by Mary Balogh
***
Rachel wandered into the rose garden. She had to find her way more by touch than by sight, as no light from the house penetrated that far; hence she was sure of finding solitude there. There was the occasional wafting of cool air from somewhere-a harbinger of the approaching storm, she suspected. She should, of course, return to the ballroom as Algie had done. She had already missed the set she had promised to Lord Morrison. The next set, the supper dance, was engaged too, though she could not recall by whom and she could not look at her card because it was too dark. But the dance after supper she knew was engaged to the Marquess of Stanford.
But she would not dance any more that night. She simply could not face the necessity of smiling and chattering as if she had never a care in the world. And how was she to face that meeting with Lord Stanford? He had made it very clear earlier that afternoon that he was going to offer for her again this evening. Her answer was not in doubt. She had no decision to make. But she did not feel that she had the emotional strength this evening to face the embarrassment of saying no to a gentleman who seemed fully to expect the opposite. She did not believe she could behave with the required poise.
In reality she felt sick. It was true that the talk with Algie, which she had planned to postpone for at least two more days, had gone surprisingly well. It had gone far too well. She was feeling wretched enough that it would have been some comfort to be confronted by an angry, accusing young man. She should have been made to feel like some kind of monster. She should be smarting now from some blistering home truths. After all, the way she had treated him in the past few weeks had seemed uncomfortably like using him for her own ends.
Instead he had been gentle and understanding, and quite his usual affectionate self. He had not accused her of not knowing her own mind. He had not even expressed anger when he knew that she loved David. Dear Algie. She might have known that he would not create a nasty scene. Had she not always been able to turn to him with her problems and know that she would be comforted? Even this problem she had been able to bring to him. It had felt so good to tell him, to feel his hands firm on her shoulders, to be held against him, to be kissed. Strange! That was the only kiss of Algie's that she had enjoyed. That warm, sympathetic, brotherly kiss.
Rachel sighed, felt about her for the wrought-iron seat she knew was close by, and seated herself. The trouble was, she should not feel comforted. She did not deserve to feel good about herself at all. She had been very selfish in her relationship with Algie. She did not at all know the state of his feelings. Had she made him unhappy? Or was he perhaps relieved to find that after all he was not to be trapped into marrying her? She had always claimed to be his dear friend, yet she did not know this most important fact about him. But then, perhaps he had not intended her to know. Everyone had to have some secrets, even from his closest friend, he had said.
She must ask him, Rachel decided, the next time they met, if he were disappointed or not, if he had every truly wished to marry her. It would take a load off her mind to know that he was not brokenhearted over her defection.
The orchestra was playing a waltz. She had loved to waltz with Algie in London. And she thought of that one occasion when she had waltzed with David and found that he performed the dance quite as well as Algie.
David! Her pain became localized as a raw ache at the back of her throat. David. She had had her chance that morning. She had glimpsed heaven. For the space of a few minutes she had thought that all was to be well between them, that they were to marry. She had laid all her love at his feet. She had surrendered utterly to his embrace. She would have given all of herself to him there in the field if he had chosen to take her. There had been no thought of holding back.
And why now was she sitting here alone, that pain in her throat making even breathing an agony? Why was David not there with her as he had been a few weeks before? It was on just this seat she had been sitting when he had come to her that other time. The first time he had kissed her. Where was he now? Had he stayed away because of her? The popular theory at the house was that he must have been called away to a sick or dying parishioner. She was not so sure.
Rachel allowed her thoughts to return fully to the events of that morning for the first time since then. So far she had felt only the pain. Now she recalled the source of the pain-her realization that David had been willing to sacrifice all his principles, all his happiness with his chosen way of life, for her. He would never be happy living in a mansion close to London with a wife who spent his money on fashions and frivolity and her time on social pleasures. And he would be doing a job that had been found for him as a favor to his deceased godmother.
He would soon become desperately unhappy with such a life. She knew. She had, of course, not known David when such a life was the one he was used to. He was, after all, Lord Cardwell's brother. But that life would no longer suit him. David would lose his soul under such conditions. If she had accepted his proposal, she would have lived to see that smile, that look of inner peace behind his eyes, die away.
But he had been prepared to risk that for her sake.
She had been inclined to anger that morning. She had known immediately that he could do no such thing. And she blamed him for thinking that that was what she would want. Did he know her so little? Did he really consider her so shallow that she would accept him with his wealth and cheerfully watch him destroy himself?
When she had rejected him, she had been very angry. She had felt insulted rather than honored by such an offer. And was she still angry? He must have known what he was doing. David was not a man to act impulsively. He must have pondered and prayed much over his decision. And he had decided that she was more important to him than the kind of life in which he knew himself happy. He had laid a gift at her feet-the gift of his devotion, the gift of an inheritance which, on his own, he would have rejected. How could he know that the only gift she wanted from him was the gift of himself?
He had quite consciously made a great sacrifice for her sake. How could she be angry even if his decision had been misguided? She tried to see herself through David's eyes. He had known her in London, where she had lived a deliberately gay social life, given over to fashion and the pursuit of frivolity. And he had known her here, where she was still surrounded by gay young blades and bright young ladies, where every day was given over to some mindless delight. It was true that he had also seen her during the mornings reading to the elderly, telling stories to the children. But it must have looked as if that were novelty only, a very small part of her life of privilege.
Could she blame him for believing that she would not fit in with his life as it was? She would live at the vicarage, a smaller building than she had ever so much as spent a night at. There would be very few social activities with the people of her own class. She would have a husband who would be at home very little and would frequently be called from home even at night. And there would be very little money. Algie was generous in the salary he gave, she was almost sure. But she was equally sure that David spent the bulk of that money on everyone but himself.
Was he right? Would she find such a life as impossible as he would find life in that mansion in Richmond? It would not be easy. She knew that. She could see beyond the romance of marrying David and renouncing all her bright prospects for a country vicarage with the man she loved. And she knew that she would face many problems of adjustment.
But David was not right, for all that. She would be able to do it, Rachel knew. She was familiar with her present way of life, comfortable with it. But happy? No, she had not been a truly happy person since she had begun to realize that she was growing up and that certain things were expected of her as a lady and the daughter of an earl. She had learned to enjoy herself and to be at the center of activity and attention. But that did not equal happiness.
To be happy, she needed to be able to look inward and be satisfied that there was some substance, some meaning to her life. She had started that inward looking in the past few
weeks and she had begun to feed her soul. Even without David she felt that she would continue in the direction her life had begun to take. It was the only direction she could take. For however long she lived, she would be forced to live with herself. And how could she do that if she found that she could not look herself in the eye? She would have to live without mirrors-either physical or spiritual.
She had already changed far more than she had realized, in fact. She could not remember another occasion when the thought of participating in a ball, dancing, and talking and being admired had driven her outside to hide.
Rachel shivered as a gust of cool air rustled the plants around her. The rumble of thunder that followed sounded closer than before. And the sky had been lit up in the far distance for a few seconds before the thunder. She would have to go inside soon.
But she could not. Facing anyone at the ball was becoming a physical impossibility to her. She could not walk back through the doors into the noise and the lights and the heat and force a smile to her lips and a sparkle to her eyes. She could not dance. Her feet might as well be loaded down with leaden weights. And she could not face Lord Stanford. She could not cope with his proposal tonight. However cowardly and rag-mannered it was to run away, run she must.
Where could she go? Should she walk home across the fields and go to bed? The thought was attractive. And she did not fear the darkness of the fields, with which she was thoroughly familiar. But she did not fancy being alone during the storm. Storms did not usually alarm her, but she did not believe she would enjoy the fury of nature that night.
She wanted to go to David, but that was an absurd wish, of course. She had an almost amused mental image of herself knocking on the vicarage door and announcing that she had come for a visit. How lovely it would be, though, to sit inside that rather austere and quiet building, curled up on a sofa with her head on David's shoulder, just talking quietly while the storm raged around them. Rachel sighed.
She had another notion, almost as ridiculous. She wanted to visit one of the cottages, sit down inside, and just soak up the atmosphere of humble family life. It might not be impossible to accomplish. It was true that some of the families fussed a great deal when she arrived, as if she were some creature from another world. But many accepted her as they had all through her childhood and girlhood, and treated her with cheerful courtesy and even affection.
The only trouble with visiting any family now was that it must be late already. Only the idle rich could afford the energy expended on staying up until midnight and even beyond, someone had told her once. It was unlikely that she would find anyone still up. Should she try? If all the cottages were in darkness, then she would go home. She would probably still race the storm, which seemed to be moving over very slowly. If worse came to worst, she would just have her maid sleep in her room for company.
Rachel jumped resolutely to her feet. That was what she would do. Ten minutes later she was driving Algernon's gig away from the stables, having persuaded a doubtful and disapproving groom that it would be quite all right with Lord Rivers for her to do so. She had left with the man the message that she would see her family at home. She rather regretted the worry she would probably cause them, but there was no point in even considering going back to the house to give the message to a more official person, like her papa. She would never be allowed to leave alone, especially with a long-threatened storm on its way.
Lightning lit her way as the gig bounced its way over the rutted road, and thunder rumbled at her back.
Chapter 14
Most of the guests had moved back to the ballroom from the supper room long before the orchestra started to play again. The display through the long doors was too spectacular to be missed. Lightning flashed almost constantly, zigzagging in dazzling streaks across the sky, revealing trees and grass being bowed and tossed by the wind. Crashes of thunder came soon enough after the flashes to make it clear that the storm was close and coming ever closer.
More than one lady fortunate enough to have a husband or betrothed to cling to, clung quite shamelessly. Others huddled in groups for reassurance. Even as they watched, the rain swept down. There was no gentle beginning, no warning to anyone foolish enough to be outdoors that it was time to seek shelter, just a sudden and overwhelming downpour. Those who had to travel any distance after the ball was over began to wonder if the roads would be passable. Perhaps they would have to impose on the hospitality of Lord Rivers for the night.
Algernon entered the ballroom from the direction of the main hall. He was looking quite thoroughly disheveled, his normally somewhat unruly fair hair completely wild. Fortunately, his coat was dry. He had reached the house before the heavens opened. He looked around him and made his way to where Lord and Lady Edgeley were standing, seemingly uninterested in the natural fireworks display proceeding beyond the windows. He spoke quietly to them and smiled before turning away and looking around again.
He saw the object of his search almost immediately as Celia appeared in the doorway, her face looking drawn and somewhat frightened. Algernon hurried toward her and took one of her hands in his.
"You need worry no longer, Miss Barnes," he said, squeezing the hand he held. "The foolish girl has gone home."
"Gone home?" said Celia. "You mean to Oakland? Alone? And in this storm?"
"Yes to the first two questions," he said with a slight smile. "But it seems she left quite a while ago with my gig. She will have arrived safely home before the wind really got up, and certainly before this rain. She will be quite safe. There is a houseful of servants to keep her company."
Celia looked uncomprehending. "But why would she do such a thing?" she asked. "She was vastly looking forward to this ball. She was in high spirits-even for Rachel-earlier this evening. And she seemed delighted today by the arrival of Lord Stanford. It is unlike Rachel not to honor her commitment to her partners."
Algernon looked down at her, his smile no longer in place. "I think I know the reason," he said. "Rache told me earlier this evening that she does not wish our betrothal to become official after all."
"She what?" Celia stared blankly at him.
"Please excuse me for a minute, ma'am," he said. "I must see if the orchestra is willing to play some lively tune so that we may start the dancing again. I shall be back to claim our dance."
But when he returned to her side a few minutes later, Algernon did not immediately lead her into a set.
"Would you care to find somewhere quiet to sit and talk?" he asked. "After the excitement of tearing all over the house for the last half-hour looking for Rache, you probably feel more like resting than dancing."
"Yes," Celia said, eyeing two empty chairs close to the door.
But Algernon laid her hand on his arm and led her from the room into the main hall. It was flooded with light. Even the normally shadowed alcoves had been hung with branches of candles. He led Celia into the library and seated her at the fireplace. He did not light any candles in the room but left the door wide open for the sake of light and a measure of propriety.
"I am sorry about you and Rachel," Celia said hesitantly. "I do not understand it. You seem so well-suited. Are you sure that it is not all some quarrel that will be set to rights tomorrow?"
"Yes, I am sure," he said quietly, seating himself in a chair at the opposite side of the fireplace. "Rache was quite clear on that point."
"Is it Lord Stanford?" she asked hesitantly. "But I was so sure that Rachel does not really care for him."
"No, I think he has nothing to do with her decision," Algernon said.
Celia stared into the shadows. She could not see his face clearly, though flashes of lightning revealed that he was looking at her. "I am sorry," she said. "The evening has been ruined for you."
"Not really," he said. "Rache and I are very dear friends. Always have been. But I think it is probably better that it remain that way. I am not sure that marriage would be wise for us."
"But you love each other," Celia blurted, he
r eyes wide.
"Yes," he admitted, "we do. Like brother and sister. Or perhaps somewhat more than the average brother and sister. But not like husband and wife."
Celia said nothing for a while. Her hands twisted in her lap. "But you agreed to become betrothed," she said, "a mere few weeks ago."
"Foolish, is it not?" Algernon said gently. "I remember Rache when she was ten years old and all skinny arms and legs and eager eyes. I knew then that she was very dear to me. Oh, I felt very superior and protective with a year of university behind me, of course. But that affection has never faded. Or hers for me. Under the circumstances I suppose it was natural for several people to assume that we would marry one day. But deep and lasting affection is not necessarily the same emotion as the love one hopes to have for a spouse. Since our, er, unofficial betrothal, we have both discovered persons who would be far more suitable partners."
Algernon watched quietly from the shadows as her eyes widened again and her face took on comprehension. "Rachel loves someone else?" she asked. "But that cannot be. Who?"
"The Reverend David Gower, it would seem," Algernon said.
Celia stared. "She is my closest friend," she said eventually. "How is it that I have not noticed?"
"I think perhaps because she has been trying to hide the fact even from herself," Algernon said. "I was taken totally by surprise too, and usually I know what is going on in Rache's mind. We are close friends."
"Are they to marry?" Celia asked.
"When I asked the same question, she told me merely that David will be leaving here soon after all the guests have gone," Algernon said. "I take it there is to be no marriage."
"No, they would not suit," Celia said. Then Algernon watched as a frown drew her brows together. She stared down at her hands, not speaking for a long while. "What a foolish thing to say," she continued. "Of course. But of course. He is what has been missing from Rachel's life for as long as I have known her. Rachel has always needed a cause, you know. Yes, Mr. Gower is just the sort of man to whom she would attach herself. With great devotion. And for life. But they are not to marry?"