Free Improbable Eden by Mary Daheim

carried on a chirruping monologue.
    â€œ My father was a Dutch sailor, my mother English. Poor Papa drowned, and Mama married again, a farmer from Dedham Vale in Suffolk. The land there is like Holland, flat, low, but pretty. Some days I miss it. But Prince Max, he is kind, and oh, so handsome, hey? Yet he’s a melancholy sort, with sadness in his eyes … such a pity.”
    Elsa’s description of Max piqued Eden’s interest, but she didn’t know how to put a question to the little deaf maid. As Eden wrapped herself in a fleecy towel, Elsa explained that she could read lips if a person spoke slowly and clearly.
    â€œ Or,” she said, making motions with her hands, “you do this. It’s sign language, so people who can’t speak or hear can talk. Clever, no?”
    Eden had never heard of such a thing, but found the idea intriguing. “You must teach me,” she said, forming the words with great care.
    Again, Elsa beamed at Eden. “Of course. We will have many fine talks together.” With a decisive nod, she quit the chamber, hauling the bathtub behind her.
    Left by herself, Eden sat at the Venetian mirror and frowned at her image. The damp tangle of her claret curls nestled on her bare shoulders, her skin glowed from its recent scrubbing, and the lavender peignoir that Elsa had found looked well with her coloring. Yet she was not content with her appearance. The brief glimpses she’d had of London ladies made her feel inadequate. Their clothes, coiffures, and jewels enhanced even those on whom Nature had skimped. Eden rearranged the peignoir’s folds this way and that, artfully posing for the best effect. With an audacious tug, she pulled the fabric down just enough to reveal a hint of décolletage. Madame Berenger would have been scandalized by such a blatant display; Eden giggled in spite of herself. She didn’t hear Max open the door.
    â€œ A pearl hung in that valley would be even more alluring.”
    Eden yanked the peignoir up to her neck and whirled to see Max’s tall, athletic figure leaning against the door frame. She expected to find mockery in his eyes, but he was quite serious. “How long have you been standing there?” she breathed. “Didn’t you knock?”
    â€œ The door was ajar. And,” he added, making his leisurely way into the room, “it is my house.”
    Eden turned to the mirror and swallowed. “True,” she said, watching their images in the glass. Max was standing directly behind her, one hand resting idly on the back of her chair.
    â€œ That shade is good, although I suspect your skin has too much color, and your hair needs taming.” He was eyeing her critically, his hand holding a thick tress up to the candlelight. “I don’t know much about fashion or fripperies, though. You shall have to be given advice by experts.”
    â€œ For what?” Eden’s face puckered. Max was still toying with her hair; the gesture unsettled her. “I thought we were going to get His Lordship released. What difference does it make if my skin has too much color and my hair looks like a haystack?”
    Max didn’t reply immediately, but continued to study the shimmering strand that lay across his big palm. “Haystack? What?” He let go of her hair and backed off a few paces, then scowled. “We can’t get Jack out. He’s being formally charged this very afternoon. King William, damn his stubborn Dutch hide, is convinced that Marlborough is a Jacobite supporter and has been up to his ears in plotting to bring James back to England. Here,” he said, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his linen shirt. “This message just came from the Tower. You can read, can’t you?”
    Eden snatched the paper from Max’s hand. “Like a proper Sunday parson,” she retorted, but lost her verve as she skimmed the letter. “This is from His Lordship!”