Improbable Eden

by Mary Daheim

  Eden beamed when she read those words, and tried to imagine Marlborough, in his prison cell, exulting over her ingenuity. Godolphin’s next lines were less sanguine: “I remain in England, for varied Reasons, not the least of which is your Father’s Predicament. Since his Arrest, F. has made the most libelous Allegations to certain Members of the House of Lords, and I fear they will act swiftly in passing Judgment against M. All that prevents them from moving ahead in His Majesty’s Absence is the lack of a second Witness. But such a one will be found, as enough Silver will eventually grease the right Palm.”

  Disturbed, Eden reread the letter more slowly, then started to tuck it away in the pocket of her lace-edged pinner-apron. She paused, noting that most of the courtiers and attendants had drifted away. Intrigue might be foreign to her nature, but it was essential. With a deft motion she unfurled the letter and submerged it in the pool. The paper’s lifeblood dissolved in tiny rivulets of blue ink. Eden crumpled the sodden remnant and threw it into the water, where it disappeared beneath the dolphins’ dancing fins.

  The antechamber in the King’s apartments was hung with tapestries depicting cavalry exploits. It was here that William received Eden, who carried a blue crock filled with steaming applesauce.

  “Delicious!” he announced, taking in a heaping spoonful. “One of my Grandmother Amalia’s cooks made a sauce that almost—but not quite—equaled yours.”

  Eden gave him her most beguiling smile. “It was always a treat with fresh apples this time of year in Smarden,” she said, casting around for a way to steer the conversation in the direction of Marlborough’s plight. “Merry come up, last summer I never expected to be in the Gelderland! What a difference it has made to find my real father!”

  William’s sallow skin darkened, and Keppel suddenly seemed absorbed in winding a tall mahogany clock across the room. Eden stiffened slightly, awaiting the royal displeasure. But she was relieved that she had finally broached the subject.

  “We’ve never been quite clear about all that,” the King remarked, setting down his porcelain dish and taking a sip of beer. “The Earl of Marlborough betrayed our trust.”

  Eden bridled, but tried to conceal her anger. “He’s loyal, Sire. He’s been the victim of jealous rivals. Could anyone have served you better than he did in your wars on the Continent and in Ireland?” She glanced at Keppel, hoping for an endorsement. But the young favorite was tapping the clock’s case, intently listening for a ticking sound.

  William stifled a cough and regarded Eden with a stern expression. “We expect Parliament to act before long. Then justice can be done.” Seeing her shocked expression, the King made no effort to soften his words. “We are more merciful than most, Mistress, but traitors, especially in time of war, must not be spared.”

  “Sire!” Eden was aghast at William’s harsh stand. “I beseech you, His Lordship is no Jacobite! He had nothing to do with the assassination plot! Someone has been filling your ears with vile calumny!” She paused, aware of William’s affronted look and Keppel’s odd stare.

  The King’s thin lips clamped together, emphasizing the aggressive beaklike nose. “Enough, Mistress. We are preoccupied today. Dynastic issues demand that we go a-courting.”

  Eden gaped at William. “You’ve found a bride?”

  The King’s thin lips all but disappeared. “I … we seek one in Germany,” he replied, his brown eyes no longer so piercing. “More politics.” The glance he gave both Eden and Keppel was defensive as well as apologetic.

  Having finally found the courage to mention Marlborough’s detention, Eden was dismayed by William’s obstinacy. But she was not prepared for his announcement about a new consort. Her own prospects had never looked more dismal.

  Before the King could expand on the subject of his proposed trip, Bentinck entered, his ruddy face blazing with outrage. “God’s fish, Willi,” he cried, heedless of etiquette, “the Duke of Savoy and Count Hohenstaufen have signed a separate peace treaty with King Louis!”

  What little color William had acquired drained from his face. “Damn all!” he breathed, his hand trembling on the beer mug. “Such treachery! And even though we have the money now, it’s too late in the season to fight!”

  With a malevolent glance at Keppel, Bentinck paced the antechamber, hands clenched behind his back. “This pair has sold us out, Sire. Louis will see their defection as a general weakening of our frontiers, from Southern France to Flanders.”

  Bewildered, Eden watched Keppel, who seemed to be displaying previously concealed inhibitions. He made no attempt to join in the political discussion, but merely glanced at Eden and gave a little shrug. She was not so inclined to dismiss this latest calamity. Eden knew it affected Max as well as the King.

  “Excuse me,” she began in a hesitant voice, earning William’s frown and Bentinck’s scowl, “but has Count Rudolf signed the treaty alone, or with his cousin?”

  Both men eyed her quizzically at first, then comprehension dawned on Bentinck. “Maximilian, you mean? No,” he said, his jaw jutting, “his name was not mentioned. What does that Judas plot now?”

  To Eden’s surprise, Keppel rose to Max’s defense. “His Highness would never agree to such a thing. Count Rudolf has not acted in concert with his cousin. I would guess that the treaty is invalid.”

  William considered while Bentinck mulled. “Perhaps,” grumbled the statesman. “Though there is another explanation.” He waited, savoring the trio’s attention. “Prince Maximilian may be dead.”

  The antechamber grew too warm in the August air. The frescoed ceiling seemed to bear down, and the paneled walls pressed in. Eden swayed, crashing into the table that held the blue clock of applesauce. Keppel caught her arm, but though he kept her from falling, the crock slid onto the floor, breaking into a dozen pieces and spilling its contents onto the tiled floor.

  Eden racked her brain to figure out a way of joining the royal party at least as far as the Rhine. She finally resorted to asking Keppel’s help. Luring him away from the bowling green at Het Loo, she stated her case in a way that sorely tried her unhoned skills at subterfuge.

  “Prince Maximilian is a friend of my father’s, as you know,” she began, standing in the shade of an oak tree. “I feel an obligation to find out if he is indeed dead or alive.”

  Keppel glanced at the green, where his opponents, led by Bentinck, were having a sudden streak of phenomenal success. “Lovely Eden, your guile is unquestioned, but your deceit is appallingly heavy-handed. You and Max spent months under the same roof. Do you think I’m an imbecile?”

  Eden’s cheeks flushed, but she drew herself up very straight. “Prince Maximilian is betrothed to Lady Harriet Villiers. Do you think he and I would behave in an improper—”

  Keppel’s response was a hearty guffaw. Away from the King, his mannerisms were not only more genuine, they were considerably less effete. “Knowing Max and seeing you, I think you’d behave the way nature intended you to,” said Keppel, quelling his laughter, but still grinning at Eden. “As for Harriet, the betrothal is off.”

  “What?” Eden was dumbfounded.

  “That’s right.” As a cheer went up, Keppel craned his neck to see Bentinck accepting congratulations from the King and most of the courtiers. “Damn the old fool’s eyes,” muttered Keppel, “he can still bowl like a boy when it comes to pleasing William.” He turned to Eden, unable to hide his amusement at her startled expression. “My friends in London have informed me that Harriet threw a terrible tantrum when she heard about the separate peace. It was shameful enough that her fiancé got himself exiled, but that he should be associated with such perfidy overwhelmed the delicate creature. She is said to be consoling herself with a spineless viscount whose pater owns half of Sussex.”

  Eden fanned herself with her hand, though the September afternoon held the crisp tang of autumn. “I didn’t know. Does Max, I wonder? You don’t really think he’s dead, do you?”

  Keppel shrugged, his attention once again diverted by
the little scene on the bowling green. “Now where did that repellent relic get to? Toadying around William, I suppose. No, the King is over there, with Bidloo and Secretary Huygens.”

  Eden had the feeling she wasn’t going to get much more out of Keppel. “If I could just ride with you as far as the Rhine, please. His Majesty needn’t know I’ve come along.”

  Conscious of the King’s approach, Keppel struck a pose, letting the slight breeze ruffle his lawn shirt and standing with one foot in front of the other to show off his well-turned calves. “I’ll see to it,” he said quickly, giving Eden a hasty bow. “And don’t worry,” he added in a low voice, “Max is alive. He’s too damnably perverse to die.”

  Eden and Elsa parted company with the others outside Nijmegen late on the first day of the journey. Keppel had been as good as his word, seeing them into the last coach and bribing the attendants into silence. It was only after the dust had cleared behind the royal party that Eden realized she had no clear plan for finding Max.

  “We’ll head south,” she announced vaguely, not looking at Elsa. Though she had pored over the maps in William’s study the previous day, she still had only the sketchiest notion of where Vranes-sur-Ourthe was located. A town called Liège was impressed upon her memory, for there the Meuse and Ourthe rivers converged. But how far away, how long it would take, what they might find when they arrived were all questions Eden couldn’t answer.

  By sunset of the following day they were following the Meuse, and for the first time, Eden witnessed the ravages of war. Farm buildings lay in rubble, entire villages had been burned, once-fertile fields were choked with briars. Beggars huddled by the roadside while children in tattered rags chased after the coach, calling for coins. Eden tossed a handful from the window, and felt guilty that she could not give more. The personal funds supplied by Barbara Castlemaine had been generous, but Eden’s tutoring had not included managing money.

  “We shall stop at the next town,” she announced to their driver. “It grows dark, and frankly, I find this war-torn countryside depressing. I wonder if Vranes-sur-Ourthe has suffered so?”

  Elsa lifted one shoulder. “King Louis’s soldiers burned much of the land they left behind them, all along the frontier.”

  As spires, battlements and rooftops rose before them in the pale September twilight, Eden tried to recall what Gerard had said about the war. The fact was, he had rarely mentioned his experiences at all. Eden suspected that he had not wanted to remember.

  Following a placid river that seemed to lead into the town, the horses slowed in front of a ramshackle inn. Set off from the side of the road was a weatherbeaten shrine shielding a figure of what appeared to be a bishop. The old-fashioned lettering at the statue’s base read St. Servatius. For Eden, such religious ornaments once would have smacked of idolatry. Yet here, in this part of the world known as the Spanish Netherlands, the little shrine seemed fitting. “Where are we?” she asked, wondering who St. Servatius might have been.

  The driver, a bearlike man with curly red hair, was alighting from the platform. “Maastricht,” he replied, kicking at a feisty mongrel whose speckled coat was bare in patches.

  “Maastricht!” The name echoed in Eden’s brain. Her father had won a great victory there, one of the few the allies had wrested from the French. Despite the inn’s dilapidated appearance and the sense of gloom that hung over the city, Eden had the unaccountable feeling that she was being welcomed home.

  Elsa, however, had no reason to share her enthusiasm. “Perhaps we should go farther into town,” she suggested, picking her way over the debris that littered the small courtyard. Broken axles, discarded wagons wheels, rusted tools and shattered crockery covered the barren ground. Two gaunt-faced children huddled by a crude pen where a half-dozen scrawny chickens had gone to roost for the night.

  But Eden had made up her mind. “ ’Tis only for a few hours. We can leave at dawn.” She turned as a pair of horsemen stopped at the edge of the road. “Don’t be frightened, Elsa,” she said, using sign language to make herself perfectly clear. “See there, more guests are arriving.”

  Elsa turned anxious eyes on the newcomers, but could see no more than the outline of their cloaks and hats. “They could be thieves,” she mumbled.

  Eden turned to the coachman, who was trying to find a trough for the horses. “How far is it from here to Liège?” she asked.

  He cocked his head and considered. “Half a day.”

  “And then to Vranes?”

  His forehead creased as he pulled on his ear. “I’m not sure. I’ve never been there. Ask the innkeeper, Mistress.” His tone was polite, but his manner was impatient. “There’s no water. I’ll have to lead the horses down to the Meuse.” Annoyed, he grabbed the reins and guided the thirsty animals toward the road.

  Elsa had gone around to the side of the inn, searching for a porter. Eden waited with a vague sense of regret; perhaps she should not have been so stubborn about staying at the edge of town.

  “Mistress!” the shorter man called in English, “do you speak the local dialect?”

  Eden had no idea what the local dialect was. “Alas, no. I use French here mostly.” She smiled politely, then let out a little gasp. The men were bearing down on her, and while she was sure she had never seen the short one before, she recognized Rudolf’s blunt-faced henchman from Green Park. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, then saw that something gleamed in the palm of his hand.

  Whirling, she started to run toward the inn, but tripped over a splintered shovel. Eden cried out as she fell, at first from pain, then in desperation. Elsa, of course, couldn’t hear her, but perhaps their driver or someone inside the inn would race to the rescue. But before she could scream a third time, a heavy boot pressed down on her back and a rough hand went over her mouth. Squirming in the dirt, Eden tried to free herself, but her efforts were in vain. Something sweet assailed her nostrils, and the world was plunged into darkness.

  When Eden awoke, she thought she was in her room above the Queen’s garden at Het Loo. But as she struggled to clear her mind and focus her eyes, she realized that her surroundings were as unfamiliar as they were elegant. In the pale light of dawn, Eden could see a walnut armoire, a tall clock inlaid with marquetry, a Chinese screen decorated with peonies and a table covered with an ornate tapestry. The bed on which she lay was hung with blue damask, and the marble fireplace was accented with rich mahogany. Eden would have been charmed had she not been so terrified.

  Slowly she sat up and surveyed herself for any serious damage. Her knees were bruised and her hands were scratched, apparently from the fall at the inn. The peacock-blue traveling costume was soiled and ripped at the hem. Her perky hat with its egret feather had disappeared along with her gold earrings, but she still had her necklace and bracelet. Robbery was not the motive; the involvement of Rudolf’s henchman indicated that. Her coach must have been followed, probably all the way from Het Loo. Drumming her fingernails against the silken counterpane, Eden cursed aloud.

  She should never have trusted Keppel. He was totally self-serving. He had betrayed her to the enemy and, in the process, gotten rid of a potential rival. What other reason could there be for her kidnapping? She could not believe that Max had ever called Joost van Keppel his friend.

  But Keppel was no comrade of Rudolf’s. Eden couldn’t think of any reason the young favorite would ally himself to a man who had just alienated the King. Rudolf had cut himself off from the House of Orange by signing the peace treaty with Louis of France.

  Deep in thought, Eden got up from the bed and went to the door. It was locked, as she had expected. Only Keppel—and Elsa—knew she was going to search for Max. Elsa, sworn to secrecy, was utterly trustworthy. Going to the nearest window, Eden noted that she was two stories above the ground. She looked out across an orderly gold and bronze autumn garden to a densely wooded parkland fenced off by a high brick wall. The house—or mansion—seemed quite large, with a creamy sandstone exterior. Her prison app
eared to be very beautiful, but a prison nonetheless. Eden noticed a bowling green beyond an oval fish pond and was reminded of her fateful conversation with Keppel at Het Loo.

  And then she knew. Bentinck had disappeared after the match. By chance or by design, the statesman must have overheard her confide in Keppel. And the wily old devil had somehow contacted Rudolf, whose men had followed Eden from Nijmegen. It was almost as impossible to think of Bentinck conniving with Rudolf as it was to consider Keppel—except that the older man knew his days of influence with the King were numbered, and he was desperate. Eden with her miracle cures and ingenuous schemes, created a double threat for Bentinck. He might be able to contend with one rival, but not two, and it was far easier to get rid of Eden than Keppel. Perhaps it was Bentinck who had ordered Captain Craswell’s death, though somehow the deed smacked more of Rudolf’s handiwork. Either way, that grim reminder was deeply disturbing.

  Eden was shivering and shaking her head when she heard the door open. Turning swiftly, she saw Rudolf glide into the room, dressed for the hunt. The perpetual smile was plastered on his face, and he carried a riding crop.

  “Welcome to Zijswijk,” said Rudolf, using his hip to close the door. “Have you breakfasted yet or would you rather wait for Max?”

  Eden moved away from the window to stand by the tapestry-covered table. “Don’t joke about Max,” she snapped. “Where is he?”

  Rudolf made his way to the table, where he perched on the edge and swung one booted foot. “Let me think—The Hague, mayhap, or the House in the Wood, or any one of the places William frequents when visiting his homeland.” The smile widened. “Unless, of course, Max has found out that His Majesty has gone a-wooing to Moylandt. Then your beloved may still be in Germany, combing the Rhine for his Lorelei.”