The Beloved One

by Danelle Harmon

  "I'm sorry," he murmured, staring down into the blackness. "We were all having a good time, and now I've ruined it."

  "No you haven't."

  "All my life, everyone thought me perfect, confident, capable . . . and all my life I tried to be just that, so that I would not disappoint. People came to me with their problems, consulted me for advice, depended on me." He gave a bitter little laugh. "Do you know what Lucien told me the day my regiment left England to come to America?"

  For answer, she reached out and took his hand.

  "He wished me Godspeed — and then he said, 'Return to us crowned in laurels, Charles. You are a de Montforte. I expect nothing less than glory from you. Especially from you.'" He dug at the sand with his foot. "And instead of laurels, what will I bring back to my family? Shame. Pity. Embarrassment. I have failed them, and I have failed myself."

  "You made an honorable sacrifice, Charles. You put the life of a young boy before your own."

  "I fell and struck a rock. I seethe with humiliation when I think of explaining myself, and the circumstances of my injury, to my superiors — let alone my family, all of whom expected so very much of me." He made a sound of disgust. "Crowned with laurels! Indeed."

  "Just because you have such high standards of perfection, doesn't mean everyone else does."

  "No, but they're accustomed to certain behavior and actions from me, and neither my behavior nor my actions give me any reason to be proud."

  "Well, I'm proud of you. You have more strength, more courage, and more determination than anyone I know."

  He allowed a grim smile. Of course she would say that; given the girlish infatuation he suspected she felt for him, such a defense came as no surprise. And there was no use arguing with her. When you were infatuated with a person, you always saw them as something more than they were; something almost god-like. And Charles knew, more than anyone, that he was not god-like at all.

  Far from it.

  They sat together, each all too aware of the other's nearness, each respecting the unspoken boundaries that forbid them to acknowledge secret yearnings, give in to forbidden desires. Finally, Charles sighed and, with his finger, began tracing patterns in the sand.

  "Amy . . . may I speak to you as a friend?"

  "Of course."

  "That first night after discovering I was blind, when I accused you of being your family's slave and you grew angry with me and told me to mind my own affairs —"

  He sensed her going stiff beside him.

  "Well, I cannot help but ask. Why do you allow them to treat you so shabbily?"

  She was so silent that he thought for sure he'd offended her, and that she was going to get up and walk away.

  Then, very quietly, she murmured, "Because I have to."

  "Why?"

  "Because if I were to act difficult and contrary, there's nothing to stop my sisters from convincing Sylvanus to throw me out. And since I have no hopes of marriage, I can't let that happen. I have nowhere else to go."

  "What do you mean, you have no prospects of marriage? You're young, charming, and no doubt beautiful. You have your entire life before you!"

  "You don't understand, and I — I don't want to talk about this."

  "No, I don't understand, and how the devil can I, when every attempt I've made to have this conversation with you ends before it even begins?" Realizing that he was getting angry, he took her hands within his own and squeezed them, willing her to forgive him for his curiosity, his impatience, his interference. "I can't help but notice the way they treat you, Amy. I have come to care about you, and it hurts me. It upsets me. Can you not tell me why your sisters hate you so?"

  "I'm not really their sister."

  "What do you mean, not really their sister?"

  "Sylvanus is their father — but he's not mine."

  "So you're his stepdaughter, then?"

  "Not exactly . . ."

  "Then who is your father?"

  She went silent.

  "Amy?"

  Her hands were trembling, and he it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms, to comfort and hold and soothe her as everything inside of him screamed at him to do. Instead, he folded her cold hands within his and very calmly, asked, "Can you not tell me who your father is, Amy?"

  "I can, but . . ."

  "But what?"

  Something came into her voice; not quite fear, but shame. Deep shame. She whispered, "I'm afraid you won't like me anymore if I do."

  He smiled gently. "Does that matter?"

  She swallowed. "Yes. It — it matters a lot."

  Ah yes. That damned infatuation again. "My dear friend. There's nothing you can say or do that will make me dislike you, or cause me to forget all that you have done for me. If you want to tell me your secret, I vow to keep it safe."

  "That's just it. It's not a secret. Everyone in town knows about me, and they all have reason to treat me as they do."

  "Amy."

  "Yes?

  He pulled his hands from hers and bending his head, rubbed at the back of his skull, which was now beginning to throb incessantly. "Please don't make me angry."

  "I'm just telling the truth."

  "No, you're putting yourself down and I don't like it. Do you like it when I put myself down? Do you like it when I refer to myself as helpless and blind?"

  "No, of course not, but you're not helpless and your blindness may delay, but never deter, you from your potential, whereas I —"

  "Whereas you need a good dose of self-confidence so that you'll stand up to people who treat you badly. How old are you?"

  "Seventeen."

  "And do you have a fair face, Amy?"

  "No. I'm ugly."

  "I suppose you're fat, toothless, and scarred by pox as well, eh?"

  "Not yet," she murmured, but he heard the reluctant smile in her voice.

  "So why do you think you're ugly, Amy?"

  "I just am."

  "You just are."

  "Yes."

  "Are your sisters ugly?"

  "No. They're beautiful, both of them, with perfect blonde hair and lovely eyes and skin as white as milk. It's a good thing you can't see them, otherwise you'd probably forget all about your fiancée in Bos —" she trailed off, horrified. "Oh, Charles, I didn't mean that the way it sounded!"

  He shook his head. "I didn't take it the way it sounded. Now Amy. Since you have eyes that work, I want you to look at me. I'm missing part of my hair, I have a hole in my head, and my eyes must surely be staring into space. Do you think I'm ugly?"

  "Oh, no, Lord Charles, they could shave off all your hair and give you a dozen holes in your head and do whatever they wanted to your eyes and you'd still be just as hands—"

  She caught herself and gasped. The air between them turned suddenly warm.

  He couldn't help grinning. "I'd still be just as what?"

  "I can't say, I should never have said as much as I have, I've embarrassed myself and now I'll embarrass you —"

  "I doubt that."

  "Well, I was going to say that you'd still be just as . . . just as handsome, but I don't want you to think I'm trying to get under your skin as my sisters think to do. They — they look at you the way they look at dessert every night."

  "Ah. And did they start thinking of me as dessert before or after they learned that my father was, and now my brother is, the duke of Blackheath?"

  "After."

  "Women." He sighed.

  "You're kind, blue-blooded, and look like some warrior angel fallen to earth. You have to expect that women are going to throw themselves at you. Don't you find it flattering?"

  "No, I find it damned annoying."

  "Why?"

  "I don't have time for it, am not vain enough to appreciate it, and have no use for females whose interest in me is predominantly based on the fact that my father was a duke." He pushed back a lock of hair that had come loose from his queue, continued rubbing the back of his skull, and said wryly, "Perhaps now th
at I have a hole in my head and can no longer see, they'll leave me alone."

  "I doubt it. You're still handsome, you're still brave, and you still have the same father."

  He laughed. "Oh, Amy. Why is it that you can make the simplest statements sound so ludicrously funny?"

  "Do I?"

  "Yes." He smiled. "And don't ever stop."

  They sat quietly together. Overhead, gulls wheeled, and the sea beat a rhythmic song against the beach. Absently, Charles resumed massaging the back of his head, trying to banish the pain that never seemed to let up beneath his skull. He didn't even realize he was doing it until suddenly her hand was there, her fingers encircling his wrist.

  He stilled, one brow raised.

  "I know you're in pain," she began, hesitantly. "Every time I see you doing that, all I want to do is try and find some way to make you feel better, but I . . ." she released his hand. "Well, you have a fiancée and I don't know if it's right to touch you." She swallowed. "Is it right to touch you, Charles?"

  He frowned, considering the matter. "I suppose there's no harm in it, as long as my head is the only part of me you touch." He smiled. "We really don't need a repeat of what happened that night you uh, helped me with my bath, do we?"

  "Certainly not!" she agreed, with a nervous little laugh.

  He bent his head, allowing her to do what she would. "Then go ahead, Amy. Make the pain go away, if you can." He shut his eyes, already anticipating the relief her touch would surely bring.

  Amy, her throat suddenly dry, stretched her legs out in front of her, then smoothed her petticoats and apron over them.

  "Is it, um, all right if you position yourself so that both of us are comfortable, Charles?"

  "What would you like me to do?"

  "Lie down, so that your head is — well, resting in my lap."

  Again, he frowned; then, torn between a desperate need for relief and the worry that this seemingly innocent gesture might not be such a good idea after all, he lay down in the sand with his back toward her, gingerly resting his right cheek on her leg and settling his left hand on her knee.

  "How is that?"

  "Perfect," she said — and it was.

  With caring, ever-so-gentle hands, Amy untied his queue and drew her fingers through the thick, shining waves of his hair. He sighed, deeply. His fingers curled briefly around her knee, and then he gradually began to relax as she started combing his hair with her fingers, knowing the gentle pulls against his scalp would be soothing in itself.

  "I think I feel better already," he murmured.

  "Do you want me to stop?"

  "God, no."

  She smiled and continued her ministrations, lightly drawing her fingers over his head and out through his hair, over and over again, carefully avoiding the still-tender scar and massaging his temple, his brow, his scalp, nape, and even his earlobe with a soft, caring touch. And as she worked, she gazed longingly down at him, wishing she could look at him forever. But he was not hers. He could never be hers. And soon now, he would be going back to those to whom he belonged. His oh-so-lucky Juliet. The family he so obviously loved. And probably to England, never to return.

  Oh, why did it hurt so much?

  Her chest constricted. Sudden tears made his image blurry, and she raised her head, blinking them away and desperately hoping that Mira wouldn't come back anytime soon and cut short this innocent intimacy that Charles had allowed them.

  But Mira was nowhere to be seen, and now a breeze came up, ruffling the folds of his shirt and stirring his hair as Amy continued her gentle caresses. Time passed. His weight grew heavy across her legs. She hoped she was bringing him the relief he so desperately needed. She hoped he would let her do this again for him sometime soon. And she hoped there really wasn't anything wrong in this well-meaning action with respect to his pledge to Juliet, because the feelings that made her skin warm despite the nippy breeze, the feelings that made her breasts feel tight and now brought a raw, tingling ache to her most private of areas, were not right at all, and she began to understand just how her mother might have felt all those years ago . . .

  You'd better get up now, Amy. Enough is enough.

  She opened her mouth to rouse him — and realized that his fingers were loose and relaxed across her knee, and that he was taking the deep, rhythmics breaths of someone fast asleep.

  Amy bit her lip. She hadn't the heart to wake him. Not now. Her gaze tender, she looked down at his firm, slightly parted lips, the long, pale lashes lying against his cheeks, the shoulders that rose and fell so gently. His breath warmed the top of her thigh through her petticoats. Her heartache intensified, the back of her throat felt raw. It was all she cold do not to lean down and kiss his temple, but she would not, she could not do such a thing, it just wasn't right. Instead, she touched two fingers to her mouth, shut her eyes for a moment, and then, so softly that it might have been the whisper of breeze, transferred the kiss to his lips. Her wistful gesture was enough to wake him. He took a deep sigh, slowly lifted his lashes, and, without moving his head, looked off over the river's broad blue basin, a broad blue basin that he might never see.

  His face was not just relaxed. It was sad.

  "Hmmm . . . Your touch put me to sleep, I think." He made no attempt to get up. "Thank you, Amy. You are very kind to me."

  "You're not a hard person to be kind to, Charles. Besides, I've been no kinder to you than you've been to me."

  "And I would say the same," he murmured, and let his eyes shut once more, though she knew he was not sleeping.

  "Charles?"

  "Hmmmm?"

  She gathered her courage. "Earlier, you told me how people treat you a certain way because of who your father was . . ."

  His eyes slowly opened. "Yes."

  "Well . . . people treat me the way they do because of who my father was, too."

  He was quiet for a moment. "And who was your father, Amy?"

  She took a deep, bracing breath, and her hands stilled in his hair.

  "A red Indian."

  Charles, his cheek still resting on her knee, waited for her to continue. She didn't. He waited another moment. She remained silent. He heard the wash of the sea against the beach, the roar of distant breakers, the high-pitched cry of a gull, and finally spoke when it became obvious that no more was coming from her. "Is that it, then?"

  "Yes."

  He pushed himself up. "You mean to tell me the reason your family treats you like a slave is because your father was an Indian?"

  "Well, yes. I don't know what it's like in England, but here, Indians are treated like slaves."

  "But —"

  "I know, you're wondering how it happened, aren't you?" She gave a pained little laugh, trying, without success, to sound cavalier. "Everyone says it was rape, but it wasn't; Mama had been married to Sylvanus for three years when she met and fell in love with my real father, a Mohawk, and the only reason people say it was rape is out of respect for Sylvanus's feelings. He let Mama keep me, but he always took care to remind me that I was the product of sin, just to make sure I tried twice as hard to do good, and not make the Lord any more unhappy with me than He already is."

  "What?!"

  "I'm the fruit of a terrible sin and that makes me unclean, don't you see? My mother was an adulterer. My father was a savage. Wanton blood runs in my veins. And that's why people treat me the way they do. It's not their fault that I am what I am — its mine."

  "I have never heard such complete and utter codswollop in all my life!"

  "Don't you have a class system in England?"

  "Well, yes, of course, but . . . for God's sake, this is different!"

  "No it's not. We have a class system here, too, and Indians and people from Africa are at the bottom of it."

  "I cannot believe that a man who calls himself a Christian would raise you to believe you're responsible for something that has nothing to do with you!"

  Her voice grew defensive. "You mustn't blame Sylvanus. He's a kin
d soul, and a forgiving one. He could've thrown Mama out, but he didn't because he still loved her. He could've thrown me out, as I must be a constant reminder of what Mama did, but he didn't. Instead, he took me in, gave me his name, schooling, and plenty of food to eat. No respectable man will ever marry me, but I have a home with Sylvanus for as long as he remains on this earth, and that's more than a lot of people in my position might have." Her anger faded when he remained still, shocked, and silent. "Honestly, Charles, my life isn't so bad. I am blessed. Really I am. Please don't look so upset."

  Upset? Charles felt sick to his stomach. Felt sicker yet by her blithe acceptance of her lot. And here he was, wealthy, privileged, blessed with every material gift that God could give a man, sulking because he'd lost his sight. At least he had everything else. What did this poor little mite ever have?

  Nothing. Just gratitude for any scrap of comfort.

  He pushed his fist against his brow, his heart feeling as though someone had dragged a rake through it.

  "Charles?"

  He lifted his head, staring blankly into the nothingness.

  "Charles, are you well?"

  "No, Amy. I am not well. I am sickened by what you've just told me, that's all."

  "You don't need to feel sick, it's not your fault that I'm a dirty half-breed —"

  "Damn it, it's not your fault either, and you're not 'dirty,' so stop allowing Sylvanus and everyone else to convince you otherwise!"

  "But Sylvanus is a man of God, he knows what he's talking about —"

  "Sylvanus is a narrow-minded sod who's spent his life punishing you for something that isn't your fault!"

  His words rang in the air, reverberating like the last clang of a bell. "I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "'Sdeath, I'm sorry." He grasped her hand, holding it with a fierce strength. "Amy, listen to me. Listen to me. Don't you ever let them tell you you're ugly! Don't ever let them tell you you're dirty. You're a beautiful person, inside and out, thoughtful, sensitive and kind. I don't care what Sylvanus says, or what anyone else thinks. You'll find yourself a nice man to marry someday, and if your family's trying to convince you otherwise, it's only because they have an unpaid servant in you and they don't want to lose you."