The Prince of Eden (52 page)

Marianne watched the gluttony. "Then who am I to take it out on?" she demanded. She steadied the miniature sun, set it back on its path, and rose slowly from her chair.

Behind her at the table, she left her sister's scolding face and Daniel Spade's plaintive letter, and James's mystified correspondence concerning what he'd found in Shropshire. Sweet heaven, was there no end to it?

From the window which let in the half-light of the cold January morning, she looked back at Daniel's letter. "You know what it means, don't you?" she demanded of Jane. "It means quite simply that someone in the castle has been receiving Edward's mail and pocketing it."

"It means more than someone has been pocketing Edward's letters," her old sister pronounced. "It means that if Edward is not here and Edward is not in London, where is Edward?"

Slowly Marianne lifted her head. "He left with Jennifer," she murmured stupidly.

"Of course he left with Jennifer," Jane replied, "but that was five months ago."

Quickly Marianne nodded, as though at least to give the appearance of rationality. "He might have elected to stay in Yorkshire," she offered.

"For whatever reason?" Jane inquired pointedly.

"I don't know, I don't know!" Was that her voice, as strident as a schoolgirl's? Marianne bowed her head and closed her eyes.

From across the room, she heard Jane again. "And what do you make of the news from Shropshire?"

"What am I to make of it?" Marianne leaned close to the fire to warm her hands. "What do you suppose is the nature of the young woman's mysterious illness? James only states that he was denied all access to her, indeed never saw her."

Jane shrugged and appeared to be rereading the letter, postmarked Shrewsbury and dated three weeks earlier. "Fever, I suppose," she muttered. "That would at least be contagious, thus warranting isolation."

Behind Marianne, the whistling of wind at the window seemed to be making her head throb painfully. Then there was the other problem. Poor Daniel Spade's letter, which led to the most painful mystery of all—Edward's whereabouts.

"Do you suppose that—harm has befallen him?" she asked softly, then pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips as though belatedly to halt the words.

Jane peered at her over the tops of her spectacles. "Harm? No! Not Edward. I think we must set about to find him, though, as soon as possible."

Her patience dwindling, Marianne asked sharply, "And how do you propose that we do that?"

"Simple," Jane replied. "We must write immediately to the person who saw him last."

"Jennifer?"

"Who else?"

While Marianne was contemplating with dread the chore of writing to her unresponding daughter, Jane went on. "And furthermore, I think we must have an immediate conference with the individual who handles all incoming and outgoing mail for the castle. If it hadn't been for Mrs. Greenbell's propitious appearance at the gate when the post

arrived, we might not have received these," and she gestured toward the scattered letters.

Appalled by the suggestion, Marianne leaned sharply forward. "Oh no, Jane. Please." She heard the begging quality in her voice and hated it, but not as much as she hated the proposed confrontation. "It would serve no purpose," she added weakly.

"Then let me handle it," Jane offered, as though she were looking forward to the encounter.

Marianne started to protest again, but knew it was useless, and a few seconds later, she heard Jane's voice raised in a command to the serving girls outside the door: "Fetch Miss Cranford here immediately. Tell her Lady Eden wishes to speak with her."

Apparently Jane saw the consternation in Marianne's face and tried now to ease it. "Don't worry," she soothed, coming back to her chair. "I'll be here, and I'll do the talking."

It seemed cold comfort to Marianne and she signaled as much by taking refuge by the windows, where she felt the cold blast of January wind and found that chill strangely reviving. The terrible hurt in her head was persisting, her jaws closed upon each other tighter and tighter until she thought she could no longer open them. The pain spread down her neck and seemed to settle in her left shoulder.

At that moment a knock came at the door. Marianne pressed her hands against her head, which seemed on the verge of exploding, and with an effort of will she turned away in an attempt to regain control.

The knock came again. "Let her in," Marianne commanded.

She heard the door open. Quickly she moved down to the white marble fireplace, her hands trembling, clasped behind her. She looked up to see Jane step back from the opened door, and saw the woman herself sweep in. Her nemesis. Sophia Cranford.

"You summoned me, milady?"

Drawing deep breath, Marianne managed, "I did, indeed. Miss Cranford." She gestured toward the scattered letters on the table. "The morning post," she went on, "brought us distressing news."

"I'm sorry to hear it, milady," Sophia replied.

"One letter," Marianne continued, "was from Daniel Spade. He mentioned several letters which he had sent here addressed to Edward. Would you have any knowledge of those letters?"

If she had expected to catch the woman in an embarrassment, she was sadly mistaken. Without hesitation, Sophia smiled. "Of course, milady. They are in my writing bureau, held for safekeeping until Mr. Edward's return."

Taken somewhat aback by the ease in the woman's face, Marianne momentarily faltered. Beyond Sophia's unblinking eyes, she saw Jane, standing as rigid as a statue. "Don't you think?" Marianne began again, "that it would have been better to forward the correspondence to him?"

"Where, milady?" Sophia inquired. "Of course I would have forwarded them if I'd known where. If you know, please tell me and I will do it immediately."

Marianne turned away. "Well, it's quite apparent. Miss Cranford, that he's still with Jennifer in Yorkshire."

"I beg your pardon, milady," Sophia cut in, "but it's not apparent at all. I've had letters from Jennifer. She makes not one mention of Edward-"

"Would she be likely to mention Edward? To you?" Marianne asked pointedly.

But again the woman seemed imperturbable. She merely smiled and reached into the pocket of her dress and withdrew a letter. "Here, milady," she smiled. "Please read for yourself. This is from Jennifer, arriving only last week—"

Marianne had no desire to read the warm, chatty letter from her daughter addressed to another woman. Still, she was interested in her daughter's words, if for no other reason than to try to determine if Edward was with her.

Sophia stepped forward and extended the letter. "Please, milady, read for yourself. If you find between the lines the slightest hint that Edward is now residing in Yorkshire, then Mr. Spade's letters will be forwarded to Roe Head before the end of the day."

Faced with no alternative but to read, Marianne took the letter and withdrew back to the fire. Hurriedly she read, a brief, rather stilted account of a stoic existence, the students' constant clamor for help, the endless exercise books to correct, the difficult winter. Peculiar. There was a different tone to it from letters which Sophia had shared with her in the past.

In a reflexive action, she turned the envelope over. Her eyes, dimmed by age and illness, could not at first bring the address into focus. Then they did. The storm was no longer raging safely beyond the window. The storm was within her, and the hand that held the letter was trembling so that it appeared palsied. "This," she began on diminished breath, "is addressed to—me."

For the first time she saw those stern features before her alter. "To— you, milady?" she repeated.

Marianne thrust the letter forward. "Read for yourself, Miss Cran-

ford," she commanded, "then tell me how long you have been in the habit of opening another's mail."

Then at last, Jane moved down into the confrontation, taking the letter from Sophia, studying the address for herself, then angrily hurling it onto the table.

Now Sophia Cranford was in the awkward position of having to address both of them at once. "I swear, milady," she stammered. "It was an accident. I recognized the handwriting, and—assumed it was for me.

"Assumed?" Marianne repeated, her anger full-blown now.

"The post does come in quite a rush, milady, the staff, everyone impatient. I assure you it was quite an honest error. You must admit the incident is without precedent."

But Marianne was in no mood to admit anything. With pleasure she watched the disintegration before her, Sophia's left hand now digging at something inside her pocket, the veins in her neck protruding, a predator turned prey.

Quickly Marianne retrieved Jennifer's letter from the table and studied the envelope. Lady Eden, Eden Point, North Devon. Briefly she closed her eyes. How often she had dreamed of such a letter. True, the words were impersonal, the message distant. Still, it was a start that had almost been denied her.

Holding the letter to her breast now as though it were an injured child, she tried to draw a deep breath. Sophia's talking mouth had at last fallen silent, the woman as undone as Marianne had ever seen her.

Calmly Marianne said, "Your services. Miss Cranford, are no longer needed here. I will give both you and your brother a fortnight to make other arrangements. But at the end of that time, I want you gone. Is that clear?"

Something was stirring on Sophia's face. "I've—offered my apologies, milady—"

"And they have not been accepted," Marianne countered. "Your service here is over. Need I make it any clearer?"

The strain on the face before her was almost unbearable to watch. The woman was defeated, that was clear.

But at the very moment that Marianne was claiming victory, she saw Sophia lift her head, a new expression on her face. "I do not take my orders from you. Lady Eden," she smiled, in spite of her trembling chin. "Lord Eden should return by the end of this week. He will decide the matter."

"Lord Eden?" she parroted. "Lord Eden takes orders from me," she said. "I have run this castle since the day of my husband's death and

intend to go on doing so until the moment of my death."

The woman appeared to be on the verge of interrupting, but Marianne didn't give her a chance. The pain in her head was increasing, her throat and the lining of her mouth mysteriously dry. She reached out for support to the table and curiously felt no sensation of wood beneath her fingers.

The encounter must end. "I repeat myself, Miss Cranford," she said. "Your services are no longer required. From now on, I shall see to the post myself. You will bring Edward's letters to me immediately. Then I suggest you start making arrangements for your departure."

Something was causing a constriction in her throat. In an attempt to hide her weakness, she moved toward the window, stumbling slightly on the elevation. My God, why didn't the woman leave? What was there left to be said?

Then she heard it again, that persistent, arrogant voice. "I shall deliver the letters to you, milady, and to be relieved of the dispersal of the post is a pleasure. But I will make no arrangements for departure until I hear the command from Lord Eden's lips."

Suddenly Marianne turned in a rage, still unable to understand how she could be destroyed by such a woman. The pain inside her head was increasing. "It is my desire. Miss Cranford, never to lay eyes on you again," she said, turning away to the window.

She heard retreating footsteps behind her and might have felt relief had it not been for the sharp, needlelike numbness which was now invading her right arm. Although she was pressing the flesh of the arm against the windowpane, she felt nothing. She clung to the sill with her good left hand, her brain becoming as benumbed as her arm.

There was something she had to do. What? Was that the door closing? Was she alone? And who was pawing at her? With surprise she turned and looked into Jane's face, wearing an expression of undue concern. Curious. Jane's hand was resting on that dead right arm and still Marianne felt nothing.

"Come," Jane urged softly. "Come, you must lie down."

Lie down? Why on earth would she want to do that when there was such pressing business? Had she spoken that aloud or merely thought it? Was her mouth as dead as her arm?

"Jane-"

"I'm here, Marianne. Come."^

"No." Although she was aware of Jane trying to guide her toward the bedchamber, there was a more urgent destination. She looked around the familiar room. There she spied it, her writing bureau.

"Letter," she whispered. "Write—" What was the matter with her? Why couldn't she form a complete sentence?

"Later," whispered Jane, still trying to guide her toward the bed.

Marianne closed her eyes and tried to clear her brain. "Letter," she repeated, with effort, "—to—Jennifer—"

But when Jane still insisted on guiding her toward the bed, Marianne pulled away from her support and fell, stumbling toward the bureau.

"All right, Marianne," Jane soothed, coming up rapidly behind her. "We'll write to Jennifer now."

Relieved, Marianne permitted Jane to lift her and lead her back to the center of the room where she lowered herself into Thomas's chair. She saw her sister looking down on her, a most strange expression on her face.

"Letter," Marianne began again, cursing her sluggish brain and lips and dead arm.

Slowly Jane knelt before her. "Yes, letter," she repeated as though to a slow-witted child. Then why isn't she fetching the paper? Marianne thought angrily. And why couldn't she order her to do so? The words were in her mind. Why couldn't she form them with her lips and tongue?

Oh God, help, a voice screamed within her.

But there was no sound. And nothing moved. And she heard nothing but the wind and snow against the window.

"Letter—" she mumbled again, her tongue thick.

"Yes, letter," Jane repeated, holding her dead hand.