by Mary Balogh
“You have done the right thing in telling me,” he said. “I shall handle it, Kathy.”
“I am afraid even for you,” she said. “What if he sees me walking with you? I should not have come out with you like this.”
“You must not fear for me,” he said.
“But am I guilty of murder?” she asked him. “If he did . . . Am I?”
“Of course you are not.” He turned her to him and held her firmly by the upper arms. “Of course you are not, Kathy. I will have to tell Kendrick what you have told me. May I?”
“You do not think that he would say something to Major Cunningham?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I do not. I have had reasons not to like the man particularly well, but he is no villain. Kathy, why did you refuse me yesterday? Because you were frightened? Because you felt you were guilty of some villainy? Because you are an unmarried mother? Or because you do not want me?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Perhaps for all except the last reason,” she said.
“I will ask you again then,” he said, “after this thing is settled.”
“Henry,” she said, “what are you going to do?”
“I am going to consult with Kendrick first,” he said. “But one thing I promise you, Kathy: Cunningham will not be frightening you again. I can wager Kendrick will say the same for Lady Emily Marlowe.”
“You will not—” She gripped the edges of his coat beneath his cloak. “I could not bear it if you were hurt.”
He kissed her for the first time in years. She clung even more tightly, pressing her lips hungrily back against his.
“Just one thing,” he said when he raised his head. “You will not be living at Penshurst. But you might start wondering if you might like to live at Willowdale Manor. And if you think Lady Verney a prettier name than Mrs. Smith. And if you think Eric Verney sounds like the name of a successful lawyer or businessman or clergyman.”
“Henry,” she said, “be careful. Oh, do be careful.”
• • •
Luke, Ashley, and Major Cunningham took the children riding and amused them outdoors for an hour afterward. Anna stayed at home with Emily, conversing cheerfully as she sewed. Afterward the two of them went to the nursery to play with James and Harry. Luke was there too, helping Joy practice her penmanship, listening to George read aloud.
Emily let James ride her around the nursery like a horse. She sat beside Harry, making his face light up with merriment and his arms flap and his legs kick with excitement. She looked at Joy’s writing when it was brought to her and smiled her approval. With her one good hand she helped James build a castle with his wooden bricks.
They were to go home to Bowden tomorrow. If it had not been for the difficulty of organizing all the children and their baggage as well as their own, Anna had assured her, they would go today. But she would see to it that Emily was not left alone for a single minute. Tonight she would sleep in Emily’s room and when Harry needed her, she would simply have his nurse bring him from the nursery.
None of them mentioned the incident of Alice’s room, though Emily was sure Ashley must have told them. It was too embarrassing and too disturbing to think about. She must have been sleepwalking from the effects of the laudanum. But she had actually lain on that bed. She had brought those portraits back to her own room. And then she had gone to Ashley’s. She could not remember going there. She could remember only being in his bed there this morning, warm and comfortable and safe, and unwilling to wake up. There was only one isolated memory of the night before. She could remember his making love to her.
It was hard this morning to smile, to watch people’s lips instead of withdrawing into her own very solitary silence, to give her energy and her cheerful attention to the children.
She hated feeling like this. Frightened, out of control, haunted. Guarded. She hated thinking of Anna and Luke as guards, robbing her of privacy and curtailing her freedom. She was afraid to be alone, afraid to go outside, afraid to run up the hill to the summerhouse. And yet she wanted to do all three. She resented her fear. And irrationally she resented the people who protected her from it. The very people she loved most in the world.
She hated the feeling.
And she hated the thought of going. And of Ashley’s leaving Penshurst for her sake. Had he been serious this morning when he had talked of selling it? He must not do so. Not for her sake. She must persuade him not to do anything so foolish. But he would never be willing to bring her back here. And she would probably always be afraid to come. If he did not sell, then . . .
She did not believe she was going to be able to live without him. She had thought so before. She had thought so when he left for India, and again over a month ago at Bowden. She had lived without him for seven years. She had lived without him for that month in London. Yes, she told herself firmly, she would be able to do it again. But the very thought threatened to pitch her into a black void of panic.
And then she laughed as the tall, thin tower she had been building for James finally collapsed—and looked up to find that Ashley was there. He snatched James up, tossed him toward the ceiling, and set him down on the floor again. He was smiling, but she could see weariness and tension in his face.
“I shall be with Emmy for the next half hour,” he was telling Luke. “I have to go out then—Verney has summoned me on some business that apparently cannot wait beyond today. But when I return, we will all go out for a drive. The children too. We will take food and drink with us and have our tea in the outdoors. Rod is belowstairs now, charming my housekeeper and my cook and arranging it all for me. We must enjoy your last day here.”
Emily took his offered arm and allowed him to lead her to the library, where he seated her in a soft leather chair and perched on the arm beside her. He took her good hand in his.
She felt embarrassed with him. What must he think of her having gone to Alice’s room last night? Of her having lain in Alice’s bed? Of her having taken Alice’s portrait to her room? What must he think of her for going to him in his room during the night? She raised her eyes to his.
She saw a deep tenderness there. “Somehow,” he said, “I am going to make all this up to you, Emmy. I am going to see you happy and at peace again. Perhaps I can atone for some of the great wrongs in my life if I can do this for you.”
She tried to smile at him.
“I am going to ask you a question,” he said. “One I have asked before. I will hope that this time the answer will be different. But I will not ask it yet. Not here. This has become an unhappy place for you—and therefore for me too. I am going to sell Penshurst, Emmy. I will buy another home and hope that it will be happier—for you as well as for me.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, Ahshley.” She would have liked to say more so that he would understand.
He kissed the back of her hand. “Rod is going to purchase it,” he said. “We have already come to an agreement between ourselves. It needs only for our lawyers to arrange the actual business details. He seems genuinely happy at the prospect of living here. And ’twill make me happy to know that it will be owned by a friend.”
She did not understand all that he said, but the main point was clear. Despite her efforts, she still could not like Major Cunningham. She could not bear the thought of Ashley’s selling Penshurst to him of all people.
“No,” she said.
“He will be happy here,” he said. “There are no memories, bad or otherwise, to spoil it for him. He is a stranger here. He does not know this part of the country or anyone in it except me. This will be the best way, Emmy, believe me.”
“No.” She frowned. No, that was not true. She remembered the visit she had paid to Mr. Binchley’s cottage with Anna and the major. She remembered watching Major Cunningham and Mrs. Smith through the window as they walked in the garden. How could she say it? And why was it ev
en important that it be said? But she did not want Ashley to sell Penshurst. Especially not to the major.
“He knows Mrs. Smith,” she said very slowly. She was never sure when she spoke that sound came out. But he had evidently heard something.
“Who does?” he asked. “Rod?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Impossible,” he said. “He has never been here before. Unless he met her when she lived elsewhere with her husband, of course. But ’twould be strange that he has said nothing. Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Strange,” he said. “I must ask him about it.”
But she remembered that Major Cunningham and Katherine Smith had not openly acknowledged their acquaintance. They had gone out into the garden, like hostess and guest, and talked there. The window had been closed. No one in the house would have heard their conversation. But she had seen it. For some reason those two did not want it known that they were acquainted. Emily felt a wave of the now almost familiar dread and panic.
“No,” she said, clutching the wide cuff of Ashley’s coat. She shook her head firmly. “No. No. Do not ahsk.”
He lowered his head and looked closely into her face. “Emmy,” he said, and now there was a frown on his face too, “you do not like Rod. Why?”
She dropped her hand and deliberately made her face expressionless. She shook her head.
“I will say nothing, then,” he said. “I must take you back to Anna and Luke. Sir Henry Verney wishes to speak with me. I would take you with me, Emmy, to visit Lady Verney and Miss Verney—you like them, do you not?—but Verney particularly requested that I come alone. I will be as quick as I can so that we can have a long afternoon outing. You look as if you need fresh air.”
She smiled.
He leaned his head down again and kissed her warmly on the lips. He spoke carefully with his hands and his face as well as with his voice. “Emmy,” he said, “you are the most precious treasure of my life. You have been since the day I met you, but I have not fully realized until recently how all-encompassing is your influence on my life and your importance to my happiness. How blind one can be! And how foolish!”
He gave her no chance to reply. He got to his feet, took her hand, and drew it through his arm. Then he took her back to the nursery, where Luke was holding Harry above his head and making him laugh while Anna read a story to the other three.
• • •
They sat in Sir Henry Verney’s library, one on either side of the fireplace, like two old friends exchanging news and views and gossip. But Sir Henry had done most of the talking. And finally they sat in silence.
“I mean to marry Katherine,” Sir Henry said at last. “I mean to give her son my name. I mean to call out Major Roderick Cunningham for the guilt and the terror he has forced into her life.”
“Then you will have to wait your turn,” Ashley said, breaking his long silence.
“Yes,” Sir Henry said. “I guessed that I might. I seem to have been nothing but the bearer of disturbing news in the past few days. I am sorry.”
Ashley looked steadily at him. “I owe you so many apologies,” he said, “that I scarce know where to begin. But they must be said now lest after today I am forever prevented from saying them.”
“We will take them as spoken and accepted,” Sir Henry said. “Under similar circumstances I would perhaps have behaved with less restraint and courtesy than you have shown. ’Tis altogether possible that we will be neighbors for many years to come. Is it possible we can also be friends?”
Ashley got to his feet and held out his right hand. Sir Henry stood up too and took it. Despite the fact that they clasped hands quite firmly, there was some awkwardness between them. But there was the will on both sides to put the past behind them and to begin their acquaintance anew.
Ashley took his leave without further conversation. For the moment there was nothing else to say. Both knew that they might never meet again.
27
EMILY had gone to her room to rest for a while before the picnic. At least, that was the reason she had indicated to Anna. She had also signaled her that she did not need company. It was broad daylight. There could be no danger. Anna, dubious though she had looked, had allowed her sister to be alone.
But it was not rest Emily had needed. She needed to be alone so that she could think. She had become a prisoner to fear. She had become dependent for safety on Anna and Luke, and on Ashley. They had taken charge of her life. She was to return to Bowden—because she was afraid to stay at Penshurst. Ashley was going to sell Penshurst because—well, because he was going to offer for her again, and because he believed he could not have both Penshurst and her.
She hated the fear. She hated the dependence. And she hated the thought of Ashley’s selling Penshurst. Somehow, she felt, he needed to stay here, to make it his home, to find his peace here. And she loved it too, despite everything.
How could she fight her fear? How could she overcome whatever it was that was causing it? It was that last point that had finally sent her in search of solitude. She needed to think. Or rather, she needed to analyze the strange, confused conviction that had come to her since talking with Ashley: Major Cunningham was the cause of her fear—all of it.
He was the original cause, of course. He had tried to ravish her when he had mistaken her for a servant. But it was not just that. He had shot at her. He had come into her room last night. He had brought the portraits and taken her dressing gown. She still had only very vague memories of the night, but she was almost sure she had woken up to see the shape of the portraits on her bedside table. And she was almost sure she had looked for her dressing gown before fleeing to Ashley and forgetting everything else in the sense of safety she had found as soon as his arms came about her. Major Cunningham had a previous acquaintance with Mrs. Smith—one that both of them wished kept secret.
She had proof of nothing. She understood nothing. But she knew. She had nothing to take to Ashley. He would either not believe her at all or he would become suspicious of his friend without provable grounds. She could tell him about that first morning, of course. That was grounds enough to send the major away and to keep Penshurst. She could tell Ashley, or she could—
She felt the familiar hammering of her heartbeat in her throat, the familiar terror. Gazing from her window, she could see Major Cunningham walking about down by the stables and carriage house. He was organizing transportation for the picnic.
It would be madness to go down there. He had shot at her. She would be unable to confront him with words. She was shaking with fear. She could accomplish nothing—because she was a woman and a deaf-mute. No, she was not mute. And though she was a woman, she was also a person who had always confronted the shadowy places in her life and brought them into the light. Her handicap could have made her passive and submissive and timid and dependent. She had made it into her strength. Until now.
No, even now.
Major Cunningham was alone in the carriage house when Emily arrived there, running one hand over a wheel of the open carriage. He looked up, startled, smiled, and bowed.
“Lady Emily,” he said. “Are you ready for the picnic?”
But she did not smile. She shook her head. Her heart was thumping.
“You are alone?” he asked, looking behind her. “I am surprised at your sister and his grace for allowing it. Permit me to escort you safely back to them.” There was nothing but kindly concern in his eyes.
Emily shook her head again. “I know,” she said slowly. It was so very important that she get it right.
“By Jove.” He grinned. “You can talk. I did not imagine it that first morning.”
“I know,” she said again, “about you.” She hoped she was saying the words right.
“About me?” He touched a hand to his chest and raised his eyebrows.
She had set hersel
f too great a task. She knew that. How she longed for words. But somehow she would convey her meaning. “You.” She formed the shape of a gun with one hand and then pointed to her wounded hand. “You.” There was no sign he would recognize. “Lahst night. You. Mrs. Smith.”
Something happened to his eyes. Perhaps people who had ears did not know how eloquent the eyes were. But she knew from his eyes that she had not made a mistake.
He smiled. “I do assure you, Lady Emily,” he said, “that you are mistaken. I would perhaps be angry if I did not realize that the manner of our meeting put a lasting suspicion in your mind. But—”
She was shaking her head firmly, and he stopped speaking. “No,” she said. “I know. I know you.”
“’Tis to be hoped,” he said, “that you will not go to Ash with these quite groundless suspicions, Lady Emily. Zounds, he might believe you. And he is my dearest friend in this world.”
“Go,” she told him, making broad shooing gestures. Ah, it was too long and too hard to tell him that she would not allow Ashley to sell Penshurst to him. “Go.” She made an even wider gesture with her arm to show that she meant away from Penshurst—forever.
“By Jove,” he said, “you mean to frighten me.”
No, he had meant to frighten her. She understood that. He could have killed her with that shot—he was a soldier. He might have murdered her in her bed last night. He wanted to frighten her so that Ashley would sell Penshurst to him and take her away.
“Go,” she told him again.
He stood smiling at her. She read a certain reluctant admiration in his look. She lifted her chin and kept it up.
“Are you not afraid now?” he asked her. “Alone with me like this?”
She was about to shake her head. But of course she was afraid. She was almost blind with terror. And she scorned to lie to him. “Yes,” she said. “Go.”
He could kill her now, she realized. There was no one else in sight. If he wanted Penshurst as passionately as she guessed he must, he might very well kill her, knowing she could tell Ashley and spoil everything for him. How foolish she was to have come. And yet she knew even as her knees trembled under her that she had had no choice. Life was more than just breathing and eating and sleeping. Life had to have quality and dignity.