by Mary Balogh
Outside the walls little attempt had been made to create formal splendor, to force nature to conform to man’s idea of symmetry and beauty. There was a small rose arbor to the west of the house, sheltered from the harsh elements by trees, and before the house there were rock gardens, which were a riot of color during the summer. Vegetable and flower gardens stretched to the east of the house.
The manor was built only a mile from the sea as the crow flies, but the wooded valley in which it was situated meandered eastward with the stream at its center for almost three miles before curving south toward the sea and ending in marshy land that cut through the cliffs to either side. A climb up through the woods to the back of the house would bring one up onto a windswept plateau of coarse grass and sheep droppings and a mile farther on to the edge of cliffs that dropped sheer to the ocean below, or when the tide was out to a wide stretch of golden sands. There was a precipitous path leading from the cliff top to the beach.
To lovers of solitude and wild beauty there was no place quite like Penhallow.
Such a person was Lady Nancy Atwell. She had lived alone at the house, apart from servants, since the death of her father the year before. She had friends in the village and the surrounding countryside, but she never shunned solitude. She liked it better than company, she often thought. She could be herself at Penhallow. She could be free. She had left it once, seven years before when she had been twenty to journey to London for a belated come-out Season, and she had loved the bustle and excitement and everything else that had happened.
Everything else except for one thing. And that one thing had sent her scurrying home in haste and had kept her there ever since. She was not sorry, though she was very sorry for the incident that had sent her running. She was not sorry that she now lived at Penhallow, that it was her home, that it was her life. She was happy there.
She had spent a late April afternoon walking along the beach. She had even removed her shoes and stockings and carried them in one hand so that she could walk along at the edge of the water and feel her toes sink into the spongy sand and feel them also turn almost numb with cold.
She thought of her brother as she trudged up the cliff path, her shoes back in place but her hair loose and in wild tangles about her face and down over her shoulders. She very rarely wore her hair up except when she was visiting or expecting visitors.
She wondered if he knew yet about Papa’s death. She had written to him immediately, but she knew from experience that letters could take up to a year to reach him in America. Sometimes two years passed before she had a reply to something she had written.
She wondered if he would come home. He had once said that he would never come back, but never is a long time. And people can change in seven years. Christopher must have changed. It sounded as if he was becoming very successful in what seemed to be a rugged and competitive business. He had had as solitary an upbringing as she. Papa had not sent him away to school. He had been nineteen when he finally went to university—a quiet, serious, dreamy boy who had not learned how to cope with life beyond the boundaries of Penhallow. Events had proved that.
He must have changed, she thought, pausing on the cliff top to catch her breath and gazing at the western horizon and the sunset that was turning it orange and sending a golden band of light across the water. The wind blew her dark hair out behind her, creating further tangles. She shook her head, enjoying the sensation.
She must not expect him, she thought. At least not yet. It was very early in the year. She would hope for a letter, but she would not expect him. Then she would not be disappointed when he did not come. But she hoped as she turned for home and her hair was blown forward over her face that he would come. They had been very close as children, having had only each other for company. Their father had been a recluse, spending most of his days in the library among his beloved books.
She had missed Christopher, especially since the death of Papa. She wanted him to come home. But she would not expect him. She would hope for a letter. There had been a long one the year before, but of course he had not known about Papa when he had written that.
Nancy ran down the wooded hill toward the valley and the house. It was dusk already, but summer was coming and the evenings were getting longer. There was a great deal to look forward to.
She felt sandy, she thought as she entered the tiled hall. And she must look a great deal worse than sandy. But there was no one there to see her since she did not feel it necessary to keep a servant standing in the hall all day long. Besides, her servants were used to the sight of her. It must be almost dinnertime, though. She would run upstairs to change her dress and wash her hands and feet and pull a comb through her hair.
But before she could pass through the arch that would bring her to the staircase, she stopped and stood very still. Horses? It was hard to tell for sure since horses and carriages no longer came into the courtyard, but she was sure she had heard correctly. Everything was always so quiet about Penhallow that the slightest sound could be detected, especially at this time of day.
Nancy frowned. Who would be calling at this strange hour? But she had no time to play guessing games with herself or to wonder if she really had heard horses. The heavy oak doors crashed open suddenly and a small heavyset man rushed inside. Her hand crept up to her throat, though she stood her ground and made no attempt to duck out of sight. She was reminded, not for the first time, of the lonely location of Penhallow.
“Sacré coeur!” the man exclaimed, looking wildly about him and apparently not seeing her standing in the archway. “Where is everybody? Give some ’elp ’ere, s’il vous plait.”
Two servants, one of them the butler, appeared at a run from the direction of the back stairs and Nancy stepped forward. But she stopped again as another man strode in through the open doors, a tall man wearing a long dark cloak and no hat. He was carrying the slight and motionless form of a woman.
“Christopher!” Nancy cried and she rushed forward again.
He looked at her, his face harsh and pale. “Nance,” he said, “I need a room and a bed. And warm water and cloths. She is badly hurt, I believe. And a doctor. Hemmings”—he turned toward the butler—“send for a doctor. Tell him it is extremely urgent.”
“What happened?” Nancy’s eyes widened. She had no time to feel either surprise or joy. She had no time to look for changes in her brother.
“She jumped out of the carriage and hit her head,” he said grimly, striding past her in the direction of the stairs. “Antoine, see to the horses.”
Jumped out of the carriage? But Nancy had no chance to react to the strange words. She had glanced down at the woman’s unconscious face as her brother strode past, and she felt that she had walked straight into a nightmare. Elizabeth!
“Elizabeth?” she said, her hand back at her throat. But Christopher was already on the stairs and her servants and his were all scurrying into action. She hurried after her brother. “Take her to the green bedchamber. I always have the bed kept aired for visitors in that room.”
He rounded the pillar at the top of the stairs and strode along the upper hallway toward the room she had named. Nancy rushed ahead of him to open the door and turn back the blankets and top sheet. He set Elizabeth down with care, straightened her clothes, removed her slippers, and covered her with the bedclothes.
“I think she might die,” he said, his voice harsh. “She has not recovered consciousness since it happened. That was seven or eight miles back.”
“Christopher,” Nancy said, looking from the unconscious woman’s face to the back of his head, “what are you doing back in England—and with Elizabeth?”
He turned to look at her and she was struck immediately with the change in him. He was a man now, a man who looked as if he were normally much in command of his life. His pallor suggested that perhaps this occasion was an exception.
“Picking up where I left off, it seems,” he said. “Getting myself into one hell of a mess, Nance. I could not lea
ve well enough alone. I kidnapped her.”
“Kidnapped?” There was horror in her voice.
He turned back to the bed and leaned over Elizabeth to pick up one of her hands and chafe it. “Cold and limp,” he murmured. “I was passing through London and happened to hear that she was to marry Lord Poole the next day. Can you believe the coincidence? I could not leave it at that. I could not leave her alone. I snatched her up from outside the church.”
Nancy breathed through her mouth. She had thought it was all over. She had prayed that it was all over—both for him and for herself. Almost seven years had passed. It had begun to seem like ancient history. Yet now Elizabeth was lying unconscious on a bed at Penhallow. Christopher had kidnapped her, snatched her from her own wedding.
“What were you planning to do with her?” she asked.
But he merely shook his head and did not answer. “She is cold,” he said, his voice toneless. “I think she might die.”
It was Nancy’s turn to be unable to find an answer. All she could think of was the unreality of the moment. Christopher was home after almost seven years. She was actually looking at his back and the side of his face. And Elizabeth was there. She hated Elizabeth. She was almost overwhelmed with hatred suddenly. Elizabeth had driven Christopher away in the first place, and now she had spoiled his homecoming. Completely ruined it if she died. Christopher would be a murderer. He was already a kidnapper.
“Where is that confounded doctor?” he asked with sudden viciousness, glancing over his shoulder.
Mrs. Clavell, the housekeeper, entered the room at that moment with a bowl of steaming water and cloths and towels, and a flannel nightgown over her arm. She clucked her tongue at the sight of Elizabeth’s inert form, acknowledged her master’s return home only with the demand that he leave the room or at least step aside while she put the poor lady comfortable, and turned her attention to the bed and its occupant.
He bargained with God for her life during the long hours of the night. Spare her, he prayed silently, his face harsh as he gazed down at her, and I’ll take her back to London as soon as she is able to travel and let her marry Poole without a word of protest and never try to see her again.
Spare her, he prayed later in the night, and I’ll make no effort to uncover the truth of seven years ago. I’ll leave things as they are and let the shame of something I did not do weigh on my shoulders for the rest of my life as it has for seven years. I‘ll forget about my plan to prove to her that she has been wrong about me all this time.
Spare her, he prayed as the night progressed and there was no change in her. Don’t let her die. I’ll stay at Penhallow for the rest of my days. I’ll even go back to America if you will only let her live.
He had sent Mrs. Clavell to bed even though she had offered to sit up through the night and call her master if there were any change. And Nancy had gone to bed long after midnight when she saw that he was not going to do so.
“After all,” she had said, “one of us has to be up and fresh in the morning.”
He had stayed, sometimes sitting beside the bed, sometimes touching her hand, more often on his feet pacing in front of the bed or standing at the window, looking out into darkness.
He had despised and hated her for seven years, despised her meekness and her weakness, her lack of trust, her dependence on her family. Yet all the time, he discovered now, he had not let her go. Hatred and contempt had been no good to him at all. He should have forgotten about her, put her out of his life. He should have forgotten his dream of clearing his name. To whom did it matter any longer except to him? And he knew he was innocent; he did not need to prove it to himself.
Now he had killed her. Or hurt her very badly. The doctor did not seem to feel that the egg of a lump on the side of her head threatened her life, though he himself was not yet convinced. Her other bruises were superficial, but even so they were bruises he had caused. He had ruined her wedding day and the chance for happiness she had chosen for herself, or that her family had chosen for her. She was nothing to him any longer—or should be nothing. What she chose to do with her life should not have concerned him at all.
Let her live, he prayed once more. No bargaining this time. Just the simple silent plea to a God who seemed not to be listening.
When the sky grayed with the first suggestion of dawn, he crossed to the window and stared out over the rock gardens to the wooded valley and the hills rising at the other side of the stream. It seemed strange to be back home. Back home without that sense of homecoming he had anticipated for so long. He had not even noticed the approach to the house the evening before.
There was a groan from the bed behind him and he turned sharply and walked across the room to stand beside the bed, his hands clasped behind him. She lay with her eyes still closed, but her head was moving slightly from side to side.
Let her live, he prayed fiercely and silently.
The bed was comfortable and the room was warm. She could feel the softness of a mattress at her back and the thickness of a feather pillow beneath her head. The warmth was dancing pink beyond her eyelids. There must be a fire burning in the room. She opened her eyes.
Yes. It was a coal fire, the black coals glowing red, the flames dancing cozily beneath the smoke, which was curling up into the chimney. There was a candle burning on the table beside her. And faint light was coming through the window. It must be almost morning.
But she could not for the moment remember where she was. The room was high-ceilinged and square, she could see. The bed hangings were green brocade and shimmered in the light of the candle. The canopy over her head was green too, the brocade pleated and drawn into a sort of rosette at the peak. There was someone standing at the window. She could not see who it was.
She turned her head to look and pain hit her. She heard herself groan and closed her eyes again. Her head felt rather as if someone had pounded it with a hammer. She must have had some injury. It felt far worse than a mere headache. She tested the rest of her body, moving gingerly a limb at a time. Her right knee was hurting as if she had bumped or cut it. Her right elbow felt the same way. Her ribs were sore.
She must have fallen, she thought, and someone had been considerate enough to bring her to bed and undress her. She was wearing a warm flannel nightgown. It was comfortable, but she did not think she usually wore flannel.
She opened her eyes and saw the fire again and the light reflecting off the green canopy of the bed. And then she swiveled her eyes so that she would not have to turn her head too sharply to see the man at the window. But he had moved. He was standing silently at her bedside looking down at her. At least she thought he was looking down. The candle made only shadows of his face and the faint light from the window behind him made it quite invisible.
He was a tall man with broad shoulders and slim waist and hips. His dark hair needed cutting—but perhaps not. Actually it looked good as it was. As did he. He looked extremely attractive, in fact, she thought, even though she could not see his face. But he was standing unnaturally still. He did not move or bend toward her or say anything to her.
She was an intruder. She had inconvenienced him by having the accident outside his house and he had had no choice but to take her in. How embarrassing!
“Where am I?” she asked him.
There was a pause. And then a deep, attractive man’s voice replied. “You are at Penhallow,” he said. “We were not far from here when you had the accident.”
“Accident?” she said.
“You fell out of the carriage,” he said. “You bumped your head on a milestone.”
“That explains the pain,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment. But she opened them and looked at his shadowed face again. “Who are you?”
He looked down at her in silence for so long that she thought he was not going to answer. Then he walked around to the other side of the bed so that she could see his face clearly. It was a harsh hawkish face, rather narrow, with a prominent nose and thin lips
and intense eyes. Blue? She could not see their color clearly. It was a face that looked as if it rarely smiled. It was a face that looked as if it had suffered. A wonderfully attractive face, she thought, full of character, even if it was not strictly speaking handsome.
“Christopher Atwell,” he said. “Earl of Trevelyan.”
Christopher. It was a name that did not seem quite to suit him. It was a cheerful name and he looked like an unhappy man. Or perhaps he was just worried. Worried about her. She had had an accident. She must have been unconscious. Perhaps he had been worried that she would not regain consciousness. Why would he he worried about her?
She felt sudden panic though she lay very still and brought herself under control with deep and even breaths. She licked dry lips.
“Who am I?” she asked him, blurting the unthinkable question, hearing it almost as if the words had come from someone else’s mouth.
The silence was even longer this time as he gazed down at her, his face quite devoid of expression. Except that she could see a pulse beating in his temple.
“Elizabeth,” he said at last. She watched his jaw tensing. “Elizabeth Atwell. Countess of Trevelyan. My wife.”
The abduction of the bride from her own wedding caused a sensation in London. Most of the ton had been present inside the church when Martin Honywood walked down the aisle and talked quietly with the groom before both of them disappeared, presumably to confer with the vicar. A buzzing had started then among the congregation—the bride was already a full fifteen minutes late. The buzzing had become an excited murmuring when Martin himself finally made the announcement.