by Jane Toombs
"Did she have a fever?” Deirdre asked her grandmother after they left Alcida's room.
"Only a slight one. My mother always said that sulfur works wonders with fevers and so, if this one persists, I intend to have Alcida drink some sulfur and molasses. You have no cause for concern, Deirdre, your friend should recover quickly."
Later that morning, Deirdre sat beside her sister's bed, reading to her.
"Have you noticed that Vincent resembles Mr. Darcy in a great many ways,” Alcida said. “Although Vincent is much more learned."
Startled, Deirdre quickly raised the book to eye level to conceal her open-mouthed stare. Dr. Leicester? There was no doubt, she decided, that Alcida must be in love, for only one who was love-afflicted could have come to such a strange conclusion. If any gentleman of their acquaintance resembled Mr. Darcy, it was Clive, although fortunately Clive possessed little of Mr. Darcy's overweening pride.
After Alcida nodded off, Deirdre stopped reading and, after a few minutes, when her sister failed to awaken, she leaned over her, kissed her lightly on the forehead and left the room. Pulling galoshes on over her shoes, snapping and buckling her green barouche coat, tying the ribbons of a fur-lined black Russian-style hat under her chin and wrapping a green and black tartan scarf about her neck, she left the house, intending to carry out her plan of walking the two miles to Chadbourne Hall. The snow, she had discovered earlier, covered the ground only to a depth of slightly more than an inch.
Following the curve of the entrance drive, she walked past the wayfaring tree at the edge of her grandmother's property, and turned right onto a path through a grove of evergreens, the needles from the firs and pines slippery under her feet. After only a few minutes she stopped as some inner voice seemed to tell her she must go another way; she walked slowly on only to stop once again.
She must go into the forest, she knew this in her heart without knowing the reason why. Still she hesitated, but then deciding, she left the path and walked over the snow between the firs and pines until she came to the clearing at the foot of the hill.
Rather than circling to find the path from the house, she started up the hill, the way steeper here, the coating of wet snow on the slope causing her to slip and slide. The wind swept across the bare hillside, chilling her, but she persevered, following the path to the top of the hill, taking the dirt track past the turn to the stone quarry and into the forest.
Ashdown Forest.
The forest was a vast wilderness of heath, hills, brooks and bogs, of copses, glens and glades, of heather, bracken and gorse, of birch, horse chestnut, ash, oak and the wayfaring tree, the home of badgers, hedgehogs, foxes, weasels, rabbits and other small animals. Ashdown Forest was once a part of a much greater forest extending, according to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, from Kent in the east to Hampshire in the west.
Men had hunted on this land since before history began, the Romans had built roads into this forest to reach the iron mines. The Venerable Bede, more than a thousand years before, had described the forest as “thick and inaccessible; a place of retreat for large herds of deer and swine,” the home of wild boars and of wolves.
Some say the Druids may have worshipped their pagan gods beneath the oaks in the forest; medieval English kings hunted here both before and after King Edward III granted the land to John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster.
From the very beginning of her stay in Sussex, Deirdre had loved the Ashdown Forest. After her grandmother showed her the paths and trails near their home, she often ventured into the forest alone. Since she rarely met anyone in this seemingly endless wilderness, she came to consider the forest her own special domain, a magical kingdom peopled by, or so she imagined when she was still very young, fairy tale princes and princesses, Hansel and Gretel, witches, and Red Riding Hood. As she grew older, she added kings and magicians, knights who, while searching for the Holy Grail, paused to rescue maidens imprisoned in lonely towers.
At first when Clive, two years after she met him in the forest, began coming year after year to spend his summers at Chadbourne Hall, she considered him an intruder even though she knew he had been promised the Hall as part of his inheritance and so belonged in Sussex as much as she did. Soon, though, she found herself revealing her secret retreats to him. Later, he led her to his own discovery, the pool below the waterfall in the glen. After that, the forest was no longer exclusively hers, it had become theirs, a place to be shared and marveled over, a sanctuary where they were so often alone together.
Until the day Clive journeyed from London to tell her he was a cavalry officer and that he was betrothed to Phoebe Langdon.
Reliving that terrible moment pained her anew, so she forced the memory from her mind, telling herself Clive was still her friend, she had come to the forest as his friend, as his sister if that was how he saw her. At the Pantheon—her breath caught as she recalled his kiss—his behavior had not been that of a brother, far from it. Nevertheless, she reminded herself again, the fact remained that he was betrothed to Phoebe.
She paused on the stone bridge over the Miry Ghyll, fondly remembering Clive picking and giving her a wild rose, a rose she still had. She crossed the bridge and, when she reached the other side, saw a single set of footprints in the snow, the recent prints of a man's boots.
Clive, she told herself in triumph, the prints must be Clive's. She should have been surprised but she was not; nor was she surprised when she followed the tracks and saw them leading away from the road along the brook in the direction of the glen.
After pushing her way through the screen of shrubs, she followed the footprints along the path to the top of the slope above the glen, heard the murmur of water, felt the rapid beat of her heart when she saw Clive far below her.
She stopped on the path while still high above the pool to look down at Clive who was standing on the far side of the Miry Ghyll gazing pensively into the pool, saw his image reflected in the pool, his riding boots, his bulky black caped greatcoat, his dark, uncovered hair.
He gave a start when he saw her image in the pool, pausing before he looked up from the water. For a long moment he stared at her as though unable to believe his eyes, then he smiled with the joy of recognition, a smile that made her heart sing. He raised his hand in a salute before striding to the brook, stepping across to her side from stone to stone and climbing to where she waited. As he neared her, his pace slowed.
His smile was gone, his face stern and, Deirdre feared, censorious. She half expected him to ask, “How did you find me?” or demand, “Why are you here?” Instead, he said nothing, reaching out and taking her gloved hands in his as he gazed into her eyes. She allowed him to hold her hands—how could she help herself?—for a long minute before drawing them away.
"I was afraid,” he said, “that you might be another figment of my imagination."
When she gave him a questioning look, he said, “I thought I saw Timmons in London last week."
"Timmons?” she repeated, puzzled. Then she remembered and nodded. Lieutenant Timmons was the officer Clive believed he had abandoned to the French at Vittoria.
"It was at night in that terrible fog. Lieutenant Timmons threatened me with his sword, or at least it appeared he did, but when I called his name and looked for him, he was nowhere to be found."
Frustration gripped Deirdre, making her shake her head while, in reality, she wished she could shake Clive. He should be able to banish these phantoms. Why did he find it so difficult to challenge these demons in his mind, challenge them and slay them? If only she were able to impart some of her strength to him.
"Vincent suggested I come here,” Clive said, a sweep of his hand indicating he meant Chadbourne Hall as well as the glen and the forest, “and so I did after visiting my brother in Brighton. Somehow tramping in the forest seemed different than I remembered it, though, not the same at all.” He paused before adding, “Without you, Deirdre."
His eyes met hers and she drew in her breath, expecting him to reach out to her, to touch her. Ins
tead, he looked quickly away, his gaze going beyond her to the snow-covered slope above them and he said, “We must be on our way, the wind is cold and we may well see another storm before nightfall."
Deirdre, disheartened and uncertain what to say, remained silent. Clive needs my help, she reminded herself, even though he refuses to acknowledge it. He needs my encouragement even though, if asked, he would probably deny it. More than help or encouragement, he needs me. Yet he refuses to understand or recognize what I can give him. How can he be so blind?
He stepped around her and started up the path, turning to look at her when she failed to follow him. She thought he meant to come back to her, but he merely scowled and said, “Edward bought your portrait.” His words sounded like an accusation.
She glanced at him, frowning. Only my portrait, she wanted to say, nothing else. Did Clive believe that Edward owning the painting compromised her in some way? Surely it did not.
Clive glowered and started up the hill again and this time she followed him, climbing slowly until she came to where he waited for her at the top. The chill December wind caused her to wrap her scarf around her face to protect her nose and mouth.
"This way,” he said, leaving the path and leading her across the virgin snow under the trees to a field where a lone ash stood, one limb seeming to point crookedly to the right.
Deirdre eyed the tree with trepidation. The ash from her dream!
"I came this way once years ago,” Clive said. “Were you with me?"
Surely she would remember if she had been, she remembered her times with Clive so well. She shook her head, recalling the tree only from her dream of a cottage consumed by fire.
Veering to the right, he led her into a wood where, after a short walk, she felt a shiver run along her spine when she saw a woodman's cottage ahead of them on the far side of a glade. Stopping at the verge of the trees, he said, “I found this abandoned cottage while walking alone. I must have mentioned it to you."
Had he? If so, she must have forgotten.
When Clive started across the field toward the cottage, she glanced apprehensively around her at the encroaching trees, peering into the shadows where, in her dream, Edward had waited, watching her, menacing her.
She saw no one, only the black trunks of the trees outlined starkly against the white of the snow. Relieved as well as annoyed at herself for having such baseless fears, she followed Clive to the cottage. It seemed familiar, but whether from her dream or an earlier, forgotten visit or from Clive describing it to her, she could not tell.
Clive pushed at the warped door and it opened part way before catching. Putting his shoulder to the door, he shoved it all the way open and then stood to one side so she could enter. The inside of the cottage, she saw, was dark. In her mind's eye, Deirdre again pictured flames licking along the walls of the burning cottage, again felt the searing heat of the fire.
Despite her fears, Deirdre drew in a deep breath and walked past him into the darkness.
CHAPTER 17
Clive followed Deirdre into the single room of the woodman's cottage, finding it much as he remembered, two windows, one in the front and one in the rear, a dirt floor and a crude stone fireplace. There was a rough-hewn bench laying upside down in one corner; he righted the bench and, brushing it off with his gloved hand, placed it in front of the hearth.
"Wait here until I find kindling to start a fire,” he told her, “so we can warm ourselves before walking the rest of the way home."
Deirdre, he noticed, was still looking around the cottage as though she had expected something different, almost as if she had been in this room before and now was puzzled to find it changed from her memory of it. When she gave a start and nodded almost absently, he realized she had only belatedly understood what he had said. Although she glanced down at the bench, she made no move to sit.
Clive walked to the door where he looked back at Deirdre standing with her arms folded as she stared into the cold grate. How beautiful she was! With a sigh, he forced himself to turn from her and leave the cottage in search of kindling.
Was it possible, he wondered, that Deirdre's reason for coming to the glen had been to search for him? If so, how had she known he was here rather than in Brighton? Could Vincent have told her? And, even if she knew he was in Sussex, why had she come to him?
The same reason, he told himself, that had brought her with Vincent to the arbor at his lodgings in Bloomsbury. She wanted to offer him her help because it was her nature to help others, but she wanted to help him in particular because she considered him to be almost her kin, a brother in spirit if not in fact. Perhaps there was another reason—and when he considered this possibility his heart soared—perhaps she had come because she felt a tenderness toward him that had nothing to do with sisterly affection.
Was it possible, was it really possible? If only it were. But knowing he was betrothed to her stepsister, how could Deirdre have brought herself to defy convention and journey to Ashdown Forest where they would be alone with one another, far from prying eyes?
Whatever the reason, she had come to him. Thank God.
He had been startled when he saw her image reflected in the pool in the glen and then overjoyed to discover she was not a figment of his imagination as Timmons might be, but real, a veritable goddess, just as Joseph Turner had envisioned her, just as Turner had painted her.
I must discover her reason for coming here, he had told himself as he climbed the slope to her. But, reminded of the Turner portrait and having heard the disquieting news that Edward had purchased it, some imp of the perverse—or had it been jealousy?—had instead led him to question her about Edward and she had, quite rightly, lashed back at him in anger.
Chagrined, wanting to delay their moment of parting as long as possible to give him an opportunity to make amends, he had decided that rather than walking to the bridge and then directly home, he would bring her to this abandoned cottage, remembered from a summer day long ago, to seek brief shelter from the December wind. Noticing Deirdre's distress on seeing the cottage, he had wondered whether she would so much as set foot inside, but although she hesitated in the doorway, she offered no objection.
Clive quickly gathered leaves, twigs, dead brush, and several good-sized logs for the fire, making two trips to bring them into the cottage. Once, while walking along the edge of the glade, he thought he heard a horse whinny in the distance, but although he stopped to listen, the sound did not come again.
He arranged his gatherings on the grate where the sparks from his flint quickly set the leaves ablaze and in a few minutes he was able to nod in satisfaction when he saw the chimney draft was good so the flames licked up and around the two logs.
Looking over his shoulder at Deirdre, he saw her back away, not from him but from the crackling fire, almost as though afraid of the flames. How unlike her. Did she expect the fire to somehow escape from the fireplace and set the cottage ablaze?
"You have naught to fear,” he assured her, “the fire cannot spread."
She approached the fire, albeit hesitantly, holding her hands to the warmth. “I had a dream,” she admitted, “a foolish dream of danger lurking in the forest, in and around a cottage much like this one. And of fire spreading to destroy the cottage."
"I had my vision of Lieutenant Timmons brandishing his sword,” he said, trying to make light of his own unease, “while you have your unsettling dreams."
"I came here from town to discover whether there was truth to my dream or not."
Had he been in her dream? Clive wondered as he nodded. She had not mentioned him and yet—
"I intend to return to London later today to seek out Timmons,” he told her, “to see if he actually is in town. As I should have done when first I thought I saw him rather than heeding Vincent."
She sat on the bench, still holding her hands to the fire, while he stood some few feet away, his own hands clasped behind him, his gaze intent on her face. How lovely Deirdre was! Why in the name of
heaven had he never really noticed before he left Chadbourne Hall to live in London? What a fool he was.
"You came alone,” he said, “to East Sussex, to the forest, to the glen.” And to me, he wanted to add, but checked himself.
"No, Alcida accompanied me to Grandmama's only to awaken this morning with a cold in the head. So I left her in bed to walk to the glen by myself."
"Alcida came with you?” he asked, taken aback. “With Vincent preparing to leave for the Indies in a matter of weeks?"
"And what precisely did you expect Alcida to do? Stay in London to oversee the packing of his luggage? Accompany Vincent to the dock and dutifully wave good-bye as he sailed away down the Channel?"
He was surprised by her sharpness, her asperity. “Why,” he said in some confusion, “I rather expected her to remain at least until Vincent left town. She is quite fond of him, after all."
"I understand the way you think,” Deirdre said bitterly, “I understand it only too well because it is so typical of the way men view us. If a young lady happens to show a certain fondness for a gentleman, it behooves her to be at his beck and call at all times whether convenient for her or not, to be available whenever he wishes to have someone to commiserate with him on his failures or to congratulate him on his successes or to constantly remind him how frightfully appealing he is to women, how handsome, how charming, how much of a paragon. To be nothing more than his handmaiden, in other words."
Clive blinked. “Did I say all that? Did I say any of that? Did I even suggest those were my opinions about women and how they should behave? Surely you exaggerate, Deirdre."
"I do not exaggerate in the least."
The tightness of her lips told him she was angry, as angry as he had ever seen her. Why? he asked himself, genuinely befuddled by her attitude. Could her sharpness of tongue possibly be the result of something he had said or done to her? No, surely not. His best course of action was to remain silent, he told himself even as his perverse imp prodded him into saying, “Then pray explain yourself."