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 Hadle
y 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.
"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.
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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.
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