The Prince of Eden (12 page)

"What else?" Marianne murmured sarcastically, already dreading the event that was still a month away.

"First, there should be a choice of soup, clear and thick, hot and cold-"

"Why a choice?" Marianne asked, looking up.

"They will be accustomed to a choice," Sophia smiled, as though pleased by the nature of Marianne's question. "Then," she went on, taking the floor now, pacing back and forth in a rustle of lavender taffeta, referring constantly to the notebook. "Then two kinds of fish, poached turbot, say, and salmon mayonnaise would be nice. And two removes, turkey and roast lamb, perhaps might accompany several entrees, such as cutlets, vol-au-vent, fillets of leveret, or sauteed fillets of fowl. Then there might come a sorbet, and after that, the game course—"

Marianne listened and watched, her mind trying to follow the woman's words. She felt cold and malicious and very useless.

"Are you following me, milady?" Sophia asked, stopping in her rigid little back and forth movements.

"I am," Marianne murmured. "Do go on.'*

"Well, if you'll forgive me again, milady, this is where some expense might be involved. We've had great trouble of late acquiring game. It would be my suggestion that we have quail and ortolon shipped over from the Continent. We must also have numerous entremets, lobster salad, maraschino jelly, truffles with champagne—"

Marianne stood. "Sweet Lord, Miss Cranford, such a menu will surely kill them—"

"I assure you, milady, they are accustomed to it and shall be expecting it. So, what do you say to that?" Sophia now inquired, and Marianne hadn't the least idea what she was talking about.

Lovingly she caressed the back of the chair, Thomas's chair, then turned to dismiss the awful woman. "I'll leave everything in your capable hands, Miss Cranford," she smiled. "I'm certain you know what to do."

The compliment seemed to please the woman. But instead of serving to dismiss her, she simply turned a page of the notebook and launched forth into another problem. "And I shall need a guest list, milady," she announced. "Invitations should have gone out last week. If you recall, I asked you for—"

Yes, Marianne recalled. "I'll have it for you this afternoon."

"And musicians. What do you—"

Marianne felt as though she were beginning to drown in the endless detail. Curtly she said, "I leave everything in your hands. Miss Cranford. Everything! Please spare me this morning. I have neither the heart nor inclination for it."

"Very well," Sophia replied, clearly pleased with the responsibility, although rather reluctantly she closed her notebook. "The funds in the household accounts may not cover the expense of the fete," she announced, straightening her shoulders. "I may have to impose upon our creditors—"

Marianne looked up. "I find that difficult to believe," she said, shocked.

"It's true, milady."

Marianne left the writing bureau and confronted the woman in the center of the room. "We are provided for handsomely," she said. "Thirty-six thousand pounds a year. I find it hard to believe that—"

But Sophia held her ground. "I keep careful books, milady. If you'd care to study them—"

It was the last thing Marianne wanted to do. Still, she didn't understand how with that vast amount of money they would have to use credit. They did little entertaining, the meals generally were simple. Her annoyance increasing, she turned away. She'd never had to discuss such matters when Thomas was alive. Then the full receipts of the estates had been put at her disposal, no questions asked. Now the receipts were gathered bimonthly by their agent in Exeter and taken directly to London, to Sir Claudius, where under Edward's direction, the sum of thirty-six thousand pounds was sent back for the running and maintenance of Eden Castle.

As though intuitively following the direction of her thoughts, Sophia moved closer. "It's a vastly unsatisfactory arrangement, milady," she quietly suggested, "the Countess Dowager receiving an allowance from her son—"

Marianne shook off the woman's closeness and moved farther away. "The property is Edward's," she said, with a calmness she did not feel, "to do with as he likes."

"And what of James?"

"What about James?"

"Is he to play the pinch-penny host to his future wife because of his brother's stingi—"

Marianne interrupted angrily. "That's enough, Miss Cranford. You are overstepping your bounds. Edward has been the heart and soul of generosity. He pays your own rather handsome salary. Now, please, never mention his name again in such tones."

The woman lowered her head, not true repentance, Marianne knew from experience, but certainly a good mask. "I offer my sincerest apologies," she murmured. "I was only trying to do my job, a difficult job under the best of circumstances."

Reluctantly Marianne agreed. "I'll write to Sir Claudius today," she offered. "You shall have the party you want—without credit."

"Thank you, milady. But again, begging your pardon, it's not my party. It's for James, for his future happiness. Alliance with the Powelses could mean—"

Marianne knew what it meant and did not need Sophia Cranford to point it out. James's union with the Powelses meant a degree of restored respectability to the Eden name, respectability which had been lost when Thomas Eden had married—"Is there anything else, Miss Cranford?"

"Yes, one other matter," the woman said, her voice gathering strength, as though she'd spotted Marianne's weakness. "Will Mr. Edward be present?"

Again, Marianne looked over her shoulder, impressed, in spite of herself, by the woman's persistence to pursue painful subjects. "Why?" she asked.

"I need to know who will preside? James or Edward?"

Marianne stood, confronting the woman. "Neither," she pronounced. "I intend to write today to my old friend William Pitch. If he can join us, he will preside. The place of honor belongs to him."

Obviously this news did not please Sophia. The little lace hat atop her head bobbed back and forth as she shook her head. "I'm not certain that the Powelses—"

"Damn the Powelses," Marianne exploded. "This is my home and I will do as I please, do you hear?"

The woman looked up, color draining out of her already colorless face. "I am an intelligent woman, milady," she began, her voice

trembling slightly. "I understand the full range of the English language and need no obscenity to—"

Regretful, Marianne shook her head. "Pm sorry, Miss Cranford," she muttered. "It's just that I was beginning to lose track of who was the guest, who the host."

For a moment, the two women stared at each other, as though from opposite sides of the world. Sophia Cranford spoke first, clearly reining in her offended nature. "I shouldn't have brought the subject up this morning, milady. I can see that you are quite undone—"

"I'm not undone," Marianne protested. "I merely wish to be mistress in my own home, a role I served well until—" She stopped herself in time. The room felt suddenly stifling. She relapsed into silence and again retreated to the window. The courtyard was empty save for the porters and the gatemen. Where was James? She still had that to look forward to.

She had hoped that her turned back and silence would signal an end to the unpleasant confrontation. But it didn't. Sophia merely moved up alongside her at the window, on her face an expression of triumph. "I beg your pardon, milady, but I suspect that the post brought bad news."

Marianne held her silence and stared rigidly down. Sophia went on. "I'm pleased to say that the morning post brought good news to me, a letter from Jennifer which I'd be most happy to share."

Marianne continued to stand still, but her eyes watched longingly as the woman removed a letter from the back of her notebook. Even from that distance, Marianne saw and recognized the familiar handwriting, the lovely flowering script of her daughter. The letter appeared thick. The last word Marianne had received was a polite note, less than three paragraphs, some months ago. "I'm not in the habit of reading another's mail. Miss Cranford," she said, finally wresting her eyes away from the letter.

"But I give my permission." The woman smiled sweetly. "It's a charming account of her life at Roe Head. I think it would lift your spirits considerably."

Marianne felt an ominous stinging behind her eyes. She leaned closer to the window in order to obscure her face.

When she failed to reply, Sophia retreated, as only a victor retreats, with head high, voice firm. "I'll leave it here on the table for you, milady. Perhaps later you'll change your mind." Her voice became quite light, almost happy. "The dear child is going to try very hard to make it home for her brother's engagement party. The term is over, but she had considered spending the summer there. I've tried to

impress upon her how important her presence is to you, and she has promised to make every effort."

The burning in Marianne's eyes increased. How considerate of the bitch, after having spent the last twenty years successfully driving a wedge between Marianne and her daughter, now to urge a reconciliation. What had happened to Jennifer's childhood? Marianne couldn't remember. It seemed as though she and Thomas were always absent, either in London or the Continent, selfishly enjoying each other's company to the exclusion of the children. And every time that she had protested their frequent absences, Thomas had merely laughed and said, "Leave them to the Cranfords. When they reach a civilized age of eighteen, we shall introduce ourselves and welcome them to the family."

But by eighteen, it had been too late, their characters formed, with perhaps the exception of Edward, who had taken refuge in the warmth of Jack Spade's cottage. The other two had been formed by the Cranfords, Caleb and Sophia, surrogate parents, their influences strong and irrevocable on both Jennifer and James.

"Are you well, milady?" Sophia asked quietly from the table.

Marianne nodded.

"Then I'll entrust Jennifer's letter to you for your enjoyment, and leave you be."

She heard the door behind her open, then close. Quickly she turned back into the room, her eyes traveling rapidly to the table. The letter was still there, as she knew it would be. She felt battered and misshapen, as though the woman had physically assaulted her.

The school in Yorkshire had been Sophia's idea, a life of service for an intelligent young woman with few of nature's natural endowments. And Jennifer had gone effortlessly along with the idea, taking to the spartan life of schoolteacher as though she had a moral debt to pay, although Marianne knew all too well that it was her debt her daughter was paying. What tales Miss Cranford must have told her about her mother, Thomas Eden's whore.

No, she would not read it. This decision made by the window held until, circling the table twice, her hand went out and almost touched the letter. Finally she lifted it. It was thick. She stared down at the handwriting.

"Oh, Jennifer," she mourned aloud. Slowly she opened it. As her eye fell on the salutation, "My Dearest Sophia," tears crested again. Never had she been the recipient of such an affectionate greeting. Her heart ached, yet she read, hungry for news.

The letter, well written and chatty, spoke of the regimen of the

school, her own duties as teacher of pianoforte, the number of girls enrolled there, how satisfying the work was and how spartan the existence. She mentioned James and Caleb, said she had received a lovely letter from Edward, and prayed for him nightly.

In the last paragraph, as though all light and warmth had been turned off, Marianne read,

Make no promises to my mother about my return in June. I should like very much to share in James's happiness, but that dismal castle holds no other joy for me save your own strong and beloved face. I know my duty, and if it's at all possible, I shall come. But out of necessity, my stay will be brief, and I must return to the work God has set for me. I think of you daily, dear Sophia, and miss you intensely. Sometimes when my loneliness seems unbearable, I must only think on you who have been like a mother to me, and I am instantly made whole again. Daily, I thank God for your presence in my life. Without you, what an empty thing it would have been—

There was more, but Marianne couldn't see the words. The tears were silent, the letter clear and painful. She groaned softly and lowered her head until it was resting on the bureau.

Almost at the same moment, she felt two arms about her, heard a gentle, anxious voice inquire, "Is there anything I can do?"

She shook her head. Mrs. Greenbell continued to hover, clearly moved. "Please, milady," she whispered. "It serves no purpose."

Marianne stood up, erect, sighed in a lost way, yet smiled. "I feel a stranger here," she said, "a trespasser almost."

"That's nonsense," scoffed Mrs. Greenbell.

"Perhaps, but it's true." She stretched out her hand to Mrs. Greenbell, bidding her to come close. "Please never leave me," she whispered. Then the two women were in each other's arms, the embrace close and warm, Mrs. Greenbell assuring her that she had no intention of leaving, that in the future she would try to spare her Sophia Cranford. "I'll handle the old hag," she promised. "I know her weaknesses, and she knows I know."

Marianne laughed, wiping the tears away. "Then, for God's sake, please share them with me."

But Mrs. Greenbell merely held her at arm's length and proceeded to straighten her hair, repair the damage that had been done to her face. "Come, milady, have some food. You've not touched either the fruit or the rolls."

But Marianne shook her head, her eye falling on Jennifer's letter. "Please return that to Miss Cranford," she said quietly. "I would prefer not to lay eyes on the woman for the rest of the day."

"Your son is waiting, milady," Mrs. Greenbell now announced.

With a conscious effort of will, Marianne crushed the feeling of dread within her. This was James, her son, not some stranger. "Give me a moment," she asked, "then let him in."

"And you are sure you—"

"I'm fine."

As Mrs. Greenbell went to gather up the breakfast tray, Marianne saw her tuck the letter inside her pocket. At that moment, she decided to write to Jennifer that very day, a letter as warm and as full of love as she could make it. Perhaps it was not too late. They still were bound together by flesh and blood, and there were a few good memories, shared memories with Thomas and the children, at Twelfth Night celebrations and special festival days. Perhaps with gentle prodding, Jennifer might remember. And forgive.