by Mary Daheim
“There are rather a lot of them,” replied Max, casting a swift glance in Eden’s direction. “I may have to open up the attic.”
“Well, you’ve certainly opened up the windows.” Rudolf grimaced at the shattered casement, then resumed his boyish air. “Such a pity you’re so preoccupied with all these fine country folk, Max. I’d hoped we might have our own family discussion today. I’d hate to see you get arrested again before we can sort things out.”
Max’s hazel eyes snapped with what Eden perceived as outrage before he regained control and gave Rudolf an overly hearty slap on the back. “Forgive me, it can’t be helped, Rudi. Later, perhaps.” Even as he spoke, Max was propelling his cousin into the hallway.
“You may have waited too long already,” Rudolf called back before he disappeared from view.
Eden was distressed by the threat in Rudolf’s voice, but she was not prepared for Max’s irate expression when he returned.
“Well? What was the meaning of that outrageous lie to Count Rudolf?”
Discomfited by his anger, she forced herself to look at him, wishing that he were at least half a head shorter. “I’m not sure. It seemed prudent to lie. The Count doesn’t strike me as a very nice man.”
Max’s gaze moved from Eden to Craswell and back. “He’s not. He’s an unscrupulous villain.” The anger was abating, replaced by a grudging sense of gratitude. While Max found himself surprised by Eden’s perception, he was even more amazed at how much he savored having her as an ally. “Rudolf and I have often been at odds,” he admitted, though there was an evasive note in his voice. “The reasons aren’t pertinent now. He’s grasping. Even as a child, he was spoiled and selfish.”
Eden saw the shadows surface in Max’s eyes and knew that he was touching upon well-guarded ground. She wondered if he would have said more had Craswell not been there. Instead, he retreated behind his customary cool facade and gestured at the injured captain. “I’ll see that Vrouw de Koch makes up one of the empty rooms in the servants’ quarters.”
“Isn’t there an extra room on this floor?” Eden asked, remembering the third door.
The flesh over Max’s cheekbones tightened and the hazel eyes frosted over. “No.” He bit off the word as if it were deadly poison. “The servants’ quarters will do.” He left the room in chilly silence.
With the aid of Vrouw de Koch, Eden saw to the settling in of Captain Craswell, who expressed gratitude to them both. “The cuts and such will mend,” he said as the housekeeper plied him with stewed chicken and Eden changed his bandages. “ ’Tis facing the King that bothers me most.”
“It will ease your conscience,” Eden replied, plumping up the pillows and arranging a thick comforter, “For now, you must rest.”
Craswell gave her a grateful smile as fatigue overcame him. Eden and Vrouw de Koch tiptoed from the room, assured that their unexpected guest would spend a peaceful night.
When the housekeeper bustled in the next morning with breakfast, Captain Craswell was gone.
Chapter Five
By the time Eden learned of Craswell’s disappearance, Max was already out searching for his missing guest. Vrouw de Koch, however, was less than sympathetic.
“No need to fuss over the likes of a knave who smashes half the house trying to get in,” she huffed, setting Eden’s tray next to the bed. “At least he didn’t wreck the other half getting out.”
Eden picked up a mug of hot chocolate and glanced across the room to the window, which a hastily summoned glazier had repaired the previous night. “I wonder,” she mused, but said nothing more since she had no idea how much Max had confided in his housekeeper. Vrouw de Koch might dismiss Craswell’s departure without a pang, but Eden was upset. He might have convinced the King of Marlborough’s innocence. The Earl would have been set free, and with his name cleared of implication in the assassination plot, the two men might have reconciled. But with Craswell’s disappearance, Eden’s hope for her father’s future suffered a severe setback.
Despite the distraction caused by Craswell, Max had not neglected his responsibility for Eden. Before she could finish her hot chocolate, one of London’s most fashionable dressmakers arrived at the house in Clarges Street. While she was still worn out from the rigors of the past two days, one glimpse of the dressmaker’s wares picked up Eden’s spirits. There were a dozen bolts of glorious fabric, reams of ribbons, piles of petticoats and high-heeled shoes with pointed toes. Beaver hats, fringed parasols, painted fans, jeweled buckles and fur capes made Eden’s eyes sparkle. At home in Smarden, her plain linen, muslin and wool gowns were usually brown or gray or tan.
Making selections was far less taxing than the fitting process. After almost three hours of standing still, Eden was weary. Vrouw de Koch and the dressmaker were without mercy. There were still many outfits to be tried and even a corset of whalebone. At the latter, Eden balked.
“I’m not in the least bit stout,” she asserted, indicating the slim curve of her waist. “Why must I wear something that looks as if it should gird a Crusader?”
“Then you must wear a busk instead,” Vrouw de Koch insisted.
The dressmaker, an exalted creature of French origin, nodded at Eden. “Regardez, it is the long look you wish to achieve—trim, très élégante.” She surveyed Eden’s chemise-draped form critically, tapping one finger against her cheek. “A fine body, c’est vrai, but still, a corset or busk is mandated by fashion. Do you prefer horn or wood?”
Eden was aghast. “Horn or wood? Am I being dressed or constructed?”
The dressmaker exchanged knowing little smirks with Vrouw de Koch. “Both,” the Frenchwoman replied. “Alors!”
Eden’s lack of enthusiasm did nothing to stem the tide of pins and bastings. But the afternoon’s ordeal didn’t end with the fittings. Eden still had to face Master Cloudsley Clavell, a hairdresser whose pointed features reminded Eden of a ferret.
“Gorgeous, marvelous, eminently opulent hair!” Master Clavell enthused, tugging Eden’s tresses this way and that. “The opulence, oh, the opulence!”
“It’s all my own, at any rate,” Eden remarked crossly, remembering how Max had also fingered her hair. Though he might have made her nervous, his touch had not annoyed her.
“Excellent, wonderful!” Master Clavell was oblivious to his client’s sensibilities. “Now,” he began, suddenly more businesslike, “a center part, then high curls on either side of the forehead—We’ll have to do some snipping—there’s really more hair here than we can handle.” He clicked his fingers, and a youth wearing a powdered wig so large that it seemed to be wearing him, rushed forward with a long pair of shears.
“Stop!” ordered Eden, leaning as far away as she could in the chair without falling on the floor. “Don’t you dare cut off even one tendril!”
Master Clavell was shocked. “You’ll lose the effect, you’ll look positively frizzy, like some Nubian attendant in a pasha’s seraglio! It’s unthinkable!”
Somehow a compromise was reached. Eden permitted a few discretionary snips, while Master Clavell altered his basic design to accommodate more hair than he felt was necessary.
“It is your choice,” he pouted, but when the coiffure was completed, Master Clavell grudgingly admitted that Eden looked quite comely. “I suppose,” he remarked, hand on chin as he studied her reflection in the mirror, “it does say something about the inner you. A bit of a rebel, eh?”
“Perhaps.” At least he hadn’t said “bumpkin,” Eden thought as she scrutinized the courtly styling. Indeed, she looked most fetching, with the gleaming claret curls piled at her temples and the long coiled tresses trailing over her shoulders and down her back. “Can Elsa manage this?”
“Ja, ja,” replied Vrouw de Koch, “Elsa can manage anything with hair. Like a good baker, just give her the ingredients and she makes wonderful concoctions.”
Relieved that she wouldn’t have to learn the art of hairdressing along with everything else, Eden collapsed on the bed after Master
Clavell and his assistant had departed. The day’s activities had left her keyed up. She was restless in the sudden vacuum of activity and wanted to go for a walk, but it was growing dark and had started to sleet. She wondered when Max was coming home, and realized with a sense of shock that she missed him. Never in her life, with the exception of waiting for Gerard coming home from the war, had Eden anticipated anyone’s return. Aimlessly, she began to walk through the house, her ears attuned for the sound of Max’s voice or the tread of his boots in the hallway.
The main floor consisted of a handsome drawing room with lovely old Flemish tapestries, a dining room in the Italian style that could seat no more than twenty, the kitchen area, which Eden avoided, a study with finely bound books in tall oak cases and a small parlor with a trio of wonderful landscape paintings. She admired the pictures for some time, particularly a snow scene in which rosy-cheeked children skated on the ice and a portly gentleman tumbled downhill after his runaway dog.
Upstairs she paused at the first of two doors. The one at the end of the hall must belong to Max. Having no wish to be caught invading his privacy, she tried the door opposite her own. The latch gave at once. Eden discovered that the furniture was covered in dust cloths and the draperies were tightly closed. There was a stale, musty smell, indicating that no one had used the room in a very long time.
An easel stood in the middle of the floor holding a partially hidden canvas. Carefully Eden plucked at the cloth and found an unfinished portrait of what was probably a very beautiful blond woman. The curls were the color of honey, the eyes a brilliant blue. But the mouth was only sketched in, the nose a mere stroke and the rest a blank. Eden pondered her identity and wondered why the artist had given up his task. Preoccupied, she made her way out of the room and ran straight into Max.
He was wearing a light gray riding cape and held his three-cornered hat in his hand. He wore no wig, and Eden wondered if he ever followed fashion.
“You’re in the wrong room,” he barked, taking an awkward step backward.
“I know,” she admitted. “I went exploring. I found an unfinished portrait in there. Who is she?”
The high cheekbones darkened. “What idiotic questions! Why do you pry?”
Eden shrugged, trying not to let Max know how much his volatile temper unnerved her. “I was restless, and it was too foul to go outside.” Her lashes dipped in apology. “Forgive me.”
Max was having trouble controlling his emotions. The pulse in his jaw twitched, and his big hands played havoc with his hat. “You ought to be sorry,” he growled. “Why aren’t you studying something?”
“I was,” Eden replied defensively. “I was studying your house.” She watched his glower deepen and decided on a more placating approach. “The landscapes in that little parlor downstairs—they’re lovely. Who did them?”
Max’s hands grew still and his voice became controlled, if tense. “One is by Abraham Storck. Another by Aert van der Neer, who died some years ago. They both have a genius for water scenes. The one with the skaters is mine.”
“Oh!” Eden clapped her hands together, ignoring Max’s disgruntled look. “But it’s wonderful! Those charming children and the dog running down the hill and the little village …. Wherever did you learn to do that, Max?”
He was as oblivious as she to the use of his Christian name and was already swinging past her, the gray cape snapping at his calves. “It was merely a hobby.” One arm jutted toward the door to the vacant room. “Don’t go in there again. Ever.”
“Max!” she cried, distressed at his harsh words. She was even more jarred by the note of reproach in her own voice.
“Well?” He turned, still scowling.
Eden swallowed hard and tried to strike a conciliatory note. “Did you find Captain Craswell?”
“No,” snapped Max. Why couldn’t the wench leave him alone? It was one thing to have her under his roof, but quite another for her to invade his life. She should have had the good sense to keep to her place. Instead, she strolled around his house, poked into his private rooms, scrutinized his paintings and acted if she had every right to treat him like an equal. That, Max knew, was the problem with comely lasses—they felt free to take advantage. But he was well-armored against such feminine onslaughts. “Craswell has disappeared into thin air,” he said in a less heated, if distant, manner. Perhaps he couldn’t treat her like kin; maybe he should act as if she were the enemy. Yet, he reflected, that was often what kinsmen were.
“How strange.” Eden put a hand to her hair, hoping Max would notice the transformation of her coiffure. “Maybe he was kidnapped,” she suggested.
“Of course he was!” Max started to turn away again.
Eden’s hand froze on the cluster of curls at her temple. “Truly? Who would do such a thing?” She knew, of course; her father had relentless adversaries.
“Whoever it is, I intend to find out,” Max assured her, giving the doorknob a twist. “By the way, are you wearing a wig? I hate wigs.”
“It’s my own hair! Master Clavell did it this afternoon.” Eden was defiant. “You sent for him, did you not?”
Max shrugged, but came forward to study the hairdresser’s art more closely. It was his duty to approve her appearance, after all. “I sent for somebody. The name would mean nothing to me.” He tipped her chin up, then to one side. The shining curls smelled like honeysuckle, and Max was reminded of summer days on the Rhine. “Well. It’s rather becoming, if contrived. I’m not sure I didn’t like it better the other way.”
“Fashion demands artifice,” Eden averred, finding Max’s touch warm and not unwelcome. “Could a peasant seduce a King?”
“A number of them probably have,” Max replied, apparently still absorbed in the intricacies of Master Clavell’s creation. “Not William, but others. Such as Charles.” His hand fell away, and he shifted rather uncomfortably. “I must give Jack a favorable report. The swifter your progress, the sooner he will be free.”
Eden’s ebony eyes were questioning. “You mean how quickly I can get the King to …?” She averted her gaze so abruptly that the gleaming curls bobbed on her shoulders. It was one thing to talk about seducing William in the abstract; it was quite another to contemplate the grim reality.
“Holy St. Hubert,” sighed Max, “don’t tell me you’ve suddenly gotten tongue-tied?” Grooming Eden for the royal boudoir was difficult at best, but it was certainly compounded by her reluctance and naïveté. How, Max wondered, could the wench provide companionship for a king when it was so obvious that she herself needed looking after? “The truth is,” he said in a rather uneasy voice, “I’m not much good at courtly manners myself.”
“But you’re a prince!” she protested, her hands nervously working to restore her coiffure to Master Clavell’s pristine perfection.
“A prince without a principality, a man without a home,” he replied with a wry expression. “Except for this house, which is leased from Lord Godolphin, to whom I owe the past three months’ rent. Stop that,” he exclaimed, grabbing Eden’s wrist, “you’ve got hairpins all but sticking from your ears!”
Eden stood motionless while Max did his clumsy best to rearrange her hair. In truth, though she couldn’t see the results, she had the feeling that his efforts were no more efficacious than her own. She suffered his ministrations without protest, however, and discovered that she liked the tickling sensation of his fingers on her skin. Though he insisted she look straight ahead, Eden darted an occasional glance at his chiseled face and wondered what it would be like if Max leaned down and kissed her. Surely not like Charlie Crocker or Adam Young or the guard in the Tower.
“There.” Max nodded and stepped back. “Much better. Don’t let them put those silly patches on your face.”
“But they’re all the rage,” Eden declared, not wanting to admit that she, too, found them somewhat ridiculous, at least when used in profusion. “I thought you wanted me to be a proper courtesan.”
“What I want doesn’
t matter!” Max exploded, shocking them both with his vehemence. He was standing stiff as an icon, fists clenched at his sides. Embarrassed, he looked away for a moment, struggled with his composure and finally brushed one sleeve across his forehead. “Why should it matter?” he muttered before regarding Eden with a stony expression. “Except for Jack, of course.”
“Of course,” Eden agreed, forcing lightness into her voice. Max’s moods continued to unsettle her. In Smarden she could at least predict the various ill humors that persisted among the Berengers.
“So.” Max was undoing the tabs of his cape. “I must delve further into this Craswell affair. And you must practice your French.”
He wheeled, this time heading not for his chamber but for the stairs. Eden stared after him and called out in a voice that dismayed her with its querulous tone, “I told you, I already speak excellent French!”
But Max had disappeared down the staircase, leaving Eden alone.
That week the music master arrived, followed in due course by a dancing instructor, a professor of languages, a gourmet and a riding teacher who took a very nervous Eden riding in Green Park. The days were long and full, stretching through cheerless February and into dreary March. Meanwhile Marlborough languished in the Tower. Others had since been arrested, including the Earl’s doughty old friend, Lord Ailesbury. The Duke of Berwick, James’s son by Arabella Churchill and thus Marlborough’s nephew, had been implicated but had fled to the Continent. Ironically, Craswell’s crony Pendergrass had been rewarded by the King and had gone abroad. Sir John Fenwick remained at large.
The first day of spring brought a gray drizzle. Eden sat at the inlaid desk in her boudoir to write a letter to her father. She began on a positive note, regaling him with her small successes but concealing her larger failures. Halfway through, however, she confessed her loneliness and frustration: “Having found a Father, and being so hastily deprived of his Comfort, I am driven in my Duties only by the Thought that somehow my poor Accomplishments can aid in releasing you from Prison.”