by Rhianna
“I can see that it is,” she replied with care. “Philippe, I have not before seen you so distressed. Pray, do not leave me in wonder.”
“You must not, Rhianna, mistake my anxiousness for distress. My affliction is one of joyful anticipation. And you alone can relieve me of my restlessness, allay me from this malady.”
Rhianna was earnest in her concern. “Philippe, I have not the privilege of understanding you …”
“No, indeed, you do not, for I have been too concealing in my behavior. Repeatedly have I asked wherefore? To what end should I suppress it? For years have I kept silent, my soul restrained and inwardly anguished while awaiting the sensible and perfect moment — but no more! My secret shall be masked no longer. For my own sanity it cannot!”
His meaning could no longer be mistaken. These opening words produced a shock in Rhianna, for they were beyond everything she could have supposed. She stood silent as he took her hands in his and continued with his declaration, his unrestrained passion in presenting it rendering her wordless.
“It has been said the gift of a rosebud is considered a confession of love. I should like to give to you all the rosebuds of this garden — nay, those of all the gardens in France! Tell me your heart does share mine’s affections, that your soul shares mine’s desires. I treasure you, my dear Rhianna, and I want to treasure you always. Grant me the permission to do so and cease this torment!”
No sooner had he avowed this last to her than a servant came racing toward them from the house. Once within audible distance, the servant exclaimed his winded announcement.
“Count Vallière, Miss Braden! I beg your pardon, but there is a guest arrived only a few moments ago. He comes from England for you, Miss Braden, and requests to speak with you on a matter of great importance! Marquis Vallière is with him and begs you to come directly.”
The awkward interruption drained all color from Philippe’s complexion, while Rhianna’s cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment. After a weak recovery, Philippe recognized the need to put aside his proposal.
“Where are they?” he called out to the servant.
Rhianna was grateful for his response, for she was not yet lucid enough to form words of any audible quality. First, Philippe’s declarations and, now, a mysterious visitor from England! She decided it imperative that she focus only on taking in each breath.
“The drawing room,” the servant responded, with his first look of curiosity at the scene before him.
Philippe lowered his eyes to the hands he yet held and seemed unwilling to release them.
“You must go,” he stated with chagrin.
Feeling severely for him and how his proposal had been so critically disrupted, she hardly knew how to respond, either to him or to the servant.
“Philippe …” His name was all she could manage and, yet, it said everything to him.
“Come,” said he, with grand composure, “we shall both go.”
There could be no other option. They withdrew from the garden and hastened toward the house.
• • •
His arrival was early in the day and unannounced, but Guilford, Lord Kingsley, received a warm reception to the Vallière home. A strikingly tall man, with a broad stature and a generally pleasing appearance, he entered the Vallières’ drawing room with little time for social graces. With a brief introduction and hurried civilities, he explained his visit from England to Marquis and Marquise Vallière.
“I hope you will forgive the discourtesy,” he expressed. “It is unfortunate that we must meet in this manner, but the tidings I bring are rather urgent.”
Even under such circumstances, Lord Kingsley had a composed way about him. His calm, gentle manner recommended him to Marquis Vallière who, although characteristically cautious and fittingly concerned, felt quickly at ease with this unknown traveler.
“Please, will you not have a seat?” insisted the somewhat rounder, though in no way displeasingly shaped Marquis Vallière. Turning to his butler, he instructed, “Belmont, do bring our guest some refreshments.”
“I thank you for your kind hospitality, Marquis Vallière,” Lord Kingsley replied somberly. “However, I feel I cannot rest until I have carried out the purpose of my visit. I bring a message to Miss Rhianna Braden. It is my understanding that it is here, in your excellent care, that I may find her.”
Marquis Vallière was excessively protective of his children and, as he had for the last decade considered Rhianna as one of them, his first reaction to this comment was guarded.
“Of course,” he responded, with a thoughtful nod. “I imagine this message is from someone of close connection to her.”
“It is. I have personally been well acquainted with Miss Braden’s father for many years and, in fact, bestowed him with the benefice at Thornton Church where Miss Braden lived prior to her schooling at Madame Chandelle’s School for Girls.”
“Ah! I see,” he declared, his investigation nearly complete and his inquiring mind all but satisfied. “And I trust her father is well?”
Lord Kingsley hesitated before answering, “It is of Mr. and Mrs. Braden that my message refers. I am afraid it is not good news and, if it is not an unreasonable request, it is my hope that it be related first to Miss Braden.”
“Oh dear,” Marquise Vallière declared, speaking for the first time since their introduction. She wrung her hands together.
Marquise Vallière was a petite, slender woman whose exquisite fashion and irreproachable character were eclipsed only by her common sense.
“I do not believe Rhianna and Soleil have returned yet from their riding,” she told her husband.
As she spoke her words, Soleil entered the room. Belmont closed the double doors behind her.
“What is it, Mother? You look troubled.”
Soleil, noting the intensity in the air, turned to the unacknowledged guest. Marquis Vallière hurriedly introduced him.
“My dear, this is Lord Kingsley of Thornton, England. He is the friend and patron of Rhianna’s father and wishes to speak with her tout de suite.”
Stationed beside her mother, and at once afflicted, she offered, “Rhianna had mentioned going for a walk in the garden. To my knowledge, she is yet there.”
A servant was dispatched to find her at once.
• • •
Neither Rhianna nor Philippe wasted a moment. As the doors were opened and the two entered the drawing room, Rhianna moved instinctively toward Marquis Vallière, a man she had for many years viewed with a deep, fatherly regard.
“What has happened?” she implored him.
“There you are, child,” he received her. “Rhianna, we have a Lord Kingsley to see you.”
At the mention of this name, Rhianna’s heart fluttered so intensely that she was certain it could not endure another surprise in the same day. Could she have heard him correctly? Lord Kingsley, owner of her most beloved Thornton, England manor house?
“I beg your pardon?” she replied.
The tall man beside her bowed — the most graceful bow she had ever witnessed — and she pressed her hand to her chest as if to ease the palpitations. When his posture straightened, she curtseyed with equal elegance and he took a step toward her.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Braden,” he began, his voice kind and mild. “My only wish is that it would have been under happier circumstances.”
Rhianna wondered only briefly if her outward appearance revealed the fusion of emotions within. This was the man, the face of the man, who inhabited so many of her dreams that even ten years in France could not allay, the man who invited her to balls and greeted her at the gates on many a wakeful night, the man who lived in Kingsley Manor.
“I come to inform you of an occurrence which brings me great pain to relay. Forgive me, for I know I shall never find the appropriate manner with which to report it.”
Marquis Vallière stepped forward. “Perhaps we should excuse ourselves.”
He motio
ned to his wife and children to leave so that Lord Kingsley might carry out his obligation with confidentiality, but Rhianna awoke from her reflections in time to intercede.
“No, pray, do not leave. Whatever Lord Kingsley has to say, he may say it before us all. Indeed, I prefer you stay,” she said, turning to Lord Kingsley, “if it is not objectionable to you, my lord.”
Guilford Kingsley showed no disapproval. “If that is your wish, it is entirely at your discretion.”
“Thank you. Please, proceed.”
He nodded in accord, and said, “Though we have never had the privilege of meeting, Miss Braden, I have been a friend of your father for a great many years. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to personally bring you a message which, in my opinion, cannot be given by way of written word.”
For the second time this day, Rhianna received a shocking announcement: a carriage accident, which Mr. and Mrs. Braden had not survived.
“When did it happen?” Marquis Vallière delicately questioned, as Philippe and Soleil assisted Rhianna to the nearest seat.
“Three weeks past,” Lord Kingsley declared. “I left almost as soon as it was made known to me. Miss Braden, allow me to be among the first to offer my deepest of sympathies.”
“Thank you,” she responded, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Belmont, please, some water,” Marquise Vallière requested, as she and her two children surrounded Rhianna.
Condolences were offered by the others, but she hardly heard them. Water was soon given her, but she was hardly aware as she sipped from her glass. Philippe’s hands held one of her own, but little did she feel it. Her mind accepted the knowledge imparted by Lord Kingsley that funeral services had been carried out, but beyond this her mind could not process.
Emotionally fatigued, Rhianna soon retired to her room, not to emerge for the rest of the day and night. There seclusion afforded her a chance to reflect, however deliriously, on the day’s events.
• • •
The horses moved gracefully through tall, wrought-iron gates, blithely pulling their two-wheeled barouche toward the manor. Bathed in the light of a beaming, springtime sun, they danced past the hedgerows that grew along the property’s enclosing stone wall and up the familiar cobblestone approach.
Breathlessly, their passenger gazed from her window, clinging to her reticule. The landscape was vast and impressive, populated with meticulously placed shrubbery, spring flowers in full bloom and, in the center of the lawn, an ornate, Grecian fountain spurting forth its sparkling waters. It was just enough to distract her until the barouche pulled up to the front of the great Kingsley Manor.
At long last, the horses pulled to a stop. The driver stepped down and opened the carriage door, offering his hand to assist her. Accepting it with one slender, lace-gloved hand, she, too, stepped down, lifting her parasol high above her red curls and porcelain skin. After smoothing out her muslin gown, she raised her eyes toward the portico before her. She blushed, as the enchanting lord of the manor himself appeared to greet her.
Removing his top hat, he approached with a bow, and said …
“I regret to inform you Mr. and Mrs. Braden did not survive.”
Rhianna jerked upright to a sitting position, her heart racing and her palms sweaty. A glance to the far wall revealed the tracing of a moonlit escritoire that reminded her of where she was. The familiar dream had taken a turn for the worse.
Gradually she took control of her erratic breathing, as the bedroom that had become home the last few years seemed to wrap its arms around her. Some hours yet remained before the sun would rise, but though she was inclined to fall back into her bedcovers and pull the white linens up under her chin, she feared what surrendering to sleep would bring.
She decided to seek comfort from the one object that, as a child, brought her peace in a foreign land — the only piece of England she still had. With the house and those in it sleeping soundly around her, Rhianna swung her feet over the side of the bed, lit a taper, and carried it to her dressing table.
Taking a seat on the ivory, embroidered cushion mounted on a mahogany frame, she placed the taper before the mirror and opened one of the small drawers. Lifting the brooch in her fingers, she examined the gold trinket from all angles as she had many times before.
Of course, it was more than a familiar ornament. Rhianna was wholly intimate with it, knew every stone, every change of hue in each of the pearls, its oval center a window to the past. Indeed, as she examined the object — a going away present from her dear, mysterious English friend — she could still hear the sound of the impending carriage coming to take her away from the only world she had ever known.
Memories of the past held her captive for a time, but she at last returned the brooch to the drawer. Her home was here now, and despite the sadness that had loomed over Rhianna’s young life, her broken heart had healed by rooting itself, not in England, but in France.
Suddenly, raising her eyes to her reflection in the mirror, she was at once startled to see the likeness of her nine-year-old self looking back at her. Rhianna leapt to her feet as the same fair skin, red curls, and green eyes met her, but with the appearance and innocence of her younger years.
And with a blink, that young girl’s image was gone.
• • •
Lord Kingsley’s intention to reserve a room at a nearby inn was at once overthrown by the Vallières. It was quickly settled that the two weeks he intended to remain in France would be spent with them at the manoir.
During the course of the next several days, Rhianna recovered enough to speak with Lord Kingsley at length about the accident. She was glad when, finally, she could express her appreciation for his coming to France. To her consternation, however, as the shock of her parents’ death wore off, Rhianna discovered an unsettling truth: that other than said initial shock, she felt very little. This troubling find left her questioning her very humanness, and even many hours of meditation could not open her to forgive the coldness of her heart.
Despite a dark cloud of self-condemnation looming over her, Rhianna found speaking with Lord Kingsley a welcome respite. Always interested in the lives of those who resided in Kingsley Manor, she was eager to hear him speak of its mistress, Lydia — Lady Kingsley — and of their two children, Desmond and Audra. As the days continued to pass, Lord Kingsley transformed from the fictitious creature of her imagination to a real person — and a good-natured, sympathetic one at that. Rhianna soon hoped to learn from him, indeed, to emulate the apparent goodness in this man, who showed gracious attentiveness even to her own inconsequential account of life in France.
At dinner one evening, shortly after his arrival, Lord Kingsley made Rhianna an offer she could hardly refuse. Indeed, he told her it was an offer he always intended to make, but had hesitated for fear of overburdening her: If she wished, he would be glad to personally escort her back to Thornton, England. More than that, Guilford Kingsley completed his invitation by including a place to stay at his own Kingsley Manor.
“Kingsley Manor! Do I understand you correctly?” she asked across the table.
“For as long as you wish,” he told her, as a servant offered Philippe a clean fork to replace the one he had dropped to the floor.
Rhianna had not been to Thornton since she was a nine-year-old girl. Moreover, she was not devoid of a desire to return once again, though she quickly reproached herself for having such narrow-minded reasons as seeing her place of birth and staying at Kingsley Manor. After all, there was the matter of cleaning out her parents’ cottage to consider, though she was certain there would be nothing of sentimental value within. And, of course, as Lord Kingsley suggested, she may wish to pay her respects to the deceased.
“That is very generous,” Marquis Vallière said, followed by his wife’s echoing sentiments.
Soleil, the only one at the table who knew just how large an offer this was to Rhianna, mirrored her mother’s feelings and caught her friend’s hand under the
table with an excited squeeze.
“Lord Kingsley, I hardly know what to say,” Rhianna replied, setting her wineglass down on the table without taking a sip.
“You should seriously consider it,” Marquis Vallière encouraged. “After all, we are not going anywhere.”
“No, we are not,” Philippe said.
Rhianna understood his meaning at once, and was, in fact, the only one to understand him. Neither she nor Philippe had discussed his interrupted proposal from that fateful morning with anyone, nor had he broached the subject again with her.
Collecting herself, Rhianna tried not to be dazzled by the idea of living at Kingsley Manor and considered her life in France. Here was her home, and besides the lure of the manor, what did Thornton hold for her?
“Lord Kingsley, I do hope you will give me some time to think it over,” she said.
“Take all the time you need,” he answered. “The option is there, if you wish to accept.”
As the night wore on, Rhianna became increasingly aware that a fascination with returning to England was strong within her — not to mention the prospect of fulfilling her childhood dream of not only stepping foot in Kingsley Manor, but living there. Nevertheless, the notion of leaving France, where she had made both a home and a family, was a melancholy one. Moreover, there was Philippe’s confession of love to consider …
But the prospect of marrying Philippe frightened her terribly — and is that what one ought to feel after receiving a proposal from an agreeable gentleman? Rhianna suspected not, and her suspicions grew stronger as Soleil’s fascination with Armand grew daily. Of course, if she rejected Philippe, Rhianna could not help but wonder what she would do if Soleil were to marry. Under such circumstances, would she find reason to remain in France? Or, was marrying Philippe the only sensible option for a woman in her position? The Marquis and Marquise seemed to be very happy together; perhaps she could have something similar with Philippe. On the other hand, what could England possibly hold for her? And would she ever forgive herself if she did not go?