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‘I can glimpse a resemblance. Not in colouring, of course. Your presence, perhaps. And yet you both remind me of someone else—I do wish I could think who.’
‘She prefers it not to be known,’ Eden said, his voice as neutral as he could make it. ‘I am somewhat old to be comfortably acknowledged as her son. People would do the arithmetic, you see.’
‘But in private—’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Outside the theatre we lead separate lives.’
‘Oh. I am so sorry.’ That was the second time she had expressed pity for him, and pity was not something his pride would accept from anyone, even if, for some reason, he wanted to pour the whole story of his childhood out to Maude and have her, in some way he could not imagine, make it better.
Eden shrugged. ‘She is exhausting enough as it is.’
‘Yes, but—’ She must have seen something in his face, for she broke off, hesitated, then asked, ‘Your father—she married him in Italy?’
‘La Belle Marguerite,’ he said, inserting the shield of irony into his tone, ‘has never found any man worthy of marriage.’
Maude frowned, as though she was untangling a puzzle, not, oddly, as if she found herself disgusted to be having this conversation with a bastard. ‘So your father—’ She tried again. ‘You said he would not speak to you, but did he not even—?’
‘He refused to acknowledge me.’ She might as well have the lot, see just who her business partner was. Or, more to the point, was not.
‘Bastard,’ Maude commented. ‘Him, I mean. Is it true he is a prince?’
‘So you had heard the rumours? He was. He died last year. When I was fourteen, Madame decided I might be of some use to her. She descended on the palazzo, swept me up against very little opposition—as you may imagine, his wife was happy to see the back of me, even if I was relegated to the stables along with t
he rest of his by-blows—and set me to learn about the theatre.’
‘She had just left you with him?’ Maude looked more appalled at that than anything else.
‘She was sure I would be much better looked after there rather than being dragged around Europe in the wake of her career. And I learned fluent Italian—so useful.’
‘And a baby and then a small child would be such an inconvenience with her career and her lovers, I suppose,’ Maude said savagely, startling him. ‘How she could!’ She sat in silence for a moment, staring down at her tightly locked hands. ‘I beg your pardon, I should not speak so about your mother.’
‘Don’t apologise. I do not love her, she does not love me. I am her business manager, she is my leading actress. It is business. I understand her very well; she, I think, understands me not at all.’ Maude simply stared at him, her face appalled. ‘What?’ he flung at her. ‘Are you shocked? Do you think I should have loved her, so that she had the power to break my heart?’
‘Of course she broke your heart,’ Maude said fiercely. ‘Of course she did. Do not tell me you do not believe in love, just because it hurts too much. It hurts because it is important. It hurts because it is all there is. Don’t pretend to me you are not capable of love.’
Eden stared at her, furious, confused, disorientated by her attack. He had told her the sordid truth about his birth and somehow he was at fault for dealing with it well? Then he saw her eyes, the sparkle of unshed tears, and something inside, something cold and hard that he had thought impregnable, cracked. What did she want from him? What was hurting inside him? Something trying to get out, or the pain of emptiness? Her heart seemed big enough to grieve for him—didn’t she realise that he had built a wall around his? That he had nothing to give her? Only more pain, he thought as he went to her.
‘Maude. Maude, don’t cry.’ He crouched down beside her chair and put his arm around her shoulders. Hell, she was so determined, so positive, she seemed sturdier than she was. Under the weight of his arm her shoulders were fragile. ‘Don’t cry. I won’t know what to do if you cry.’
Tantrums, scenes, furious tears, manipulative tears, crocodile tears. He knew what to do with those, he had enough practice. But these unshed tears, tears she was fighting not to let spill, these almost unmanned him.
‘You…you could give me a handkerchief,’ she suggested shakily. He pulled a large one from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Thank you.’ She blew her nose like a boy and scrubbed at her eyes. No, these tears weren’t for show, weren’t to manipulate. Her nose had gone pink and her eyes were bleary and she was not sparing a thought for how she looked. ‘Sorry. I don’t cry, you know.’
‘No, of course not.’ He did not know whether to get up and leave her to compose herself or not. He wanted to stay, he ought to go. Eden remained where he was on his knees beside the chair.
‘It upset me,’ she explained, looking at him directly at last. ‘I hate it when people are cruel to anyone who is helpless—children, animals, our soldiers when they were too sick to fend for themselves.’
‘I’m not helpless,’ he said.
‘Not now. Our soldiers have scars, limbs missing, eyes gone. We can see their scars, do something with them. Where are yours, Eden?’
‘I am not one of your charity cases,’ he said, not answering her, rocking back on his heels because otherwise he would kiss those tear-filled eyes, stop her looking at him like that.
‘No.’ Maude nodded. ‘No, you are not. You have done all this, all by yourself. You do not need charity. But don’t tell me not to pity the child that you were, or feel anger for him, because I do. And don’t tell me not to try to convince you about love, because I will not stop trying.’
‘Are you going to get out your Bible and preach to me, then?’ he asked bitterly. The priest at the palazzo had done that often enough.
‘No.’ Maude folded up the handkerchief and regarded him solemnly. ‘It is up to you what you do with your love, and you can put some of it into religion if you want to. I simply intend to convince you it exists.’
