Improbable Eden

Improbable Eden

by Mary Daheim
Improbable Eden

Improbable Eden

by Mary Daheim

Paperback(Reissue)

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Overview


The base-born daughter of the Earl of Marlborough, Eden is being groomed to seduce King William by Maximilian, a Flemish prince fallen on hard times. Rudolf, who covets his Cousin Max's land, seeks to brand Max and Eden's father as Jacobites bent on restoring James II to the throne. As the king's mistress, Eden could clear their names. But she cannot deny her growing love for Max.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781603813693
Publisher: Camel Press
Publication date: 08/01/2016
Edition description: Reissue
Pages: 220
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.56(d)

About the Author

Seattle native Mary Richardson Daheim lives three miles from the house where she was raised. From her dining nook she can see the maple tree in front of her childhood home. Mary isn't one for change when it comes to geography. Upon getting her journalism degree from the University of Washington (she can see the campus from the dining nook, too), she went to work for a newspaper in Anacortes WA. Then, after her marriage to David Daheim, his first college teaching post was in Port Angeles where she became a reporter for the local daily. Both tours of small-town duty gave her the background for the Alpine/Emma Lord series.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Kent, 1695

Gerard had come home from the Battle of Namur with a stiff leg and a melancholy disposition. The yuletide season had passed all but unnoted in the Berenger household. Though English and Dutch troops had finally succeeded in recapturing an important fortress in Brabant, the victory had proved costly to the elder Berenger son.

Eden tried her best to buoy Gerard's spirits, insisting they hitch up a makeshift sleigh and ride out through the snow-covered apple orchards or slide on the north downs beyond the village. Gerard rebuffed her at first, but Eden was determined to drag him not only out of the house, but out of himself, as well.

"I need more than sheep for company," she declared, yanking at his broadcloth sleeve. "We might even ride to Romney Marsh. You've always enjoyed fishing off the spit at Dungeness."

Gerard gave her a wry smile. "That was before I got hurt. As for you, I doubt you'd be lonely in the village. Smarden's swains are quite taken with you."

Eden raised both eyebrows. "I prefer the sheep. The local lads are a glum lot, with little humor and less wit. And most are twice as gawky as you, even if they do have two good legs." She made no effort to ignore Gerard's handicap and refused to patronize him as the rest of the family did. Approaching her nineteenth birthday, Eden had learned to face life squarely — except for that still secret place in her heart that had never stopped crying out for her long-lost father.

"It's cold," Gerard protested, his voice peevish. "This weather makes my leg ache."

Eden got up from the table and moved briskly to the big open fireplace, where she turned the hissing logs with a sturdy poker. "The sun is trying to come out. I'd wager half a crown it won't snow again today."

Gerard was mulling over a suitable rejoinder when Cybele and Etienne, their faces red with cold, stomped in through the door. Cybele was a recent widow with two children; her figure had grown plump and her countenance sour.

"Where are our parents?" Etienne asked, a wary expression on his goatlike face.

"Out," Eden replied tersely, grabbing Gerard by the back of his shirt. "As the two of us will be shortly. Come, Brother, let us make our way into the village as we planned."

"Hold, Brother!" commanded Etienne with an excited wave of his hands. "We have guests coming up the walk even now! Most important business, I assure you." He gave his foster sister a shrewd look. "You, too, Eden."

"Assuredly." Cybele smirked as she hung her heavy black shawl on a peg by the door. As ever, she was galled by the sight of Eden, whose long, thick hair was the color of claret and tumbled in shining waves down her back. Her wide mouth had a smile that could light up at the very hint of humor, and the huge, dark eyes were set wide under heavy lashes and perfect, dense brows. She was slim, too, with a body growing more lush each day and with skin the color of cream. Eden wasn't much more than average height, but she gave the illusion of being taller and moved with a sprightly grace. "Not the least bit sedate," Cybele was fond of saying. The remark always struck a responsive chord in Etienne and Genevieve, who never failed to repeat it when they felt Eden was being overly vivacious. Indeed, it was Eden's exuberance and love of life that galled her family most. Even Gerard no longer found her open, expansive nature as engaging as it had seemed before Namur.

Eden was determined not to let the Berengers dampen her spirits. With a purposely winsome glance at Etienne, she started to ask what business matter could possibly concern her when their visitors suddenly materialized on the threshold. At first, the pair of newcomers appeared to be blackamoors from some exotic African tribe. But as the door closed behind them, Eden recognized the two men as Bob Crocker and his son, Charlie, their faces and hands stained by the charcoal they burned from the local iron smelters.

Etienne was greeting the Crockers warmly. With her usual frankness, Eden started to ask why they'd come but Etienne waved her to silence.

"Be patient!" he admonished. "Bring us hot cider. And rolls, too, if you baked enough this morning."

Controlling her temper, Eden went to the heavy white crock where the half a dozen potato rolls she'd baked before dawn reposed in a linen napkin. Etienne's tone was more supercilious than usual, the well-bred accent their tutor had drilled into all five children more pronounced. The visitors were expounding on the lamentable state of the charcoal industry.

"T' bosky trees are all but gone in t' weald," Bob Crocker explained over the rim of his steaming mug of cider. "We get only half as much wood t' burn nowadays."

"A sorry state of affairs," commented Etienne, holding out his roll to be buttered. Eden slapped a knifeful against it and tried to ignore Cybele's snicker.

"Why must I stay?" Eden hissed at Cybele, who was seated at her loom, sorting different shades of green yarn. "It may be hours before our parents get back."

Cybele squinted at two lengths of pale mint wool. "Can't you guess?" Her little black eyes darted in Charlie Crocker's direction. "That great brute of a boy wants to make you his wife."

Eden stifled an incredulous cry. Only the most strenuous self- discipline prevented her from staring aghast at Charlie, whose eyes seemed to bug out at her from his soot-smudged face. "No!" she breathed, hoping for once that Cybele would show some sympathy.

But her foster sister merely looked smug. "And why not, pray? You may have come to this family with an allowance of sorts, but not with a dowry. Who did you expect to come a-courting, a noble lord from London?"

It was strange how those were the last words Eden heard before the door opened again, this time to reveal Monsieur Berenger and a man with fawn-colored hair under a modish triangular hat. It took only an instant to realize that her foster father was highly agitated. His usually impassive expression was animated, and a little pulse beat at the top of his shiny bald pate. One glimpse of the Crockers all but undid him; he stumbled across the threshold, leaving his companion at the door.

"Uh ... Bob! And Charlie! Par bleu, I had forgotten...." He turned nervous eyes to Etienne. "Have events marched forward?"

Etienne hastily poured more cider to cover the sudden awkwardness. "No, no. We've merely been conversing. Eh, Bob? Charlie, my lad?"

Bob Crocker was too busy staring at the highborn newcomer to reply. As for Charlie, he still had his adoring gaze fixed on Eden. It was she who gestured to the stranger to enter, bestowing on him a gracious if questioning smile.

The man removed his hat and returned her smile, transmitting an aura of warmth and kindness. "Are these your children, my good Berenger?" he inquired in a light, pleasant voice while his host had the presence of mind to close the door.

"Indeed, yes! That is," Monsieur Berenger amended, making a frantic motion for Etienne to pull out another chair, "these are my sons, Etienne and Gerard, my eldest daughter, Cybele. And Eden." His head bobbed in his foster daughter's direction. "Then there is Genevieve, who is married and not here. These others, they are ... old friends." He spoke the last words wistfully, as if he expected the Crockers' status to change momentarily.

"I see." The stranger's refined features wore an expression that was at once comprehending and bemused. While he had looked like a young man from the doorway, at closer range, Eden realized he was older, perhaps middle-aged. Taking note of a cat that was sniffing at his high-heeled boots, the man stooped to pick up the animal and cradle it against his shoulder. To Eden's surprise, the cat offered only token resistance before nestling contentedly into the heavy, fur-lined woolen cape.

Shifting his wiry form from one foot to the other, Monsieur Berenger cleared his throat. "My children, my friends," he said, suddenly gruff, "heed me! This," he announced all but stretching on his tiptoes in a quest for dignity, "is His Lordship, the famous and excellent Earl of Marlborough!"

Cybele uttered a bubbling gasp, Etienne's thin mustache quivered, Gerard's face showed an unaccustomed spark of life, and both Crockers swung around to gape. As startled as Eden was by the announcement, she was even more surprised to note that their exalted guest was staring at her. She faltered only briefly before remembering her manners and attempting an unpracticed curtsy.

"Charming," Marlborough said a bit absently, forcing his gray-green eyes away from Eden. "And your good wife," he went on, turning to Monsieur Berenger. "When may I have the pleasure of meeting her?"

Brushing at the lank strands of hair at his temples, Monsieur Berenger looked helplessly around the kitchen. "Of course, most certainly — but where is dear Maman?"

"She took some of her special medicine to Genevieve." Cybele's overbright eyes were riveted on Marlborough and she offered him an artful smile. "My sister is going to have her first baby in the early summer. I have two of my own, but the Lord saw fit to make me a widow." Her smile faded and she assumed a demure, sorrowful air.

Carefully, Marlborough set the cat on the floor, where it rubbed against his boot and purred. The Earl's face had taken on a pinched look. "May I inquire which is your foster daughter?" The gray-green eyes lingered hopefully on Eden.

Monsieur Berenger wore a pained expression, as if he wished he could foist off Cybele or even the kitchen cat. The Crockers, who had been observing the august visitor with round eyes and open mouths, swiveled in Eden's direction.

"I'm the one who does not belong." Eden spoke without rancor. "I'm not a Berenger by birth." She thrust out her chin, as if daring the others to deny what they had always been quick to maintain. "I'm Eden," she added, in case the Earl hadn't taken in all of Monsieur Berenger's introductions.

"Ah." The Earl was still pale, but his features relaxed a bit. He beckoned for Eden to come closer. "Yes," he murmured, studying her face, "I was quite certain, but ... ." He broke off, giving the impression that his words had been meant only for himself. "Monsieur Berenger, may I speak privately with Mistress Eden?"

Flustered, Monsieur Berenger almost tripped on the cat. "The parlor," he suggested in his anxious manner. " 'Tis humble, but tidy."

Noting how Cybele's glance raked over her with a mixture of curiosity and malice, Eden recognized the eavesdropping possibilities of the parlor and offered an alternative. "I was about to take the air. Perhaps, milord, you'd care to join me in the garden?"

Marlborough inclined his head. "A delightful idea," he remarked, though his face still wore that strained look.

In the spring and summer, the Berenger garden provided a brilliant splash of color between the river and the High Street. But now, in the dead of winter, the bare branches of the lilac tree were rimed with snow. Eden was suddenly overcome by the bleakness of her family home. Its thatched roof gave no comfort, its plastered walls offered no haven, its oak door promised no warm welcome. Eden turned her back on the house and tried to gaze levelly at Marlborough. To her surprise, the Earl seemed equally disconcerted.

"You're very lovely," he said at last, his breath puffing out before him on the cold February air. "Do you have any idea who your real parents might be?"

Startled by the suddenness of the question, Eden retreated a step. "No. I don't think my foster parents know, either." She swallowed once and frowned. "Maman ... my foster mother ... told me once that I was born in France shortly before the Berengers came to England. They're Huguenots, you see, and their kind were being persecuted by King Louis." She stopped suddenly, aware that if anyone would know every nuance of past and present politics, it would be the Earl of Marlborough. Eden felt foolish.

But Marlborough was reaching inside his cape to extract a plain linen handkerchief, which he passed over his forehead. "So. You haven't the faintest idea about your father ... or mother?"

At the gate, an aged collie was nosing its way between the iron bars. "Well ...." In spite of herself, the ghost of a smile touched her lips. It would hardly do to mention her childhood fantasy, how she used to dream that her father was merry King Charles and she his long-lost princess.

"No," she answered, squarely meeting Marlborough's patient gaze, "how could I?"

The Earl was dabbing at his temple with the handkerchief. Despite the freezing weather, he was sweating. Apparently Eden's concern showed, for Marlborough waved the handkerchief at her and shook his head. "Fret not, 'tis but one of my damnable headaches. They plague me most unexpectedly from time to time." Stiffly, he turned to look toward the High Street. "Where is Max?" he murmured, pressing the handkerchief against his temple. "I must return to the Bell and Whistle. We will speak again," he assured Eden. "Soon."

Even as Marlborough moved toward the gate, his step faltered. Eden rushed to his side, taking him by the arm. "Sire! Take care, you slipped on the ice!"

The Earl gave a short laugh. "Mayhap. These headaches cloud my vision. I apologize a hundredfold."

"Nonsense," retorted Eden, surprising herself by being so forthright with such an exalted personage. "Illness can't be prevented, though it often can be cured. My foster mother is well-versed in healing arts. She has taught us how to deal with sickness. Perhaps I can —"

Eden stopped abruptly, her arm still bracing the Earl. A few yards away, on the other side of the High Street, a young giant of a man, blond and lean, was scowling at them.

"Hold! What goes here?" he called, his booted feet covering the distance to the Berenger gate in scant seconds. "Leave His Lordship be! Are you trying to pick his pocket? He rarely carries money on him, I have it."

Startled, Eden stared at the blond giant. Under ordinary circumstances she would have been mightily impressed. He had an athlete's body and the face of a Norse god. And, Eden thought with outrage, the manners of a pig. "I'm no cutpurse! I was going to brew His Lordship a special tea!" she cried, refusing to let go of the Earl's arm.

"Rot." The blond giant lifted Marlborough off the ground, no mean feat considering the Earl's size and Eden's resistance. "I'll tend to him. I'm used to it. Go back to your barn or wherever you come from." He kicked the gate open and slung one of Marlborough's arms around his neck.

To Eden's surprise, the Earl summoned up the strength to defend her. "Max, this is the Berenger child. Be gentle with her, I pray you."

The man known as Max looked vaguely dismayed as Eden glowered at him from behind the fence. "As you say. But," he added as they proceeded up the High Street, "that doesn't mean she's to be trusted. This is Kent, not Kensington."

"There are more honest country folk than city folk, I'll wager!" Eden cried, gripping the iron bars and giving them a useless shake. She felt like running after the pair and doing bodily harm to the brute called Max. Eden wanted to proclaim that she knew more about medicine than he did, that she certainly had a better grasp on etiquette and that the Earl of Marlborough must be a veritable saint to employ such a rude manservant. But she held her tongue, afraid of further upsetting the Earl. He seemed like a kind man, and he must have some knowledge of her parents. Otherwise why would he have called at the Berenger cottage? Dejected, she watched the pair disappear past St. Michael's church.

Leaning on the fence, Eden surveyed the High Street, now empty except for the old collie, which was nosing around a pile of snow. How incredible that after a lifetime of ignorance concerning her real family, the one man who knew the truth couldn't convey it because he had a headache. Nor was it fair that Eden's interview with His Lordship had ended on such a sour note, with his belligerent manservant insulting her. What had begun as an intriguing visit from a vaunted noble had ended in frustration.

Eden shivered under her long cloak, watching the leaden clouds descend over Smarden. She was no more enlightened than she had been before the great Earl of Marlborough had stepped across the Berenger threshold. Trudging toward the door, she could hear Master Crocker and Monsieur Berenger discussing the price of cider and charcoal. Perhaps she could coax Gerard outside — or maybe it would be better to walk alone and collect her thoughts.

The decision was taken out of her hands by the sudden approach of Madame Berenger, muffled to the eyes and wearing a pair of her husband's boots. "What's this?" she demanded, gesturing toward the High Street. "Did I not see two strangers leaving our garden gate?"

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "Improbable Eden"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Mary Daheim.
Excerpted by permission of Coffeetown Enterprises, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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