The Eden Passion (34 page)

"To your left," the voice instructed. "See the crook in the trunk?"

Then at last he saw her, or more accurately saw a single soft kid slipper, then the hem of a green dress, a mottled pattern resembling the profusion of leaves. No wonder he'd failed to see her. Perched on an uppermost branch, she blended perfectly with the tree.

Still unable to see any more than slippers and the hem of a gown, he shaded his eyes and moved rapidly around the tree. "You have a clear advantage," he called up, spying now a slim waist and a cascade of hair the color of the sun.

He heard the laugh again and the voice, just barely concealing its merriment. "That doesn't very often happen to me. I like it, though," she said.

"But it does make conversation difficult." He smiled, still encircling the tree, seeing more each turn, a white hand grasping a limb, the angle of a jaw where the sun struck it.

His neck began to ache from its rigid angle. He felt ridiculous conversing with the tree. "Won't you come down?" he asked.

"Why should I?" the voice inquired, a tutored voice, calm, gen-

teel. "You might be a highwayman or a murderer. You're unhappy, I can tell that much."

For a moment he gaped up at the talking branches. 'To the first charge, I plead innocent. To the second and third, guilty."

He looked up to see what reaction, if any, would be forthcoming. He heard a soft "I thought so."

"The man deserved to die," John added, confessing to the tree.

"Many men do," the voice replied, then added curiously, "you'll probably kill again before you die yourself."

He lowered his head. "I. . . hope not."

"Where do you come from?" the voice asked.

John started to reply, then changed his mind. "From . . . that way," he said, and vaguely pointed back down the road.

"I know that much," the voice scolded lightly. "I've been watching you for ever so long, since you first appeared over the last down. I'm the one who made you leave the road." There was a pause. "I have magic powers, you know."

Again John gaped upward, recalling his strange compulsion to abandon the road. "Are you a witch?" he asked, smiling, keeping his eye trained on that one small slipper.

Abruptly she laughed. "I've been called one before."

"By whom?"

"By people who have reason to fear me."

"Do I have reason to fear you?"

The laugh died. Her voice changed, seemed to soften until it was little more than a part of the gentle breeze blowing through the tops of the trees. "I would hope not."

Weary of encircling the tree and craning his neck upward, yet enjoying the distraction from his grief, John at last settled against the trunk of a near tree. "I would never harm a witch," he said, entering effortlessly into the pleasant madness.

"I know that," the voice replied. "Still, there are impulses within you. I've known about them for ever so long."

As the voice trailed off with the wind, John sat erect, cross-legged upon the ground. "Known about them?" he questioned. "You've never seen me before."

Again the breeze seemed to break into a peal of laughter. "My goodness," she exclaimed, "I saw you only this morning, in my chambers. I asked Wolf if you were the one, and he said yes, and I argued with him. But he won out. He always does."

Beginning to feel uneasy, John asked tentatively, "Who is . . . Wolf?*

"My cat. He'll be so pleased when I tell him how right he was."

"I'm . . . glad," he murmured, thinking that perhaps he should leave. The wind seemed to have turned suddenly chill.

Although he had yet to move, she said, "You don't have to go yet. You'll spend the night in Salisbury, at the Red Lion, and it's an easy walk from here."

He looked up, beginning to feel annoyance at the invisible presence. "I've not been sleeping in public houses," he said. "I'm afraid I have a limited purse."

"Oh, it won't always be so, I promise you that," she soothed. "I have it on good authority that one day you will be one of the richest men in England."

He laughed openly at the preposterous suggestion. "On whose authority? Wolf's?"

"Who else?"

Still the wind was increasing, the clouds overhead growing thick. Well, he'd rested enough. It had been at best an interesting diversion, a fanciful, other-world quality about it. But unfortunately he was still of this world. As he rose to his feet, he glanced upward again. "I thank you for talking with me," he said, bowing to the tree. "If I should ever pass this way again . . ."

"Oh, you'll pass this way many times," the voice said, "so often that you will cut a new road between London and North Devon. And if I'm not here, look for me in that large house which sits just over the north down. Harrington Hall, it's called. And my name is lila."

Again his eyes began to blur from searching the upper branches. Once he thought he saw the gleam of an eye looking down on him. "Lila," he repeated.

"And your name is . . ."

"John." Sharply he looked up. Had she said the name with him, or had he just imagined it? Then "John" she repeated, and he thought he detected sadness in her voice. "Please don't wait too long before you come again," she added. "Of course I'll be here, regardless when you come. But don't let too much time pass."

The rising wind lifted the hem of the green dress and blew it to one side, revealing a white lace petticoat. Apparitions did not wear lace petticoats. Though certain that he had fallen into a kind of madness, still he asked, "Won't you come down before I leave? You

have climbed to a considerable height. You may be in need of assistance."

When at first she didn't answer, he dared to hope that she might be considering his request. But instead she said, "No, I need no assistance. I climbed up and I can climb down. Besides, it's not time yet."

"And when will that time come?"

"Oh, it depends on many things. We both have much to do. There's a chance that one or both of us will not survive." Her voice fell as though she were considering her own words. "But I think we will. Now, you must go. Look! The cat's told them where I am. Isn't that just like him? To send me out here, then tattle on me?"

At that moment he heard a horse neighing in the distance. He turned about and saw a lone rider on the far hill.

"Oh, dear," she mourned. "You must hurry. Take cover deeper in the orchard."

There was such an urgency to her voice, such a complete madness to the entire episode, that before he was consciously aware of what he was doing, he found himself retrieving his satchel and running deeper into the orchard, finding a safe shelter of trees about twenty yards away and taking refuge in the shadows.

From where he crouched he could see the horseman drawing nearer. He heard a voice, slightly cracked with age and thick with worry. "My lady?" the old man called out. "Are you here? I beg you . . ."

Carefully John watched, peering out from his hiding place. Suddenly he saw a figure gowned in green drop from the tree, her hands outreaching to break her fall, a small, slim figure it was, almost childlike. As she picked herself up, he saw the rider turn in that direction and gallop eagerly forward, reining his horse in directly before the girl.

"My lady," the old man scolded. "I hope you know what you've done? You've upset the entire household. Your father and mother are—"

"I'm sorry, Max," John heard her say, approaching the horse. He had yet to see anything but her back and the long strands of fair hair, mussed by the wind. "I don't know why everyone gets so upset," she murmured. "I always tell my cat where I'm going. All you must do is ask him."

John saw the old man's face fall, as though a mantle of sorrow had just been dropped over his shoulders. "I know, my lady," he said, as

though humoring her. "But you see, I have trouble understanding what the cat says."

"I don't see why. He speaks perfectly respectable English."

Then John observed the old man's eyes moving heavenward. "If her ladyship is ready to return, permit me to . . "

As he bent over and extended his hand in assistance, she placed her slipper in his stirrup and swung up in the saddle with him, her face still obscured, but her voice clear. "Oh, Max," she said, speaking with childlike excitement "I just met the beautiful boy. He was standing right here."

"Of course, my lady. Are you secure?" There was a hint of disbelief in the old man's voice, as though he were accustomed to hearing incredible stories.

"If you had come earlier, you could have met him too, Max. But I had to send him away because it's not time yet He'll come back and you can meet him then."

"It will be my pleasure, my lady."

"Of course, he's a murderer, but in time we all will forget that"

"If you say so, my lady."

"Of course I say so." John heard a sudden sharpness to her voice, as though she were aware that she was being humored. How terrible, he thought to know that nothing you said would ever be taken seriously.

Then, "Take me home, Max," she commanded. "I must speak with Wolf."

"Of course, my lady."

As the horse started slowly forward, John dared to leave his hiding place, longing to call after her. At that precise moment she turned toward him, a smile on her face, a most beautiful face, clear wide-set blue eyes, conveying a message without words, as though thanking him for talking with her, for taking her seriously.

He had only a glimpse, then she was gone. Still John watched, thinking surely she'd turn and look at him once more. But she didn't. Not until the horse reached the crest of the down and disappeared on the other side did he venture all the way out of hiding, and even then he approached the tree where she had perched with caution. Carefully he looked up and would not have been surprised to see that same soft slipper, the hem of that green patterned gown.

But he saw nothing except the tree limbs dipping under the stress of the rising wind and saw beyond to the churning clouds. Rain by nightfall was his grim prediction.

London was still miles ahead, and suddenly he discovered that he'd lost his appetite for the open road. The adventure of sleeping in barns and hitching rides in the backs of hay wagons no longer appealed. Perhaps it would be more prudent to stop at the Red Lion tonight in Salisbury, and come morning he'd spend his remaining money on a coach ticket to London.

He turned sharply and glanced toward the crest of the down where the horse and riders had disappeared.

You will spend the night in Salisbury at the Red Lion.

Then he felt the first cold pelting of rain upon his head and broke into a run, the rain increasing with each step.

My name is Lila, and you'll find me at Harrington Hall.

It was impossible for him to think any longer. The cold rain was coming at him from all directions, and the nonsensical present had been replaced by memories of the past

Harriet.

Normally at this hour they were taking tea in her chambers. In spite of the rain, he could detect her fragrance, the way her hand brushed across his forehead.

Suddenly as he ran, tears came, the first release he'd experienced since he'd left Eden. In spite of his grief, at odd moments a quiet voice sounded in his ear, along with the rain.

You'll be one of the richest men in England one day.

Had he dreamed it? Or was he too mad, his mind unhinged by past events? Still he ran, the rain increasing, his thoughts growing as blurred as his vision.

By the time he reached Salisbury, the storm had increased to dan* gerous proportions, and only a fool would have refused shelter.

Now seated on the edge of the bed in his chamber in the Red Lion, wrapped in a blanket and shivering, John watched as the young maid fussed with the reluctant fire in the grate. She was talking all the time of something or other, talking lightly, as only women can talk.

Beneath the influence of her voice, a small fire, no larger than the one in the grate, began to warm John, and something inside his heart thawed in consequence.

By nature unsuited for self-pity, he pushed the mysterious past out of his head and concentrated on the flickering red light coming from the fire and the way it played over her earnest pretty face.

He did not know her name. It was not her name that interested him. "It's going well," he suggested, referring to the fire.

"Smoking a bit too much," she worried, fanning the air with her hand. "The wood is damp."

"Everything is damp." He smiled. He lowered the blanket from his head. "Do you live in Salisbury?" he asked, observing a small roll of soft flesh beneath her chin.

She nodded, her hands still outreaching with the poker, prodding the logs to burn. "Not far from here. With me mum."

"Where's your father?"

"Ask God," she replied without hesitation, "for I'm sure I don't know."

There was no anger or regret in her voice, simply a statement oi fact.

"Have you always lived here?" John asked, enjoying the sound of rain on the roof, the pleasant lassitude that was beginning to extend to all parts of his body.

"Aye, always," the girl replied. "Least, as long as I can remember."

Then to the heart of the matter. "Would you know," John began, "of an establishment in these parts called Harrington Hall?"

She looked up at him with a roguish grin. "Coo, I'd have to be blind and dumb not to have heard of Harrington Hall, sir. They're our gentry, they are, though all of 'em's as balmy as a March day."

John allowed the blanket to fall down about his shoulders. The fire was beginning to blaze well. The warmth felt good on his bare shoulders. 'Tell me about them," he invited, "unless of course you have duties elsewhere."

She glanced slyly up at him, her dark brown eyes catching sight of his bared torso. "The inn's full, sir," she said, "ever-body abed, 'cept you. I won't be needed, or missed, for a while."

He smiled. Obviously something she had seen had caught her fancy. 'Then tell me about them," he urged, slipping to the floor before the tire, the blanket lowered to his waist.

His closeness seemed to distract her. Carefully he charted the course of her eyes over his chest. "Ooh, what happened here, sir?" she gasped sympathetically, her fingers reaching out to the small scar in the shape of a B.