Sadly he watched the gentle rise and fall of her graceful breasts through the thin nightgown. Somewhere beneath there lay a heart that loved him. He had betrayed it. He'd failed before he'd even begun, and he turned his eyes away.
All at once he could smell the scent of violets. Something quivered in his loins, and the misty eyes came open wide. In disgust, he climbed out of the bed. His body was awash with gooseflesh and clammy-cold sweat, and he slipped on his dressing gown and sank into the chair beside the window.
The wafer moon shone brightly down on the graveyard below and lit the sunken grave where Mary lay. He watched fugitive mists creep over the sod diluting the shadows that hovered about her headstone like ghostly maids in waiting. And there he stayed until the gray dawn found him nodding in the chair.
* * * *
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Chapter Seventeen
* * * *
Winter waxed heavy with cold, and an icy dampness flooded the hollow at Cragmoor Cross, attended by lonesome mists that settled there in search of a home away from the cliff and the ripping gales.
Early in January snow filtered down, a rarity to the natives, who seldom saw it due to the prevailing wind that for the most part tempered the weather just enough to keep it at bay. As if in a fantasy, it draped the stunted trees with lacy shrouds, frosted the thorn hedge and black, dormant heather, and drifted over the graves in the churchyard topping the headstones with elegant, pristine crowns.
But the bitter freeze of winter waned quickly. Just as Sir John had described the phenomenon so long ago, the snow was gone as mysteriously as it had come. By March, the spongy heath had begun to smell of life again, and though the crisp air still held an aftertaste of winter, nature pointed reassuring fingers toward signs that spring wasn't too far behind.
Five long months had come and gone and yet the vicar hadn't been able to consummate his marriage. It was something neither he nor Emily spoke about, though the silence between them spoke volumes. They slept together in the same warm bed, and there was tender affection there between them, but each attempt that Elliot made to offer physical love to his bride ended in a silent, wakeful night heavy with guilt and shame. The worst of it was that Elliot considered his inadequacy a most unforgivable usury of Emily's love, and that he couldn't bear.
As always, Emily remained loving and gentle toward him, carefully guarding her despair. Her tears were shed in solitude, though they had begun to flow more often and were no longer the secret she supposed them to be. When Elliot was occupied elsewhere, she would steal into the church and kneel in the quiet, praying with all her soul that the ghost she had so charitably let in with doors flung wide return the favor in kind and give her room to crouch in some spare corner of her own house.
Emily was convinced it had to be some flaw in her character that repulsed her husband. Unable to face whatever that might be, she struggled inwardly with her chagrin. But when Elliot became more and more despondent and withdrawn after each failure, she grew alarmed. He was slipping away, and one night early in the month, she decided to seek out an answer in spite of her resolve to suffer in silence.
It was nearly midnight and Elliot hadn't come to bed. Watching from their chamber window, she could see his tall, dark shape in the churchyard below, standing like a statue in the mist beside Mary's grave. The moon shone down on him through scudding clouds that heralded the birth of a new storm that would break with the dawn on the turn of the tide. His head was bowed and the silvered rays played upon his chestnut hair and black clothing, casting an eerie pallor about him that challenged her eyes, for at first glance he seemed like a wraith, risen from the mist.
Emily turned away from the window. Her heavy shawl lay neatly folded over the chair. Without stopping to think, she pulled it close about her over her nightgown and made her way to the vestry door downstairs.
The night was almost warm compared to the bitter breath of winter, but the wind tugged spitefully at her shawl and gown. On silent feet, she parted the mist and made her way through the graveyard gate and over the sod to Elliot's side.
She had never intruded on him there before, and when her gentle hand came to rest on his arm, he gave a start and spun toward her.
"Emily,” he breathed.
"You look so dreadfully tired,” she said. “Please come to bed, Elliot."
The vicar emptied his lungs and covered the hand on his arm with his own. The warm, tender pressure drew her closer. But he wrestled then with thoughts that resisted being put into words, and she didn't realize it until another sigh released them.
"Emily,” he murmured, “would you like me to petition the bishop over an annulment?"
As terminal as death, the words hung between them in a terrible moment of heart-stopping silence.
Emily's blood drained away from her scalp, leaving it cold and wrinkled with gooseflesh. “An . . . annulment?” she breathed.
The vicar nodded. “I'm only thinking of you,” he said, still fondling the hand on his arm. “You deserve so much more than this."
Horror-struck, she took her hand away from his and covered her trembling lips with it. His image swam in the tears that spilled over her honey-colored lashes and streamed down her face in the moonlight. She moved her head from side to side and her lips worked soundlessly for a moment. When the words finally did come they were barely audible.
"Oh, Elliot . . .” She bolted into the mist.
Sobbing, she ran back over the sod, through the gate, past the vestry door, and plunged into the wild, black heather that banked the moors to the east. She had no idea where she was going, only that her feet were carrying her away from the horrible solution her husband's lips had offered her.
Caught on a spiny arm of thorn hedge, her shawl was yanked from her shoulders, but she didn't even feel it fall away. The hem of her gown was drenched in the mist and her long, straight hair clung damp to her back, but she was too numb to feel the chill. She couldn't see. Her eyes were too brim-full of tears, nor could she hear Elliot's desperate voice calling to her from close behind. Stuck in her brain was the same voice mouthing the word ‘annulment.’ It droned louder and louder, until she covered her ears and cried out as she stumbled blindly over the heath in a desperate attempt to escape it.
Tripping over a clump of bracken hidden deep in the mist, she fell forward and scrambled to her feet again, her nightgown clinging wet to the firm, round breasts trembling over her pounding heart. Her lungs burned from gulping the damp air, and her throat ached from the wrenching sobs that issued from it in spasms she could no longer control. But still she ran on.
Taking giant strides on long, agile legs, the vicar reached her at last. When his firm hand caught her arm, she cried aloud wrenching free, and sank to her knees clutching his ankles.
"Oh, Elliot—Elliot, how have I displeased you?” she sobbed, gripping his trousers legs. “Elliot—what have I done? Oh, please. My God, forgive me. I swear to you, I don't know what it is I've done."
Elliot yanked her up from the ground and she cried out again, unprepared for rough handling. He shook her hard and held her at arm's length.
"Don't you . . . ever go down on your knees to me again,” he panted. “I should be on mine before you."
In the moonlight, she could see the set of his jaw and the shivering, deep-set eyes boring into hers like live coals.
"Do you think that I am repulsed?” he cried. “Can you possibly think this is your fault?"
"It has to be. You want to annul our marriage! Elliot, what have I done? It cannot be this . . . thing with Mary. We had all that in the open at the outset, and I haven't thrown myself at your head—you came to me."
"Ahhh, Jesus. Jesus!” the vicar groaned, pulling her close in his arms.
"Oh, my God.If I could only die,” she moaned. “What you just asked me in the graveyard—you may as well have shot me down. But if that is what you want, of course I'll give it. I love you, Elliot. I couldn't deny you anything—not even my
life. I take no more comfort from it. It's not adequate enough to give comfort to you, and without that it is useless to me."
Elliot tilted her head back with a tender hand. “I don't want an annulment, Emily,” he said. “You are entitled to one. I am filled with guilt and shame for failing you. The fault is mine—not yours."
"No. I will never believe that. Never!” she cried. “I am not satisfactory. I know you do not love me—I've known that from the beginning. You could never love anyone but Mary. I know that, too, and as God is my judge I don't begrudge you that, but she is dead and I am alive! God help me, I am alive. Dear God, I wish with all my heart that it were the other way ‘round . . .” Bursting into tears, she dropped her head into her hands.
* * * *
Elliot gathered her close in his arms. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he pulled her head back and covered her mouth with his own. She smelled of gillyflowers. The clove-like scent surrounded him. He deepened the kiss, and tasted her sweetness and the salt of her tears. Her moan resonated in his throat. The soft, warm pressure of her eager flesh quivering so close in his arms tortured him. Indeed she was alive. Her hands clutched the back of his jacket desperately, and he groaned, exploring the shape of her body, naked and silky smooth beneath the wet, clinging nightgown.
Darkness pressed close around them. For a moment the wind held its breath and the moon crept through a cloudbank lighting her alabaster face. Hurt swam in her tears. He couldn't think beyond that he had put it there, and he laid her down gently on a cool patch of moss, and took her there in the sea of hovering mists collecting in the quiet.
Afterward, he wrapped her in his jacket and carried her back to the vicarage. There would be no more talk of annulment. He could bear no more hurt in those sad, pale eyes. If it took the last ounce of life in him, he would somehow convince this wonderful woman she was most definitely not unsatisfactory.
* * * *
Two days later, George Howard was summoned to the vicarage. Emily had taken a chill in the cool night dampness. Beside himself, enmeshed in yet another facet of guilt, the vicar danced attendance at her bedside constantly, in spite of her pleadings that it was nothing more than her usual spring complaint and would pass after its normal duration. Nevertheless she seemed paler to him, more wasted, wracked with a heavier cough, and he looked toward her faded violet eyes with bitter dismay.
Rina Banks took charge of her care, and that put Elliot somewhat at ease. Recalling how Rina had cared for him at Ramsey House, he was prepared to admit that Emily couldn't have a more able nurse. Rina was diligent and stern in forcing Emily to swallow the prescribed elixir, and porter, which the doctor had ordered as an extra measure to build her blood and chase the hacking cough. She couldn't abide the taste of the strong, dark brew. Clutching the bed sheet against a grimace, she would blink back the moisture that collected in her eyes from the bitter aftertaste each time she downed the draught. And the sight extracted the closest thing to a smile that had creased the vicar's lips in months.
As she predicted, Emily was on her feet again by the end of May, though the shattering cough hung on with a stubborn persistence that seemed more acute to Elliot. Spasms would leave her blanched white, gasping for breath and wheezing. Her eyes were darkened with shadow stains, and she'd begun to complain of nausea, protesting that her stomach would finally bear no more porter.
* * * *
One night in mid-June, Elliot took Emily to dinner at Cragmoor. They hadn't seen much of Colin since the wedding, though when Emily took to her bed he had come often to the vicarage seeking news of her progress. Relieved at her recovery, Colin had extended the dinner invitation more for his own reassurance than anything else. During the meal, he watched her slender hands, almost able to see the bones clearly beneath the opalescent skin. He looked with alarm toward the shadows wreathing her violet eyes and clinging in the hollows beneath her high cheekbones. There was no life whatsoever in her lips, they were as gray as paste, and her wheat-colored hair had lost its fine luster.
After dinner they retired to the conservatory. Colin offered sherry to the vicar and Emily, and poured a glass of French cognac for himself. Sitting beside her husband on the lounge, Emily sipped her drink quietly, while Colin leaned nearby against the unlit hearth watching her pull her shawl close about the folds of her brown gabardine frock.
"Are you cold, Emily?” he said, pushing off from the hearth. “I can light this if you want. The nights are still cool."
"No, no, don't trouble, Colin,” she murmured, “I'm fine—really."
Paying no attention, he snatched several logs out of the wood box and tossed them into the yawning grate. Squatting down, he ignited them, fanning the lazy flames with the bellows.
"Blasted damp,” he complained, “damned wood's set to mold."
Emily smiled. “You're very thoughtful, Colin,” she said, “thank you."
Colin scowled, jabbing a stubborn log with the poker. “Can't have you taking to your bed again,” he grunted.
Elliot laughed. “You do that so well,” he said, nodding toward the hearth. “I can't manage to light a fire yet without burning a finger or two."
"I have to,” Colin grumbled. “Blasted servants are never where they ought to be."
"Sorry you let the Harcourts go, are you?"
"Christ, no; bloody nincompoops—the both of them. I've hired some more help—two wenches from the village. A proper pair of addlewits, I dare say. Megan cannot set a kettle on to boil without dousing the fire, and Kathleen polishes my bloody boots—soles and all. I damned near broke my blasted neck on the stairs last week. I split a good pair of trousers when I came down in the bargain, and as luck would have it neither one of them can sew a stitch."
Emily's smile bloomed and she began to giggle.
Elliot laughed along with her, but Colin didn't crack a smile. Scowling, he nodded and stared down his nose at the pair of them. It was a playful scowl. In spite of himself, the music of her laughter warmed him. It sounded like gentle bells pealing throughout the room of glass chasing the chill far better than the fire had done. But it was short lived. Suddenly Emily's giggles convulsed into a tremulous spasm of coughing. She gasped, clutched her throat, and struggled to her feet with Elliot close at her side.
Colin paled and sprang toward them, but before he could reach her, she sputtered trying to catch her breath, took a step forward, and collapsed in Elliot's arms.
"Emily!” the vicar cried.
Colin took her from him, scooping her up in strong arms. “Go to Harris,” he charged. “Send him for Howard at once. I'll put her up in your old chamber."
"Colin—she's as white as a ghost."
"She's going to be all right. Go on, Elliot—leave her to me."
The vicar ran ahead and Colin hurried toward the gallery. He scaled the stairs on feet that scarcely touched the carpet, burst through Elliot's chamber door, and set her down in the closet bed. Striding to the bell pull, he yanked it and returned to Emily, rubbing her frail wrists between his hands. Her breathing wasn't labored, but the chalk-white color of her riddled him with chills.
It seemed an eternity before a comely, dark-haired maid, with a familiar twinkle in her eye appeared in the doorway. Colin's posture clenched. He still wasn't quite used to the girl's resemblance to Sara.
"Smelling salts and cold water—quickly, Megan,” he said, ignoring the invitation in those eyes. “Mrs. Marshall has fainted."
The girl gasped, sketched a curtsy, and fled.
Minutes later, Elliot burst into the room and sank down beside Emily. “Colin, she looks so pale,” he murmured.
Collin stepped back, raking his hair. “She's out too soon, I expect. You're going to have to keep her indoors half the summer."
"Why doesn't she come ‘round?"
"Howard should be out here soon, and Megan will be back any minute. I sent her for the salts. They'll bring her ‘round. Loosen her collar there. For God's sake, move back and let her breathe, Elliot!"
<
br /> Minutes later Megan flew into the room with a basin of water and the smelling salts. Colin snatched the bottle, opened it, and passed it beneath Emily's small, straight nose. She stirred, coughed, and shrank from the fumes. Once her eyelids began to flutter, Colin took the bottle away.
Dazed, Emily stared in confusion.
Elliot gathered her into his arms. “Emily,” he murmured, “what happened?"
"I . . . I was coughing . . . I remember that,” she breathed. “I was laughing—Colin, he was so dreadfully funny, and I began to cough. I . . . I don't know what happened after that, Elliot."
"How do you feel?” said Colin.
"Foolish,” she gushed, “and a little weak. My chest hurts from coughing, otherwise I'm fine, Colin."
The vicar laid her back against the pillow, but she started to rise again.
Colin's arm shot forward. “Ohhh, no,” he said, “you'll stay right where you are. George Howard is on his way."
"Oh, Colin, that's not necessary. I'm quite recovered, whatever it was."
"We'll let Howard be the best judge of that. You two shall stay the night.” He turned to Megan. “Prepare the master bedchamber at once,” he said, “and see that Mrs. Marshall is made comfortable there. Afterward, wait downstairs and let the doctor in."
"Yes, sir,” said Megan, vanishing again.
"It isn't necessary to go through all this, Colin,” Emily protested.
"I'll not turn you out in the damp night air, and that's the end of it. Rest there and mind.” He turned to the vicar. “I'll be in the study, Elliot, if you have need of me,” he said. And before Emily could protest again, he was gone.
* * * *
An hour later George Howard arrived and sent Elliot down to the study to wait with Colin while he examined Emily. Colin poured him a brandy and offered it. Ordinarily, he would have declined, but not this time. He took the glass and nursed its contents for nearly half an hour before Colin broke his pacing rhythm long enough to refill it. Elliot didn't object. He sat staring into the amber liquid and breathed a troubled sigh.
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