The Memory of Your Kiss

by Wilma Counts

  It had been his experience that most women waited to find out what he thought, then they agreed with him—or pretended to do so. No, that applied mostly to younger women. Certainly, his mother and her friends did not demur at offering their opinions on anything and everything—nor did they hesitate to admit that they occasionally read a newspaper or a book. So why did they encourage their daughters to be empty-headed flibbertigibbets? Thank God that description did not apply to his friend Miss Sydney Waverly.

  His friend. Yes. She had become that. But he often found himself wanting more. Hold on! he told himself. Stop right there. You have no right to “more” from any woman at this point. The war is likely to go for a long while yet—a year or probably longer. Nor can you violate the “rules” by intruding into Sydney’s personal life.

  Nevertheless, he treasured what he did know of her personal life. He knew that her mother was dead and that, since leaving school, Sydney was in charge of her father’s household. She was fond of her younger brother and sister and talked of them much more often than of herself. Her father, a clergyman in Devonshire, was something of a scholar and had encouraged her in similar pursuits. Had her father actually encouraged those unorthodox ideas about the role of women? Well, never mind. Once she was a wife and mother, that nonsense would fade away.

  For some reason that she had not shared, Sydney seemed worried about her father. And, yes, he thought of her—as Sydney—for they had agreed early on that they would be “Sydney” and “Zachary” in private. Zachary did not feel she was deliberately hiding information from him, but he sensed that the future weighed heavily on her mind and he was determined to honor her wishes in putting off facing it just yet. God knew he felt the same way about his own immediate future.

  So they would go along as they had been. Enjoying this time and this place, tacitly agreeing to concentrate on the here and now.

  Then he kissed her.

  Well, to be honest, they kissed each other.

  It happened just the day before she was scheduled to leave Bath. Zachary had called alone and invited Sydney for a stroll in the small park that formed the center of Queen Square. It was one of those crisp September days when the temperature lets one know winter is knocking at the door, but summer is not yet giving way. There were only a few other people in the park, mostly older people sitting on the benches, feeding birds or dozing in the sun. Sydney and Zachary paused within a grouping of young trees that seemed to be trying to shed the leaves of summer.

  “This is my favorite time of the year,” Sydney said. “Don’t you just love the colors?”

  He smiled, thinking that at the moment the colors he admired most were in her cheeks and eyes, but what he said was, “Right now the trees are putting on quite a show for us, but soon enough they will become ‘bare ruined choirs.’”

  “ ‘Where late the sweet birds sang.’” She finished the line. “I love that sonnet, though it does have a sad, melancholy tone.”

  “Yes. Well, it is about parting.” Recalling the last line, he was sorry he had alluded to this particular Shakespearean sonnet.

  Just as though she had read his mind, the words came tumbling from her lips. “‘To love that well which thou must leave ere long.’ Oh, Zachary—” She turned to him, her eyes suddenly filled with despair.

  And that’s when he kissed her.

  He simply drew her gently into his arms and settled his lips on hers. She’d had time to protest, to withdraw. But she did not do so. No. She had hesitated for the barest moment, and then her lips were responding to his with equal passion. It was the sweetest, most earth-shattering such experience of his entire life. He felt a fierce surge of desire and sought to deepen the kiss, but she pulled away slightly and lifted her hand to caress his cheek.

  “Please, Zachary. We must not—I must not—I am so sorry.”

  “No. No. It was my fault. ‘Had we but world enough and time.’”

  She smiled weakly. “More poetry?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? The poets always seem to have something for every situation.”

  “Even ours.”

  He thrilled at the word ours. It told him, as a thousand others could not, that she shared his longing, the fervent wish for circumstances to be otherwise.

  He still had his arms loosely around her. “Sydney, when this war is over—”

  “No,” she said sharply, then more softly, “no.” She pressed a finger against his lips. “It cannot be—ever.”

  Suddenly, it hit him. This whole three weeks made sense now—this need to live as though tomorrow did not exist. “You are promised to another.” It came out as a statement, not a question.

  She nodded.

  “Do you love him?—I’m sorry. I had no right to ask that.”

  She disentangled herself from his embrace and they continued to stroll along the pathway just as though the whole world had not turned topsy-turvy. He thought she intended to ignore the question.

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I care for him and I intend to make him a good wife. It is the least I can do.”

  “I—see. And I truly am sorry. It seems our timing has been woefully off.”

  “Rather.”

  He was proud of himself for having mustered such a casual tone as he suddenly realized the extent of his sense of loss. Until this moment he had not realized how deeply he cared for her. And he knew full well that, given her character, she would not jilt the man to whom she had given her promise.

  For several minutes, they walked along in sad quietness, not looking at each other. Finally, he said, “I think I will not come to bid you good-bye in the morning.”

  “Perhaps that would be best.”

  He stopped and gripped her elbow to force her to look at him. “Sydney—I—” His voice caught. “I do wish you well.”

  Her eyes were watery. “I know,” she whispered. “And I, you.”

  All the way back to Windham village, Sydney only half listened to the conversations of her aunt and cousins who were accompanying her. Last night, she and Aunt Harriet had shared with Celia and Herbert the news of Sydney’s impending marriage.

  “Married?” Celia squeaked. “You are to be married and—and you have not mentioned it until now?”

  “Must have had her reasons,” Herbert said.

  Sydney explained the circumstances and Lord Paxton’s desire for a simple affair with a customary announcement after the fact.

  “But you did not see fit to tell us?” Celia sounded hurt.

  “Aunt Harriet knew,” Sydney said. “And—and I thought it best to—to limit the number of people—”

  Herbert interrupted. “She knew you’d blab it all over town, Celia. And you know you would have. You never could keep a secret.”

  “I can too,” Celia said with a slight pout, but it was obvious that she recognized the truth of his accusation. “Besides, good news should be shared.”

  Sydney smiled; Herbert rolled his eyes; and Aunt Harriet said, “Never mind, Celia. You know now and you have to contain yourself only for this evening.”

  “Celia, I’d like you to be my bridesmaid,” Sydney said.

  “Really? Me?”

  “Really. You.”

  “Oh, I’d love it. But you must tell us all about him! An earl! Aren’t you the sly one? Faith Holmsley will be positively green with envy.”

  Herbert grinned at Celia. “And that, dear sister, is why you did not know earlier.”

  “Well, neither did you.”

  “But I’m not getting my feathers all ruffled over it.”

  “Nor am I.” Celia made a show of dismissing her brother by deliberately turning to Sydney. “Here I thought you and Lieutenant Quintin—but never mind. I want to know all about this secret romance. You must be so very much in love.”

  Sydney laughed at Celia’s dreamy tone. “Henry and I are both very practical people—it will be a good marriage.”

  She had fervently hoped this would be true as she dealt with the d
ozens of questions and comments her cousin threw at her.

  Now on the journey home, she replayed on her mind’s stage that scene in the park. She was absolutely sure that Zachary cared for her and she hugged that knowledge to herself. He was right: their timing was woefully off. She wished their circumstances were different. She wished she had met him six months earlier. She had wanted to lose herself in that kiss. In fact, she had done so—if only for a moment. But it was a moment she would remember—cherish—for the rest of her life.

  She could not help comparing Zachary’s kiss to Henry’s. She had welcomed Henry’s kiss; it seemed born of genuine regard and affection. But Zachary’s kiss, born of longing and passion, had stirred her very soul.

  Stop it! she told herself. You are not being fair to Henry who is, after all, saving the Waverly family. He deserves better of you. As she had informed Zachary, she had every intention of making Henry a good wife. And she would do so, this interlude in Bath notwithstanding. Thus did she put the last three weeks firmly behind her as she was caught up in plans for the wedding, her removal to Paxton Hall, and helping her father entertain their guests.

  “Will you have to live at the Hall all the time?” Marybeth asked. The little girl had perched on Sydney’s bed as her big sister was packing away some mementos of her own childhood. Eight-year-old Marybeth sounded wistful. Sydney knew that, like most children, her little sister was wary of change in her life.

  “Yes, darling. But I will see you every day. It won’t be like it was when I was away at school and we did not see each other sometimes for weeks.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess it will be all right then.”

  Sydney laughed. “Good. I am so glad to have your approval.”

  “You will leave Brownie with us, won’t you?” Brownie was the family’s cocker spaniel and Marybeth was especially attached to the pet, though the dog had come into the family as one of Sydney’s rescue projects.

  “Yes, Marybeth. Brownie will stay here to protect you and Geoffrey and Papa.”

  Sydney recalled vividly Brownie’s entrance into the vicar’s household. Muddy, shivering, and starving, the bedraggled puppy had appeared at the kitchen door one day. When Sydney allowed it in, Mrs. Travers, the Waverly family’s usually indulgent cook-housekeeper, had objected mightily to having it in the kitchen. Marybeth squealed with delight and Dora, the kitchen maid, squealed in shock when the pup shook itself, showering her with cold rain. Called to the kitchen by the commotion, the vicar had wanted Stanley, the stable hand, to take the animal away.

  “Give the poor brute to one of Paxton’s tenant farmers,” he had ordered.

  However, both Sydney and Marybeth had already succumbed to the appeal of the puppy’s big brown eyes and wagging tail.

  “Oh, Papa, no,” Sydney pleaded.

  “Sydney, you cannot rescue every stray that happens along,” her father told her. “Two cats in the house. Heaven knows how many in the stable. And you do remember how devastated you were when that robin’s wing mended and he flew away.”

  “But Brownie won’t fly away,” she said, observing how Marybeth held the small squirming body close to her. The puppy licked Marybeth’s face and the little girl giggled.

  “Good grief. You’ve already named this mutt?” He threw up his hands and returned to his study. The vicar knew a lost cause when he saw one. “Just see he stays outdoors.”

  “Yes, Papa,” his daughters chorused.

  Fed and cleaned, the puppy responded with unconditional love and soon wriggled his way into all the Waverly hearts. Geoffrey and Marybeth were known to sneak tidbits from the table to him and Brownie not only regularly slept on a rug near the vicar’s bed, but also accompanied the churchman on his daily walks.

  Marybeth’s voice abruptly brought Sydney back to the present. “Did you see my dress?”

  She jumped from the bed and skipped down the hall to her own room. Moments later she returned, clutching a bundle of blue silk. Sydney shook it out and examined it carefully.

  “Papa had Mrs. Beck make it for me while you were gone,” Marybeth said. “Isn’t it pretty?”

  “Indeed it is,” Sydney agreed. “Mrs. Beck did a fine job and you will be the prettiest girl at the wedding and the breakfast afterwards.”

  “Oh, no, Bella—I mean Sydney.” Marybeth’s tone was very serious as she sat on the stool in front of Sydney’s dressing table. “That would not be proper at all. At a wedding, the bride must be the prettiest girl.”

  “I see.” Sydney assumed the same serious tone. “Then you will be the bride’s prettiest sister.”

  Marybeth giggled. “That’s silly. I’m your only sister.”

  Sydney knelt in front of her. “Once I am married, Lady Amy and Lady Anne will be my sisters too. You must think of them as yours as well.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Will they like me for a sister?”

  “I’m sure they will love you just as I do.” Sydney crossed her fingers and silently prayed this would be true.

  Marybeth jumped from the stool and said in her best grown-up tone, “I must go and arrange with Mrs. Travers for tea for Rebecca and me. Would you like to join us?” Rebecca was her favorite doll.

  “I should be delighted,” Sydney said, silently thanking God yet again for this joyful child in her life—even though her birth had cost the life of their mother.

  “We’ll be in the playroom.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Zachary watched from a secluded doorway as Sydney and the Carstairs family settled into a hired traveling coach. He chastised himself as a lovesick schoolboy, but he couldn’t help himself. He had imagined all last night a number of melodramatic scenes in which he dashed in to rescue her from a dastardly devil who could not possibly appreciate her as he did. Common sense quashed that foolishness.

  But he could not stay here in Bath where it seemed every site, every shop, every brick brought to mind something she had said or a certain expression in her face—a raised eyebrow, a dazzling smile. He returned to his quarters, ordered his batman Charlie to pack the few belongings he had there, left notes for Pelham and Harrelson, and he and Charlie set off for London to visit Zachary’s parents. With luck the city would provide sufficient diversion until it was time to report to Devonshire for his cousin’s wedding.

  Devonshire. Sydney was from Devonshire. Might he find her after Henry’s wedding and—and, what? Spirit her away? To where? The Peninsula? Ridiculous. Besides, he did not even know her direction and Devonshire covered a vast amount of territory. The Carstairs servants might know where she was, but in light of what he perceived to be Sydney’s own wishes, he could not ask them. No. Best leave matters as they stood.

  In time this pain, like that in his leg, would surely fade to a little regretted memory.

  In London he visited with his family—his parents and his fifteen-year-old sister Julia. His two brothers were away at school. His other sister, two years older than Zachary, was about to present his parents with their second grandchild. His mother, especially, was preoccupied with this event.

  He loved his family dearly, but he was finding the whole domestic scene somewhat oppressive. He tried to avoid doing so, but he kept imagining Sydney in this or that setting: Sydney at dinner with his family, Sydney riding or walking in the park. In unguarded moments images of Sydney intruded—her face, her laugh, the way she toyed with a lock of hair when thoughtful. Never had he been so obsessed by a woman. Good God! Was he in love with her? On three weeks’ acquaintance? Ridiculous.

  On his third night in town, he went first to White’s, his father’s favorite of the gentlemen’s clubs, then to Brooks’s. In each of them he encountered men he knew—old schoolmates and fellow military officers who greeted him warmly. He played several hands of whist at Brooks’s, but in general found this night on the town less than satisfying. He told himself it was probably just as well that, immediately following Henry’s wedding, he would report directly to Plymouth to b
oard a ship back to the Peninsula.

  Return to the war would shake this out of him.

  He had intended to arrive at Paxton Hall in the early afternoon, but, having run into a rainstorm, he did not arrive until very late in the evening. The journey had not been a pleasant one, largely because of the weather. The coach had been stuck in mud at one point and Zachary and Charlie had to lend their shoulders to help get it unstuck. Apart from that, traveling gave him too much time to think. Even when he managed to doze, images of Sydney haunted him.

  “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Henry said as Zachary divested himself of a many-caped greatcoat and handed it to a footman.

  “I usually manage to keep my word,” Zachary replied, then was immediately contrite about being so testy. It wasn’t Henry’s fault that Sydney was lost to him. “Sorry. It was a hellish journey.”

  “Do come into the library. I have a really fine cognac here.”

  “Contraband, of course?”

  “Of course.”

  Zachary accepted a crystal glass, inhaled the aroma, and sank into a comfortable leather chair. He looked around to admire the Paxton library. A painting on the ceiling depicted idealized scenes of a bucolic countryside. A large painting over the fireplace showed a fox-hunt with a Paxton ancestor in the foreground. And books. Hundreds of books—and Zachary doubted the present earl had read more than a handful of them. He assumed a tone of mocking censure. “You are aware, are you not, that you are supporting the enemy when you encourage the smugglers?”

  “Hah! You know as well as I do that half our intelligence about what the infernal French are up to comes via smuggling operations.”

  Zachary laughed. “Trust an Englishman to turn his self-indulgence into a virtuous act of patriotism.”

  Henry shrugged and changed the subject. “I am sorry you were so late. You missed meeting Bella. She and her family were here for supper, but they left over an hour ago.”

  Zachary raised an eyebrow. “An inspection tour?”