by Mary Balogh
“Did you bring your painting things with you?” he asked her at last, touching his fingers first to her chin so that she would turn her head.
Yes, she told him.
“But you have not used them since you were at Bowden?” he asked.
No, she had not.
“Why not?” he asked.
I, she told him with her hands and her whole body and with the bright smile she had used in London, have been too busy enjoying myself to think of painting.
“Yes,” he said, “I know you have been busy enjoying yourself. But painting is important to you, Emmy.”
Yes, she admitted after a few moments, with obvious reluctance.
“Enjoyment for the sake of itself becomes less enjoyable as time goes on,” he said.
She frowned in incomprehension.
“You would not enjoy that life forever,” he told her.
She admitted the truth of that only by directing her eyes downward. He left her to her thoughts for a while—but he had to persist. He had the uncomfortable feeling that his violation of her body had jolted her out of the world she had created from her own silence. It had been a happy world for which she had found no comparable substitute. If he could do nothing else for her, he would give her back her world.
“Emmy?” He touched her hand and brought her eyes back to his face. “Will you do something for me?”
She looked wary.
“I invited you here,” he said, realizing the truth of his words even as he spoke them, “so that I could offer you freedom. You took freedom in your own hands when you refused to marry me. ’Twas incredibly courageous of you, when your whole family was united with me against you. But you have used your freedom to deny yourself, to deny all that is most beautiful and most meaningful in your life. You are deaf, Emmy, and mute, even if you have learned to say one word and may in time learn more. You cannot live the life that women with hearing live—not without giving up all that is most precious to you. I want to give that back to you—here, with this.” He gestured to the river and the park around them. “Do you understand me? Have I hurled too many words at you?”
She had stopped walking. She drew her arm free of his and looked at him with troubled eyes. But yes, she told him with a sign he recognized. Yes, she had heard him.
“Emmy,” he said. “Let me give you something of real worth. I want you to feel free here to do as you will. If you want to wander here or in the hills, do so. If you wish to absent yourself from any visits I will organize for your sister and Luke, then do so. If you want to let your hair down or go barefoot, do it. And most of all, paint. It is your way of speaking—without the encumbrance of words. Take your easel and your paints to the summerhouse if you will. Will you please accept this gift from me?”
For a moment her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back. And she nodded. “Yess,” she said.
And the thing was, he thought, that he had meant the word freedom. He wanted her to be free, just at the time when he also wanted to clasp her tightly to him and never let her go. But one could never clasp Emmy close without crushing all the life out of her, he realized. She was a free spirit and would never flourish in captivity. She would never have been happy if she had married him at that particular time and under those particular circumstances. The realization was infinitely saddening. Perhaps the time and the circumstances would never be right.
Selfishness could not help but intrude. “Emmy,” he said, “may I join you—just occasionally? Not all the time. Not even often. Just sometimes? You will never know how much nourishment I have drawn from just being near you.”
She lifted one arm and cupped her hand very gently about his cheek. She nodded.
“I may?” He held her hand where it was and turned his head to set his lips against her palm. “Are we also going to make a talkative woman out of you?”
She smiled sunnily and shrugged, turning both hands upward. Why not?
“Now?” he said. “Can we double your vocabulary, do you suppose?” They both laughed. “What word will you try? No?”
No, she told him quite decisively, and pointed one finger at his chest.
“Ashley?” he said. “Try it, then.”
She blushed and bit her lower lip. But he could tell as soon as she spoke his name that she must have been practicing before a looking glass. The lip movements were precise and perfect. He doubled up with laughter and she punched him on one shoulder. She was frowning in vexation when he caught her eye, but then she laughed too.
“Not Ahzhee,” he said. “Ashley.”
That is what I said, she told him with impatient hands and shoulders.
“Sh-sh-sh,” he told her, taking one of her hands by the wrist and holding it in front of his mouth while he set the fingertips of her other hand against his throat. “Not zh, but sh-sh-sh.”
“Shhhh,” she said obediently.
The l sound was more difficult to show her. He had not realized how many sounds must be invisible to the beholder. This one, he discovered, was formed with the tongue behind the teeth. He began to have more respect for her skill in being able to read lips so well.
“Ahshley,” she said at last, after they had stood face-to-face for every bit of five minutes.
He should tackle that first sound, he thought. But his name spoken thus in her low, sweet, toneless voice sounded just too charming.
“Yes,” he said, smiling warmly at her. “Yes, Emmy.”
“Yess, Ahshley,” she said, and covered her face with her hands and laughed.
He took her by the shoulders and drew her against him, then hugged her tightly and rocked her as they both laughed. Her eyes were dancing with merriment when she tipped her head back and looked up at him.
“Yess, Ahshley.”
He rubbed his nose back and forth across hers. “At this rate,” he said, “you will learn three hundred and sixty-five words in a year, Emmy. One extra in a leap year.”
Spare me, she told him with a mock grimace.
“Naow,” she said.
He grinned. “Oh-oh-oh.”
“Oh-oh-oh. No.”
“You have been teaching yourself,” he said, drawing her arm through his again. “You have been making my services as a teacher redundant.”
“No.” She pulled her arm free and her hands went to work. “Naow. Oh-oh-oh. Ahzhee. Sh-sh-sh. L-l-l-l.” She pointed at him.
He chuckled. “Very well,” he said. “I can still correct your pronunciation.” Except for the opening sound of his own name, he reminded himself.
“Yess.” She smiled sunnily at him. “Yes, Ahshley.”
They grinned at each other, thoroughly pleased with themselves.
“And now you must teach me,” he said. “Let us stroll onward in silence. Noise—the need to make noise in conversation—causes us to miss so much, Emmy. Teach me.”
“Yess,” she said again.
Conversation really was unnecessary, he discovered over the next half hour or so. They shared a pleasure in the morning just as surely as if they had spoken of it.
By the time they returned to the house, he felt almost at peace. Almost happy.
• • •
She loved Penshurst. She had always loved Bowden more than any other place she had ever been, even Elm Court, where she had been born and had lived for her first fourteen years. She had always felt that Bowden would feel like her home for the rest of her life. But Penshurst, even before she had made a full exploration of either the house or the park, left her with a strange feeling somewhere in the pit of her stomach. A feeling of almost painful longing.
Perhaps, she thought, it was because Penshurst was his. Ashley’s.
They all went outside later in the morning, after breakfast, when the air was warm. At first they strolled with the children about the more cultivated part of the park and
Ashley pointed out various features—a lime grove, a small artificial lake, views over the surrounding countryside. But soon enough the children demanded more by way of entertainment, and Luke and Ashley played ball with them while Emily sat with Anna on the lawn and Harry sat too and bounced his palms on the grass. Then Ashley was galloping about with a delighted James on his back and Luke was raising his eyebrows and telling his brother that he would have warned him if he had been given a chance. And so poor Ashley found himself having to gallop George and Joy about too. He collapsed onto the grass afterward in mock exhaustion while Joy and James simultaneously wrestled with Luke.
George had come running over to his mother. “Mama,” he said, “I want to go and play with the little boy.” He pointed off in the direction of the village.
“The little boy?” Anna frowned. “At the cottage, do you mean? Eric? But perhaps he is busy, George. Or perhaps his mama has taken him somewhere.”
“I want to go and see,” George announced.
“He is a sweet-looking child,” Anna said. “But Papa and Uncle Ashley are looking after Joy and James”—James had just jumped onto Ashley’s stomach and was being rolled in the grass—“and Harry is going to be hungry soon. I will have to take him inside. You cannot go alone. Perhaps this afternoon.”
But George was in no way daunted. “Aunt Emily can take me,” he said.
Emily smiled and nodded. She would enjoy the walk. And if Eric Smith lived alone with his mother and grandfather, perhaps he would enjoy having a new playmate. She got to her feet and brushed the grass off her petticoat.
“You are too good, Emmy,” Anna said. “You will be sure he does not outstay his welcome? Children know woefully little about etiquette.”
George ran on ahead when they were close to the park gates. He could see Eric swinging on the garden gate outside the cottage. The two of them were in earnest conversation by the time Emily came up to them. She smiled at Eric.
“George has come to play,” he told her. “I am four years old. What is your name?” He transferred his attention to George and then looked back at her. “Oh,” he said, “you cannot hear or speak? Can you understand me?”
Emily nodded. But Mrs. Smith had appeared in the doorway. She was wiping her hands on a white apron.
“Mama,” Eric called, keeping his face turned toward Emily, “George has come from the house to play with me. This lady cannot hear and cannot speak. But she can understand. You have to look at her, though.”
Mrs. Smith looked embarrassed. She beckoned Emily. “Please come in,” she said, mouthing the words clearly.
And Emily suddenly felt embarrassed too. She had been used to wandering about Bowden, where people knew her and made allowances for her. These people would be dreadfully put out. And so would she. What if they talked and she could not understand? What if they did not talk and looked very uncomfortable? But it was too late to think of such things now.
Mrs. Smith smiled when Emily came through the gate and approached the cottage door. “You are Lady Emily Marlowe? Have I remembered your name correctly? How kind of you to bring the little boy—he is the duke’s eldest son?—to play with Eric. He is frequently lonely, but he has a wonderful imagination.” She flushed. She had been speaking very slowly. “Do you really read lips?”
Emily nodded and smiled.
The cottage was plainly but neatly furnished. Mr. Binchley was coming downstairs as Emily stepped inside. He was clearly a gentleman, as his daughter was clearly a lady, though Emily guessed that they were by no means wealthy. He made her a bow and smiled warmly.
“This is an honor, my lady,” he said. “And how do you like Penshurst?” He turned away and appeared to be offering her a chair. He was not easy to understand. And then he turned toward his daughter, appearing startled, and finally looked at Emily. “Really?” he said. He seemed acutely embarrassed.
Emily smiled at him.
Mrs. Smith disappeared into the kitchen, perhaps to make tea.
Emily sat with Mr. Binchley, who looked about as uncomfortable as a man could possibly look. There was no one to break the silence—and Emily knew that people who could hear were always distressed by silence. She could say yes and break it, she thought, but though the idea amused her, she was not feeling comfortable. Far from it.
Mr. Binchley caught her eye and they smiled weakly at each other. His hands fidgeted in his lap. Emily lifted hers and beckoned with her fingers. When he looked at them, she made flapping gestures and beckoned again. Speak to me. She felt remarkably foolish.
“I never knew of any deaf-mute reading lips,” he said.
She smiled with genuine amusement and tapped her chest. I can, she was telling him, and then laughed.
The laugh must have done it. He visibly relaxed and started to talk, a little more slowly than he had at first. She found to her relief that she could understand much of what he said. He told her about Penshurst and the neighborhood, and about how pleased everyone was to have the new owner living at the house at last. He had been steward at Penshurst for many years, he was telling her when his daughter returned with the tea tray, until his retirement after the death of Mr. Gregory Kersey, Sir Alexander Kersey’s son.
But Katherine Smith looked up at him tight-lipped and Emily turned her head in time to read her lips. “Must you always keep alive that myth, Papa?” she said. “You did not retire. You were replaced.”
“This is neither the time nor the place, Katherine,” he said. He got to his feet and bowed to Emily again. “I will leave you ladies alone.” He smiled kindly at her. “Thank you for calling, Lady Emily, and for bringing the child. He is the Marquess of Craydon?”
Emily nodded.
Mrs. Smith spoke to her about Eric, about the sadness of the fact that he had no brothers or sisters. Her husband had died—she looked down at her hands for several moments before continuing. She spoke about growing up at Penshurst. She had lived in this cottage, though she had been at the house a great deal. She had been educated with Alice Kersey. They had even been friends—when they were children, she added pointedly. Emily was left with the impression that they had no longer been friends once they had grown older.
She found Katherine easier to understand than her father. Nonetheless she decided she would not stay too long, reasoning that it must be a strain on strangers to entertain her when they had to bear the burden of conversation alone. And it was a strain upon her to be the only guest—to have to concentrate upon everything that was said and nod and smile in the right places. But as she was leaving, and after Mrs. Smith had called to George, the woman turned to her and smiled.
“I do thank you for coming,” she said. “You are very easy to talk to. You seem to be part of a conversation even though you say nothing. Do come again—if you wish, that is. You are staying at Penshurst for a while?”
Emily nodded, took her leave warmly, then walked back to the house with George, feeling that she had made a friend. Someone who had not smiled at either Ashley or Luke yesterday but who had smiled at her both then and today. Someone who felt anger over the fact that her father had been dismissed from his position as steward at Penshurst after the death of Mr. Gregory Kersey. Alice’s brother. Who had dismissed him? Sir Alexander Kersey, who had been in India at the time? Alice, who between the time of her brother’s death and her own departure for India must have been in charge at Penshurst? But why? And Katherine Smith had not liked Alice. At least, that was what her one comment had implied.
But Emily had no real wish to know about the past. Even though she knew she would look back on these two weeks and feel pain because they were over and would probably never be repeated, she was going to enjoy them anyway. She was going to enjoy Ashley’s friendship and the freedom he had offered her. She was going to enjoy being here in this place, for which she felt such a strange and strong affinity. And it was such a relief to be back in the countryside, to look
forward to the prospect of time alone with nature. Ashley had even permitted her to absent herself from visits, to leave off her hoops and her shoes, to paint . . .
Ashley, she thought, understood her more than anyone else, even Anna and Luke. Ashley understood that though handicapped, she was a whole person.
Ashley . . .
She sighed. She had to remember that in two weeks’ time she would be leaving again. Leaving Penshurst.
Leaving him.
19
FOR three days she explored the huge park about Penshurst. The more cultivated parts before the house she walked through with everyone else, including a few of Ashley’s neighbors who called upon them while the weather remained fine and warm. The other parts, the wilder, more extensive parts, she roamed over alone. She slipped out in the mornings, sometimes even before the sun rose, and in the afternoons after they had eaten if there was no visit planned, or immediately afterward if they went somewhere or someone came to call on them. Once she went out in the evening instead of staying to help entertain the visitors Ashley had invited to play cards.
The river walk extended for a whole mile and was very beautiful. But Emily discovered that the riverbank beyond the walk was even lovelier, with its long, sometimes coarse grass and myriad varieties of wildflowers. The hills behind the house, which did not look high from in front, were nevertheless wooded and secluded. And the artfully planned clearings afforded wonderful views over rolling, pastoral countryside. The summerhouse Ashley had referred to overlooked the river and miles of empty farmland. The house and the village were hidden from view behind the trees. She suspected that whoever had built it there had wanted to feel utterly secluded, utterly alone. It was, as Ashley had said, sparsely furnished. But she knew as soon as she set foot inside it that he had had it cleaned and spruced up. There were even clean, soft cushions on the worn sofa and a folded-up blanket.