Improbable Eden

by Mary Daheim

  “Drab!” Briefly, Max glanced into a dark corner. “Having you under the same roof is enough to drive a man into exile. Why do you think I went to Brabant?”

  “Brabant? Where is that?” Eden tipped her head back so that he could kiss the curve of her throat. “I’m very poor at geography.”

  “I’m very good at it,” replied Max, propping himself up on his elbows. “See here,” he said, placing his palm against the bare flesh just above the waistband of her skirts, “this is a gentle plain. It ascends into this intriguing valley,” he went on, trailing his fingers between her breasts and making her giggle, “and flanked by the most beautiful mountains in England.” Playfully he kissed each breast in turn, then suddenly sobered. “Schoft. I sound like a giddy schoolboy! I haven’t talked like this in five years!”

  “You’re wonderful,” Eden countered, ruffling his hair with her hand. “Don’t stop. I want to learn more.”

  But Max had moved away from her, though his arm still encircled her waist. “We are mad. At least I am.” Pulling free, he got to his feet with scant evidence of his usual natural grace. “Eden, I’m sorry. I almost made fools of us both. You’re right, I’m an ass.”

  “Max!” The wail in Eden’s voice made her flinch.

  “Please!” he begged, his voice showing pain, “help me to stop wanting you!”

  “But I don’t want you to stop!” Putting a hand to her head, she tried to regain her composure. Too much had happened to her too quickly. She waited almost a full minute before she looked at Max. “You’re right, of course,” she said dully. “There must be no scandal to hamper Jack’s cause. Help me up.”

  “Here.” Averting his eyes from her naked breasts, Max brought Eden to her feet. “Truly,” he began, staring at the top of her head and sounding quite miserable, “I’ve behaved like a villain. You asked why you didn’t hate me. Frankly, you should. I’m reprehensible.”

  It occurred to Eden that she ought to be embarrassed by her partial nakedness. But the fact was, Max’s demeanor disturbed her more. He blamed himself for his desire, yet their lovemaking had seemed so natural, so spontaneous, so predestined, that Eden felt no guilt, only disappointment. “I understand that the King prizes virtue, but what of you?” she finally asked. “Do you hold back because I’m not Harriet? Or because I’m not your wife?”

  The bleak expression that crossed his face made Eden’s heart sag. But he recovered quickly and reached out to pull up her chemise. “Both.” He spoke with anguish. “Or,” he added stiffly, adjusting the sheer fabric as if he feared it would burn his fingers, “neither. It’s not just a question of your honor, Eden, but of my own, as well.”

  Puzzled, Eden peered at him. She was about to insist that he explain himself when Max leaned down and brushed the top of her head with his lips. “We’ll pretend this never happened,” he said, then picked up his shirt and flung it over one shoulder before heading out the door.

  In the dying light, Eden watched him disappear into the hall. She didn’t understand Max. He seemed to want her, to admire her, even to bend to her will. The moodiness that so often beset him had momentarily fled, turning him into a carefree boy, no longer distant or detached. She had glimpsed another side of Max.

  But Eden had no right to offer him help—or love. He was betrothed to Harriet Villiers; she was destined for the King. Whether or not the evening had been a debacle, her father remained in grave danger. Eden’s chances with William were fragile, at best. But giving herself to Max would destroy all hope.

  For now, it was the only hope her father had.

  Chapter Eight

  A swirl of activity in the house on Clarges Street the following morning provided a mask for any tensions that might have surfaced between Eden and Max. Two masons replaced loosened bricks in the kitchen fireplace, Vrouw de Koch and Heer Van de Weghe almost came to blows over a stray cat, the brewer’s weekly delivery had come up short, and a priggish parson called seeking alms for the destitute.

  Eden, whose troubled mind had not allowed her to sleep until almost dawn, woke sometime after ten. She still felt weary, but sat up in bed with a pot of hot chocolate and a plate of sugar buns, distractedly perusing the latest edition of the London Gazette. The stalled war on the Continent, the Royal Treasury’s recall of all monies, and the anti-Catholic hysteria resulting from the assassination attempt on the King all commanded Eden’s attention, yet she failed to grasp more than the bald facts. A brief item at the bottom of the page noted that the Earl of Marlborough had been imprisoned in the Tower for over two months. The veiled suggestion that he should be released unless concrete evidence was produced against him evoked heartfelt agreement from his daughter—and rubbed at the wound of her failure.

  She had just set the tray aside when Max strolled into the room, his demeanor determinedly casual. Unnerved at the sight of him looking so unruffled, Eden clutched at the neckline of her jade-green robe. “Here—have a sugar bun,” she offered, trying to conceal her unease.

  Max glanced at the tray, but shook his head. “I’ve eaten,” he replied, going to the window and pulling back the drape to savor the bright spring morning. “I hoped you’d be dressed. We’re going to see Jack.”

  “Oh!” Eden’s anxiety fled in the wake of this announcement. “I’ll call Elsa. I can be ready in minutes.”

  Letting the drape fall into place, Max turned to Eden. “Good.” He gave her a smile that seemed a mockery of the openness he had shown her the previous night. “I’ve hired a coach, which should be arriving at any moment.” Max was at the door, rearranging the steinkirk at his neck and acting with a nonchalance that somehow didn’t quite ring true.

  “Will you tell Jack about last night?” Eden inquired anxiously.

  “Last night?” For a brief moment, Max’s color darkened. “Oh! Tie wig!” Relieved when he realized she wasn’t referring to his lapse of self-restraint, he shook his head. “I think not. Jack needs to hear only good news.”

  Gratified, Eden watched him wheel away. Within fifteen minutes, Elsa had helped her into an amethyst silk gown with black velvet panniers falling into a short, graceful train. Eden adjusted the long lappets of her fontange cap and added a lace-trimmed manteau, should the breeze be up from the river. Reasonably satisfied with the results of her harried toilette, she descended to meet Max for the ride to the Tower.

  Inside the coach, Max sat across from her, his long body awkwardly jammed into the corner. Eden tried not to notice that he was avoiding physical contact with her, but she couldn’t ignore his manner in such close confines. It was also impossible to resist the man himself. He was again dressed in his comfortably frayed coat and full-sleeved shirt, and his virile magnetism was more apparent than ever. Deliberately Eden turned away to lift the window’s little canvas flap and gaze out at the magnificence of Somerset House with its splendid setting about the Thames.

  “You owe me a treat,” Max said unexpectedly. “I’ve been anticipating a veritable pyramid of apple pastry for days.”

  Eden swerved on the rough-hewn platform to stare at him. “Oh! I forgot! So much else has happened,” she explained, twisting her fringed silk parasol in her hands, “and you were … vexed with me, besides.”

  Max had assumed a magnanimous air. “Don’t fret, I was teasing you.” He smiled, but again it was a halfhearted effort. “Indeed, though I beat you at basset, I thought I’d prove myself a good winner and we’d dine at Pie Corner.”

  Trapping the parasol between her knees, Eden clapped her hands. “I’d like that! I’ve never eaten in a London public house!”

  “I know.” Max’s smile softened, and grew more genuine in the process. He hoped his invitation would be taken in the spirit it was given, as recompense for his harsh treatment of Eden at Whitehall. As for his reckless attempt at seduction, it was better left ignored. Eden could blame the gin he’d consumed, or his irascible mood. If he tried hard enough, maybe he could believe in such excuses, too. As long as Eden was still under his roof, he had
to make every effort to treat her as naturally as possible. Ignoring her had proved disastrous—his lack of praise for her meeting with the King had undermined her self-confidence, and thus seriously damaged Jack’s chances. Max could demonstrate his approval by going out with her in public, to Pie Corner and the Tower. But he must avoid being alone with her in private, or the game would be lost.

  “The roast pork is excellent,” he remarked as the coach turned into Giltspur Street. “And the Cheshire cheese is as mellow as you’ll fine in any tavern. It’s almost as good as the Dutch imports.”

  “You’re partial,” Eden countered, but her eyes sparkled. They were turning away from the river at Black-friars, heading toward the Smithfield markets. Eden could hardly believe that Max was escorting her to dinner. With a little smirk, she wondered what Harriet would think if she found out.

  The coach ground to a halt outside the cookshop, where a throng of would-be diners had already gathered for the noon meal. Gripping Eden’s elbow, Max steered her through the crowd to the entrance, where a harried host tried to instill patience in his prospective customers.

  “Mayhap we should have gone to visit Jack first,” Eden remarked, despairing at the crush of people.

  But Max, who towered over the others, had signaled to the owner and was already being waved inside. Keeping close to his elbow, Eden quickened her pace to match Max’s long strides as they entered the noisy eating establishment. The table found for them was not much larger than a tea tray, inconveniencing Max’s long legs.

  “It’s a very popular place,” he said with a little grimace, his voice raised above the din. “I also recommend the chops.”

  But Eden was too mesmerized by the raucous crowd of diners to consider the menu. Prentices with cropped hair and broad, bold hats laughed under the archway; gentlemen in brocade plundered haunches of port; ladies mingled with whores, and from Eden’s perspective, it was hard to tell which was which. She was trying to determine the virtue of a dimpled redhead in peacock blue satin when Max suddenly stiffened in his chair.

  “Schoft!” he swore, “it’s Rudolf!”

  Eden pivoted and immediately saw Rudolf, who had just gotten to his feet by the fireplace across the room. “Are you avoiding him?” she asked Max.

  “Not precisely.” Max, in fact, looked as if he was about to signal to his cousin, but at that moment another man emerged at Rudolf’s side, his auburn wig askew as he exuded perfect smoke rings from a long clay pipe. “He has company. Perhaps later ….”

  Eden put a hand on Max’s arm, but was unaware that he flinched. “Who is the other man, the thin one? I know him.”

  Max watched the pair move toward the door. “Why ask me, if you know him? I can hardly see his face under that damnable wig.”

  She gave Max’s sleeve a little shake. “I don’t mean I know him, I mean I recognize him. At least the smoke rings. Now where …?” She withdrew her hand, cursing herself for showing such familiarity. “Smarden!” she exclaimed as Rudolf and his companion bowed themselves out of the cookshop. “He was at the Bell and Whistle with a redheaded man the day I came to see Jack.”

  At first Max gave Eden a puzzled look, then the hazel eyes snapped with enlightenment. “Holy St. Hubert, I wonder ….” He leaped to his feet, almost knocking over the little table. “Let’s go,” he urged, grabbing Eden by the wrist. “We’re going to follow those two. I have a feeling we may have found John Fenwick.”

  Dimly, Eden recalled that Fenwick had been one of the ringleaders in the conspiracy to assassinate the King. Eden felt a pang of regret for the roast pork and Cheshire cheese, but she understood the importance of apprehending Fenwick. Surely he could—and would—exonerate the Earl of Marlborough.

  In the bright spring sunshine, Eden and Max saw their prey climb into a hired hackney coach. Impatiently Max bellowed to their own driver, who was leaning against a timber, exchanging anecdotes with a burly cooper. By the time Eden and Max got underway, Rudolf’s conveyance had already turned out of Giltspur Street.

  “Damn,” cursed Max, leaning out the open door, “we’ll have to take a chance that they’re heading for the obvious route, toward the Strand.” Up ahead, Rudolf had been stalled by a calèche with a broken wheel. When the Count’s vehicle finally turned, it headed east, into Cheapside.

  “Why is this Fenwick with your cousin?” Eden asked breathlessly as they clattered past the Guildhall.

  “Who knows? Rudolf loves his little intrigues, but the company he keeps is dangerous. I presume that ugly wig was meant to disguise Fenwick.”

  “It would have,” Eden admitted, “if he hadn’t blown those smoke rings. I remembered more the manner than the man.”

  “And a good thing,” Max said, giving her a little nod of approval. “Assuming, of course, that it is Fenwick. I’ve only seen him once, and that was in a sweating house where the steam obscured my vision. Ah! They’ve stopped!” Max pounded on the coach, ordering the driver to follow suit. “They’ve gone into the Exchange.” He looked thoughtful and rubbed his long chin. “Harmless in itself, probably.”

  Eden barely heard Max. She was too caught up in the bustle of English commerce. Everywhere she looked there were knots of people. Dour Scots vainly tried to wring investment tidbits from each other. Spaniards with drooping mustaches and unfashionable short cloaks mingled with Dutchmen wearing thrum caps and earnest expressions. There were Jews with ringlets longer than a woman’s, and Irishmen loud with drink and bluster. Serving girls, some fresh from the country and wide-eyed with wonder, scanned advertisements tacked to a pillar, while energetic hawkers peddled all manner of wares, from mandrake and balsam to cordials and tobacco.

  Eden’s dazzled concentration was broken by Max’s sudden descent from the coach. “Wait here,” he called. “I see Joost.”

  Eden saw him, too, a riveting figure in a crimson cape over a gold brocade coat, black shoes with red heels and a gray beaver hat adorned with an ostrich feather. He held a tall walking stick festooned with crimson ribbons and was accompanied by a trio of young men who were only slightly less ostentatious. As Max joined them, she thought he looked like a hawk among peacocks and couldn’t help but smile.

  The smile faded as Rudolf and his companion emerged from the courtyard of the Exchange. Max prodded Keppel, who turned to stare at the Count and the alleged Fenwick. Leaning from the coach’s little window, Eden strained to hear, but she could pick up only a few fragments, mainly from Max.

  “That wig … Fenwick … have him arrested!”

  Keppel craned his neck, but Rudolf laughed and waved a hand, obviously repudiating Max’s charge. As the Count moved into the little circle, speaking in low, confidential tones, Fenwick began inching away, attempting to melt into the crowd that milled around the Exchange.

  “Max!” Eden cried, flinging open the coach door. “Fenwick! He’s escaping!”

  Dodging past Keppel, Max started to give chase, but Rudolf hurled himself at his cousin. “Fool! That’s no more Fenwick than I am!” he yelled.

  Max pushed at Rudolf, but the two men were so evenly matched in size and strength that neither gave ground. Keppel, meanwhile, had taken action, calling for the guards, who were already pursuing Fenwick. Mindful of their fine attire, Keppel and his companions backed off from the brewing storm between Max and Rudolf.

  “We’ll tell the King what’s happened,” Keppel shouted, making for a set of sedan chairs. “I’ve no doubt those men will capture Fenwick.”

  If Max was less sanguine, he had no opportunity to say so, for Rudolf had drawn his sword. “You dare meddle, Max?” he sneered as a crowd began to gather. “For all you know, Fenwick’s dead!”

  Max’s reply was a thrust of his own weapon, which just missed Rudolf’s upper arm. Horrified, Eden tried to push through the pack of spectators, but she was hemmed in. She could see only Max’s and Rudolf’s heads, bobbing and weaving as the sound of steel on steel rang out. Irish voices called boisterous encouragement, Spaniards exclaimed in excited
foreign accents, Englishmen cheered lustily, and the Dutch kept silent. Just as Eden was about to surrender to the crush and din, a buxom orange seller came to her aid.

  “H’ain’t nobody stops Bruisin’ Babby,” the woman declared, juggling her crate of oranges and knocking over a spindly Italian. “Blimey, look at ’em, a reg’lar pair o’ Vikings! Who’s yer money on, luv?”

  Breathless from her battle through the crowd, Eden put a hand to her breast. “I have no money,” she replied, dismayed at the sight of Max and Rudolf engaged in what looked like mortal combat. Rudolf was armed with a lethal four-foot blade of tempered steel; Max had only his ceremonial sword. The contest was clearly a mismatch.

  At their feet a pair of mongrels yapped loudly while the crowd’s cheers and jeers grew increasingly shrill. Rudolf kicked at one of the dogs, momentarily breaking concentration. Max lunged, his blade tearing his adversary’s shirt sleeve. Incensed, Rudolf aimed a flurry of thrusts in Max’s direction, nicking his right shoulder. Eden cringed, but her companion called for more blood.

  “Carve ’im up, Curly!” she shouted, eliciting a protesting cry from Eden. Bruisin’ Babby shrugged her wide shoulders. “Aw right then, kill Curly, ’Andsome! Wot do I care,” she remarked in a conversational tone, “they both be furriners, if ye arsk me.”

  Trying to ignore the orange seller, Eden winced as Rudolf caught Max off balance and tried to disarm him. Max’s grip was firm, but Rudolf pressed his advantage with a series of vicious stabs, two of which grazed Max’s other arm. Max was backed up against a pillar, and the crowd behind him refused to budge.

  Eden could endure no more of the unfair battle. Grabbing two oranges from Bruisin’ Babby’s basket, she hurled them at Rudolf with all her might. One missed entirely, but the other glanced off his hip, causing just enough of a distraction to allow Max to escape from the pillar. Eden snatched up more oranges, and Babby, titillated by the idea of joining in the fray, began flinging her wares with deadly accuracy. At least four oranges bounced off Rudolf, whose face was turning crimson with fury. The spectators were cheering even more lustily, guffawing and shrieking as if they were in the stalls at Drury Lane. The superiority of Rudolf’s weapon was markedly diminished by the thudding oranges, which were joined by apples, pears, plums and even a shower of mackerel.