"Yes, my lady, though the second was not identified."
When again she seemed to slip deeper into a kind of lethargy, John again took the lead, and grabbing Mary's hand, called for Richard to follow. "Come"—he smiled—"we all will go and greet this mysterious carriage."
As he passed behind Harriet's chair, he noticed that still she had not moved.
"Come, my lady," he said tenderly to the top of her head. "He is
your solicitor, returned from your errand. We really should do him the courtesy of briefly receiving him."
In spite of Mary's shrieks that he "come on," he waited behind Harriet's chair, still baffled by her new mood, saw her head incline forward as though uttering a brief prayer.
Then, in the next minute, apparently restored, she stood and straightened her shoulders as though she were walking toward an abyss instead of to the top of her own Great Hall stairs.
John fell in behind with Richard. "Who is Mr. Johnson?" Richard whispered as they passed beneath the arched door and started across the Great Hall.
John looked down on the boy, exploiting the sense of mystery. "We shall find out shortly," he whispered, and looked ahead to the bright splash of early-aftemoon sun beyond the Great Hall door and earnestly hoped that the matter, whatever its nature, did not take too much of her time and attention. Mortemouth would be lovely at this time of the year.
Ahead, he saw Harriet step out of the shadows of the Great Hall into the blaze of sun, one hand still clasping Mary's, her other hand shading her eyes, her head turned stiffly toward the gatehouse and the carriage waiting patiently, held at bay beyond the twin grilles.
As John and Richard drew up behind her, Mr. Rexroat stepped around the congestion in the doorway and lifted a white-gloved hand in signal to the gate.
Within the moment John heard the cranking of the grilles, then saw the carriage moving slowly through. As the young driver guided the horses into a broad turn before the Great Hall steps, John glanced at Harriet. The tension was still there on her face. "I don't know why he couldn't have sent a courier with the report," she whispered.
"He's probably merely striving to please you," John comforted, still baffled by her curious apprehension.
With a rattle, the carriage came to a halt at the foot of the stairs. Within the moment two stewards stepped forward, one placing a low stool into position beneath the high carriage step, the other opening the door.
A man stepped out and seemed to draw himself up. "My lady," he murmured, bowing stiffly, "my deepest apologies for arriving unannounced. I considered sending a courier ahead, but I have important news and I wanted to deliver it to your ears alone."
"Important. . . news?" Harriet repeated, as though willing to receive it here, on the steps, with dozens of ears listening.
But Mr. Johnson had other plans. "With your kind permission, my lady. I've brought an old acquaintance of yours. Would you be so generous as to allow me to present him to you?"
Mr. Johnson was in the process of stepping back toward the carriage when suddenly he stopped and looked at the small congregation on the steps with a searching expression. Apparently someone was missing. "His . . . lordship?" Mr. Johnson queried.
"My husband is ill," Harriet said, obviously feeling no stress about lying before the servants who had gathered about the carriage.
"I'm most grieved to hear it," Mr. Johnson exclaimed, his manner as elaborate and artificial as his dress. At last he seemed to shake off the bewilderment of the missing Lord Eden and lifted a gloved hand to the steward standing near the carriage door.
Although the door was open, it seemed an interminable length of time before anyone appeared, all eyes focused on the small dark cavity beyond which, from John's angle, he could see a man's leg.
At last there was movement, a hunched male form, his brushed beaver hat clutched beneath his arm, his shiny bald head glistening like a small eye in the heat of the day, the man himself at last standing upright at the foot of the stairs, a most strange-looking man, painfully self-conscious at the center of attention, his neckerchief and waistcoat a flaming pink satin which seemed to accent his limited stature, his narrow-set dark eyes darting in all directions at once, to the heights of the battlements, to the small knot of servants standing to one side, to John himself and finally at last coming to rest on Harriet.
While there seemed to be recognition aplenty on the little man's face, Harriet seemed to be at a disadvantage. Again she brushed her hand over her eyes as though the glare of sun were hurting them. After a prolonged moment of nonrecognition, she shook her head apologetically. "I'm. . . afraid that I don't. . ."
Mr. Johnson took the lead. "May I present, my lady, your childhood companion, an ardent admirer, by his own confession, and as proprietor of the Mermaid, your nearest neighbor, Mr. Humphrey Hills."
Mary suddenly broke free from her mother's hand and darted back into the shade of the Great Hall. John started to follow after her, but as he turned, he caught a glimpse of Harriet's face. He saw her close her eyes again. Then, "Mr. . . . Hills?" she stammered.
"Aye." The man grinned.
"From . . . Shropshire?"
"Aye, the same," the man confirmed, bobbing his head.
He had thought she might take the man's hand, but she didn't, and it was left to Mr. Johnson to bring them together. "In what glowing terms, my lady," he gushed, "has Mr. Hills spoken of your childhood friendship. It was the only melody he sang all the way from Shropshire, a moving refrain about a little girl in a blue velvet riding habit and a young boy who watched her with—"
"I remember him," Harriet said abruptly. After an awkward pause, John heard her speak again, her voice and manner as faltering as he'd ever heard them. "Mr. Hills, I . . . welcome you to Eden. I'm . . . not certain that... I understand . . ."
At last John could watch the embarrassing scene no longer and took the distance to her side. "I'm sure the gentlemen are thirsty, Harriet. Why don't we—"
"Of course," she murmured. "How thoughtless of me. Won't you both follow . . ."
As the awkward procession started up the stairs, John was in the lead, his hand on Harriet's arm. In their last moment of privacy, he leaned close, still alarmed by the expression on her face. "Are you well?" he inquired.
"I don't understand . . ."
"Who does?" He smiled. "Clearly they have a report of some sort."
"But why Humphrey Hills?"
"Did you know him?"
If she'd heard, she gave no indication of it, and instead looked around at the confused gathering and commenced dispatching people. "Richard, go back to the table and wait with Mary. Our walk will be delayed. And Mr. Rexroat, a bottle of sherry please, if you will, in the small library. And Peggy, find Clara and have her stay with the children in the Banqueting Hall."
As everyone scattered, John held his position and looked back at the men just entering the Great Hall. On their upturned faces were identical expressions of awe and impression.
Then the two were upon them. When Harriet still seemed disinclined to speak, John again took the lead. "This way, gentlemen," and gestured toward the open door that led into the small library.
But Mr. Johnson stopped a few feet away, some objection forming on his flushed face. "With your kind permission, sir," he began, "I
think it . . . advisable if we make our report to Lady Eden—in private. I do hope you understand. . ."
No, John didn't, nor did Harriet, whose face now clouded at the suggestion. John watched her carefully, thinking she might issue a protest for him.
But she didn't She merely bowed her head and rested one hand lightly over her eyes as though suddenly fatigued. She looked so alone, as though she were being driven into the room by some terrible force.
"Please, sir," Mr. Johnson added, "indulge us for . . . say, half an hour, and there may be cause for general rejoicing at Eden tonight."
A curious comment. John now saw Mr. Hills grinning and nodding, his beaver hat still clutched under one arm, the other i
nvolved in constant adjustment to his person. John wondered briefly why he loathed the man so.
As the two men passed him by, following after her, they both bowed low, as though thanking him for his cooperation, and long before he was ready for it, the door was closed and he found himself alone.
He stood motionless, staring at the floor at his feet, the questions coming faster than he could consider them. Suddenly in anger he looked up toward the closed door, fully prepared to intrude despite their requests for privacy. But at the last minute, prudence intervened.
He could wait. If she desired his presence, she would have said so, and now he smiled, amazed at the confidence he felt in their relationship.
His thoughts led him into an isolated corner of the Great Hall. He had thought once that he'd return to the Banqueting Hall and the company of the children.
But he changed his mind and settled instead for quiet pacing. A half hour wasn't so long, though about fifteen minutes later he stopped pacing.
Listen! He turned his ear in the direction of the small library, confident that he'd heard an outcry. He held still, his eyes focused on the blinding rectangle of light beyond the Great Hall door.
Apparently there had been no outcry, only Mary's sharp laughter coming from the opposite direction in the Banqueting Hall.
He listened a moment longer, then commenced his steady pacing again, trying to soothe his feelings of apprehension with thoughts of her.
Now and then he glanced toward the brilliant May sun at the door of the Great Hall. But it hurt his eyes and he concentrated instead on the slow steady clack of his boots on the parquet floor, and on the silence coming from behind the closed door of the small library.
A half hour wasn't so long, and he lowered his head and saw her in his imagination, a stray wisp of auburn hair wandering from the rest, a pale cheek, the depths of those eyes. . . .
When he first heard the library door opening, he thought how accurate Morley Johnson had been, for about a half hour had passed.
He moved to the center of the Great Hall, ready to greet her, to receive from her lips the nature of the private report. But from that distance, he saw her only in outline, the glare of sun coming in through the library windows behind her obscuring her features, though not obscuring her stance, a peculiar one, head down, both hands grasping the door frame, as though she were on the verge of collapse.
He tried to peer around her to catch sight of Johnson and Hills. But they apparently were lingering in the recesses of the library.
Still she stood as though afraid to let go of the support of the door frame. Something was wrong. She appeared physically weakened.
"Harriet?"
Though he'd spoken her name, he knew that she had not heard. The distance between them was still too great. He moved forward, placed himself in her direct path.
"Harriet. . ."
Though he called again, louder this time, still she gave no indication of having heard him, and continued to walk in that blind fashion.
At last he hurried toward her, fearful that without his support she would collapse.
Apparently in spite of her blind walk, she'd heard him drawing near, and now she stopped, a frozen stance, both hands lifting as though to hold him at bay, a fierce gesture, warning him, without words, not to come any nearer.
Then slowly she was moving again, her step seeming to gather strength, as though relieved to be beyond him.
He watched her torturous progress across the Great Hall, heading apparently toward the Banqueting Hall, his bewilderment and anger rising. What had he to do with it? Whatever the nature of the re-
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port delivered by the two jackals, how did it concern him? And why had she taken it out on him as though he were a conspirator against her instead of a loving ally?
He glanced back toward the library door, hoping to catch a glimpse of the messengers who had delivered such a dark message. But he saw nothing and wondered if they too had been undone by their own words.
Again he looked toward the Banqueting Hall, seeking her out, that slim bent figure feeling her way along like a blind woman.
He would give her a moment, confident that sooner or later she would summon him to her and share with him this new weight of agony. Still he heard distant chatter coming from the far end of the Banqueting Hall, the children and maids apparently unaware of the corpselike woman who had just joined them.
From where he stood, he could see her moving toward the table. How rigidly she sat upon her chair.
He closed his eyes a moment to rest them from the unhappy vision, and vowed to go to her, regardless of her rejection of him. She appeared ill. One forgave an invalid for not knowing what she was saying.
Then he saw her make a curious move, a glint of silver grasped in her fists, her head lifting at last in a rapid reflexive movement, then both her fists thrusting upward into her eyes, a single sharp outcry escaping her lips, her head thrown back, someone screaming as again she drove her fists into her eyes, her whole body seeming to recoil. She did it yet a third time, something dark running down the sides of her face, though not a sound was to be heard coming from the Banqueting Hall now, all screams silenced in an apprehension of terror.
At last John was running, shouting her name as though he hoped to bring a halt to the bizarre violence with the mere force of his voice.
The screams had commenced again. Still John was running. Why could the distance not be bridged? Over the screams and the play of sun and shadow in the Banqueting Hall, he prayed, "God, help . . ." and at last approached her and dropped to his knees beside her and put his arm beneath her head and turned her toward him.
At first his mind refused to record anything. Then he felt as though an ax had been lowered against the back of his neck. The powerful impact seemed to push him forward as he bent low over her.
Dear God, would the screams and weeping never cease? He needed neither screams nor weeping. There were screams enough inside his head, and an insistent vision which forced him to look down on her face, scarcely recognizable as a human face now, resembling more a butchered animal left half-dead in a slaughter pen, the specific wounds obscured by the flow of blood, the instruments of her mutilation still clutched in her fists, two silver forks, fragments of tissue and blood coating the sharp prongs.
Something inside his head was screaming at him, informing him that the boy who had run, too late, to her aid, was as mutilated as she, that whoever it was now holding her, his sleeve soaked with her blood would arise a very different man. In spite of the voice, he managed to lift his head and cry, "Fetch the surgeon!"
Looking up, he saw Richard and Mary less than five feet away, their young faces drawn in terror.
"Get them out of there," he shouted to the sobbing Clara, who stood nearby. Though the storm was still raging within him, he heard steps and knew without looking up that his command was being obeyed. He reached out for a linen napkin and tried to stanch the two wells of blood that once had been her eyes. But within seconds the linen was red.
In the next instant he heard a familiar strong voice and saw the voluminous black skirts of Aggie Fletcher. When the old woman caught her first glimpse of the self-inflicted damage, she seemed to withdraw a step. "Sweet Jesus. . ."
"Help her," John begged.
Within the instant the woman took over, stooped down and lifted Harriet effortlessly into her arms, shouting at the top of her voice for various items. "Fresh water, linens, and camphor," and at last echoing John's initial command, "and bring the surgeon."
Still on his knees, John watched as Aggie carried her across the Banqueting Hall, a parade of weeping servants following behind, both children blessedly gone, removed to some position of safety, John left alone in his foolish kneeling position, the abandoned forks lying innocently in red pools.
Suddenly he reached out and lifted both utensils and hurled them the length of the table. Then he heard something else, footsteps in the distance, the two jackals who
had delivered some message that had plunged her into total darkness, and plunged him as well.
He stared at them, both keeping to the safety of the small library door, as though too cowardly to step forward.
He rose from his kneeling position, the boy within him safely buried, the man in control as he retraced his steps, though twice a fit of trembling took him, and still he continued in a measured tread, wanting first explication, and then revenge.
Though the young man was still a distance away, Morley Johnson sensed his mood and tried to speak calmly to him. "I say," he called out, "did she faint?"
Then the young man was close enough for Morley to see him clearly, a fearful apparition, his face blood-smudged and deranged, his garments from his shirtwaist to the front of his trousers soaked with blood.
"I say, sir, would you be so kind as to . . ."
But there was nothing of kindness in the force with which the young man grasped Morley's shoulders and shoved him violently back into the library, where he collided with Humphrey Hills, who had pushed close to the door behind him.
"Sir, I beg you," Morley gasped, "inform us as to the nature of—"
"No! You inform me!"
Clearly the young man was not in his right mind, an observation which compounded Morley's apprehension and sent him backward into a retreat similar to that of Humphrey Hills.
So! This was him, the offspring of Lady Harriet. Then Morley's observations came to a halt as he saw the young man steadily approaching. "What did you tell her?" he demanded.
"I told her the . . . truth," Morley began. "She had sent me on an errand of considerable importance, and in my travels I discovered the truth and I thought it would please her."
If only Morley could lift his eyes from that blood-soaked apparition. "Please," he began gently. "Would you be so kind as to speak first? Your . . . appearance demands an explanation. If her ladyship is in any way injured . . ."
At that, the young man seemed to falter. Morley felt relief. "Please, sir," he began again, feeling that perhaps the man was coming to his senses. "Here, let me pour you a sherry. A good deep swallow will clear the head and put everything to rights again."
The Eden passion Page 23