly he turned. "Of what?"

"Of denying ourselves."

He stepped down from the window, as perplexed as ever. Was she playing her old tricks, beckoning with one hand, slapping away with the other? "Then I don't understand," he confessed again.

"I know you don't," she agreed, "and you must." At last she stepped toward him, the light from the lamp illuminating her face clearly, a face which seemed suddenly drained of color, as though in spite of her appearance of calm, her turmoil was as great as his.

"You. . . claim you love me," she began.

"And I do."

"There are years separating us."

"Meaningless."

"There will be other women in your life."

"None."

"And you will truly marry one day."

"Never!"

"You may be shocked by the act."

"I want you."

Only the dressing table separated them. Still she spoke, as though determined to argue them both out of their need. "We would be committing a sin," she said bluntly.

"In whose eyes?"

"God's and man's."

"We're not responsible for their vision."

"Our lives would never again be the same."

"How would they be different?"

"The intimacy, once established, would have to be fed."

He found her hesitancy touching. "Our chambers are close. I'm here nightly. . ."

"To brush my hair."

"To want you. To look upon you and wonder how much longer I can . . ."

Suddenly she turned away. At first he was afraid he'd offended her. Then he heard her own whispered doubts. "I . . . wouldn't want to . . . disappoint you."

Still clasping the Book of Common Prayer, he came up behind her. "How could you disappoint me?" he said.

As she turned, he saw disbelief in her eyes. "Truly you've never known a woman before?" she asked again, as though amazed.

No longer embarrassed by his confession of truth, he shook his head. "I was offered a whore once, but my father interceded."

Suddenly she bent over, her hands covering her face.

"Harriet?" He leaned close in concern. But she moved quickly away, as though determined that he not touch her.

She clung to the dressing table as though waiting out the weakness; then, as though nothing at all had occurred, she sat primly down before the mirror and to his reflection said, "Read the Ctre-mony of Marriage while I dress—"

"Dress? Where are—"

"Please read," she whispered. "I want you to hear the words, and I want to hear them."

He looked at her and wondered wearily if all mating was so difficult and complex. If so, how did the world ever proceed?

Then he was no longer concerned with the world, for in the most graceful of gestures she pulled the ribbon at the top of her dressing gown, which released the pale pink silk about her neck, and in one fluid cascade the gown fell about her waist, revealing a portion of those mysteries about which he'd wondered so often.

"Read, John," she commanded softly, apparently impervious to his fascination. In the reflection of the mirror he caught his first unobstructed view of her breasts, perfectly molded, so full that the inside of her arm brushed against them as she reached for the pitcher of lavender water.