by Mary Daheim
Max leaped to his feet in an incredibly swift motion for a man so large. “Damn your eyes!” he exploded, towering over Rudolf. “You talk as if she had been a piece of goods! She may have been your sister, but she was my wife!”
Rudolf made a leisurely effort to get to his feet. “More’s the pity. But,” he went on, reading the storm signals that played across Max’s chiseled features, “there’s still room for your precious compromise. If you sign the separate peace with King Louis, he will reward you amply. After all, except for Maastricht and a couple of other negligible outposts, he controls the entire frontier. What will you? Phillipsburg? Huy? Mons?”
Max’s hand shot out to grab Rudolf by the front of his ruffled lawn shirt. “I want Vranes. That’s my home.” He spoke between clenched teeth, all but lifting his cousin off the ground. “I’ll sign no traitorous treaties with the French. If you do, William will have your head. If,” he snarled, shoving Rudolf away, “I don’t take it first.”
“Really!” Rudolf’s aplomb was shaken, but he refused to be cowed. “You’re much mistaken, Max. I have the Duke of Savoy as my ally and the Archbishop of Liège as my adviser. William can’t touch me.”
Max growled an old Flemish oath that made Rudolf flinch. “Both are in Louis’s pocket—and purse. When William takes the field again, you’re enough of a turncoat to sing a different song.”
Tucking his shirt into his riding breeks, Rudolf sneered. “The English and Dutch won’t go to war this year. They don’t have the funds. The treaty must be signed in a week. Come back within four days and we’ll ride together to Liège to meet with the archbishop.”
“The hell we will!” Max had grabbed the reins of his horse and swung into the saddle. “You’ll be an old man—or a dead man—before I ever sign such a piece of perfidy! There’s nothing you can do to coerce me, either.”
He was about to spur his gelding into a canter when he heard Rudolf laugh softly behind him. “But there is, Max.” His hands on his hips, Rudolf planted himself in the shade of the linden tree. “You once took the woman I held most dear. Now I shall do the same to you.”
Max’s hands froze on the reins, causing his horse to startle. Surely Rudolf couldn’t mean what Max thought he did. Warily, he finessed his response: “What are you talking about, you depraved swine? Harriet is safe in England.”
“Harriet!” Rudolf spat out the name with an air of scorn. “I speak of your little peasant, of course. She is on this side of the North Sea. And, I’ve observed, she’s much dearer to you than your fiancée.”
Max felt the blood drain from his face even as his rage began to boil over. He was armed with his combat sword, but Rudolf wore no weapon, at least not one that was visible. The only solution was to find Eden before his cousin did. William, in his state of restless ill health, was moving the court at will. Rudolf had the advantage; he could make his inquiries openly. Max would have to track Eden down by stealth.
Turning in the saddle, he glared at Rudolf with an antipathy that would have withered a lesser man. “If you touch her, I’ll not be squeamish next time. Upon the soul of Sophie Dorothea, I swear it.”
Whirling, he dug his heels into the sides of his mount and galloped against the wind into the dark silence of the forest.
The whiskered Swiss guards in their blue cloaks and flat caps had instructions not to let anyone but Joost van Keppel and Dr. Bidloo into the King’s room. One glance at their stolid faces put Eden off, but Sidney Godolphin’s self-effacing manner concealed a determination that would have done his thoroughbreds proud. With a polite nod to the guards, Godolphin turned to Dr. Bidloo.
“See here,” said Godolphin, maneuvering around the rigid guardsmen who flanked the antechamber door, “Mistress Eden has some excellent remedies. Shall we be candid, Sir? Should—God forbid—anything happen to His Majesty, would you want to take the blame?”
Bidloo, a swarthy man with shrewd dark eyes, cast a disparaging look in Eden’s direction. “If you’re implying that this slip of a girl can help the King when I can’t—”
“Slip of an English girl,” Godolphin interjected. “Your London vis-à-vis, Dr. Radcliffe, is not here for consultation.”
Bidloo’s clever eyes darted around as he weighed Godolphin’s words carefully. “Ah, yes,” he finally conceded. “I’ve always said Radcliffe was an idiot.” The doctor scrutinized Eden’s collection, which included two jars, a wicker basket, three bottles, a cast-iron pot and a tea kettle. “I suppose she can do no harm. And if the worst should happen, the English shall bear as much responsibility as we Dutchmen.”
William of Orange lay like a rag doll in the big canopied bed, his eyes closed and his breathing labored. The damask draperies were tightly shut, and though outside the summer sun shone from a clear blue sky, the room lay in deep shadow. The air was stale; the atmosphere oppressive. Keppel, attired in a brightly colored Indian banian, had been trying to feed his master puff pastry from a blue ramekin while a pair of Dutch pugs dozed on a rumpled blanket.
“The guardsmen were told to keep everyone out,” Keppel said in a querulous tone. “His Majesty is very ill.”
“Precisely,” agreed Godolphin. “Which is why Mistress Eden is here.” He forestalled Keppel’s objections with a wave of his hand. “Dr. Bidloo has given his consent.”
Keppel regarded Eden with skepticism as she hauled back two of the drapes and opened the tall French windows. “We must have air. It’s stifling in here. And I need a fire, but only enough to boil my kettles.” She glanced at Keppel. “Will you build it or shall I?”
Keppel stared at her peevishly. “This is nonsense. His Majesty should be bled. Where is Bidloo?”
Eden pulled aside the fender with its decoration of Grecian nymphs. “Milord Godolphin told you, Dr. Bidloo has given me permission to try my cures. See?” she said, standing up and showing him the contents of her wicker basket. “Poplar buds, which I shall mix with mutton fat for a salve to apply to His Majesty’s nose. Camphor, to put into the boiling waters to ease his breathing. Elderberry, to eliminate ill humors.”
About to scoff at her concoctions, Keppel was diverted by a rattling sound that came from the King’s chest, followed by a series of gasps. The young favorite and Godolphin hurried to the bed, but Eden remained at the hearth, using a pestle to mix the salve and keeping her ear cocked for the bubbling of the pot.
“God help us,” murmured Keppel, turning frantic blue eyes on Eden, “he can scarcely breathe! I told you he ought to be bled! Think of it—if His Majesty dies, Princess Anne will rule!”
Godolphin’s round face betrayed only the slightest change. But Eden, in the process of putting the teakettle on the hob, stopped and stared at the shriveled figure in the bed. If William died … Anne would be queen, Sarah Churchill would have more influence than anyone else in the realm, Marlborough would go free, and Eden would not be asked to sacrifice her virtue—or her love.
Searching Godolphin’s face, she marveled at his lack of malice. Like Marlborough, he was a fair-minded man who respected the opinions of others. But unlike her father, Godolphin was also a gambler. Was it possible that he was betting on her failure?
Slowly she moved toward the bed. If William died, so many of Eden’s problems would be solved. No one would blame her if she announced that having seen the King, there was nothing she could do.
William coughed twice, squirmed fitfully and with effort opened his watery eyes. He blinked and coughed again before fixing Eden with a gaze that was both pitiful and potent. “Mistress,” he gasped, “why …?”
Eden felt the power of those eyes and squared her shoulders. “Why, indeed, Sire,” she answered brightly. “I’m here to make you well. Let me apply this salve.” Bending over the bed, she deftly put the poplar and fat mixture around his nostrils. Too weak to offer resistance, William shrank back into the pillows. The iron pot boiled noisily, and Eden hurried to pour in the camphor. A sharp medicinal tang wafted over the room, mingling with the fresh, scented air
from the gardens. Eden leaned against the ornate fireplace and offered a swift prayer. If all went well, the King should improve within the hour. Given her gift for healing, she had done what she had to do. No matter what the consequences, it would have been impossible for Eden to let William die.
To Keppel’s amazement and Bidloo’s relief, the King was resting much easier by suppertime. The doctor refused to endorse Eden’s methods, but allowed that she had somehow been lucky. “The moon, or the stars,” he had muttered, “have much to do with life and death.”
Keppel was less grudging. “The only thing more astonishing than your magic is the fact that His Majesty became so ill in the first place. He always prospers in his homeland. This summer, alas, has been different. He frets too much about his lack of money to fund the war against Louis.”
Godolphin glanced at William, who seemed to be asleep. “Allocating funds for military purposes is not in my power. Having recalled the old coinage, Parliament seems loath to spend the new.”
“Spending money is one of life’s great pleasures,” Keppel asserted, letting the pugs nuzzle his velvet house slippers. “His Majesty ought to clap Parliament in the Tower.”
“Those days of divine right are gone forever, praise God,” murmured Godolphin. He gestured at Eden, who was busily brewing her elderberry tea. “Let us not talk of the Tower,” he whispered. “It upsets our good nurse.”
Eden had been summoned to the bedside by Dr. Bidloo. “Our patient is waking up. I can scarce believe it,” the doctor said, too grateful to show further rancor.
William was not only awake, but struggling to sit up. “What is all this fuss? Are we holding a levee in our bedchamber?” His voice was hoarser than usual, but the dark eyes were alert as he scanned the room. “Why do we have paste on our nose?”
“It’s salve,” said Eden, putting a soothing hand on his arm and straightening the covers. “Now you shall have some hot tea.”
“Tea!” snorted William. “We despise tea!”
Eden gave a little shrug. She was weary after her long day, her curls were limp, and her skin was pale. But in her saffron skirts and amber petticoats, she looked like one of the French marigolds from the palace garden. “As you will, Sire. In consequence, we shall not reveal our plan to get money for your war.”
The King’s eyes narrowed. Bidloo frowned, while Godolphin and Keppel turned in surprise. “What nonsense is this now?” William demanded, a hand on his chest. “Do you mix money with medicine, Mistress?”
“Health and wealth don’t always go together,” Eden allowed, inspecting the china tea dishes that Keppel had set out on a teak table by the bed. “One year when my foster father needed money to repair our oasthouses, Master Peavey, the richest man in the village, refused him credit.” She paused to pour tea from the steaming kettle.
William was growing restive, his face tight with impatience. “My point, Sire,” Eden continued quickly, “is that if you can’t get funds from one source, go to another. If Parliament declines, the next logical source is a money lender—in this case, the Bank of England. It’s new, and ought to be more than eager to please you.” She shrugged again, as if the solution were so obvious as to defy rebuttal.
William’s brows drew together. “Do you mean a loan?” He heard Keppel snicker behind a lace-edged handkerchief. “But that’s unprecedented! No King of England has ever asked a bank for a loan!”
“That,” interjected Eden without so much as a deep breath, “is because until now there was no Bank of England to ask.”
The sharp brown eyes flickered over Godolphin, then fixed on Eden. “Is this really your idea, Mistress?”
To Eden’s surprise, she thought there was a tug of a smile at the corners of William’s thin mouth. “If a bank has vaults filled with gold, why should it not be put at His Majesty’s disposal? How will these bankers fare if Louis defeats the allies and overruns England? They’ll be counting sous instead of ha’pennies.”
William fingered his chin while Keppel gave Eden a bemused look. “Sidney,” the King said at last, turning to his oft-maligned minister, “what think you?”
“It’s brilliant, Sire.” Godolphin beamed at Eden. “To be blunt, it’s an idea that I or Bentinck or Shrewsbury should have introduced before this.”
Reflecting briefly, William grimaced. “Mayhap. We will consider dispatching you and Milord Bentinck to England to meet with the bank’s governors.” His glance went from Godolphin to Bidloo and finally rested on Eden. Keppel had moved to the bed, the pugs at his heels. The young favorite started to speak, but for once, William ignored him. “You’re a surprising young lady, Mistress. We’ve seldom known a member of your sex to be so widely accomplished.” The King beamed at Eden. “Now, is it teatime?”
Chapter Twelve
To everyone’s amazement, the King went haring two days later. While he was far from robust, his cough was better and his color had improved. Eden had no trouble plying him with fresh fruit, for unlike the English, William shared his fellow Dutchmen’s belief that the summer harvest was more than tasty, it was healthful as well. She had less success, however, in keeping him from strong spirits.
The stratagem she’d outlined took more time. Several courtiers spurned the idea of seeking a loan from the new Bank of England, and there was much heated debate. But William, having accepted the proposal, refused to be talked out of it. As summer spun its green-and-golden web across the United Provinces, the King ultimately badgered his courtiers into a consensus. In early August, Bentinck and Godolphin sailed for England. Anxiously, Eden awaited word of their mission’s outcome.
This obvious concern masked her greatest worry, which was for Max. Except for rumors that he’d been seen at various points along the Meuse, and as far east as Liège, there were no messages, either to the King or to her. The long, sunny days only emphasized her loneliness. Sitting in the seashell grotto at Het Loo, Eden could imagine walking hand in hand with Max up to the little pavilion on the hill above the palace, or drifting down the canal that wound between the formal gardens.
Reality was a string of empty days, like a necklace without jewels. Eden sent a long letter to her father, trying to cheer him—and herself—with accounts of her remedies for the King. She also scribbled a brief note to her foster family in Kent, should they be curious as to what had become of her since she had left London. Eden doubted that they’d care, and was certain they’d never believe her. That Eden Berenger, foster daughter of a Smarden cider maker, should be nursemaid to a king would strain the credulity of the entire village. Nor could Eden blame them.
But in fact she was traveling between Honselaardijk and Het Loo and Dieren and the House in the Wood, mixing salves and stirring elixirs that more often than not seemed to make William of Orange feel stronger. While His Majesty displayed an appropriate amount of appreciation for her skill, he made no attempt to go beyond the boundaries of strict etiquette. Keppel was always at his master’s side, preventing any private interludes. Eden was relieved, yet felt guilty over not making more headway on her father’s behalf.
The King had just returned from hunting at Het Loo when Eden saw him wave to her from the courtyard. Quickly she descended the broad brick steps and was about to make the obligatory inquiry after his expedition when she noticed that he was accompanied by a travel-weary Wilhem Bentinck.
Seeing Eden approach the sky-blue and golden gates, the King called out to her in an unusually animated voice, “Praise God! Wilhem has the money! Our thanks is infinite, Mistress!”
As grooms and servants scurried to help William and the other nobles dismount, Eden noted Keppel’s ironic expression. She was surprised when he approached her, loosening his lawn cravat and perching on the edge of the courtyard fountain.
“It’s a tainted victory,” he said, keeping his voice low and abandoning his usual excessive mannerisms. “Your idea was clever, but it is Bentinck who has made it work. He wishes both of us ill, and now reaps his reward from the King’s gratefu
l hands.” Keppel’s blue eyes snapped, revealing a harder core than Eden would have suspected. “You’ll notice Godolphin didn’t return, thus letting Bentinck hog all the glory.”
Eden looked beyond the marble dolphins that frolicked in the fountain. Keppel was right; Godolphin was nowhere to be seen. “But why did Sidney stay behind?” she asked, watching William and Bentinck share a stirrup cup.
Keppel reached inside the taffeta lining of his hunting coat and pulled out a sealed letter. “A friendly member of Bentinck’s entourage gave me this outside the gates. It’s for you, from Milord Godolphin.” Noting that the King had finally disengaged himself from the jubilant Bentinck, Keppel leaped from his place by the fountain. “Sire! We must celebrate! Let us rally round the palace punch bowl!”
Springing to his master’s side, the young favorite nimbly helped William up the broad stairs and through the dark green front door. Bentinck’s efforts to follow had been thwarted by several excited courtiers, eager for news of the Bank of England’s patriotic generosity.
Eden remained by the fountain, its cascade of waters drowning out the nobles’ voices. Carefully she broke the seal on Godolphin’s letter. She supposed she should not be surprised that Keppel had managed to insinuate one of his cohorts into Bentinck’s party. Intrigue was not her metier, yet she knew it was necessary in order to survive at court.
Godolphin’s handwriting was much like the man himself—plain, round and without pretension. He began with a brief account of the satisfactory business he and Bentinck had concluded: “Grocers’ Hall rocked with Enthusiasm, once we made it clear that the Danger of Louis invading our Beloved Realm was quite real.” The Bank’s board of governors had been eager to show their loyalty, Godolphin related. They wished not only to help defend their country, but to demonstrate their stability over the Land Bank, which had failed the previous year. “It is known only to Providence and a Fortunate Few how much of a Debt is owed to you,” he continued, “but I assure you, your dear Father is very proud of his Daughter.”