Your Humble Servant, Estelle Lewis
So all in all it's a calm season.
The simple phrase turned over in Edward's mind. Yet in a way it was true, the sort of calmness that follows spent grief. The woman whom he had loved, who had created this child sitting on his lap, this woman apparently now was bestowing loving kindness on Jennifer.
"Read it now. Papa?" It was John again, his face eagerly upturned.
And Edward read it, exactly as it was written, stopping only to identify the cast of characters. "Jennifer is your aunt, my sister, and she's ill. And Lady Harriet, yes, the kind lady is also your aunt, my brother's wife, and the poor old woman terribly ill is my mother, your grandmother, the Lady Marianne."
John smiled. "YouVe told me about her."
Indeed Edward had.
Long after the letter was read and explained with partial honesty, the two of them continued to sit together in the lengthening rays of afternoon sun, speaking of Eden and sea gulls, of cliff walks and blue water, of the headlands and the grand old castle itself, talking endlessly of a distant world which Edward could clearly see had become for John an obsession.
If asked what had brought about such a miraculous change in her attitude toward her bleak new life, Harriet would have replied, without hesitation, the arrival five years ago of poor wounded Jennifer Eden.
Before that unexpected occasion she had been a dead woman.
Being truly dead except for the faint beating of her heart, she had been capable of enduring anything: the cold, drafty old castle, the fawning falseness of the Cranfords, the endless winters, and on occasion even the awkward, crude attentions of her husband. Fortunately his demands in the beginning had been simple. Over five weeks had elapsed after the wedding before he'd found the nerve to come to her bed for the first time. Then he'd been mildly drunk, had made his demands, a brief uncomfortable ten minutes, no worse than bodily constipation on a cold January morning, mortifying but endurable.
Then in April of the following year, along with nature's thaw, Harriet had experienced a deeper, more significant thaw.
The messenger bearing Edward's letter to James had arrived first, and while Harriet had not been privy to its exact contents, she'd been well aware of the flurry it had caused. Then three days after that the carriage had arrived. With the natural attraction of the wounded for the wounded, Harriet had thrown a shawl over her shoulders and had made the hazardous trip from her fourth-floor chambers to the steps of the Great Hall.
The day had been cold for April and she'd shivered as she'd watched the two aides alight first, had watched with greater interest as they had
reached back into the carriage and had withdrawn what had appeared to be a crushed white flower. She'd still been wearing her wedding dress and how fearfully her eyes had darted across the massive front of the great castle.
Although there had been four of them on the steps that morning, both Cranfords, James, and Harriet, no one had seemed inclined to go forward in greeting, and at last, unable to endure the agony in those eyes any longer, Harriet had stepped forward, had removed the shawl about her own shoulders and had placed it about Jennifer. And out of that allegedly mad face she'd seen such a soft grateful glance.
And now? Look at her now! Harriet had time for a pleasant assessment before her appointment that was so important to others in the castle. She took a moment to survey her sitting room, a lovely rose brocade cave of warmth and comfort. How generous James had been, permitting her a free hand, allowing her to select good individual furnishings from all over the castle and arranged them to her satisfaction.
But of greater satisfaction were the two at her feet before the fire, the lovely Jennifer still clad in white—she would never wear anything but white—and, the miracle himself, one-year-old Richard, named for her dead father.
Harriet allowed the stiff needlepoint to fall into her lap and literally fed herself on the image of her son, born a year ago October, the pregnancy itself easy compared to that first hideous one, and after the mild pain, the old midwife had bent over her and placed her son in her arms and she had clung to him and remembered that someplace far away in a foreign land, she had another son, lost to her forever. But this one was here and all the unused love had rushed from her heart so that the midwife had had to scold her for fear she'd suffocate the child.
Again she looked down at the two stretched out on the fur rug before the fire. Both of them were children really, Jennifer lying on her side, cooing unintelligible words of love, and Richard responding with a dimpled smile.
Harriet smiled. What a miraculous change the infant had worked in all their lives. Jennifer had at last laid aside her traveling case of old letters. No longer did she carry them every place with her. She preferred now to carry the child and Harriet allowed it. And while Harriet couldn't in all honesty say that she loved James, he'd never given her reason not to respect him. In all ways he was attentive though undemanding.
She did not care for the Cranfords and felt uncomfortable when they discussed so openly the Eden affairs. And neither did she approve of
the constant agitation which they heaped upon James, the impending lawsuit against Edward, their barbaric waiting for the Countess Dowager to die.
Edward. As she stared down on Jennifer and the baby, she thought the name again, as though testing it on her sensibihties and was pleased to feel no grief, only a pleasant residue of memories. And in that moment she experienced her greatest triumph, the realization that she had been right all along, that the plot she had constructed for her hfe had worked out. She was Lady Eden, and while she did not now have a great love in her life, she had known one and thus considered herself rich. She had a lasting friend in Jennifer, she had a son and, God willing, would have more. She had wealth, position, legitimacy, and for the first time in many long years, she was at peace.
At that moment the baby whimpered, demanding to be the center of attention. Harriet watched as Jennifer scooped him quickly up into her arms and sat crosslegged before the fire, cradling him, whispering over and over again, "Baby, baby."
Harriet retrieved her needlepoint, smiling. "Not for long, I fear. He's growing. Before we know it, he'll be a man and gone from us."
Her eyes wide with worry, Jennifer asked, "Can Daniel see him when he comes? I've told him all about him. He mustn't grow too fast."
Harriet nodded. She'd long since adopted the policy that as long as Daniel was still alive for Jennifer, he'd be alive for her as well. She'd had long and bitter arguments with Sophia Cranford over the matter, Sophia believing that Jennifer would never heal so long as they permitted her to live in her fantasies. But Harriet had other theories. The world had taken a dreadful toll of Jennifer. Why not retreat into fantasies? They were by far the safest.
Deftly Harriet tied a knot, clipped it with scissors, and looked up to see Jennifer walking slowly about the sitting room, the cherubic infant gurgling placidly at the movement. The clock on the mantel said two-thirty. Time to go. Jane would be expecting them, looking forward to them.
"You'd better fetch your cloak and scarf, Jennifer," Harriet suggested now, laying the needlepoint aside. "Your mother expects us, remember?" she smiled. "The pretty room with the ill woman? Maybe Aunt Jane will have raisin cakes again today."
With childlike impetuousness, Jennifer handed the baby over to Harriet and rushed from the room.
As the hem of the white dress disappeared around the corner, Harriet hugged her son, then hurried with him into her bedchamber. No need to ring for assistance. She'd waited too long to care for a son.
As she placed the baby on the bed, she gathered up the blanket and carried it to the fire. Warming it, she looked back at her child and for a moment she felt bent with loneliness for that lost son.
She closed her eyes. She could have insisted upon keeping him. No, she'd done the right thing and now it was incumbent upon her to put that child out of her mind.
Hurrying now, she reached for her cloak, drew th
e hood over her head, wrapped Richard in his blanket, and made her way out into the corridor where the first blast of icy air greeted her.
Estelle was there, fussing over Jennifer as Harriet had fussed with Richard. As Harriet drew near, she thought that perhaps it was a blessing that Jennifer did not recognize the ill woman as her mother. If she did recognize her, she'd never given any indication of it.
"Well, are we ready?" Harriet smiled as she approached the waiting women.
Estelle nodded, though she appeared worried. "She seems more excited than usual. Lady Eden. Best if one of us go with you."
But Harriet shook her head. "No, it won't be necessary," she soothed.
Looking as though she was not quite convinced, Estelle shook her head. "She has something in her pocket. Lady Eden," she softly warned. "I don't know what it is and she won't show me. But you might be on the watch."
Harriet nodded. "It's nothing. I'm certain." And so. saying, she took Jennifer by the arm and turned her about in the proper direction and commenced walking slowly beside her down the long corridor.
"Do you know where we're going, Jennifer?" Harriet asked softly, as they turned the corridor into another passage.
To this Jennifer nodded. "The sick woman," she murmured.
"Yes, we're going to see your mother."
"Mother," Jennifer repeated. And it seemed to Harriet that Jennifer's step increased.
Jane glanced over the once lovely tea table, then glared at the piggish old Mrs. Greenbell who'd been unable to wait. Making no attempt to disguise her anger, she scolded, "Well, it's ruined now, simply ruined."
"T'isn't," snapped Mrs. Greenbell. The old woman cast her eyes up at the scowling Jane, then lifted her cup, sipped noisily, and calmly reached for another raisin cake. Her third!
"That is enough," shouted Jane. "They will be here soon and I'll only have garbage to give them." Reaching out, she forcibly took the cake out of Mrs. Greenbell's hand and replaced it on the silver tray which earlier had held a beautiful symmetrical arrangement.
This once, just this once, Jane would have Hked to have had everything pretty and proper for young Harriet. How much their visits meant to her! Even the poor senseless Jennifer was a reHef, an improvement over the weeping woman who sat before the fire and the senseless drooling one behind her on the bed.
In the very next instant, Jane was ashamed of herself. Certainly no one was to blame, not old Mrs. Greenbell, who apparently viewed raisin cakes as the high point of the week, and certainly not poor Marianne, who had long since passed the limit of suffering which could be asked of any human being.
Merciful God, take her, Jane prayed as she saw the body beneath the coverlet. The once beautiful face appeared cadaverous, and on the side of the bed, she saw the ugly straps which now stretched across that frail body and held it rigidly though safely on the high bed.
The last attending physician, a young man from Exeter, said bluntly that he saw no medical reason why she should persist in living. But neither, he'd added ominously, could he find any medical reason that might cause her to die.
Looking down on her sister, Jane felt depression beginning to build. Oh, how often she had considered the kindness of the act of murder.
Still, she hadn't committed murder, and wouldn't commit this murder for one reason alone. Behind those blank eyes was an intelligence which still worked. Jane knew it in a way that no one else knew it.
As she turned away from the bed, she saw Mrs. Greenbell reaching for another raisin cake. At the same time she heard a soft knock at the door. In an attempt to control her splintering emotions, she called out a bit too harshly, "Come in, please," and looked up to see Harriet, her face baffled by the sharpness of the greeting.
"It's nothing," Jane soothed, hugging her lightly and leading her immediately to the fire for the comfort of the baby, then returning to the door where Jennifer stood waiting, her blank eyes curiously fixed on the high bed. "Come, child," Jane urged.
Quickly she relieved them of their capes and spread a thick fur rug before the fire, the baby's customary spot where all could admire him.
As Jane settled from this activity, Harriet asked softly, as though fearful of being overheard, "How is she today?"
Jane took the baby in her arms and answered briefly, almost curtly, "Same as ever." She didn't want to think about it now, not with new life in her arms.
Then to her extreme annoyance, she heard Mrs. Greenbell scolding her, "Put him on the rug. It's not fair for you to hold him."
"Old bitch," muttered Jane beneath her breath, placing the child on
the rug. As she glanced over her shoulder toward the bed, she saw Jennifer standing a distance away, her eyes focused on Marianne. "Come, child," Jane called out. "Look! Raisin cakes." Her voice fell into mild sarcasm. "A few left at any rate."
The toothless old woman sitting to one side of the fire made a harrumphing noise and leaned forward and commenced waving in idiot fashion at the baby.
At that moment the child cried and Harriet smiled, "He's hungry." Quickly Jane drew up a chair close to the fire, as though to secure a good seat for this ritual. It was a poem to life, and Jane was hungry for the spectacle.
Fascinated, she watched as Harriet gently massaged her breast, the beads of rich white milk forming on her nipple, and was still watching as she lifted her son in her arms and guided his mouth to the dripping milk and heard the hungry sucking commence, his eyes closing in satisfaction.
"I wish I'd had a dozen," Jane murmured, her eyes misting over with old regret.
"Why didn't you?" Harriet asked softly.
Jane shrugged. "Ask God, for Fm sure I don't know."
"Well, they're grand, that's what they are," contributed Mrs. Greenbell. "I had two, though they're both dead now. Still, I've known mother love."
To Jane it seemed that the old woman had said this with undue meanness. Now she felt compelled to take the edge off the boast. "They're pretty enough at that age," she commented, "but when they grow up, that's a different matter. I've seen poor Marianne reduced to tears by—"
At this she looked over her shoulder and fell silent. "What in the—" Slowly she started up. She saw Jennifer bending over Marianne, placing something on her breast. As Jane hurried toward the bed, she was aware of Harriet behind her, still carrying her nursing son.
At their rapid approach, Jennifer glanced up with frightened eyes and quickly withdrew to the far side of the bed.
"What is it?" Harriet inquired.
Carefully Jane retrieved the object from Marianne's breast and examined it. "It's a small book," she murmured, bewildered.
Harriet smiled and nodded knowingly. "Just one of her most prized possessions. Read the inscription."
Still baffled, Jane opened the slender red volume—sonnets of Mr. Shakespeare, she noticed, and read the spidery handwriting on the flyleaf:
To Miss Jennifer Eden, on the occasion of her wedding to Mr. Daniel Spade—with loving best wishes from
Miss Wooler
Roe Head, Yorks, 1842
"She meant no harm," Harriet smiled. "She just wanted to give her mother a gift, that's all." She raised her voice. "Come, Jennifer, no need to hide in the corner. How thoughtful of you."
Jane watched with mixed feelings as the senseless Jennifer re-emerged into the light of the room and took her place again beside the bed. Without a word, she reached for the book in Jane's hand and returned it to its intended place on Marianne's breast.
Jane retreated along with Harriet back to the warmth of the fire. "Do you think she knows her?" Harriet asked, readjusting her son in her arms.
"No," Jane said flatly.
"Perhaps not," Harriet agreed. And again all three women turned their attention to the beauty of the nursing infant.
Jane thought she heard a new disturbance coming from the bed, and she intended to make a check, but the baby was fretting with an air bubble and she loved to watch Harriet gently pat the tiny back. Oh yes, she should have had a d
ozen of them.
For some time, old Jane leaned forward in her chair, facing the fire, absolutely absorbed in the process. The joyful sound of the baby sucking was broken only by the rising snores of Mrs. Greenbell, who apparently had eaten her way into a state of complete satiation and now, warmed by the fire, had fallen instantly into a deep sleep.
Jane glanced at the old woman, then said to Harriet. "You can hear for yourself what I endure."
As Harriet wiped her breast, she smiled. "Still, she's very dear and I suspect if the truth were known, you'd be heartbroken without her."
Jane started to reply, but again fell into an adoring vigil as Harriet placed the baby, fat and filled, on the fur rug.
Jane heard her say lovingly to her son, "You wait here and be a good boy while I see your Grandmama."
Jane sighed. The pleasant part of the visit was over. Now she would be forced to endure while Harriet gave the unresponding Marianne a complete account of the baby's progress, speaking in perfectly normal tones, as though the old Countess Dowager were capable of response. In the beginning, Harriet's kind attention to Marianne had pleased Jane. Now it merely embarrassed her.
Well, nothing to do but get it over with.
As, laboriously, she turned to leave the comfort of her chair, she saw Jennifer, still beside the bed, leaning over Marianne in a peculiar position.
"Jennifer, what are-She stopped. "Jennifer, what—** Her voice rose, then fell, and finally she screamed, "Jennifer—'*
Still not certain what she was seeing, she took one step toward the bed. Oh dear God, it was the abundance of white more than anything, Jennifer's white dress blending with the white linen of the pillow, the white sheet, and Jennifer bent over at that macabre angle, leaning with all her weight against the pillow, and beneath the press of white pillow and white dress, Marianne's face.
Jane flew directly at the outrage, knowing in advance its significance, yet feeling the need to stop it if she could.
But she seemed incapable of rapid movement. She could never reach the bed.
The prince of Eden Page 57
