Improbable Eden

by Mary Daheim

  It was strange how those were the last words Eden heard before the door opened again, this time to reveal Monsieur Berenger and a man with fawn-colored hair under a modish triangular hat. It took only an instant to realize that her foster father was highly agitated. His usually impassive expression was animated, and a little pulse beat at the top of his shiny bald pate. One glimpse of the Crockers all but undid him; he stumbled across the threshold, leaving his companion at the door.

  “Uh … Bob! And Charlie! Par bleu, I had forgotten ….” He turned nervous eyes to Etienne. “Have events marched forward?”

  Etienne hastily poured more cider to cover the sudden awkwardness. “No, no. We’ve merely been conversing. Eh, Bob? Charlie, my lad?”

  Bob Crocker was too busy staring at the highborn newcomer to reply. As for Charlie, he still had his adoring gaze fixed on Eden. It was she who gestured to the stranger to enter, bestowing on him a gracious if questioning smile.

  The man removed his hat and returned her smile, transmitting an aura of warmth and kindness. “Are these your children, my good Berenger?” he inquired in a light, pleasant voice while his host had the presence of mind to close the door.

  “Indeed, yes! That is,” Monsieur Berenger amended, making a frantic motion for Etienne to pull out another chair, “these are my sons, Etienne and Gerard, my eldest daughter, Cybele. And Eden.” His head bobbed in his foster daughter’s direction. “Then there is Genevieve, who is married and not here. These others, they are … old friends.” He spoke the last words wistfully, as if he expected the Crockers’ status to change momentarily.

  “I see.” The stranger’s refined features wore an expression that was at once comprehending and bemused. While he had looked like a young man from the doorway, at closer range, Eden realized he was older, perhaps middle-aged. Taking note of a cat that was sniffing at his high-heeled boots, the man stooped to pick up the animal and cradle it against his shoulder. To Eden’s surprise, the cat offered only token resistance before nestling contentedly into the heavy, fur-lined woolen cape.

  Shifting his wiry form from one foot to the other, Monsieur Berenger cleared his throat. “My children, my friends,” he said, suddenly gruff, “heed me! This,” he announced all but stretching on his tiptoes in a quest for dignity, “is His Lordship, the famous and excellent Earl of Marlborough!”

  Cybele uttered a bubbling gasp, Etienne’s thin mustache quivered, Gerard’s face showed an unaccustomed spark of life, and both Crockers swung around to gape. As startled as Eden was by the announcement, she was even more surprised to note that their exalted guest was staring at her. She faltered only briefly before remembering her manners and attempting an unpracticed curtsy.

  “Charming,” Marlborough said a bit absently, forcing his gray-green eyes away from Eden. “And your good wife,” he went on, turning to Monsieur Berenger. “When may I have the pleasure of meeting her?”

  Brushing at the lank strands of hair at his temples, Monsieur Berenger looked helplessly around the kitchen. “Of course, most certainly—but where is dear Maman?”

  “She took some of her special medicine to Genevieve.” Cybele’s overbright eyes were riveted on Marlborough and she offered him an artful smile. “My sister is going to have her first baby in the early summer. I have two of my own, but the Lord saw fit to make me a widow.” Her smile faded and she assumed a demure, sorrowful air.

  Carefully, Marlborough set the cat on the floor, where it rubbed against his boot and purred. The Earl’s face had taken on a pinched look. “May I inquire which is your foster daughter?” The gray-green eyes lingered hopefully on Eden.

  Monsieur Berenger wore a pained expression, as if he wished he could foist off Cybele or even the kitchen cat. The Crockers, who had been observing the august visitor with round eyes and open mouths, swiveled in Eden’s direction.

  “I’m the one who does not belong.” Eden spoke without rancor. “I’m not a Berenger by birth.” She thrust out her chin, as if daring the others to deny what they had always been quick to maintain. “I’m Eden,” she added, in case the Earl hadn’t taken in all of Monsieur Berenger’s introductions.

  “Ah.” The Earl was still pale, but his features relaxed a bit. He beckoned for Eden to come closer. “Yes,” he murmured, studying her face, “I was quite certain, but ….” He broke off, giving the impression that his words had been meant only for himself. “Monsieur Berenger, may I speak privately with Mistress Eden?”

  Flustered, Monsieur Berenger almost tripped on the cat. “The parlor,” he suggested in his anxious manner. “ ’Tis humble, but tidy.”

  Noting how Cybele’s glance raked over her with a mixture of curiosity and malice, Eden recognized the eavesdropping possibilities of the parlor and offered an alternative. “I was about to take the air. Perhaps, milord, you’d care to join me in the garden?”

  Marlborough inclined his head. “A delightful idea,” he remarked, though his face still wore that strained look.

  In the spring and summer, the Berenger garden provided a brilliant splash of color between the river and the High Street. But now, in the dead of winter, the bare branches of the lilac tree were rimed with snow. Eden was suddenly overcome by the bleakness of her family home. Its thatched roof gave no comfort, its plastered walls offered no haven, its oak door promised no warm welcome. Eden turned her back on the house and tried to gaze levelly at Marlborough. To her surprise, the Earl seemed equally disconcerted.

  “You’re very lovely,” he said at last, his breath puffing out before him on the cold February air. “Do you have any idea who your real parents might be?”

  Startled by the suddenness of the question, Eden retreated a step. “No. I don’t think my foster parents know, either.” She swallowed once and frowned. “Maman … my foster mother … told me once that I was born in France shortly before the Berengers came to England. They’re Huguenots, you see, and their kind were being persecuted by King Louis.” She stopped suddenly, aware that if anyone would know every nuance of past and present politics, it would be the Earl of Marlborough. Eden felt foolish.

  But Marlborough was reaching inside his cape to extract a plain linen handkerchief, which he passed over his forehead. “So. You haven’t the faintest idea about your father … or mother?”

  At the gate, an aged collie was nosing its way between the iron bars. “Well ….” In spite of herself, the ghost of a smile touched her lips. It would hardly do to mention her childhood fantasy, how she used to dream that her father was merry King Charles and she his long-lost princess.

  “No,” she answered, squarely meeting Marlborough’s patient gaze, “how could I?”

  The Earl was dabbing at his temple with the handkerchief. Despite the freezing weather, he was sweating. Apparently Eden’s concern showed, for Marlborough waved the handkerchief at her and shook his head. “Fret not, ’tis but one of my damnable headaches. They plague me most unexpectedly from time to time.” Stiffly, he turned to look toward the High Street. “Where is Max?” he murmured, pressing the handkerchief against his temple. “I must return to the Bell and Whistle. We will speak again,” he assured Eden. “Soon.”

  Even as Marlborough moved toward the gate, his step faltered. Eden rushed to his side, taking him by the arm. “Sire! Take care, you slipped on the ice!”

  The Earl gave a short laugh. “Mayhap. These headaches cloud my vision. I apologize a hundredfold.”

  “Nonsense,” retorted Eden, surprising herself by being so forthright with such an exalted personage. “Illness can’t be prevented, though it often can be cured. My foster mother is well-versed in healing arts. She has taught us how to deal with sickness. Perhaps I can—”

  Eden stopped abruptly, her arm still bracing the Earl. A few yards away, on the other side of the High Street, a young giant of a man, blond and lean, was scowling at them.

  “Hold! What goes here?” he called, his booted feet covering the distance to the Berenger gate in scant seconds. “Leave His Lordship be! Are you
trying to pick his pocket? He rarely carries money on him, I have it.”

  Startled, Eden stared at the blond giant. Under ordinary circumstances she would have been mightily impressed. He had an athlete’s body and the face of a Norse god. And, Eden thought with outrage, the manners of a pig. “I’m no cutpurse! I was going to brew His Lordship a special tea!” she cried, refusing to let go of the Earl’s arm.

  “Rot.” The blond giant lifted Marlborough off the ground, no mean feat considering the Earl’s size and Eden’s resistance. “I’ll tend to him. I’m used to it. Go back to your barn or wherever you come from.” He kicked the gate open and slung one of Marlborough’s arms around his neck.

  To Eden’s surprise, the Earl summoned up the strength to defend her. “Max, this is the Berenger child. Be gentle with her, I pray you.”

  The man known as Max looked vaguely dismayed as Eden glowered at him from behind the fence. “As you say. But,” he added as they proceeded up the High Street, “that doesn’t mean she’s to be trusted. This is Kent, not Kensington.”

  “There are more honest country folk than city folk, I’ll wager!” Eden cried, gripping the iron bars and giving them a useless shake. She felt like running after the pair and doing bodily harm to the brute called Max. Eden wanted to proclaim that she knew more about medicine than he did, that she certainly had a better grasp on etiquette and that the Earl of Marlborough must be a veritable saint to employ such a rude manservant. But she held her tongue, afraid of further upsetting the Earl. He seemed like a kind man, and he must have some knowledge of her parents. Otherwise why would he have called at the Berenger cottage? Dejected, she watched the pair disappear past St. Michael’s church.

  Leaning on the fence, Eden surveyed the High Street, now empty except for the old collie, which was nosing around a pile of snow. How incredible that after a lifetime of ignorance concerning her real family, the one man who knew the truth couldn’t convey it because he had a headache. Nor was it fair that Eden’s interview with His Lordship had ended on such a sour note, with his belligerent manservant insulting her. What had begun as an intriguing visit from a vaunted noble had ended in frustration.

  Eden shivered under her long cloak, watching the leaden clouds descend over Smarden. She was no more enlightened than she had been before the great Earl of Marlborough had stepped across the Berenger threshold. Trudging toward the door, she could hear Master Crocker and Monsieur Berenger discussing the price of cider and charcoal. Perhaps she could coax Gerard outside—or maybe it would be better to walk alone and collect her thoughts.

  The decision was taken out of her hands by the sudden approach of Madame Berenger, muffled to the eyes and wearing a pair of her husband’s boots. “What’s this?” she demanded, gesturing toward the High Street. “Did I not see two strangers leaving our garden gate?”

  Eden paused. She had no wish to recount Marlborough’s visit to the Berenger home, and she couldn’t bear to go inside and face Charlie Crocker or her foster family. “Papa will explain,” Eden murmured, averting her eyes. “I must go to the cobbler’s.” Sidestepping Madame Berenger, Eden fled up the High Street.

  Five minutes later she stood on the little stone bridge spanning the river. As reason triumphed over rancor, Eden realized that the Berengers could force her to marry Charlie Crocker. Her allowance would serve as her dowry. She couldn’t expect any better if she stayed in Smarden; the future was as bleak as the gray skies that hung low over the village.

  With a dragging step, Eden crossed to the other side. She had no choice but to go back. Her feet crunched on the frost in Water Lane; her breath rose before her like steam from a teakettle. Ahead, by the lych-gate of St. Michael’s church, she saw Master Young’s nephew, Adam, engaged in deep conversation with Bixby, the curate. On Twelfth Night, Adam had stolen a kiss from Eden while the Lord of Misrule had cavorted on the village green. The kiss had meant nothing to Eden, but Adam’s freckled face had glowed like a beacon. Eden made a sudden turn and hurried around the nave of the church and out of sight.

  She walked for several minutes without any thought to her destination until she looked up and saw the weathered sign of the Bell and Whistle. Perhaps there was the tiniest hope. What if Marlborough was waiting inside to tell her that somewhere a father and mother stood poised with open arms?

  She was still sunk in thought when an eager voice called her name. Turning, she saw Charlie Crocker, his face wiped partially clean.

  “Eden!” he called again, “walk wi’ me t’ Cloth Hall. I must fetch a bolt o’ muslin home.”

  Eden ran an uncertain hand through her claret-colored hair. “I … I can’t.” She offered him a little smile and glanced at the sign, which swayed lethargically in the wind. “I’ve come to inquire after Milord Marlborough,” she said on impulse. “He’s ill, you know.”

  From the baffled look on Charlie’s face, it appeared he considered illness incompatible with aristocracy. “How could such as he be ill?”

  “Even earls are mortal,” said Eden, “and in his case, kind as well. It would be impolite not to ask after him.”

  “But Eden,” objected Charlie, raising a smudgy hand, “we must talk. My father and me came t’ ask an important question of you an’ yours.”

  His eyes were beseeching her, yet there was also a strange glint that Eden didn’t recognize. She had no wish to hurt him, but the idea of courtship—and eventual marriage—with Charlie Crocker appalled her. “Later,” Eden said, hoping she sounded kind as she pushed open the door to the inn. Charlie followed her doggedly, but Eden pretended not to notice.

  She stepped inside the common room and blinked several times as the smells of tobacco smoke, hot coffee, meat juices and ale overwhelmed her. Ordinarily Smarden’s only inn wore an easy air, but the winter weather had driven a great many travelers into the little haven on the Beult. Indeed, at least two men, seated just a few yards away, were of the quality. Eden sensed their bold eyes on her and gave them a haughty look. The dark, rail-thin man exhaled perfect little smoke rings from his pipe, but the burly redhead with the scar over one eye roared with laughter. Flushing, Eden marched between the tables toward Master Bunn, the oversize, loquacious innkeeper.

  “I wish to see the Earl of Marlborough,” Eden announced with an air of importance.

  Master Bunn’s mouth twisted under his full black mustache. “His Lordship! I heard he’d been asking where t’ Berengers live.” His agate eyes fastened on her face while his enormous hands brushed at the soiled apron that covered his immense paunch. He leaned toward Eden. “Is’t true that Bob Crocker’s lad yonder seeks your hand? I heard t’ news from someone who ought t’ know.”

  “Zut!” Eden murmured the word. It was one of the few fragments of French she retained in ordinary conversation. Casting a swift glance over her shoulder at the bumbling Charlie, she forced a smile for Master Bunn. “Nothing is formalized,” she said demurely. “But now I must deliver a message to His Lordship. He is here, isn’t he?”

  Bunn smoothed the bristles of his mustache. “Aye, that he is, though a shadow of his former self. Go find Mistress Bunn upstairs. She’ll know the latest news—she always does.”

  Eden thanked Master Bunn and hurried out of the common room with Charlie at her heels. It seemed useless to discourage him.

  But Charlie felt obliged to offer advice. “Eden, are ye mad? ’Tisn’t proper to call on a great lord such as t’ Earl….”

  “He called on us,” Eden reminded Charlie. Running up the narrow stairs, she all but crashed into Mistress Bunn, who was descending with a basket of dirty linen. Spare of words as well as frame, the innkeeper’s wife regarded Eden’s request with equivocation.

  “I couldn’t say,” she temporized, “him bein’ ill.” After due consideration, she gestured with the basket toward the end of the passageway. “If he don’t answer on t’ first knock, go away.”

  Eden gave the appropriate assurances. Taking the last half dozen stairs two at a time, with Charlie thumping beh
ind her, she reached the second floor and moved swiftly toward the door Mistress Bunn had indicated. Raising her fist to rap on the worn oak, Eden suddenly stopped. Did she really dare call on the Earl of Marlborough, hero of Maastricht, victor of the Monmouth rebellion and former Privy Councilor to the King?

  Charlie answered the question by grabbing her wrist. “Hold! ’Tis madness!” He swung Eden around effortlessly, oblivious to her look of angry surprise.

  “Leave me go, Charlie!” she commanded. “You’ve no right to follow me like a sick pup!”

  “ ’Tis sick wit’ love for ye, I am,” groaned Charlie, pulling Eden close. “I’m wanting ye for m’ wife, t’ sleep in m’ bed, t’ bear m’ babes ….” He buried his face in the masses of claret-colored hair, and his big, clumsy hands clutched at her waist and hips. He groaned again and rained loud kisses on her forehead and temples.

  “Stop it, Charlie!” Eden cried, pounding her fists in vain against his thick upper arms. His fumbling hands had found her breasts. Eden pulled sharply away from him, but managed only to gain enough breathing room to look up and note the strange glint in his eyes. Instinctively she recognized sheer animal lust, and she shuddered in his grasp.

  “So fair, so fair,” he muttered, hauling her against him, his mouth searching for hers. Eden screamed. She didn’t hear the door open behind her or the curses in a foreign tongue. It was only when that voice rose to a bellow and Charlie stiffened like a pikestaff that Eden realized someone else was in the narrow passageway. Slowly, with obvious regret, Charlie relinquished her and backed away.

  “Max!” gasped Eden, staring at the Norse god.

  He was taller than Charlie by half a head and possessed an air of uncompromising authority. His hand shot out to snatch Charlie’s shirt collar. The glance he bestowed on Eden was fleeting yet curious. “I’m not accustomed to having maidens ravished outside my door,” he said in a calm, deep voice tinged with a slight accent. “Unless, of course, I’m doing the ravishing.” He gave Charlie a little shake. “Get out. Now.”