He pushed down his grief and crawled to Natasha’s side. She lived yet, but it would be only a momentary condition.
He took her hand, feeling her clutch at it with a last mad strength. ‘Save the children.’ She gasped. ‘Find Dimitri.’ Then her eyes widened with terror. ‘Val, behind you.’
He had the disturbing sensation this had all happened before. He was losing her again. She deserved better than a bloody hand holding her own as she slipped away. He wouldn’t lose her. He called her name. No, not the darkness. He didn’t want the darkness, not yet. He hadn’t saved the others. He wasn’t ready. Valerian woke in a sweat, his head throbbing, his body trembling. Breath choked in his throat. Bile rose. He groped blindly for the bowl next to his bed, set there in anticipation of just such a purpose, and retched until the trembling subsided.
The dream again; the night in Negush that he never wanted to relive, but seemed doomed to do so. Valerian steadied himself, drawing deep breaths. It was the first time he’d had the nightmare since returning home.
Valerian threw back the covers and got out of bed, slipping into a robe. He lit the lamp, knowing he wouldn’t sleep again that night. The fear of the dream coming back was too real. He couldn’t do anything about the dream, but he could minimise the headache.
Valerian poured himself a glass of water from the carafe on the bedside table and rummaged in the drawer, looking for a small vial. He pulled the stopper and put a few drops into the glass. He drank it down and sighed with relief. In twenty minutes, his headache would numb to a dull throb thanks to his special herbal potion. He went nowhere without it. Until then, he’d have to sit and tolerate it.
Valerian sank into a chair near the cold hearth in his private sitting room. He hated the dream. More, he hated what the dream represented: his failure to protect people he cared about.
It had been his job to help the Turks negotiate a peaceable surrender after the Negush district had rebelled against Ottoman rule. The district had actually succeeded in temporarily liberating themselves. It had spread to neighbouring villages, but eventually the revolutionaries were no match for the Turkish army. He’d been sent to advise the revolutionaries to lay down their arms. But they’d not relented. They’d been shown no mercy by the Turks, who’d slaughtered the soldiers, rounded up prisoners, sold them into slavery and relocated any who had escaped those two fates deep into Macedonia. The district of Negush had been effectively erased from the face of the earth.
But he’d known the Phanariot rebels. He’d feasted at their tables, stayed in their homes. They were regional aristocrats. Natasha had been like a countess, her brother an earl of sorts. They’d reminded him intensely of Beldon and Philippa.
Originally, Britain had charged him with the mission of befriending the Phanariots, but then switched sides when it became apparent that a weak Turkey needed British support if Britain wanted to stand against Russia in that part of the world.
Even now, eight years since the disastrous 1822 uprising, the whole event filled Valerian with self-loathing. Britain had changed sides, seen innocents slaughtered all for the sake of maintaining British-friendly waterways to India.
There were no ideals behind what they’d ordered him to do, simply pure capitalist greed. Britain liked having a weak Turkey in its pocket. It did not like the idea of people throwing off the Ottoman yoke to form a new, powerful Christian nation that might compete against England.
Natasha, Dimitri and Dimitri’s gallant young son had died for their ideals of freedom all because Britain couldn’t countenance the emergence of a new, large Christian nation that might unite eastern Europe into a competitive force.
Valerian fought against the grief that rose up at the thought of the loss: Natasha bleeding to death in the copse; the boy fighting futilely against men twice his size; Dimitri executed with the other leaders two days later in a gruesome display of Turkish revenge.
He supposed he’d technically committed treason that night, stabbing the ally Turks as he fought to save Natasha, but he could hardly care when the reasons for supporting the Turks had been so mercenary on England’s behalf to start with. He’d done his duty by attempting to negotiate peace. Then he’d done his duty by Dimitri and got the two other children to relative safety. He hoped it had been enough.
That had been the beginning of a stalemate in the region between the Great Powers, each checkmating the other in their bids for dominance. It had also been the beginning of Valerian’s own disillusionment with diplomacy. Diplomacy was not, as he’d originally believed, a chance to participate in history, to leave one’s mark on the world.
The remainder of his time in Europe had been marked by a constant shifting of allegiances as Britain attempted to pre-empt Russian control and pull Ottoman strings. Towards the end, the balance of power was shifting again. Britain had gained control of Cyprus and no longer needed to control Turkey in order to control waterways. Further proof that Dimitri had died for nothing, not even for the posterity of the waterways. The cause for which Dimitri’s dream had been pushed aside had been fleeting. The Turkish alliance had only held for a few years until Britain had achieved its objective.
Valerian had come to the conclusion that if he wanted to leave a legacy, it would best be done in the beauty of his gardens, where the focus was on living and peace, and in his nursery where he could raise a child. But he needed a wife for that. He needed Philippa.
She would be here at Roseland by tomorrow afternoon. She’d responded to his request affirmatively, no doubt because of his promise to have Beldon on hand. He’d promised many things in that letter, anything that would get her here and give him a chance to prove his worth to her.
He was a man of action, but in his desperation to claim her, his actions had all been wrong. He’d rushed his fences. He knew the whole of his story, but she didn’t. She needed time to know him again, believe in him again as she once had.
Philippa sighed and carefully refolded Valerian’s letter, placing it back in her reticule. She was twenty times a fool for coming. She was inviting all kinds of madness. She and Valerian had proved they could not behave rationally in one another’s presence. The few times they’d been alone had led to all sorts of mischief. Yet here she was. There had been something plaintive about the note, a personal plea of one friend to another, that she found she could not refuse.
Philippa looked out of the window of the coach. She was nearly there, if memory served. The tall, square tower of St Justus Church was coming into view and Roseland was a mile down the road after that. She’d only been here once, right after Valerian’s parents had died. Her family had come over to help settle the estate. She had been twelve at the time, but she remembered the journey with remarkable clarity. The road veered south past the church’s lych gate, past the tidal creek that ran alongside the building and up one last hill to the vast park and gardens of Roseland.
At first glance, Roseland looked no better than it ought for a place that had been masterless for nearly a decade—even longer if one counted the years after Valerian’s parents’ deaths. The magnificent gardens that had once been Roseland’s fame were overgrown, rhododendron bushes crowding out old woody hydrangeas, and bluebells growing wild where they willed.
But at second glance, Philippa could already see Valerian’s expert hand at work as the coach tooled up the long drive toward the house. Gardeners swarmed the lawn with long scissors, trimming and shaping the ragged edges and uneven patches of lawn. The gardens closest to the house teemed with workers digging restraining walls and clearing flower beds.
The coach pulled into the circular drive in front of the house and Philippa marvelled at the elegance that greeted her. The cobblestoned circle was free of any intrusive weeds that might grow between the stones. The stones looked freshly paved, smooth and evenly laid one against the other without any uneven ground between them that might trip an unsuspecting guest.
Philippa dismounted, staring in wonder at the centre of the driving circle and it
s pièce de résistance, a magnificent stone fountain spilling water into a pool at its base. To add colour to the centre, the fountain base was surrounded by a bed of flowers in bright blues, whites and reds.
The fountain was done in the classical style to complement the architecture of Roseland and reminded Philippa of something one might see in an Italian piazza.
She could not resist the lure of splashing water. Thinking she was alone, Philippa gave into the temptation to put her hand beneath the spilling water, laughing as she did so.
A man’s chuckle answered her laughter. She swiftly pulled back her hand and gathered her dignity, looking around.
‘Your Grace, welcome to Roseland.’ A dignified man walked down the stairs leading up and to the front door. ‘I am Steves, the Viscount St Just’s butler. He instructed me to watch for you.’
Philippa stifled a groan. What an image she must paint. Steves would think her quite gauche for engaging in such childish behaviour.
‘The viscount will be pleased to know you liked the fountain. It is new. Milord put it in just this past month. He laid the cobblestones himself.’
Philippa could very well imagine Valerian doing such a thing. If Steves thought the news would surprise her, he would be disappointed. ‘His craftsmanship is excellent as always,’ she said.
Steves nodded and said meaningfully, ‘Indeed it is. He hoped you’d like it.’
She blushed and fought the urge to ask Steves to clarify. It would show too much eagarness to probe. Instead, she asked. ‘Where is the viscount, Steves?’
‘He’s out on the back terrace, my lady. If you would follow me? A footman can see to your trunks.’
‘Out on the back terrace’ was something of an understatement, Philippa realised shortly. She was on the freshly swept terrace with its sturdy wicker furniture. Valerian was engaged with four other men in the process of moving an enormous planter containing a type of tree Philippa had never seen.
Apparently, the gigantic container was to go on the edge of the terrace, situated so that it could shade the cluster of wicker furniture grouped on that side. Valerian caught sight of her and waved, motioning that she should take a seat and wait.
He looked glorious. His hair shone in the sunlight and he wore only his shirt, the sweat of his efforts plastering the thin material to his back so that Philippa could plainly see the play of his muscles as they strained to set the planter into place.
The men gave the planter a last push and Valerian stepped back, satisfied with its placement. ‘Perfect. It’s exactly what I was hoping for,’ Valerian explained, stripping off his thick workman’s gloves and coming to take a chair next to Philippa.
‘It’s a marvellous tree, Val.’ The old nickname slipped off her tongue before she could catch herself. She bit her lip. To his credit, Valerian did not comment on it.
‘It’s a Chusan Palm. I sent a seedling back from Italy several years ago. My head gardener saw to it and here it is today.’ Valerian rose and walked over to study the mop of green fronds that topped the palm, estimating its height. ‘I don’t imagine it will get much taller than this. The gardener I talked to in Italy said the plant stays shorter in colder climates because of the winds bothering its top leaves. Of course, in the Mediterranean regions it grows much taller.’
‘I didn’t know you were in Italy,’ Philippa said in surprise. She was just starting to realise it was only one of many things she didn’t know about him.
‘Just briefly. It was a trip only, nothing permanent.’ Valerian shrugged. ‘I took full advantage, though. I visited every garden I could. I even went up to Florence when my work in Rome was concluded so I could see the Boboli Gardens.’ Valerian laughed suddenly, looking very young and very happy, if one ignored the tell-tale dark circles under his eyes. ‘I’ve been in the dirt so long, I’ve lost my manners. Here you are, newly arrived, and I am rambling on about plants. My apologies, Philippa. I am glad you’re here. Do you think you’re up to the task?’
‘You don’t need to stand on ceremony with me.’ She smiled back, lost in the wondrous moment of being with her friend. This was the Valerian she missed. ‘The place looks good. I like the fountain.’
‘It will look better once you and I are through with it,’ Valerian said. ‘I want the gardens to shine again, on equal with Trewithen and Trebah,’ He cited two large, nearby estates famed for their botany. Valerian sobered a bit. ‘I was gone a long time and this place shows it.’
Philippa sensed he was scolding himself. She wanted to say something to ease the guilt she heard in his voice, but what could she say? She had no idea why he’d stayed away so long. She’d always thought he’d liked being away, that it had been a choice. Now, something in his tone indicated it might have been otherwise.
Valerian shook himself and his smile returned. ‘Would you like to see inside? See what you’re up against? Beldon won’t be back until supper.’
Valerian had been right—the house did need a lot of work. Philippa made mental notes as they strolled through the large, airy rooms of Roseland. Beeswax and lemon could only do so much. Wallpapers were faded and needed replacing. Curtains were dusty. She wouldn’t know how deteriorated they would be until they’d had the dust beaten out of them. Carpets were thin with wear over time. But she was up to the challenge. She’d cut her teeth on Cambourne’s town-house in London and had turned it into a showcase for his works of art by the time she was finished.
Valerian threw open the double doors leading to the ballroom. Philippa was not ready for the rush of memories the empty room evoked. The room itself was not special. The floors were scarred from years of hard dancing, the polish having worn away. The paint was faded, chipped in places. Curtains hung limply at the long Georgian-style windows that lined the far side. The niches where enormous crystal vases could stand, filled with flowers from Roseland’s hothouses, were empty. The room’s only piece of furniture, a long pianoforte, was covered with a dust cloth in the far corner.
No, the room was nothing spectacular. In fact, it was just short of shabby. But to her eye, she was twelve again, seeing the ballroom for the first time. ‘I remember you bringing me here,’ Philippa said softly, drifting into the centre of the room.
Valerian followed her in. She was acutely conscious of his presence behind her. He gave a warm laugh. ‘You declared this your favourite room in the house. You told me that yellow was the best colour for a ballroom.’
‘And I was right,’ Philippa teasingly protested. ‘Look how well it has weathered the years.’
‘You tried very hard that day to cheer me up,’ Valerian said quietly.
‘I don’t remember.’ Philippa replied awkwardly. She didn’t want him to do this—to be so nice, so kind, to make her believe she hadn’t imagined the man she’d once known. Of course, she did remember, quite vividly, what she’d done to cheer him up.
‘I remember.’ Valerian swung her around to face him and swept her into his arms. ‘You danced with me, you talked the whole time about all the parties we’d hold here later, how Roseland would be a happy place again.’
‘I must have been very annoying,’ Philippa said, startled to find herself in his arms, his body moving them into the opening turns of a silent waltz. Good lord, he was irresistible. How was she to stop her heart from loving him in spite of her better judgement?
‘Val, is this wise?’ Philippa asked, letting him whirl them down the length of the ballroom floor at an exhilarating pace.
‘We won’t run into anyone. We’re quite alone.’
‘Don’t be glib, Val. I am well aware that we’re alone. That’s what has me worried. We can’t fall in love again, or whatever you want to call it.’
Valerian brought them to a hard stop. ‘What are you saying?’
Better to eat her pride now rather than later, Philippa thought. ‘If you invited me here to help with decoration efforts, that’s all right. However, if you invited me here with other intentions, perhaps those of a—a—a—romantic sort
…’ Philippa paused, groping for the right phrasing. But there wasn’t any. ‘If you invited me here to seduce me or romance me, or to relive an affaire of your youth, I’ll have no part of it.’ She shook her head. ‘I understand what constitutes a relationship with you and I can’t do it. I loved you all those years ago and I fear that I could love you again. I would be devastated when you left. I wouldn’t survive such heartache again.’ She gathered the courage to meet his eyes after her foolish speech, feeling much more like an eighteen-year-old girl than a full-grown woman of twenty-seven.
‘Shh.’ Valerian put a finger to her lips, his voice a mere whisper. ‘What if I told you I loved you, that I never stopped loving you? That the night I played the jilt, it was all a lie? That is what all your worries are based on, isn’t it?’
A wild hope surged in her, raising all kinds of confusion. Did she dare to believe these fantastical claims? Then she remembered and her hope fell. ‘And the women, Val? Was all your wenching on the Continent a lie too?’ she asked in a sad, teasing tone, trying for a brave smile.
‘They were a fool’s stratagem to try to forget what I had left behind,’ Valerian whispered, his eyes pleading for a chance.
Philippa tried to pull away, but he held her tight. ‘Let me tell you my story, Philippa. Let me give you permission to love me again.’
Chapter Twelve
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Philippa said after Valerian’s account of their fateful evening came to an end. His revelations left her at sea, awash in uncertainty. She’d built her mental fortress on the foundations of that evening, that he’d spoken the truth when he’d jilted her, cast her off as no more than a dalliance. The reasons for her distrust and harsh words stemmed from that night.
In the single telling of the tale, Valerian managed to make those foundations unstable. If she believed him entirely, her foundations were reduced to nothing more than rubble. Her world had shifted. Everything had changed. She could love Valerian again. Her one reason for attempting to withhold her affections had been swept away.
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