Improbable Eden

by Mary Daheim

  Barbara squinted through the mask she wore in a fruitless attempt to conceal her identity. “I think not. He’s been mewed up too long. And he hasn’t bedded his wife in months. Such deprivation would ruin Hercules.”

  But Marlborough’s bearing was flawless. He stood in the dock with his shoulders squared and his visage unperturbed. At one point he glanced into the gallery, offering the hint of a smile to Eden and a nod to Lady Castlemaine. It had been over six months since father and daughter had spoken. For Eden, it sometimes seemed as if Marlborough were as much of a fantasy as King Charles had been.

  She watched with pride as the Earl refuted charge after charge. After almost two hours, he was allowed to step down. Glancing across the ancient hall, with its great hammer-beam ceiling and its carved angels holding up Richard II’s coat of arms, Eden saw Sarah sitting with Sidney Godolphin. Somewhat diffidently she waved. The Countess responded with a curt nod; Godolphin beamed unabashedly.

  The Lord Chancellor pounded his staff, calling for order. With some reluctance, the assembly grew quiet. As the burnished autumn sunlight filtered through the high clerestory window, the announcement was made that a second witness was to testify in the matter of John, Earl of Marlborough. “Major Liam Roark,” blared a clerk of the court as a stalwart figure in uniform entered the hall.

  Eden leaned forward, almost bumping into the tall wig that adorned the gentleman in the next tier. There was something familiar about Major Roark—his carriage, his build, his coloring. Eden didn’t realize what it was until he turned to face the gallery.

  Liam Roark was Rudolf’s blunt-faced henchman.

  Fanning herself with her miniver muff, Eden sat back and tried to take in what Liam Roark was saying. So far he seemed to be reciting his personal history, which had nothing to do with Marlborough. Lady Castlemaine was swearing like a sailor and evoking signals of displeasure from their neighbors.

  “That Swabian noodlecock Rudolf’s lackey from Green Park,” she hissed when her spate of invective had finally run its course. “I thought Max had killed the oversized idiot!”

  Agitatedly, Eden shook her head. “I told you, Max didn’t kill Count Rudolf, some French mercenary did. But who has bribed this wretched knave?”

  A ring of angry faces glared at Eden and her mother. Both women became silent, listening for Roark to say something pertinent. Another ten minutes passed before he summed up his career, which had been primarily devoted to Irish Catholic and Jacobite causes, and his recent visit to the Continent, where he insisted he had studied German architecture.

  “Architecture, i’ faith! I’ll wager he was studying Zijswijk’s treasures,” Eden said in a low, furious tone. “The man says nothing about Rudolf!”

  Barbara sneaked a gin flask from her orange plush muff and swigged furtively. “ ’Pon my arse, he doesn’t. I wonder ….”

  Eden waited for her mother to finish her thought, but Barbara was jamming the flask into the muff and watching Roark with contemptuous violet eyes. It was as well, for the Irishman had begun his account of Marlborough’s alleged complicity in the attempt to assassinate the King. The onlookers had edged forward, some with chins on the restraining rails, others standing on tiptoe at the far end of the hall. In an attempt at calm, Eden folded her hands in her lap and concentrated on every syllable.

  “ ’Twas February first of this year, as decent a day as the saints will allow, and I’d gone with some cronies to Cuper’s Gardens. That’s the place on the river across from Hungerford Stairs known to some as Cupid’s Garden, being well-patronized by young lovers.” Roark paused, assessing the effect of his testimony thus far. Among the audience, Marlborough remained composed, his irate Countess was being soothed by Lord Godolphin, and Lady Castlemaine was dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a silk kerchief. Eden, however, was suddenly having trouble paying attention. Not only was Roark lying, but he had said something that stirred the vaguest of recollections. She twisted her fingers together and tried to remember what it might be.

  “Now I’m thinking, what is Milord Marlborough doing over in yon arbor with Sir John Fenwick and the rest? But by the Mass, I’m told he’s cheap, and Cupid’s Garden is a bargain, all things considered.” Roark gave the crowd a crude smile, revealing at least two broken teeth. “But then we can hear the nobs talking—careless, of course, but they were in their cups. And what do they say but that there’s a plan afoot to kill the King!”

  Roark spread his beefy hands theatrically, and many of the observers gasped. Others made scoffing noises. Barbara delved for her flask, and Sarah had to be forcibly restrained by Godolphin.

  The Lord Chancellor rapped for order. Marlborough stood calmly in the dock, wearing his air of detachment like a battle decoration. Roark was asked for the particulars of the conversation, but Eden paid little heed. Nothing the man said could be believed; she would not give him the courtesy of listening further. Westminster Hall was too warm, too close-packed, too filled with perfidy. Jumping to her feet, she snatched up her cloak and excused herself to Lady Castlemaine.

  Out in the crisp November air, she stood on the terrace of the old palace that Edward the Confessor had built so that he might watch the progress of his great abbey nearby. The leaden gray sky was relieved only by that strange pale streak of sunlight nature offers as a reminder that winter is not quite settled in. Eden watched the traffic on the river with unseeing eyes and wondered which was worse—knowing that Marlborough’s fate was in the hands of a perjurer or not knowing what had happened to Max.

  She let out a little cry when Joost van Keppel touched her arm. “I saw you leave,” he said, his blue eyes sympathetic. “I was in the crowd standing at the far end of the hall. Incognito, as it were.” He gestured at his relatively plain garb, and for once he wore no wig. “Roark’s story isn’t believable, but how can Jack prove he wasn’t at Cupid’s Garden?”

  Eden shook her head. “It’s far easier to say where you were than where you weren’t.” She shoved her hands into her muff and realized that her lashes were wet with tears. “I feel so helpless—and stupid. Oh, Joost,” she wailed, not caring if she cried in front of him, “where is Max? Nobody can disappear into thin air!”

  Keppel’s face grew unwontedly grim. “Something—or somebody—made him change his mind. I’ve made inquiries, I swear it. But nothing has come to light.”

  Eden wiped at her eyes with the muff. “It’s been over a month. Do you think he went abroad?”

  “It’s possible.” Keppel leaned on the stone wall, gazing down at two wherrymen who were arguing over a disputed fare. “The Princess Anne is giving a ball tonight in honor of William’s birthday. Will you come?”

  Eden’s initial reaction was to refuse, but the strangeness of the event made her hesitate. She fumbled inside her miniver-trimmed vestee for a handkerchief. “Anne is feting His Majesty? How odd!”

  “Not really. Despite the lack of affection between them, she is his official hostess in the absence of any other lady of royal rank. You must remember, too, that William is very fond of his nephew, little Gloucester. It makes at least a tenuous family bond.”

  It occurred to Eden that the occasion might provide her with an opportunity to speak with the King. Not, she reflected, as the luminous streak of light across the river dimmed to a pallid rose, that her pleas on Marlborough’s behalf would do any good. But Bentinck should be on hand, as well. She would confront the villainous Dutchman and see if she couldn’t wring from him at least some scrap of information about Max. Her eyes dry, Eden turned to Keppel.

  “I’ll go,” she said, her chin set. “I can’t just sit waiting. If I do, I’ll lose my mind.”

  Her Royal Highness, Princess Anne, was a tall woman who would have been great of girth even if she had not just suffered yet another stillbirth. Her plain if somewhat doughy face wore a bovine expression, and only her regal carriage graced her with any personal magnetism. Her consort, Prince George of Denmark, was equally obese, and though he was markedly cheerful
, his fair skin was blotchy and his blue eyes unfocused. Eden was frankly appalled at the pair upon whose star her father and his wife had affixed their dreams.

  St. James’s Palace provided a contrasting backdrop of glittering candles, banks of bronze and gold chrysanthemums and liveried retainers. Despite her restless fears for Max and her father, Eden stood resolutely at Keppel’s side in deep green velvet and ivory brocade, with satin ribbons in her hair and a collar of pearls at her throat. The King was across the room, engaged in what appeared to be a morose conversation with the Venetian ambassador. William of Orange did not look like a man celebrating a birthday, but like one who was mourning the whole spectrum of his life.

  “His Majesty’s mood grows darker by the day,” said Keppel in a low voice as a servant passed with a tray of Rhine wine in tulip-shaped glasses. “The Elector of Brandenburg has violated their kinship by selling several battalions to the Venetians. No doubt the Elector’s daughter felt snubbed by our King.”

  “Perhaps.” Eden was dubious, wondering why a fourteen-year-old maid would want to marry a man nearing fifty, King or not. Lady Castlemaine had suggested that Eden consider becoming William’s wife instead of his mistress, yet Eden couldn’t bring herself to contemplate either option. Next to the tall, swarthy Venetian with the lush mustache, William looked particularly puny.

  But it was pity the little Duke of Gloucester evoked as the Prince Consort brought his son forward to greet William. Eden touched Keppel’s sleeve and suppressed an exclamation. The child was dressed in the most splendid of court regalia, but his head was too big for his spindly body, one of his eyes was bloodshot, and his fair hair stood up in patches.

  “Poor child!” Eden said under her breath.

  Keppel’s compassionate gaze watched the little Duke make a formal bow before the King. William’s face brightened as he bent to admire the jeweled Order of the Garter, which had been presented to the child the previous summer. Uncle and nephew became absorbed in an animated exchange that clearly delighted them both.

  “A shame His Majesty had no children of his own,” remarked the Countess of Marlborough. “He might have made a better father than he does a king.”

  Keppel struck an indolent pose. “Your charity is markedly lacking on this of all happy days,” he said with a toss of his huge wig. “I shall take into account your extreme distress over Milord’s trial.”

  “Impudent rogue!” snapped Sarah with a wave of her French fan. “You’ve never lifted a finger to help my dear Lord Marl!”

  Keppel’s pose remained intact, but his gaze grew icy. “That’s not true. You have no idea what I’ve tried to do, but all my efforts have met with failure.” He glanced meaningfully at Bentinck, who had just entered the hall with Lady Harriet and a young man who was tall in stature and short of chin.

  Sarah transferred her hostility to the older Dutchman. “Bentinck! Can it be that our idiot King wants to pension him off with properties that should go to the Prince of Wales?”

  “There is no Prince of Wales,” Keppel replied with irony.

  Sarah’s gaze flickered over little Gloucester, who was playing with William’s court sword. “Not yet,” she said grimly.

  “I assume,” Eden began, hoping to smooth over the ill will between the Countess and Keppel, “if Princess Anne inherits the throne, Gloucester would be given that title?” Her query went unanswered. Lady Harriet, leaving both uncle and suitor in her wake, had approached in a sea of silver tissue and blue lace. With a halfhearted curtsy to the Countess and an equally unenthusiastic nod to Keppel, she spoke directly to Eden.

  “ ’Struth, I hear you’ve misplaced your paramour.” The emerald eyes glittered with malice. “Or did he tire of your peasant ways?”

  Eden assumed a wide-eyed stare. “Did you say pleasant ways?” Before Harriet could reply, Eden shook her head. “No, no, of course not, since you’d know nothing about them.” Unperturbed by the fire in Harriet’s eyes, Eden took a step forward, her chin set. “It’s occurred to me, Milady, that you may know where Max has gone. Would you be kind enough to enlighten the rest of us?”

  Indignant, Harriet tossed her dark curls and gave Eden a contemptuous look. “You’re a fool, Mistress. How should I know where that feckless foreigner went? I was only too glad to be rid of him.”

  “Only because he was poor,” countered Eden, oblivious to Sarah’s disapproving expression and Keppel’s unconcealed discomfiture. “Yon viscount may be rich, but at least Max has a chin.”

  “And you have cheek!” cried Harriet, jabbing at Eden with her fan. “As for Max, he may have lost more than his chin!”

  Eden damped down the sudden chill of fear that Harriet’s words evoked. “The best thing he ever lost was you,” she snapped, gesturing angrily at Harriet. “Please put that fan down. I’ve suffered enough from your antics.”

  “Oh, really?” Harriet advanced on Eden, and their hems meshed on the floor. “You spiteful little strumpet, why don’t you go back to Kent—or better still, straight to hell!”

  As other courtiers edged closer to the contentious pair, Keppel intervened. “Please, ladies,” he begged, taking each by the arm, “you’ll upset His Majesty. It’s his birthday, after all.”

  Furious, Harriet shook off his hand. “Don’t touch me, you viper! If it weren’t for you, my uncle would be—”

  But Harriet’s uncle was at her side, his ruddy complexion dark, his brow furrowed with anger. “Keep your foul, perverted hands off my niece!” he almost shouted at Keppel.

  Keppel, with a haughty toss of his head, merely laughed off Bentinck’s vicious remark. Seeing the amused look on Keppel’s face, the older Dutchman opened his mouth to speak again, but instead lunged at his enemy. Harriet screamed, Eden stumbled into the Countess, and a great gasp went up from the onlookers as Bentinck grabbed Keppel by the throat. The surprise attack caught the young favorite off guard. Keppel reeled under the ferocity of Bentinck’s stranglehold until he regained sufficient balance to grasp his assailant by the arms. Though Keppel had youth on his side, Bentinck was as solid as he was fit. Moreover, he was armed with hatred; his hold was not easy to break. Under the dislodged wig, Keppel’s face was beginning to turn an unhealthy color.

  “Cease! Cease, in the name of the King!” William stood four feet away, his voice hoarse and his expression livid. Behind him, little Gloucester peered out with his keen mismatched eyes, half-frightened, half-thrilled.

  Slowly, Bentinck let go of Keppel and dropped his hands to his sides. William glared at both men, his lips trembling. “A disgrace,” he muttered. “Infamy! We are outraged at such uncivilized behavior!” The King started to turn toward Keppel, but began to cough. Bentinck, muttering what might have been an apology, lowered his head and stumbled from the hall with Lady Harriet trailing behind him.

  “Your Majesty,” breathed Eden, quickly remembering to bob a curtsy, “do you have your medications with you?”

  William stifled his cough long enough to respond. “No,” he said curtly. “We shall return to Kensington at once.”

  “Sire …” Eden begged, but the King wasn’t paying attention.

  “Joost,” he said, with a weary shake of his head, “you must have been rude to poor old Wilhem. Take us home, please. It’s not been a pleasant party.”

  Thwarted in her attempt to speak to either Bentinck or the King, Eden watched despondently as William leaned on Keppel’s arm and the assemblage made way for the royal exit. On the dais, Princess Anne and Prince George noted the departure with phlegmatic expressions, while the Countess of Marlborough put a finger to her lips in a quizzical manner. Among the guests, only one person seemed as distressed as Eden at William’s abrupt leave-taking. Alone under one of the balconies, the Duke of Gloucester stood on the verge of tears, his homely little face wearing a crestfallen expression. His thin hands plucked nervously at the diamond-studded garter which was too heavy for his frail body and seemed to weigh him down.

  Chapter Sixteen

 
; Even in the strict Huguenot atmosphere of the Berenger house, Eden could not recall a less festive Christmas season than that of 1696. Despite Lady Castlemaine’s garish decorations and the endless parade of callers, nothing buoyed Eden’s spirits. There was still no word of Max, and as snow clouds gathered over England, Eden’s last shred of hope began to fade like the winter sun.

  John Fenwick had been condemned to die on the block within the month. And on Christmas Eve Day, the Earl of Marlborough’s sentence was to be handed down by King William. Eden rode to Westminster with Lady Castlemaine, praying that, in keeping with the yuletide season, His Majesty would be merciful.

  The great hall was packed and held an air of excitement and dread. To Eden’s surprise, she and her mother were greeted by the Countess, who pushed her way through a throng of prentices dressed in their holiday best.

  “There are occasions,” intoned Sarah at her most majestic, “when the present eclipses the past. You and I are not friends,” she said to Lady Castlemaine, “but for today, we must be allies.”

  “We can be twins for all I care, Sarah Sweet-Sheets,” Barbara agreed with an amiable lift of her sables. “Just remember, as a duchess, I outrank you.”

  Under ordinary circumstances the Countess would have been angered. But on this bleak December morning, her one-time rival’s tart tongue went unremarked. Lady Castlemaine’s blackamoor made way for them in an upper stall, just under the great durmast oak roof.

  Fumbling with her mauve taffeta skirts, Eden perched on the edge of her seat, scanning the crowded chamber. A sea of powdered wigs, hats and fontange caps bobbed and swayed below them, while the gossipers hummed like so many bees in a summer garden. It was not summer Eden recalled when her father was led into the dock, but the previous winter, at the Berenger garden gate. There, under a sky as threatening as the one that hung low over Westminster, she had first spoken with the Earl of Marlborough, and then Max.