"I'm not either," John retorted, entering effortlessly into the spirit of play. How often his father had played with him and the other children in the Ragged School as well.
"Then what are you?" Richard demanded.
"I'm a . . ." He hesitated. "... a scarecrow," he shouted suddenly, and wildly flapped his arms, sending both children shrieking and laughing to the foot of the bed.
Just in time he saw Lady Eden remove the platter before the activity sent it crashing to the floor. How happy she looked.
Over the shrieks of the children, he was not at first aware of the new presence in the room. Not until he looked up, laughing, and saw Lady Eden turned rigidly about did his attention follow hers to the
shadowy figure standing in the door, both arms braced, as though in support against the door frame.
Apparently the children had spotted him as well. Within the instant the sounds of laughter had ceased. Richard pressed closer to him and drew the coverlet up over both, as though for protection, while Mary nestled beneath his arm, her thumb moving to her mouth.
As for the figure in the door, he seemed content merely to stand in that peculiar posture of support, his identity a mystery until he heard Harriet whisper, "James ... I sent a message with Peggy. She was to inform you that I was—"
"Occupied! Yes, I received it." As he started into the room, staggering slightly, John sat up, alarmed by all aspects of the man, his garments clearly mussed, his eyes dulled.
"I waited dinner for you, madam," he said, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet. Drunk, he eyed the remains of food on the table. "I had no idea," he slurred, "that you were dining elsewhere."
"I have not dined, James," she said calmly, apparently detecting his state of inebriation and wanting to do nothing to aggravate him.
Incredibly, he pursued his investigation of the table, lifting each domed top and allowing it to fall with a clatter. "Better than I got," he pouted.
As he drew near to where she was standing, John saw her retreat "Help yourself," she soothed. "There's more than—"
But apparently his lordship was no longer interested in food, and now lifted his glazed eyes to the bed. Suddenly he smiled and raised his hand in mock salute. "Welcome home, Edward." He grinned. "The whores of London no longer hold appeal for you? Well, I warn you in advance, there's nothing here but dim-witted maids." He leaned closer, almost falling across the foot of the bed. "But I'd say that that portion of the female anatomy which holds the greatest interest for both of us is far removed from the area of the brain. At opposite ends of the pole, one might say. Right?"
Suddenly he crumpled against the bedpost, clinging with both hands, the amusement fading from his contorted face.
John sat with held breath, hugging both children to him.
"Ah," Lord Eden exclaimed now, spying the children. "I see you've met my babes." Again he grinned. "Miracles, they are," he said, "slipped from the womb of that frozen lady over there." Vaguely he pointed behind him in the general direction of Lady Eden. "Blocks of ice, Edward, is what I was expecting for progeny. A man could break his cock on that iceberg."
"Please, James. . ."
Embarrassed for all of them, John lowered his head. Apparently the whispered plea had summoned his uncle's attention, for suddenly he turned to her, and impervious to her sharp cry, grasped her by the arms and bodily pushed her forward, forcing her to stand in a position at the foot of the bed.
Seeing his mother abused, Richard objected softly. "Papa, please . . ."
But Lord Eden was in no mood for mercy. Appearing suddenly to sober, he moved into a position behind her and twisted her arms backward. Again John started forward, but she lifted her eyes, begging him, without words, to hold still.
"Look upon her, Edward, if you will," his uncle now commanded. "You wanted her once. Do you still desire her?"
Mortified both for himself and for her, John shook his head. "I am not Edward," he muttered.
But if his uncle heard, he gave no indication of it and continued to taunt her. "Look upon her," he ordered again. "You think you see a woman? Then your eyes deceive you. You see winter, that's what you see. It's easier to mount a corpse than it is to mount this lady, Edward," he went on.
John had never seen such silent suffering. "Please release her," he demanded.
"Release her?" Lord Eden exclaimed, laughing. "I've a better idea. Between us, let's thaw her. You've plenty of experience and I've a sudden hunger. What do you say? A welcoming-home present, brothers sharing and sharing alike."
All the time he talked, he was forcing her down upon the foot of the bed, her hands struggling against the progress of his fingers down the buttons of her gown.
John had seen enough. Quickly he released the children with a whisper, "Run!" He called after Richard, "Bring help." Then he was out of bed, hobbling toward the table, where he grabbed a serving knife. Trembling, he confronted his uncle with a command of his own. "Release her," he ordered, wondering if he'd have the courage to use the knife if the man didn't obey.
Half-kneeling over his terrified wife, his uncle at last turned to face him. "You're not. . . Edward," he stammered.
The man was pushing up from the bed, his glazed eyes searching John's face as though recognition were still dawning. "You're . . . the bastard," he pronounced. "The bastard's bastard," he added.
"You don't belong here," he shouted. "I thought I'd given orders that you were to be—"
Fortunately for John, the man stumbled on the edge of the carpet, falling heavily against the table, giving John a moment's reprieve to gain the door and glance down the corridor. Empty.
"Please, sir," John begged, seeing his uncle on his feet and moving toward him.
"Bastard!" the man shouted, as though the delay had simply fanned his fury. As he drew nearer, his arms lifted, hands coming closer, aimed at John's throat.
The knife was still there, awaiting the command from the brain. But that command never came. Instead, as his uncle's hands closed about his throat, he felt his knees give way. He dropped the knife and was in the process of defending himself with bare hands when suddenly he heard a dull vibrating thud, saw his uncle's surprised face close at hand, saw his besotted eyes slip upward, then immediately he felt the entire weight of the man's body slump against him.
Quickly John rolled to one side and let the man fall halfway out of the door. Scrambling to his feet, he saw Harriet, her hands grasping a silver platter, still holding it at the ready as though eager to strike the fallen man again.
Slowly John looked down on the figure sprawled at his feet. Not a sign of life or movement. Apparently their thoughts were similar. "Is he . . . ?" she whispered, and could not finish.
John knelt for a closer look. "No," he murmured, returning his attention to Harriet.
For a moment the two of them stared at each other. Then suddenly she dropped the silver tray as though it had become hot.
"It's over," he said, and stepped forward to assist her with her belated terror. But abruptly her hand moved out, informing him that he was to hold his position. He watched as she turned back into the room and walked to the far window.
What now? he wondered bleakly. He looked down at the still body and caught sight of his own bare legs and was acutely aware of the foolish spectacle he must present. If it hadn't been for his uncle's brutal words and actions, there would have been an element of farce to the entire episode.
Now the mess had to be cleaned up, and he was just stooping to pick up the silver tray and the fallen knife when, coming from the far end of the corridor, he heard Richard's frantic chatter.
Hurriedly he lifted the tray and knife and deposited them on the
table, where they no longer resembled weapons. If the woman standing at the window was aware that they would shortly be joined by others, she gave no indication of it. Obviously either through choice or necessity she was leaving it all up to him.
Then Richard was there, gaping down at his father's body
, and following behind, John saw an enormous rosy-cheeked woman dressed in black, a fussy lace cap atop her head, her hand pressed against her mouth. "Gawd! What-"
John stepped forward, more or less in control. "I'm afraid he's had too much to drink," he said.
The large woman looked at him. "Is he—"
"Merely passed out," John soothed.
Richard chimed in now. "Clara didn't believe me at first," he said. "She accused me of telling tales, but I wasn't, was I?"
John smiled down on the boy. "No," he agreed, then tried to soften the horror of the evening. Blessedly he saw no sight of Mary. Obviously she had been left behind in safe hands. "Your father didn't mean anything he said or did tonight," he said kindly to the boy. "He'd just had too much dinner wine."
'Where's Mother?" Richard asked, craning his neck around the doorway. But Clara's sharp eyes had already found her. "My lady," she called out, as though sensing that her mistress might be in need of assistance.
John waited to see if that unresponding figure was recovered and capable of response. He looked as long as he dared, then to Clara he suggested, "Could you summon two watchmen to assist Lord Eden to his chambers? And it might be well if his manservant sat with him for a while."
At first the woman looked at him as though uncertain of his legitimate voice of authority. Obviously Richard saw her hesitation and with admirable nine-year-old courage that displayed the seed of the future Lord Eden commanded her, "Fetch the watchmen. We can't leave him here. These are John's chambers, and he has a sore foot."
In spite of the non sequitur, the large woman turned immediately and lumbered off down the corridor.
Richard stepped gingerly over the body of his father and joined John on the other side. "He was dreadful, wasn't he?" he murmured.
"He wasn't himself," John said, his attention torn between the window and the door.
"Is Mother. . . ?"
"Well." John smiled. "I think she would appreciate a moment alone, however."
The boy gazed tenderly toward the figure by the window, a clear look of longing on his face. "She never cries," he whispered.
"And she's not crying now," John soothed, feeling awkward talking about her when she must be overhearing everything.
At last John heard approaching footsteps. Clara appeared first, a look of pride on her face, as though the watchmen had failed to believe her, as she had failed to believe Richard.
"See, I told you," she announced, pointing a finger downward at the still man.
"Would you be so good as to assist him to his chambers?" John said, again taking the lead.
As with Clara, both men looked at him as though they too were questioning the weight of his authority.
Again Richard interceded. "He's my cousin," he announced proudly. "You'd better do what he says."
Their doubt banished, they took up positions on either side of his lordship and unceremoniously lifted him to his feet, suspending his weight between them, and with his head hanging limp, the little procession started laboriously down the corridor.
The three of them, Clara, Richard and John, watched until they disappeared. John was aware of Clara shaking her head, part censure, part pity, though Richard apparently had lost all interest, and was now in the process of returning to the chamber, clearly ready to take up the fun where they had left off.
Tactfully John suggested another course of action. "It's late, Richard," he said. "Why don't you run along with Clara now."
"She's a nursemaid," the boy replied, as though shocked by the suggestion.
"It's past your bedtime," the woman said cooperatively.
So eager was John to end the debate and clear his chambers, he made a rash promise. "Go with Clara now," he said to the boy. "Then come for me in the morning and I'll attend classes with you."
Richard seemed to require a moment to think on this. "Promise?" he asked shyly.
"I promise."
"Come along now," Clara urged, and at last the young boy obeyed, though he turned for a final word. "I'm glad you're here." He smiled at John.
'Thank you," John murmured, moved by the boy's expression of affection.
Then he stood alone, watching the two of them down the corridor. Finally he stepped inside the room and closed the door, his eyes going immediately to where she stood. Still unmoved, she resembled a slim black statue.
"My lady," he began tentatively, and stopped.
"May I . . ." he commenced again, thinking to offer her something, a chair, a glass of wine. But she moved with determination away from the area of the window, and gaining the safe center of the room, looked at him for the first time.
He'd never seen such an expression on a face before. "Please sit down," he suggested quietly from the window.
Suddenly she laughed. "Sit down!" she parroted, her hands a blur of nervous movement about her throat. "Good heavens, I've no time to sit," she went on. "I've at least a hundred chores to attend to. My correspondence for one, and I must look in on Jennifer before I retire and certain arrangements must be made for you."
As she burst into action, he could only gape, though he did manage a faltering, "For. . .me, my lady?"
"Of course, for you," she replied. "You will need a tailor immediately. Shall I fetch one from Exeter? Or perhaps you have a favorite in London. If so, give me his name and I shall write to the gentleman."
"No," he muttered, bewildered by her performance. And he was certain it was a performance.
"Then I shall fetch one for you. I'm afraid those worn garments will never do."
As she babbled on about the poor quality of his wardrobe, he felt his bewilderment blend with anger. Did she know how silly she sounded?
Then, to his amazement, she was making fun of him. "Look at you." She smiled. "The little boy needs a new nightshirt, one which will at least cover those knees."
"It was not my choice, my lady," he muttered, tugging at the too-short nightshirt.
"Well, we'll fix it, I promise," she said, her voice resembling a mother speaking to a young child. "For tomorrow," she went on, her giddiness seeming to increase, "I'm afraid you'll have to wear your old garments to class. But after that I shall get you proper schoolboy clothes, matching Richard's would be nice, don't you think?"
"I'm not a schoolboy, my lady," he said, trying to rein in both his anger as well as his embarrassment.
"Oh, but you are," she said. "And you must attend to your studies immediately. Come morning, I shall inform Herr Snyder that he now has two pupils."
His suffering was acute, a blend of bewilderment and disappointment. What had come over her? Having recently been humiliated herself, did she possess that kind of character that compelled her to soothe her own hurt by inflicting it on others?
"My lady," he said sternly, trying to walk with dignity in spite of his bandaged foot, "I will attend classes with Richard tomorrow because I promised him. After that, the choice will be my own. I've spent twelve years of my life with my head in books to satisfy my father. I see no need—"
But if she was shocked by his impudence, she gave no indication of it. Her manner was that of one accustomed to dealing with stubborn children. "You'll like Herr Snyder, I know," she said. "He's a brilliant man, a graduate of—"
"I'm not questioning his brilliance, my lady. I'm merely—"
"There," she soothed, watching him hobble back to the bed. "A good idea," she confirmed. "You need your rest."
Although he was headed in that direction, now he altered his course and veered to one of the chairs near the table. He sat defiantly and poured himself a glass of claret. "Not tired at all, my lady," he snapped, "though the events of the evening have been . . . taxing."
He'd not intended to remind her in such a vicious manner of her recent humiliation. But she'd driven him to it. Now gulping the claret, he made a face at the strong liquid and tried to hide his discomfort by again tugging at the too-short nightshirt.
"Oh, John," she said, standing just beyond the table,
"if only you knew how silly you looked."
As his mortification and hurt blended, he responded with the first words that came to mind. "Not half as silly as you, my lady, a short time ago."
The silence crashed against him like a physical blow. Regret, as deep and strong as any he'd ever felt, pressed upon him, and though fearful of what he might find, he turned to face her and saw new anguish in her eyes.
What were they doing to each other? And more important, why?
"My lady,!-"
But she was moving toward the door.
"Harriet, I'm sorry."
But apparently she wasn't interested in his apology. As she closed the door behind her, he considered following after her, begging her to return so that they might start again. But he held his position in the chair and merely stared at the closed door.
Suddenly in perplexed anger he stood and pressed his full weight down upon his foot and welcomed the wave of pain. What did she want of him? What role was he supposed to play for her? And why the necessity to play any role?
There the aimless thoughts stopped. Amazed, he looked down and realized he'd been pacing, placing full weight on his foot and feeling nothing.
But there were other feelings, equally as painful and far more baffling. He glanced toward the foot of his bed. How effortlessly he still saw her, prone, helpless beneath the drunken man, his hands fumbling at the buttons of her gown.
Still he stood, eyes fixed on the bed, defenseless against the sensations which swept over him.
No! Quickly he felt his ardor dampened by a weight of shame. But because the sensations would not let him be, he substituted her image with the faintly remembered image of the prostitute named Rosa whom the rough-jacks had forced upon him in the dimly lit back room of the London pub. He'd only just touched her breasts when his father had intervened and put a stop to the fun.
Now he envisioned Rosa on the bed, her thick black hair done in two plaits with loose strands on either side. And he fell across the mussed bed linens, facedown, and clung to the opposite side until the mysterious upheaval crested and left him shuddering.
He closed his eyes. Beneath his body he felt a small spreading moisture. Would he always be plagued thus? Did all men suffer in similar fashion? Or was it just him, some private weakness that he could neither account for nor control?
The Eden passion Page 12
