Then she heard the door open ever so quietly. She quickly dropped her hand and tried to push herself into a more upright position, wincing at the pain in her side as she did so. With irritation—both at the pain and at the interruption—she saw Helena edge into the room cautiously, like a soldier expecting to be ambushed. Her pale redhead’s complexion grew paler still when she saw Devon. Devon could not help but be amused by the look of horror on Helena’s face as she took in the extent of her injuries, but Devon held her smile in check. She knew that the moment was agony for Helena, but she could not bring herself to make things easier for her.
“Devon?” Helena sounded as though she were uncertain that the person in the bed was indeed the beautiful young woman of whom she had been so jealous just two weeks ago. Her voice quavered apprehensively.
“Helena.” Devon uttered the word in a neutral, reasonable tone, but one devoid of warmth.
“Devon… you’re sitting up. You must be… better?” Again she concluded her sentence with a question mark in her voice.
She wants to be reassured, Devon thought. She wants me to convince her that I’ll be fine and that she’s forgiven. But Devon was too angry for that.
“I’m better than I was two weeks ago, if that’s what you mean,” she snapped.
So far, Helena had remained just inside the door. Devon had not invited her to sit in the armchair beside the bed, the only chair in the room other than the round, skirted little seat in front of her vanity. But she could not continue to withhold common courtesy. “Please come in and sit down, Helena,” she said, in the tone of a school principal commanding a truant.
Reassured by the familiar phrase, if not the tone, Helena expelled her breath in a long sigh and quickly took the seat. She reached her hand toward Devon’s, then stopped, as though uncertain whether the gesture would be rebuffed.
Devon felt a twinge of pity for Helena. She could read in her face many sleepless nights fraught with anxiety and guilt. So—much less harshly than she had originally intended—she said, “Helena, what in the world got into you that day?”
“Oh, Devon, I don t know, I just lost control. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I was stupid. I never want to get on a horse again. I’ve never been a good rider.” The words came in a torrent. All the suppressed emotion, all the tension of the past two weeks found an outlet in the river of words rushing from Helena’s lips.
Devon could not deny the truth of Helena’s words, but the other young woman’s humility was disarming. How could she flog someone so intent on self-mortification? “Helena, I’ll admit you’re not the best rider I know, but you usually show good sense. You don’t ride horses that are too hard for you to handle, you stay in the rear of the hunt. Why were you up front that day?”
Helena blushed at the question. She did not reply. Her eyes were cast down, as though studying the fluffy comforter on Devon’s bed.
“Helena?” Devon asked again, this time more sternly. She wanted an answer.
“I was jealous,” said Helena in a small voice.
“Jealous!” Devon repeated the word more in surprise at Helena’s honesty than in disbelief. She knew that Helena had always been jealous of her, from the time they were children.
She remembered an incident that had occurred when the two little girls, then ten years old, had received their first horses. Prior to that time, they had had ponies. The parents had given the girls the horses at the same time. They thought their daughters would be good company for each other as they learned to jump. Both girls had perched proudly on their new mounts, feeling very grown-up in the smart new riding habits that had come with the horses.
Devon remembered all four parents, indulgent expressions on their faces, encouraging the girls to take the horses through various paces around the Magraths’ riding ring.
Helena went first, diligently walking, trotting, and cantering her new horse. She performed the exercises correctly, if rather ploddingly. Polite applause greeted the girl as she returned to where the adults stood leaning against the whitewashed enclosure that marked the riding ring.
“Very good, Helena. We may just make a rider of you yet!” Magrath said. He did not mean to wound; he was simply insensitive to the impact of his words on his daughter. But Helena’s hurt was evident to Devon. Magrath found his daughter lacking in grace, and both girls knew it.
“Now you, Devon,” said Magrath, oblivious to his daughter’s pain.
Because she pitied Helena, Devon made no attempt to show off. But her natural athletic ability, combined with her love and understanding of horses, made her a joy to watch. Helena, sitting astride her horse near the adults, could not help but overhear the words of praise for Devon’s skill.
“You’ve got a natural there, Chase. Don’t know where she gets it,” Magrath teased. As Devon drew nearer, she heard the good-natured ribbing of her father, and laughed, but Magrath’s next sentence silenced her. “Now if she were my daughter,” he joked, “I would understand her being such a horsewoman.”
Devon quickly looked at Helena to see the effect of the words. Helena worshipped her father and wanted so much to please him. As Devon expected, her friend wore a strange, pinched look.
Devon knew Helena could see her watching, but the redhead stared stonily ahead, refusing to meet her eyes.
“What’s wrong, dear, why did you stop?” Laurel Richmond asked. Devon was so distracted that she hadn’t realized she had stopped.
“I just… don’t feel well,” she said. She didn’t want to continue riding. She couldn’t bear to see the other girl’s humiliation.
“Well, you’ve both had a great deal of excitement for one day. Why don’t you give your horses to the groom and then we’ll go inside for lemonade and cookies,” said Rosalind Magrath, blind to her daughter’s distress.
The two little girls quietly walked their horses to the stable.
Without exchanging a word, they dismounted and handed their horses to the groom. As they headed toward the house, Helena uttered two sentences Devon would never forget.
“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me, you know. My father loves me better than anyone in the world,” she said with quiet vehemence.
Devon, embarrassed for her friend, did not know how to respond.
“He does!” Helena cried insistently. It was the tone that struck Devon. Helena seemed to be trying to convince herself, not Devon, of the truth of what she was saying.
The sad thing, Devon thought now in retrospect, was that Magrath probably did love his daughter more than anyone on earth, but had no idea of Helena’s need for reassurance.
Devon, remembering the event, knew that riding was a sensitive subject for Helena, but since Helena had brought it up herself, Devon decided to continue the conversation. She hoped it would clear the tension between them that had started with that long-ago ride and grown worse in recent years.
“Are you jealous because your father hasn’t invited you to become a member of the hunt?” Devon asked, sure that this was what Helena meant.
Helena looked at Devon blankly. “The hunt?” she asked, as though she did not know the meaning of the words.
“You said you tried to ride to the front because you were jealous,” said Devon, exasperated at having to explain Helena’s own words to her.
“Not of that!” Helena said in surprise.
“Then what?”
Helena stared at Devon incredulously. “You really don’t know?”
“Know what?” asked Devon impatiently.
“Brent.”
Devon recoiled as though she had been slapped. “You must be joking! I’ve never indicated any interest in Brent. Not since long before you were engaged. And even then…” She let the sentence fade away as she realized it would be impolite to admit that she had never found the other woman’s husband overly attractive. He was a good friend. She liked him. They had enjoyed each other’s company for a time, but on Devon’s side at least, the relationship went no deeper than that.
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br /> “I know,” Helena said with quiet dignity. “You have always behaved properly. It’s him. He still… admires you. I’m not certain—and I really don’t want to know for sure—but I think he may still love you.”
Devon became alarmed. She could not bear the thought of Brent actually being in love with her. “Surely you’re imagining things. People gossip so. You mustn’t listen,” said Devon, covering Helena’s hand with her own. For a moment she forgot that Helena was one of the worst gossips in the county. As on that day fifteen years before, Devon wished only to reassure her, to see her confidence bolstered. It was odd; she and Helena had been neighbors all their lives and they were regarded by others as friends. But their relationship had never developed into real friendship. Helena’s insecurity prevented her from giving Devon the trust necessary for friendship. Helena had always felt like a failure in comparison with Devon and had thus behaved at times with hostility, at times with prickly defensiveness. Devon, not the sort to tolerate unfriendly behavior, was simply indifferent to Helena. But sometimes, when events occurred that reminded her of Helena’s insecurity, Devon felt sorry for her.
“Don’t,” Helena said in a pained voice. “Don’t feel sorry for me. You always have and I can’t bear it.”
Devon, embarrassed, was silent. She groped for words that would give Helena confidence without sounding condescending. Studying the redhead, whose downcast eyes were brimming with tears, Devon realized that she was quite attractive. Marriage had allowed her to adopt styles of hair and dress that were somewhat bolder than those appropriate for a single woman, and the change suited her.
“Helena, there’s no reason anyone should pity you. You’re very attractive. And there’s no reason for Brent to look outside his marriage for… anything. Believe me, he has never, in any way, indicated to me that he is not perfectly happy with you. Of course he still likes me. We’ve been friends all our lives. But I’m certain I would know if he loved me. Don’t forget, his relationship with me ended months before he began to court you.”
“I know. But some people said there were… reasons… reasons other than love that he married me.”
“As I said before, it’s foolish to listen to gossip. No one can know more about Brent than you, his wife. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right, I suppose,” Helena said, with hope in her voice.
“And has he ever been anything but loving toward you?”
“No… I suppose not.” Helena hesitated a moment, then went on. “Except the night of the dinner party at our house. The way he talked to you… and that day… the day of the hunt… you and he were riding together.”
“Helena, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, I think you’re allowing your own doubts to make you see things that aren’t there. Brent is a natural flirt, but I don’t think he treats me any differently from any other woman, now does he?”
Devon saw that Helena was reflecting on the question. After a few moments, the redhead’s face cleared, as though she had just learned a piece of good news. “You know, Devon, I think you’re right! I think Brent does treat everyone that way. I never really paid attention before. I was always so concerned with your… previous… relationship.”
“You see!” Devon said excitedly. She had forgotten her anger at Helena and was happy to have found a solution to the other woman’s problem.
Then Helena’s face fell. “But at the hunt,” she said, “he looked at you with such admiration. He wanted to ride with you. Oh, Devon, you just don’t see—”
“I see that you’re being silly, Helena,” Devon interrupted in a stern tone. “I see that Brent looks at my father with admiration when he takes a jump particularly well. He admires my riding. Maybe he even admires me. But he is married to you and I’m sure he loves you.”
Tears of emotional release, as well as remorse, were streaming down Helena’s face. “Yes… yes, I see what you mean.” She paused a moment and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. When she lifted her face again, it had cleared. “I think you must be right,” she said, her tone tremulous but more cheerful. “Oh, Devon, will you ever forgive me for being so stupid… and for causing your accident?”
“Of course. If you promise to keep those silly notions out of your head for good.” Devon was touched in spite of herself. The other woman was exasperating, maybe foolish, but she had bared her soul to Devon and Devon could only respond with kindness.
In her elation, Helena did not measure her next words. She did not mean to hurt Devon. Helena thought of Devon as a superior being and did not realize that she was even capable of inflicting pain on her. In her excitement, she simply spoke the words that entered her head:
“And I really have no reason to be jealous of you,” said Helena. “Now I have something you don’t. I’m married and you’re not. I’m married to a man who used to court you.”
Devon was startled by Helena’s bluntness, but the real shock came from the words themselves. “You’re right,” Devon said in a stunned voice. After all, Helena did have something Devon wanted. Each night when Helena went to bed, she slept beside the man she loved. They had done things Devon could only imagine, only long for. In addition, Devon knew that some people pitied her because she was still single. Helena’s place in society was ensured by virtue of her marriage. She could attend any event she wished, whether or not she was escorted by her husband, simply because she was married. Like a swift blow that took the wind out of her, the realization that her good looks and self-confidence meant nothing to the outside world shook Devon to her very core. She did not feel pitiable. She was not pitiable, yet society was making her so. Society and her own desires, which she saw no means of assuaging.
“I just won’t be jealous anymore,” Helena continued decisively. Then, laughing in relief, she said, “It’s created an awful mess, hasn’t it? Besides, I do have Brent. He’s mine now and I don’t suppose I need trouble myself beyond that.” Helena had new resolve in her voice.
“No… no… you should never worry about that,” replied Devon, but her voice was vague, as though her thoughts were far away.
“And I’ve been selfish taking up so much of your time when you’re still recovering. Why, you seem positively exhausted!” With a new briskness to her movements, Helena leaned down, kissed Devon on the cheek, and bade her farewell.
Alone again, Devon burrowed deep into her pillows and tiredly pulled the covers up around her neck. She felt drained. She needed to rest. But she could not rest because replaying itself over and over in her mind was the realization that life’s vivid promise, its glories, could remain closed to her. It was a possibility she had never before considered.
CHAPTER 9
GRACE Richmond Des Rochers had a first name which suited her not at all. Devon’s older sister had none of the cool serenity implied by her given name. She was all vivid theatricality and prankishness. She was not a relaxing person to be around, as her nonstop chatter came in a steady stream of witticisms that could easily slip by listeners who were less than alert. In fact, there were many who had warned her husband, Philip, that she was “too chatty” for the role of diplomat’s wife. But she had used her talent with words to grasp quickly the languages of the countries to which her husband was posted and, with her ability to converse with anyone on any subject, had proved an asset after all.
Devon and Grace were the best of friends and kept in constant touch with long, revealing letters to each other. Both regretted that the career of Grace’s husband made their visits so infrequent, yet both knew that Grace was perfectly suited to the life of constant travel and new faces.
But when Grace heard of Devon’s accident, she rushed home from Paris as quickly as possible, and now, after a train ride, an Atlantic crossing, and another train ride, she descended on Evergreen in a whirlwind.
After embracing her parents and inquiring after their health, Grace demanded to see Devon. The Richmonds were eager for a reunion of the sisters, certain that Grace’s presence would act as a
tonic to the convalescent. They worried that Helena’s visit, two days before, had sapped Devon of her energy. She had seemed in low spirits ever since. But when they asked if she was feeling well, she insisted that she was. Dr. Hickock had reassured them that her injuries were healing even more rapidly than he had hoped, but he also noticed her quiet distraction. He attributed it to her being bedridden for so many days and, grateful for the physical progress she was making, thought no more about the matter.
“We haven’t told her that you’re coming,” Laurel said in a conspiratorial whisper, leading Grace up the sweeping staircase to the second story. “We wanted it to be a surprise.” Her voice had a happy lilt. She was thrilled to have her eldest daughter home and was certain that Devon would benefit from the visit.
“Good. Will I be shocked when I see her?” Grace asked lightly, not really meaning the question. Almost nothing shocked Grace.
“Well… yesterday we were able to wash her hair, and that’s a big improvement, but she’s still black-and-blue,” said Laurel.
“You don’t recover overnight from a fall like hers,” Chase said gruffly. Grace looked sharply at him. For all her appearance of frivolity, she missed very little. Her father did not look well, she thought; he had lost the comfortable girth that had been with him for as long as she could remember. She knew that he was very close to Devon and realized that he must be terribly worried. She’d try to pull him out of it later, she decided. For now, she wanted to see her sister.
Grace didn’t bother knocking on the door but simply rushed into her sister’s room, a dervish swathed in a flowing red silk Paris original.
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