The Prince of Eden (10 page)

Then they were moving down the gravel drive, the great horse bobbing his head up and down, a curious sound escaping from his nostrils as though he were trying to conceal a laugh.

She leaned forward and patted his broad neck and whispered cool words. "Walk prettily, Falstaff, like a gentleman. At least to the end of the parkway—"

As they cleared the shadow of the estate, she glanced back over her shoulder. Old Rudy was still watching her. Now her eyes swept the front of the estate. Behind one of those many windows she felt certain that other eyes were watching as well, parental eyes.

Relaxing her grip on the reins, she looked about her at the glorious morning, a lingering scent of late-blooming lilacs in the air, the sky high and blue, the sun dazzling. Perhaps she would perspire before it was over. How she loved to perspire.

Ahead now, just at the end of the parkway and beyond the fence,

she saw the Mermaid. Mixed feelings there. As a girl she used to ride down and talk secretly to Humphrey Hills, the little boy who'd grown up to become proprietor of the Mermaid. At that time, Humphrey was her secret excitement, her private pleasure, her sense of breaking out without shattering anything. There was the art, to break out without shattering either yourself or those around you. Over the years she had become quite skillful at it.

Now as Falstaff drew near to the end of the parkway, she looked across the road, her black veil still in place. On occasion, she'd caught a glimpse of Humphrey Hills on the terrace of his inn, looking quite prosperous. Several times in the past, she'd tried to call to him. But he never looked up and always, a few minutes after she would appear, he would disappear, as mysteriously as he had disappeared when they had been children, one day waiting at the side of the road for her with a nosegay of wildflowers, the next day gone.

An ancient mystery. Slowly she shifted in her uncomfortable position and tightened her grip on the reins. But there was no need. It was as she had guessed. Falstaff knew exactly where they were going, and without the slightest urging from her, he turned to the left, skirting the fence, picking up speed, leaving the Mermaid and the old mystery of Humphrey Hills far behind.

"Now hurry," she whispered, again leaning over the animal's neck, confident that they were far enough from the house to elude the careful eyes of all who might be watching.

As the horse continued to increase his speed, she saw with visible certainty the goal before her eyes. "Hurry, hurry, please," she begged, and dug her foot deeper into the stirrup, giving the horse his head, already feeling the wind on her face.

Ahead she spied the beginning of the woods, the dark line of green behind which lay her private paradise. In her pocket she heard the comb and bottle rattling together as the speed of the horse increased. It was like a melody, a peculiar delicate refrain heralding what was to come.

At their approach to the woods, the horse, instead of slowing to select a prudent safe course, plunged straight ahead, crashing into the dark shadows, impervious to the low-hanging branches which might prove hazardous for his mistress. Quickly Harriet crouched low, clinging to the mane, laughing outright at his daring, and breathing deeply of the dark woods and hidden violets.

Not much farther. He knew it and she knew it. It was as though a mighty impulse had been loosed simultaneously in both of them. Still she clung to the mane, reins abandoned, and looked about and saw it, just ahead, the golden meadow, hidden from all views of the road and

the estate, the place where gypsies had once encamped, where as magical a transfiguration as was humanly possible could take place.

"Here," she called out, full-voiced, and at first shocked herself with the sound of her voice, unrestrained. Upon the instant, the horse cleared the last of the trees and ambled to a stop at the edge of the meadow.

For a moment she merely sat erect, carefully checking the surrounding, making certain they were alone. In that moment was contained the shock and forewarning of enormous possibilities. Quickly now she slid to the ground, her legs still trembling with exertion from the ride and the promise of events to come.

Then the transfiguration commenced. Methodically, deliberately, her hands moved up to the high-buttoned jacket, her fingers shaking as she separated buttons from buttonholes until finally she shook free of it and placed it to one side. Next came the shirtwaist, the mild early summer air already reaching her skin. Shortly the white blouse joined the abandoned jacket. Then it was the hat's turn, long pins removed and carefully reinserted into the fabric, veil folded neatly. At the same time, she pulled the two heavy clasps which held her hair and smiled warmly up at the sky as she felt her hair tumble freely down her back.

Boots next, seated upon the ground, like a gypsy herself, then hose, then at last pantaloons, until all that remained covering her was the thin white chemise. Slowly she stood and with wonder examined herself. She had never quite dared to remove the chemise as well. Dare she today? No. The current was strong, but caution and prudence were stronger. It made no difference. She could feel the sun well enough on her bare arms and shoulders, could see her breasts beneath the chemise. Wishes, dreams, and possibilities that had once had no other life than her own imagination lived now in reality.

Behind her, Falstaff" snorted and nudged her gently as though to remind her that while she was luxuriating in her new freedom, he was still bound and girded. Warmly she laughed and nuzzled his head and quickly pulled the reins forward and removed the bit from his mouth, then darted back to his side and loosened the girdle beneath his stomach until the entire saddle fell to earth.

Suddenly he lifted his head and whinnied out his approval and ran toward the center of the meadow, his feet lifting, head lowered in a cavorting, playful mood. She laughed at him and called him back. "Not fair," she cried out. "Wait for me."

And within the instant, the beast returned to her, standing patiently as though he knew full well what came next. She had scarcely ventured to touch the strands of his mane when with one graceful leap she was pulling herself upward, legs spread this time, straddling his massive

side. The sensation of his flesh against her soft inner legs was acute. The same current ran in both of them and a secret passed back and forth.

Astride him, she sat erect, entirely mistress of the situation. "Now," she whispered. And at the soft command, the horse lunged forward, no delicate pace this time, moving almost immediately to top speed while she grabbed at his mane and tightened her knees against him and gave herself fully to the power of his body.

The dark green fringe of trees passed by her in a blur. There was a kind of anguish moving through her. "Faster," she urged, feeling an unloosening of passion. Dear God, faster, please. She wanted to see nothing whole or clear. The only things that mattered were speed, power, the feel of wind on her face and in her hair, and that peculiar sensation which attended the lower part of her body where her legs parted to accommodate his massive girth.

Round and round they went, encircling the meadow at a frenzied pace and all that she saw and heard and felt overwhelmed her. She was aware of her chemise, backward-blowing in the wind, drawn up on either side to accommodate her position. The sight of her bare legs pleased her. And how sharp the sensation was becoming.

Then suddenly she bent over with a welling of desire, the sweet suffocation of anguish, everything blooming magically during this interval of dreams. Every twilight corner of her life was suddenly filled with explosions of light and warmth until at last she could bear it no longer.

Sensing his mistress's limit of endurance, old Falstaff slowed to a gallop, then a walk, then he stopped completely and nibbled new grass while she, in her extremity, slid from his back, her eyes closed. With a gasp she stretched out in the grass, unable to express even in thought what had happened to her. She did not speak but lay absolutely still, one hand covering her breast, her eyes swimming over undreamed-of things.

Shamelessly she lay, her legs still softly spread, and it astonished her to discover, as she always did, how rich was the life of her imagination and how totally removed from the real world.

The fantastic game continued for two hours, she standing now and then to remount Falstaff, then ultimately sliding off again, to lie in the grass and study her feelings and think on things, not in words, but in images, shameful images, shamelessly conceived.

At last she rose a final time, calm and silent and spent, and the restoration commenced, the clean linen withdrawn from her jacket and used to remove the moisture of sweat from her legs and neck and face. Slowly she redressed herself in the restraining garments, still astonished

at how well she felt, how bearable now was the unbearable, her thoughts of James Eden and the coming engagement party, the underworld of her despair. It was simply a matter of learning to live in a world without danger or surprise, but she could do it because she would have to do it. It was expected of her. And she could do it because of her times alone in this meadow, astride that marvelous horse who out of all the creatures, human and otherwise, in her world understood her most completely.

Dressed at last, she withdrew the comb and restored her hair into a tight knot, and splashed lavender water gently about her neck to conceal the odor of human sweat. Then apologetically, gently she imprisoned old Falstaff once again in his bridle and bit, laboriously lifting the saddle and strapping it beneath him while he moaned softly and stamped at the earth.

"Next week," she whispered, in an attempt to console him, and console herself as well. Then with every defense and propriety laced rigidly into place, she pulled herself up into that prim position, knees together, and looked longingly down on the matted grass where she had recently lain with such abandon. Even though she'd been coming to her secret meadow for over a year, only now did she grasp the importance of the place. Were there meadows on Eden Point? And would there be a Falstaff for her?

No answers, and now she made haste for home, made equal haste to forget the sensations which had almost undone her. They were not negotiable where she was going, her undreamed-of things.

Long before she was ready for it, Hadley Park came into view, the rigid lines of the old estate seeming to speak in advance for the rigidity contained within.

And old Rudy was waiting for her, grinning up. "Nice ride, milady?" he queried softly.

"Very nice, Rudy, thank you." The step in place, she slipped easily from Falstaff's back and hesitated a moment for final instructions. "Brush him well, Rudy," she said, without smiling, "and give him an extra portion of hay."

The old man laughed openly. "He'll take what he wants, milady. It*s his nature and nothing I could do would stop or change him."

She looked again at the handsome animal, a slight wistfulness in her eyes. Then she lowered the black veil over her face, lest the wistfulness show, and walked sedately into the cool, dark interior of Hadley Park to face her mother, her father, the dread of the impending engagement with James Eden, and any other hazards, known and unknown which were yet ahead of her.

^cie

I

The Countess Dowager of Eden Castle, the Lady Marianne, lay late abed on this glorious May morning. In her hand she held the disquieting letter from Sir Claudius Potter. It had been delivered to her a few moments earlier by Mrs. Greenbell, who was now fussing with the grate in the fireplace.

Considerate of the old woman, Marianne lifted her head. "The chill will be dissipated shortly, Mrs. Greenbell. Don't bother with a fire."

The portly woman raised up from her labors and looked puzzled toward the bed. Once the children's nursemaid, she had stayed on at Eden Castle and now served more as Marianne's companion than servant. Marianne looked lovingly in her direction. They shared the same birth year and now at sixty-seven they were well into old age together, both widowed. Although Mrs. Greenbell had had children, they were all dead, and Marianne was more than willing to share her own unruly brood.