by Mary Daheim
Eden sighed again and shook her head, grateful that Elsa was riding a few yards in front of her and could not see the doleful expression on her face. Maybe Elsa was right. Maybe King William had actually been amused, but was unable to show it in front of the courtiers. Or was Eden fooling herself as she had when she was a child and had tried to believe that Charles II had not wanted to single her out in front of his courtiers on the road to Tunbridge Wells?
She was still meditating on the problem when she heard a coach rumbling behind them at a perilous speed. The conveyance was traveling far too fast for the leisurely roads in the park, and as Eden turned, she realized it wasn’t going to slow down or swerve to avoid them. Knowing that Elsa couldn’t hear the ominous thud of hooves or the menacing creak of wheels, Eden steeled herself and guided her horse straight into Elsa’s mount. The startled animals reared, throwing both riders. Ignoring the pain, Eden frantically scrambled to the side of die road and was astonished when the black coach ground to a halt just ten feet away.
Staggering to her feet, Eden quickly surveyed Elsa, who was leaning against a gnarled tree, brushing off her clothes. Their horses had fled, and Eden swore softly under her breath. Heer Van de Weghe would be displeased.
Just as Eden started toward Elsa, the door of the black coach opened and a plainly dressed man with a blunt face stepped down. He moved purposefully in Eden’s direction. Keeping a wary eye on him, she bent to pick up her high-crowned hat but didn’t put it on. His apology, she told herself, ought to be most abject.
But the first words out of his mouth were anything but penitent. “You don’t belong here,” he growled in a guttural voice that might have been of foreign origin. “Go home, go back to Kent, or find yourself at the bottom of the Thames.”
Eden stood her ground, though the man was so close she could have counted the hairs growing out of the mole on his chin. Elsa cowered by the tree, obviously sensing the man’s menace. From somewhere nearby, children’s laughter could be heard, and church bells were chiming the noon hour.
“Who are you?” demanded Eden, hoping she sounded far braver than she felt.
The man shook his head. “Never mind. Just heed me.” He opened his hand, revealing a gleaming stiletto. “You follow?”
Eden suppressed a shudder. He spoke well enough, though not with the voice of a gentleman. Yet the coach was handsome, and its stolid driver wore tasteful gray-and-white livery. Daring to peer beyond the intimidating figure before her, Eden saw that the coach door was hung with a black drape, probably to cover the telltale coat of arms. She thought she saw someone moving inside.
Eden forced her gaze back to the blunt face. “You don’t happen to be a friend of Lady Harriet’s, do you? I can’t think of anyone else I’ve annoyed lately.”
The man found no humor in Eden’s remark, nor did he seem to recognize Harriet’s name. “It’s not easy to laugh when your throat’s slit,” he warned, balancing the stiletto in his hand. “You follow?”
The wheels of another coach reached Eden’s ears. “I follow my inclinations,” she said with bravado, “and will do as I please.” Her effrontery surprised them both, but Eden knew that the second coach was almost upon them. Cutpurses and pickpockets might roam London’s parks after dark, but she doubted that even a belligerent fellow such as this one would murder her in broad daylight. The mere possibility reminded her of Captain Craswell’s fate, and Eden’s courage nearly evaporated.
But her adversary had heard the other coach and quickly pocketed the knife. “This is no game,” he warned Eden, a stubby finger almost touching her nose. “You want to be carved up like a hunk of beef? Eh?”
Eden refused to give him the satisfaction of a reply. The black coach was pulling over to one side to let the second vehicle pass, no mean feat on such a narrow pathway. But a woman’s throaty voice called out, ordering her driver to stop. The blunt-faced man lunged, took in the imposing satin and sable-clad woman leaning from the window, and scurried to the haven of his own conveyance.
“Rudi!” called the woman in that husky voice, “are you in there, you big poxy ape? Come out, or I’ll have my man shoot your horses!”
Fascinated, Eden took Elsa by the hand and led her away from the tree. Someone gave muffled orders to the driver of the black coach. With great difficulty, the horses picked their way past the other conveyance and took off at a trot.
“Coward!” shrieked the woman, waving a fist. “I’ll see you rot in hell, you Swabian noodlecock!”
“What are they saying? What is happening?” gasped Elsa.
But Eden didn’t hear the maid. Instead she was staring unabashedly at her bawdy savior, trying to figure out why she looked vaguely familiar. Heavily painted and rouged, laden with rubies at ears and neck, the woman stopped cursing long enough to take a swig from a gold and garnet-encrusted flask.
“Well?” Her tongue flicked at a drop of liquor that clung to her reddened lip. “Where’s your manners, Baby Ducks? Or didn’t Count Rudolf’s lackey offer you enough?”
Eden disengaged herself from Elsa and approached the woman in the white coach with its purple plumes and golden crest. “I’m not a baby duck,” she asserted, disinclined to be put off by a sharp tongue any more than by a gleaming knife, “nor do I sell myself in Green Park.”
“Then St. James’s Park is the other way, Baby Ducks.” Laughing richly, the woman sucked at the gaudy container, then leaned farther out the window to scrutinize Eden. “You’d do well there, or my teats aren’t two but four.” She started to laugh again but sobered abruptly, a hand at her mouth. “Mother of God,” she murmured, staring at Eden, “if you’re not Baby Ducks, who are you?”
Blowsy old bawd, thought Eden with indignation; she probably runs a brothel in Cheapside. A profitable one, Eden guessed, considering the rubies and satin and furs. Eden sniffed and drew herself up very straight, not the least bit diffident about giving her real name to this prying strumpet. “I’m Eden Berenger Churchill,” she announced, and was startled when the woman’s fingers went slack and the bejeweled flask fell to the ground.
Ever the diligent servant, Elsa ran to restore it to its owner. The woman blinked in a bleary fashion, then tried to focus on Eden. Her eyes, which were an extraordinary shade of dark violet, slowly cleared and grew vivid with some secret, intense emotion that completely baffled Eden.
“Mother of God,” the woman repeated, and reached out her hand. “Get in,” she commanded, the husky voice almost inaudible.
But Eden took a step backward. “Oh, no, Mistress. I mislike meeting strangers in the park.”
Something like a chuckle erupted from the woman’s throat. “A stranger!” She put a hand to her hennaed hair and shook her head. “Hardly that,” she declared, the painted face suddenly softening. “I’m Barbara Castlemaine. If you’re Eden Churchill, I’m your mother.”
Eden rode in a daze to Barbara’s house in Arlington Street. Next to her on the cushioned coach seat, Elsa could hardly contain her curiosity, but had to be satisfied with trying to read Lady Castlemaine’s lips. Though Eden could hear perfectly, she still had trouble accepting this raddled strumpet’s words. For all Barbara’s scandalous reputation, Eden was not prepared for the reality.
The house in Arlington Street was remarkably subdued in style, except for the bold purple front door. Lady Castlemaine’s arrival was slightly unsteady, but her voice was strong and she shrieked at her pink-cheeked maid and cursed at a blackamoor wearing a green satin turban. The maid was ordered to tend to Elsa; the blackamoor was charged with bringing refreshments.
“Servants!” she grumbled, collapsing on a red velvet chaise longue and yanking off her big straw hat. “Holy Mother, you’d think they’d show more deference to a duchess!” She kicked off her shoes and put her fingers to her mouth, emitting an ear-shattering whistle. To Eden’s amazement, a little monkey wearing a miniature guardsman’s suit leaped from the top of the brocade draperies and landed in Barbara’s lap.
“Cromwell!
At least you don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” Lady Castlemaine said, proving her point by proffering a dish of Spanish nuts to the little animal.
Eden, who had slipped into an ornate chair, wondered if Barbara had forgotten her presence. But as soon as the blackamoor brought a tray of current cakes and almond biscuits, Lady Castlemaine whipped out her flask, drank it dry and fixed Eden with her piercing deep violet gaze.
“So you’re Eden.” She looked more bemused than elated. “At least you inherited some of my looks.” She waved a hand at a portrait that reposed in shadow at the end of the room. “See for yourself. I was magnificent as Minerva when Sir Peter Lely painted me. Gin?” She held up a bottle, mustered from a small paneled table next to the chaise longue.
Still unnerved, Eden declined the drink, but got up to admire the portrait. Barbara had not exaggerated. The artist had captured the glory of her youth—streaming auburn hair, a fine full figure and those wonderful eyes, sharp, clear and seductive. Even as Eden admired the vivid strength and beauty, she recognized the similarities between herself and the woman who had given her birth. It was in the eyes—not the color, but the spark; in the mouth, full, mobile, prone to laughter; in the skin, radiant with health, sleek with youth. But more than coloring or features, there was a verve about the young Lady Castlemaine that all but leaped from the canvas. Eden was drawn instinctively to that zest for life, and realized it was a quality she shared with this dissipated courtesan who was her mother.
To Eden’s embarrassment, her eyes had filled with tears. “Milady,” she began, turning to Barbara, “I never imagined this moment would come!”
“Holy bat bottoms, you never imagined I existed!” The monkey yanked off his gold-braided hat, but Barbara slapped it on his head. “Behave yourself, Cromwell, or you’ll get no gin. Sit, sit, sit,” she ordered Eden in much the same tone she’d used on the monkey. “Enough of sentiment—along with guilt it’s the most useless emotion in the world. Now tell me why Count Rudolf’s henchman was trying to scare you off. Is it because of that handsome Flemish prince, or something to do with Jack?”
Trying to pull her thoughts together, Eden sat and took a deep breath. The drapes were shut against the May sunshine, and the room smelled heavily of jasmine. Eden was tempted to buoy her spirits with a sip of gin, but glanced at Barbara’s ravaged face and decided to abstain.
“Prince Maximilian was forced to flee England yesterday,” she began, but Lady Castlemaine shook her head, the rubies glinting at her ears.
“God’s teeth, I know all that—there’s not much I don’t know. Gossip travels like fog, seeping into every nook and cranny. Is Rudolf conspiring against Jack? Or is he doing our cousin’s dirty work for her?”
Eden stared at Barbara. “Cousin? You mean Max’s cousin.”
“No, no, our cousin.” Lady Castlemaine dropped a Spanish nut down her considerable cleavage, delved for it without result and shrugged. “Harriet,” she averred, leaning forward on the chaise while the monkey grabbed the gin bottle. “Don’t look so dense, Baby Ducks. Much as I hate to claim the grasping baggage as my kin, Harriet, like us, is a Villiers.”
Eden gaped. Marlborough had made some passing mention of Barbara’s ancestry, but it had come in such a flood of other more devastating revelations that Eden had forgotten.
“All these new—and generally loathsome—relatives must be a strain to sort out,” Barbara remarked, sampling a dish of Morello cherries. “Rudolf has always been thick as thieves with that moldy old wedge of cheese Bentinck, so of course he and Harriet have much more than their appalling dispositions in common. I marvel that Harriet didn’t choose Rudi over Max, but at least her vision works better than her brain.” The deep violet eyes sparkled momentarily. “He’s quite a specimen, that tall, blond prince. Would that I were twenty years younger—or even ten,” she remarked a bit wistfully. “Have you bedded him yet?”
Aghast, Eden pulled back in her chair, “Of course not! He’s betrothed, and I’m … I’m ….”
“Disappointed.” Barbara popped another cherry into her mouth and washed it down with more gin. “Never mind, he’d only distract you. Once you’ve seduced the King, you can do as you please where Max is concerned.” Lady Castlemaine spoke with the blasé attitude of one for whom intimate feelings were but a garnish to the main course of life. “Tomorrow, William sails for the Continent. You must go, too, as he’ll probably be away all summer, and Jack will be growing restive in the Tower. Worse than that, Jack’s enemies may find the necessary pair of witnesses to testify against him. It’s not inconceivable that Parliament could act in William’s absence.”
“But what of Fenwick?” Eden asked, jarred by her mother’s suggestion of following the King abroad.
Lady Castlemaine brushed at the monkey, which was tugging at her petticoats and cheeping imperiously. “Here, Cromwell,” she said, relenting and tossing him a cherry, “now be a good lad and go entertain the Persian cat.” The animal scampered off, and Barbara turned to Eden. “Fenwick? Oh, he’s a slippery sort, married to that moonfaced Carlisle chit who probably put him up to trying to kill William in the first place.” She swung around on the chaise, gesturing toward the door with her gin bottle. “He’s upstairs, trussed like a beef roast. Shall I ask for ransom or do my duty, Baby Ducks?”
Almost speechless, Eden wondered how many more shocks she could take in one day. “Here? How? You captured him, Milady?”
“Not exactly. I found him.” Barbara looked supremely complacent. “After that melee with Prince Max, Rudi had to find a better hiding place for Fenwick than under an outlandish wig. He tried to foist him off on Harriet, but she refused to soil her dainty skirts—not to mention her uncle’s shaky reputation. And then, proving himself to be the idiot I’d always claimed, Rudolf had the nerve to approach me!” Her indignation seemed genuine, though the effect was diminished by her slightly crossed eyes. “I abstain from court these days, not caring to bore myself senseless with those Dutch toadies William has plastered to his side, and I suppose Rudolf thought no one would dream of questioning me about harboring a traitor. But,” she added, drawing herself up straight on the chaise, “I have my principles. Happily, they have nothing to do with my virtue, but when it comes to treason, I draw the line. All the same, who should show up on my doorstep last night but this ill-advised Fenwick. I had him locked away and went haring after Rudolf this morning, which is how I happened to be in Green Park chasing his coach when you suddenly popped up like a milkmaid in a haystack.” Eden sat very quietly, trying to absorb everything her mother had told her. “But wouldn’t Rudolf know you wouldn’t shield a man who’d implicated Jack?”
Barbara gave an airy wave of her hand. “God’s teeth, if I lent my support to every man I ever bedded, I’d be a veritable charity! Not that Jack wasn’t remarkable between the sheets. Never let it be said that I’d carp about any of my children’s fathers, at least not about the method that got them born in the first place. But when it comes to intrigue, I’ve retired.”
“What will you do with Fenwick?” Eden asked, still a bit breathless from her mother’s disclosures.
“There’s a reward, I suppose.” She tipped the gin bottle to her lips, discovered it, too, was empty, and swore. “Frankly, he’s negligible. The main thing is to keep him from making accusations against Jack. I’m more concerned about your role in all this. William is a puny being, and when he dies—” she stopped to cross herself in a haphazard manner “—Princess Anne will take the throne, and Sarah Churchill will run that poor sow like a pig to market. But in the meantime, Jack must keep his head attached to the rest of him, which could prove tricky. See here, Baby Ducks,” she said, lowering her voice and leaning forward to reveal a bulge of bosom above her bodice, “you’re quite a splendid piece. That hair, that face, that lovely body! If only I could climb inside your skin for just one night, I’d ….”
To Eden’s surprise, the violet eyes had misted over and the red lips trembled. “Yes?” Eden encouraged
, embarrassed by her mother’s show of emotion.
But Barbara resumed her brittle manner as her maid entered, announcing that Count Rudolf of Swabia had called and left a note. “That blundering ox!” exclaimed Lady Castlemaine. “Has he come for Fenwick? Or,” she added, with a speculative glance at Eden, “for you? Nora,” she commanded, turning to her maid, “you must put on Mistress Eden’s clothes at once and do as I tell you! Hurry!”
Nora and Eden were both flummoxed by Barbara’s orders, but they obeyed. As Eden exchanged her clothing for an Oriental shawl, Barbara scanned Rudolf’s note. “As I suspected,” she said, crumpling the missive and tossing it into the dish of nuts, “it’s a request for me to send Fenwick to France where your sister can hide him. She’s a nun, you know.”
Though Marlborough had mentioned another child by Barbara, Eden still found the idea incredible. That her sister should be Catholic and in a religious order was virtual anathema from Eden’s Huguenot point of view.
“You look shocked,” Barbara remarked to Eden as the mystified maid struggled into the rust and amber riding habit. “God’s eyes, I’m a Catholic myself.” She crossed herself again, pausing to retrieve the Spanish nut that had fallen into her bodice. “Young Barbara’s not exactly a saint, having borne one bastard already, but now that she’s a Mother Superior she seems to have settled down.” Getting to her feet, she righted the high-crowned hunting hat on Nora’s chestnut curls and nodded with approval. “Be brave. Just start walking for Clarges Street. Your reward will be ample.”
“Whatever is going on?” Eden asked as the puzzled maid headed out of the house.