As he kissed her, she closed her eyes and at the moment of greatest happiness felt a sudden sadness, felt time slipping by, one drop at a time.
In defense against the sadness, she closed her eyes and made herself blind, and wrapped her arms tightly about his neck and buried her face in his flesh, and with great effort shut out all thoughts, all sounds save for the distant shrill early-morning screams of circling sea scavengers.
The Mermaid, Late April 1852
Although disinclined to believe completely the incredible story, still Morley Johnson sat opposite the two sodomites, eager to hear more.
Would God be so capricious as to lead him on a fruitless search clear across the face of England, only to provide him with the prize on his last stop before heading home?
"Mr. Johnson, are you with us?"
He looked up from his bafflement to see Humphrey Hills staring earnestly at him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hills," Morley muttered, shaking his head. "I'm simply dumbfounded, that's all." He sipped brandy and peered over the rim of the snifter at the two opposite him. "Are you . . . certain of your facts?" he asked again, enjoying his superiority. Rural innkeepers may traffic in gossip and speculation, but London solicitors required facts.
"Now," he began, "you say you have the privilege of Lady Eden's acquaintance?"
Hills shook his head. "Of Lady Eden, no," he replied. "I know no Lady Eden."
Morley sat up. A retraction so soon?
"I know Lady Harriet Powels," the little man went on. "As I've said before, I've been the proprietor of the Mermaid for many years. The Powelses have been my nearest neighbors." He smiled. "I know their history as intimately as though it were my own, and all their scandals as well, of which there are many."
Morley listened closely. "Then Lady Harriet is your friend?" he questioned further.
At that, the two men across the table laughed. "Friend? No," Hills replied at the end of the laugh. "Acquaintance, yes."
"Would she remember you?"
"Oh, I'm sure she would"—the man nodded eagerly—"though we were closer when we were children, the social barriers not so great." He seemed to falter here. "I'm sure you . . . understand."
Morley let his eyes wander over to the other gentleman, a Mr. Bobby Berents, who seemed to be silently encouraging his friend. A pretty man, if men could be called pretty.
"Mr. Berents," Morley asked, trying to establish the involvement of all present, "did you know Lady Harriet as well?"
"Oh my, no," Mr. Berents responded. "She was among the missing, thank God, when I arrived in Humphrey's life." He lifted a white linen handkerchief to his lips as though to hide a smile. "I doubt seriously if poor Humphrey could have coped with both of us, Mr. Johnson."
For the moment, no one spoke, Morley momentarily distracted by the interplay taking place opposite him at the table. Then he forced his attention back to the matter at hand. "Very well, Mr. Hills," he commenced in a most businesslike tone. "Tell me again about the secret pregnancy."
Hills shrugged. "What's to tell that I haven't already told you?" he muttered. Then, as though he knew that his cooperation would serve him best, he went on. "Some time ago it was, sixteen years or so. The rumor the family put out was that she was ill, a highly contagious fever." He looked up at Morley and grinned. "Highly contagious, my ass. It was the swelling sort of sickness, it was, the kind that goes completely away at the end of nine months, unique to females, if you get my drift."
Morley did, as did Bobby, who snickered again into his handkerchief. Morley went on, warming to the interrogation. "And if the family was prudent enough to plant a rumor, how did you hear otherwise?"
Hills smiled. "Great God, Mr. Johnson, and you a London man! Don't sit there telling me that it's not come to your attention that certain lips open quickly for a thick purse?"
Yes, Morley knew that, though he resented the man's condescension. "Go on, Mr. Hills," he said. "Whose tongue did you buy?"
Hills looked up and took in the ceiling with a quick glance. "An old foreigner, she was," he began, "Swedish, I believe, or German.
Hired by Lord Powels, she was, to see her ladyship through the embarrassment."
Still determined to discredit the man's tale, Morley asked, "If she was confined with her ladyship, how did you make her acquaintance?"
"Oh, there was no confinement in the beginning." Hills grinned. "She was brought over and established in Hadley Park simply as a lady's maid. It takes a while for the swelling to show, or the fever to commence," he added sarcastically.
"Then you met her before the confinement?"
Hills nodded. "I did. She took to coming down here for a pint, and though it grieves me to say it now, we got on well enough, and before long she'd told me all, how her ladyship had let someone between her legs, and how shortly she wouldn't be seeing me anymore, as it was her job to accompany her ladyship to the fourth-floor storage attic. . ."
Morley shook his head and again sipped his brandy. "Do go on, Mr. Hills," he said.
Now the man seemed uncertain, as though he'd come to a difficult part of his story. "Well, Mr. Johnson," he began, "when I got wind of what was going on and got a good strong whiff of the nature of the foreign bitch, I said to myself, Humphrey, what chance is that babe going to have? You see, she'd told me by then that part of her bargain with Lord Powels was that she take the babe out of England and never return. Well, I knew her character well enough by then to know that that babe would never survive his first day on this earth, that she'd probably drown him in the first stream, or else sell him to gypsies."
"So you bargained for the child yourself?" Morley asked, finding this part of the tale the most incredible of all.
Hills nodded broadly. "I did indeed, sir. What Christian gentleman would have done otherwise?"
Bobby Berents turned away as though hiding a smile.
"And what were your intentions toward the child?" Morley asked.
"Honorable, sir, completely honorable. As you can see, I'm an unmarried man. God has not seen fit to send me a mate. Yet I long for a son, someone to raise as my own, someone to care for me in my twilight years."
Morley listened closely. "So the babe was delivered to you?"
Hills nodded. "The very night of his birth, for a pretty price, I might add."
"And what happened?"
Hills looked up at him now as though experiencing an insufferable weight. "Fate intervened, or the Devil." His eyes narrowed. "There were guests in the inn that night, a peculiar pair, one clearly a gentleman, Mr. Edward Eden by name . . ."
Morley sat up.
". . . and his old coach driver, the name I looked up for you this morning."
John Murrey. At Morley's insistence, Mr. Hills had spent the morning going through old registers, and at last had found the day, the date and the name. John Murrey. The name of the young man now in residence at Eden. Could it be mere coincidence?
Morley leaned closer over the table, fascinated by the puzzle. "Go on," he urged again.
"Not much more to tell, sir," Hills mourned. "I had a son for one night. I'd just tucked him into his little crib when this deranged gentleman, this Edward Eden, and his equally deranged manservant broke into my chambers, knocked me senseless and kidnapped the babe."
Suddenly he covered his face with his hands, as though overcome. "When I came to, I was bloodied and dazed, the crib was empty and the gentleman gone."
Morley looked away. He drew a deep breath and tried to understand all of it. Why would Edward Eden kidnap a babe? He had hundreds of babes in his notorious Ragged Schools in London, all the available street rabble. Why would he journey to the Midlands to kidnap another? Yet the dates corresponded and could not be denied. A fortnight later, he had returned to London, the babe in arms, and had identified him to all, including the whore Elizabeth, as his son.
Well, Morley doubted that. When could he have come in intimate contact with Lady Harriet? And there was the most miraculous revelation of all. If indeed, as Hills cl
aimed, she had given birth that night, and if indeed that same babe had been delivered to Humphrey Hills by the foreign woman, and if indeed that same babe had been kidnapped by Edward Eden, taken to London, raised as his son, then the only conclusion was that. . .
Suddenly he stood, feeling an acute need for movement in order to digest the revelation. If there had been a secret pregnancy and an abandoned babe, how would her ladyship react to the news that her
secret had at last been found out, that the young man in residence at Eden Castle was her own son?
Morley closed his eyes, excitement and apprehension blending. Yet it had been her command, her need to know that had launched him on this prolonged search. Was he now to turn his back on the very truth he'd been sent to find? And perhaps his news could be the cause of great jubilation and celebration, the prodigal returned, the young orphan welcomed into the loving arms of his mother.
With his eyes still closed, he smiled. What a glorious scene, and how grateful she would be, his position as the Eden solicitor sealed for all time. Oh, great heavens, what a stroke of fortune had led him here to this rural retreat!
Gratefully, he looked back at the two sodomites and returned hurriedly to the table, his mind alive with plans and projections. "You must return with me immediately to Eden Castle," he proposed now to Humphrey Hills.
He started to speak on, but halted, amazed by the look of disbelief on the pudgy face opposite him.
"To . . . Eden?" the man stammered, and gripped the table.
Morley nodded. "She must hear it from you, from your own lips. I fear she would never believe me. You said you knew her once. Then she'll trust you."
The two across the table exchanged a rapid glance. Berents recovered first. "Of course you must go, Humphrey," he pronounced coolly to his friend. "It is quite simply the opportunity you have waited for all your life."
As for Humphrey, he seemed beyond speech. "To . . . Eden?" he repeated, to no one in particular.
Then a broad smile covered his face as he proudly announced, "I shall willingly accompany you to Eden Castle, Mr. Johnson."
Eden Castle, May 2, 1852
It was like an illness, a suffering yet pleasurable illness, the love he felt for her. For days he'd tried to understand it, but apparently understanding had little to do with it.
Merely the sound of her voice, the echo of her footsteps, was enough to weaken him.
Now seated opposite her in the Banqueting Hall, in the torture of a public room, he rested his fork on the side of his plate and fed himself on the only true nourishment in his world. Her.
On either side of her, Mary and Richard were chattering simultaneously, and she was trying to hear them both, her face alive, yet evoking a tranquil charm.
"Herr Snyder said it was Sophocles," he heard Richard announce with conviction, some playful academic debate arising between them. Luncheons frequently were extensions of the morning classroom, Harriet encouraging both her children to academic excellence.
As John half-listened, he hoped that she would not involve him. How much more enjoyable it was simply to sit and absorb her beauty. He closed his eyes and saw her still as though she were permanently etched on his consciousness, her bottle-green silk dress with black buttons and braid trimming with white undersleeves and lace collar, her hair done up this morning.
Suddenly he opened his eyes to confirm his memory and saw the reality exactly as he had seen it with closed eyes, though much more powerful, those eyes gazing straight at him. "Are you tired, John?" she inquired softly, interrupting her debate with Richard.
He did well to shake his head. "Not at all tired." He smiled, amused by the daytime formality which had sprung up between them.
"Your eyes were closed," she said. "Does Sophocles bore you so?"
"Nothing that interests you, my lady, could ever bore me."
Delighted, he watched a blush creep up the sides of her cheeks. With suspect speed she launched forth once again into her conversation with Richard.
By way of distraction, John reached for his fork and commenced dragging it across the white linen, the sharp prongs leaving white tracks. Best not even to look at her. His head began to grow unclear. He felt a curious need to clasp something until the roar in his head ceased.
"Come, Mary," he said to the little girl, who was squirming restlessly in her chair.
A delighted grin broke on her face, as, pleased, she slipped from her chair and scrambled up into his lap and gave in completely to his tight embrace, her boredom with her mother and brother relieved in her curiosity about the fork and the lines it made on the table.
Now, as though Harriet sensed the restlessness at the end of the table, she brought the discussion with Richard to a halt. "Let's pursue the matter later, dearest. I fear we are boring those two. Look at them."
"Not at all." John smiled. "Mary and I are quite capable of amusing ourselves, aren't we?"
The child nodded and commenced stabbing at the cloth with the fork, making deep perforations.
Harriet leaned forward, concerned. 'Take the fork away from her, John, before she hurts herself. It could be dangerous."
Gently he removed the utensil, and as the child protested, he suggested, "A walk. It's a May sun and high. What do you say?"
"We've not had our sweet yet," Richard protested. "Clara said it was fresh gingerbread."
"Fresh gingerbread!" John exclaimed. "Well, we mustn't miss that." As he commenced tickling Mary, Harriet laughed and lifted the bell beside her plate and rang it once.
As three stewards filed in through the small door on the right, he released Mary with a pat and told her to return to her chair. As the child obeyed, he looked back at Richard, the boy's face still lined with angles of concentration.
"It needs a rest, the brain does, now and then." John smiled, lean-
ing forward and tapping Richard's forehead. In an affectionate gesture, he ruffled the boy's dark hair.
Predictably, Richard protested, a ten-year-old whine of "Don't—"
"Why not?" John grinned, deliberately baiting him, as his father had so often baited him in an effort to lighten a mood.
As he ruffled the black hair again, Richard rose to meet the challenge and took up a position behind John's chair, giving him the same treatment.
As John's long fair hair fell in disarray over his forehead, he lifted his head in a mock battle cry and reached behind and pulled the boy forward, the tussle on.
But at some point, John was aware of the hilarity melting away. The servants, he noticed, had withdrawn to a safe distance. Through the muss of his hair he saw Harriet turn in her chair and glance toward the large arched doorway which led into the Great Hall.
He followed her gaze, and saw Mr. Rexroat, his face clearly censoring the fun. "A carriage, my lady, has been seen by one of the watchmen about a quarter of a mile distant, heading this way." He seemed to stand a bit more erect. "Is it possible, my lady, that you are expecting guests?"
"I am expecting no guests," Harriet replied, "and want none to be admitted."
For a moment there was silence. Then John was aware of Rexroat's retreating footsteps. Richard began to stir, ready and willing to resume the playful battle.
In fact, everyone in the room seemed to be themselves again, except Harriet, who continued to stare toward the now empty archway. "I used to loathe the isolation of Eden," she murmured. "Now I resent a carriage passing a quarter of a mile distant."
"Were you expecting anyone?" John asked.
"Of course not," she protested. She lowered her voice. 'The last thing I want now," she whispered, "is company."
"Well, then," he exclaimed, "I suggest that we indulge in Aggie's hot gingerbread, then a long walk across the headlands. Mortemouth today, I propose," he said, knowing that the steep cliff walk down to the little fishing village was always a treat for the children. "We've not been to Mortemouth since winter broke."
Predictably his suggestion was greeted with hearty approval from t
he children. Even Harriet seemed to relax a bit after the threat of guests.
John smiled at the sense of life resumed, feeling almost paternal,
indulging himself in a familiar fantasy, that he was lord of Eden Castle, Harriet his wife, Richard and Mary the result of their passion, their offspring. What a fantasy that was. . . .
Then, as Richard and Maty commenced chattering happily about the proposed expedition of the afternoon, he again watched her. She had a characteristic gesture which he adored, a habit of smoothing her hand over her throat, then allowing that hand in its downward motion to slide quickly over her breast. She did it twice now, lightning-fast in its execution.
But as he leaned backward in his chair, the better to catalog her beauty, he saw Mr. Rexroat again, appearing in the archway, his normally pallid face flushed as though he'd run a distance, a silver tray in his hand. My God, would the man give them no peace?
"The carriage is at the gate, my lady," he called out. "Two gentlemen, it is. One sends his card and begs an audience with you on a matter of great importance."
John watched her face carefully. He saw her brow furrow, as though her initial reaction was one of bewilderment.
"Who is it?" he asked.
She looked up, puzzled. "It says Morley Johnson, Solicitor."
Since she seemed disinclined to speak, and since Rexroat was waiting, John took the lead. "Then perhaps you'd better see him." He smiled. "Surely he wouldn't have come all this way without important news." His smile broadened as he tried to lighten the tension coming from her end of the table. "Perhaps he's found a mother for me"—he grinned—"a frail gray-haired lady whom we can move into the castle to take old Jane's place."
But apparently she could not be stirred by any degree of levity and continued to hold the white card, as though simultaneously repelled and fascinated by it.
Now she placed the card on the table beside her fork and looked again at Rexroat. "Two gentlemen, you say?"
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