Thus seated, with only a short distance between them, she warned herself not to prattle on, as her father had scolded her so often for doing. Others want to speak as well, Lila.
So she knelt before him and waited for all of his news before she
told him hers. Just when she thought he'd never speak, he picked up a near twig and commenced making lines on the earth and said apologetically, "I should have written."
"You had no time."
"No, I mean from London, to tell you I was coming."
"I knew you were coming. I've been here all day waiting for you."
He looked up, as though surprised by her answer, though in the end a smile canceled the surprise and he said gently, "You haven't changed."
"You have. You look older."
"I am older, and . . ."
He seemed to lose his train of thought and looked vaguely about at the earth where he'd scratched a pattern of intersecting lines.
"Are you through?" she asked politely.
"Through with . . . what?"
"With your words. If you want to say more, I'll be quiet. If not, I'll talk."
"You talk, Lila. Tell me all about yourself."
She moved closer on her knees, delighted with the invitation. "Oh, I've nothing to say about me," she began, smoothing out the lines of intersected earth. "It's about something else, though. Quite a mystery it is. Would you like to see it? It isn't far, and perhaps you can explain it."
"What is it?"
"It's the stream," she began, amazed that someone was willing to share her mystery. "Over there," she went on, pointing beyond the orchard. "And it's rising, just a bit ever}' day, but I've watched it for three weeks and dropped a measurement into it, and it is rising. Would you like to see? And on the way, I'll show you something else, a cocoon that for three weeks has been trying to become a butterfly." Suddenly she shuddered. "In a way, it's terrible. You can see it trapped inside. I've wondered if I shouldn't try to help." She looked at him, pleased by the interest on his face. "Do you know anything about butterflies?"
It was several moments after she had stopped talking before he said anything. But she'd charted the expression on his face, one of soft bewilderment. Oh, how lovely it was to have him back.
"Will you come with me, John?"
Slowly he reached one hand out and caressed the side of her face. "I'll come. Lead the way."
"Let's take off our shoes," she suggested. "It's very marshy and damp. And it feels so good, the wetness."
He laughed and immediately reached down to his boots.
"Let me do it," she begged, and without waiting for his answer, moved close and rested his boot in her lap and released the three large buckles, and with one effort jerked his foot free. She rolled down his stocking and pulled it free, and marveled at the white beauty of his foot, the skin so tender. When she looked up, she was dazzled by the radiance in his eyes, the tension she'd seen earlier almost gone.
Hurriedly she removed his other boot, then stood and kicked off her slippers, and seeing his sweat-dampened shirtwaist, made a second suggestion. "Why don't you take off your shirt as well?"
Without a word of protest, he followed her every suggestion, and stood before her at last, perfectly at home in his skin, bearing an incredible resemblance to the young boy she'd met here years ago.
"Well, then"—he smiled—"lead the way. I have an appetite for small perplexing mysteries."
She lifted her head and called for Wolf, told him they were going to the stream and if he wanted to come, he'd better hurry.
Then she led the way through the orchard, hearing his bare feet padding along behind her, hearing him laugh aloud as though shaken by some extravagant merriment.
From where he sat atop the high carriage seat, Alex saw the young woman and grinned, his suspicions confirmed.
So! It was a woman. But even from this distance he could tell that this one was different, no brassy London whore.
Alex knew he shouldn't be watching, and considered averting his eyes, but what else was there to watch on this deserted road? So he settled back against the seat and took it all in, the two of them standing at the bottom of the hill, John stroking the cat—that was a bad sign, when he had that pretty piece of fresh country goods standing before him.
Ah! There! At last. She had some sense if he didn't, and Alex watched, fascinated, as she led him across the road and into the shade of the orchard.
Squinting, Alex continued to watch. Jesus, they looked shy as children, her kneeling before him, him scratching at the dirt. Where was the old John who could disrobe a whore and mount her in twenty seconds flat? Alex knew. He'd timed him often enough. Yet now? Look at him there, ducking his head like some schoolboy.
Wait! There was an encouraging move, again coming from her. Doing something to his boots. Oh, yes, events were picking up, John shedding his shirt, the two of them standing . . .
Suddenly Alex leaned forward on the seat. What in the hell? Look at them, running through the orchard and through the meadow beyond, racing toward that dark fringe of trees.
Damn I They must have seen him watching, and now he'd be robbed of the best part. "Damn!" he cursed again, and crawled slowly down from his perch, sweltering, and into the cool interior of the carriage.
Well, no matter. At least he knew what they were doing here now, and knowing John, within the hour he'd have his fill of country air and country wenches, and unless old Alex missed his guess, they would be London-bound by nightfall.
Unfortunately, he missed his guess, and two weeks later, as he squatted on the flagstone terrace outside the kitchen entrance of Harrington Hall, scaling fish with a stick of an old man named Max, he sat flat down on his ass as though he'd just come to his senses, and wondered what in the hell they were still doing here.
Not that it was so bad. Quite the contrary. It was one of the most enjoyable and prolonged holidays that Alex Aldwell had ever known, fishing every day in the Avon with old Max, enjoying a bountiful table in the servants' hall with the staff, though a weird collection of geese they were.
They'd spent the first two nights at the Red Lion in Salisbury, then the young lady had insisted that they stay at Harrington Hall, and Lord Harrington had agreed, though he wore a perpetually be-wildered look and fingered pope beads all the time.
As the fish scales splattered about the flagstones at his feet, Alex was forced to admit that the most baffling of all was John Murrey Eden. Every evening that first week, he'd told Alex, "We'll leave tomorrow, noon at the latest." But tomorrow and noon would come and go and the young lady would appear with a picnic hamper and the}' would take off across the downs and return at nightfall with wreaths of clover in their hair.
Like children they were, the two of them, sometimes riding bareback over to Stonehenge, other times jumping out of the barn and onto the hay mounds, then John bidding her good night at the ungodly hour of ten o'clock and sitting with her father for the rest of
the evening, then coming to bed himself about midnight, where he stayed, for Alex had heard him from the next room.
No, something was going on, or more accurately, nothing was going on, and wasn't likely to, and in the meantime, what must the folks back in London be thinking? Worried sick, that's what they'd be. Oh, yes, he could just imagine Mr. Rhoades. And Miss Elizabeth. It was a wonder she didn't have the soldiers out searching for them.
No, it would have to come to an end soon, and as Alex tossed the last fish over into the wicker basket, he ignored Max's invitation to share a pint, and walked determinedly around the side of the Hall, squinting over the wall into the garden, where he'd seen John and Lila Harrington walking earlier.
There they were, on their hands and knees, planting, John as mud-smudged as a farmer. Children. That single description kept coming to mind and seemed most accurate.
Kneeling beside John was the young lady, or more accurately, child, for Alex knew the female of the species very well, and that one, he would swear to it,
was as virginal as the day she'd slipped from her mother's womb, and for all the progress John was making, she was likely to stay that way. He gazed a moment longer as they passed the trowel back and forth. Then Alex had seen enough and cleared his throat noisily.
At the rude noise of shifting phlegm, he saw John look up, an expression of concentration on his face as intense as when he did his cost charts. "Alex . . ." He smiled, as though just bringing him into focus. "Come, lend us a hand. We're making an investment in the earth, and according to Lila, the dividends next spring will be lovely, long fragrant trumpets of waxlike beauty."
Christ! Had the man taken leave of his senses? "I . . . was wondering," Alex began, "if I might have a word with you. Just a word, John, that's all, in private if you don't mind."
Gently John leaned close to Lila and delivered himself of a melodramatic stage whisper, loud enough for all to hear. "Look! Now, that's a London face. Can you see it? Look at the brow, the tightness about the eyes."
To Alex's embarrassment she said quietly, "It's a good face, John, the face of a man who loves you very much." She raised her voice to Alex. "Won't you come and help us, Mr. Aldwell?"
For a moment he almost succumbed to the sweetness of that face. But at last he saw John rising from his kneeling position. Brushing
the dirt from his knees, he started up the flagstone steps which separated the terrace from the garden below. "Now, Alex, what's so important that it couldn't wait?"
"I was wondering," Alex began, "if perhaps I shouldn't send Mr. Rhoades a message of some sort."
It seemed a sensible suggestion, and he was in no way prepared for the surprised look on John's face. "Why?" he asked bluntly. "What sort of message?"
"Well, accounting for ourselves, you know, where we are and . . ."
John smiled. "We know where we are. What difference does it make to Andrew?"
"Don't you think he's worried, as are all the—"
"Why worried? I left him with enough work to keep him busy for several months. As for the crews, they certainly know what to do."
"We've been gone, John, for over two weeks."
"Yes?"
"Miss Elizabeth. Don't you think she's probably beside herself by now?"
Apparently Alex had said something that had penetrated. "I know, I know," John said, retreating a step, as though he did not like to be reminded of certain obligations. "You're right, Alex," he conceded, "and I promise we'll leave—perhaps tomorrow, no later than noon."
How many times Alex had heard those words before. "Just let me send a message, John, telling them all where we are and what—"
"No!" He stepped closer, with an expression which resembled anger. "Can't you see? Can't you understand?"
But Alex couldn't, though before John's anger he retreated. "Perhaps . . . tomorrow, then," he muttered, repeating the vague promise. He turned about and walked away from the mud-covered man, deciding just then to seek out old Max and lift as many pints as necessary to dull his thoughts of neglected duties, of the keenest mind in all of London gone suddenly balmy.
John watched him go and started to call him back, but ultimately said nothing. How could he possibly explain to that pragmatic man what he himself did not understand?
He turned back to the wall and looked out over the garden to the font of the mystery, the bowed head of Lila Harrington, who perhaps had worked a spell on him. She'd laughed about it often enough, and now he wanted nothing more than to remain in her
presence, to live forever in the atmosphere of boyhood and youth which she had created for him.
During these last two weeks he'd felt blood flowing in his veins for the first time in years. All the remembered tragedy through which he had walked had fallen away from him, and he was young again. Beyond a simple clasp of her hand, he had never touched her. It was as though he had willingly placed all his ardor and ambition before a temple of innocence.
He leaned heavily atop the brick wall, still watching her. How beautiful she was, how healing, freeing him from his deepest guilt. He'd never known anyone so confident of her right to be in the world.
And what a magnificent world she had shared with him these last two weeks. He'd seen things he'd never seen before: the way the sun striking underwater fern turned the stream chartreuse; the dilemma of the rising stream itself, which they had never solved; the awesome three-day vigil during which they had knelt in meadow grasses and kept a sharp watch on the butterfly struggling to free himself from his cocoon. John had never witnessed such drama, and as the creature had thrashed itself loose and soared to the tops of trees, John had felt tears in his eyes and had done nothing to brush them away.
Still he looked down on her. With absolute confidence he realized that he could survive and accomplish anything if only he had the assurance that this one small paradise would always be waiting for him.
But he didn't have that assurance. In fact, sitting with her father late at night, he'd heard tales that had chilled his blood, the hysteria of the villagers and even some of the staff who thought her a witch. He couldn't believe it, such mindless superstition in this modern age.
He'd learned more as well, not through direct confession from Lord Harrington. But there were worrisome signs which John had observed for himself, the reduced staff—merely six for a Hall this size, which meant that some had been let go; an obvious disintegration of the outbuildings, broken farm machinery, overgrown fields, crumbling stone walls.
Twice Lord Harrington had spoken of returning to Ireland and taking Lila with him. His only emotional link to England had been his wife, and now that she was dead, he was certain he would feel more at home on the old sod.
No, John wouldn't permit it. He needed the warmth and inno-
cence and wonder of Lila Harrington to keep before him an unfaltering image of purity.
An idea occurred, incomprehensible at first, but flaring rapidly into the realm of lightness. Why not? All he needed of wifely love was that one sweet face. Even before he had fully grasped all the implications of what he was about to do, he left the wall and hurried around the path until he was standing directly over her, suffering anguish for fear that she would reject him, yet posing the question anyway. "Lila," he began, his voice low, "will you marry me?"
Her hand, reaching out for the trowel, halted in midair. Her head seemed to incline forward for a moment. She looked up at him almost shyly. "I've known for years that I'd marry you one day, John. Surely you knew it as well."
Before he could respond, she reached for his hand and drew him down beside her, and with great tenderness she pushed a soft mound of earth to one side, revealing an earthworm. "Look." She smiled, urging him to come closer. "There on his back. The colors of the rainbow. Do you see them?"
As she marveled at the mystery, he found himself as always captivated by the discoverer as well as the discovery. As he took careful note of the earthworm, he felt the world become quiet around him, as though eternity were smiling down on him, like a beneficent father who derives joy from the realization that one of his children has discovered the secret
Later that evening, in the library, Lord Harrington threw open one of the windows, certain that his ears had deceived him. "You're asking ... for what?" he said, looking at the young man.
Mr. Eden merely smiled, a rather indulgent expression, as though he were aware of the madness of his own words. "I'm asking for Lila's hand in marriage," he repeated, as though perfectly willing to give Lord Harrington all the time he needed.
Lord Harrington stared at him, then stealthily reached inside his pocket, enclosing his fingers about his comforting rosary.
Marry Lila! The incredible words echoed about the room, and he looked back at the young man who had posed them. "I'm afraid . . . I don't understand, Mr. Eden. Is this... a jest?"
"I assure you it is not, Lord Harrington."
"But... we scarcely know—"
"I know enough," he interrupted, displaying a forceful ego. It was not his knowledge
with which Lord Harrington was concerned.
"You've only been here two weeks," Harrington went on.
"We have corresponded for the last four years," Eden countered. "Surely you were aware of that."
Lord Harrington nodded. Of course he had been aware of it, had within the last few months instigated a brief investigation of John Murrey Eden, had discovered through his solicitor's efforts that the young man was peripherally connected with the Edens of North Devon, and was now a successful master builder in London. Still, there was a vast difference between a romantic schoolgirl correspondence and marriage.
He looked back at the young man, beginning to fear the worst, that he was quite serious in his proposal. Then Lord Harrington would have to deal with it seriously, though he'd never felt less equipped to handle such a delicate matter in his life.
As he stared out of the window, over the dark peace of his Wiltshire estate, his fingers, out of sight in his pocket, worked steadily at his beads. If only his wife were here, and as fresh grief rose, he moved faster down the beads, as though to make up for lost time, connecting in his mind the recent disintegration in his life with his earlier rejection of his beloved Catholic faith. To be sure, God's punishment had been slow in coming, but it had been thorough once it had arrived. Now look at him. Childless, except for Lila, alone, his wife recently buried, his portfolio of stock melting away before his eyes, unable to pay for the services of a full staff, unable to make needed repairs. . . .
And now, here was another mystery with which he had to deal, and he looked directly at the prosperous young man who was asking to marry Lila, poor Lila, who in her entire life had never even managed to turn the head of a passing stableboy.
As though his confusion could not be contained, he muttered, "I . . . still do not understand, Mr. Eden."
"If you'll forgive me," the young man said, drawing near, "you're making it more difficult than necessary. It's a simple matter really. I've discovered during these past two weeks when you have received me with such hospitality that your daughter fills a very important vacuum in my life. I must return to London immediately and I don't want to return without knowing that she is safe, and mine."
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