And there was his customary closing paragraph, his fervent prayer, that God would take him before it became his unenviable task of presiding over a lawsuit, pointing out how very singular the case would be: the plaintiff, the younger, legitimate son of Lord Thomas Eden; the defendant, the elder, dissipating, illegitimate son of Lord Thomas Eden.
Finally he pledged lasting affection for the Countess Dowager, a sentiment which caused Marianne to shudder. Then there was his signature, as pompous and fastidious as the man himself.
Slowly she shook her head as though still amazed by the tangle of aflfairs. Well, there would be no lawsuit, at least not while she was alive. She could handle her sons, even the headstrong Edward. The Eden estates were vast. Perhaps, morally, some of it should be given away. There would still be plenty for James to use for hunting. As for
the scandal of the adultery case, probably all of London was grateful for the diversion. In her time, she'd caused too many scandals herself ever to be shocked by anything her son might do. As for the "zoo" on Oxford Street, as Sir Claudius had indelicately put it, she loved Daniel Spade as though he were her own son, agreed with his principles, and gave his Ragged School her full support. It was a fitting end for that cold house, its walls imbedded with generations of Eden arrogance, to suffer now the shouts and laughter of street children.
Good God! Quickly she left the dressing table, appalled at her capacity for the past this morning. She flung open her wardrobe, pleased by the sudden appearance of her gowns. Giving in to a moment of bitchery, she remembered Mrs. Greenbell's description of Sophia Cranford, dressed in lavender taffeta this morning.
Then Marianne would choose pale yellow silk. For some reason she felt a stern need to look her best. Yellow was the color of the sun, lavender its shadow.
She dressed with care and brushed her hair back and deftly knotted it into a chignon. Then she stood back and assessed the image, the elegant yellow silk, simple, with a scooped neck and wide flaring skirt with just a hint of bustle. Not bad for an old woman, although a telltale line about her neck disturbed her. She reached for her jewelry case and withdrew a single strand of matched pearls. Extending her head forward, she joined the delicate clasp beneath her hair and raised up for another look. Better.
Where was Mrs. Greenbell with the coffee? She turned away from the pier glass, weary of preening. She had much to do today. Her correspondence, for one thing, her letter of invitation to William and Jane. And she should acknowledge Sir Claudius's hysterical letter, although she hadn't the faintest idea what to say, and she really should write a suitably stern and maternal letter to Edward, suggesting that he should stay out of other men's beds, particularly when their wives were in them. She wondered ruefully if her "maternal" letters were as great a bore to him as they were to her.
She left her bedchamber with the image of her son constantly before her and took refuge in her sitting room, once Thomas's chambers. As she heard a rap at the door, she turned as though grabbing for a lifeline. "Mrs. Greenbell," she called out, "come—" She heard the door open in her bedchamber, heard voices, or more specific, heard a single voice, the rather prim, irritatingly high-pitched, very proper voice of Sophia Cranford.
Ah, there was reality. As Marianne turned away from the window,
she saw Mrs. Greenbell first, her plump face angling into a deep, unspoken apology, carrying a breakfast tray.
Then behind her appeared the woman herself, a slim, hard blade of a woman, done up indeed in lavender taffeta, her black hair drawn so tightly back there seemed to be a pull about her eyes, a little lace cap perched atop her head, and carrying in her hand the ever-present, gilt-trimmed leather notebook, an appendage of nature, according to Thomas.
Marianne ducked her head to hide a smile. Then the woman was upon her, effusive as always at the beginning of each of these encounters. The cold silence of disapproval and God alone knew what else always came later.
"Milady," Sophia murmured, bowing from the doorway.
With a vague smile Marianne returned the greeting and went to the serving table, where Mrs. Greenbell was just pouring a steaming, fragrant cup of cofTee. As Marianne lifted the cup, again Mrs. Greenbell caught her eye and held it, an unspoken message passing between the two old friends, both fully aware of what it was like to be trapped by Sophia Cranford.
Marianne noticed the tray, a lovely arrangement of grapes, two rolls, the silver urn. "Wouldn't you like a cup?" she asked Mrs. Greenbell, noticing only service for one.
Pointedly Mrs. Greenbell demurred. "Miss Cranford said she had business to discuss with you. I'll come back later."
Coward, Marianne thought, as the woman hurried to the door.
Mrs. Greenbell smiled and closed the door behind her. Marianne looked awkwardly about, wondering precisely who should make the first move. The woman continued to stand as though she had a rod down her back, her fingers over-laced and resting on the notebook.
Annoyed, Marianne took her coffee to the window, determined to let the silence expand as far as necessary. She knew precisely what the problem was. Of all the people in her world, including dukes, earls, and all the social lionesses of London, Sophia Cranford was the only person alive who still was capable of making her feel like a fisherman's daughter. The realization pinched.
"You had business, I believe," she said now, coolly, from the window.
When it seemed as though the woman behind her would never speak, she did, in a most unctuous tone. "I trust milady slept well," she purred, the voice in its artificiality seeming to climb even higher.
The question was rhetorical, requiring no answer, and Marianne
gave her none. Down below, just entering the castle gates on horseback, she saw her son, James, in the company of Caleb Cranford. The two were inseparable. Again she found herself wondering precisely at what point this Yorkshire brother and sister had climbed to such positions of power and influence within the castle.
Now from behind, she heard Sophia again. "It's a lovely morning, milady," she said. "May at its loveliest."
Marianne sipped her coffee and counseled herself patience. Play the game, whatever it might be. "It is indeed," she agreed, still keeping her eyes on the lovely morning and the sight of her younger son just dismounting, a slight figure of a man compared with Thomas and Edward. "I see my son is back," she commented, watching both men now, Caleb's solicitous hovering, whispering something to James, both men laughing heartily. At last she turned to face the woman waiting behind her. "Their customary morning ride, I assume?" she smiled.
Sophia nodded, as though pleased with herself. "Caleb revels in his friendship," she pronounced. "The way they carry on, I sometimes find it hard to believe eighteen years' difference in their ages; they are more like brothers."
Marianne returned to the serving table and the cofTee urn. As she refilled her cup, her patience dwindled. "I believe Mrs. Greenbell said you had business."
"Yes, indeed!" In a flurry of efficiency the woman snapped open the notebook.
"Ah, here we are." Sophia now smiled, looking up from her search. Apparently she saw Marianne's close scrutiny. Her face seemed to freeze. "Anything wrong, milady?" she inquired politely.
Quickly Marianne turned away. "No, nothing at all. Please go on. What is the nature of your—"
"Well, of course, it's about the party scheduled for the last of June, for Lady Harriet Powels—"
"What about it?" Marianne asked snappishly.
Again Sophia seemed to hesitate. "Well, milady, I must know—"
The woman lifted her eyes as though in a prouder attitude. "I loathe bringing up the subject, milady, for both our sakes, but I must know how—generous Mr. Edward intends to be with us for that important occasion."
The light dawned. Money. That was the nature of her business. Appalled by the woman's tastelessness in bringing up such a subject, Marianne sat lightly in a near chair and placed the coffee cup on the table. "We have our customary allowance," she said. "No more, no less. But
I should think it would be quite enough to—"
Sophia stepped forward as though gaining courage. "These are Powelses, milady," she said, pointedly, "renowned for their generosity, their country house parties—"
Marianne bristled. "Miss Cranford, we shall receive them warmly and give them our best hospitality. Beyond that, there is no reason to discuss it further."
The reprimand won her a moment's silence. But it was only temporary. As Sophia perused the notebook, Marianne knew a rebuttal was forming.
"Then, milady," she smiled sweetly, "may I have your ear concerning the menu?"
"You have it."
"I see an eight-course meal, at least."
"What else?" Marianne murmured sarcastically, already dreading the event that was still a month away.
"First, there should be a choice of soup, clear and thick, hot and cold-"
"Why a choice?" Marianne asked, looking up.
"They will be accustomed to a choice," Sophia smiled, as though pleased by the nature of Marianne's question. "Then," she went on, taking the floor now, pacing back and forth in a rustle of lavender taffeta, referring constantly to the notebook. "Then two kinds of fish, poached turbot, say, and salmon mayonnaise would be nice. And two removes, turkey and roast lamb, perhaps might accompany several entrees, such as cutlets, vol-au-vent, fillets of leveret, or sauteed fillets of fowl. Then there might come a sorbet, and after that, the game course—"
Marianne listened and watched, her mind trying to follow the woman's words. She felt cold and malicious and very useless.
"Are you following me, milady?" Sophia asked, stopping in her rigid little back and forth movements.
"I am," Marianne murmured. "Do go on.'*
"Well, if you'll forgive me again, milady, this is where some expense might be involved. We've had great trouble of late acquiring game. It would be my suggestion that we have quail and ortolon shipped over from the Continent. We must also have numerous entremets, lobster salad, maraschino jelly, truffles with champagne—"
Marianne stood. "Sweet Lord, Miss Cranford, such a menu will surely kill them—"
"I assure you, milady, they are accustomed to it and shall be expecting it. So, what do you say to that?" Sophia now inquired, and Marianne hadn't the least idea what she was talking about.
Lovingly she caressed the back of the chair, Thomas's chair, then turned to dismiss the awful woman. "I'll leave everything in your capable hands, Miss Cranford," she smiled. "I'm certain you know what to do."
The compliment seemed to please the woman. But instead of serving to dismiss her, she simply turned a page of the notebook and launched forth into another problem. "And I shall need a guest list, milady," she announced. "Invitations should have gone out last week. If you recall, I asked you for—"
Yes, Marianne recalled. "I'll have it for you this afternoon."
"And musicians. What do you—"
Marianne felt as though she were beginning to drown in the endless detail. Curtly she said, "I leave everything in your hands. Miss Cranford. Everything! Please spare me this morning. I have neither the heart nor inclination for it."
"Very well," Sophia replied, clearly pleased with the responsibility, although rather reluctantly she closed her notebook. "The funds in the household accounts may not cover the expense of the fete," she announced, straightening her shoulders. "I may have to impose upon our creditors—"
Marianne looked up. "I find that difficult to believe," she said, shocked.
"It's true, milady."
Marianne left the writing bureau and confronted the woman in the center of the room. "We are provided for handsomely," she said. "Thirty-six thousand pounds a year. I find it hard to believe that—"
But Sophia held her ground. "I keep careful books, milady. If you'd care to study them—"
It was the last thing Marianne wanted to do. Still, she didn't understand how with that vast amount of money they would have to use credit. They did little entertaining, the meals generally were simple. Her annoyance increasing, she turned away. She'd never had to discuss such matters when Thomas was alive. Then the full receipts of the estates had been put at her disposal, no questions asked. Now the receipts were gathered bimonthly by their agent in Exeter and taken directly to London, to Sir Claudius, where under Edward's direction, the sum of thirty-six thousand pounds was sent back for the running and maintenance of Eden Castle.
As though intuitively following the direction of her thoughts, Sophia moved closer. "It's a vastly unsatisfactory arrangement, milady," she quietly suggested, "the Countess Dowager receiving an allowance from her son—"
Marianne shook off the woman's closeness and moved farther away. "The property is Edward's," she said, with a calmness she did not feel, "to do with as he likes."
"And what of James?"
"What about James?"
"Is he to play the pinch-penny host to his future wife because of his brother's stingi—"
Marianne interrupted angrily. "That's enough, Miss Cranford. You are overstepping your bounds. Edward has been the heart and soul of generosity. He pays your own rather handsome salary. Now, please, never mention his name again in such tones."
The woman lowered her head, not true repentance, Marianne knew from experience, but certainly a good mask. "I offer my sincerest apologies," she murmured. "I was only trying to do my job, a difficult job under the best of circumstances."
Reluctantly Marianne agreed. "I'll write to Sir Claudius today," she offered. "You shall have the party you want—without credit."
"Thank you, milady. But again, begging your pardon, it's not my party. It's for James, for his future happiness. Alliance with the Powelses could mean—"
Marianne knew what it meant and did not need Sophia Cranford to point it out. James's union with the Powelses meant a degree of restored respectability to the Eden name, respectability which had been lost when Thomas Eden had married—"Is there anything else, Miss Cranford?"
"Yes, one other matter," the woman said, her voice gathering strength, as though she'd spotted Marianne's weakness. "Will Mr. Edward be present?"
Again, Marianne looked over her shoulder, impressed, in spite of herself, by the woman's persistence to pursue painful subjects. "Why?" she asked.
"I need to know who will preside? James or Edward?"
Marianne stood, confronting the woman. "Neither," she pronounced. "I intend to write today to my old friend William Pitch. If he can join us, he will preside. The place of honor belongs to him."
Obviously this news did not please Sophia. The little lace hat atop her head bobbed back and forth as she shook her head. "I'm not certain that the Powelses—"
"Damn the Powelses," Marianne exploded. "This is my home and I will do as I please, do you hear?"
The woman looked up, color draining out of her already colorless face. "I am an intelligent woman, milady," she began, her voice
trembling slightly. "I understand the full range of the English language and need no obscenity to—"
Regretful, Marianne shook her head. "Pm sorry, Miss Cranford," she muttered. "It's just that I was beginning to lose track of who was the guest, who the host."
For a moment, the two women stared at each other, as though from opposite sides of the world. Sophia Cranford spoke first, clearly reining in her offended nature. "I shouldn't have brought the subject up this morning, milady. I can see that you are quite undone—"
"I'm not undone," Marianne protested. "I merely wish to be mistress in my own home, a role I served well until—" She stopped herself in time. The room felt suddenly stifling. She relapsed into silence and again retreated to the window. The courtyard was empty save for the porters and the gatemen. Where was James? She still had that to look forward to.
She had hoped that her turned back and silence would signal an end to the unpleasant confrontation. But it didn't. Sophia merely moved up alongside her at the window, on her face an expression of triumph. "I beg your pardon, milady, but I suspect that the pos
t brought bad news."
Marianne held her silence and stared rigidly down. Sophia went on. "I'm pleased to say that the morning post brought good news to me, a letter from Jennifer which I'd be most happy to share."
Marianne continued to stand still, but her eyes watched longingly as the woman removed a letter from the back of her notebook. Even from that distance, Marianne saw and recognized the familiar handwriting, the lovely flowering script of her daughter. The letter appeared thick. The last word Marianne had received was a polite note, less than three paragraphs, some months ago. "I'm not in the habit of reading another's mail. Miss Cranford," she said, finally wresting her eyes away from the letter.
"But I give my permission." The woman smiled sweetly. "It's a charming account of her life at Roe Head. I think it would lift your spirits considerably."
Marianne felt an ominous stinging behind her eyes. She leaned closer to the window in order to obscure her face.
When she failed to reply, Sophia retreated, as only a victor retreats, with head high, voice firm. "I'll leave it here on the table for you, milady. Perhaps later you'll change your mind." Her voice became quite light, almost happy. "The dear child is going to try very hard to make it home for her brother's engagement party. The term is over, but she had considered spending the summer there. I've tried to
impress upon her how important her presence is to you, and she has promised to make every effort."
The burning in Marianne's eyes increased. How considerate of the bitch, after having spent the last twenty years successfully driving a wedge between Marianne and her daughter, now to urge a reconciliation. What had happened to Jennifer's childhood? Marianne couldn't remember. It seemed as though she and Thomas were always absent, either in London or the Continent, selfishly enjoying each other's company to the exclusion of the children. And every time that she had protested their frequent absences, Thomas had merely laughed and said, "Leave them to the Cranfords. When they reach a civilized age of eighteen, we shall introduce ourselves and welcome them to the family."
The prince of Eden Page 9
