Improbable Eden

by Mary Daheim

  Members of Princess Anne’s household rushed to greet Marlborough and escort his family to the Heiress Presumptive’s apartments. Eden was propelled along with the others, though she would have preferred to wait for Max. She had last seen him coming down Pall Mall, trying along with Keppel to push through the surging crowd.

  Once inside the palace, Eden caught Anne Churchill by the sleeve. “Milady,” she said, not quite certain how to address her half sister when it came to rank, “I will rejoin His Lordship as soon as I can, but I must see after Prince Maximilian. He, too, would like to officially greet your—” Eden swallowed hard, then lifted her chin with dignity “—our father.”

  Anne, who closely resembled her mother, glanced at her parents as they proceeded down the passageway surrounded by old friends. When she was assured that the Earl and his Countess were out of earshot, Anne grabbed Eden by the arm. “Is it true that Charles’s coach trampled a German noble today?”

  For a moment, Eden had no idea what her half sister was talking about. “Count Rudolf?” She saw Anne give an ambivalent nod. “He was killed in St. Martin’s Lane—oh! Is this Charles the son of Lord Sunderland?” inquired Eden.

  Anne’s eyes shone. “He is. And as brave as his father is guileful.” Her feet sketched little dancing steps in the wet entry hall. “My parents despise them both. But I intend to marry Charles anyway! Are you really the one I have to thank for my good fortune?”

  Taken aback by Anne’s forthright speech, Eden tugged at the folds of Max’s cloak. “I’ truth, if you mean that His Lordship’s release has removed a cloud from over your marriage prospects, then I may have been of some help. But,” she added with a little tremor in her voice, “I owe your beloved’s kin even more. The coachman may have saved my life, and that of Prince Maximilian, as well.”

  Anne accepted Eden’s gratitude without emotion. “Well and good. Charles will be pleased.” The sparkle ignited in her blue eyes. “He hates the nobility, you see. As long as this Rudolf was a count, the coachman no doubt will be rewarded.”

  “But … Eden stared at Anne in bewilderment. “Isn’t Charles a nobleman himself?”

  Anne was already making her way down the passage. “Oh, yes,” she called over her shoulder. “But Charles prefers to be known as Mr. Spencer. Don’t you think that’s rather brave? Imagine, such a fuss over titles! What’s a name, after all?”

  What, indeed, thought Eden as she watched Anne Churchill skip off in the direction of the royal apartments. For Eden, finding a name had been a lifelong search. After nineteen years of imagining who she might be, she had discovered that she was a Churchill and a Villiers. But for her half sister, who had never been shadowed by doubt, the prospect of becoming Mrs. Spencer put spring into her step. Marveling at the ironies of life, Eden departed the palace to find Max. And for the first time, she realized that though she knew his title, she didn’t know his full name.

  Outside, the crowd had dispersed, except for a handful of citizens who huddled together under the fading sun to discuss the consequences of Marlborough’s release.

  “ ’E’ll be our general again, mark my words,” a pockmarked man of middle age admonished his listeners. “An’ send them Frenchies ’arfway to ’ell, ’e will.”

  “No wonder Wee Willie Cheesemonger couldn’t win the war,” grumbled a tall woman. “Foreigners don’t know how to fight except with each other.”

  Eden suppressed a smile at the running commentary as she walked through the newly trampled snow to Pall Mall.

  No doubt Max had decided not to intrude on the family reunion. As for Keppel, he knew of the Countess’s antipathy toward him and probably felt it tactful to withdraw.

  Yet it was Joost Eden saw in the dying light, his stallion pawing impatiently at a bare patch of ground. “Where’s Max?” she called, approaching with caution, for ice was forming a thick crust on the wide street that led away from the palace and into the Strand.

  “Where have you been?” Keppel asked in a petulant tone, though it occurred to Eden that of course he must know.

  “I was carried away by ….” The words died on her lips as she saw Keppel’s unhappy expression. “Joost! What has happened? Where’s Max?”

  Keppel soothed his horse with a distracted hand. “I thought you knew. Didn’t you see?” He waved his plush muff in the general direction of Whitehall. “The King’s men have arrested Max. He’s been taken to the Tower.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Eden could not believe that her state of euphoria had evaporated so swiftly. As she rode pillion behind him, Keppel was doing his best to explain what had happened, though he was somewhat uncertain. “Soldiers bearing the royal insignia came up to us just before we got to St. James’s,” he said as they passed through Temple Bar. “I’ faith, I wasn’t quite sure of the charge. It wasn’t treason, but rather conspiracy or complicity. It all sounded most vague to me. The strange part was, Max didn’t argue. That’s not like him.”

  “It’s not.” Eden was thoughtful as they crossed the road that led to Blackfriars. “I don’t understand,” she said fretfully. “Max seemed so confident that he wouldn’t be arrested. Do you think this box of bees is Bentinck’s doing?”

  Keppel hesitated in answering while he guided the black stallion around the base of the tall pillar that commemorated London’s great fire. “As much as it galls me, Bentinck retains much of his power. It’s a sop, you see,” he went on, giving Eden a faintly shamefaced look over his shoulder. “The King is going to make me Earl of Albermarle within the month.”

  “Politics!” Eden spat out the word. Indeed, it was not quite the epithet that had leaped to her tongue. But she dared not express her real feelings; she needed Keppel now more than ever.

  As they emerged from Tower Street, Eden saw a group of workmen building a scaffold on Tower Hill. Several onlookers loitered in the Twilight to watch the construction. Timidly, Eden tapped Keppel’s arm. “What … who is that for?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “Sir John Fenwick,” Keppel replied. “His wife came to beg the King for mercy today, but though William was kindly spoken, he remained adamant. Fenwick dies tomorrow.”

  Despite her antipathy for the condemned man, Eden could not look at the scaffold. The chilling thought that it could have served two prisoners instead of one stabbed at her brain. She wasn’t cheered by the news that Lady Fenwick’s plea had been in vain. William of Orange was a fair man, but he was also unbending.

  Flaunting his position as King’s favorite, Keppel demanded to see Sir Edmund Greene, the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower, at once. Five minutes later Eden was seated in the surprisingly cozy parlor, which dated from Elizabethan times. A gracious host, the Lord Lieutenant offered wine and sugar cakes, but his guests declined.

  “I’ve done my duty, which is to incarcerate state prisoners,” Sir Edmund explained in his forthright manner. “His Majesty’s soldiers bring me criminals, I lock them up. Who they are or what they’ve done aren’t my business.” He shrugged his broad shoulders and devoured a sugar cake. “This foreign fellow has been here once before,” he said, then gave Eden a searching look. “God’s eyes, Mistress, weren’t you with him?”

  Anxious to make some sort of progress rather than exchange useless chitchat, Eden replied curtly, “Yes, and with as little reason then as now. Where is Prince Maximilian?”

  Unruffled by her abrupt manner, Sir Edmund gestured over his shoulder. “The Bloody Tower, just beyond here, where the little Princes were murdered.”

  Eden’s nerves jangled with fear and frustration. Jumping to her feet, she upset the plate of sugar cakes, spilling them onto the carpeted floor. “Joost, go to the King. Only you can convince him of this injustice. Bentinck be damned, William loves you best! I’m going to Max.”

  As both men gaped at her, Eden raced out of the room and out onto Tower Green. Darkness had descended on London, and on the ramparts the ravens tucked their heads under their wings and settled in for the night. Clutching Max’s
cloak more tightly around her, she felt a pang of longing flicker through her body. Only hours ago he had worn this same garment; indeed, his own arms had held her as close as the fabric did now.

  Peering into the gloom, Eden tried to determine which part of the fortress housed the Bloody Tower. The name evoked horror. Across the Green a half dozen soldiers wearing the scarlet and gold uniforms of yeoman warders marched in formation, their boots making loud crunching noises on the crisp snow. Without hesitation, Eden approached the men.

  “Take me to Prince Maximilian,” she ordered boldly. “I’m here with Milord Keppel, who represents the King.” The ambiguity of her words was lost on the soldiers, who stopped, glanced at one another then broke ranks. “His Highness is right over here,” said the tallest of the contingent, pointing to a square-shaped structure at least three stories tall. His honest brown eyes studied Eden more closely. “Where is Milord Keppel?”

  Eden tossed her head in the direction of the Lord Lieutenant’s lodging. “In there. Take me to the Prince at once, please.”

  The sheer audacity of her demand, and Keppel’s reception by their commander, persuaded the soldiers to acquiesce. Five minutes later Eden was climbing up a narrow, winding staircase. Only two of the soldiers had accompanied her, and upon reaching Max’s cell, they discreetly withdrew into a recess of the stone passageway.

  “Max!” Eden cried as she peeped into the darkness beyond the barred door. “Max, are you there?”

  There was no response. Eden called for the soldiers, who came at a run. The one who held the torch was the tall man who had spoken to her on the Green; the other, who carried a big hoop filled with keys, was much smaller but of a wiry build.

  “He can’t have escaped,” muttered the tall man, turning the key. “This is locked.”

  “There’s a window, but it’s up high,” the other guardsman said as he steadied the torch.

  His companion shot him an ironic glance. “This foreigner is tall as a tree, though I doubt even he could reach that embrasure. He must be asleep.”

  Pressed against the cold stone wall, Eden could not endure the soldiers’ musings another instant. “Open that door!” She pushed the guards aside and flung herself into the cell. The torch cast eerie shadows over Max’s prison. It was a large room, chillingly suitable for two royal though blameless heirs in ages past, and now detaining a Flemish nobleman who was equally innocent. Trying not to remember the gruesome fate that had befallen the English princes, Eden scanned the chamber. Halfway up the wall an oak closet jutted out above the empty bed. At a right angle, a tall mullioned window was set about ten feet above the floor, while the sparse furnishings loomed out of the darkness like so many coiled creatures ready to pounce.

  “The closet,” breathed the wiry guardsman. “He may be in there.”

  Eden tried to focus her gaze on the wooden fixture, but something else caught her eye, and she screamed in shock. On the floor, near a table, Max lay on his back with one arm flung above his head. Next to him was a tray with broken dishes and the remnants of a meal.

  Staggering across the room, Eden fell down beside him, calling his name in a panicked voice. “He’s been poisoned! I know it!” she cried, groping for a heartbeat. “Fetch a doctor!”

  The shorter of the two men handed the torch to his companion, then raced off to get help. To Eden’s great relief, she found Max’s pulse beating with surprising strength and regularity. She had to stifle a gasp of exhilaration when she saw him open one eye and wink at her.

  Comprehension dawning, Eden stood, wringing her hands in apparent agitation. “He may be dead … I can’t tell. We must find an antidote!”

  The tall guardsman joined Eden, leaning over with the torch held aloft, the keys dangling from his other hand. “Blimey,” he mumbled, “it must have taken a whopping dose to knock out the likes of him!”

  Eden was about to make an appropriate response when Max’s legs lashed out, catching the guard around the ankles. The man let out an oath as he fell. His voice was quickly stifled when Max’s fist crushed into his jaw. The keys clattered to the floor; the torch sputtered as it struck the cold stone.

  Riveted to the spot in total darkness, Eden reached out with an anxious hand. “Max,” she gasped, then suddenly felt him grab her around the waist and propel her across the room.

  “Climb into the closet,” he breathed. “We’ll take our chances hiding there for now.”

  Stumbling, Eden had to regain her balance before her foot found the first narrow wooden step. At the top of the short flight, Max reached around her to open the door. “There’s not much room,” he whispered. “Keep close to me.

  Eden needed no urging. She clung to Max, still overcome by the shock of the past few minutes. “It was a ruse?” she asked in a hushed voice, thankful to be in his arms despite the danger they faced.

  “Yes.” He sounded tense, and she could feel him stiffen as voices floated up from somewhere down the passageway. A moment later the voices had come much closer, probably into the cell. Eden recognized the voice of the wiry guardsman as he exclaimed over his unconscious comrade. Apparently the doctor had been found, for someone was asking that the tall guard be tended to immediately. In the ensuing interchange Eden could make out very little, for several people seemed to be talking at once. She held her breath, felt Max’s heart beating in her ear and was faintly buoyed by the reassuring squeeze he gave her waist.

  More noise followed, then the voices began to fade along with the hurried footsteps. Max let go of Eden and moved just a few inches away. Now accustomed to the darkness, she realized for the first time that while there was a small window set into the permanent wall, there was no ceiling in the closet. A man of average height would not have been able to look over the wooden partition, but Max was at eye level with the rough oak’s edge.

  “They’re gone,” he said, brushing at his forehead first with one hand then the other. “Thank God for assumptions.”

  “What do you mean?” Eden whispered as Max felt for something along the wall. “I was certain the closet would be the first place they’d look for us.”

  “Ah! There’s the rope I purloined,” he said, holding up a large coil. “Of course the closet was where they should have searched. But it was so obvious, they assumed nobody would be stupid enough to hide there.”

  “Oh.” Eden’s voice was very small as Max gestured for her to stand back. With a mighty swing he smashed the window, then waited for any sound of discovery. There was none.

  Protecting his hand with the rope, he broke off ragged fragments of glass. The night air rushed in, making Eden quiver with cold. Wordlessly she watched Max secure the rope from a hook at one side of the casement, then throw the remaining length out the window. With a wry smile, he turned to Eden. “How’s your climbing prowess?”

  She took in a sharp deep breath. “Zut! How far down is it?”

  He gave her his hand. “Never mind. Just keep looking up. You’ll know when your feet touch the ground.”

  Her heart beating much too fast, Eden let Max help her over the casement. Clinging to the rope, she could look neither up nor down, but kept her eyes shut tight. With feet entwined and fingers grasping the swaying lifeline, she descended ever so slowly, certain that it was only a matter of seconds before someone would raise the alarm. In the long, grisly history of the Tower, few men, and no women, had ever escaped. The thought was sufficiently unnerving to make Eden feel suddenly dizzy. Bright lights flashed in her mind’s eye, and her fingers started to slip.

  For Max’s sake, she must go on. Steeling her resolve, Eden inched downward as the rough hemp scratched her hands and the wind sent Max’s cloak flapping around her body. From somewhere nearby, bells began to ring, a deafening sound that made her grit her teeth and grip the rope even harder. The ravens awoke with shrill cries, then soared into the air, circling the wall above the moat. Yet Eden persisted, knowing that for every moment lost, there was the chance that Max would be discovered.

&nb
sp; Suddenly, blessedly, her feet touched solid ground. The bells had stopped ringing, and she opened her eyes. Above her, she could see Max descending the rope with the amazing agility that had always astonished her in a man his size. Briefly, Eden took in her surroundings. She was in a walled enclosure that held a half dozen barren trees. From the Green, she could hear soldiers running and shouting. No doubt the bells that had pealed just moments before had been a general alarm. Eden suppressed a cry of relief when Max jumped the last four feet to the ground and hurried to take her arm.

  “Most prisoners would try to break out of the Lord Lieutenant’s lodgings,” he said, unhooking the guard’s key ring from his belt, “but we’re going to break into it.”

  Fascinated as well as fearful, Eden watched Max select the proper key and fit it into a door at one end of the stone wall. Slipping inside, they halted, trying to find their bearings in the darkened passageway.

  “This leads to the lodging,” he whispered, taking a tentative step. “We came out in the privy garden. We’ve no other way to go.”

  Eden absorbed the information without comment. She could still hear the sounds of soldiers outside, but the passage was deathly quiet. Creeping along in the darkness, they reached another door, which gave way at a touch. Light from several candles almost blinded them; Eden groped for Max, who put an arm around her shoulders.

  Standing in the glaring light of the scullery were the Lord Lieutenant and Lady Harriet Villiers. Sir Edmund wore an expression of grim triumph; Harriet was a gleefully venomous vision in mauve satin and miniver trim.

  “Schoft,” muttered Max, pulling Eden closer. “Our luck ran out.”

  But Harriet waved a gloved hand at him. “Not a bit of it, my love. Indeed, there was no need for such heroics on your part. I’ve come to free you.” Still wearing her spiteful smile, she extracted a sealed piece of paper from her muff. “My uncle made a slight mistake. It wasn’t you, Max, who is accused of complicity in Rudolf’s murder, but Mistress Eden. Aren’t you relieved?”