VIII
Leaving our horse and carriage under the shade of the trees, we started across the brownish-gray moor, walking slowly, moving down sloping ground, climbing over occasional boulders, large gray stones lightly streaked with bronze and green. There was a light breeze, and the short, stiff grass rustled, whispering, while above the sky arched an endless blue, pale and pure. We could smell the pungent moor smells of damp earth and dust, of rock and root and grass mixed with the tangy smell of salt. The landscape was wild, primitive, savage grandeur surrounding us, swallowing us up.
“How far is this secret waterfall?” Brence inquired.
“At least another mile. There’s a small valley fed by the spring, and the grass is greener there. There are mossy banks covered with tiny purple wildflowers and huge gray rocks, much larger than these. It’s not a large waterfall, but it’s lovely.”
“You’re quite attached to these moors, aren’t you?”
“I love them. They—they seem to speak to me. They make me want to dance. I suppose you think that’s foolish.”
“I think it’s delightful. You never fail to intrigue me, Mary Ellen. Sometimes I wonder what the final shape will be.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re clay, my dear, beautiful clay, malleable, not yet fully formed, not yet baked in the kiln of life. One moment you’re innocent, expectant, so very young and vulnerable, and the next moment you’re sad, serious, wise beyond your years. The woman is there inside the girl, and I’ve a feeling she’ll be a magnificent creature.”
“Indeed?”
“I had a glimpse of her last night when you were dancing.”
“That wasn’t me, not really. That was just music and mood and a part I played.”
“You played it well. You were superb.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve told me about your dancing, of course, but I never realized you were so accomplished.”
“Last night wasn’t really dancing—I mean, it wasn’t ballet. All the gypsy dances I learned are merely for amusement. It’s ballet that I love. So many years of study—” I paused, remembering the sweat and the aching muscles, the burning pain required to make a light, graceful movement seem light and graceful.
“You had your heart set on studying with this Russian woman in London, didn’t you? What was her name?”
“Madame Olga. The chance to study with her meant … it meant everything. She takes only a few students, and only those who have already made great progress. I’d never have been accepted had Giovanni not written to her, recommending me. Ballet was going to be my life—”
“Was?”
“And then I met you.”
“Then you met me,” he said.
His voice was quiet, reflective. His mood was pleasant, attentive, as casually affectionate as ever, yet I sensed a tension that hadn’t been there before. Something in the set of his jaw, the tight curve of his mouth suggested a steely determination and, at the same time, a curious reluctance. I was sure that he was going to declare himself today, ask me to marry him, and that wouldn’t come easy to a man like Brence Stephens.
He walked beside me with a long, casual stride, wearing a pair of shiny black knee boots, snug black breeches, and a loose white silk shirt opened at the throat, the long sleeves full, billowing slightly in the breeze. His hair was windblown, and his dark brown eyes were moody, contemplating inner visions I could only guess at.
We walked for several minutes in silence, moving down another gentle slope. As we drew nearer the underground springs the grass began to lose its brownish-gray hue, gradually turning a dusty jade green. The ground became softer, spongy underfoot, and there were many more boulders now, huge, hulking stones of varying shapes. Patches of wildflowers began to appear, pale purple, purple-blue, deep royal purple, white. It was a strange, mysterious place that cast a peculiar spell. I fancied the ghosts of the Druids who had once dwelled here watched us as we passed, invisible specters that whispered in faint voices.
I wore a dark blue frock with a full, flaring skirt. As I walked the skirt billowed, revealing glimpses of the ruffled white petticoats beneath, and my hair tumbled about my shoulders in loose waves. I was filled with a heady anticipation, but there was apprehension as well. What if I disappointed him when he finally took me into his arms and kissed me? What if I were awkward and gauche? I was so very inexperienced, knew so little about these matters despite all my worldly reading. I wished that I were indeed the seductive temptress of the dance, instead of a nervous girl unsure of herself.
“Your maid looked upset when I called for you,” Brence remarked.
“She was. She’s leaving for Devon tomorrow, and she’s reluctant about leaving me alone.”
“Oh?”
“She didn’t plan to join her sister until—until things were settled, but she received another letter. Her sister’s going to take a short trip and wants Fanny to come early so she can look after the cottage. Fanny didn’t want to, but I insisted. There’s really no reason for her to stay.”
“So you’ll be all alone in the house.”
“For at least three more weeks. Then Chapman will foreclose and all the furnishings will be sold at public auction. I—I don’t know what I’ll do then.”
“You’re not to worry, Mary Ellen.”
He’d said that before, and it was very comforting. Brence was going to take care of me. What did it matter if the house was lost, the furnishings sold to strangers? We would be leaving Cornwall, sharing a bright new future together. The thought was elating. I felt that glorious rush of happiness, aglow inside, shimmering, making me light-headed.
Surrounded by boulders as large as houses, I led the way along the narrow path that twisted among them, Brence following patiently behind. The sound of splashing water echoed among the stones, and there was the smell of moss and mud. The stream was a glittering silver ribbon that appeared and disappeared. We caught glimpses of it as we followed the path that finally led into the small clearing I remembered so well. A thin waterfall tumbled over the face of a rough gray boulder, branching into three small streams that fell into a pool with mossy banks. An oak tree spread shadows over the ground, and the purple wildflowers grew in profusion.
“So this is the famous waterfall,” Brence said.
“I told you it wasn’t large. It’s lovely, though.”
“Lovely,” he said, but he was not looking at the waterfall.
“I used to come here as a child. I used to sit on that rock by the pool and lose myself in daydreams.”
“What did you dream?”
“I dreamed I belonged. I dreamed everyone liked me, that I was pretty instead of plain, that I had loving, respectable parents and a definite place in the scheme of things.”
“You must have been a sad child.”
“Not sad, at least not often. Defiant, feisty, proud, especially when the other children taunted me. My aunt loved me inordinately, and because she loved me so she didn’t hold too tightly. She let me roam wild, gave me a great deal of freedom.”
I moved over to the flat gray rock by the water and sat down, spreading out my blue skirt. Brence came to stand behind me, and I tried not to tremble. The back of my head was level with his chest. He rested his hands on my shoulders, fingers gently squeezing my flesh. I could see our reflections in the pool, silvery, shimmering, distorted by the ripples. Several moments passed in silence, and then Brence lifted my hair and stroked the nape of my neck.
“And what are you dreaming of now?” he murmured.
“I—I’d rather not say.”
“You’re trembling.”
“I can’t help it. I wish I were older. I wish I didn’t feel so—so nervous.”
“There’s no need to be nervous, Mary Ellen.”
“I know.”
“What a bewitching child you are. Child, woman, a bewitching combination of the two. The moment I laid eyes on you, I knew this was meant to be. I’ve tried very hard not
to fall in love with you.”
He continued to stroke the nape of my neck. A delicious languor began to swell inside, spreading through me with a prickling sensation, glorious torment that grew and grew.
“I never meant to fall in love with you. There’s no place in my life for love just now. I have things to accomplish, things to achieve, and any kind of attachment could only be a distraction. I’ve fought it. I’ve tried to deny it. You’ve bewitched me, Mary Ellen.”
I watched the shimmering reflections in the water, listening to that deep, melodious voice that seemed to caress me just as his hands caressed, and I turned, looking up into his eyes. They were dark, glowing with need, with warmth. His lips parted, curving into a lovely smile. He pulled me to my feet, drawing me into his arms. How many times had I dreamed of this moment?
“I should have left Cornwall immediately,” he said. “I should have known what would happen. I love you. I’ve never loved before. I’ve had many women, and I enjoyed each one, but none of them meant anything to me. They were mere diversions. Would that you could be merely a diversion, too.”
His arms went around my waist, clasping me loosely against him, his head tilted to one side as he peered down into my eyes. My heart seemed to stop beating, and the languor inside turned into an ache, the torment unendurable, unendurably sweet. I rested my palms on his shoulders and looked up at him and held my breath, afraid to breathe, afraid reality would dissolve into a hazy blur and I would awake to discover that this, too, was a dream.
“I love you, Mary Ellen. I never thought I’d say those words.”
“I—I’ve waited.”
“If only you weren’t so young. If only you weren’t so damned vulnerable. You’ve never known a man, have you?”
I shook my head.
“Of course you haven’t. You’ve probably never been kissed.”
“Not—not really. There were schoolboys at the academy dances. They used to take me into the gardens. One of them—one of them tried to kiss me, but I didn’t let him.”
“I’ll bet you slapped his face.”
“Hard,” I said.
Brence chuckled, and then he sighed, and then his arms drew me closer and he leaned down until his lips were almost touching mine.
“I’m glad I’m the first,” he crooned.
His mouth covered mine, moist, firm, lightly brushing at first, skin caressing skin with gentle pressure. I tilted my head back and he held my waist with one arm. His lips pressed mine, probing, demanding response. As the ache spread into the marrow of my bones and sensations burst into life, I slid my arms around his back, palms rubbing soft silk, feeling the warm skin beneath the cloth, resting on his shoulders and then clinging desperately as he parted my lips with his. I seemed to be drowning in sensation as he prolonged the splendid torture.
He drew his head back, and I felt dizzy, and would surely have fallen had he not clasped me. Smiling, brown eyes glowing, dark with desire, he kissed my shoulder, the curve of my throat, and I tried to control my breathing, wanting to cry out as the rapturous sensations possessed me. Brence sank to his knees, drawing me down with him, lowering me onto the mossy bank. The waterfall splattered and splashed, making bright music, and the scent of the wildflowers was a heady perfume as he slipped his hands inside my bodice, pulling it down until my breasts sprang free. He held them with his hands, fingers encircling the soft mounds of flesh, touching, caressing.
I tensed. In spite of myself, my need, I grew rigid, suddenly possessed with the age-old fear born into every woman. I tried to sit up. He shoved me back down, and I cried out, but he smothered my cry with his lips, kissing me with an urgency that communicated itself to me, became my own, and I held him to me, trembling beneath him as his hands lifted my skirts. He raised himself up on one elbow to adjust his own clothing, and then he planted his knees between my legs and spread them by gently touching my thighs.
“There’ll be pain, Mary Ellen. Only a little.”
“This—this isn’t—”
“Relax,” he ordered.
“No. Please. I—I didn’t intend—”
The shock of his entry galvanized me, and I struggled wildly, in vain. He pinioned me to the ground with the weight of his body, probing deeper with firm control, meeting the resisting membrane, pressing against it, driving through it with a brutal thrust that caused me to cry out. The pain burned for only a moment and then, inexplicably, it melted into pleasure, pleasure such as I had never imagined possible. My flesh was velvet, softly shredding as that hard warmth caressed and filled, lifting me into an incredible realm of feeling. I spiraled to dizzying heights, each level more exhilarating than the one before, and then, for one brief moment, I hung suspended, clinging to him in wild desperation as we swayed in space and then fell hurtling into a void of shattering ecstasy.
As we drove back over the lonely road toward Gray-stone Manor, Brence was silent and remote. The carriage bowled along, wheels spinning, the horse moving at a steady clip. I was silent, too, holding a bouquet of purple wildflowers in my lap. My blue skirt was stained with moss, as were the petticoats beneath, and I still felt the radiant glow that was the aftermath of love. Brence had taken me a second time, and there had been no pain, only bliss. He had been gentle, considerate, tender, kissing every part of my body. It was only as we walked back across the moors that he grew remote, drawing into himself.
The remoteness was merely one part of his nature, something I would have to learn to live with. It made the charm, the engaging smile, the tenderness all the more effective in contrast. I toyed with the wildflowers, thinking about what had happened. I had finally crossed the last threshold into womanhood, leaving the girl behind. There was a new wisdom, a new maturity, and I would never again see things in quite the same way. My love for Brence was even stronger, an integral part of me now, and the joy inside was shimmering beauty.
A man on horseback appeared in the distance, riding toward us, and as he drew nearer, I recognized the corduroy jacket, the red-bronze hair. John Chapman drew his horse over to the side of the road and stopped, watching us approach. His face was a brutal mask, his gray-green eyes blazing as we drove past him. Brence gave no sign that he had even seen him. I promptly dismissed John Chapman from my mind. He was unimportant. I was going to marry Brence Stephens. Though he hadn’t asked me to this afternoon as I had believed he would, I felt that after the intimacy we had shared the question itself was a mere formality.
IX
The gardens were shabby and overgrown, but there was still a profusion of roses, large, velvety smooth, salmon pink with a faint blush of gold, and white, pale and lovely. Selecting those with the longest stems, I clipped carefully and removed all the thorns before placing them in the wide, shallow basket that swung from my arm. Today was going to be a very special day, I sensed, and I wanted everything to look perfect. A vase of roses would brighten up the parlor. I had the feeling I would remember today for the rest of my life, and I wanted to be sure of a proper setting for the occasion.
Two weeks had passed since our afternoon on the moors, and Brence hadn’t once mentioned marriage, but for the past three or four days he had been restless, unusually moody, a great deal on his mind. Last night, before he left, he had looked at me for a long time as though he were trying to make some kind of decision, and finally he had sighed and told me he would be here early this afternoon. I knew it was almost time for him to leave Cornwall, and there was just enough time for us to marry and have a brief honeymoon in London before he would take his post in Germany to begin his career in the diplomatic service.
I was married to him already in my heart. With Fanny gone, Brence came to the house each day, bringing food and wine. No longer did we roam all over the countryside, exploring. With the exception of an occasional stroll on the beach nearby, we stayed inside. I prepared the food he brought, and we ate, we talked, and, as the afternoon waned, we went upstairs to my bedroom and made love until the room was dark and moonlight streamed throu
gh the windows and the cool night air caused the curtains to rustle and stir. I treasured each touch, each caress, and I returned them with a fervor that matched his own.
It didn’t seem possible that my love for him could have grown, but it had. Each day it grew stronger and stronger until it seemed there was nothing but this joyous feeling that dominated every waking moment and became glorious dreams when I slept. I belonged to him heart and soul, and he belonged to me. How wonderful it was just to watch him as he sat silently in the parlor, brow creased in a frown, and how wonderful to rub the frown away with my fingertips and stroke his cheek, rub my thumb over the smooth curve of his lower lip, teasing him out of his mood and driving away his private demon with skill that came naturally to me.
How wonderful to linger in his arms after love, to watch the moonbeams making silvery patterns on the ceiling and feel those strong arms holding me close, to rest my cheek on his chest and feel his heart beat and revel in the warmth of him, the smell of skin and sweat and hair. As the room grew cooler, as the curtains billowed like silken sails, what delight to run my fingernails lightly over his naked ribs and feel him stir, see him smile lazily before he turned and rolled heavily atop me and took possession of me once more, to lead me into that paradise the two of us shared and would go on sharing for the rest of our lives.
How lost, how alone I felt when finally he climbed out of bed and began to dress. Love meant everything to me, but in my new wisdom I realized that it was different for men. Men were preoccupied with making a living, making a name for themselves, succeeding, and love for them was a separate entity to be savored only when time permitted. I knew that Brence was concerned about his new career, that his career would always take priority. I understood and accepted it. I would be there to aid him, to encourage him, and when he needed the diversion of love I would open my arms and, for a while, make him forget everything else.
Now, basket filled with roses, I slipped the clippers into the pocket of my skirt and went inside. The front foyer looked bleak and bare with all its finery stripped away. The long Sheraton table was gone, as was the blue and gray Aubusson carpet with its pink floral patterns. All the fine things that had been sold in order to pay for my schooling and my ballet lessons and a magnificent wardrobe that would make the other girls envy me. The wardrobe, my books, and a few personal effects would be all I would take with me.
Dare to Love Page 6