Abruptly he fell silent, apparently assessing the tension within the carriage. She was aware of him looking from one side to the other. Then slowly he sat beside Edward, his hands clasped between his legs, the exhilaration on his face passing into blank bewilderment.
Still moved by her recent outburst, broken by grief over the cross-purposes which ran through her life, she turned rigidly away in the opposite direction, refusing to look at either of them.
As the carriage started forward, she felt Edward's boot lightly touching the toe of her shoe. Was the contact accidental? She stole a look in his direction and met his eyes and looked away.
Then quietly into the expanding silence, Edward spoke. "We've quarreled, Daniel," he said. "Within the first hour of our reunion, we've quarreled as though we still were children."
The rest of the ride was conducted in a palatable silence, both men seated opposite her, apparently recovering from the splintered beginning and she recovering as well, gazing out the window at clamorous London, both fascinated and frightened by it, recalling how she had explored it as a little girl with her father's enormous hand wrapped protectively about her own.
On thinking of the man she glanced back at Edward, saw him slumped down in the seat, his elbow resting on the arm support. He looked fatigued, as though their quarrel had drained him of vital resources. In an attempt to alter the bleak look, she asked quietly, "Do you think we'll have time to see the museums and galleries before we leave?"
Without lifting his head, he smiled at her. "We'll make time, all the time you wish."
For some reason, Daniel protested. "Not too much, Edward. Remember, the magistrate said—" Abruptly he stopped, a flush causing his face to redden. "What I mean to say is—" he faltered. "The Countess, your mother, expects you at a—"
"We'll be there," Edward said, cutting him off. "Did I tell you?" he went on, brightening. "Jennifer and I are going to purchase a pianoforte tomorrow and take it with us back to Eden Point. You'd better come with us."
Surprised, Jennifer listened closely. She had assumed that Daniel was coming with them. He had been Edward's shadow for as long as she could remember. "You're not coming, Daniel?" she inquired.
He shook his head, an expression of regret on his face. "Perhaps later. The school is burgeoning. I can't just walk away and leave it in the hands of the volunteers."
"Is it going well?" Jennifer asked now, remembering Daniel's Ragged School and his devotion to it.
"Very well," he smiled. "A few days ago we had distinguished visitors. Robert Owen and John Bright—"
He studied his hands as though modesty forbade him to speak openly."They wanted to see the school," he said quietly. "Owen was particularly curious. He had a grand scheme to establish others throughout London."
"And they will be using yours as the model?" she asked, impressed.
He shrugged. "It seems as though it's a matter of funds. But, yes, if the money can be raised—"
From his slouched position at the window, Edward spoke softly. "Why on this green earth are you worrying about funds, Daniel? Tell your Mr. Owen to establish as many schools as he wishes. The funds will be there when he needs them."
She saw clearly the surprised though warm look of gratitude on Daniel's face. Then there was a brief cloud. "I can't ask you—"
Still without looking at him, Edward cut him off. "You haven't asked. I'm simply donating." She saw a new weariness on his face. "My purpose for living is vague," he said softly. "The size of my purse is not. Establish your schools, for God's sake. Do something about that."
As he bobbed his head out the window, Jennifer followed his gaze to the scene outside where half a dozen children could be seen huddled in an open doorway. In the faint light of the streetlamp, they sat in a pitiful arrangement, the oldest holding the youngest, their hollow eyes staring out at the passing carriage.
She was aware of Daniel staring too, leaning across to their window, his face clearly reflecting what he saw. "I'll send a volunteer back as
soon as we get home," he promised. "They're probably abandoned."
Jennifer Ustened, grateful in a way that the grim young faces had now passed from her vision. "How many children do you care for now?" she asked.
He smiled and shook his head. "Close to seventy, I would say." He sat eagerly up. "But you shall see for yourself," he promised. "We're about home."
Jennifer began to see familiar landmarks, Oxford Circus with its fine linen establishments, then Oxford Street, that old artery of the aristocracy now a muddle of shops. Then they were before the house which in the evening light looked even more dilapidated and out of sorts than she'd remembered it.
Daniel was out of the carriage first. She watched him as he swung upward, apparently to fetch the trunk. In the quiet night and after the cessation of horses hooves on cobblestone, she heard a distant piano in the rippling lively beat of a polka.
Opposite her, she saw Edward, his eyes fixed with peculiar intensity on the linen establishment directly across the way.
Then Daniel was at the carriage door and urging her to, "Come, it's dance night. You can see the brood for yourself. If you're interested, that is," he added quickly.
She was interested and said as much. She looked back at Edward, who had not moved. "Are you coming?"
With a start he looked at her as though she had summoned him back from a great distance. "Right behind you," he' said. "Is that a dance I hear?" he smiled. "Come. If you've never seen tadpoles dancing, you're in for a treat."
He led the way up the steps with Jennifer and Daniel following. A bright lamp burned in the entry hall. To one side she saw a long bench, heaped with a confusion of toys: a rocking horse on his swaying platform with red nostrils, and simple building blocks, a small reproduction of a railway locomotive, a smaller trumpet, and an assortment of rag dolls, all bearing mute evidence of loving devotion.
The piano was louder here, the tempo and rhythm of a polka clearly audible. Then it was Daniel's turn to take the lead, and after he had deposited her trunk near the bench, he pushed open the double doors which led to the banqueting hall and stood back to permit her passage.
Slowly at first she approached. Then she saw a most remarkable scene. The enormous and over-grand room which in the past had known sedate formal dinners was now awhirl with children, the tables had been pushed back against the walls, and in an uneven and slightly ragged circle, the children, paired, their arms raised, were engaged in a
mad, spiraling polka. They all looked so frail and budlike, many of the younger ones already in their nightshirts, like tiny ghosts. Near the end of the hall she saw an old pianoforte, clearly out of tune, but being energetically played by a volunteer, her head, indeed her whole body keeping time.
She noticed Daniel move away from them now toward the far wall where two volunteers presided over a bowl of punch and a platter of sugar cookies. He was saying something to them, pointing back toward the door. A moment later, the older woman nodded and quickly left the room. Jennifer knew where she was going, back to the doorway filled with abandoned children. It was her guess that by the time the next polka night came around, their numbers would be swelled by at least six.
Unable to take it all in at a glance, she looked first one way, then the other. Near the far end of the circle, she saw a young girl break out of the formation. Her eyes appeared fixed on the front of the hall where they stood. She was quite thin, clearly older than the rest, her pretty hair brushed back and tied with a white ribbon. Still she came toward them, her face hesitant, as though uncertain of what she was doing. She seemed to be staring at Edward, who was grinning and bobbing his head in time to the music.
The young girl was less than five feet away from him when he saw her at last, a warm look of recognition on his face as he opened his arms and invited her to, "Come, Elizabeth. How pretty you look tonight."
As though she'd waited all her life for those simple words, the young girl slipped beneath his arm. Jennifer notic
ed her hand; it appeared scarred and mutilated. And she watched, fascinated, as Edward lifted that hand to his lips and kissed it. Smiling, he now drew the girl close to Jennifer. "This is Elizabeth," he said. His voice moved rapidly into a prouder tone as he said further, "The two of us make it a habit of finding each other. I found her first, and on several occasions she's returned the favor and has found me."
Jennifer hadn't the slightest idea what he was talking about. But apparently it didn't matter as a moment later Edward completed the introduction. "And this is Jennifer, Elizabeth, my sister. She's a schoolteacher in far-off Yorks." The young girl only hurriedly bobbed her head, then immediately turned an adoring set of eyes back to Edward.
Now Jennifer saw her abruptly motion for him to bend his head to her. As he did so, she whispered something into his ear, some message that at first produced a horrified look, then a warm, hearty laugh.
"Why not?" he exclaimed. As he shook off his cloak and handed it to Jennifer, he laughed, "Stand by to pick up the pieces. This temptress is luring me into the madness of the dance."
As he approached the circle, the younger children squealed with delight at his presence. The volunteers broke into applause and the pianist at the end of the hall craned her neck about and, beaming, proceeded to play even louder, tempo increasing.
As Jennifer folded his cloak in her arms, she watched, laughing, as the young Elizabeth arranged Edward opposite her. He towered over her, yet seemed as compliant and agreeable as a puppet.
Jennifer saw without question that everyone in the crowded room was pleased by his participation, his head bending and bobbing, his long legs lifting, literally flying about the circle now. Still she watched the pretty heads as they swirled about her, the tempo increasing until she felt herself swept up in the excitement of the music.
Then she saw Daniel beside her, lifting Edward's cloak from her arms, taking her portfolio with it, his face close, challenging her. "Shall we show them how it's done?"
Instinctively she protested. "Oh no, Daniel, I couldn't—"
"Why not?"
"I've never danced the polka in my life," she gasped.
"Neither have I," he smiled. He bobbed his head toward the room where figures large and small passed them by in a blur. "I really don't think that expertise is required. Just a certain amount of nerve and a strong constitution—"
Again she tried to protest, but he'd hear none of it. Edward's voice came now in a shout as he passed them by. "Catch us if you can," he called out, lifting the young Elizabeth literally off her feet.
"Come on," Daniel urged. "Let's behave like children. Perhaps it's safer that way."
She glanced up at him, amazed at the ability of his thoughts to follow hers. Then with a shake of her head, as though she knew that resistance was useless, she removed her bonnet and cloak and gloves and stood before him. "I'm afraid you'll have to support me the full distance. I am a true novice."
For just a moment she saw a look of extreme gratitude in his face, as though she had just expressed his fondest desire. Before she could catch her breath and long before she was ready for it, she found herself approaching the circle, Daniel's arm about her waist, their hands uplifted, a look of studious intensity in his eyes as he counted off the beats. Then he lifted her and whirled her into the circle, the room and all aspects of it blurring about her as the tempo filled her head, her
feet returning to the floor long enough to execute the steps, then whirling again, her head thrown backward as she clung to him, both of them laughing now, the children urging her on with shouts, Daniel's face always before her, his strong arms guiding her through the simple manuevers, the world and everything in it suddenly gone beautifully topsy-turvey as they defied gravity, defied old fears and new anxieties, defied everything save the madly mounting rhythm of the polka.
For Jennifer, the sensation was akin to a starving man who has grown accustomed to sustaining himself on a crust. Now she had a whole loaf and she gorged on it.
With her head thrown back, her mouth half opened, she prayed that it would never end, the color, the warmth, the music, the laughter.
^c^^^^n^ '^ad-^^
For the Countess Dowager, it had been a day of welcoming. First, her half sister, Jane, had arrived about noon, looking painfully old and worn after the ordeal of William Pitch's death. Marianne had sent her directly to the guest chambers on the second floor and had instructed Mrs. Greenbell to stay with her.
Throughout the afternoon, while Jane recovered from the rigorous journey from London, Marianne had kept a constant vigil on the gate, expecting Edward and Jennifer. But as yet they had not appeared.
Now at dusk, she stood at the top of the steps of the Great Hall, eyeing the small but elegant crimson and gilt carriage just turning into the gate. One of the watchmen, stationed a distance across the moors, had ridden ahead and had informed her as to the identity of the passenger.
Sir Claudius Potter.
She closed her eyes in a brief attempt to rest them and, unseeing, smoothed down her black silk gown. Still in mourning for William, she had vowed to wear black for six weeks. Of course she would alter her wardrobe for the evening of James's engagement party, but the rest of the time, it would be black to match her heart.
At the carriage's rattling approach, she opened her eyes. The sun was setting. The dying day enveloped the old castle in a purple mist which was wafted in and out by the head winds off the channel. The stewards had not yet lit the torches. She wished they would. Perhaps the glowing fires would help to alter the gloom of evening. In a very real way she was tired of being sad.
Now at last the carriage door was beginning to open. She caught a glimpse of the man himself, pretentiously groomed in the latest fashion.
"Sir Claudius," she murmured, extending her hand to the man who knew her family's affairs as intimately as though they were his own.
Still engrossed in straightening himself, he gave a final tug to the blue waistcoat, removed his hat, bowed low, and took her hand. "Lady Eden," he smiled, pressing her hand to his lips.
His kiss left a disagreeable dampness. She resisted the urge to brush it away and instead said, "Welcome to Eden Castle. It's been far too long since you've graced us with your presence."
The man's pink cherubic face glowed under the sentiment. "Milady," he murmured, "if the choice were mine, I would close my London chambers and pitch a small tent outside that gate, there to bask in the sunlight of your presence."
Merciful heavens, she thought, trying to cancel the smile before it erupted on her face. He'd grown even more fulsome with age. "Come," she urged, hoping to dilute the formalities of their greeting. "You must be very tired from the journey. Your customary chambers are waiting. After a sound night's sleep, I shall look forward to hearing all about London—"
But his protest was quick. "Oh no, milady. It's the shank of the evening for me. I made an easy trip of it, stopping overnight in Exeter, taking advantage of the opportunity to confer in person with our land agent."
He stepped closer. "With your permission, milady, I would beg a private session with you tonight. There are matters of which you should be apprised. Only a brief audience," he smiled, "for all our sakes."
Apparently she had no choice. As she took his arm to mount the stairs, he saw James just coming from the Great Hall. Close behind him followed Caleb and Sophia Cranford. Marianne stood to one side as James greeted the old solicitor, a greeting of undue extravagance, she thought, as he earnestly inquired about everything, the journey, the condition of the turnpike, the health of ailing King William, the uncertainty of the next monarch. She'd never seen him so garrulous.
"Surely the crown will not be placed on the dubious head of the young princess," he protested, leading the man upward, clearly ignoring Marianne where she stood on the stairs. "I would suggest a regent as the wisest course of action, don't you agree?"
At the top of the stairs, Marianne saw the Cranfords. Then apparently James saw them as well, and Mar
ianne watched as he led Sir Claudius to where the brother and sister stood. "Sir Claudius," James began, "I'm certain you remember Mr. and Miss Cranford."
Apparently Sir Claudius did remember them. Marianne couldn't hear their exchange, had little desire to hear it. Instead she let her attention run in the opposite direction, toward the castle gate, still half searching for Edward and Jennifer.
"Mother, are you well?" In some embarrassment she looked quickly back, saw James beside her, the others waiting at the top of the stairs looking down.
"I'm quite well," she said lightly. "Just waiting for Sir Claudius."
"Fm ready, Marianne," he called down with a familiarity which normally would have displeased her, but now, in Sophia's presence, she permitted it, even enjoyed it.
At the top of the stairs, as she took Sir Claudius's arm, she gave Sophia a clear command. "We will be in the small library off the Great Hall," she smiled. "A bottle of sherry would be nice. Then no more interruptions."
Normally she did not permit her voice to assume such a master-servant tone when dealing with any of the staff. Now, however, she relished it and watched, amazed, as the woman withdrew the ever-present leather notebook and made a note of some sort.
Marianne laughed. "Oh, surely, Sophia, you can remember a single bottle of sherry."
The woman gazed evenly back at her. "Since I'm held accountable for the inventory, milady, I find it helpful to keep careful books."
"I'm sure you do," Marianne murmured. As she glanced ahead through the Great Hall, she saw Mrs. Greenbell entering the room. It then occurred to her that if she were sequestered with Sir Claudius for a period of time, she would be unable to keep an eye out for Edward. And since she did not trust any of her present company, James included, she decided to appoint Mrs. Greenbell to a position of lookout.
"Excuse me, please," she murmured to Sir Claudius. "I'll only be a moment—"
Abandoning him momentarily to the company of James and the Cranfords, she signaled Mrs. Greenbell and met her in the center of the large room.
"I apologize for a request," she said, in advance, approaching the woman and placing her hand affectionately on Mrs. Greenbell's arm.
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