bewildered by young Lady Powels's absence, you cannot have failed to have noticed your son's absence as well."
In the throes of distress, Marianne looked about at the ctuttered table. She was unable still to face the truth of what she'd been told. That Edward had indulged, she had no doubt. But an addict?
Now she noticed Jane maintaining a strange silence, as though she too was involved in putting pieces of the puzzle together. But looming large was one predominant horror—how vulnerable Edward would be now to the assaults of James and the Cranfords. What a simple case, the legitimate second son contesting his birthright in a court of law against an addict.
"Oh dear God," she moaned audibly, resting her elbows on the table and concealing her face behind her hands.
The silence held, the other two apparently rendered mute by her clear distress.
She heard movement then, as though someone were pushing gently back in a chair. Then she heard that voice again, the same voice that had brought her nothing but grief throughout their long association.
"Milady," Sophia began, "again my apologies for bringing you such tragic news. But I'm glad I did, for now you know the urgent nature of the many problems at hand—"
Still Marianne did not look up.
Jane sat up straighten "It has been my experience," she said, almost sweetly, to the table, "that a house warden's only legitimate domain is the kitchen and the scullery. How effortlessly. Miss Cranford, do you step into spheres that are none of your concern."
Marianne saw the flush on Sophia's face deepen. But with admirable control, she maintained her position, standing behind the chair now, talking down to both Jane and Marianne.
"My position in this household is not an ordinary one. Miss Locke," she pronounced in a low voice. "I've given long years of service to this family, as has my brother, almost our entire adult lives. We have raised the three heirs and, with Lady Eden's kind indulgence, we now take full credit for what they are."
With a wave of black amusement, Marianne thought. Take credit. Take full credit for Jennifer in her late twenties, a terrified, repressed spinster; for James, weak beyond description, with little wit and less backbone. And Edward? An addict apparently in the process of destroying his life, for which Marianne had once had such rich and limitless hopes.
Throughout these thoughts, Sophia had never ceased talking and was now saying, "But I can't do it alone. I find myself in that most
unfortunate position of great responsibility and no authority." Carefully she stepped back from the chair as though the better to display her martyrdom. "There are vast problems afoot in this castle this morning, problems which, perhaps, suffering the wrong solution, could spell the end to the Eden line. And yet— What must I do now? I must go attend to the waiting stewards, must see that the consomme for luncheon is of the proper clarity, must see that the pate is seasoned properly, and the wine chilled, and the flowers fresh in all of the chambers—"
Her eyes closed as though in consummate fatigue. With a slight shake of her head, she opened them again, resolution on her face. "So, now, milady, I'll assume my rightful and limited duties if you'll assume yours. Your sons, both of them, are on the verge of destroying themselves. See to it, milady, I beg you."
And with that brief though impressive conclusion, she walked the full length of the table, head erect like some put-upon queen who has had the misfortune of being set down among witless and unruly subjects, and left the room.
Both Jane and Marianne watched the grand exit.
"I would give anything," Jane began, her voice firm though scarcely audible, "up to and including my modest fortune and my good right arm, if Thomas could have heard that little outburst."
In spite of her gloomy mood, Marianne smiled. Jane's thought had not been precisely her own. Nonetheless it stirred her. Oh yes. Thomas.
Then Jane was speaking again. "You cannot permit it to go on, Marianne," she scolded, rising laboriously from her chair.
Grasping the edge of the table for support, as Jane had done, Marianne stood. For a moment she felt light-headed.
Jane saw the weakness and misinterpreted it. "You've only yourself to blame," she scolded, "for permitting that woman ever to gain the upper hand."
But Marianne's thoughts were elsewhere. "Do you have morning plans, Jane?"
Jane craned her neck forward as though the better to comprehend the curious question. "None that amount to anything save the killing of time."
"Then walk with me," Marianne requested, still suffering an intense longing.
"Walk?" Jane echoed. "I should think you would have—"
"Please," Marianne begged, looking directly at her. "Just a brief stroll. To the graveyard."
"Of course I'll walk with you," Jane murmured, as though at last she had perceived Marianne's exact need.
Clinging together as though against the vicissitudes of an unseen storm, they made their way out of the Banqueting Hall, through the Great Hall, past the army of stewards who were hanging bowers of summer flowers for the evening ball, on out to the steps of the Great Hall where a mild June sun greeted them.
Without being consciously aware of it, Marianne must have leaned heavily against Jane, causing her sister to lend her the support of both arms. "Are you well?" Jane demanded, looking sharply at her.
Marianne nodded.
As they passed behind the great hulk of the castle itself, the sun was obliterated, and they found themselves in shadow, the earth beneath their feet soft and spongy Where the dampness held year around without the drying rays of the sun.
"Wouldn't it be lovely," Marianne said softly as they walked, "if we were permitted to choose the day on which we wished to die?"
And that was all she said, but she was aware of Jane looking at her in bewilderment, in concern.
Something more was wrong, of that Jane was certain. As though Sophia Cranford's cruel little announcement concerning Edward hadn't been enough, Jane knew that her sister was suffering from some other, as yet unknown crisis.
As they walked together through the muddy damp;iess behind the castle, Jane tried to read her sister's face, tried to understand her curious remark about choosing the day on which to die, and considered pressing her for elaboration.
But as they emerged once again into the sun of the formal gardens, she changed her mind. Marianne was leading her into that grim tree-shaded graveyard at the extreme edge of the castle wall, the hallowed ground where Edens had been buried since the tenth century. As with visibly trembling hands, Marianne released the latch on the gate, Jane remembered grimly the number of times she had taken part in funeral processions which had led to this place.
But without a doubt, the most sorrowful of all had been the impressive funeral cortege in the spring of 1826, when a respected contingent of peers of the realm had walked along this same path, bearing the body of Lord Thomas Eden.
Jane closed the gate quietly behind her and continued to watch her sister, noting the manner in which she used the smaller tombstones for support as she made her way toward the large glistening marble block beneath which rested her life. Quickly Jane turned away. The moment was too intimate, even for sisterly observation.
She decided she would give Marianne five minutes. Then she would insist that they return to her apartments where they would be well advised to turn their thoughts, in a practical way, to the problems at hand.
Well then, enough. Marianne had communed with the dead for far longer than was either necessary or healthy. It was time that she set herself to more practical solutions. But as Jane glanced back again at the sorrowful tableau, she discovered with a start that she lacked the courage to interrupt so mysterious and intimate an encounter.
Looking down again, she spied her father's grave, and there, slightly to the right, poor dear Russell. And a short distance beyond that, Jenny and Dolly. She had no intention of kneeling before them all. But if she could find an equitable space midway between, she would run the risk of soiling her gow
n and get on her knees as Marianne had done and pay her respects.
As she lowered herself painfully to her knees, she looked about with a disturbing thought. Where would they plant her when the time came? Probably in the precise area where she now was kneeling.
Quiet! There was so much quiet around her that the image of the grave doubled. Only the bird sounds could be heard and even their normally cheery chirping seemed diminished in this dreadful place.
Quiet.
Then softly into this quiet, she heard another sound. Still on her knees, she held her position, then looked up, thinking that perhaps Marianne was at last stirring.
But when she glanced over the tops of the tombs, she saw her sister still sunk against Thomas's grave, her position the same. Yet there it was again, footsteps, clearly footsteps on gravel.
Again she raised her head and looked in all directions. There, moving along the narrow gravel path which led from the east door of the castle, she saw two figures. Her immediate conclusion was that it was simply two guests, wandering far afield.
She was in the process of lowering her head when suddenly, sharply, she looked back up, her attention riveted on some aspect of recognition. Throughout the entire and laborious fortnight of banqueting and dancing she had stood in silent admiration of one aspect of Harriet Powels. And that was her dazzling, beautiful auburn hair.
Now here was that same glorious mane of fair hair, scandalously loosened and hanging free down the young woman's back, her face still obscured as she hurried along the pathway, clinging, as a vine clings to the wall, to—
Oh sweet God! Jane froze in her prayerful position, her mind far
removed from prayer, as she watched the two hurry down the walk like culprits, heading toward the far gate. From Jane's position, she saw her sister's head raise slightly as the two continued their furtive passage around the edge of the graveyard.
Still both Jane and Marianne watched, transfixed, as in their approach to the wooden door, he drew her back suddenly and into his arms, where upon the instant her face lifted and their lips met in a kiss so passionate as to suggest that all their emotional faculties had been focused on the union of lips.
After the embrace they clung to one another for a moment. A moment later, Edward pushed open the wooden door and guided her through it, then followed after her. The door was closed and the graveyard was as it once had been.
Jane stared fixedly at the closed door, then pressed her eyes shut and shook her head as though perhaps she simply had seen an apparition. Good God! What was to happen now? Was an engagement to be announced between Harriet Powels and Edward? Or would they simply take their obvious passion and flee, leaving Marianne to make amends and apologies. / am sorry, Lord Powels, but my bastard son seems to have abducted your daughter. I thank you all for attending this futile occasion. Dear James, you must try to understand your brother-There was a phantasmagoric quality to Jane's thoughts, as though she were spinning the specifics of a nightmare for her own amusement. But then, looking up, she saw Marianne turn and look directly at her.
"Dear God," Jane muttered again, her eyes never leaving her sister's face. With a wave of sympathy, Jane thought that Marianne looked freshly injured somehow. She knelt there, her eyes still fixed upon Jane, as though hopeful that her sister would communicate a solution.
But Jane had no solution. She tried to return her sister's awful gaze with steady eyes, but could not. They were, as William was fond of saying, "surrounded by a horror of great darkness, on an ocean of counterfeit infinity."
Peculiar! William had uttered that quote on an average of three times per week every week for over fifty years that she had lived with him.
Until now, she'd not had the slightest idea what it meant.
He marveled at and worshipped everything.
From the crown of her thick and luxurious hair to the small white toes and all the rich and varied and partially explored territory in between, he marveled at and worshipped simply everything.
Now as they hurried across the headlands, having again successfully escaped from all the watching eyes in the castle, he drew even with her
and considered reopening the one subject which had marred the four most blissful days of his life. Then it occurred to him that he was always the one to bring up the subject, and while their discussions were usually gentle, they always left her saddened, their passion tempered.
So quickly he decided against raising the subject again. Not now. They had the whole glorious day ahead of them, the seclusion of the little green glen toward which they were hurrying, magnificent in its isolation.
Trailing a step behind, he continued to watch her, recalling how pleased he had been by her appearance when they'd met at the secret stairway, that crown of hair undone as though in mute signal of the state of her emotions. Her gown was dark brown and plain, loosely fitted as a servant's, clearly no corsets.
Quickly now he reached out and caught her arm and turned her toward him, as though to reconfirm the expression on her face. "I just wanted to see for myself," he said. "At times when we're apart, you seem like an apparition."
She laughed and reached a hand up and tenderly pushed back a strand of his hair. "Dearest Edward," she murmured, "I may be many things, but I am not an apparition."
The face, the eyes, the smile, the manner, all were irresistible and again he drew her forward into his arms and clasped her to him with such force that momentarily she lost her balance. In the process of supporting her, his hand brushed across her breast.
For a moment, she looked at him with brief timidity. Then as though making a conscious effort of will, she lifted his hand, kissed it lightly, and placed it over her breast and held it there.
The exploration was brief but powerful. As she stepped away, he saw her face turn deeper crimson and knew that his suspicions were true, that she'd never known a man. "We've only this one day," she announced, that peculiar rigidity in her voice as though she was still clinging to her concept of a perfect now.
As his arm encircled her waist and they again proceeded into the strong westerly winds of the headland, he felt a menacing dip in his spirits. Surely she'd abandoned such nonsense by now. The thought of separating from her was intolerable. In their few days together he'd found in her sheltering beauty a strength he'd never dreamed possible. The past and all its potent nightmares had simply receded, sorrows certainly never forgotten, but now made bearable in her unique and precious love.
He had laid a few plans, had instructed old John Murrey to have his carriage ready at nightfall. It was his intention that they slip away while the others were at dinner, flee north to Scotland. They would be
married in Edinburgh and would remain there until the scandal had subsided, the bruised feelings had been assuaged. Then after a period of time, they would return and be forgiven, of that he was certain. How could anyone, even James, hold him responsible for such happiness? And to further ease whatever ill-feelings still were at large, he would equitably divide the estates, half in James's name, half in his. And Eden would once again live up to her name. Unified with his brother, with Harriet at his side, he would at last face the future as whole, as healed as he'd ever been in his life.
For a moment, such illusions of happiness almost overwhelmed him. "Not far," he whispered in her ear, guiding her down the narrow path which led to a forest glade and then to the hidden glen cut square and obscured by thick foliage, the same impenetrable spot where he and Daniel had played Robin Hood as boys. The childhood spot had satisfied abundantly all his childhood fantasies. Now, he thought, it would satisfy him as an adult as well, though there were no fantasies this time. His dream was moving beside him, a thing of substance.
He scooped up an armful of trailing vines to permit her easy passage. "It was the only place where Daniel and I were totally safe from the Cranfords."
"Daniel Spade," she said, as though confirming in her mind the identity of the man about whom Edward had spoken so often and so lovingly.
"How fortunate you are to have so constant,a friend."
There it was again, that painful longing in her voice, as though a good and trusted friend was a wealth beyond her wildest imaginings. He thought that perhaps here was the basis of his love for her. How had she survived on the Shropshire estate? Had there been no one to soothe her, to dream with her? Had she literally passed all her days in splendid and annihilating isolation?
Then he took the lead for the last assault, angled his body into the thick vines, and there it was, as isolated and as emerald green as he remembered it, a natural chamber, its walls formed on four sides by a thick hedge of willow and elder and low-growing wild rose bushes, its floor a solid carpet of mossy green.
Without a word, he motioned her through, then let the weight of the vines fall back into place, a unique chamber door. The passing years had enhanced the magical place, had made it doubly secure.
He noticed her now stepping around the edge of the glen, her head turning at all angles as though she were assessing chambers at a public inn. From the far side, she lifted her hair as though to cool her neck and asked, "No one comes here?"
He smiled. "No one but birds and a squirrel now and then and perhaps a rabbit."
"No hunters?"
"Nothing to hunt. The larger game is in the opposite direction, toward the moors."
She seemed to be Hstening carefully, one hand still suspended at the back of her neck, supporting her hair. Then all at once she let it drop and simultaneously lifted her face heavenward as though the weight of hair had dragged her head backward. He saw her eyes close, saw a look of peace on her face, as though she'd doubted the existence of such a place.
Watching her, Edward wondered bleakly if he'd ever find the courage or the will to move. His eyes continued to feed on her. He realized now what it was that was so entrancing. In the past, he'd always seen her groomed, hair up and pulled smoothly back, corseted and bejeweled, a "picture" for appreciation, but never touching. Now in the soft abandon of that plain gown, the loosened hair, all aspects of that same picture seemed to invite touching.
The prince of Eden Page 32
