The Eden Passion (77 page)

Although he had taken a few steps to the left, heading back toward the carriage, he proceeded slowly to the far side of the road. She was still standing, her eyes fastened on him. Then all at once she was running toward him across the down, the wind blowing her skirts and hair, while at her feet, keeping pace, was an enormous gray cat who leaped up out of the tall grasses, then disappeared, only to

leap up again, the two of them drawing nearer, until recognition was complete.

Embarrassed though incredibly pleased, John felt the heat of a blush on his face. It was her, looking even younger and more childlike, as though the passage of years had not fazed her. She was calling his name, a beautiful sound which the wind caught and blew toward him.

He couldn't believe it. "Lila?" he called out, laughing.

"Yes," she cried, still a distance away.

Thinking quite plausibly that this was a place of either magic or miracles, he went to meet her.

She knew it!

It was him. She had known it since early morning, no, last night, really, when she'd seen his face in the moon, and Wolf had scratched endlessly at her window, wanting out. He never went out at night unless someone was coming.

And at dawn the feeling was so strong that she'd dressed early and gone to the orchard while her father was still at prayer. She'd waited all day, until, limp from the heat, and thirsty, she'd gone home for a brief respite.

Now, there he was, and laughing, she ran the rest of the way down the hill until she came to a halt about ten feet from where he stood, feeling out of breath and suddenly painfully shy.

"John?" She smiled, trying to smooth her hair.

He nodded, looking very stodgy and grown-up in his hot city clothes.

"I . . . thought it was you," she said, amazed and moved by the changes which had taken place in him. His beard for one. She'd never imagined him bearded, and wondered if he would object if she touched it.

Apparently not, though he appeared to be holding very still, as though he were afraid to move.

"It's rough." She smiled and looked up to his forehead, her fingers moving over the long scar. "Will you tell me how this happened?" she asked. "But not now. That story doesn't belong to today." She laughed again, still unable to believe that he was standing before her. "Aren't you going to say anything at all?"

Finally he seemed to come to himself, as though he were awakening from a deep sleep. He glanced down at Wolf, who was rubbing against his leg and purring loudly. As though to Wolf, he spoke her

name. "Lila. I wanted to come and thank you for your letters," he began hesitantly, still not looking at her. "I'm afraid I didn't receive them as you sent them. But they all were waiting for me when I got back to London and . . ."

For the first time he looked up, presenting her with the vast changes that had taken place on his face. "And I wanted you to know I was grateful."

She saw sweat rolling off his face and thought him the most uncomfortable-looking man she'd ever seen. He stepped away, appearing shy. "And you?" he asked politely. "Have you been well?"

"My mother died."

He looked back at her. "I'm sorry. When?"

"Last June on a Saturday morning at six-twenty-five." She looked away, not wanting to recall the day. She shouldn't have told him. Something about his face suggested that he'd heard enough of death. "But I'm well and my father is well, though he says his beads and prays in secret."

She didn't want to discuss that either, or any aspect of the gloom which had descended on her house. "Come . . ." She smiled. "Let's go to the orchard. It's cool there."

As she led the way across the road, she looked up at the handsome carriage waiting at the top of the hill. "Is that yours?" she asked, scooping Wolf up into her arms.

John followed after her. "It is."

"Who is the driver?"

"A friend. Alex Aldwell."

She released Wolf with a warning to leave the field mice alone, and looked back up the road. "Max will adore him." She smiled. "Max adores anyone with flesh. He has so little of it."

Behind her she heard the sound of his laugh, and led the way into the shade, turning back with a suggestion. "Why don't you take off your coat? You'd be more comfortable."

When she looked back, she was pleased to see that he'd done just that. Slowly she knelt beneath a large tree and closed her eyes to the delicious earth odors which wafted in and out with the breeze. "Sit," she invited, and motioned to the tree trunk and watched as bashfully he did as she had requested.

Thus seated, with only a short distance between them, she warned herself not to prattle on, as her father had scolded her so often for doing. Others want to speak as well, Lila.

So she knelt before him and waited for all of his news before she

told him hers. Just when she thought he'd never speak, he picked up a near twig and commenced making lines on the earth and said apologetically, "I should have written."

"You had no time."

"No, I mean from London, to tell you I was coming."

"I knew you were coming. I've been here all day waiting for you."

He looked up, as though surprised by her answer, though in the end a smile canceled the surprise and he said gently, "You haven't changed."

"You have. You look older."

"I am older, and . . ."

He seemed to lose his train of thought and looked vaguely about at the earth where he'd scratched a pattern of intersecting lines.

"Are you through?" she asked politely.

"Through with . . . what?"

"With your words. If you want to say more, I'll be quiet. If not, I'll talk."

"You talk, Lila. Tell me all about yourself."

She moved closer on her knees, delighted with the invitation. "Oh, I've nothing to say about me," she began, smoothing out the lines of intersected earth. "It's about something else, though. Quite a mystery it is. Would you like to see it? It isn't far, and perhaps you can explain it."

"What is it?"

"It's the stream," she began, amazed that someone was willing to share her mystery. "Over there," she went on, pointing beyond the orchard. "And it's rising, just a bit ever}' day, but I've watched it for three weeks and dropped a measurement into it, and it is rising. Would you like to see? And on the way, I'll show you something else, a cocoon that for three weeks has been trying to become a butterfly." Suddenly she shuddered. "In a way, it's terrible. You can see it trapped inside. I've wondered if I shouldn't try to help." She looked at him, pleased by the interest on his face. "Do you know anything about butterflies?"

It was several moments after she had stopped talking before he said anything. But she'd charted the expression on his face, one of soft bewilderment. Oh, how lovely it was to have him back.

"Will you come with me, John?"

Slowly he reached one hand out and caressed the side of her face. "I'll come. Lead the way."

"Let's take off our shoes," she suggested. "It's very marshy and damp. And it feels so good, the wetness."

He laughed and immediately reached down to his boots.

"Let me do it," she begged, and without waiting for his answer, moved close and rested his boot in her lap and released the three large buckles, and with one effort jerked his foot free. She rolled down his stocking and pulled it free, and marveled at the white beauty of his foot, the skin so tender. When she looked up, she was dazzled by the radiance in his eyes, the tension she'd seen earlier almost gone.

Hurriedly she removed his other boot, then stood and kicked off her slippers, and seeing his sweat-dampened shirtwaist, made a second suggestion. "Why don't you take off your shirt as well?"

Without a word of protest, he followed her every suggestion, and stood before her at last, perfectly at home in his skin, bearing an incredible resemblance to the young boy she'd met here years ago.

"Well, then"—he smiled—"lead the way. I have an appetite for small perplexing mysteries."

She lifted her head and called for Wolf, told him they were going to the stream and if he wanted to come, he'd better hurry.

Then she led the way through the orchard, hearing his bare feet padding along behind her, hearing him laugh aloud as though shaken by some extravagant merriment.

From where he sat atop the high carriage seat, Alex saw the young woman and grinned, his suspicions confirmed.

So! It was a woman. But even from this distance he could tell that this one was different, no brassy London whore.

Alex knew he shouldn't be watching, and considered averting his eyes, but what else was there to watch on this deserted road? So he settled back against the seat and took it all in, the two of them standing at the bottom of the hill, John stroking the cat—that was a bad sign, when he had that pretty piece of fresh country goods standing before him.

Ah! There! At last. She had some sense if he didn't, and Alex watched, fascinated, as she led him across the road and into the shade of the orchard.

Squinting, Alex continued to watch. Jesus, they looked shy as children, her kneeling before him, him scratching at the dirt. Where was the old John who could disrobe a whore and mount her in twenty seconds flat? Alex knew. He'd timed him often enough. Yet now? Look at him there, ducking his head like some schoolboy.

Wait! There was an encouraging move, again coming from her. Doing something to his boots. Oh, yes, events were picking up, John shedding his shirt, the two of them standing . . .

Suddenly Alex leaned forward on the seat. What in the hell? Look at them, running through the orchard and through the meadow beyond, racing toward that dark fringe of trees.

Damn I They must have seen him watching, and now he'd be robbed of the best part. "Damn!" he cursed again, and crawled slowly down from his perch, sweltering, and into the cool interior of the carriage.

Well, no matter. At least he knew what they were doing here now, and knowing John, within the hour he'd have his fill of country air and country wenches, and unless old Alex missed his guess, they would be London-bound by nightfall.

Unfortunately, he missed his guess, and two weeks later, as he squatted on the flagstone terrace outside the kitchen entrance of Harrington Hall, scaling fish with a stick of an old man named Max, he sat flat down on his ass as though he'd just come to his senses, and wondered what in the hell they were still doing here.

Not that it was so bad. Quite the contrary. It was one of the most enjoyable and prolonged holidays that Alex Aldwell had ever known, fishing every day in the Avon with old Max, enjoying a bountiful table in the servants' hall with the staff, though a weird collection of geese they were.

They'd spent the first two nights at the Red Lion in Salisbury, then the young lady had insisted that they stay at Harrington Hall, and Lord Harrington had agreed, though he wore a perpetually be-wildered look and fingered pope beads all the time.

As the fish scales splattered about the flagstones at his feet, Alex was forced to admit that the most baffling of all was John Murrey Eden. Every evening that first week, he'd told Alex, "We'll leave tomorrow, noon at the latest." But tomorrow and noon would come and go and the young lady would appear with a picnic hamper and the}' would take off across the downs and return at nightfall with wreaths of clover in their hair.

Like children they were, the two of them, sometimes riding bareback over to Stonehenge, other times jumping out of the barn and onto the hay mounds, then John bidding her good night at the ungodly hour of ten o'clock and sitting with her father for the rest of

the evening, then coming to bed himself about midnight, where he stayed, for Alex had heard him from the next room.

No, something was going on, or more accurately, nothing was going on, and wasn't likely to, and in the meantime, what must the folks back in London be thinking? Worried sick, that's what they'd be. Oh, yes, he could just imagine Mr. Rhoades. And Miss Elizabeth. It was a wonder she didn't have the soldiers out searching for them.

No, it would have to come to an end soon, and as Alex tossed the last fish over into the wicker basket, he ignored Max's invitation to share a pint, and walked determinedly around the side of the Hall, squinting over the wall into the garden, where he'd seen John and Lila Harrington walking earlier.

There they were, on their hands and knees, planting, John as mud-smudged as a farmer. Children. That single description kept coming to mind and seemed most accurate.

Kneeling beside John was the young lady, or more accurately, child, for Alex knew the female of the species very well, and that one, he would swear to it, was as virginal as the day she'd slipped from her mother's womb, and for all the progress John was making, she was likely to stay that way. He gazed a moment longer as they passed the trowel back and forth. Then Alex had seen enough and cleared his throat noisily.

At the rude noise of shifting phlegm, he saw John look up, an expression of concentration on his face as intense as when he did his cost charts. "Alex . . ." He smiled, as though just bringing him into focus. "Come, lend us a hand. We're making an investment in the earth, and according to Lila, the dividends next spring will be lovely, long fragrant trumpets of waxlike beauty."

Christ! Had the man taken leave of his senses? "I . . . was wondering," Alex began, "if I might have a word with you. Just a word, John, that's all, in private if you don't mind."

Gently John leaned close to Lila and delivered himself of a melodramatic stage whisper, loud enough for all to hear. "Look! Now, that's a London face. Can you see it? Look at the brow, the tightness about the eyes."

To Alex's embarrassment she said quietly, "It's a good face, John, the face of a man who loves you very much." She raised her voice to Alex. "Won't you come and help us, Mr. Aldwell?"

For a moment he almost succumbed to the sweetness of that face. But at last he saw John rising from his kneeling position. Brushing

the dirt from his knees, he started up the flagstone steps which separated the terrace from the garden below. "Now, Alex, what's so important that it couldn't wait?"