Improbable Eden

by Mary Daheim

  Eden threw up her hands. “I have no idea. Unless whoever he shields is as sure to kill him for telling the truth. You must recall, Your Majesty, that Fenwick, unlike my father, did take part in the assassination attempt.”

  The King’s fist came crashing down on the desk as he jumped to his feet. “Your father! Your father! You hardly knew the man! What is the cause of this unwarranted devotion?”

  Startled by her sovereign’s outburst, Eden faltered. “Do I need any other cause than our blood ties? Would you not have done the same for your father, had you known him?”

  Faintly abject, William sat down with a heavy sigh. “But I didn’t know him,” he murmured, abandoning the royal plural. “I’ve known neither father nor child.” He fingered his lower lip and gazed without appreciation at the finely wrought Grinling Gibbons carvings on the paneled walls. “Now, having found a young man who is like a son to me, I am the target of the most depraved charges. Is it a criminal thing to have esteem and affection for a fine fellow like Joost?”

  For the first time, it occurred to Eden that the role she should have been groomed for was of daughter to William, not mistress. But it was too late. She was forced to play her only remaining card. In her mind, she saw a kaleidoscope of exquisite gowns, lavish furs, dancing masters, riding teachers, music lessons, Dutch grammars and notes on etiquette. It had all led up to this, a single moment with the King and the one chance to spare her father’s life.

  Eden tried not to think of what would happen to her own. The memory of Max’s embrace remained on her skin, the taste of his mouth lingered on her tongue, the power of his possession made her dizzy. She was about to surrender everything she held most precious. In saving her father, Eden would lose Max. She had always known it, but somehow had hoped to avoid making a choice. Yet Eden had given her word to Marlborough, and now she must keep that promise.

  “Silly theatricals and calumnious letters can be easily quashed.” Eden’s gaze was direct; any attempt to play the coquette was put aside in the face of William’s frank manner. “If there was a woman in your life, the gossip would stop at once.”

  “A woman!” The King snorted at the suggestion. “We’ve said it before, we must say it again—it’s still too soon for us to remarry.”

  “I wasn’t speaking of marriage.” Eden’s voice was calm, though inwardly she quaked.

  The heavy brows came together. “What do you mean? Are you implying …?” William of Orange actually flushed. “Mistress, we don’t believe our ears.”

  Eden could hardly blame him; neither did she. Yet the situation was desperate, and this was the moment for which she had been groomed these past months. “Why not? If I may speak plainly, Your Majesty has a certain fondness for me. I am an accomplished nurse. What better way to squelch those vile rumors than to take a … mistress.”

  His color still high, William rummaged around in his desk, biting at his lips. “You’re but a child. Innocent, naive. You have no idea what you’re suggesting …. We can’t imagine ….” He stopped abruptly, his dark gaze keen. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  The truth teetered on Eden’s lips. But she was terrified of telling the King that she would surrender her body in exchange for her father’s life. Conversely, she could not lie. Instead she said nothing.

  William waited patiently, then clasped his hands together on the desk top. “We are told that you and Prince Maximilian have formed a liaison. Is that true?”

  Eden could not avert her gaze. Those compelling dark eyes held her captive, plumbing the depths of her integrity. Somehow, the King’s stilted description of the powerful, passionate, tender feelings she and Max had for each other sounded so at odds with the reality that she was tempted to deny his allegation. Yet that would be dishonest, too. Eden gave a small shrug and spoke in a quiet voice.

  “I love him. He loves me.”

  The King did not blink. Admission of a mistake was repugnant to most men; in a monarch, to recant is often fatal. But inside William of Orange’s frail body dwelled not only an extraordinary intelligence, but a fine strength of character, as well. At last he looked away from Eden to the paper that lay on his desk, then stared into the darkest corner of the room.

  “You have the valor of a hero’s daughter,” he said. “It’s possible that your father has your integrity. Fetch Joost. We will have him bring us the writ of execution.” The King got to his feet and stretched out a hand. “We shall spare the Earl of Marlborough. We are, after all, fair-minded.”

  Eden’s knees wobbled as she curtsied low and kissed the King’s thin fingers. Though she had truth on her side, Eden had secretly feared that her cause might miscarry one last, fatal time. Indeed, Marlborough had always been armed with innocence; it had done him little good. Yet ultimately—incredibly—Eden had succeeded in a way that neither of them could ever have predicted. “Your Majesty … what can I say? This is a joyful day! I will bless you forever!”

  William’s mouth sketched a smile. “You would have done much more, had we asked,” he remarked dryly. “Fortunately, we admire virtue more than its counterpart. But make no more petitions, Mistress. Your requests fly in the face of royal decree. Rush off to the Tower now, and give your father the good news.” He paused, letting go of Eden’s hand. “In particular,” added William with eyes that shone a trifle too brightly, “remind him that his greatest fortune is being a father in the first place.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Eden did not go directly to the Tower, but to Clarges Street to tell Max what had happened. He could accompany her, and together they would present the gladsome tidings to Marlborough. But when she raced breathlessly through the front door, Vrouw de Koch announced that Max had left the house more than an hour earlier.

  “Seeing as how you had already spent the night at Kensington, Himself probably thought you’d be there for the duration,” said the housekeeper, shaking the wet snow from Eden’s cloak. “He sent word a few minutes ago that he was in a coffeehouse, and he asked you to meet him there.” She listed around the foyer, looking for the message. “Ach, here it is—Old Slaughter’s, in St. Martin’s Lane.”

  Having already dismissed her hired coach, Eden calculated the distance to St. Martin-in-the-Fields. “I’ll walk. It’s less than a mile, I should think.” She glanced at Vrouw de Koch for confirmation.

  “It’s all of a mile and it’s snowing. Let Heer Van de Weghe get you another coach.”

  But Eden didn’t want to wait. She was too full of her news to waste a minute. “It’s not snowing that hard,” she insisted, retrieving her cloak. “Besides, I like the snow. I used to walk in it all the time in Smarden.”

  The housekeeper’s disapproving look seemed to say there was probably a number of things that country folk did that would flabbergast a city dweller, but she made no further protest. Fifteen minutes later Eden was approaching Leicester Fields, an open area not totally given over to London’s residential sprawl. Peering into the snow, Eden looked for the wreckage of St. Martin’s. Unlike many of the other churches destroyed in the Great Fire, it remained a gutted shell.

  Never confident in her sense of direction, Eden hesitated. She had followed a straight course eastward; now she had to turn toward the river. The snow was light, the morning dark. Yet the usual Saturday bustle of London had not been slowed by the inclement weather. Children pelted each other with snowballs, dandies paraded their finest furs, and hawkers were doing a brisk business in fresh-baked meat pasties. Careful of her footing, Eden espied the old church and headed for the lane that ran behind the ruins.

  Old Slaughter’s had the reputation of catering to artists, which, Eden presumed, was why Max frequented it over some of the other more fashionable coffeehouses. Overhead, the sign was dusted with snow, but Eden could make out the rough-hewn lettering. Skirting a mound of snow that a half dozen children had shaped into the form of an enormous fat woman, Eden approached the entrance with trepidation. She knew that except for whores, unescorted women were not
welcome in most coffeehouses. But she must persevere in finding Max so that they could hurry to the Tower with news of the reprieve for Marlborough.

  Through the smoky haze she saw an eccentric array of men, young, old and middle-aged, puffing at clay pipes and drinking their steaming brew from little round dishes. Some of the patrons’ cheeks were swollen with wads of tobacco, and the air reeked with the pungent odors of smoke and coffee. A hum of conversation filled the room, punctuated by staccato bursts of laughter and an occasional jarring oath. Though Eden scanned the crowd, she could see no one as tall as Max.

  She was about to flee when a young man approached her with a knowing smile. “I’m not a whore,” she asserted firmly, thankful that she was still wearing the pristine dove-gray gown and matching cloak she’d put on for her audience with the King. “I’m searching for someone.”

  “I know,” the young man replied. “A tall blond foreigner, correct?”

  “That’s right,” she said with relief. “Is he here?”

  “He’s upstairs, in one of our private rooms.” Leading Eden to a narrow staircase, her host indicated a door at the top. “He’s in there, conferring with a pair of noted painters.”

  Picking up her skirts, she ascended the stairs and rapped on the door. A voice called out for her to enter.

  The room was curtained, with only a single candle in a pewter holder sitting on the square oak table. Three men in high-backed chairs were gathered round, apparently perusing some sketches. Eden’s gaze flew to the blond head showing just above the back of a chair that was turned away from her. “Max!” she exclaimed, hurrying to his side. “I have wonderful news! Jack will live!”

  Eden paid no heed as the other two men rose and moved quickly to the door. She was about to drop to her knees beside the chair when the blond head turned. “I have news, too,” said Rudolf. “I also live.”

  By sheer force of will, Eden kept herself from collapse. The shock of seeing Rudolf alive was tremendous, but the fear for Max was overpowering. Her only coherent thought was for the safety of the man she loved.

  “Where is Max?” she asked, clinging to the chair for support.

  Rudolf’s brow puckered. “A good question, that. Where is Max?” He gave Eden his exaggerated smile. “I expect that together we shall find out. Unfortunately, I lost him at the bottom of St. Martin’s Lane. The snow was coming down much harder an hour or two ago.”

  Eden’s shoulders sagged with relief, then she straightened and brushed the hair from her forehead. Obviously Rudolf, not Max, had sent the note to Clarges Street. Max might still be somewhere close by. In any event, he would discover where she had gone when he returned home. A sense of comfort began to wash over her until she realized that that was precisely what Rudolf planned. Once again she was the bait to lure Max into a trap.

  This time she was determined not to let herself be used. “How,” she inquired in as calm a voice as she could muster, “did you manage to survive at Zijswijk?”

  Rudolf wore a self-congratulatory air. “The fire wasn’t as disastrous as was first feared. The rain helped discourage the flames. See,” he said, pointing to the sketches on the table. “Even now, I’m working on the restoration.” Cautiously Eden lowered herself onto one of the chairs vacated by the men who stood guard at the door. “I thought your mercenary shot you,” she said bluntly, her brain searching for a means of escape.

  Rudolf gave a disparaging little laugh. “Zounds, no! He was the one who was shot. My dear old friend Major Roark arrived just in time.” He paused to wag a reproachful finger. “Hadn’t you wondered where he was?” She hadn’t, of course, not in the intensity of the moment, with danger coming from all sides. Roark had not even crossed her mind until he had shown up at Westminster Hall to testify against Marlborough. She should have known then that Rudolf was still alive. It dawned on Eden that all the cunningly cruel plots had been hatched by Rudolf, no doubt going back to the abduction and murder of Captain Craswell.

  “It seems,” Rudolf was saying in an indolent voice, “that Max and I are finally about to resolve our little quarrel. A pity that the loser won’t be alive to see the victor exult.” He reached out his hand to touch Eden’s dove-gray sleeve. “What think you, pretty Eden?”

  Eden jerked her arm away. “I think you’re a villain twice over! I think you’re the person Fenwick has been shielding all this time! Only someone like you could put such fear into another man! You’ve always been a Jacobite—how could King William have been fooled for so long?”

  Oblivious to Eden’s rebuff, Rudolf picked up a pipe and examined the bowl. “All men are fools in some ways.” He shrugged. “Take Max—he’s a fool where you’re concerned. That’s why he’ll come here. Soon, I trust. And when I’ve finally had my revenge, I’ll slip out of London and head for the Continent and my reward.”

  The words revenge and reward monopolized Eden’s attention. “Why revenge? What reward?” she demanded, leaning back in the chair enough to gauge the distance to the curtained window.

  Rudolf produced an enamel box from which he extracted a pinch of tobacco. “Revenge for many things,” he said, filling the bowl of his pipe. “You wouldn’t understand.” The blue eyes raked Eden with contempt. “He took my sister. It’s as simple as that.”

  Eden started to say that Rudolf was obsessed, perhaps even mad, but then chose to keep silent. If only her sense of direction would not fail her. Casually, she got to her feet, undoing the ties of her cloak. “And your reward?” she asked, trying to maintain a show of interest that was also tainted with revulsion.

  “Ah,” sighed Rudolf, taking an experimental puff at his pipe. “I can speak of that now. For my services over the years, I’m to marry Elizabeth Charlotte, niece to King Louis. Think of it,” he mused, tipping back his head and exhaling a cloud of smoke, “she was once offered to King William himself. Such irony!”

  “My, yes,” remarked Eden without enthusiasm. A glimpse at the two guards informed her that they were still very much on the alert. Carelessly she dropped her cloak on the floor, then wandered around the room. Behind her, she heard Rudolf’s chair scrape on the floor. Eden stiffened, then moved without apparent haste toward the window.

  “Max should be arriving soon,” commented Rudolf, setting his pipe on the table. “Are you anxious to see him? What is the news about Marlborough?”

  It occurred to Eden that Rudolf mustn’t know that William had pardoned her father. Not that the Count could interfere with a royal decree, but this was a secret to be revealed only by her and Max. “Marlborough?” Eden echoed vaguely. “I spoke of Jack, not the Earl. Jack Bunn, a man I knew in Smarden ”

  With alarm, she saw that same strange glint in Rudolf’s eyes that had terrified her at Zijswijk. The perpetual smile was gone, he was loosening his steinkirk, and his mouth had gone faintly slack.

  “Liar,” muttered Rudolf. “Lie with me, lovely liar.” He moved toward her, his boots making the floorboards creak, his furtive gaze filled with lust. Eden prayed that she knew what she was doing, and yanked aside the curtains at the window. Whirling, she plunged her fist against the flimsy casement, shattering the glass, and scrambled onto the sill. Momentarily stunned, Rudolf hesitated just long enough to allow Eden to evade his grasp.

  “I’d rather die than let you touch me!” she cried. And in a flurry of skirts and petticoats, she flung herself through the window, hurtling into cold, empty space. For a brief, terrifying instant, Eden thought she had misjudged. But suddenly her body struck something solid and soft. As children squealed and passersby screamed, Eden clung to the ruins of the fat snow woman and gasped for breath.

  The first person to reach her was a young girl. “Coo,” she exclaimed, reaching for Eden’s hand, “it’s alive ye be! Wot a bleedin’ miracle!”

  “What a bleedin’ memory,” murmured Eden, thankful that she had been able to recall where the upstairs window was in relationship to the coffeehouse entrance. Struggling to her feet, she brushed clumps of packed snow
from her clothing and dabbed at a cut on her cheek. A crowd had gathered, coaches stalled in the lane, and a cartload of kindling was trapped against the opposite wall. Warily, Eden glanced at the front door of Old Slaughter’s. As she expected, it burst open, revealing Rudolf, his two companions and several other coffeehouse patrons.

  “They pushed me!” Eden screeched, pointing straight at Rudolf. “Snowball them! They’re wicked foreigners!”

  The children had recovered from the excitement of a young lady falling out of a window and the disappointment at having their snow sculpture flattened. They needed no urging to take up a different form of winter sport. Indeed, they were joined by some of their elders, who weren’t precisely sure what had triggered this particular sensation, but hated to be left out. To Londoners, foreigners were always fair game.

  But Rudolf was not daunted by child’s play. Ordering his men to draw their pistols, he had them trained on the youngest of the merrymakers. “Halt or I’ll blow you to Piccadilly!”

  Several members of the snowball-wielding contingent froze with their arms in midair. Eden took advantage of the diversion to push her way through the crowd. But Rudolf spotted her. “Stay, Mistress!” His voice was harsh. “Would you have me slay one of your small warriors?”

  Slowly, Eden turned. She was cold without her cloak, and her gown was soaked through. “Only you, Count Rudolf of Hohenstaufen, would threaten children! You’re not just a Jacobite traitor, you’re a murdering coward to boot!”

  Through the light snowfall, Eden saw Rudolf’s eyes narrow. “For that, you die at my hand.” His voice was as cold as the ice that formed on the waterspout above the door. As the onlookers gasped, Rudolf grabbed the pistol from the man on his right and leveled it at Eden.

  Her immediate thought was to fall to the ground in the hope that Rudolf would aim high—but the shot might kill an innocent child standing behind her. With a cry of terror she threw her hands in front of her face. Rudolf tugged at the trigger just as Max fell upon him like a great bird of prey.