"Well, then," Clara said, interrupting the male counsel for the first time, "I think that everything has been covered." Belatedly she looked back to where Richard stood, afraid that she might have spoken out of turn. "Is there anything else, my lord?"
He gave her a strange look. "Please come with me to the nursery and stay with Jennifer and Mary." He closed his eyes as though a thought even more unbearable than all they had discussed had just entered his mind. "Someone. . . must tell my mother."
The three of them, Clara, Aggie and Dana, protested simultaneously. "No, my lord," Aggie begged. "It isn't necessary."
But he merely topped their protest. "She must be told," he said, then, with wavering conviction added, "It . . . might make a difference."
A difference, Clara thought angrily. If the clear abandonment of her children had not made a difference to that selfish woman, why would the death of a husband whom she had never loved affect her?
Lost in the depths of her own censure of Lady Eden, Clara was not at first aware of the meeting breaking up. Proceeding up the stairs ahead of her, she saw Richard, one hand grasping Jennifer, the other, Mary, leading both his frail charges toward the warmth of the nursery fire.
"Wait, my lord," Clara called out.
But he led the way to the nursery door without speaking, and gently guided Jennifer to a chair near the fire, while Mary sat cross-legged on the floor at her feet. Clara watched as he kissed them both and whispered, "I'll only be a moment. Warm yourselves, and upon my return I'll read to you."
Richard watched a moment longer, as though to make certain that they were placid, then without a word to Clara he started toward the door, apparently determined to carry out his grim errand.
Well, lordship or no, Clara had wiped his nose and rocked him to sleep, and on the basis of that investment, she caught up with him at the door, eager to speak her mind.
"Richard, wait." She stepped closer. "Why put yourself through more pain? She won't hear, you know that, and if she hears, she won't respond."
He appeared to be listening. "We must continue to try," he said.
Before such a plea, she had no choice. Wearily she shook her head and stepped back to the nursery door, as though to demonstrate that she would do anything he asked of her. "Of course, my lord," she murmured.
She was just turning back into the door when she heard his voice again. "One thing more, Clara/' he said. "Please don't call me that."
She looked back, puzzled. "Call you. . .what?"
"My lord."
"But. . . that's what you are."
"No, I'm not. I dislike it intensely. Please don't call me that again."
Before she had a chance to reply, he turned and started off down the corridor, a small figure growing smaller in the gloom.
Suddenly Clara shivered, partly from cold, partly from premonition. If the fifteenth Baron and seventh Earl of Eden Point refused to accept his new mantle, then there was no future at all for Eden Castle.
Shivering again from the bleak vision, she stepped inside the nursery, closed the door firmly behind her, and saw the two at the fire, gazing back at her, their faces identical, eyes wide and staring, as though they too had suffered the same vision.
London, January 1855
"This way," Morley Johnson called out to the workmen following behind him. "This way, I say, and be careful!"
He looked down the arcade in the encroaching dusk at the two workmen, relics really, far too old to have been entrusted with Mor-ley's new treasures. Yet what was a man to do? With the Crimean conflict draining off all the able labor, Morley had paid a pretty penny for these two ancients.
As they drew nearer, huffing under the weight of Morley's new mahogany desk, he cautioned again, "Do be careful. One scratch and I'll dock your wages. In there. Right through those doors."
As the two passed him by, Morley sent his eyes heavenward, then looked about him, still unable to believe where he was and how far he'd come.
The Temple! By God, he still couldn't believe it. Morley Johnson, solicitor, with chambers in the Temple.
He shivered from the cold and glanced in either direction, regretful that he had chosen nighttime to move from that smelly office on High Holborn Street. The Inns were practically deserted, and it would have been pleasant to have executed the move in daylight when the courts were bustling so that students and barristers alike could have taken note, could have whispered among themselves, "Isn't that Morley Johnson?"
Quickly he removed his top hat and gloves and placed them on one of the desks and approached the door to his inner chambers. For a moment he stood in the doorway, saddened by the realization that
the chamber did not quite live up to his expectations. Empty, it had appeared so large.
Still, he must not be too critical. He was here, wasn't he? Where he'd always wanted to be, one of the few barristers and solicitors who was not a Sir or a Lord, here by virtue of a handsome bribe. So who was to say that next year, or the year after, when his new and effective tool of general power of attorney had cut deeper inroads into the Eden wealth, that he might not occupy those most impressive chambers which once had belonged to Sir Claudius Potter?
Outside he heard the grunting approach of the two old workmen again, and looked up to see them carrying a crate of his lawbooks between them. "That's it, guv," one said, grinning. 'The wagon be empty."
Morley reached inside his waistcoat pocket and withdrew two one-pound notes. "Go along with you now," he said, frowning.
As the two old men shuffled out of the chamber, Morley moved closer to the fire and warmed his backside. He smiled. Never had events gone so well for him. Of course, he had taken certain steps. With the death of Lord James Eden, he'd effortlessly talked an old magistrate into awarding him general power of attorney. And early last year he'd had to replace the estate agent in Exeter with a more cooperative gentleman of his own choosing.
And now, what was the last count of North Devon land safely deeded to Morley Johnson? Over two thousand acres, pushing three, if he remembered correctly.
On a burst of energy, he left the fireplace and commenced to arrange his law volumes on the shelves. That done, he inspected the small alcove on the far wall, a discreet chamber, only large enough for a comfortable couch. With Minnie and the children gone to visit her parents in Sussex, he quite possibly could pass a few nights here as well, as Sir Claudius used to do, in the company of a female.
The thought caught his attention. Still gaping into the darkness of the alcove, another thought occurred to him, a fascinating one which he'd entertained off and on for the last year: the possibility of constructing a country estate on a hundred acres or so near Taunton, where Minnie and the children could be safely confined, leaving him free for his various London pursuits, business and otherwise.
It was not unheard-of, far from it. Quite the fashion it was for great men to lead two lives, a respectable domestic one in the country and a professional one in London.
Yes, why not? Not right away, of course. He'd have to wait for the
war to conclude, those vague hostilities going on in the Crimea that seemingly had disrupted all of London life, stripping the streets of all young men.
But it would end soon, the Czar on his knees before the superior British forces. Then, in the flush of victory, with the streets thronging with unemployed labor, then would be the time to build.
Quickly he took a final look about the chambers. By God, equally as grand as Sir Claudius', they were. Then he went into the outer office, retrieved his hat, whirled his cape about his shoulders, and marched forth into the night in search of some discerning group who would recognize quality when they saw it and welcome him into their fellowship.
He walked erect, in spite of the January wind, confident that he would not have to look very far.
Harrington Hall, Salisbury, January 1855
Lady Lila Harrington, age sixteen, her nose and fingers nipped from her winter walk in the apple orchard, had just seated herself be
fore the fire in her sitting room and was on the verge of serving her cat, a great gray-and-white-striped Maltese named Wolf, a cup of tea, when a remarkable thing happened. Wolf, who generally adored a good cup of tea, jumped down from his chair and ran to the locked door, confronting that barrier as though he meant to attack it.
Lila watched and was on the verge of calling him back when suddenly she understood. Someone was coming, someone unexpected. In a surge of annoyance, she returned the china teapot to its cozy and leaned forward to warm her nipped fingers, closely watching Wolf, who continued to watch the door, the hair on his back bristling.
Who in the world could it be? Hadn't they already played all their games for the afternoon? Hadn't old Max let her "escape" shortly after luncheon, and hadn't she scampered dutifully across the frozen meadow and sat atop her tree until she'd thought she'd freeze to it and become a part of it?
Suspiciously she eyed her cat. He was getting old, approaching two hundred years, according to her best estimate. She'd read in her great-grandmother's diaries of a massive gray-and-white-striped feline named Wolf who had inhabited the Hall when it had first been built. Then one spring morning several years ago, she'd found him and had spirited him up to her chambers, and he'd been with her ever since, though old Max had tried to do away with him once and
still bore on his left arm the ten-inch scar left by Wolf's claws when he'd objected to being put in a sack weighted with stones.
She smiled lovingly at the big cat, still stalking the door. "Come, Wolf," she scolded. "I think you're just imagining things. There's no one-"
Then she heard it too, footsteps moving along the corridor outside her door. Wolf was beside himself, alternately scratching at the door and meowing in his most powerful voice.
"All right," she soothed. "I believe you. Come. Over here," she commanded, motioning toward his chair. "Let's see who it is and get on with our tea."
Reluctantly the cat obeyed. She waited until he'd hopped up on his chair, his eyes blood-red, reflecting the fire, his ears still alert
"A good watchman, you are, Wolf," she whispered, stroking the coarse striped fur. "I apologize for—"
She heard a soft knock at the door—not Max's knock, she knew that much. She held still in her chair, baffled by this remarkable occurrence. Then she heard the key in the lock, another game she willingly played, permitting them to lock her in after five o'clock. What harm, if it made everyone feel safe?
She sat erect, never taking her eyes off the doorknob, which was slowly turning. To her left, Wolf hissed. Slowly she lifted a restraining hand. Though the occasion was without precedent, there was no need to overreact.
She was on the verge of leaving her chair when suddenly she saw the door push open.
"Papa," she whispered, struggling to overcome her initial shock. And equally as remarkable as Papa's presence was "Mama," she added, on her feet now, trying to recall the last time her parents had visited her private chambers. But with growing amazement, it occurred to her that there was no 'last time." This was the first
Belatedly remembering her manners, she started toward them, more than ready to deliver kisses to both, when she noticed their withdrawal, her father moving forward into a protective stance before her mother.
"Papa, how pleasant," she said, withdrawing to her tea table, hoping that Wolf behaved himself today. She looked toward the door, where they continued to stand, and thought how beautiful they were, her father tall and slim and dark, a fine counterpart to her mother's pale English beauty. With all her heart, Lila wished now
that these two were not afraid of her. She'd never do anything to hurt them. Surely they knew that.
Still aware of the tension in the room, she decided to let them take the lead. At last her father started forward, a white envelope in his hand, his polished boots carrying him to mid-room, where abruptly he stopped. "I hope we're not disturbing, Lila," he said.
"Of course not, Papa," she reassured him. "We were just having tea. Won't you—"
Her mother stepped forward, a portrait in red velvet with high rolled collar and long tapered sleeves. Lila wished she looked more like her mother. Oh, the hair was the same, to be sure, but instead of those eyes as blue as English lakes, she'd inherited her father's dark ones, which looked totally out of place in her pale face, which freckled in the summer sun.
Now her mother drew even with her father, one hand nervously adjusting the collar of her gown. "No, no tea, Lila, thank you." She smiled stiffly. "We've come to you on a . . . matter of some concern."
A matter of some concern! Lila had heard that phrase before, last year when the stables had burned down and three horses had died, the time Cook had terrible pains in her stomach and had started foaming at the mouth, the time the hysterical villagers had found Lila crawling about in the cathedral calling her cat, oh, just countless times she'd heard that phrase, a matter of some concern, as though she and Wolf were responsible for everything that happened.
Out of consideration for their obvious discomfort, Lila stood. "What matter of concern, Mama?" she asked calmly. "I went no place today and did nothing except play the games with Max. Ask him if you don't believe—"
"Oh, it's not a matter of belief or disbelief," her father said, advancing one step, then again holding his position.
"No," her mother agreed. "You've been a very good girl of late, and we're both grateful."
Annoyed, Lila walked rapidly to the window seat. Behind her she heard a sharp cry and looked over her shoulder in time to see her mother recoil as Wolf jumped down from his chair and trotted after Lila to the window seat. As he curled up in her lap, she noticed that his eyes were no longer blood-red.
"He won't hurt you, Mama," she said, softly caressing his enormous head.
"Lila, your attention for a moment," Papa said. As he stepped to-
ward the window seat, Lila saw him examining the white envelope in his hand.
"What is it, Papa?"
"This," he replied, extending the envelope. "This . . . letter was delivered to you today. It's caused your mother considerable torment, and myself as well."
Lila looked up. A letterl Why hadn't Wolf told her what a remarkable day this would be? "A letter?" She grinned. Had this ever happened before? No! Never! Not once in her entire sixteen years had anyone ever knocked on her door and announced, "A letter for you, Miss Lila."
"A letter." She laughed, truly impressed by the miracles of the world. But as she reached out for it, her father withdrew a step, holding the letter just beyond her reach.
"What we must know first, Lila," he cautioned sternly, "is how did this happen?"
Oh, Wolf, was the man an idiot? As though in response, Wolf meowed and jumped down from the window seat and commenced rubbing against her gown.
"I don't know how it happened, Papa," she said. "Is there a name attached to it?"
Her father nodded. "Indeed there is, a man's name. John Murrey Eden."
John Murrey Eden. Then she laughed, remembering it as clearly as though it had happened only yesterday, that high blue summer day when she'd scaled her apple tree for a world view and had seen the young man while he was still a distance away on the road, walking head down, as though a gigantic foot were pressed against the back of his neck. As he'd drawn even with her, she'd summoned him without words to the shade of the apple orchard.
Oh, yes, John Murrey Eden. She remembered him well. And she'd seen him once more, on the London street corner, but that had been no surprise, for she'd willed that as well.
"Yes, Papa," she said, again reaching out for the letter. "I know him."
But again he withheld it. "Where?" he questioned. "How?"
"In the orchard," she replied. "He was walking on the road to Salisbury and we talked briefly."
Her mother peered nervously around her father's shoulder. "And you told him your name?"
"Of course I told him my name," Lila exclaimed. "How can two people talk if they don't know what to call each other?"
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"And you did . . . nothing to him?" her mother asked further, the fear in her voice clear.
Lila shook her head and retreated back to the window seat, tired of reaching for the letter. "No, I did nothing to him, Mama," she said wearily. "Someone else had done quite enough."
Still worried, her father asked, "But why did he write to you?"
"I suppose he had something to say."
"No, he says nothing of import," her father replied. Then, by way of explanation he added, "Of course I opened it. For your own protection."
How often she had heard that as well. For your own protection. Every restraint they placed upon her was for her own protection, old Max's constant watch—no female servant would come near her, not since her first and last lady's maid had given birth to a two-headed infant. Keeping her under lock and key, that was for her own protection, and hiding her away from all society, that too was for her own protection.
Suddenly someone within her rose up in anger. "Give me the letter, Papa," she demanded. "You had no right to open it, none at all."
Within the moment the letter was dropped on the floor, as though the envelope had turned hot in his hands. By the time she'd retrieved it and returned to the window seat, she looked up to see her parents retreating to the door.
Her father spoke first, an expression of regret on his face. "We are concerned for you, Lila. You know better than anyone the threats and accusations which have been leveled at you." He glanced back at her mother. "It would break both our hearts if you were taken from us," he said. "You must understand that whatever we do, we do for your own good."
Moved by the declaration and by the look of concern on both their faces, someone within Lila commenced to cry. She possessed no powers, was incapable of causing any calamity to happen. And Wolf was as innocent. That they talked between themselves was merely a matter of convenience. And loneliness.
"I'm . . . sorry, Papa," she whispered, trying to hold the tears back. She looked down at the letter in her lap and read the remarkable salutation.
My dear Lady Lila Harrington, and within the moment she felt
such a surge of excitement that the tears went away and quickly she read the rest of the brief message, Mr. Eden kindly refreshing her memory of the hot summer day and the talking apple tree, their chance encounter— chance, she smiled at that—on the London street corner. And the concluding paragraph, written in a winter mood again, that he was going off to a place called the Crimea to build a railway, and if she could find it in her heart to write to him, he'd answer back, and would she kindly remember him to her cat and ask him to exert any influence he could over fate.
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