Instead, as she drew near the stairs, Jennifer stepped politely down and extended her gloved hand. "Milady," she murmured.
With grace, Marianne endured the slight. "It's good to see you again," she said softly. "I must confess I spend a great deal of time worrying about you in cold Yorks."
"The cold differs little from Devon cold," Jennifer replied courteously. "And I apologize for not writing. My duties keep me very busy."
For the moment, Marianne allowed her eyes to wander up to the grinning Sophia, who always seemed to receive a letter a month from Jennifer. Then behind Sophia, she saw Sir Claudius, his soft pink face sobered, his eyes seeming to rest suspiciously on Edward. She noticed for the first time that Caleb was missing, as was James. "Where is—"
Immediately Sophia interrupted, as though reading her mind. "Caleb has gone to fetch him, milady," she said primly.
The traffic on the stairs was quite heavy as the stewards rushed up and down with the trunks. Behind Edward's carriage, Marianne noticed four men standing near the new pianoforte. Hoping to elicit at least a faint light from Jennifer's face, Marianne moved to one side, nearer to her daughter. "Edward tells me that you have promised to
play for us, has even provided you with a magnificent—"
"I did not ask for it, milady," the young woman said, a curtness to her voice.
"No, of course not," Marianne murmured. "I didn't mean to imply that you—"
She broke off, her futile efforts taking a toll. For a moment a confused silence settled on the group as the stewards, with continuous apology, moved back and forth. Marianne glanced over her shoulder toward Edward. He appeared as dejected as she felt. He leaned heavily against the door of his carriage as though loath to lose contact with it.
What in God's name were they standing about for? "Let's move inside, please," she suggested. "There's no reason—"
But again Sophia interrupted her. "We're waiting for James," she smiled. "He's in the stables. As I said, Caleb has gone to fetch—"
Then Marianne heard Jane's voice. "Miss Cranford," she said, moving forward, striking the gravel with her walking stick. "Lady Eden wishes to retire inside. Would you be so good as to lead the way?"
The tall angular woman gaped at Jane. Marianne saw two dots of color rising on her cheeks. "I thought, out of courtesy," she snapped, "it would be best—"
"You're not paid to think. Miss Cranford," Jane smiled, starting up the stairs now, pausing a moment to kiss Jennifer lightly on the cheek. "You look terrible," she said bluntly to the girl. "You need some Devon sun." Then she was on her way again, tapping out with her walking stick her forward progress up the stairs.
Lacking her sister's appetite for tension, Marianne glanced back at Edward, saw a half smile on his face as, still leaning against his carriage, he shook his head. Then Marianne heard Sophia's high-pitched voice. "Here he comes," she proclaimed.
As Marianne glanced up at the shrill announcement, she saw all eyes following the course of Sophia's extended hand. Marianne knew who it was without looking, but she looked anyway along the sandy tracks that led into the inner courtyard from the stables. She had hoped to postpone the meeting, at least until after dinner, after Edward had had a chance to rest, and she'd had a chance to talk with him.
But apparently it was not to be. With fixed eyes she watched along with the rest as the distant figure appeared at the far end of the courtyard. She noticed that he wore his blacksmithing apron. Obviously he'd been attending his horses. Although there were four trained blacksmiths at the Eden stables, nothing brought James greater pleasure than to preside over the forge himself.
Behind him, she saw Caleb Cranford, his rigid figure in curious
contrast to James's slouched one. The tall Yorkshireman seemed to be herding her son along the path, as though, at the first sign of retreat, he was there to change his mind.
The man in the black apron was drawing nearer, his head still down, his step slow and uneven as he fumbled now with heavy gloves. Then he made an attempt to straighten his long dark hair and again commenced forward motion, moving not toward Edward, who had stepped forward to greet him, but rather toward Jennifer, who stood halfway up the stairs.
"Jennifer," he smiled, taking a step upward, then extending his hand which, as far as Marianne could tell, her daughter took eagerly and came down the steps and into her brother's arms for a quick embrace.
Smiling, he held her back. "I'm in no fit condition, I'm afraid," he apologized.
Jennifer looked with what seemed to be genuine affection upon her brother. "I've missed you, James," she smiled.
"You look splendid. The school must agree with you. You must tell me all about it. The only word we receive is secondhand, through Sophia's letters—"
Throughout this exchange Marianne looked at Edward, who stood, head down, both hands shoved in his pockets, all his considerable attention apparently focused on moving small pieces of gravel about with the toe of his boot. He had to be aware of the slight.
Then the light banter at the steps ceased. All about the gathered company was a new tension, as though something of great import was about to happen. Then James was standing before his brother, apparently amused by Edward's preoccupation with gravel.
"Edward, welcome home," James said, kindly enough.
Edward looked up, as though surprised by both the voice and the sentiment. He seemed to be having difficulty bringing James into focus. Say something, Marianne thought quickly, say something back to him, kind and unimportant.
And Edward did. He extended his hand and as James took it, Edward murmured, "I fear we've interrupted important work." He smiled, gesturing toward the smithing apron.
"No, not at all," James reassured him. "There are always small jobs to be done, and countless men who can do them better than I can. Still—" He paused and shrugged, as though for a moment calling to account his own worth.
Now James caught sight of the enormous wagon, the four men still poised beside the canvas-covered lump. "What prize have you brought from London?" he inquired, moving around Edward, walking toward the wagon.
At his approach, all four men bobbed their heads, as though in recognition of the Lord of the Castle in spite of his smithing apron.
Edward followed after him and shouted up, "Unveil it. Let's see if Masson's worries were groundless."
The four men scrambled upward, each to their corners and commenced untying the ropes. All heads swiveled in that direction as the men released the canvas covering and drew it back. A low murmur of appreciation arose from the company as all stared in admiration at the handsome instrument. Clearly it had made the journey safely and intact.
"I bought it for Jenny," Edward explained. "She's promised to give us several concerts, haven't you?" he called back to the young woman on the steps.
The sudden shift of attention brought a blush to her cheeks. "If you wish," she murmured and seemed to push closer to Sophia as though for protection.
Edward was now calling instructions up to the men, telling them where to place the instrument. As Edward grew more expansive, something seemed to have sobered James. He withdrew several steps from the activity around the wagon and continued to eye the grand pianoforte as though assessing its cost.
If Edward saw the expression, he gave no indication of it and merely followed after James, his manner still light. "I had ulterior motives as well," he said, his voice low, but loud enough for Marianne to hear. "I've been trying to coax Jenny not to go back to that Yorkshire prison. I thought perhaps if she had a pianoforte—"
But James stiffened and interrupted. "I was under the impression that she enjoyed teaching—"
"Enjoyed it," Edward exclaimed. "Being shut up and cut off with only women and screaming children for company." He leaned closer, his voice very low now. "Yours may not be the only wedding in the coming year. Daniel Spade may have plans for Jenny. They get on very well."
Clearly appalled, James withdrew another step. "Daniel Spade?" he re
peated. "Surely you're not suggesting that Jenny—"
Although Marianne was certain that no one was overhearing the conversation but herself, she took steps to end it. Moving between her two sons, she counseled quietly, "Jenny is quite capable of plotting her own future." To Edward she smiled, "The piano is lovely, a welcome gift." To James she suggested, "Why don't you have Caleb select several good wines for dinner tonight. I think we should have a family celebration before the other guests descend next week."
With both men momentarily defused, she lifted her voice and spoke
now to those waiting on the steps. "Sophia, would you be so kind as to see Jennifer to her chambers. I know she must be tired. And Jane, please escort Sir Claudius to the library for a glass of sherry before lunch. There's absolutely no need for us to stand about in this heat."
As the company made tentative motions to disperse, she looked again at Edward and James, took both their arms, and drew them close. "I can't tell you," she began softly, "how much it means to me to have you both home. The coming days will be busy and filled with duties, but for now, we are all together and at peace, and for that, I'm grateful."
Her mood seemed to spread to her two sons. Edward kissed her lightly on the cheek. Then to James, he said with great warmth, "Forgive my rudeness. I haven't yet congratulated you. I look forward to meeting your future wife."
James smiled. "She'll be a good addition to the family, and Fm certain she will produce sons." Then hastily he added, "If you'll excuse me now, I must finish in the stables.'*
With that he was gone. Edward continued to stare after him. "Were we just then talking about a wife or a brood sow?" he asked softly.
Rising partially to James's defense, Marianne said, "He seems to feel his duty keenly to produce an heir."
"Do you know the lady?" Edward asked, still watching his brother.
"I know the family, of course," Marianne said. "I've never met Harriet."
"I hope she Is fully aware of the purpose behind her entry into this family," Edward commented as though feeling pity for the young woman whose first duty would be to reproduce.
"I'm sure she is," Marianne smiled. Again she took Edward's arm and tried to turn him from the diminishing figure at the end of the path. "Come, let me take you to your chambers. If you like, we can lunch there alone. I must speak with you."
He detected the tension behind her words. "How long has Sir Claudius been here?" he asked pointedly.
"Long enough."
"Then, in that case, I plead guilty to everything."
"Come, Edward," she urged. "The heat is dreadful. Let's retire."
Gently but steadily she guided him up the steps. On his brow she noticed beads of perspiration in which his hair had gotten caught and now lay plastered on his forehead. His face appeared suddenly to have gone white.
As they entered the cool shadows of the Great Hall, she saw three curious serving girls peering out, excited at the increased traffic passing
through the castle. As she drew near, they started to retreat. She called sharply, "Bring a pitcher of lavender water and clean linens to my third-floor chambers. And be quick."
As the girls disappeared, she turned her attention back to Edward. He appeared to be breathing heavily now, and his weight upon her had increased as though his legs were giving way. "Edward, what is it?" she whispered in concern.
At that moment Sophia Cranford appeared in the far corridor door. On seeing his colorless face, she stepped forward, a mask of concern imperfectly hiding her curiosity. "Is he ill?" she asked. "He seemed well enough when we left him."
"He's merely fatigued," Marianne replied, trying to walk erect and thus conceal the full extent of Edward's mysterious weakness.
"Shall I call for Caleb?" Sophia asked primly.
"No!" Marianne's reply was sharp. "He'll be fine. He simply needs a moment to rest." As she guided Edward past the gaping woman, she called back, "We'll lunch alone in my chambers. I'm certain the others will understand. Please send Mrs. Greenbell with a tray."
Although Marianne had dreaded the three flights of stairs, she was relieved to see that Edward apparently had recovered a portion of his strength. He grasped the handrailing and laboriously pulled himself up.
Breathing heavily from exertion and undone with concern, she led him slowly to the third-floor corridor, the stone walls of the castle now serving as his support. As they drew near his customary chambers, only a short distance from hers, he pulled free of her support. "Leave me, please," he begged in a hoarse whisper. "You were right. I—need a moment—alone."
She started to protest, but changed her mind. As she pushed open the door which led into his chambers, she stepped back. "I'll be down the hall if you need me," she reminded him.
Quietly she closed the door. As she stood alone in the corridor, her mind turned. She'd seen the ravages of the Dreaded Disease, and knew that Edward exercised no discrimination in his choice of companions. But surely not that. Oh God, please not that. What a trump card for the Cranfords, to drag a diseased Edward into court.
But it wasn't that. She was certain. Then what?
^^^/SJ^'
At dawn on the morning of June 29, an entourage of five carriages left Hadley Park outside Shrewsbury heading in a southwesterly direction toward Eden Castle on the North Devonshire coast. Now with the first rosy signs of sun creeping over the Shropshire hills, Harriet sat well over on her side of the carriage and gazed bleakly out the window. So! The dreaded journey was under way at last.
Beyond the carriage window, Harriet took careful and loving note of the Shropshire landscape, the rolling green meadows dotted with sheep, a soft morning fog just burning off, leaving tints of primrose pink where the sun poked through. She shivered slightly in the morning chill.
Seated opposite her was her mother, who apparently had seen the trembling. "Draw your cloak about you, Harriet," she commanded. "It will serve no purpose to arrive sniffling."
Harriet did as she was told and wondered sadly if it would serve any purpose to arrive at all. Not that she had anything against James Eden. At recent country house parties, they had passed fairly enjoyable intervals together. In the past he had required nothing of her but a ready ear, or at least the pretense of a ready ear.
She knew all too well, however, what had drawn them together, had led their families into tentative discussions concerning a union. Both she and James were leftovers. Everyone else in their circle had been spoken for long ago.
So they were to be joined like two machines, the male machine
penetrating the female machine and leaving a seed, and out of her womb the future would emerge, and her only purpose for drawing breath would have been fulfilled.
The thought hurt. It was like being born to nothing, her father eyeing her even now as though she were one of his prize ewes on her way to the breeding sheds.
Beyond her window, she saw the end of the parkland, the narrow turnpike and, across the road, the Mermaid Inn. She thought of Humphrey Hills, the little boy with whom she had played as a child. Humphrey had loved her. She might have married him if custom had permitted. The wife of an innkeeper? Why not? How would it differ from being the wife of a lord? But of course custom had not permitted it.
Opposite her in the rocking carriage her parents' faces bobbed back and forth before her vision. She loved them both ver)' much and was only sorry that she had so vastly disappointed them.
She looked away and closed her eyes, recalling the conversation she'd overheard between her parents recently concerning her ability to breed. "A fine full figure," her father had said. She had blushed then and blushed now, surprised that he had noticed. She was too tall, her mother had said, men preferring them small and dainty. But her breasts were good, they both had agreed, and her hips sturdy. She had never known an illness, another plus.
Thus Harriet had overheard them outside the morning room, discussing and cataloguing her various attributes, expressing in the end complete bafflement at her
persistent single status. "She simply does nothing to encourage them," her mother had despaired. "She treats them one and all like—idiots," and the word had come out an obscenity. Her mother had concluded the discussion with her customary scolding, blaming her father for not permitting them, years ago, to take a London house where "the girl" might have learned a woman's wiles, blaming him too for that continuous line of German tutors who had filled her head with Greek and Latin and mathematics, all totally useless in the marriage race.
As they turned the corner heading toward the turnpike to Worcester, she saw the trailing entourage of the other four carriages, the second filled with servants, the third and fourth given over entirely to trunks, the fifth filled with her father's sturdiest guardsmen to look after the horses, repair the carriages, and watch out for highwaymen. Their itinerary consisted of Worcester, Cheltenham, Gloucester, a night's rest with their good friends the Berkeleys at Berkeley Castle, then Bristol, Cheddar, Taunton, Barnstaple, and Eden. If all went well, they were
scheduled to arrive early in the evening on the following night.
If all went well-As they passed through the village of Much Wenlock, the carriages resumed speed, the wheels of the rough terrain beating out a curious tune. Why did her mother persist in looking at her like that, as though she were an object of consummate pity? She wished now that she'd taken her private carriage and ridden behind. It had been discussed in the event that Harriet had wanted to extend her visit with the Edens.
But her father had said no, said they all could learn as much as they needed to know about the Edens in the official visit. She knew, although her father had never expressed this openly to her, that he had reservations about the union. The Eden blood was slightly tainted with the influx of common blood, the present Lady Eden having been the object of much scandal before she had married Lord Thomas Eden. The younger Eden son had been mentioned as a possible suitor years ago, but her father had discounted it then. Only desperation had now driven him back to the Edens. The girl must bear fruit.
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