Improbable Eden

by Mary Daheim

  Riding in her mother’s white coach with its purple plumes, Eden felt conspicuous, but at least she was spared the discomfort of a hired Hackney Hell Cart. She could not resist stopping off in Clarges Street on her way to Whitehall. Her excuse was the need to collect some of her clothes: The garments loaned by her mother were too large and too ostentatious. In borrowed plum brocade and rose velvet, ornamented with gold fringe and embroidered pretintailles, Eden felt more decorated than dressed. Directing the coachman to wait around the corner, she hurried to the bright blue door and knocked.

  Vrouw de Koch all but fell over her. “Mistress! Elsa was sure you’d been murdered by foul thieves! She’s been crying ever since she got home! You disappeared from Maastricht as if by magic!”

  Gently, Eden extricated herself from the housekeeper’s smothering embrace. “Black magic is more like it. I’m glad Elsa managed on her own.” Eden was well aware of the difficulties and fears the deaf girl must have faced when stranded by her mistress in a strange land.

  “The coachman was very gallant,” Vrouw de Koch offered. “And worried, he was, too, having misplaced his charge.”

  “With good cause, all things considered,” murmured Eden as the little maid appeared along with Heer Van de Weghe and what seemed to be the rest of the household staff. A chorus of welcome echoed in the hallway, led by Elsa, who had burst into tears, this time, presumably, of joy.

  “It’s a long story,” said Eden, touched by the servants’ concern, but suddenly struck with an onslaught of anxiety. “I would have assumed Prince Maximilian explained what happened.”

  Her comment evoked blank expressions from the entire group. “But isn’t he still on the Continent?” asked Vrouw de Koch.

  Eden started to reply, but clamped her lips shut. Elsa, the housekeeper and the hofmeester were all eminently trustworthy. But Eden could not be sure of the rest, particularly the two or three new faces that had been added in the months she was away. “I thought he might have returned ahead of me,” she answered a trifle lamely. To cover the awkward pause, Eden spoke again, explaining quickly that she had gone to live with her mother and needed to have her belongings sent to Arlington Street. Vrouw de Koch put Elsa in charge of another half dozen servants, who whisked up the stairs to Eden’s bedroom.

  Dismissing the rest, Vrouw de Koch and Heer Van de Weghe insisted that Eden come into the small parlor to wait. The housekeeper closed the door and turned to Eden with a somber expression.

  “Himself was here, like a thief in the night,” explained the housekeeper in a voice barely above a whisper. “No time to talk, to eat, to rest, mind you. Then he was off, and only the good Lord knows where.” She glanced at Heer Van de Weghe, who nodded in stolid agreement. “Only the two of us knew he was here, but this house is being watched. Why did he ever come back?”

  Eden plucked at the gold embroidery of her borrowed plum gown. “To make matters right with the King. He had no opportunity in the United Provinces, being hounded by Bentinck’s lackeys.”

  “They’ll hound him here, too,” the housekeeper replied with a deep frown. “Is it true that Count Rudolf is dead?”

  “Yes.” Eden closed her eyes for a brief moment. “Alas, that doesn’t solve Prince Max’s .problems. Or Milord Marlborough’s.”

  Vrouw de Koch was pacing the room, her chunky body listing more than ever. “I don’t like it, I don’t like it one bit. At least he’s rid of the Villiers chit.” She wheeled, fixing Eden with a shrewd eye. “He didn’t come back because of you, did he?”

  Dismayed at the accusation, Eden stiffened in the high-backed chair. “Certainly not! It was something to do with Vranes and that treacherous peace treaty.”

  Vrouw de Koch turned faintly sheepish. “Of course, of course.” Ambling over to Eden, the housekeeper patted her satin-clad shoulder. “I wish it were because of you, to tell the truth. But I fear for him. He is star-crossed, that one.”

  Again, Eden saw Heer Van de Weghe’s unhappy nod of agreement. Slowly she stood up. “No, he’s not. He’s had some bad luck in the past, that’s all. But in the end, he will be happy.” She gave both the housekeeper and the hofmeester a long, hard look. “Remember, you heard it here.”

  William of Orange was never as content in England as he was in the Gelderland; he was never as happy at Kensington Palace as he was at Hampton Court; and he was always more irascible at Whitehall than anywhere else in his island domain.

  Unfortunately for Eden, it was at Whitehall that the King was residing while he waited for the House of Lords to debate the charges against Sir John Fenwick and the Earl of Marlborough. Keppel met Eden outside the Holbein Gate in the late afternoon, while the fog came creeping up from the river.

  “Sooth, His Majesty is testy today,” Keppel complained, his own usual cheerful demeanor absent. “Secretary Huygens has resigned, Bentinck mopes, and Milord Shrewsbury refuses to come back to court after being exonerated in the Jacobite plots.”

  “Why,” demanded Eden, “are Shrewsbury and Godolphin forgiven, but not Milord Marlborough?”

  Keppel gave an impatient shrug. “It’s Fenwick’s doing. The man’s a convincing liar, and now there is this other witness, an Irish bounder named Roark. To make matters worse, Sir John Vanbrugh, who is a good friend of Marlborough’s, has written a risqué play that has proved to be the toast of the London season.”

  Eden made a perplexed face at Keppel. “Zut! And what can some silly mummery have to do with Jack?”

  Keppel avoided Eden’s gaze. “Nothing directly, but its subject matter has offended His Majesty.” He paused, then offered a sheepish little smile. “I suppose I should be offended as well. The play is called The Relapse, or Virtue in Danger. It’s about men who … prefer men.”

  Eden rolled her eyes in disbelief. The tapestry of life seemed to be made out of the most unlikely skeins. But she would not be stymied. “I’ve brought a new syrup that will soothe His Majesty’s throat in this damp weather. Won’t you let me see him, if only for a minute?” She turned a plaintive gaze on Keppel, but wondered if she could trust him. At least he had not betrayed her to Rudolf. On the other hand, for all his vaunted influence, he had made no headway in freeing Marlborough.

  Keppel was mulling over her request, the garnets twinkling on his baldric sash. “It can’t hurt, I suppose,” he allowed, “but be prepared for an unpleasant meeting.”

  The King was sitting by the fire, a brocade quilt muffling him to the chin and the omnipresent Dutch pugs at his feet. He looked even thinner than when Eden had last seen him, but his dark eyes had lost none of their sharpness.

  “Well!” he grumbled, as Eden dropped a graceful curtsy. “We thought you had abandoned us! Wherever did you run off to after Het Loo?”

  “I’m not sure,” Eden replied truthfully. “I spent some time in the country, near Liège.”

  Both William and Keppel eyed her with curiosity, but Eden wasn’t about to enlighten them further. “Here, Your Majesty,” she announced, extracting a small porcelain jar from her studded handbag, “this is berry syrup, with rare herbs. Not only will it help your throat, but it tastes delicious.”

  William took the jar and removed the lid, sniffing at the contents. His scowl softened, then he handed the syrup to Keppel. “Very well, we shall try it tonight at bedtime. We thank you for your concern.”

  Eden refused to acknowledge the ring of dismissal in his words. “You ought to take some now,” she suggested. “You also ought to have a camphor kettle going, don’t you recall? And,” she added, picking up a decanter of gin that rested on a table next to the King, “you ought not to be drinking these strong spirits. You wish to get well, not fermented.”

  The King’s brows drew together in a dangerous fashion. “You ought not to lecture your sovereign! Where were you when that Brandenburg brat smoked her chalk pipe like a sailor and I had the worst coughing fit of my life?”

  Eden fought to keep from laughing as she envisioned the tribulations William must have suffered a
t the Elector’s summer house. She also noted that the King had forgotten himself long enough to dispense with the royal plural. Assuming a serious air, she tapped her chin and appeared to reflect.

  “Your Grace has never permitted smoking in your presence before,” she said with the faintest hint of reproach. “Why would you allow a fourteen-year-old boarding-school miss to give you asthma? Surely her charms could not have been so overpowering!”

  “Not as much so as her pipe,” William retorted, a glint of humor surfacing in his dark eyes.

  “The truth is,” Keppel chimed in, “Louise Dorothea of Brandenburg is a bony, gauche girl with neither wit nor allure. And,” he added, spooning out a measure of Eden’s syrup, “His Majesty thinks it unseemly to consider acquiring a second wife while he still mourns his first.”

  “Well put, Joost.” William smiled wanly at his favorite, then docilely swallowed the medicine. “You’re right, Mistress,” he remarked with a wrinkle of his long nose. “It’s quite tasty.” He licked his thin lips and fumbled with the quilt. “The truth also is,” he went on, leaning back in the chair, “we not only missed your ministrations on our journey, but …” William stopped, glanced at Keppel, whose expression was impassive, and then looked at Eden. “The truth really is,” he repeated after clearing his throat, “we missed you.”

  Eden’s smile lighted up the gloomy chamber. She could hardly believe the King’s admission. Even Keppel seemed favorably disposed. Yet she agonized over mentioning either her father or Max’s plight. Perhaps this was not the right moment; maybe she should consolidate her victory first.

  The decision was made for her by the bumptious entrance of Wilhem Bentinck. His glance at Keppel was filled with contempt; his reaction to Eden was disbelief. Still, he wasted no time on either of his despised rivals, but came straight to the point. “Prince Maximilian has been hunted down! He is hiding out at St. James’s!”

  The King wiped his mouth with the edge of his hand. “So he did come back to England.”

  Eden covered her distress by picking up one of the Dutch pugs. Lounging behind the King’s chair, Keppel shot Bentinck an insolent look. “How, Milord, would you describe ‘hiding out’ at a royal palace? Surely His Highness is under the protection of Princess Anne.”

  “My point, exactly!” Bentinck fumed. “Is the Princess permitted to defy His Majesty’s wishes? Maximilian is both a traitor and a murderer!” He glanced at William, waiting for approval.

  The King emerged from the quilt and tossed it onto the floor. “Prince Maximilian must answer these charges. Let the soldiers search the palace, if necessary.”

  Eden exchanged apprehensive glances with Keppel, then put the dog down. “If you will excuse me, Your Majesty, I’m sure my presence is intrusive at a time like—”

  “Your presence is suspect,” interrupted Bentinck. He glared at Eden, then turned to William. “Sire, this strumpet follows in her mother’s depraved footsteps!” His stubby fingers jabbed at Eden’s plum and gold finery. “She even robes herself like that licentious bawd and has formed an infamous liaison with Prince Maximilian. May I suggest that she be arrested at once?”

  The King scowled at his elder statesman. “God’s blood, Wilhem, you do Mistress Eden a grave injustice. Apologize, or earn our extreme displeasure.”

  But tenacity was inbred in Wilhem Bentinck. “Don’t be misled by a pretty face and a captivating manner. She’s Marlborough’s bastard and Maximilian’s whore! They lived together for months, man! The trollop’s a Jacobite spy!”

  Anxiously, Eden watched William’s reaction. His thin face was working painfully, and his eyes were a weary mirror of his soul. “Marlborough’s daughter, yes,” he said heavily. “But Maximilian’s … er, whore and Jacobite spy are serious allegations.” He beckoned to Eden. “Come here, my dear. How do you answer Milord Bentinck’s charges?”

  Behind the King, Eden saw Keppel’s unusually somber face. She felt Bentinck’s hostile stare and tried to take courage from the earnest expression in William’s dark gaze. But the fact was that Eden could not lie to her sovereign. She could, however, hedge.

  “I swear to you, Sire, I am no spy. Nor do I understand politics, being barely able to discern a Whig from a Tory.” She gave a little shake of her head. “As for living with Prince Max, that’s so, everyone knows of it. But I can also swear that we never engaged in the slightest impropriety all the time I was under his roof.” That much, at least, was true. She could look William of Orange straight in the eye and not flinch.

  The King visibly relaxed, while Keppel gave Eden the merest suggestion of a wink. Bentinck, however, was not appeased. “You’re too kindhearted, Willi! You’ll regret this surge of sentiment!”

  William of Orange rose from the chair, trembling with wrath, a bony finger pointed at Bentinck. “You go too far! We’re not lads in the Gelderland anymore! Get out! Get out, before I have Joost throw you out! ”

  The stunned Bentinck jumped, but Keppel stepped beside his monarch. “My pleasure,” he said with an exaggerated bow and a toss of his golden wig.

  “Impertinent whelp!” Bentinck snarled at Keppel between clenched teeth. His face was a perilous shade of purple as he returned his attention to the King. “Am I discharged from Your Majesty’s service?”

  William, who was struggling for control, ran a hand through his sparse hair. “No. But you are dismissed from our presence.”

  Bentinck started to wheel out of the room, but tripped over one of the pugs. Stifling a vile oath, he turned to the others. “You’ll regret this day,” he snarled, then slammed out of the room.

  Eden stared at the quivering door and wondered if Bentinck’s threat was meant for her or all of them. The one thing she knew for certain was that Max was in terrible danger.

  Eden used all the coins in her purse to bribe the coachman to make great haste between Whitehall and St. James’s Palace. The distance was shorter than Eden had expected, but she wanted to arrive before Bentinck’s orders could be executed. The carriage came to a grinding halt off Birdcage Walk. Glimpsing a group of soldiers through the coach window, Eden calculated her chances of gaining admission.

  Eden Berenger Churchill would no doubt be denied entry by Bentinck’s men. But no lesser entity than the Archbishop of Canterbury would dare to challenge the arrival of Barbara Castlemaine, the Duchess of Cleveland. Rummaging in one of the smaller boxes she had brought from Clarges Street, Eden took out a fashionable mask she had never worn, hid much of her hair under the ribbons and lappets of her fontange cap and found a pair of ruffled silk shoes with four-inch lacquered heels. Taking a deep breath, she plunged her hands inside a sable muff and sailed out of Lady Castlemaine’s coach.

  “Make way, make way,” she shouted in her huskiest voice. “The Duchess of Cleveland to see Her Royal Highness. By my arse, bend those backs or I’ll have your ears for supper!”

  The startled soldiers edged away, some sniggering, others gaping. One, however, was bold enough to challenge the bawdy visitor and held out an unwavering hand. “Stay, Your Grace, we’re under orders to admit no one. We have a criminal trapped inside and are awaiting further instructions from Whitehall.”

  Eden sniffed with disdain. “Most of the criminals in this realm are already at Whitehall, in my opinion.” She tapped the man’s hand with her muff. “Step aside, I’ve no patience with politics. Whig, Tory, Tory, Whig—Twigs and Whories would do as well; then at least I’d know which side I was on. Move, Lambchops, Her Highness is expecting me.”

  The soldier regarded Eden more keenly than she would have preferred, but she had no choice other than to brazen out her performance. “Well?” she cooed, pursing her lips. “Do you find me less dissipated than has been rumored? Would you care to find me later, say, on the cushioned seat of my fine coach?” Her effort at a lewd wink was partially frustrated by the mask, but the heaving velvet bosom turned the tide.

  “Zounds!” exclaimed the soldier, his eyes lighting up with a mixture of excitement and apprehen
sion. As Eden wafted the muff like a fan and waited, the man snapped to attention. “We know you by your … reputation, and Milord Bentinck is your kin by marriage. Pray enter, Your Grace.” As Eden marched past him, he spoke out of the side of his mouth: “How much later, madame?”

  “The later the better,” she retorted, throwing a coquettish glance over her shoulder. “I’m always better when it’s later.”

  Inside the palace, Eden paused to collect herself. The masquerade had taken its toll. She had not thought further than getting past Bentinck’s soldiers and was dismayed by the gaggle of guardsmen, footmen and servants who confronted her as soon as she crossed the threshold.

  “Madame,” intoned a liveried official of considerable dignity and ample girth, “may I have the honor of your acquaintance?”

  Having decided to dispense with her disguise, Eden started to remove her mask. “Indeed, I’m—”

  She was interrupted by a shriek that seemed to emanate from the chandelier but that in fact came from a pretty, honey-haired blonde who was standing halfway up the spiral staircase. “It’s the Castlemaine! Throw the harridan out!”

  “Madame,” Eden began as the palace staff exchanged agitated glances, “I’m not Lady Castlemaine! I’m her daughter!”

  If Eden had expected a swift reprieve, she was sorely disappointed. The blonde flew down the stairs, her color high, her eyes flashing. Within closer view, she was not as young as she had seemed, but probably almost forty. She was also furious.

  “Harlot!” she cried, her hands clenched. “How dare you come here! Go back to your wanton mother!”

  At a distinct disadvantage, Eden tried to becalm the other woman. “Madame, I have urgent business with Her Highness, the Princess Anne.” Eden racked her brain for a suitable excuse. “I have come from Whitehall, with a message from His Majesty.”

  The blonde hesitated, but lost none of her pugnaciousness. “Do you know who I am?” she demanded with a menacing little gesture.