by Mary Balogh
On the third morning she took her painting things up to the summerhouse, though she did not try to do anything with them. She did not know yet what she wished to paint. Although she felt all the beauty of this new part of the country, it had not yet spoken to her soul. But she knew it would. She had to give it time. Time, real time as opposed to human time, could not be rushed or forced. She was content to sit on the sofa and gaze out the low window opposite—out and down the hill and across the river and the countryside beyond.
On that third morning Ashley came to her. She had left the door of the summerhouse open, and she became aware after several minutes had passed of a shadow in the doorway. He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, smiling at her.
“I knew,” he said, “that you would look at home here, Emmy.” He glanced toward her easel. He used his hands to speak. “I am glad you are going to paint again. And I am glad to see my sprite back.”
She had not brought any of her oldest clothes from Bowden. But she had put on her simplest gown this morning without either hoops or padded petticoat. She had tied her hair back loosely with a ribbon. She was barefoot. She had forgotten until these last three days how much she needed that contact with the earth.
“May I?” he asked, indicating the seat beside her on the sofa.
She nodded and he came inside and seated himself. He took her hand in his. But he said nothing more. For half an hour or perhaps longer they sat side by side, hand in hand, looking at the view, watching early morning turn into definite day. There was no more perfect communication than silence, Emily thought. Perhaps that was an easy paradox for her to learn, but she felt that Ashley was learning it too—as he had asked to do. Perhaps she really did have something to teach him, something to give him. He was giving her speech and she was giving him silence.
She had wanted to give him comfort when his emotions had been too tempestuous for there to be any comfort. Perhaps she could give him some comfort now. And perhaps she could weave memories for herself to take with her into a lonely future.
“I shall leave you, Emmy,” he said at last after squeezing her hand to draw her eyes to his lips. “Stay here as long as you wish. Thank you for allowing me to share some of your time here.” He leaned over her and kissed her softly on the lips. Then he was gone.
She wondered if it would be easier if he did not like her at all. If in his own way he did not love her. If he had not invited her here. If she had not come. She closed her eyes, blocking out the beauty of the view. No, she could not be sorry that he felt a fondness for her. And she knew that she would never be sorry that she had come here. Somehow, in some strange way, she knew it had always been intended that she come here. It was a puzzling thought, and a restful one.
Except that in less than two weeks’ time she would have to leave again and return to London. And not see him again for a long, long time.
If ever.
• • •
On the fourth morning she went in a different direction, away from both the river and the hill, which were a strong lure in her search for solitude and peace. But she wanted to see all there was to see, and so she went in the opposite direction from the river and the approach to the house. She went across lawns and past the lime grove and in among the trees until she came to the edge of the park. It was marked by a hedgerow, with the road beyond.
It seemed sad not to go farther. The clouds, which had brought rain during the night, were moving off, and the sun was just rising. The air was fresh and cool. The grass and soil underfoot had made her feet tingle with cold. But she could not go farther—not looking the way she did. And not in a neighborhood where she was not well known and would not be able to communicate with anyone she met. She shook her head and closed her eyes, feeling the wind blow her hair out behind her. She had not even tied it back this morning.
There was a gap in the hedgerow into which a wooden stile had been built. She climbed over it and sat on the top rung, facing out over the fields and meadows beyond the road. It was lovely, she thought. There was not the obvious beauty of the river here or the seclusion or the panoramic views of the hill. There was just a basic unspectacular loveliness about it. It was England. It was home.
She was rather sorry she had not brought her paints and her easel. She rather thought she could paint here—the wonder of the ordinary. Though even the seemingly ordinary could appear extraordinary when one opened one’s eyes and one’s heart to it.
But her reverie was interrupted. She could feel someone else’s presence. She jerked her head to one side to look along the road to her right. For the merest moment she felt a surging of gladness. He had come again. But she knew even before she saw the man that he was not Ashley. Something inside her always seemed to know unerringly when he was close by.
He was sitting on horseback a short distance away, handsomely dressed in riding clothes with a cloak for warmth and highly polished boots. His three-cornered hat was tipped slightly forward over his eyes. He was grinning appreciatively at her.
A stranger.
He raised his eyebrows. “I thought you must be deaf,” he said.
He must have been speaking to her before she became aware of his presence. She smiled at him, feeling some amusement as well as some embarrassment at his words. He was a young man, rather dashingly handsome.
“Egad,” he said, “but I am glad I took to the road early this morning. Have you escaped from your milking chores, wench?” He dismounted from his horse as he spoke and led it closer to her.
Oh. She felt her smile fading as she shook her head. What a wretched embarrassment to be mistaken for a milkmaid. This would teach her to stay well within the confines of the park when she was dressed thus. And she could not even explain.
He laughed and said something she could not see. But he continued. “You would be wasted squatting on a milking stool caressing udders,” he said. “I could put your hands and your . . . derriere to far more pleasurable use.” Brown eyes roamed over her from head to foot, pausing suggestively with the pauses in his speech. He abandoned his horse to graze on the grass at the side of the road and strolled closer to her.
Emily shook her head firmly and lifted her chin. Her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast. It was just the sort of situation that sometimes appeared in her nightmares. In reality she was rarely alone in a place where a stranger might come upon her. She wished desperately that her legs were on the other side of the stile. She mentally calculated how long it would take her to swing them over. He was not a particularly tall man, she noticed, but he was very solidly built, and he had an indefinable air of command about him. He looked like a man accustomed to having his own way.
“I have rendered you speechless?” he said, laughing at her again. “Come, wench, I would taste of those lips. And perhaps of something else too. Yes, undoubtedly of something else, though I would do more than taste there—I would delve deep for a sweeter feast. The road is deserted, I am happy to see, and the hedgerow in yonder field is quite secluded.”
She did not see every word. She did not need to. She was desperately frightened.
Ashley. Ashley. For the moment fear paralyzed both her body and her mind. All she could do was silently scream out his name and wish for a miracle.
The stranger took another step toward her.
“No.” She held her hands palm out in front of her. “No.”
“No?” He became instantly haughty, though the laughter was still there in his eyes. “No, wench? But I say yes. I will give you the chance to earn half a sovereign for yourself before breakfast. A princely sum for a truant milkmaid. But perhaps I will judge that you have not earned even half a farthing if you protest.”
Her brain was beginning to function again. She half smiled and kept her eyes on him as she swung her legs over to the other side of the stile. He stood still in order to watch her.
I am Lad
y Emily Marlowe. I am a guest at Penshurst. The Duchess of Harndon is my sister. But there was no point in wasting time verbalizing the words in her mind that she might have written down if she had had the chance. It was impossible to speak them. Her mind, still terrified but mercifully released from its paralysis, worked frantically.
“Ah,” he said, obviously believing that she moved in compliance with his suggestion, “the offer of half a sovereign has done the trick, has it? This will be rare sport, wench, money or no money, I warrant you. I daresay you enjoy a good rutting as well as I.”
He was within arm’s reach of her. She started suddenly with surprise, her eyes as wide as saucers, gazed beyond his shoulder at the imaginary rider who was not approaching down the road behind him, and pointed with one dramatic arm. She hoped—oh, she hoped and hoped she could say it right.
“L-l-look!” she said.
And then, when his head went back over his shoulder, she hurled herself down from the stile and began to run. The grass was slippery among the trees, but her toes gripped it surely. She knew that she had only a few seconds’ grace. It would not take him long to climb over the stile, and surely he could run faster than she. Her back crawled with terror and for once the silence was menacing, but she dared not waste a moment in looking back. She tried to decide whether it would be better to weave among the trees, hoping to lose him, or to run a straight course through them, as she was doing. She tried to decide what she would do when he caught her. Panic was robbing her of both breath and rationality. And finally she could deny the panic no longer. She turned her head to look back.
She could still see him, though he was not close. He was only just on her side of the stile. He was down, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out ahead of him. He must have skidded on the wet grass. He touched his right hand to the brim of his hat in a mocking salute. He said something, but she could not read his lips at that distance. She turned her head again and ran on.
Ashley was not at home. She entered the house at a run, looking neither to left nor to right. She raced upstairs and hurled herself at the door of his bedchamber and through it. He was not there. Nor was he in his dressing room. She gripped the back of a chair there for a moment, gasping for breath, setting a hand to the stitch in her side, not sparing a single thought to wonder how she even knew where his room was. Then she raced downstairs and into the breakfast parlor. It was empty.
The footman in the large tiled hall looked at her impassively. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he show any reaction to her disheveled appearance. But he had come closer to the door of the breakfast parlor.
“His lordship is out riding, my lady,” he said with careful lip movements, “with his grace. Her grace is, I believe, with Lord Harry in the nursery.”
Anna. Luke. She stared blankly at the footman. She had not even thought of running to either one of them for help. But Luke was gone anyway, and she would not disturb Anna, who she knew must be feeding Harry. She nodded to the footman and turned back to the stairs.
She paced in her room, with the door firmly shut, for several minutes, stopping frequently at the window to peer downward. But she did not know where he had gone or from which direction he would return. And she could not see the stable block from her window. She finally threw herself facedown onto the bed. She wanted his arms tight about her. She wanted her head against his heartbeat. She wanted the strength of his body enclosing her. She wanted to climb right inside him. She gathered fistfuls of the bedcover into her hands and held tight. And then she turned onto her side and drew up her knees, curling as nearly as she could into a ball. She started to shake so uncontrollably that her teeth chattered, but she could not even reach out to pull the cover over herself for warmth and protection.
Ashley, she thought, come home. Please come home.
After a long time she felt enough in command of her body to get up again. He must not see her like this, she decided. Her hair was wild and tangled. She could see a twig caught in one lock that lay over her shoulder. Her hands and feet were dirty. Her dress was torn at one side. She could smell her own perspiration. She spread her hands in front of her. They were still trembling. So were her legs, now that she was standing on them. She rang the bell for a maid and stripped off her dress.
She felt hardly any better half an hour later, though she was clean and neatly dressed and had had her hair braided and coiled at the back of her head beneath her lace cap. She had deliberately chosen one of her favorite new gowns, an open gown of spring green, its robings embroidered with spring flowers, the petticoat beneath a slightly lighter shade of green. She wore stays and small hoops. But she did not really feel better. She descended the stairs at a sedate pace, her chin up, her expression serene. She had made enough of a spectacle of herself for the servants earlier.
She was not sure she could say the word properly. It began with that invisible sound. “Lord Ahshley?” she asked the footman.
“His lordship is in the library, my lady,” the footman said with a bow. “He is with—”
But she had turned away from him and was hurrying despite herself in the direction of the library. She felt the panic of pursuit again, the crawling sensation at her back. She was almost safe. But not quite. She did not wait for the footman to catch up to her but flung the library doors wide for herself and hurried inside.
He was standing not far from the door, his back to her, but he turned at its abrupt opening, a look of surprise on his face. She hurried straight into his arms, her eyes closing even before she reached her destination, her face burying itself against the solid safety of his chest. She wrapped her arms about his waist even as she felt his arms come about her. She breathed in deeply the warm, safe smell of him. She was safe at last. At last. She sighed and relaxed her weight against him.
But he would not allow her to cling to the safety for long. He set his hands on her shoulders and moved them firmly away from him so that he could see her face. His head dipped down and his eyes searched hers.
“Emmy?” he said. “What is it? What has happened? ’Tis all right, my love. I am here. I have you safe.”
She could not see beyond the blessedly safe circle of his face and chest and shoulders and arms. But her mind had caught up to her panic. And she realized that he had not been alone in the library when she had entered it. She released her hold on Ashley, stepped back, and looked beyond him. Luke was standing close to the window, his hands clasped at his back, his eyes intent on her. And there was someone else by the fireside. She could not for the moment turn her eyes to look at him. She jerked her head back in Ashley’s direction.
He looked at her with silent concern for a moment, but he must have felt some awkwardness in the situation. Her mind had not quite begun to grasp it. “Emmy,” he said, “I have had an unexpected pleasure this morning. Here is my particular friend home from India with his regiment and come to visit me. Meet Major Roderick Cunningham. Rod, may I present Lady Emily Marlowe, the Earl of Royce’s sister, Luke’s sister-in-law?”
Her eyes moved to him at last. And she could see that in the same moment as she recognized him, he recognized her. But his reaction was as controlled as she hoped hers was. He smiled slowly and made her an elegant bow. “Lady Emily,” he said, “’tis my pleasure and my good fortune to arrive here at this particular time.”
Instinct had her making him a curtsy in return. Ashley must have been saying something, but now that she had finally looked at his visitor, Emily could not look away from the man who had wanted to ravish her for half a sovereign just a couple of hours before. She could feel Ashley’s hand resting lightly against the back of her waist.
“Indeed?” Major Cunningham said after a pause. “One would never have guessed. Remarkable. But do you not tire of always watching lips, Lady Emily?” His smile lit up his face and was suggestive of deep charm.
The hand at her waist turned her slightly. Ashley’s eyes were still full of
concern. “But what frightened you, Emmy?” he asked. “What happened?”
She shook her head. She was not sure she was not going to faint or vomit, but perhaps she would do neither if he but kept his hand against her. This man was his friend? He was an army officer, a man bound by the code of chivalry and honor? And he had come to visit? To stay? She smiled.
Ashley’s eyes went beyond her for a moment and then looked back. “Yes,” he said, “’twill be best. Luke will take you to Anna, Emmy. I will talk with you later, or any time you have need of me. I am going to see Roderick settled. I will twist his arm and persuade him to stay for a week or so. What a very pleasant week this is going to be.” His smile was warm and happy.
Luke was beside her then, drawing her arm firmly through his, turning her in the direction of the door.
She was very naive, Emily admitted to herself. Despite her month in London, she knew very little about life as it was lived beyond the confines of a sheltered country estate. But she did know that many men—perhaps most men—did not live celibate lives. She was even aware—or thought she was aware—that many men thought any woman beneath the rank of lady fair game for their gallantry, a strangely euphemistic word. Was it possible that there had been nothing so very heinous about Major Cunningham’s behavior, given the misunderstanding engendered by her appearance?
Oh, but there had been, she thought. There had. She had said no—she had even spoken the word aloud—and he had been in the process of ignoring her refusal. He had been about to ravish her. Surely he had been about to ravish her.
“My dear.” Luke paused on the first landing of the staircase, a private place, and set a hand over hers to bring her eyes to his face. “You were very frightened.”
She stared mutely at him.
“Something happened to terrify you,” he said. “You went to the library to the protection of Ashley only to discover that he was entertaining a newly arrived guest. ’Twas unfortunate. Will I do as a substitute? Will you tell me what frightened you? Shall we find pen and paper?”