by Mary Daheim
Eden stared at the writing paper, wincing at the many blots she had made. A fortnight ago she had written to her foster family in Smarden, advising them of her whereabouts. That piece of correspondence had been virtually flawless. Why could she not have done half so well by her father?
Dispirited, Eden scrunched up the parchment and threw it across the room. Words, however neat, would do the Earl little good. Even now Max was abroad, looking for Captain Craswell. When the missing man had not turned up in London after a two-week search, Max had decided that Craswell must have been spirited out of the country. The house on Clarges Street seemed to echo with emptiness in Max’s absence, and Eden felt cast adrift.
On impulse she made up her mind to visit her father. She had to make an eloquent gesture to prove to him that she had his best interests at heart.
Snatching up her new cloak with its miniver trim and matching muff, she called for Elsa and ordered Master Van de Weghe to send for two sedan chairs. In less than an hour, she was confronting Sir Edmund Greene, the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower, and asking for permission to see Milord Marlborough. To her surprise, the request was readily granted.
“Milord Marlborough,” said the bluff Lord Lieutenant with a wink, “has certain privileges.”
He also had a fairly commodious cell, complete with scarred but comfortable furniture. There were books and the remnants of what had been a full meal, and at least one complete change of clothes. Still, the Earl’s excellent complexion had turned sallow, and he was thinner than Eden remembered him.
“Eden!” he exclaimed, hurrying to take her hand and kiss her cheek. “What a delightful surprise!”
“Albeit a tardy one,” she responded ruefully. “I had no notion ’twould be so easy to call on you here. I’ truth, your lodgings are well-nigh luxurious.”
Marlborough, who had been studying Eden’s metamorphosis with approval, gave a quick look over his shoulder at the familiar surroundings. “Sidney Godolphin insists on bribing the gaolers. You’d think a man who had been Lord Treasurer of England could devise better ways to spend his money.” The Earl shook his head at the thought of such extravagance. “Sidney, bless him, is a good and generous friend.”
“For the sake of your comfort, I’m glad he is,” Eden declared, trying not to smile at her father’s penurious streak. She still had difficulties reconciling his expenditures on her behalf with his frugal nature. “Have you any news from the King?”
Marlborough was lifting the lid of a small teak chest. He extracted a dusty bottle, presumably of wine, and reached for a mismatched pair of pewter mugs. “A toast, my dear? To our success?”
Eden eyed the wine bottle uncertainly. A few drops wouldn’t hurt, now that she knew it was unwise to down too much too fast. In any event, she must become accustomed to strong spirits, since she understood that the courtiers drank little else. “Indeed, sir,” she replied, realizing that, as with Max, she had no idea what form of address to take with Marlborough.
The Earl had noticed her sudden consternation. “I believe in respect,” he remarked, handing her one of the mugs, “but we are family, after all.”
Family, Eden thought as she held onto the mug with both hands. The word had taken on a new dimension, though it still didn’t seem quite real. Yet there was Marlborough, standing not three feet away, as easy of manner imprisoned in the Tower of London as he would have been in the House of Lords—or the Berenger kitchen. Any notions Eden might have had about the haughty arrogance of English aristocrats was given the lie by her father’s comfortable egalitarian manner.
“I can’t call you Papa, I called Monsieur Berenger that. And Father sounds so formal ….” Eden’s earnest face wore a puzzled expression.
“What about Jack?” suggested Marlborough. “That’s what my friends call me.”
“Jack?” She’d heard Max refer to the Earl in such a way, but somehow it seemed too ordinary, even common. Yet, Eden had to admit, he looked more like Jack than milord or Pater or even Father.
“Jack.” Eden turned the single syllable over on her tongue, then brightened and put out her hand. “Yes—Jack! I like that, it’s so friendly.”
He squeezed her fingers and smiled broadly. “So ’tis, dear Eden. And I should very much like us to be friends. I hope you would like it, too,” he added with touching candor.
“Oh, indeed I would, sir! Jack,” Eden corrected, laughing gaily. “You know,” she said, suddenly serious, “I’ve had a papa before, but I’ve never had a friend.”
Marlborough leaned down and gently kissed her forehead. The keen gray-green eyes met the eager ebony gaze. “Everyone has parents, but friends are hard to come by. Remember that, Eden, no matter what you do or how high you climb.” His smile washed over her like balm. He raised his pewter mug. “To more than kinship—to friendship, as well.”
Eden touched her mug to his, then took a small sip. Though the dark amber liquid was harsh on her tongue, it went down easily enough. For some time they were both silent, savoring the bond that blood had forged and feeling had intensified.
“The sun is coming out,” Eden remarked at last, gazing through one of the cell’s two narrow windows. “It must be spring after all.”
For the first time since Eden had met Marlborough, she saw him look grim. “I wonder how many seasons will pass before I’m out of this confounded place.”
Eden regarded Marlborough with sympathy. “Max tried to explain why you needed my help. But if the King relies so much on his Dutchmen and Flemings, why doesn’t he listen to Max?”
A lesser man might have been vexed by Eden’s lack of political acumen, but the Earl merely smiled indulgently. “Because Max is my friend. And because he has enemies of his own.”
“Who?” Eden queried bluntly.
But her father shrugged off the question. “Max is a private sort of man. In any event, enmity can be bred at home and abroad. We English have become so intertwined with the Dutch that when Queen Mary was asked to rule in her father’s place, she made William not only her consort, but King, as well. After she died, Parliament declared that while William could remain as sovereign, the Crown would pass to Mary’s sister, Anne, rather than to any heirs he might have by a second wife.”
Eden blinked at the Earl. So, she thought, that was why a mistress, rather than a wife, was required. But aloud she spoke not of herself but of Mary.
“I felt sad when the Queen died,” said Eden, recalling that bleak winter day over a year ago. “She had smallpox, did she not?”
Marlborough’s cool gaze held no emotion. “She did. But I must be candid. Her Majesty never cared for either my dear Countess or me. Perhaps it was because we had always been so close to the Princess Anne.”
Even in Smarden, Eden had heard bits of gossip about the Princess and the Countess—how devoted Anne was to her dearest friend, Sarah Churchill. Eden could see that such an attachment might cause resentment between any pair of sisters.
“Frankly,” the Earl continued, offering Eden more wine, which she politely refused, “I don’t know what we would have done without the Princess’s generosity. Except for my investments, Sarah has been the sole support of our family. Of course, my lack of employment has given me an opportunity to spend more time with our children while Sarah is away. Now,” he said with an affectionate smile, “I shall also get to know you.”
“I’ll do my best to win the King’s … ear,” Eden promised. “Though I wonder if he’ll believe me when he learns I’m your daughter.”
Marlborough was bemused by her naïveté. “A woman, especially a pretty one, has all sorts of advantages in convincing the unconvincible. Remember, William is lonely. He was never a demonstrative man, yet he was devoted to the Queen and misses her enormously. He also, I’m sure, feels lost without Betty Villiers.”
Marlborough was so reasonable that Eden could almost believe in the possibility of success. Her doubts about the morality of what she was being groomed to do had begun to fade in the wake of the
Earl’s dispassionate explanations. Lulled by his easy manner, she nearly forgot their surroundings and the very real danger that hung over them both.
“Have you heard about Captain Craswell?” Eden asked.
Marlborough looked unwontedly grave. “Yes. Max came to tell me before he left England. I hope no mischief has overtaken Craswell. If only Pendergrass would admit that neither I nor Lord Ailesbury were involved in the confounded plot.” He paused and shook his head. “Yet to give the devil his due, at least Pendergrass had the courage to inform Bentinck about the assassination plans. I mustn’t judge his other motives too harshly.”
Eden marveled at her father’s fair-mindedness. There was so much about him that goaded her into wanting to please him. “I try to learn from my instructors,” she said truthfully, “but sometimes it’s very hard.”
“I’ve much confidence in you,” he said, standing up on limbs that had grown stiff from lack of exercise in the Tower.
In the corridor, a guard was clearing his throat. Marlborough looked beyond Eden and nodded at the man. “Yes, yes, Norton, our visit is concluded. We thank you for your patience.” The Earl gave Eden his hand, assisting her from the chair. “They do like to keep to a regimen here.”
“I understand.” Eden smiled warmly at her father, but her words were wistful. “I waited so long for you to come for me. How I wish you were free so that we might enjoy each other’s company.”
Gently, Marlborough squeezed her hand. “The burden of my freedom lies with you, my child. Godspeed, dearest daughter.”
His words fell sweetly on her ear. How she had yearned for kin, for blood ties, for a sense of belonging! Tears welled up in the great ebony eyes, but she willed herself not to shed them. “I swear to do whatever I must to bring us together. I scarcely know you, yet it seems I always have.” Her tongue flicked over her lower lip. “I love you, Jack.”
“Well!” The Earl beamed at Eden, his expression a mixture of surprise, diffidence and paternal pride. In the corridor, the guard drummed his fingernails against the iron bars of the cell. “How enchanting you are,” Marlborough said softly. “How fortunate a father am I!”
He bent to kiss her cheek, then she was gone.
Chapter Six
The change in the weather inspired Eden to walk to Clarges Street, at least as far as the Strand. Elsa, who had been trying to teach Eden the new way of talking with her fingers, was bursting with questions about her mistress’s visit to the fearsome Tower. The little maid knew her place, however, and refrained from posing any impertinent inquiries.
“I sat out on the Green,” she twittered as they approached bustling London Bridge. As ever, the Thames was littered with every sort of craft, from sleek yachts with billowing sails to small wherries, each propelled by a single oarsman. “There were ever so many handsome soldiers marching about! Who do they guard, do you think? Is anyone going to be executed on the block?”
Eden suppressed a shudder; treason was a capital crime. Failing in her effort at signing, she turned so that the deaf girl could watch her lips. “I hope not. It’s too cruel.”
“Cruel?” Elsa wrinkled her little nose. “But necessary with bad people.”
Eden couldn’t imagine anyone that bad. Some naughty boys had once set Master Young’s black cat afire on All Hallows’ Eve, and there were always tales about beer being stolen from the brewery at Wye, but otherwise, Eden knew little of evil. She was trying to compose her reply when they noticed two sturdy King’s men carrying a large sack up the embankment while a gaggle of London citizenry trailed behind.
“Make way!” one of the King’s men shouted. “Make way!”
The traffic that had been streaming westward from London Bridge stalled rather than parted. Ballad singers, fishwives, muffin-men, rag sellers and even a pair of gentlemen applying snuff pushed forward to see the diversion. Elsa was gazing questioningly at Eden. “What passes here, Mistress?”
Eden shrugged, wondering why the Londoners seemed so excited over two soldiers carrying a lumpy bundle. She was trying to figure out a way they might circumvent the crowd when a rangy hawker of pancakes informed his companion in gleefully ghoulish tones that, “ ’E was stabbed through the ’eart, ’e was—murder most foul!”
Grasping Elsa by the arm, Eden started to retreat in the hope of avoiding any gruesome sights. But at that moment one of the King’s men fired a volley into the air, scattering the eager crowd. Elsa, of course, heard nothing and held her ground despite a fierce tug from Eden.
“It’s a man!” Elsa exclaimed, breaking away from Eden and moving quickly toward the inert form that lay on the cobbles.
Eden caught a hostile gleam in the eye of one of the King’s men as he approached Elsa. “She’s deaf!” Eden called. “Leave her be, I’ll take her off!” Gingerly, Eden went to Elsa and plucked the other girl’s sleeve. The soldiers were watching them with suspicion that was only partly mitigated by admiration. Avoiding the miserable bundle that had once been a living creature, Eden forced Elsa to face her. “We must go. Now!”
But Elsa’s cheeks had grown very pink, and her delft-blue eyes were overly bright. “Who is this man?” she demanded of Eden, her high voice filled with concern.
Eden shook her head. “I don’t know. But we must go.” She gestured at the soldiers, who were shifting impatiently.
Still Elsa persisted, one small hand fluttering excitedly toward the dead man. “Look, look! He wears Prince Maximilian’s monogrammed linen!”
Suddenly more afraid of Elsa’s rampant tongue than of the corpse, Eden clasped a hand over the girl’s mouth. She glanced at the crowd. It appeared to Eden that no one had paid any attention; they were all caught up in their own reactions to this latest grotesque sensation. With great reluctance, Eden forced herself to look at the dead man. Despite the bloated body, the empty sockets where gray eyes had once darted and the ravaged face that had served up a feast for the fishes, Eden knew at once that this was Captain Craswell.
She also knew that she was about to be sick. Her grip tightened on Elsa, forcing a little shriek from the other girl. “Forgive me,” Eden begged, as she hauled her companion away. They headed for a side street, stopping at an inn marked by the sign of three spotted cows. Oblivious to the passing porters and carters, Eden leaned against a splintered timber and managed to keep from retching. A few moments later, as Elsa watched her mistress with marked concern, Eden shook herself and announced that they could proceed. She was unsteady and very pale. Soon they espied the scaffolding of St. Paul’s new dome.
“Who is he?” Elsa asked, no longer able to restrain her curiosity.
Eden was concentrating on finding a hackney coach for hire. They were outside the Temple, where law students scurried around, carrying sheets of foolscap and unbound legal tomes. Distractedly, she signed to Elsa that the dead man was a former Jacobite who wanted to help Prince Maximilian and the Earl of Marlborough. It was clear that Elsa hadn’t known about Craswell’s noisy arrival in Clarges Street. She could not have heard the crash, and for whatever reasons, neither Vrouw de Koch nor Heer Van de Weghe had revealed the soldier’s presence to the rest of the staff. As well, Eden reflected, sighting a row of carriages for hire in Drury Lane, such knowledge could be dangerous.
“This way.” She motioned to Elsa and hurried toward the waiting vehicles. Surrounded by throngs of shouting, cursing, babbling hawkers, peddlers and workmen, Eden glanced at the proud new skyline of raucous London and felt very alone.
As much as she wished to, Eden couldn’t ignore Craswell’s death. She considered an immediate return to the Tower to tell Marlborough, but there was little he could do from his prison cell. Max was away, looking in vain for Craswell on the Continent when all the time he’d been at the bottom of the Thames. Lady Marlborough sounded like a resourceful woman, but Eden felt it unwise to approach her father’s wife unannounced. The only other person she knew to be a friend of the Earl’s was Sidney Godolphin.
“He’s at Newmarket,”
Elsa said glumly. “He has fine Arabian horses that he’ll be racing when the season comes. Everyone is talking about his amazing animals.”
It struck Eden that London’s denizens seemed more interested in livestock and dead men than in the plight of one of their greatest heroes. “Who, then?” she muttered.
Though Eden had not spoken directly to Elsa, the little maid had caught the words. “Bentinck’s niece, Lady Harriet Villiers. She lives nearby, in Piccadilly. Milord Bentinck’s wife was a Villiers. But of course you know that Lady Harriet is—”
But Eden cut her off. Without further ado, she leaned forward and banged on the panel separating them from the driver. The Villiers family was very prominent, though Eden wasn’t sure exactly how they’d acquired power. Betty had been William’s mistress, this Harriet’s aunt had married Milord Bentinck, and somewhere in the dim past there had been a duke or two. Clearly, they were well-connected, both with the English and the Dutch. Eden couldn’t wait to seek Lady Harriet’s help.
Within ten minutes they stood before the open gates of a large, ornate stone mansion off Windmill Street. Beech trees lined the short drive, and the gardens were bursting with spring blooms. Eden summoned her courage and marched up the short flight of steps to a dark green door with a knocker shaped in the form of Eros.
A liveried servant, stiff and correct, surveyed Eden’s fur-trimmed cloak and proper accompaniment of a demure maid. “May I?” he inquired in a squeaky voice that contrasted with his stately demeanor.
“Yes, you may,” replied Eden, not having the least idea what the man was asking. “My name is …” she paused, uncertain whether or not to present her Churchill credentials. Not yet, she decided, and gave the manservant her most engaging smile. “I’m Mistress Eden Berenger, newly arrived from Kent. I should like to speak to Lady Harriet Villiers.” Eden took a breath, pleased with herself for presenting her request with such aplomb. At her side, Elsa nodded approval.