The Prince of Eden (11 page)

"You said you were cold," Mrs. Greenbell stated, still looking confused.

"I'm always cold," Marianne laughed. "You should know that by now."

The two women exchanged a glance. Mrs. Greenbell moved closer with a lecture. "Some extra flesh wouldn't hurt, you know," she said, critically eyeing Marianne's frail frame.

Marianne waited out the lecture, as she'd waited them out for the last thirty years. She'd never carried much weight, saw no reason to start now. With the exception of the continuous chills, which she could date from that cold winter night nine years ago when Thomas had slipped from her, she was hale enough. That had been the day the sun had disappeared, and the nights had become merely unbearable hours to get through.

As though aware of the mood into which Marianne was slipping, Mrs. Greenbell stepped closer. "Will you be getting up and about this morning, milady? And what of breakfast. Miss Cranford is waiting—"

At the mention of the name, Marianne looked up. She disliked the thought of Miss Cranford waiting on her for anything, that officious female who had moved into the castle years ago in the company of her brother, Caleb. From Yorkshire they had come, both as hard and as cold as the moors of their birthplace. Caleb had served as tutor to the boys, and Sophia Cranford had taken over the duties of head house warden after the death of dear old Dolly Wisdom. Now that the boys were grown and Caleb's tutorial services were no longer needed, he had assumed the role of companion and business adviser to James. As though pondering an ancient mystery, Marianne brooded, on whose authority? How had the Cranfords managed such a discreet and skillful climb?

Out of the habit of honesty, Marianne was incapable of repressing her feelings. "The hag," she now muttered.

Mrs. Greenbell smiled. "You should see her this morning," she gossiped. "In a gown of lavender taffeta." She leaned closer. "With paint on her face."

Marianne shook her head. "Just coffee, Mrs. Greenbell, please." She looked up, almost pleading. "And would you fetch it yourself? Bring two cups, one for you." Marianne disliked asking the old woman to perform servant duties. It was a long climb four floors down to the kitchen. She might have used the bell cord beside her bed, an elaborate system of signals installed several years ago at Caleb Cranford's insistence. But if she pulled the bell cord, she knew who would appear. And she wasn't up to it. Not this morning.

Uncomplaining, Mrs. Greenbell started for the door. Again Marianne stopped her. "Was this all the post?" she inquired. "No word from Jennifer?"

Mrs. Greenbell shook her head. "There were other letters, a few for the Cranfords, two for Lord Eden—"

Marianne looked sharply up. "Lord—" She caught herself. Embar-

rassed, she shook her head and turned her eyes toward the morning sun spilHng in through the windows. Incredibly she felt the beginning of tears. When would the name cease to have power to stir her? "Lord Eden" no longer meant Thomas. Lord Eden meant James, her younger son.

Aware of Mrs. Greenbell's close scrutiny from the door, Marianne tried to alter the expression on her face. When would she learn not to reveal herself so pitifully?

"Just coffee, Mrs. Greenbell," she smiled, lowering her eyes so the embarrassing moisture wouldn't show.

But the kind soul at the door apparently knew and understood well. "It takes time, milady. Don't be too harsh with yourself."

"But nine years, Mrs. Greenbell," she murmured. "Nine years, and still at night I think I hear him moving about in his chambers. I walk the headlands and hear his voice in the wind. I enter his sitting room and smell his fragrance, sense his presence." She drew her knees up in bed and rested her head upon them. "Nine years," she murmured, as though amazed. "When will those feelings pass?"

Slowly Mrs. Greenbell came back to the bed. "Perhaps never," she counseled. "Nor would you want the feelings to leave you forever. When a husband and wife have been as close as you and Lord Eden, there is really no such thing as separation. One might walk ahead of the other, but never a complete separation."

Marianne listened, staring sideways at the room, which blurred under the patina of her tears. "I used to pray to God that He take us together—"

"We have no right to make such a request," Mrs. Greenbell scolded lightly.

Marianne shook her head. "Then how to survive?" she queried softly.

In a rapid change of mood, Mrs. Greenbell stood up, all business. "By losing yourself in the needs of others, by keeping busy, by giving your children the love and attention they require."

Marianne closed her eyes. Oh God, but sometimes the dear woman was tiresome. Well, enough. She was right on one score. According to the morning letter from Sir Claudius, one child, apparently, was in need of her attention. As for the others, James now seemed to need nothing as long as he had his hounds and horses and the companionship of Caleb Cranford. And Jenny, poor Jennifer, how was Marianne to know what she needed?

Her private grief over, Marianne suddenly threw back the covers and left the bed.

In a state of some confusion, Mrs. Greenbell hovered between the bed and the door. "Do you want your coffee first, or shall I stay and help-"

"I need no help," Marianne announced, a bit sharper than she might have wished.

The old woman retreated, shaking her head. "One minute weak and weeping," she grumbled, "the next—"

Again at the door she stopped. "I beg your pardon, milady, but Lord Eden"—she stopped to clarify—"young James would like a word with you. At your convenience."

Linen in hand, Marianne dabbed at her face. "I thought he was out riding," she said, her voice muffled. "Isn't he always out riding?"

"He said he'd be back shortly before noon." A knowing smile crossed Mrs. Greenbell's face. "I think it's about his young lady and her coming visit."

Marianne lowered the linen from her face. Mixed feelings there. Harriet Powels. Lady Harriet, the shy blueblooded female whom apparently James had chosen to move the line forward. She was due the last of June for a fortnight's visit. Her parents, Lord and Lady Powels of Hadley Park, Shropshire, were coming with her, and in the final days of the visit, Marianne assumed, an engagement would be announced. Well, perhaps it would mean grandchildren. She looked forward to grandchildren, and since Edward did not seem to be making progress in that direction, nor Jennifer, perhaps it was up to James and his shy Harriet.

She turned back to the bowl. She thought all of the plans had been made. "Of course I'll see him," she murmured. "Let me know when he returns."

As she splashed the cold water again over her face, she heard the door behind her open, then close.

Alone. She froze for a moment over the bowl, water dripping. The room was so quiet. Bent over, her breathing caused the motion of small waves on the water. The man sat in her mind like a rock. What Mrs. Greenbell did not know and what Marianne would never tell her for fear of shocking that good Methodist countenance was that the main thrust of Marianne's longing for Thomas was physical.

Suddenly, as though in the throes of agony, she doubled over, a soft moan escaping her lips. She stumbled back to the bed and stretched out. For a moment, she was quiet, staring upward at the ornate plasterwork ceiling. Abruptly she turned on her side. In a glint of sun near the far window, she spied her orrery, the clockwork mechanism of

the solar system, a miniature sun and moon revolving around the earth, a gift from William Pitch.

For the first time that morning, she found a moment's respite from her loneliness. Slowly she pulled herself across the bed, crawled off the other side, and moved toward the orrery.

It's the solar system, Marianne, the intricate movements of the sun and moon charted to the last second.

William understood. William always understood. She formed a quick resolution in her mind, to write to the man today and invite him and Jane to the engagement party next month. She realized with a wave of humor that she was even hungry to see Jane, her half-sister, William's common-law wife. The Devon air would be good for both of them. London was becoming a pestilential city. Yes, she would write to them this very day. With those old and familiar faces around her, perhaps her loneliness would abate.

Renewed with purpose, she moved hurriedly back to her dressing table. As she passed the bed, she spied Sir Claudius's crumpled letter. She'd forgotten about that. Slowly she bent over and retrieved it, took it with her to the table where the light was brighter to read again of Edward's latest ofTense.

Sir Claudius's prim, neat manner fairly sprawled with rage across the page. Apparently Edward was selling again, the estates dwindling. She would have to break the news to James. It was sure to cause a scene. And there was a scandal of some sort, an adultery case involving a young wife and Edward. And there was more. He'd last seen Edward, looking very disreputable in the company of a prostitute, fodder for his zoo on Oxford Street, the radical Daniel Spade apparently controlling him like a puppet.

And there was his customary closing paragraph, his fervent prayer, that God would take him before it became his unenviable task of presiding over a lawsuit, pointing out how very singular the case would be: the plaintiff, the younger, legitimate son of Lord Thomas Eden; the defendant, the elder, dissipating, illegitimate son of Lord Thomas Eden.

Finally he pledged lasting affection for the Countess Dowager, a sentiment which caused Marianne to shudder. Then there was his signature, as pompous and fastidious as the man himself.

Slowly she shook her head as though still amazed by the tangle of aflfairs. Well, there would be no lawsuit, at least not while she was alive. She could handle her sons, even the headstrong Edward. The Eden estates were vast. Perhaps, morally, some of it should be given away. There would still be plenty for James to use for hunting. As for

the scandal of the adultery case, probably all of London was grateful for the diversion. In her time, she'd caused too many scandals herself ever to be shocked by anything her son might do. As for the "zoo" on Oxford Street, as Sir Claudius had indelicately put it, she loved Daniel Spade as though he were her own son, agreed with his principles, and gave his Ragged School her full support. It was a fitting end for that cold house, its walls imbedded with generations of Eden arrogance, to suffer now the shouts and laughter of street children.

Good God! Quickly she left the dressing table, appalled at her capacity for the past this morning. She flung open her wardrobe, pleased by the sudden appearance of her gowns. Giving in to a moment of bitchery, she remembered Mrs. Greenbell's description of Sophia Cranford, dressed in lavender taffeta this morning.

Then Marianne would choose pale yellow silk. For some reason she felt a stern need to look her best. Yellow was the color of the sun, lavender its shadow.

She dressed with care and brushed her hair back and deftly knotted it into a chignon. Then she stood back and assessed the image, the elegant yellow silk, simple, with a scooped neck and wide flaring skirt with just a hint of bustle. Not bad for an old woman, although a telltale line about her neck disturbed her. She reached for her jewelry case and withdrew a single strand of matched pearls. Extending her head forward, she joined the delicate clasp beneath her hair and raised up for another look. Better.

Where was Mrs. Greenbell with the coffee? She turned away from the pier glass, weary of preening. She had much to do today. Her correspondence, for one thing, her letter of invitation to William and Jane. And she should acknowledge Sir Claudius's hysterical letter, although she hadn't the faintest idea what to say, and she really should write a suitably stern and maternal letter to Edward, suggesting that he should stay out of other men's beds, particularly when their wives were in them. She wondered ruefully if her "maternal" letters were as great a bore to him as they were to her.

She left her bedchamber with the image of her son constantly before her and took refuge in her sitting room, once Thomas's chambers. As she heard a rap at the door, she turned as though grabbing for a lifeline. "Mrs. Greenbell," she called out, "come—" She heard the door open in her bedchamber, heard voices, or more specific, heard a single voice, the rather prim, irritatingly high-pitched, very proper voice of Sophia Cranford.

Ah, there was reality. As Marianne turned away from the window,

she saw Mrs. Greenbell first, her plump face angling into a deep, unspoken apology, carrying a breakfast tray.

Then behind her appeared the woman herself, a slim, hard blade of a woman, done up indeed in lavender taffeta, her black hair drawn so tightly back there seemed to be a pull about her eyes, a little lace cap perched atop her head, and carrying in her hand the ever-present, gilt-trimmed leather notebook, an appendage of nature, according to Thomas.

Marianne ducked her head to hide a smile. Then the woman was upon her, effusive as always at the beginning of each of these encounters. The cold silence of disapproval and God alone knew what else always came later.

"Milady," Sophia murmured, bowing from the doorway.

With a vague smile Marianne returned the greeting and went to the serving table, where Mrs. Greenbell was just pouring a steaming, fragrant cup of cofTee. As Marianne lifted the cup, again Mrs. Greenbell caught her eye and held it, an unspoken message passing between the two old friends, both fully aware of what it was like to be trapped by Sophia Cranford.

Marianne noticed the tray, a lovely arrangement of grapes, two rolls, the silver urn. "Wouldn't you like a cup?" she asked Mrs. Greenbell, noticing only service for one.

Pointedly Mrs. Greenbell demurred. "Miss Cranford said she had business to discuss with you. I'll come back later."

Coward, Marianne thought, as the woman hurried to the door.

Mrs. Greenbell smiled and closed the door behind her. Marianne looked awkwardly about, wondering precisely who should make the first move. The woman continued to stand as though she had a rod down her back, her fingers over-laced and resting on the notebook.

Annoyed, Marianne took her coffee to the window, determined to let the silence expand as far as necessary. She knew precisely what the problem was. Of all the people in her world, including dukes, earls, and all the social lionesses of London, Sophia Cranford was the only person alive who still was capable of making her feel like a fisherman's daughter. The realization pinched.

"You had business, I believe," she said now, coolly, from the window.

When it seemed as though the woman behind her would never speak, she did, in a most unctuous tone. "I trust milady slept well," she purred, the voice in its artificiality seeming to climb even higher.

The question was rhetorical, requiring no answer, and Marianne

gave her none. Down below, just entering the castle gates on horseback, she saw her son, James, in the company of Caleb Cranford. The two were inseparable. Again she found herself wondering precisely at what point this Yorkshire brother and sister had climbed to such positions of power and influence within the castle.

Now from behind, she heard Sophia again. "It's a lovely morning, milady," she said. "May at its loveliest."

Marianne sipped her coffee and counseled herself patience. Play the game, whatever it might be. "It is indeed," she agreed, still keeping her eyes on the lovely morning and the sight of her younger son just dismounting, a slight figure of a man compared with Thomas and Edward. "I see my son is back," she commented, watching both men now, Caleb's solicitous hovering, whispering something to James, both men laughing heartily. At last she turned to face the woman waiting behind her. "Their customary morning ride, I assume?" she smiled.

Sophia nodded, as though pleased with herself. "Caleb revels in his friendship," she pronounced. "The way they carry on, I sometimes find it hard to believe eighteen years' difference in their ages; they are more like brothers."

Marianne returned to the serving table and the cofTee urn. As she refilled her cup, her patience dwindled. "I believe Mrs. Greenbell said you had business."

"Yes, indeed!" In a flurry of efficiency the woman snapped open the notebook.

"Ah, here we are." Sophia now smiled, looking up from her search. Apparently she saw Marianne's close scrutiny. Her face seemed to freeze. "Anything wrong, milady?" she inquired politely.

Quickly Marianne turned away. "No, nothing at all. Please go on. What is the nature of your—"

"Well, of course, it's about the party scheduled for the last of June, for Lady Harriet Powels—"

"What about it?" Marianne asked snappishly.

Again Sophia seemed to hesitate. "Well, milady, I must know—"

The woman lifted her eyes as though in a prouder attitude. "I loathe bringing up the subject, milady, for both our sakes, but I must know how—generous Mr. Edward intends to be with us for that important occasion."

The light dawned. Money. That was the nature of her business. Appalled by the woman's tastelessness in bringing up such a subject, Marianne sat lightly in a near chair and placed the coffee cup on the table. "We have our customary allowance," she said. "No more, no less. But I should think it would be quite enough to—"

Sophia stepped forward as though gaining courage. "These are Powelses, milady," she said, pointedly, "renowned for their generosity, their country house parties—"

Marianne bristled. "Miss Cranford, we shall receive them warmly and give them our best hospitality. Beyond that, there is no reason to discuss it further."

The reprimand won her a moment's silence. But it was only temporary. As Sophia perused the notebook, Marianne knew a rebuttal was forming.

"Then, milady," she smiled sweetly, "may I have your ear concerning the menu?"

"You have it."

"I see an eight-course meal, at least."