Improbable Eden

by Mary Daheim

  The missiles were being thrown indiscriminately, however, and Max was being pelted as well. But the smashed pulp of a pomegranate proved Rudolf’s undoing. His foot slipped, and though he didn’t go down, his sudden loss of balance gave Max the opportunity to send his blade cleanly through his opponent’s right shoulder. A howl of pain escaped Rudolf’s lips as his sword clattered onto the debris-strewn cobbles.

  “Pick it up,” Max ordered, kicking some of the garbage out of the way. “We’re not finished yet!”

  The crowd was pressing forward, and Eden had to stand on tiptoe to see Rudolf clumsily reach for his sword, only to jam it in its scabbard.

  “Better you should hang from the ramparts at Vranes than die by my sword!” an enraged Rudolf shouted. “You don’t have the courage to kill me!”

  With the court sword still in his hand and a red stain spreading across his shirt, Max shook his head. “Whatever else you are, Rudi,” he said in a level voice, “you’re still my wife’s brother. Sophie Dorothea’s soul wouldn’t rest if I killed you. You know how she hated cruelty.”

  Rudolf made a disparaging gesture, then fumbled with a kerchief to stanch the blood at his shoulder. “It would have been better for her if she’d hated you,” he muttered.

  But before either of them could speak again they were interrupted by the arrival of a slightly flabby middle-aged man to whom the crowd showed a certain amount of deference. “I say,” the newcomer offered in a tentative voice, “this won’t do. You’re disturbing Sir Isaac Newton. He’s trying to count all the old money before he takes it off to the mint.”

  With a scathing look, Rudolf whirled and shoved his way toward Threadneedle Street. Max wore a stormy expression, but he spoke to the man with a trace of apology. “Forgive me, sir,” he said, sheathing his sword and wiping his forehead with his sleeve, “but I think my cousin, Count Rudolf, has been sheltering Sir John Fenwick.” The newcomer’s heavy dark brows shot up. “You don’t say! Now why would he do a thing like that?”

  For once Max threw caution to the wind. “Because he’s a thieving traitor, that’s why! He’s been kissing King Louis’s arse, and James Stuart’s, as well! Make no mistake,” he went on heatedly, waving a fist in the general direction of Rudolf’s departure, “that villainous cousin of mine is up to his ugly nose in this Jacobite business!”

  Eden, who had edged closer and was trying to inspect the blood stain on Max’s shirt, was surprised at his invective. So, it seemed, were the remaining onlookers, who began to chatter and argue among themselves. At last Max noticed Eden’s presence. “By St. Hubert,” he growled, “I would have thought you’d have had sense enough to leave!”

  “How could I leave you?” Eden asked in hurt surprise. “You might have been killed.” Just uttering the words made her blanch. Though the melee had lasted no more than five minutes, Eden felt as if she had lived a lifetime on the brink of despair. Nothing, she had realized, would be worse than having Max die. As she looked at his scowling face, Eden knew that she not only needed and wanted Max, she loved him. The insight made her feel weak at the knees and slightly dizzy.

  Their companion recognized her anguish as well as Max’s distress. “Come, let us find a table at the tavern in the courtyard and partake of some drink. You two have had a most disturbing afternoon.” His smile was for Eden, but the question in his voice was for Max. “I don’t believe I’ve been ….”

  Max had already started to turn away, but stopped to make belated introductions. “Eden, this is Lord Sidney Godolphin, a very dear friend of Milord Marlborough.” He looked faintly chagrined as he presented Eden. “Mistress Berenger is kin to Jack Churchill. Perhaps he’s mentioned her?”

  To Eden’s gratification, it was clear that Marlborough had. Godolphin beamed, his round face lighting up in a most endearing fashion. “Of course! I’m delighted! Jack has praised you most highly, and now I see why! Oh, my dear,” he went on, taking her hands in his, “Jack is such a fine fellow. I only wish I weren’t so powerless to help him. Let us pray that this Fenwick is brought to justice and tells the truth about the conspiracy.”

  “Surely he will,” Eden replied, studying Sidney Godolphin. His dark wig set off an unremarkable face and his brown button eyes seemed to wear a look of perpetual surprise. There was nothing about his unprepossessing appearance to suggest financial acumen or political prowess. If Marlborough was understated, Godolphin was positively bland.

  “We were on our way to visit Jack when—” Eden made a sweeping gesture at the filthy cobbles “—this happened. Come, Max, we must tend to that wound. It worries me.”

  “Nonsense, it’s only a scratch,” Max scoffed, but he moved swiftly enough toward the tavern, where tables and chairs were set out at the edge of the courtyard under the arches.

  “I tried to see Jack last week,” Godolphin remarked as several pairs of curious eyes followed the trio. “Alas, I was refused admission. Not only is he more closely guarded, but my alleged disloyalties of the past have tainted my reputation as far as William and Bentinck are concerned. It’s a wonder I still have my post with the Treasury!”

  “I may not be an Englishman,” Max said, dropping into a rail-back chair, “but my betrothed’s uncle does a disservice to everyone by excluding you English from real power. I’ truth, I blame Bentinck more than William. The King does his best, I think, with two countries to rule and Louis forever at his heels.”

  “Sage words,” remarked Godolphin, as Eden carefully folded a napkin into a bandage for Max’s arm. “And you, Mistress, have you met His Majesty?”

  “I?” Eden flushed, then busied herself with rolling up Max’s torn shirt sleeve and cleansing the wound with a cloth dampened in ale. At least Max wasn’t trying to resist her ministrations. “In a way, yes,” she answered vaguely, noting with relief that Rudolf’s sword had not gone as deep as she’d feared. Swigging ale and accepting an eel pie from a freckled serving wench, Max didn’t even glance at her handiwork.

  Noting Godolphin’s puzzled expression, Eden quickly changed the subject. “I’m told,” she said rather breathlessly, “that you own magnificent racehorses, sir.”

  Godolphin’s face went through a startling transformation. “Indeed, I have brought to this country a most superb animal, the Arabian breed, known for its speed and agility,” he said enthusiastically. “Other horses pale by comparison. ’Pon my word, there is nothing as breathtaking as this fabulous equine specimen. Lord Challenger, foaled this first day of February, promises to be a great champion. He is already strong, determined and incredibly fleet. Jack was with me at Newmarket when this excellent animal was born, and he predicted a great future even then.” Godolphin paused, his face sagging a bit. “Would that Jack were here to enjoy the upcoming season ….”

  He sat in silence for a moment, his eyes wandering toward the Royal Exchange, then he straightened abruptly, one hand gripping his ale mug tightly. “I say, what’s that?” He leaned across the table and spoke even more softly than usual. “Max, dear boy, would you consider beating a hasty retreat through the rear door of this tavern?”

  Eden and Max both followed Godolphin’s surreptitious gaze. A dozen uniformed soldiers with rifles at the ready were marching under the main archway. Casually, Max rearranged his torn shirt, took a drink of ale and spoke over the rim of his mug. “Eden, go see Jack as we planned. That is, if they’ll let you in. Tell him about Fenwick. I’m sailing on the next tide.” Without apparent haste he got to his feet as the soldiers continued their precision step across the courtyard.

  “Max,” she breathed, feeling her heart turn to ice, “are you going to Brabant?”

  He never heard the question. In a lightning move, he leaped high into the air and grabbed at the carved facade of the building’s upper story. In another second he had gained enough leverage to haul himself over the balcony. The stunned soldiers halted on command while their leader boomed out an order for Max to halt. But it was too late. A glance upward revealed only a pair of giggling mai
ds. Max was gone.

  Chapter Nine

  The day, which had begun with uncertainty, then righted itself with Max’s invitation, had deteriorated into catastrophe. Sidney Godolphin accompanied Eden to the Tower, only to be rebuffed by a grim-faced guard, who asserted that fresh troubles in the city made it impossible for prisoners to receive visitors. Assuming that word of the scene at the Royal Exchange had already raced through London, Eden and Godolphin made their weary way home.

  With a self-deprecating gesture, Godolphin bade her good-bye in front of the blue door in Clarges Street. Assuring Eden that he would do anything he could to help, the nobleman plodded off toward his house in Piccadilly.

  Eden was faced with delivering the bad news to Vrouw de Koch and the others. The housekeeper, however, took the announcement of Max’s departure with at least a hint of good grace.

  “And so? Is that one not always in some scrape or other?” she said with a huff, over an armful of comforters she was putting away for the summer. “Dueling with Count Rudolf! Those two never got along, not from the cradle! Mark my words, you heard it here!”

  Eden was less inclined to dismiss the whole affair, however. While she sensed that Vrouw de Koch had spent much of her life watching Max come and go, Eden knew only one thing—Max had gone, but there was no assurance that he’d come back. Even though Eden didn’t understand the subtleties of court politics, she recognized that Max was in serious trouble. That his dilemma somehow involved Sir John Fenwick, Count Rudolf, Milord Bentinck and the King was obvious; why he should be persecuted by the likes of his cousin and perhaps the Crown was considerably less clear. But then Eden didn’t understand why her father had been subjected to such unfair treatment, either. All she really took in was that without Max, her life seemed suddenly empty.

  Nor was she able to unravel the reasons for Max’s predicament from Vrouw de Koch, who was admittedly mystified. Eden did, however, press the housekeeper about Max’s wife. It was no longer possible to restrain her curiosity, and when Vrouw de Koch brought up a supper tray with plump chicken and feathery dumplings an hour later, Eden put her query bluntly:

  “What happened to Sophie Dorothea?”

  Only the tightening of the housekeeper’s jowls betrayed her surprise at the question. “Well, now,” she said, uncovering one of the silver dishes, “it’s been a while, some four years.” She ran a hand over the starched white cap that covered her graying hair. “It’s simple enough—she died in childbirth. So, alas, did the babe. Prince Max was inconsolable.”

  “That’s her picture in the other bedroom, isn’t it?” Seeing Vrouw de Koch nod, Eden continued quickly. “She was Rudolf’s sister, I know that now. Max must have loved her very much.”

  “Oh, he did!” For a brief moment, the housekeeper’s round face took on a nostalgic air. “She was so lovely, all pink and white and golden! Graceful as a gazelle, gracious as an empress, pious as a saint! In other words,” she added, sounding more like her usual brusque self, “as unlike her dreadful brother as humanly possible. Still, to give the devil his due, Rudolf was very fond of her, having helped raise her after their parents passed away. He carried on like a wounded bear when she died, and blamed Max for getting her with child. Unreasonable, but that’s Count Rudolf, and his grief didn’t keep him from trying to take back her dowry, which happened to include Vranes-sur-Ourthe, a pretty place in Brabant. Or at least it was, before everyone got to fighting over it.”

  Eden sampled a chicken wing and wiped her fingers with a napkin. Strangely enough, she felt no jealousy toward Sophie Dorothea, only pity for the man she and her child had left behind. Max’s tragedies far outweighed the snatches of happiness he’d known. Eden’s greatest wish was that she might somehow have the chance to give him a future that would put the past to rest. Yet she knew that hope was impossible. “Then Vranes is the inheritance Max talks about?”

  Vrouw de Koch tipped her head to one side and helped herself to a slice of chicken breast. “Not precisely. Being second cousins, Max and Rudolf somehow got into a squabble over some property left by a great-grandfather. He was one of those German Electors—not Max’s grandfather from Saxony, but Frederick of the Palatinate. The land’s in Germany. Dillenburg, in fact. Max’s grandfather inherited, but was lazy and left the governing up to his sister’s husband, a Hohenstaufen who was Rudolf’s grandfather. They shared the revenues, most agreeable on both sides, but the arrangement didn’t suit Max’s father, or Rudolf’s, when their time came. They quarreled, there was litigation, the matter was settled in favor of Max’s side of the family.”

  “That sounds fair, considering it had gone to Max’s ancestor, not Rudolf’s,” said Eden, hoping she’d kept the line of inheritance straight.

  Vrouw de Koch nodded, her lacy cap askew. “Everything seemed peaceful, especially after Sophie Dorothea married Max. But even before she died, Rudolf went to war over Vranes, her dower lands. Max didn’t take the field—he stayed at Sophie Dorothea’s side while she was bearing the babe.”

  “You mean he fought against Max?” Eden paused, a fluffy dumpling speared on her fork.

  “Not so much as he fought for King Louis, who had marched into Brabant.” She gestured at her heavy bosom with her thumb. “Who knows, maybe Rudolf thought he could cast his lot with Louis and get both Vranes and Dillenburg. But now the whole war is stalled, Dillenburg barely managed to escape Louis’s rampage and Vranes dangles between the allies and the French. Or so I gather. This military intrigue is so much chess to me. I prefer cards.”

  “So do I,” murmured Eden, swallowing the dumpling and wishing she had more appetite. “Well,” she sighed, leaning back on the chaise longue, “at least Max has found love with Lady Harriet.” The glance she shot Vrouw de Koch was both anxious and probing.

  “Huh!” huffed the housekeeper, snatching up a chicken wing. “That’s not love, that’s enterprise! Poor Max, he’s never stopped mourning Sophie Dorothea. Why, I’d hardly heard him laugh until ….” She stopped and stared at Eden. “You make him laugh, you know. That’s good for him.” Abruptly, she wiped her mouth with a napkin and straightened her apron. “I must be off. Already there have been inquires about Prince Max, and no doubt more to come.” With that familiar listing posture, she bustled toward the door, then paused, her hand on the knob. “Why,” she asked not so much of Eden but of the room, “are men so dense?” As Eden started to respond, the housekeeper wagged a finger. “Never mind,” she admonished, “you didn’t hear it here!”

  The routine must be kept, Eden told herself, for with Max gone and Sidney Godolphin admitting his helplessness, she remained her father’s only hope. There was Keppel, of course, and it was possible that he would rally to their side. But so far there had been no word from him, nor was there news of Fenwick. He had apparently vanished somewhere in the vicinity of the Bank of England.

  Forcing herself to meet the May morning, Eden was not entirely displeased to learn that Master Banks, her riding instructor, had come down with an unseasonable ague. He had, however, sent instructions through Elsa that Eden should take a brisk canter through Green Park so she would not lose what little skill—as well as confidence—she had thus far acquired.

  Without enthusiasm, Eden put on a rust-colored brocade riding jacket over an amber sidesaddle skirt. Within twenty minutes, she and Elsa were walking their mounts through the park. Though her bay mare was so docile as to be almost inert, Eden’s manner was timorous, her seat unsure. Elsa, however, rode easily, a skill acquired on her stepfather’s farm. Naturally, she was eager to hear more of the momentous events of the past two days, from the King’s levee to Max’s flight. Eden tried to relay some of the highlights, but her efforts at sign language were hampered by her need to cling to the reins.

  “But the King’s wig! It’s so amusing!” insisted Elsa, laughing merrily. “Our William, he is not angry, only embarrassed.” She paused as Eden’s mare came to a stop. “But Prince Max, that is not amusing. Count Rudolf is not a nice man, and he
lies about many things.”

  Eden was inclined to wax eloquent about Rudolf’s perfidy, but the words would have been wasted. She had already cursed the Count over and over, blaming him for Max’s hasty departure. The portrait of Max was being filled in, and Eden was both touched and dismayed by what she saw. Prince or not, his childhood had not been particularly happy, with his parents making rigorous demands and very likely not showering him with much affection. Indeed, she reflected, flicking the riding crop, his upbringing was not so different from her own. It was no wonder that he had fallen hopelessly in love with his pretty cousin, who no doubt returned his feelings with a fervor that was foreign to him. As a young bridegroom, he had his wife’s property at Vranes and at least a claim to his inheritance from the Elector of the Palatinate. Max’s life must have held the promise of order and security, with an heir on the way to cement the future.

  And then Sophie Dorothea and the child had died. Max had suffered Rudolf’s recriminations and fought his cousin’s greed. War had come to the Low Countries, tainting Max’s claim to Vranes and ravaging the land. It was no wonder that Max was moody and distant. What little love he’d known had been brutally snatched away. Nor, Eden supposed, was it so hard to understand why he’d consider marrying a woman like Harriet. At least she was wealthy. And her family influence would be a boon to a pauper prince, especially a foreigner.

  But these perceptions didn’t make it any easier for Eden to deal with her own emotions. In fact, Max’s very vulnerability moved her, making her want to protect him from future hurt. And, Eden knew, life with Harriet would be full of hurt, for it would be devoid of love. Yet he was determined to marry the wretched woman, while Eden set her sights on the King. It was an impossible situation, made far worse by Max’s absence.