Improbable Eden

by Mary Daheim

  Eden had been awake for some time when the squat guard showed up with what passed for breakfast in the Tower of London. A crust, a piece of cheese and another mug of ale were placed before her. Eden gazed bleakly at the unappetizing meal but said nothing.

  The guard was not so reticent. “Well? Might ye be accustomed to gold plate and crystal goblets? Eh?” Eden chose not to reply. But the guard wasn’t giving up so easily. “No curiosity and no appetite! Tsk! Tsk!”

  When she remained unresponsive, he touched the claret-colored waves of hair at her neck. “Eh, doxy, pretty doxy ….”

  Eden pulled away and held up a hand. “Wait!” The seed of an idea was taking root in her mind. She gestured at the breakfast tray. “I asked for water last night, I ask again this morn.” The haughty glance she threw him was softened by the hint of invitation in her eyes. Noting slow if unmistakable comprehension spread across the guard’s blunt features, Eden grew specific: “A large amount of water, in a great heavy basin, so that I may not only drink, but also—” she flicked her tongue over her lips in the most provocative manner she could muster “—bathe.”

  “Ah!” The guard all but danced at the prospect, then he was gone, scurrying down the passageway.

  Eden moved on wobbly legs, trying to make herself limber by the time the guard returned. It never occurred to her that the scheme she’d just concocted was wildly imprudent. For Eden, brought up on the strict Huguenot code of right and wrong, the King’s men had acted unjustly by imprisoning Marlborough and Prince Maximilian. Clearly, neither was guilty of plotting against his sovereign lord. Marlborough had said as much, and it must be true. Even more outrageous was her inclusion in the arrest. Thus, since the night had passed with no apparent effort to release them, Eden had decided to take matters into her own hands.

  The guard was panting with a mixture of exertion and anticipation when he arrived with a much-dented tin tub and a big pewter jug. Fighting repugnance, Eden reached out to take the water. But the guard had no mind to wait for the niceties. He banged the jug down so hard that some of its contents splashed onto the rushes. Eden’s attempt to play the coquette was foiled. The guard lunged across the narrow room and fell upon her, almost knocking them both into the tub. Jarred, Eden gasped for air and was about to try reasoning with the wretched man when he began ripping at the muslin of her bodice.

  “Hold,” she breathed, fighting to keep panic out of her voice. “I must bathe first!”

  The guard’s answer was to rip her gown on the diagonal, then paw at her thin chemise. Eden wiggled beneath him, trying to escape his greedy hands. The game had gone badly; her inexperience had disqualified her from the start. The protest that rose to her lips took on a shrill note as the guard yanked down the chemise to reveal her full breasts.

  “Damn!” he whistled between the spaces in his teeth, “now there’s a lovely sight!” To prove his point, he covered her breasts with his sweating palms, squeezing and flattening them as if they were bread dough. Eden’s cries were strangled in her throat; her entire body throbbed with revulsion. Was this what men and women did when the kissing was done? She couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t equate such bestial savagery with the smug faces of Cybele and Genevieve after their wedding nights.

  Eden stretched out one arm so tautly she was sure it would snap. But a great, straining effort permitted contact with the pewter jug. Squirming under the guard, she wrapped her fingers around the handle and brought it down on his bald head with a resounding thud.

  She did not see the stupefied expression on his face, for the water cascaded over them both. His groping fingers fell away, his squat body went limp, and Eden kicked free. Struggling to her feet, she brushed the water out of her eyes with one hand while she tried to fasten her bodice with the other. At her feet lay the guard, a nasty red bump swelling on the top of his head. She marshaled her thoughts, then leaned down to remove the heavy iron loop that held several keys. She hurried out into the passageway and was relieved to find that it was empty.

  She had no plans other than to escape the guard and her cell. Having accomplished both, she puzzled over what to do next. Locking the door behind her with the proper key, she decided to turn to her right. The guard had come from the opposite direction; his post must be avoided.

  Moving on tiptoe, she noted that the three other cells in this part of the Tower were unoccupied, though she knew that Max was being held somewhere nearby. She hesitated, unsure of where to go next, then froze in place. From around the corner of the corridor’s bleak stone walls, she could hear the approach of brisk footsteps.

  Terrified, Eden glanced around her. There were no hiding places, no privy stairs, no recesses of any kind. She would have run, but it was too late. The other person came around the corner, all but tripping over her cringing figure.

  “Eden!” Max grabbed her by the arm to make sure she didn’t topple over. “What in the name of St. Hubert are you doing here?”

  Eden swayed, then put a hand on his chest to steady herself. “Well, now.” She swallowed hard, feeling awkward in her torn dress, embarrassed by the disrespect she had shown him earlier, but most of all, conscious of his solid presence, which she found surprisingly reassuring. Her long lashes dipped with chagrin. “I escaped.”

  Max was staring at the top of her head. “So it seems.” He checked an urge to laugh, and marveled at himself. This grim fortress was scarcely the place for merriment, yet even within these cold walls the silly chit managed to provide more amusement than he’d known in the past four years. To his dismay, he found that it took an effort not to place his big hand over the small one that rested on his chest.

  She was looking at him with those wide, dark eyes. “And you? You are no longer locked up, either?”

  “That’s true.” The high cheekbones displayed just the hint of a flush. “They released me. There are, it seems, some advantages to being a foreigner in England.”

  Eden’s hand fell away. “You mean that His Lordship is not free?”

  Max was vaguely embarrassed. “My … friends have not been able to secure Jack’s release. As soon as I’m out of this wretched place, I shall see to it.” He paused, securing his cloak more tightly around his neck. “Indeed, I must be off to get this matter straightened out.”

  “Wait!” Eden all but pounced, stopping Max in the act of turning away. “You can’t leave yet.” Was he abandoning her because she had been so pert? In truth, it would serve her right. “I have these,” she said, brandishing the keys she’d purloined from the guard. “Can’t we free His Lordship and rectify this injustice?”

  With one swift movement, Max snatched away the keys. “This isn’t Kent,” he said grimly, ignoring Eden’s spurt of resentment. “You’d only make a bad situation worse. You don’t understand court politics.”

  Eden considered briefly. He was right, and she had no choice but to agree. After all, Marlborough had expressed great confidence in the Prince, both as a friend and patriot. Though she had known Max but briefly, despite his aloofness there was something about the man that evoked her trust. “Please,” she begged, a tremor in her voice, “then at least see that I get out of here safely.”

  Max shifted his considerable weight and looked anxious. Accepting responsibility for Jack’s illegitimate daughter made him uneasy. Max had never been convinced that the Earl’s plan was feasible, and after meeting Eden, he questioned her ability to play the part Marlborough had written for her. Yet she was an appealing little creature, and he could hardly abandon her to an unknown fate in the Tower. “Yes, of course. Jack would want me to,” he added, more to himself than to Eden. “All right,” he said brusquely. “Let’s hurry. The guards might try to detain you, no matter what I tell them.”

  With a sigh of relief Eden clutched at her torn dress, gathered up her cloak and hurried after Prince Maximilian. She felt like a newborn foal chasing a sure-footed stallion. With a pang of remorse at the thought of her father still languishing in a cell somewhere inside the Tower, E
den came out into the sunlight and took in a dizzying breath of freedom.

  Under a pale winter sun, the tumult of London sprawled westward into the City itself, and beyond to their destination of Westminster. Skirting Billingsgate Market, where the odor of fresh fish hung heavy in the air, they passed London Bridge on their left. Eden would not have guessed that the crowded edifice was anything but another street. Max had to point out to her that for centuries the bridge had been no mere river crossing, but host to a variety of commercial ventures, including some of London’s most famous shops.

  “Strange, wondrous strange!” marveled Eden as Max warded off a pretty hawker of hot baked pears and pippins. A cartload of bricks rumbled by, splattering dirty snow on Eden’s skirts. Now that they were out of the Tower, her emotions were in a jumble. Even though she scarcely knew Marlborough, she felt guilty about leaving him in the cheerless prison. As for Prince Maximilian, he had not exhibited much enthusiasm for taking her with him. His height made him seem aloof, yet Eden sensed that he was a private person by nature and that he wore detachment like armor.

  “You must think me an ignorant bumpkin,” she said at last as they approached Blackfriars.

  “What?” Max glanced at her, then pressed forward into the crowd of street vendors making their way up Ludgate Hill to St. Paul’s. He shrugged. “You are what you are. That’s true of us all.”

  “But …” Eden took a deep breath and forged ahead, fearful of getting separated from Max in the throng. “Who are you?” she asked as the crowd began to thin out near the church.

  He was gazing at the skeletal spires that Christopher Wren had designed to replace the old edifice, which had been destroyed in London’s great fire some thirty years earlier. “I’m Max. What else I am is not important. At least,” he added dryly, “not in this country.”

  Noting a hint of bitterness, Eden started to question Max further, thought better of it and stared in the direction of St. Paul’s. Workmen perched and pigeons fluttered along the unfinished walls, but even in its uncompleted state, the new church seemed immense. Indeed, everything about London struck Eden as larger than life—and noisy and crowded and dirty and foul-smelling. There were painted women with their bosoms all but exposed, rouged gentlemen wearing more lace than a Kentish bride, blackamoors with colorful turbans, stodgy merchants speaking in foreign tongues, shrieking children wearing rags, and dozens of strange smells, from coal and smoke to bread and oranges to musk and gin.

  “Dumplins! Dumplins! Diddle, diddle, dumplins, ho!” cried a mammoth woman who looked as if she’d eaten more of her wares than she’d ever sold.

  Eden edged closer to Max and noted that their surroundings had taken on a calmer, less oppressive air. She wished he’d smile more often; humor made him much less intimidating. But Max was solemn, his long, purposeful strides taking them into a broad avenue flanked by many new buildings, some of which were still under construction. “It’s all so different,” she sighed. “In Kent I could never imagine what London must be like.”

  “You speak well for a country lass,” Max remarked as a splendid coach rolled past. “You have little accent.”

  Eden was surprised to discover that Max’s comment pleased her. “My foster parents hired a tutor who had no accent. They felt it would be to our advantage to speak like proper folk. Being French,” she added seriously, “the Berengers thought we should acquire our new language in its purest form.”

  Max was looking at her with bemused eyes. “Then you must find my errant English harsh, Mistress.”

  “Oh, no.” Eden shook her head and realized it had begun to rain. “ ’Struth, you speak well for a Dutchman.”

  “I’m not exactly Dutch,” replied Max, his mouth trying to rebuff a smile. “I’m Flemish.” Without waiting for Eden to respond, he gripped her by the arm as they crossed the broad avenue, dodging horses, more coaches, finely clad strollers and a three-way dog fight.

  “Your manners are atrocious, of course.” He spoke with nonchalance, then blinked against the chilling rain and looked speculatively at Eden. “Do you still speak French?”

  Eden bristled at the reproach but kept her temper in check. “I used it little at home, but can converse with perfect ….” She stopped, awestruck by the splendid rain-blurred vision before her. They were on a tree-lined street, the bare branches trembling in the wind with elegant dignity. Beyond stood a phalanx of new buildings, each several stories high, with row upon row of windows that seemed to stare at Eden like so many haughty glass eyes.

  “Many of the courtiers live here,” said Max, amused at Eden’s openmouthed wonder in spite of himself. “The houses face St. James’s Square, and the palace lies there. Come, you’ll have time to gawk later. We’re getting drenched, and I’m starving.”

  “Houses!” exclaimed Eden. “Houses! I thought they were the palace! How grand they are! Does Milord Marlborough live here?”

  “He plans to build in this neighborhood,” Max replied, steering Eden across another wide thoroughfare where more mansions with imposing, if fallow, gardens lay behind wrought-iron fences. “Before you conceive of any grandiose notion about my residence, let me warn you that it’s quite modest. I’m not a rich man.”

  Only now did it dawn on Eden that Prince Maximilian was taking her to his house. Somehow, in the back of her mind, she’d had a vague idea that they must be headed for Marlborough’s home. But of course the Countess might not welcome her.

  “I’m trespassing,” she said, and turned glum. “I should not have asked you to take me with you.”

  Max lifted one shoulder in an indifferent manner as the wind chased them around a corner and into Clarges Street. “No, it’s my duty to Jack. If it weren’t for him, I’d be hawking holland socks at four pairs a shilling like a common peddler.”

  Poverty and princes seemed an unlikely combination to Eden. Yet she knew that during their exile, both King Charles and his brother, James, had wandered the Continent like virtual beggars. Without comment, she struggled behind Max, fighting her skirts and cloak, which whipped at her weary legs.

  Max didn’t break stride as he took the stairs two at a time to the bright blue door of a trim sand-colored house. There was a fan-shaped window above the lintel and a brass knocker wrought in the form of a boar’s head. Max walked in. Eden took a deep breath and craned her neck to absorb her new surroundings. The hallway was narrow, with the morning gloom dispelled by a small spiral chandelier. Eden shook out her cloak and ran a hand through damp claret tresses. Max was calling to someone in his native tongue. When a half-dozen servants converged upon the hall, he greeted them with brief, seemingly concise instructions before he turned to Eden.

  “My housekeeper, Vrouw de Koch, will see to you. I shall deal with specifics later.”

  Bewildered, Eden watched Max turn on his heel and disappear into the recesses of the hallway. Most of the servants followed him. Only the stout Dutch housekeeper remained, her lively eyes studying Eden with unconcealed curiosity. She hitched up her petticoats and grimaced.

  “For you, he wants a room?” Vrouw de Koch’s jowls jiggled with what Eden took to be disapproval. “What is on his mind now? Why is he so unpredictable?” She shook her head, her tall, tufted fontange cap swaying precariously.

  Eden was as mystified as she was indignant. “His Highness and I were released from prison only an hour ago. We—”

  Vrouw de Koch made a sharp, chopping gesture with one hand. “Pah! With himself, it’s always something! Prison, duels, war, women!” Though her tone was testy, the keen eyes softened. “I raised him, I ought to know. What was it this time, a coffeehouse row?”

  Eden was prepared to offer a complete explanation, but Vrouw de Koch cut her short with another chop of her hand. “Never mind, you’re wet through and look like a ragamuffin.” She started up the central staircase, her stout body listing like a ship loaded too heavily on the starboard side.

  Three doors flanked the upper hallway. Vrouw de Koch reached for the cut cryst
al knob at her left, then shook her head. “What am I thinking of?” she murmured in consternation. She turned to the opposite door, opened it and ushered Eden in with a mock flourish. “There’s clothes, brandy in the cupboard, maybe perfume.”

  The handsomely proportioned chamber was furnished from an earlier era, except for the oak bracket clock with its ebony veneer and a lacquered cabinet displaying a motif of Chinese pagodas. Eden was so impressed that she didn’t hear all of Vrouw de Koch’s explanation of the household routine. The most she took in was that Max had a hofmeester named Jan Van de Weghe, who seemed to be in charge when Vrouw de Koch permitted it. As for Eden, bathwater and food were on the way. Concluding her recital, Vrouw de Koch listed her way out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

  Overcome with fatigue, Eden flopped down on the bed with its deep blue hangings and faded counterpane embroidered with yellow and purple pansies. As she closed her eyes, a sense of guilt overwhelmed her. She had left Smarden without a word to her foster parents, she had abandoned Marlborough in the Tower and she was encroaching on Prince Maximilian’s hospitality. It was not her fault that she had been dragged off to London, and no doubt the Berengers, except perhaps for Gerard, wouldn’t expend undue concern over her. Monsieur and Madame Berenger would be inclined to embarrassment rather than worry if the news got out that Eden had been arrested.

  As for Marlborough, Eden was powerless to help him. Max must have influence, or at least allies. She must speak to him again about her father’s release. It was likely that the Prince was already engaged in an effort to free his friend and mentor.

  Now that she was in Max’s house, she supposed he’d had no choice but to let her tag along until Marlborough was out of prison. With any luck the Earl would join her in a day or two. Eden knew that Max had been reluctant to bring her home with him; she would try not to make a nuisance of herself. She’d already behaved in a most disrespectful manner, gotten tipsy and otherwise made a fool of herself. The sooner she was free from Prince Maximilian’s supervision, the better.