Dawn in My Heart

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Part of her wanted to crow over him now that his closest ally was gone. Perhaps he needed to see who was in charge.

  She entered his room and had her first surprise. Although he was abed, his aspect was already so much different from when the fever had left him. His face was cleanly shaven, his hair neatly combed, but it went deeper than that. As he smiled at her in welcome, she realized she had never seen quite such a genuine smile on his face.

  His face looked young and open—there was no hint of the irony or mockery it had habitually contained.

  “Thank you for taking pity on me and agreeing to read to me for a bit.”

  She sat down, the book she had brought in her lap. “Well, don’t expect a long reading of the Scriptures,” she snapped. “I’m in the middle of Waverley and if you wish to hear something else, you shall have to read it for yourself.”

  He chuckled. “Read anything you wish. I’d rather listen to your voice.”

  She glanced at him at that, but at the warm look in his eyes, she quickly opened the book to her bookmark and began to read.

  “Chapter Eight…”

  She didn’t stop until she had finished the chapter. Despite her reluctance to read to him, she had gotten caught up in the story and forgotten Tertius’s presence. He hadn’t spoken or made any sound to distract her.

  She placed the book upon the night table and poured herself a drink of water, realizing how dry her throat had become.

  “Why don’t I ring for some tea?” he asked, his hand already on the bellpull.

  “If you wish,” she said, eyeing him warily as she placed the glass back on the table.

  “You have a nice reading voice.”

  “I’m sure it’s not as inspired as Althea’s,” she couldn’t help commenting.

  “I read Waverley when it first came out last year.”

  “So did I,” she retorted, “but since I didn’t have time to pack my books, and your library here seems not to have had any new additions for at least a century, I’ve had to content myself with rereading those few books I did bring.”

  An awkward silence fell as they both thought of the reasons she had been brought there.

  “I don’t remember the last time I was here at Penuel Hall,” he remarked. “I daresay my father rarely visits.”

  When she said nothing, he cleared his throat. “Did I hurt you very much…that night?”

  She stared at him, hardly believing what she heard. How dared he bring up that night? All the pain, the humiliation, the absolute terror he’d put her through came rushing back as if it were happening all over again.

  Without a word, she stood, the book falling with a thump to the floor, unheeded by her. She ran from the room, ignoring his “Gillian—”

  The next evening as she looked in vain for her book, Nigel again appeared at her door. “If you would be so good and come read to the master again, he would be most grateful.”

  That’s where she’d left the book! Swallowing her exasperation, she finally decided to fetch her book.

  She’d retrieve it and leave straightaway, showing him by her action that he no longer had the power to frighten her.

  But when she entered the room, and glanced toward the table for the book, refusing to look toward the bed, she heard Tertius’s voice. “Good evening, Gillian.”

  She looked at him reluctantly. There in his hands was her book. She’d have to approach his bed to retrieve it.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “I left my book here last night,” she stammered, her hands clasped in front of her. She felt a vast space separating the two of them, and the only way to retrieve her book was to cross it. Shaking aside the ridiculous thought, she walked boldly to his bedside and reached out her hand for the book.

  Before he gave it to her, he said, “Forgive me, Gillian, for hurting you that…night—and for bringing up a painful subject. All I can say is that I wasn’t myself that night. I was so angry to think I had been made a fool of…I wasn’t capable of thinking of anyone but myself at the time.”

  She said nothing, fighting with herself not to yield to his gentle tone. Did he think a simple apology would wipe away that night of horror and shame? Would it wipe away the months of solitude and utter separation from every familiar face?

  She must have taken a move backward, which she wasn’t even aware of, for he said suddenly, “Please don’t leave. Will you read to me some more, if it’s not too tedious for you?”

  He handed her the book, leaving the choice up to her. She took it from him and found herself sitting back down on the chair instead of leaving the room as she’d intended.

  Well, no matter, she told herself, she was only there to read the story. She had wanted to continue it that evening and whether in this room, or another, made little difference.

  When she’d finished her chapter, he said, “Would you like to continue?”

  “No, I must go back down.” But she didn’t rise from her chair immediately.

  “I’d like to ask you something,” he began, “but find myself oddly hesitant at the thought for fear you’ll get up and leave before hearing me out.”

  “What do you want?” Suddenly she was nervous. Did he somehow know of her correspondence with Gerrit? If he did, what would he do this time? Kill her?

  He glanced down at his hands lying on the coverlet. “I’d like to ask you…if—” he faltered then recommenced “—if you think it might be possible, during my recuperation, to pretend that we’d never met until this moment and imagine how it might go this time around?”

  The question was so different from what she’d been thinking that she slumped in relief. Then she realized what he was asking. “That we’d never met?” She made a sound of disbelief.

  He glanced at her ruefully. “I was afraid you’d react that way.”

  “Well, you must agree it would take a stretch of the imagination.”

  “Perhaps. But what if it were so?” he said. “What if you and I had met at a dance or assembly? Let’s say it wasn’t even in London, but here in the West Riding.”

  Despite the absurdity of the game, she said, “It could have been at someone’s country house.”

  He leaned back against his pillows, fingers to his lips, and mused aloud, “It was not even during the season, but at a local squire’s ball. I had almost decided not to go, the squire was known to be tedious…”

  She added, intrigued by the game, “And I almost didn’t attend, but a friend begged me to accompany her.”

  “It was when you came in, a few minutes after the company was gathered, that I spotted you across the room. I interrupted my conversation with my host—”

  A smile tugged at her mouth. “The tedious squire.”

  “The tedious squire.” He smiled back. “I thought to myself as I saw you, ‘what a pretty brunette. I haven’t seen her before.’”

  “I was visiting from London,” she added, her imagination taking hold.

  “I knew then that I wanted an introduction.”

  “I didn’t notice you right away,” she was quick to point out.

  He waited, a dark eyebrow upraised.

  She smoothed back a curl behind her ear. “There were so many people present that night,” she explained. “My friend introduced me to her many acquaintances. It was hard to remember everyone’s name.”

  “But I was persistent. I pressed through the crowd surrounding you and gained an introduction through our host.”

  “The tedious squire—” they both said at the same time and then laughed.

  Before she could rein in her laughter, he went on, “I asked you for the allemande.”

  “I hesitated,” she replied, immediately caught up again in the scenario. It was like reading a romantic novel. “You didn’t seem like a gentleman I’d care to know,” she added, mixing fact with fiction, as she remembered her own initial reaction to him.

  “What was your impression?” he asked her, as if sensing that somewhere along the way t
hey had passed from fantasy to reality.

  “Cold and arrogant.”

  “At least you didn’t say ‘too old,’” he said wryly.

  “I could have thought it but been too polite to say it,” she countered.

  “True.” He laughed, his head thrown back against the pillow. She noticed the fine line of his jaw and tendons in his neck as her gaze traveled down to the open collar of his white nightshirt.

  His laugh was a hearty laugh, like that of a man enjoying himself thoroughly. She’d never seen him laugh like that. His sense of humor had always struck her as tinged with mockery, either self-directed or directed at those around him and always restrained.

  His laughter ended and he met her eyes. The humor still lit his face as he continued looking at her.

  She rose, realizing how comfortable she was beginning to feel with him again. She wouldn’t let herself be fooled by him a second time.

  “I must go.”

  “Must you?” he asked softly.

  “Yes,” she said firmly, remembering to take the book with her this time.

  She was destined to hear that laughter again in the days and weeks that followed.

  As spring came to the West Riding, Gillian was amazed at the progress in Tertius. He refused to stay in bed, but was soon dressed and coming downstairs before his legs could hold him. Before long, he was walking outside. After his first venture outside, he asked her to accompany him on his walks.

  “In case I fall on the moors and no one knows where to look for me,” he quipped.

  “Very well, but if anything happens to you, I can’t be held accountable. The moors are muddy now. I’m sure a physician would say you are mad to go out so soon.”

  “Since it wasn’t a physician who was responsible for my recovery, I think I can dispense with whatever advice he would give.”

  “And whom do you credit with your recovery?” she asked.

  “Jesus,” he replied simply.

  “He decided you were worthy of healing?” she challenged.

  “He saw my unworthiness and gave me life in spite of it.”

  “Soon you’ll be taking holy orders, the way you talk,” she said with a light laugh, though she didn’t see the humor of it at all.

  On Sunday morning, Tertius appeared at the breakfast table dressed in a dark green cutaway coat, buckskin trousers and starched cravat. Gillian had to restrain herself from staring at him. He looked as if he’d walked in off a London street. She was surprised at how quickly he was regaining his strength.

  “You appear fitted out for a stroll down Bond Street this morning,” she told him dryly, buttering her piece of toast.

  “I am going to church. Care to join me?”

  She did stare at him then, the bread halfway to her mouth.

  “I didn’t know you attended services regularly,” she said at last.

  “I didn’t. I had become quite deficient of late. But that is something I am about to remedy. So,” he said, unfolding his napkin, “would you care to come along? I’ve already given orders for the carriage to be brought round.”

  She remembered herself then. “No, thank you. A Sunday service in a third-rate parish with a third-rate curate does not appeal to me.”

  “A pity.” He turned his attention to his plate. She watched him dig into his ham and eggs. He ate with relish, and she remembered how abstemious he used to be at the table.

  “You seem to have regained your appetite.”

  He looked up and smiled, and she had to harden herself against that open smile—it almost made him look boyish.

  “Yes, thank God. He has healed me so completely I am able to eat anything. It wasn’t too many weeks ago everything used to disagree with me.”

  He returned to his food, and Gillian quickly finished her tea, no longer having an appetite for what remained on her plate. She excused herself and left him to his breakfast.

  She watched him from her window when he departed toward the village. A part of her felt resentful at being left behind, which she knew, of course, was nonsense. She reminded herself he was still her jailer. His very invitation to church implied she could only come and go at his pleasure.

  She would show him. Tomorrow she would take the carriage to the market town in the valley.

  When they met at luncheon, he came into the dark-paneled dining room, rubbing his hands together. “Well, what has our dear cook prepared for us this day?”

  “Our dear Mrs. Mudgeon has most likely prepared the usual fare of boiled mutton and potatoes. Her repertoire does not seem to extend to anything beyond that.”

  He laughed and spoke a few words to Harold, who served them.

  “I suppose we really should see about increasing the staff if we are to continue here a few weeks more.”

  “We?”

  He looked at her seriously. “I hope you will use your full prerogative as mistress of this hall to order what you see fit.”

  “That’s rich, for someone who left me without a farthing,” she commented, taking a bite of her boiled mutton.

  “I’m sorry. I had no right. I shall rectify that immediately. Now, what about hiring a housekeeper?”

  “You may do whatever you like. I have no interest in the day-to-day running of this estate.”

  “Very well.” Again her words seemed to have no effect. He ate heartily for the next several minutes, and then sat back as the old servant cleared away the plates and brought the pudding.

  “Have you been to the village church?” he asked her.

  “The first Sunday,” she replied.

  “You haven’t returned?”

  “No.” She took a careful bite of the pudding.

  “Why not?”

  “I found the dank church depressing, the curate a young, underfed-looking man with a shabby appearance, and the local congregation composed mostly of very poor laborers.” She did not add that the main reason was the way everyone looked at her as if she came from some strange land.

  “The curate is very young,” he conceded. “The rector has two other livings, so he has put this young man in charge of this parish, the smallest of the three.

  “He’s a thoughtful young man,” he added. “His bent is evangelical.”

  Gillian made a sign of disdain. “Low church. At least he’s not a Methodist like your sister.”

  “No, he’s not Methodist, but his thinking is very much like Althea’s. I’ve invited him here to visit.”

  “You what?” She wrinkled her nose, determined to be disagreeable. “Doesn’t he have a lot of young brats?”

  He smiled faintly. “Yes, my father would be envious. He has four children. His wife seems a very nice lady, well educated and modest. She must be lonely in a little village like this. She is from Leeds.”

  “You certainly discovered a lot about them in one morning.”

  “I merely asked—and listened.”

  “Well, do as you please. I’ll endeavor to be out that afternoon. By the by, I shall be going into town tomorrow, if I may have use of the coach.”

  “Of course. Shopping?”

  “With no money?” she asked caustically.

  “I’ll give you money as soon as luncheon is over.”

  She looked away, reluctant all of a sudden to take money from him when she knew it would be used to help her escape from him. Why the sudden scruples, she wondered. Wasn’t she going to pawn the jewels he’d given her?

  She had a right to that money, she argued to herself. Hadn’t he taken control of her whole fortune and left her virtually penniless? she countered, jabbing at her pudding.

  “It looks to be a beautiful afternoon,” he commented with a glance toward the window. “Would you care to come for a walk upon the moors this afternoon?”

  “No, thank you,” she answered, her mouth drawn tight into a prim little line.

  They ate in silence again. When the last dishes were cleared away and right before Gillian stood from her chair, Tertius said, “I was thinking of do
ing a little entertaining.”

  She finished patting her mouth with her napkin and laid it down on the table. “You mean with the curate?”

  “No, I was thinking more along the lines of a dinner party. We could invite the local families and maybe have a little dancing afterward.”

  “By all means. Let us invite all the gentry, along with the curate and his sniveling brats. It sounds delightful. A bunch of country squires and their disapproving wives who have no conversation.”

  “I thought you might enjoy some company after the long, solitary winter.”

  She rose. “I’ve grown to enjoy my own company. But by all means, plan your little party. It’s your house, after all, and I am merely your chattel.”

  Tertius sighed after she’d closed the door behind her.

  That afternoon, he went for his walk alone. As soon as he’d left the ancient hall and its oppressive atmosphere, he felt better.

  It was the end of March, but the days were already balmy and the grass a deep-hued green. When he left the stone-fenced pastures behind him and began to climb a worn path toward the moors, his spirits lifted. The heather was still brown and lifeless on the moorland. Soon the path disappeared and he walked through the ankle-deep plants.

  He wanted to rebuild his strength quickly. It sometimes seemed as if he’d wasted half his life and now he had much to make up for. He knew the Lord wanted him to exercise patience, but part of him wanted to soar now that he knew the truth.

  The blue sky above him reflected the expansiveness of his soul. He hummed a few bars of a hymn Althea had begun to teach him. The heavens truly declared the glory of God—and he had been too blind before to see it.

  How he wished Althea had stayed a while longer. He had gleaned so much from her knowledge of the Scriptures. He still read voraciously but felt he needed someone to teach him. Althea had promised to introduce him to those at the mission once he returned to London.

  He stood on a rise, which led to some rocky peaks farther up. He didn’t feel strong enough yet to attempt the climb. The stones were great broken, sharp-edged slabs, which reminded him of a giant pair of Ten Commandment tablets hurled down and smashed against the earth, to lie in a jagged mound. Between and around them grew the stubby brown heather.