The Eden passion

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  skin wrinkled into reptilianlike folds, the whole horrible specter taking on a gray pallor, and over all, a nauseating odor.

  Stunned by the ugliness, he felt the need to turn away. But Harriet was there again, beckoning him to come closer. When apparently she saw his hesitation and its cause, her face softened. "Merely the ravages of years, John."

  Then Aggie was there, her voice steady in spite of the rigorous scrubbing she was now giving to a dead leg. "He ain't probably never seen a naked female before, my lady, let alone a dead one."

  Still he waited in silence, struggling to digest his feelings of embarrassment and horror.

  "Have you, John?" Harriet asked.

  He shook his head.

  Aggie snickered. Harriet stepped closer. He was aware of her hand extended to him, something in it, urging him to take it. "Do her one last favor," she suggested softly. "She was very fond of your father and served him well when he needed defense."

  At last he looked down and saw in her hand two heavy gold coins. "Kiss them"—she smiled—"and place them on her eyes. Surely your kiss will assure her of paradise."

  Feeling foolish, but interested in satisfying her and fleeing the room, he took the coins from her hand, pressed each in turn to his lips, then laid them carefully on the still-wide-staring eyes.

  "Oh, she's stiffening fast," Aggie muttered. "You all best clear now so I can get on with what I have to do."

  Never had John received a command so eagerly. With the placement of the last coin, he'd made contact with the cold flesh. Now, after only a few broad strides, he found himself out in the corridor, where the number of servants had increased as news of the death had spread, all apparently drawn to the grim room, he alone trying to escape from it. As he pushed his way through the gaping faces, the servants stepped back, and as the traffic decreased near the end of the corridor, he looked eagerly toward the steps.

  It occurred to him that the schedule for the evening would undoubtedly be canceled. Would there even be dinner? In spite of his queasiness at the sight of death, he felt hungry, and remembering the bowl of dried fruit in his chambers and the appealing thought of a closed door and an interval of privacy, he increased his speed, moving through the shadowy corridors, still struggling with the image of the dead woman and Harriet's insistence that he "come closer."

  He would never understand her, he decided wearily, and didn't

  want to think about her anymore. Yet he did, and took her image with him all the way back to his chambers, where, closing the door, his eye fell on the enormous rosewood four-poster.

  He was beginning to feel the old discomfort, a growing tension. Did it hurt her, he wondered, when a man entered a woman? He wouldn't want to hurt anyone, and how unfair the design if it brought pleasure to one and pain to the other.

  Growing breathless from his thoughts, he approached the bed reverently, as though the image he'd projected there had become a reality. He clung to one of the posts, mortified by his ignorance and inexperience. He'd have to find out soon. He could not live much longer with the need. Nor could he go on pretending that the bedclothes were the dark-haired whore named Rosa.

  Then what to do? Who could teach him, tell him what he needed to know? Who would reassure him that he was not a monster, but a mere man?

  Harriet was never happier than when circumstances called for direct action. Given a crisis, she flourished.

  She glanced toward the end of the corridor, hoping to catch a glimpse of John in the faltering state in which he'd left Jane's deathbed. But he was gone, clearly the young boy again, frightened by death, embarrassed by the naked body.

  "My lady, you were saying?" It was Rexroat, dragging her attention back to the matter at hand.

  "Yes," she murmured. Where had she left off? "Mourning banners are to be raised immediately," she commanded. "And have a messenger go down to Mortemouth. She may have friends there who would want to attend the service. And ask Herr Snyder to pen the obituary and instruct him to place a copy on my bureau for my inspection first thing in the morning."

  "Very well, my lady," he said, bowing. "And when will services take place?"

  Harriet thought a moment. She would have preferred the following day, but there was something indecent about too great a speed. "The day after tomorrow," she said at last. "That will give the coffinmakers time and the gravediggers as well. She will lie in state tonight and tomorrow. I want two guards posted around the clock at the door, and two stationed within the chamber. But no one who wants to see her is to be denied. Is that clear?"

  "Perfectly, my lady."

  "Then see to it. Aggie will inform you when she is ready. In the meantime, spread the word throughout the castle."

  "I feel certain, my lady, that everyone has heard—"

  "Lord Eden?"

  Their eyes met in a moment of understanding. "No, my lady, but I don't believe he is in the castle."

  Surprised, she looked up. "Where is he?"

  "I believe I saw him passing through the gates, on foot, shortly after the musicale."

  "Were the guards—"

  "They were in attendance, my lady." He nodded firmly.

  Good. What a burden he was becoming. Yet his course of self-destruction was clear.

  "Well, then," she said finally, moving away from the distasteful subject. "See to everything."

  He bobbed his head and backed away, a clear look of disapproval on his face. Well, let him snicker, she thought. Let them all snicker. It was her intention to tell the world of Jane's death, to inform them, between the lines, that in spite of the old woman's spotted and infamous past, the present Lady Eden had loved her dearly, had found in the strong-willed old woman an ally.

  Renewed with purpose, she moved briskly down the corridor, one-half of her mind moving toward duty, and the other half reviewing recent events. She smiled at the passing stones beneath her feet How brutal of her to have forced him into a close inspection of poor Jane. She'd never seen him so undone. He really was a boy. And how hostile he had been when she had mentioned his future. What precisely did he intend to do, live at Eden in useless luxury for the rest of his life? And his total lack of concern over his parentage, that too was a source of annoyance. And the mystery which loomed large over all—who was the mother? Who was the woman who obviously had offered Edward comfort and love only months after Harriet had rejected him?

  For a moment the puzzle seemed to confound her anew, and suffering from a peculiar mix of envy and grief, she thought again on her own ancient secret.

  Suddenly she drew herself sharply up. Though the corridor in all directions was empty, she thought she heard a sound coming from . . .

  Careful, she warned herself, looking toward the end of the passage and his chambers. There still was a great deal that was dangerous

  about the young man. At times his resemblance to his father was almost more than she could bear.

  There! She heard it again, a sound like. . .

  Of course he was only a boy, and that fact must be kept constantly before her eyes.

  Was it crying she heard? Moving slowly, she started toward his chamber door. A brief check. How would it hurt?

  Thus resolved, she went the distance to his door and stopped, one hand upraised, ready to knock. Perhaps she shouldn't. But in spite of this last-minute warning, she knocked softly, and receiving no answer, pushed open the door and saw nothing at first in the large chamber, dimly lit by one lamp on the far table.

  "John?" she whispered, spying now a figure stretched out, facedown on the bed. When still he didn't reply she thought he might be sleeping and thought how pleasant it would be to stare down at him, the exact replica of Edward.

  Stealthily she moved across the room. "John?" she whispered again, drawing close enough to see that he wasn't sleeping at all. "Are you well?" she asked, longing to stroke back that single lock of fair hair which lay upon his brow.

  "Not well." He smiled up at her.

  Alarmed, she leaned closer, gra
teful for a legitimate excuse to touch his brow. "You are warm. Perhaps I should summon the physician. It would only take—"

  "No! I need no doctor." He broke off. "I'm sorry if I behaved badly upstairs," he muttered.

  She disagreed. "I'm the one who should—"

  "I've never seen anything so ugly in my life."

  "Once," she began in an instructive manner, "Jane was quite a handsome woman. Did your father tell you about Jane Locke and William Pitch?"

  "Of course."

  "Everything?"

  He looked at her as though not quite certain what she was driving at. "Everything," he repeated.

  "Even that they were not. . . married?"

  He smiled. "My father always said that it would have been disaster if they had married," he said, revealing that he knew all.

  Stirred to interest on Edward's thoughts on the matter, she leaned closer to the bed. "And what else did your father say?"

  "On what given subject?" he asked. "To the best of my recol-

  lection, there was not a topic in the world on which my father, at one time or another, did not express a lengthy opinion." The smile faded. "You didn't know him very well, did you?"

  Now it was her turn to smile, and she lowered her head, fearful that he might see more. "Not very well," she murmured to her clasped hands.

  He seemed to sit up with greater interest, as though remembering something. He fluffed the pillow behind his back and relaxed into it. "As a matter of fact," he began, as though puzzled, "out of all the residents of Eden, my father told me less about you than anyone else."

  With her eyes down, she repeated, "I didn't know him very well."

  "Nor he you," John concurred. "I think he would have liked you very much."

  She felt moved by this expression of approval.

  "You don't love Uncle James, do you?"

  Her first impulse was to reprimand him for his impudence. He had entered an area which was none of his concern. And yet how good it would be to confirm his statement, to no longer have to shoulder the unbearable weight of hate alone.

  "Do you?" he prompted again, and before she had a chance to answer, he went on, clearly revealing vast areas of inexperience where matters of the heart were concerned. "I don't understand," he muttered, propping his knees up, his hands, Edward's hands resting lightly upon them. "How could old Jane and William Pitch enjoy such a scandalous though right love while you suffer from such a proper and wrong one?"

  She stared at him and felt the need for a brief defense. "It isn't that it's so wrong . . ." she began, and never finished.

  "Oh, isn't it?" he demanded. "I've seen enough to know that you don't love him, perhaps have never loved him."

  The mood, the new openness between them, their respective postures of relaxation, the flickering lamplight which offered both a shield of shadows, all these elements suddenly made it very easy for her to speak the truth. "No," she admitted quietly. "I feel no love for him. I never have."

  The blunt admission seemed to take him off guard, as though he'd been expecting polite deception. "Then why did you marry him?"

  She leaned back in the chair. "I had no choice."

  "Nonsense! My father said we always have choices if we but know where to look for them."

  "Yes," she conceded. "He said that to me as well."

  "Then you did speak with him," he exclaimed.

  "Of course I spoke with him." She laughed. "He was here during my engagement party ... to James."

  "And my father tried to talk you out of it, didn't he?"

  Dear heaven, what were they doing? "Yes," she confirmed.

  John nodded broadly. "Why didn't you listen to him?"

  "Because he didn't know what he was talking about. Arrangements had been made," she concluded, "between my father and Lady Marianne that could not be—"

  "What nonsense!" he exploded. "Arrangements! What right had either of them to make arrangements for your life?"

  For a moment it was Edward sitting on the bed scolding her. "It's the way things are done," she murmured.

  "It's the way you permitted them to be done," he countered.

  "No, I had no choice."

  "I don't believe it."

  "It's true."

  She looked up and saw him looking at her, Edward looking at her. It was as though she'd been given a chance at life again.

  "Have you ever truly loved a man?" The question was so softly spoken, so unexpected that again she had no choice but to answer truthfully. "Yes," she whispered. "Once."

  "Who was he?"

  "His identity is unimportant."

  Apparently he agreed, for he did not press further in that direction. But there still was his abstract curiosity to be satisfied. "How did it make you feel?" he asked, leaning forward, "and how did you know that it was truly love?"

  All the stagnant years which stretched between that moment and now faded. All the deception and loneliness, the lies and falseness disappeared as though they had never existed. "As though I couldn't quite draw enough breath," she mused, "as though my ears had suddenly gone deaf to all voices save one, my eyes blind to all faces save—"

  "Did he touch you?" he asked, as though he were clinging to every word.

  "Of course he touched me." She smiled, her embarrassment eased by his obvious inexperience.

  "How?" he demanded.

  "Really, John, I'm not certain. . ."

  Suddenly he leaned forward and grasped her hand, his face as entreating as she'd ever seen it. "Please/' he begged. "I know so little, and I don't know where to go to find out. My father told me a great deal, but in the area of . . . love, he was strangely reticent, or negligent." Again he held her hand and seemed to be trying to draw her closer. "But you could tell me," he said, simply. "How would it hurt?"

  Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light, and she saw his face clearly, saw his urgency. "What do you . . . want to know?" she asked, a guarded concession.

  "Everything!" he said, and at last drew her to the edge of the bed. "When this . . . gentleman touched you, how did he do it? Did you protest, or did you want to be touched?"

  From some source deep within her came her reply. "There is no touch in heaven or on earth like the touch of a beloved."

  He grinned, clearly pleased by her words. "Go on," he urged. "And when he kissed you, how did he do it?"

  "With his lips." She smiled back at him. Still there was only the lightness of banter between them. She had no real objection to this curious classroom, though the lecture might be more safely delivered if she were not seated so close to him.

  But as she started to rise, he tightened his grip on her hand. A bit surprised by his strength, she settled back again and vowed to leave at the first opportunity.

  "Please go on," he begged.

  "What was the question?" she asked, still puzzled by the silence.

  "How did he kiss you?" he repeated. "Like this?" And without warning he leaned forward and brushed his closed lips lightly across her cheek.

  She shook her head, amused by the feathery sensation, a child's kiss. He must have kissed the woman Elizabeth thus a thousand times.

  "No," she said, the mood between them still clinical, still safely objective.

  "Then how?"

  Abruptly she laughed, a mixture of embarrassment and enjoyment. "I can't. . . just show you." She blushed.

  'Then how am I to learn?" he asked, leaning back against the pillow, his face sunk into angles of dejection.

  She watched him, still amused, though in a way feeling sorry for

  him. It had never occurred to her that the male of the species would need instruction in the art of manhood.

  "Look at me," she urged softly, not at all certain what she was going to do when he did. And when apparently he refused, she edged closer to him and tenderly lifted his chin, forcing eye contact.

  "One cannot simulate that deep affection," she began, "that on occasion develops and flowers between a man and a woman. And wh
en it exists, truly exists, one needs no instruction in any aspect of lovemaking."

  He was listening closely, his mood as somber as hers, his face stilled with attention. "Did you love him ... in that way?" he asked.

  She nodded, her hand now stroking his face, her fingertips on his lips, tracing the contours. He seemed scarcely to be breathing.

  How would it hurt, Edward, to love your son?

  a Oh, you are so like. . ." But she broke off, unable to finish.

  How would it hurt not to be afraid of him, of the feelings which might arise between them?

  "Harriet. . ." He too tried to speak, and failed.

  How would it hurt to ease the loneliness of her existence in the warmth and youth of this boy?

  "How. . . did he kiss you?" John whispered. "Please. . ."

  She drew a deep breath. For a moment she relished the amazing tangle of human destinies that had robbed her of one man and sent her his duplicate.

  How would it hurt? To whom were they responsible? For her there was only a weak and drunken husband. For him, a dead father and an unidentifiable mother.

  In the last moment, she cast a searching eye over his face, receptive to any stray warning which she might find there. And finding nothing, she went the short distance to his lips, her eyes still open, and saw him meet her with admirable courage, neither faltering, not even at the initial contact, a smooth, cool, familial kiss, lips chastely closed.

  She held it for less than five seconds, and was in the process of drawing back, when suddenly she felt his arms around her, no longer passive, no longer in need of instruction, and the last image she saw was Edward's face, his lips drawing closer.

  Inside his embrace, she gave herself completely to his unexpected passion, a little amused that once she'd thought he'd needed instruction. He'd needed nothing except an invitation to act.

  As the kiss continued, she felt his tongue probing deeper, meeting hers now, all her concentration focused on the dark moist interior of her mouth.

  The thought that once she might have denied herself this affection was absurd. Behind her was a lifetime of denial. Now they both shared a secret, the realization that in each other was a harbor, a sheltering warmth when the demands of the world became too much for them. It occurred to her that unhappy people always had secrets. They were necessary for survival.