He gathered her into a tight embrace, her small body cradled into his. His muffled voice broke through the wall she’d erected, a wall built on hurt, anger, and confusion. “I’m here. I won’t let you go.” Holding on, she cried in loud, wracking sobs. They shook her body and threatened to unmoor her tenuous grasp on reality, yet for the first time since leaving the ship, she was safe, anchored to the one person who could lead her to shore.
Chapter 28
Bit by bit she came back to him. Like pieces of shattered glass, he picked up each one, dusted it off, and helped her find its place. For two months he helped her locate those lost fragments, pieces of herself, shattered the day her sister died. It was hard work, and more than once he had bled, the sting of her rejection cutting as deep as a shard of glass.
Those early days of grief sapped her strength. She kept to her bed, refusing to move, to talk, or to eat. He saw her wasting away in front of him, and was reminded of his own mother when she grieved the loss of his father. His mother had also refused to eat, and he and his siblings had needed to spoon-feed her broth and water until her strength returned. He did the same for Evie and fed her for days, until one day she grabbed the spoon and fed herself. She still remained silent, so he read to her to fill the void her withdrawal had created.
As her strength returned, he retrieved her journal and placed it on the bed, hoping it would provide an outlet for her emotions. She took one look at the handmade blue cloth journal and threw it across the room. Hot fire burned in her eyes. His offering was not wanted. He tried to read to her, but she turned her head away and stared at the wall, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Tired and dejected himself, he left to seek solace outside those walls of anger and grief.
Several hours later, he returned and went to her room. He hesitated, unsure of the reception he would receive, but when he opened the door, he saw her sitting in a chair by the fire, her notebook in hand. Hope lightened his soul, and he restrained himself from rushing in and grabbing her in his embrace. It was too soon, her emotions too fragile for affectionate displays. Instead, he walked into the room and took the chair beside her. Nothing was written on her pad, but the fact she had retrieved it on her own was a victory in itself. He closed his eyes, content to sit next to her.
A tap on his arm plucked him from his drowsy state. Looking down at her slim hand holding a pad of paper, he was reminded of their first conversation, and he stared at the notepad as dumbfounded as he had been before. Once more, she thrust the book at him. Two words were scrawled on the paper. “Thank you.” She did not retract her hand but set the journal on his lap and took his hand in hers. Neither spoke, but her small hand in his told him more than words could ever say. They sat there for hours, until her fingers slackened and her head drooped. He gathered her into his arms and held her while she slept.
The next day he encouraged her to leave her room and walk with him, but the prospect was too frightening. They took promenades around the room instead. By week’s end, she was ready to go downstairs and explore their host’s home. They were baby steps, but they were going in the right direction.
July was heralded by warm temperatures and humid air. Hot summer breezes carried the heady scent of summer flowers and sun-ripened fruit hanging heavy on the trees. He coaxed her outside with the promise of sweet berries fresh from the vine. They strolled through the gardens, stopping to sit on the cozy benches scattered throughout the lush walkways. Those were good days, days when he saw a glimpse of the woman he loved returning to him.
On dark days, when grief burdened her soul and she did not leave her room, he picked her flowers and brought the sunshine indoors. He tempted her with her favorite foods and read to her for hours. Those days came with less frequency than before, and by the middle of August, she was walking with him to town and back with rarely a dark day to be seen.
He looked down at the woman walking beside him.
What is going on in her head? For two months she had not spoken or written anything else besides those words of gratitude. Even now, the sparkle had not returned to her eyes. There was no spring in her step or impatience to be busy. This silent woman was so unlike the mischievous young sprite who had approached life with joyful abandon, and he didn’t know if he would ever see her again. Though he had done his best to help her heal, the fissures of grief cut deep. He knew this wound would never fully heal, but he hoped one day she would come back to him.
The sun had yet to crest on the horizon as the two made their way down the cobblestone street toward the bay. By some unspoken agreement, they never walked there, but today their path took them to the sandy shores of St. Peter’s port. She didn’t hesitate, or shy away in fear, but strode to the spot where they had landed all those nights ago and sat on the sand. Has she collapsed? Is she too overcome by memories from our horrible landing? He sped to her side, but he needn’t have worried. She was removing her shoes and stockings. Lifting her skirts above her knees, she walked into the water and stood there as the waves washed over her feet and shins. She took a thin piece of paper from her pocket, recognizable by its bold, slanting hand and unmistakable seal, and threw it into the water. A flower he had woven in her hair followed. After they had floated away and were specks in the distance, she returned to shore.
He was waiting for her on the sand. She sat beside him, and the two watched as the sun rose from the ocean, shining like a fireball on the distant horizon. It gilded the sea with fingers of gold and silver and caught the vibrant hues of her short, curly hair until she seemed to glow like a beacon of light. She was beautiful. With eyes closed, she faced the morning sun, her head tilted back to better enjoy the warmth. Fragments of color sparkled off the water droplets clinging to her bared legs, dazzling him with a rainbow of color. She smiled, and his heart did a funny little beat in his chest. It was the first smile he had seen in two months.
He had been wrong. She wasn’t gone, nor had she ever left him. Like a butterfly, she had transformed and emerged stronger and more beautiful for the trials she had faced. These past months had changed him, too. Doubts about the success of their marriage no longer assailed him. He knew they could face whatever life threw at them, for they had already walked through the fire and emerged victorious, scarred and battered but together.
Her notebook hung from her skirt pocket, and he pulled it out. Opening to a clean page, he wrote. He tapped her on the knee, and she turned, a familiar sparkle lighting her face. He tapped her knee again, and she took the notebook to read the three words he had written. Tears came to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, each drop glistening like diamonds in the early morning sun. He wiped them away, and she grasped his hand, holding it there.
“I love you, too,” she said.
Chapter 29
Evie stood on the deck of the Angel, the British supply ship taking them to England, and enjoyed the rocking of the boat as it sliced through the water. White foam kicked up on either side of the wooden vessel, and sea spray misted her face, the cool drops easing some of late August’s heat. Her husband was by her side, his arms wrapped about her waist, and she sighed, leaning into his solid embrace.
“Are you glad to be going home?” he whispered into her ear.
“It will be good to see my mother and sister.” Though happy to be returning to England, she was unsure where home was anymore. There were moments when she floundered, lost and adrift as though at sea, but they occurred less often as the days stretched into weeks and months. He had been responsible for her recovery, and she knew that without him she might still be stranded in the ocean of her grief.
“You shall see them as much as you wish. Your sister will be but a mile up the road, and your mother has promised to visit. Even your aunt and uncle have promised to visit us.”
She was still not easy discussing her family. So much had happened since she had run away, and she was a different person. Coming to terms with her changed self was taking all of her concentration. Now she was married and returning home. I
t overwhelmed her at times. “I am glad we are married.” Turning in his arms, she rested her head on his chest and took comfort from his embrace.
“It’s the least I could do after you proposed so prettily to me,” he teased.
She blushed and was glad her face was concealed on his chest. The day after they walked on the beach and she said her final goodbye to her sister, she had stayed up half the night deciding what she wanted, and what she wanted more than anything else was to marry Alfred. She loved him and didn’t wish to waste another day apart. The next morning, she woke early and dressed in one of the violet mourning dresses he’d had made for her. She had styled her short hair with sprigs of fresh flowers, and after picking a bouquet from the garden, she waited outside his room until he awoke. He had jumped upon seeing her and had asked if anything was wrong.
“Do you still want to marry me?”
“Yes. When do you want to do it?”
“How about now?”
He had dressed in a hurry, and the two went to the church and were wed.
“You had already proposed once, Husband. It was my turn. Besides, you were so kind as to be the first to say I love you.”
“Wrong, Wife.” He kissed her on the cheek. “You were the first to say it.”
She lifted her head and swatted him on the chest. “Because you first wrote it, so then I said it. But you were the first to say it.”
“Writing is not the same as speaking.”
“You dare say writing is not the same as speaking to me, a woman who has relied on written communication for the better part of her life?” She wasn’t mad, but it was fun to see him squirm a bit. A giggle escaped, ruining her mock scolding.
“All right! I concede.” He hugged her more tightly. “I was the first to say I love you.”
“Much better.” It didn’t matter who said it first; she was happy to be loved.
“Look.” He lifted a hand from around her waist to point behind her. “There’s England.”
She twisted around to stare at the jagged, dark line marring the perfect arc of the blue horizon. Nerves fluttered in her stomach. How will my mother and sister greet me? Will they scold? Will they find me much altered? Time apart and tragedy had forever changed her. For one, she knew the bitter sting of grief and its terrible twin, remorse. There were so many things she wished she could change, or say or do differently, and maybe Bea wouldn’t have… She stopped. Dwelling on the past changed nothing. She was alive and must abide with the consequences her actions had created.
“Tell me again about our new home.” No longer wishing to dwell on the past, she latched onto a topic to push aside those guilt-ridden regrets.
“We will be living in the dower house on Ballywith estate. Your brother-in-law was sparse with the details in his last letter, but your sister was much more willing to talk of our new home. We will have five bedrooms above stairs, several rooms below for entertaining, and a beautiful view of Ballywith valley. According to Stanton, he has had a crew of men hard at work in preparation for our arrival.”
“Will you be happy working with Stanton again?”
“I hope so. We are to be equal partners in the management of the stables and share the profits earned from the sale of the horses. In return, I will write and review the contracts, negotiate the sales and purchase agreements, and manage the accounts for the estate as I did before.”
“But you were unhappy, so you left. I don’t want you to have any regrets.”
“There is nothing for me to regret. I went out to seek a fortune, and I found a treasure beyond compare.” He leaned in for a kiss, a tender, reverent expression of love and devotion. “You, my wife, are all I ever needed or wanted.”
She rested her hand on her stomach, the gentle rounding still too small to be noticed by anyone other than the two of them.
He added his hand to her own. “Has she grown?”
“How do you know it’s a she?”
“What else could it be? Since you insist on naming her after me, it had best be a female.” He shuddered. “To put my middle name on a male is a cruel punishment for an innocent babe. I’ve already had to live with the taunts and the jeers. I don’t wish the same for our children.”
“Male or female, the child will bear your name, Alfred T. Coombes.”
He groaned. “What woman asks for a name as a wedding gift? When I told you I’d give you anything, I didn’t realize you’d want to know my name!”
She recalled how his disbelief had turned to horror when moments after signing the church registry a week ago, she had insisted on knowing his middle name. He had tried to bribe her with jewelry, a new gown, a voyage to a distant land, but she refused each one, preferring knowledge to material wealth. When at last he capitulated, she had not been disappointed, but in light of his obvious distress she had remained somber and had sworn to keep it a secret. For now.
“Regardless of the name we give our child, he will be loved.” Already, she loved the child with a surprising ferocity. She had never cared for children and was glad she harbored no dislike for her own. Nine months was a long time to wait before meeting their new addition, but there was no hurry. Life had its own rhythm and purpose, and for once, she was content to follow where it led.
“I almost forgot. I have a wedding present for you, too.”
“You do?”
She opened her reticule and dug out a small object. It dangled on a silver chain from her fingers. A metal disc spun in circles between them.
“What’s this? Are you warning me you want to travel, so you bought another St. Christopher to keep me safe?”
“No, silly. See?” She showed him the textured front where a man cradled a small child. “It’s St. Joseph, to guide and protect you in your new adventure as husband and father.”
He took off the old medallion and handed it to her.
“That was a gift from Mr. Blackburn. Don’t you want to keep it?”
Folding her fingers around the worn metal disc, he shook his head. “It led me where I needed to go, but my traveling adventures are done. I want to be Alfred again and return home to be your husband, and father to our children.” She looped the new medallion around his neck and played with the buttons on his jacket, studying him through lowered lashes.
“Could you sometimes be Federico, too?”
He nibbled her neck and growled. “But of course, you minx.”
“And sometimes Freddie?”
“Yes!” He laughed. “And I imagine you will think of other, less flattering, names as time passes. No matter what you call me, I am yours and will always love you.”
“Even when I chatter on for hours and hours?”
“Even though I may fall to my knees and pray to God for a return to the days when you didn’t speak, yes, I will still love you.”
“But—”
“I have no regrets, Evie. None. I am excited for our new adventure and ready for whatever comes next. The question is, are you?”
Looking out into the distance, she saw England’s looming cliffs and her rocky shores. Her family was waiting for her. Amelia and Tavis, her aunt and uncle, her mother, and Alfred’s entire family were eager to welcome them home. Beatrice was no longer a part of their group, but she would be remembered. Love was youth eternal, and as long as she loved her sister, that sister would live on. She squeezed her husband’s hand resting over their unborn child and looked to the future. As long as they were together, there wasn’t anything she couldn’t do.
She was ready to go home.
Epilogue
About six months later
The March winds howled outside the dower house, whistling through the eaves. Evie was glad for the warm fire blazing in the bedroom, though she still tucked the small blanket about the sleeping baby’s chin.
“How’s our little girl doing?” Alfred asked, closing the door with a soft click behind him.
“She’s all tuckered out from meeting everybody.” Stroking the soft velvet skin of th
e baby’s rosy cheeks, contentment wrapped her in its warm embrace. Though it had been several days since her daughter was born, motherhood was still an adjustment. Carrying their child had been enjoyable, almost like a dream, yet when her waters broke and she went into labor earlier this week, her situation had become much more real. Her world had changed the moment she delivered their little girl and the doctor placed her in her arms. She was a mother, responsible for another life, and her new role altered everything. It was reasonable for the enormity of being a mother to still surprise her on occasion.
Her sister Amelia, who had visited earlier with her husband and aunt and uncle, assured her she would find her footing before long and adjust with ease to the new demands she would face. She couldn’t help smiling at her sister’s sage advice. Almost three months of motherhood to her own healthy boy had made Amelia an expert in all things maternal. Nevertheless, Evie was grateful for the advice and for her family’s presence. They had visited for several hours, staying over lunch, and had left about an hour ago. All who remained were Alfred’s mother, Violet Coombes, and his youngest sister, Lavender. They had come several weeks before, to wait for the baby’s arrival, and would remain several more months to help with their new family.
Already Mother Coombes was as dear to her as her own husband, and she valued the woman’s kindness and friendship. She had been waiting for them at the docks when they arrived in Southampton, had taken one look at the two of them, and had enfolded Evie in her warm embrace. Evie held her mother-in-law in a special place in her heart, a place grown more special the longer they were acquainted. The birth and subsequent induction to motherhood had gone much more smoothly than Evie had imagined because of Violet’s help.
“It was good seeing your aunt and uncle again.” He slipped into bed and settled in behind her. She leaned against his chest. “Though I can’t say I’m sorry they are staying with your sister instead of us.” He growled into her ear, and she giggled.
Silence Is Golden Page 21