“I do not go out because I cannot bear the angry stares of people who once looked at me with awe. I cannot bear to be the object of their gossip or their pity or their scorn.”
Feverish as he was, Matthew did not realize he had spoken his thoughts aloud in Arabic until Trudy answered him in the same tongue.
"Why do they pity you?"
Somehow it was easier to voice these things aloud in a foreign language, almost as if his secrets were still hidden and his identity still concealed.
"Only some of them pity me. Those are the ones who think I went mad somewhere in the interior of Africa. The others, who are not so charitable, think I turned coward and abandoned my partner in the desert rather than fight."
Trudy's voice trembled. "Why do they think that?"
Matthew opened his eyes again and saw the growing consternation in hers. Obviously, she wanted him to absolve himself.
Might as well tell her the truth.
In his illness and his pride, he'd refused to argue for his name. He'd refused to raise proof against the charges thrown in his face by the African Association, whose members had swallowed the whole of Sir Julian Speck's lies. So no one had known. No one, but his faithful Ahmad who had stayed with him throughout all his travails.
Matthew had tried to tell himself that one person was enough; his one true friend knew the truth. But he had never been able to get over the bitterness of Speck's betrayal, his colleagues' willingness to believe his partner-turned-rival, and Helen's defection. He had been too ill to fight them all, and much too proud to complain without fighting. But here, in the privacy of his own bedroom, surely he could set the record straight.
"They believe I abandoned my partner to the mercies of a band of cutthroats in order to save my own skin."
"And why would they believe such a wicked lie."
"It is what my partner told them."
Matthew reached one hand slowly towards her face. So engrossed was she in their discussion that she permitted him to stroke it, and the feel of her skin, so much like rose petals, melted something inside him.
"Why did he do such a thing?" she whispered.
She didn't doubt him. She was his creation so, of course, she shouldn't, but he'd been betrayed by his dreams before.
Still, her faith in him made him sigh, and inside it felt as if a piece of rock had been chiseled away. "Because that was precisely what he did to me," Matthew said.
A moment passed before she understood him. When she did, she recoiled and her forehead wrinkled. "Bah!"
It was an explosive sound, which surprised him for its honesty, when he was not accustomed to such noises from females.
In recoiling, Trudy had broken away from his touch, but she hardly seemed to realize he had been stroking her, so angry was she. "That Speck ought to be hanged!"
Matthew grinned. His champion was as fragile as a nymph, but he was glad to have her on his side. She seemed to double his own strength. "They don't hang a man for destroying another man's reputation."
"Well, they should!"
"Perhaps. I won't quarrel with you on that point."
"Then, you should confront him," Trudy said. "Make him change his story."
He closed his eyes again. Matthew expected a wave of exhaustion to engulf him, as one had every time he had considered such an action. But, surprisingly, he did not feel defeated this time. Instead, an urge of sorts had taken birth inside his chest.
"Confront him?" he said, blinking at Trudy. "If I do that, I should as well confront his wife."
Confusion, then suspicion, spread over Trudy's face. She cocked her head warily. "And why, my mannie, should ye want to talk to his wife?"
If, Matthew told himself in that moment, he were not such a rational creature, he might believe that the elf maid he'd conjured was jealous.
"I was engaged to marry Sir Julian's wife when I left on my final expedition," he explained. "When I returned, I found she had married my rival."
"Yer much better off without her!" Trudy exclaimed with a toss of her head.
She was jealous. Matthew fought an unreasoning grin. He must be a lunatic, after all.
"Undoubtedly," he said to soothe her temper. "That does not mean I wasn't a bit perturbed at the time."
Trudy quieted, but her eyes still held a wary glint. "Have ye forgotten all about her then?"
"I--" Matthew struggled to make his feelings clear. "I suppose I have forgotten my love for her--if I ever did love her--but it is harder to get over her betrayal."
"Ye can do it, mannie!" Trudy said anxiously. "All ye have to do is think of Faye. If you just follow her--"
Matthew's sudden look of offense made her stop. Trudy realized she had used the wrong words where Matthew was concerned. All his life he had been the one to lead. Never to follow.
In that moment, Trudy understood what Francis had meant when he had said Matthew would not be pixie-led. She began to have doubts, her first real doubts, that she could lead this man into the mists to be hers. And the oppressiveness of those doubts seemed greater, far greater than they should be if all that concerned her was losing a wager.
Silence fell between them, until Matthew reached out a hand to touch her cheek once again. Trudy flinched as if she'd been burned. She scooted to the foot of the bed, scolding him in a breathless voice, "Not so fast. Not so fast."
She was pleased by the frustration she saw in Matthew's eyes.
"Mannie," she breathed in a coaxing whisper, "why don't ye let Faye help ye to forget yer hurts?"
"She does help me to forget them." Matthew's gaze hazed over, and she thought he must be remembering her as Faye, which gave her hope.
"There, ye see," she said. "Then forget all them others. Who needs them, when ye've got her?"
"Have I got her?" Matthew was speaking to himself. "I don't know . . . ."
"Of course, ye have. Ye've only got to make up yer mind."
He shook his head with a frown, and some emotion gripped her heart.
"What's wrong?"
"It's Faye herself . . . she's almost too perfect . . . as if she could not be real . . . ."
Anxiety gripped Trudy's stomach. "Don't ye like her, mannie? Don't ye admire her?"
"Of course I do. She's beautiful and courageous and loyal. So close to my dreams. But--"
"But what?"
"But, when I think of reaching for her, all I suspect I will find in my arms is thin air."
Trudy sucked in a sudden breath. How could he know? Did her mannie know everything?
For the first time in her life, she felt awed by a respect for humankind. No. This was not the first time. The first had been when she'd been standing between Matthew and his rival and she'd felt Matthew's strength beside her and she'd known that he would deal with his enemy when he wished--in his own way.
There was something at the core of Matthew she could sense, but did not have herself. It was that same something he felt was missing in Faye, but could not put a name to. That something was a soul.
If Trudy could sense the soul in Matthew, then it made sense that he would feel its lack in Faye. But that was something she had not figured on. Neither had she figured how much this bit of knowledge would hurt.
She made an attempt to distract herself with a laugh. "Put that other woman behind ye, mannie, and see if Faye don't seem better to ye then."
Matthew was silent. By the worried look on his face, she suspected he was as troubled by his failure to love Faye as she was. He simply did not understand it, whereas she most painfully did. How could he guess that his new-found friend, who dressed the way a lady should and spoke such elegant English as to seem to the manor born, was an elf?
"Shall I sing to ye, mannie?" Trudy ventured in a shaking voice.
The wrinkles on his brow disappeared, and he sighed as he closed his eyes. "Yes, please sing to me, pretty maid."
Trudy scooted forward towards his pillow. "If ye promise not to grab me, I'll stroke yer forehead for ye. That'll mak
e ye get well quick."
"Then, by all means, I give my promise not to touch you."
A little ache spread in Trudy's chest. It grew much worse. "I'll let ye touch me some day, mannie, I promise. Just not now."
* * * *
In the morning, Matthew felt completely renewed, as if the magic in his dream maiden's fingertips had worked. He could still feel the tenderness of Trudy's dainty hands upon his face and neck. His reaction to the memory of her touch was strong enough to embarrass him. For a grown man to be enamored of a delusion was patently ridiculous. But he could not shake the feeling that her hands had been real and that they had gently stroked his skin until his fever had vanished and the muscles of his arms and legs had flexed with new strength.
He also could not let go of the certainty that it was time now to face the people who had wronged him. With his physical powers in some measure restored, he would have the resources to deal with a confrontation. And he knew that to go on with his life, he must bury the aches of the past.
Trudy's probing questions about Faye and his feelings for her had disturbed him more than he liked to think. There was no question in his mind that Faye, with her youth, enthusiasm and faith, had been the inspiration for his comforting dreams and the true basis for his healing.
He was grateful to her. More than that, he was fascinated by her, so much so that he wondered if she might not be the answer to all his troubles. Since she had appeared in his library unannounced, his life had taken a sudden change. For the first time in years, he felt glowingly alive.
Faye had proven her good faith by supporting him in front of his colleagues. Though the effects of her magic on those gentlemen would surely wear off, at least he now had a chance to go up against them on a fair playing field, unhampered by a stiff, unreasoning defense. For this, not to mention her countless other virtues, he ought to love her.
Why, then, was he unable to trust her as he should?
Until last night, Matthew had not put into words the concerns that had troubled him about Faye, uppermost that eerie, unsettling feeling that she might vanish just as suddenly as she had come. Whether a result of Ahmad's superstition or of his own disorientation as caused by his delusions, he knew such a fear was absurd. But knowing it to be did not help to diminish it.
Perhaps his unwillingness to believe in her was due to Helen's unfaithfulness and the resulting harm it had caused.
If that were the case, he had best resolve the lingering hurt from that past experience, else he would risk losing the greatest gift ever to come his way.
Leaving Ahmad behind at home, Matthew decided to walk the few blocks to Sir Julian's residence in Audley Street. The crisp December air was bracing, and the fur and holly hanging everywhere put him in mind of his ride in the park with Faye. He remembered how dull he had felt then, only a short time past, and how her daring had awakened him. She was every bit as courageous in her own way as he had been when he'd first set out on his travels.
No more than fifteen minutes brought him to Sir Julian's door. His knock was answered by a footman who instantly recognized Sir Matthew Dunstone and, remembering the scene Matthew had made on a former occasion, anxiously informed him that neither his master nor mistress was at home.
Matthew, who knew the habits of both very well, had no trouble deciphering this message. When he asked if he might come in to leave a note, the footman tried to close the door in his face.
Matthew put one hand out to prevent him and forced the door ajar. For this maneuver he needed a measure of strength, and he was happy to find that he had at least this much.
Speaking calmly, he managed to gain the footman's ear long enough to say, "Please tell your mistress that Sir Matthew Dunstone has called to pay his respects. And, if she has no wish to receive me, I promise to go away."
"It'd be more'n my job is worth, sir, if I let you in." As he pressed on the door, the footman's face grew quite red.
"I imagine it would be if I behaved the way I did last time I called, but I assure you that will not happen again."
The rationality of his speech seemed to work, and the footman relaxed his grip on the door very slightly. Matthew gave a sign of faith by removing his hand.
"Please inform Lady Speck that I have chosen to wait outside in the event she does not wish to see me."
With a wary cast to his shoulders, the footman acquiesced, and Matthew took a step away from the house to recover his composure while he waited. He could not blame the footman for his inhospitality, for he remembered how loudly he had stormed the entrance of Sir Julian's house when he'd learned of Helen's defection. Even in his weakened state--and he recalled just how feeble he had felt when his anger had subsided--it had taken two footmen and Ahmad to expel him from the house.
Recalling the humiliation of that day, Matthew was surprised by how little it bothered him now.
More of Faye's influence? He gave a wondering smile.
After a few minutes, the door was opened again, and the footman eyed him cautiously. "The mistress says she will receive you." He bowed.
As Matthew passed him in the vestibule, the footman added, "But no tricks, mind."
"You have my solemn word."
Strange, but he felt like laughing, as if a footman's insolence should be a cause for amusement. But Matthew had suffered much worse at the hands of lower beings than this poor servant. He applauded the lad's stance.
He was shown into a drawing room he vaguely recalled as being decorated with a mixture of female furbelows with only the occasional sign of a male presence. Its fragile chairs with crimson damask had been chosen for the fashionable statement they made rather than for comfort, he discovered when he sat in one of them. Taking a look around, he wondered how differently Helen would have furnished her drawing room if she had been married to him.
Though, Matthew acknowledged with a rueful grimace, he need not have wondered. He would have insisted upon having everything his way even if it meant that Helen would have spent a great portion of her days in a room designed to please him.
Before he could ask himself the next logical question, how Faye would wish to arrange her drawing room, the door swung open, and he stood.
Helen paused on the threshold. The past few years had not changed her much. Her pale blond hair was gathered simply in a chignon, just as he remembered it. Her eyes were still a gentle blue. The dignity of her gaze, which had first attracted him to her, seemed still to linger beneath her present wary glance. The only change Matthew could detect at all was a slight thickening at her waist and a certain heaviness in her step.
She hesitated, nervously fingering the doorknob, as if she might wish to flee.
Matthew hid his annoyance to make her a leg. It was one thing for the footman to think him a lunatic, quite another for someone who had known his kindness to fear him so.
"Helen." He invited her into the room with a questioning note.
"Matthew . . ." She moved forward to give him her hand, then withdrew it quickly. "I must admit your visit comes as a surprise."
"I am certain it does. I hope, however, that you will not find it too unpleasant. I promise you, I mean no harm. To you." He had to qualify that last statement for she would not believe he was in charity with her husband, not after the accusations Sir Julian had made.
Helen flushed and begged him to be seated. Once they were settled across from each other, she had difficulty meeting his eye.
As the silence between them stretched, she began to speak in a wavering voice. "Julian informed me that you made an appearance at the Association meeting last Saturday."
"Yes, I did." Matthew frowned. "I confess to being somewhat surprised that he mentioned it to you, however."
"Oh, Julian and I have no secrets from each other."
"You are most fortunate," Matthew said wryly, and he saw her flush again.
"Julian said--“ Helen hastened her speech--"that you had a remarkably beautiful young lady with you."
"Yes, I did
. Her name is Faye Meriwether, but perhaps you have met her."
"No."
"She does not often indulge in society's pleasures, or so she tells me."
"Then, it is you who is fortunate."
Helen's statement caught him off guard. "I beg your pardon?" Matthew asked.
"Oh, Matthew . . . have you forgotten what you were like? Always so ungracious about my desire for society. I am happy you have found someone who shares your taste."
Matthew was astonished to feel himself coloring up. "Oh, as to that--nothing has been settled . . ."
"But from what Julian told me, Miss Meriwether is plainly in love with you."
The jolt of Helen's statement sent Matthew's head ringing. This was not why he had called and not the way the conversation was supposed to go.
But how was it supposed to go?
"Tell me truly, Helen." He took the direct approach to clear his head. "Was that why you jilted me? Because I had no liking for balls?"
His use of such brutal words made her flinch, but she quickly squared her shoulders. "No! I would not have married Julian if I had believed you were still alive, though I am heartily glad I did. But--two years, Matthew. Surely that was more than long enough to wait. And then, when Julian came back and informed us all that he feared you had died and under what circumstances--"
At Matthew's angry look, Helen's recital broke off. She resumed, "But regardless of the circumstances, I believed you were dead. What was I to do? Stay a spinster? Give up every chance for a life?"
"Did you not have a life without marriage?"
"Certainly not. What woman does?"
Faye does, Matthew thought, though he did not speak the words aloud, for he sensed how unfair they were. It was useless to compare Helen to Faye, even though he had not realized before what a coward Helen was. And even that last thought was grossly unfair.
Helen was neither more nor less than most of her kind. She was precisely what she had been raised to be. Whereas Faye--
Faye was as eccentric and boundless as he was.
The sudden realization that they were meant for each other elated him, and he wanted to kiss Helen for it.
The Christmas Spirit Page 8