The Eden Passion (29 page)

Predictably, Richard protested, a ten-year-old whine of "Don't—"

"Why not?" John grinned, deliberately baiting him, as his father had so often baited him in an effort to lighten a mood.

As he ruffled the black hair again, Richard rose to meet the challenge and took up a position behind John's chair, giving him the same treatment.

As John's long fair hair fell in disarray over his forehead, he lifted his head in a mock battle cry and reached behind and pulled the boy forward, the tussle on.

But at some point, John was aware of the hilarity melting away. The servants, he noticed, had withdrawn to a safe distance. Through the muss of his hair he saw Harriet turn in her chair and glance toward the large arched doorway which led into the Great Hall.

He followed her gaze, and saw Mr. Rexroat, his face clearly censoring the fun. "A carriage, my lady, has been seen by one of the watchmen about a quarter of a mile distant, heading this way." He seemed to stand a bit more erect. "Is it possible, my lady, that you are expecting guests?"

"I am expecting no guests," Harriet replied, "and want none to be admitted."

For a moment there was silence. Then John was aware of Rexroat's retreating footsteps. Richard began to stir, ready and willing to resume the playful battle.

In fact, everyone in the room seemed to be themselves again, except Harriet, who continued to stare toward the now empty archway. "I used to loathe the isolation of Eden," she murmured. "Now I resent a carriage passing a quarter of a mile distant."

"Were you expecting anyone?" John asked.

"Of course not," she protested. She lowered her voice. 'The last thing I want now," she whispered, "is company."

"Well, then," he exclaimed, "I suggest that we indulge in Aggie's hot gingerbread, then a long walk across the headlands. Mortemouth today, I propose," he said, knowing that the steep cliff walk down to the little fishing village was always a treat for the children. "We've not been to Mortemouth since winter broke."

Predictably his suggestion was greeted with hearty approval from the children. Even Harriet seemed to relax a bit after the threat of guests.

John smiled at the sense of life resumed, feeling almost paternal,

indulging himself in a familiar fantasy, that he was lord of Eden Castle, Harriet his wife, Richard and Mary the result of their passion, their offspring. What a fantasy that was. . . .

Then, as Richard and Maty commenced chattering happily about the proposed expedition of the afternoon, he again watched her. She had a characteristic gesture which he adored, a habit of smoothing her hand over her throat, then allowing that hand in its downward motion to slide quickly over her breast. She did it twice now, lightning-fast in its execution.

But as he leaned backward in his chair, the better to catalog her beauty, he saw Mr. Rexroat again, appearing in the archway, his normally pallid face flushed as though he'd run a distance, a silver tray in his hand. My God, would the man give them no peace?

"The carriage is at the gate, my lady," he called out. "Two gentlemen, it is. One sends his card and begs an audience with you on a matter of great importance."

John watched her face carefully. He saw her brow furrow, as though her initial reaction was one of bewilderment.

"Who is it?" he asked.

She looked up, puzzled. "It says Morley Johnson, Solicitor."

Since she seemed disinclined to speak, and since Rexroat was waiting, John took the lead. "Then perhaps you'd better see him." He smiled. "Surely he wouldn't have come all this way without important news." His smile broadened as he tried to lighten the tension coming from her end of the table. "Perhaps he's found a mother for me"—he grinned—"a frail gray-haired lady whom we can move into the castle to take old Jane's place."

But apparently she could not be stirred by any degree of levity and continued to hold the white card, as though simultaneously repelled and fascinated by it.

Now she placed the card on the table beside her fork and looked again at Rexroat. "Two gentlemen, you say?"

"Yes, my lady, though the second was not identified."

When again she seemed to slip deeper into a kind of lethargy, John again took the lead, and grabbing Mary's hand, called for Richard to follow. "Come"—he smiled—"we all will go and greet this mysterious carriage."

As he passed behind Harriet's chair, he noticed that still she had not moved.

"Come, my lady," he said tenderly to the top of her head. "He is

your solicitor, returned from your errand. We really should do him the courtesy of briefly receiving him."

In spite of Mary's shrieks that he "come on," he waited behind Harriet's chair, still baffled by her new mood, saw her head incline forward as though uttering a brief prayer.

Then, in the next minute, apparently restored, she stood and straightened her shoulders as though she were walking toward an abyss instead of to the top of her own Great Hall stairs.

John fell in behind with Richard. "Who is Mr. Johnson?" Richard whispered as they passed beneath the arched door and started across the Great Hall.

John looked down on the boy, exploiting the sense of mystery. "We shall find out shortly," he whispered, and looked ahead to the bright splash of early-aftemoon sun beyond the Great Hall door and earnestly hoped that the matter, whatever its nature, did not take too much of her time and attention. Mortemouth would be lovely at this time of the year.

Ahead, he saw Harriet step out of the shadows of the Great Hall into the blaze of sun, one hand still clasping Mary's, her other hand shading her eyes, her head turned stiffly toward the gatehouse and the carriage waiting patiently, held at bay beyond the twin grilles.

As John and Richard drew up behind her, Mr. Rexroat stepped around the congestion in the doorway and lifted a white-gloved hand in signal to the gate.

Within the moment John heard the cranking of the grilles, then saw the carriage moving slowly through. As the young driver guided the horses into a broad turn before the Great Hall steps, John glanced at Harriet. The tension was still there on her face. "I don't know why he couldn't have sent a courier with the report," she whispered.

"He's probably merely striving to please you," John comforted, still baffled by her curious apprehension.

With a rattle, the carriage came to a halt at the foot of the stairs. Within the moment two stewards stepped forward, one placing a low stool into position beneath the high carriage step, the other opening the door.

A man stepped out and seemed to draw himself up. "My lady," he murmured, bowing stiffly, "my deepest apologies for arriving unannounced. I considered sending a courier ahead, but I have important news and I wanted to deliver it to your ears alone."

"Important. . . news?" Harriet repeated, as though willing to receive it here, on the steps, with dozens of ears listening.

But Mr. Johnson had other plans. "With your kind permission, my lady. I've brought an old acquaintance of yours. Would you be so generous as to allow me to present him to you?"

Mr. Johnson was in the process of stepping back toward the carriage when suddenly he stopped and looked at the small congregation on the steps with a searching expression. Apparently someone was missing. "His . . . lordship?" Mr. Johnson queried.

"My husband is ill," Harriet said, obviously feeling no stress about lying before the servants who had gathered about the carriage.

"I'm most grieved to hear it," Mr. Johnson exclaimed, his manner as elaborate and artificial as his dress. At last he seemed to shake off the bewilderment of the missing Lord Eden and lifted a gloved hand to the steward standing near the carriage door.

Although the door was open, it seemed an interminable length of time before anyone appeared, all eyes focused on the small dark cavity beyond which, from John's angle, he could see a man's leg.

At last there was movement, a hunched male form, his brushed beaver hat clutched beneath his arm, his shiny bald head glistening like a small eye in the heat of the day, the man himself at last standing upright at the foot of the stairs, a most strange-looking man, painfully self-conscious at the center of attention, his neckerchief and waistcoat a flaming pink satin which seemed to accent his limited stature, his narrow-set dark eyes darting in all directions at once, to the heights of the battlements, to the small knot of servants standing to one side, to John himself and finally at last coming to rest on Harriet.

While there seemed to be recognition aplenty on the little man's face, Harriet seemed to be at a disadvantage. Again she brushed her hand over her eyes as though the glare of sun were hurting them. After a prolonged moment of nonrecognition, she shook her head apologetically. "I'm. . . afraid that I don't. . ."

Mr. Johnson took the lead. "May I present, my lady, your childhood companion, an ardent admirer, by his own confession, and as proprietor of the Mermaid, your nearest neighbor, Mr. Humphrey Hills."

Mary suddenly broke free from her mother's hand and darted back into the shade of the Great Hall. John started to follow after her, but as he turned, he caught a glimpse of Harriet's face. He saw her close her eyes again. Then, "Mr. . . . Hills?" she stammered.

"Aye." The man grinned.

"From . . . Shropshire?"

"Aye, the same," the man confirmed, bobbing his head.

He had thought she might take the man's hand, but she didn't, and it was left to Mr. Johnson to bring them together. "In what glowing terms, my lady," he gushed, "has Mr. Hills spoken of your childhood friendship. It was the only melody he sang all the way from Shropshire, a moving refrain about a little girl in a blue velvet riding habit and a young boy who watched her with—"

"I remember him," Harriet said abruptly. After an awkward pause, John heard her speak again, her voice and manner as faltering as he'd ever heard them. "Mr. Hills, I . . . welcome you to Eden. I'm . . . not certain that... I understand . . ."

At last John could watch the embarrassing scene no longer and took the distance to her side. "I'm sure the gentlemen are thirsty, Harriet. Why don't we—"

"Of course," she murmured. "How thoughtless of me. Won't you both follow . . ."

As the awkward procession started up the stairs, John was in the lead, his hand on Harriet's arm. In their last moment of privacy, he leaned close, still alarmed by the expression on her face. "Are you well?" he inquired.

"I don't understand . . ."

"Who does?" He smiled. "Clearly they have a report of some sort."

"But why Humphrey Hills?"

"Did you know him?"

If she'd heard, she gave no indication of it, and instead looked around at the confused gathering and commenced dispatching people. "Richard, go back to the table and wait with Mary. Our walk will be delayed. And Mr. Rexroat, a bottle of sherry please, if you will, in the small library. And Peggy, find Clara and have her stay with the children in the Banqueting Hall."

As everyone scattered, John held his position and looked back at the men just entering the Great Hall. On their upturned faces were identical expressions of awe and impression.

Then the two were upon them. When Harriet still seemed disinclined to speak, John again took the lead. "This way, gentlemen," and gestured toward the open door that led into the small library.

But Mr. Johnson stopped a few feet away, some objection forming on his flushed face. "With your kind permission, sir," he began, "I

think it . . . advisable if we make our report to Lady Eden—in private. I do hope you understand. . ."

No, John didn't, nor did Harriet, whose face now clouded at the suggestion. John watched her carefully, thinking she might issue a protest for him.

But she didn't She merely bowed her head and rested one hand lightly over her eyes as though suddenly fatigued. She looked so alone, as though she were being driven into the room by some terrible force.

"Please, sir," Mr. Johnson added, "indulge us for . . . say, half an hour, and there may be cause for general rejoicing at Eden tonight."

A curious comment. John now saw Mr. Hills grinning and nodding, his beaver hat still clutched under one arm, the other involved in constant adjustment to his person. John wondered briefly why he loathed the man so.

As the two men passed him by, following after her, they both bowed low, as though thanking him for his cooperation, and long before he was ready for it, the door was closed and he found himself alone.

He stood motionless, staring at the floor at his feet, the questions coming faster than he could consider them. Suddenly in anger he looked up toward the closed door, fully prepared to intrude despite their requests for privacy. But at the last minute, prudence intervened.

He could wait. If she desired his presence, she would have said so, and now he smiled, amazed at the confidence he felt in their relationship.

His thoughts led him into an isolated corner of the Great Hall. He had thought once that he'd return to the Banqueting Hall and the company of the children.

But he changed his mind and settled instead for quiet pacing. A half hour wasn't so long, though about fifteen minutes later he stopped pacing.

Listen! He turned his ear in the direction of the small library, confident that he'd heard an outcry. He held still, his eyes focused on the blinding rectangle of light beyond the Great Hall door.

Apparently there had been no outcry, only Mary's sharp laughter coming from the opposite direction in the Banqueting Hall.

He listened a moment longer, then commenced his steady pacing again, trying to soothe his feelings of apprehension with thoughts of her.

Now and then he glanced toward the brilliant May sun at the door of the Great Hall. But it hurt his eyes and he concentrated instead on the slow steady clack of his boots on the parquet floor, and on the silence coming from behind the closed door of the small library.

A half hour wasn't so long, and he lowered his head and saw her in his imagination, a stray wisp of auburn hair wandering from the rest, a pale cheek, the depths of those eyes. . . .