by Jane Toombs
"Men!” she said, clenching her hands at her sides. “Men think only of themselves, their happiness, their small pleasures of the moment. At the same time, men are blind. They fail to appreciate a tender, loving heart. Alcida is an excellent example. Does Vincent even see her when he looks at her? How can he fail to be aware of the depth of her feeling for him? If not blind, he must be completely heartless."
"Only Vincent is able to speak for Vincent,” Clive said. “I cannot. Do you truly expect me to?"
Deirdre looked away from him, but before she did he thought he detected tears in her eyes. Tears for Alcida? Clive shook his head, once again confused. How baffling women were! Were they unable to state clearly what they meant; why must they talk in endless circles while never arriving at the nub of the matter?
Even as he sighed in exasperation he was thinking how lovely Deirdre looked at this moment, so desirable, in fact, that he was quite unable to force his gaze away from her.
Was it possible, he asked himself, that she was not referring to Vincent at all but, in some obscure way, intended to upbraid him for some real or imagined slight or failing?
Even more confused, he crossed his arms over his chest as he resisted an almost overwhelming urge to go to Deirdre, to touch her, but realizing he must not, nay, could not as long as he was betrothed to Phoebe.
Clive stepped back, both from her and from the fire. “The heat,” he said in explanation, nodding at the flames. She seemed to lean toward him only to draw back and slide along the bench away from him. And away from the fire. “So very, very warm,” she murmured, loosening her scarf so it draped around her shoulders and then unbuckling the top of her coat. “So warm on one side and yet so cold on the other."
"'The World Turned Upside Down,'” he said.
She stared at him. “I fail to understand."
"The name of the tune the British military band played at Yorktown when Cornwallis surrendered to the colonists, to the Americans, was, appropriately, ‘The World Turned Upside Down.’ Ever since I returned home from the Peninsula, my world has been turned both upside down and inside out. And all because of—"
He paused, wanting to confess to the reason for the change, wanting to say, “Because of you, Deirdre,” but Clive, an honorable man, could not bring himself to speak the words. She caught her breath. Almost exactly as he had when first he saw her shimmering reflection in the pool at the bottom of the glen. Had Deirdre guessed his meaning without him having to speak the words? She lowered her eyes while he busied himself by using a stick to attempt to revive the dying fire.
If only, eighteen months ago, he could have been granted a glimpse into the future, Clive told himself, how different his life would have been. When he left Chadbourne Hall to spend a year in London, he had considered Deirdre to be a mere child, an agreeable country companion, a girl with verve and a sense of fun who enjoyed being with him just as he liked being with her, a girl he thought of and treated as the sister he had never had.
In London, he met Phoebe and found himself captivated by her. Everyone, men and women alike, told him that she represented all a man could desire in a woman for she had beauty, a more than comfortable if not handsome dowry, social position and, at least when in the company of men, a facile charm and seeming amiability.
When he was her escort, as he often was, he became the cynosure of all eyes. What an attractive couple they made, he heard them say, he tall and dark, she petite and fair. No matter that he realized he might be infatuated with Phoebe rather than truly in love with her, all and sundry assured him it was not uncommon for love to come after marriage rather than before.
Could there, he asked himself, be a young woman in all of London, nay, all of England, more suitable to be his bride? When his answer to his own question was a very confident, “No,” he spoke to Roger Darrington and then offered for her hand and, to his delight, was accepted. His doubts came later, the first few emerging when he journeyed to Sussex to tell Deirdre his good news. More came, some of them well-nigh overwhelming, when he returned, wounded and stricken with self-doubts, to London.
It was then he realized that his world had been turned upside down. He had left England knowing his place among his fellow men, sure of his courage, his valor; he had returned suspecting he might well be a coward who had shamed his uniform while bringing his manliness into question by betraying a fellow officer. He had sailed for Spain with every expectation of marrying Phoebe in the near future; he returned to see her recoil in dismay from the sight of his disfigurement.
Phoebe made him feel he had, in some way, failed her by being wounded and thus scarred when he knew, by God, he had done nothing of the sort. As the days and weeks passed, he slowly came to a dreadful realization. He was betrothed to a young lady he did not like, but must wed, for he was an honorable man who fulfilled his commitments. He could not begin to picture Phoebe as his companion for the rest of his life.
This revelation was more devastating than if he had discovered a lack of love for his intended bride, since he had to confess to himself that he had never loved Phoebe. In fact, he had never loved any woman except—
Enough. He refused to go on.
Admit the truth, Chadbourne, he told himself. You love Deirdre, you must have always loved Deirdre without ever realizing it.
No. Clive shook his head, what he felt for Deirdre was something other than love unless love was not in the least as he had always imagined it. She had become an obsession with him, she was never absent from his thoughts, he wanted to talk to others about her so he could hear them speak her name, he longed to be with her, to talk to her, to look into her eyes, to touch her, to hold her close and more, much more, all the while knowing he could not for he was honor-bound to marry Phoebe.
When he saw Deirdre after an absence, however brief, his heart lurched wildly within him. Her every glance, her every word, had the power to buoy him with hope or cast him down into despondency or fill him with a vibrant sense of anticipation. When he came upon her with Edward at the Pantheon in a state of dishabille, he was consumed by anger and jealousy. When he heard Edward had purchased her portrait, he thought she was lost to him forever and he despaired. Were these symptoms of love? He had never dreamed love could possess a man so completely, to the exclusion of all else.
Again he poked at the remains of the logs with a stick, but the fire was almost out; only glowing embers and a few charred bits of wood remained in the grate. He tossed the stick onto the embers and looked at Deirdre who stood, tying her scarf about her neck while she looked from the window at the darkening forest.
"We should leave while we can still find our way home,” she said, turning to face him. “The night comes early in December."
He nodded, watching her as he did at every opportunity, seeing the last of the light from the fire gleaming in her green eyes, thinking she had never looked more beautiful with her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes aglow, her hair a shining halo around her face.
"We should be on our way,” he said without turning from her, without walking toward the door of the cottage. Nor, he noticed, did she make any move to leave.
"Alcida is ill,” Deirdre said. “She must have awakened by now, I should be at her bedside to nurse her, to read to her."
Clive heard an ember snap in the grate. The only other sound was the thudding of his heart as he gazed, transfixed, into her eyes. What did he see there? Could it possibly be the same message she must read in his? How could he be certain?
He took a step toward her and saw her draw in a quick breath. For an instant he expected her to turn from him, to try to break the spell, to shatter the magic, but instead she hesitantly stepped not back but toward him.
"I must be on my way to London before dark,” he said. Not only to search for Timmons, he added to himself, but to go to Phoebe, however reluctantly.
Deirdre nodded and his breathing quickened when he saw that her mouth had parted slightly. As he watched, fascinated, she nervously ran her
tongue over her lips and he took another step closer to her until only an arm's length separated them. For Clive, her captivating nearness caused the rest of the world to blur and fade away. His world had become Deirdre, only Deirdre.
He started to speak, but he found that his mouth was dry and no words came. He drew in a long shuddering breath. “Deirdre,” he said, whispering her name. And then, louder and more insistent, “Deirdre.” And once again, “Deirdre, Deirdre."
She closed her eyes, she seemed to be waiting for him, and he reached for her and took her in his arms, clumsily, awkwardly, for her barouche coat was bulky against his greatcoat. His lips sought hers, his kiss brushed her cheek, her smooth skin warm from the fire, his mouth found her lips, covered her lips, his hand tangling in her hair as he held her to him while he kissed her. And then, to his delighted surprise, her arms came around him as she returned his kiss with a sudden, unexpected passion.
For one long moment there was nothing in the world except the two of them and the wonder between them. Then Deirdre drew back—he gasped from the shock of losing her—and she gave an inarticulate cry, pushed him away, swung away from him and fled the cottage.
She waited for him at the verge of the forest, and when he came to her, his steps slow and tentative, she refused to meet his gaze, turning and walking quickly away beneath the evergreens until she came to a familiar path where they walked side by side in silence, careful to keep a distance, however small, between them, walked past the quarry to the crest of the hill overlooking her grandmother's house, the windows aglow with lamplight.
By the time they reached the front door, they still had neither spoken nor touched. Deirdre put her hand on the latch; only then did she hesitate. He waited. Suddenly the door swung open and they both stared at a flushed-faced Agnes.
"She told me to watch for you,” Agnes said to Deirdre in a frightened voice. “Your grandmother did."
Deirdre gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. “Alcida?” she asked in alarm, grasping Agnes’ arm. “Is it Alcida?"
"She's took a turn for the worse, not the better,” Agnes said. “The missus sent for the doctor, but only the good Lord knows when he'll come. She's out of her senses, Miss Alcida is. One minute she calls ‘Deirdre, Deirdre,’ and the next it's, ‘Vincent, Vincent.’”
"I shall go to her at once.” Deirdre hurried across the entry hall and had started up the curving stairway when she stopped, her hand on the rail, and looked back at Clive who was still standing in the doorway watching her. She started to say something to him, but shook her head and turned away, hastening up the stairs, leaving him staring after her. Leaving him behind. And feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life.
CHAPTER 18
Arriving in London shortly before midnight, Clive idly gazed from his carriage window at the dark facades of the shops along an almost deserted Holborn Street
. Not only was he tired to the bone, his mind was in turmoil. He must locate Timmons if the man actually was in London, he told himself, and then he must speak to Phoebe and press her to either name a wedding date or, in all fairness, release him from his obligation.
He looked forward with keen anticipation to finding Timmons, hoping against hope the lieutenant could tell him what had happened at Vittoria. Even if Timmons confirmed his suspicion that he had behaved in a cowardly fashion, at least he would have the satisfaction of knowing the truth.
He looked forward to the meeting with Phoebe, on the other hand, almost with dread, greatly fearing the outcome would be other than he hoped. Knowing he had acted honorably toward her would provide little recompense for having to spend a lifetime with Phoebe while loving, and not from afar but at rather close quarters, someone else.
His thoughts kept hastening back to Deirdre, to that moment in the abandoned cottage when he held her in his arms and kissed her, recalling the unexpected passion with which she had returned his kiss. And then she had fled, shunning him for the remainder of their brief time together. Did she, could she possibly, love him? And what of that bastard Edward, had she at some time kissed him with the same fervor? Impossible. Or was it?
He smarted when he remembered Deirdre accusing him of being selfish, of thinking only of himself. How untrue, he considered himself the most unselfish of men, she had only to inquire of any of his acquaintances. No one had ever called him selfish before. Compared to most men, he was a paragon of selflessness.
Take Vincent as an example. Though a loyal friend and companion for many years, Vincent did have a tendency to talk rather endlessly of his inherited plantation in the West Indies and the medical experiments he intended to conduct there, allowing his enthusiasms to so narrow his vision that he often gave little heed to poor Alcida. Or to anyone else, for that matter.
Perhaps he should go to Vincent now to inform him of Alcida's illness. No, there was no need, Deirdre or her grandmother would surely send word to Vincent, if not today, then tomorrow. Vincent would learn the disturbing news soon enough. in the meantime, let his sleep, for one night at least, be untroubled. If their roles were reversed, Clive told himself, and Deirdre had, unknown to him, taken ill, he would—
He would want to know at once. Without delay.
Clive tapped on the roof of the carriage with his cane and, when the coachman slid aside the panel, said, “To Dr. Leicester's lodgings in Harley Street
, if you please.” A few minutes later he nodded when the carriage turned north from Oxford Street
.
Distant churchbells were chiming midnight as he lifted the brass knocker on the door to Vincent's rented rooms. The doctor, on opening the door himself, gave a start of surprise when he saw Clive, but ushered him inside without a word. Clive noted three large trunks in the hall as the Vincent led him to the sitting room where an open portmanteau sat in the middle of the carpet.
"You come from Brighton?” Vincent asked as he poured madeira into two glasses. When Clive shook his head, Vincent said, “From Sussex, then. Did you by any chance have occasion to see Alcida?"
"No, but I bring news of her. And, unfortunately, not good news. I fear Alcida is ill, suffering from a fever."
Vincent, his hand with the glass of wine extended toward Clive, held in place. “Ill? A fever?” His hand shook, causing drops of wine to fall to the carpet. “How is she?” he demanded. “Has she a competent physician? I have reason to realize better than most how lacking in skill many of my compatriots happen to be. Especially those practicing in the country."
"I heard of her illness at second-hand; I know nothing more than that she has a fever.” Clive hesitated to mention Alcida's delirium for fear of unduly alarming his friend.
Frowning, Vincent stared down at the glass in his hand before setting it aside and nodding to the portmanteau. “I packed this very evening, intending to go to Alcida tomorrow."
Perplexed, Clive said, “Then the news of her illness has already reached you?"
"No, no, I had no notion she was ill.” He shook his head. “I must confess I found myself adrift here in town without her. I wondered, on the other hand, whether her sudden journey to Sussex showed her indifference as far as I was concerned."
"I suspect the opposite to be true."
Vincent brightened. “If so, I have all the more reason to travel to Sussex, now I must go to her. I shall depart with the break of day."
"May I offer you a word of advice?” When Vincent nodded, Clive said, “Leave at once, my friend, go without any further delay."
Vincent raised his eyebrows. “Leave at once? Now, after midnight? I shall surely lose my way in that wilderness to the south. Surely the more prudent course is to sleep for a few hours—though God knows whether I can sleep with Alcida ill—and leave at the first light."
"Prudence be damned!” Clive gripped his friend's shoulder. “Anyone who contemplates a journey of thousands of miles across the ocean to the West Indies, as you do, can find his way to East Sussex whether by day or in the dark of night. Alcida, I suspect
, believes you pity her. If you delay until you receive word of her illness from Sussex and only then leave town, she will, once she recovers, think herself confirmed in those suspicions."
"Pity her? Why should I pity her?” Vincent furrowed his brow in thought.
Exasperated, Clive said nothing.
"Oh, yes, you refer to ravages of the pox. Strange, but after knowing her for a few weeks, when I looked at Alcida I saw her and not her scarred face. She is the most warm-hearted, engaging and, yes, beautiful girl it has ever been my pleasure to meet. Since she is also extremely sensible, she must realize how I feel even though I may never have told her in so many words.” He frowned. “You say she believes I pity her. How very odd."
"True, nevertheless."
Vincent walked to window, looked out into the darkness and then turned, nodding. “I shall go to Sussex at once. I only pray Alcida will recover from this illness. Certainly I shall do all in my power to make certain she does.” Vincent picked up one of the wine glasses and handed the other one to Clive. “To love!” he cried.
"To love,” Clive echoed.
* * * *
On the following morning, Clive appealed to a friend of his father's at the War Office, Colonel Trevor Sturges, for help in ascertaining the whereabouts of Lieutenant Timmons. An hour later he was informed that Lieutenant Warren Timmons had been, until very recently, a prisoner of the French, but had been exchanged for a captured French officer and was now residing at Barnard's Inn.
"You can most always find the lieutenant at the academy this time of day,” Timmons’ man informed Clive when he inquired at the Inn. “That fencing academy on Drury Lane
.” Driving to Drury Lane
, Clive climbed a narrow flight of stairs to an ill-lit hall where a plaque on the wall proclaimed “L'Academie Francaise d’ Escrime.” Opening the door next to the plaque, he found himself gazing into a cavernous room.
He heard the clash of steel against steel, heard fencers in white vests and black masks cry, “en garde,” watched them thrust and parry, lunge and retreat. On the walls, crossed swords alternated with portraits of famous fencers and framed certificates awarded to the winners of various fencing competitions.