by Mary Balogh
“What do you know of my life, of my past?” he said. She was positively frightened by the quiet control in his voice. “Only someone quite silly and totally lacking in imagination or sense will announce to another that he cannot possibly have suffered because he has not yet reached his thirtieth year and because he is still alive. You know nothing beyond your own life of frivolous pleasure. Nothing!”
Madeline had to increase her pace to keep up with his lengthened stride. The trouble was, she could not even feel anger at his outburst and his judgement of her character. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she had deserved both.
“You are right,” she said. “It was a silly thing to say. But I did not mean quite what I said. I merely meant that life is what you make of it. There is no point in brooding on the past, however bad it might have been. Life is to be lived. And there is still possibly a great deal left for you as well as for me. Is it not wrong to reject the gift of the future?”
“Gift?” he said, turning to look at her. His voice was full of contempt. “And who, pray, is the giver? God? If there were such a being, I would hurl his gift back in his face. You are a romantic.”
“And that is supposed to set me down and make me feel like a worm?” she said, anger finally coming to her rescue again. “I would prefer to be a romantic than a cynic, sir. Who is usually the happier of the two, may I ask? And you are an atheist, I perceive. Then I am truly sorry for you. And I can understand why you feel as you do about life. The man without God is a man without hope.”
He laughed without amusement. “Another quotation from your brother?” he asked. “I wonder if you have ever had an original thought.”
“Now you have gone too far,” she said, stopping short and glaring up at him. “I believe that calls for an apology, sir.”
He stopped too and looked down at her, his eyes cold. “Let me see,” he said. “I make an elegant bow first. Thus? And then I say that if I have offended your feminine sensibilities, I will offer my tongue to be cut from my mouth. Or do you prefer to dispense with the theatrics? I am sorry. I believe I made an insulting remark about your intelligence.”
Madeline frowned. She felt very close to tears, but she was not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she was deeply hurt. “Why do you hate me?” she asked.
He made an impatient gesture and began to walk on. “More theatrics,” he said. “Do you want me on my knees before you?”
“You hate me,” she said. “It is not just dislike. It is not just contempt for someone you think foolish. You hate me.”
“Nonsense!” he said. “We can hate only those who are important to us in some way. In what way could you be important to me? You are the sister of Alex’s betrothed. We have been forced into company together and are likely to be again. Neither of us is particularly happy about that. We do not like each other. I don’t think it is a matter for soul-searching, do you? I suggest that we be civilized and keep our conversation to neutral and essentially meaningless topics.”
“And yet,” she accused indignantly, “when I have tried to do just that, I bear the burden almost entirely alone. You have almost nothing to say on any topic, and you will begin none of your own.”
He stopped again and looked at her, his expression unfathomable. “Take my arm,” he said, offering it to her. “How much farther do we have to walk? Upward of a mile, would you say? I shall tell you about my years at school, shall I? And if I run out of anecdotes on that topic, I will tell you about my two years at university. You may say ‘Really?’ and ‘Is that so?’ and ‘How splendid!’ in the right places, if you wish. Beyond that you may relax your mind. I shall entertain you.”
Madeline glared back at him for a moment before thrusting her arm almost vengefully through his and striding on.
He began to talk.
THE PATH FELT VERY DANGEROUS. THE CLIFF face was warm and hard against Alexandra’s shoulder, the path firm beneath her feet. But the sheer drop to the beach at the edge of the path, the steep slope of the path itself, the wind howling around their feet and whipping at her skirt and hat, the sunlight sparkling on the water far below, the gulls crying from above and swooping down around them: all thrilled her with an intense excitement.
Her heart beat fast. She could never remember such exhilaration. She knew she should not look down—she might get dizzy if she did so. Lord Amberley and her own good sense had told her that before they started. But how could she resist? The edge of the tide stretched for miles, its surface ridged with the ever-moving waves, the ones closest to the beach breaking in a spreading line of foam. And the golden beach swung in a great arc right beneath her feet. She stopped numerous times to drink it all in. There might never be this much happiness again.
She clung obediently to Lord Amberley’s hand during every moment of the descent. But she did not feel threatened by his touch or his nearness. Both added an assurance of safety. Besides, he made no attempt to intrude into her thoughts. He said nothing, moving when she moved, stopping when she stopped, seeming to sense her need for silence. Perhaps he shared it.
He spoke for the first time when they reached the broad ledge more than halfway down. “Madeline and your brother are down on the beach already,” he said. “Do you mind being so far behind?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t want to hurry. I don’t want this ever to end.” She closed her eyes and turned her face to the wind. Then she opened them again and looked at him guiltily. “But you will want to be home as soon as possible. You have work to do.”
“Nothing that will not wait,” he said. “I would far prefer to be here with you, Alex. I feel almost like a boy again, escaping my responsibilities.”
“Escape is so rare,” she said, turning her face to the wind again, “and so very precious. I do not want ever to think of anything beyond this moment. I will not think.”
“An admirable resolution,” he said. “Shall we continue on our thoughtless way? Be careful, Alex. The path is narrower for the rest of the way. Hold firmly to my hand.”
It was unnecessary advice, since she had not relinquished her hold of it since they began the descent. But he grasped hers more tightly as he led the way down, letting it go finally only so that he could jump down onto the sand and reach up to lift her down after.
“What a pity,” she said, setting her hands on his shoulders and allowing him to lift her from the ledge. “I don’t want to set my feet on safety and sanity again.”
“Then we shall not force you to do so, madam,” he said, holding her to the full extent of his arms and swinging her in a circle. “You shall stay up there for the rest of the morning. I shall carry you home.”
Alexandra shrieked and giggled. “Set me down,” she said. “Oh, set me down before my arms break.”
He set her feet down on the sand and she turned from him toward the distant line of the sea. “Oh, how beautiful it is,” she said. “How beautiful. How wonderful it is to be alive and to be here.” She snatched her hat free from her head and held her face up to the sun.
Lord Amberley stood behind her, transfixed. She was a different woman again, the one he had held in his arms and lost his head over the day before. Except that this was no sexual passion he watched. This vibrant, beautiful woman, whose face had just laughed down into his, whose dark eyes had glowed with wonder, was part of the very wildness of nature about her. She was alive! Could this be Alexandra Purnell? He unconsciously held his breath.
“It would be altogether too dull to stroll sedately back to the house, would it not?” he said. “And to do something as mundane as arrive in time for luncheon. Shall we play shameless truant and walk out to the edge of the sea?”
“May we?” She spun around to face him and he released his breath. She was still the same woman, the one whose existence he had not suspected until the day before. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes sparkling. She was smiling.
“We may,” he said. He swept her a bow. “I am lord of the manor, ma’am, and I say we
may. Would you care to take my arm?”
“No,” she said. “I want to run. All the way to the edge of the water. I have never run in my life.” She held up her skirt with one hand and set her face for the water’s edge.
Lord Amberley, laughing, watched her go for a moment before following her. She was not trying to run from him or to race him. She held her face up to the sunlight and set her body against the wind. But she had slowed to a walk by the time he caught up to her, and was holding her side.
“Oh,” she said, gasping for breath, “I am not very fit. Oh!” She stood still, panting and laughing.
“Ma’am,” he said, bowing and laughing back at her, “perhaps now you will conduct yourself like the lady you are and avail yourself of my support.”
“Oh, gladly, sir,” she said, slipping her arm through his and walking forward at a much more sedate pace. “I have always wanted to do that. To run on the moors, my arms spread to the wind. Absurd, is it not? I forget I am no child.”
“There is an eternal child in all of us,” he said, “thank goodness. A time to be silly and absurd and utterly irresponsible.”
They did not talk for a while. But Lord Amberley watched her in wonder. She was gazing about her with a bright, animated face.
“One could imagine oneself all alone in the world here, could one not?” she said when they finally came to a stop no more than three feet from the incoming tide. “But one would not feel lonely. It is much easier to feel lonely in the middle of Almack’s. Here there is a vast and powerful presence. God, I think.”
“Some people find such surroundings frightening,” he said.
“Ah, yes,” she said. “People who have always been surrounded with activity and other people might feel that way. People who have never been alone with themselves. Sometimes I have longed for friends, for a more exciting life. But in many ways I have been blessed. I have learned not to be afraid of silence. Not that there is ever silence in nature. Listen!” They stood very still and listened to the roar of the sea, so immense and elemental that it could be mistaken for silence. “Oh, I have had so little of nature.”
Her arm was still linked through his. He turned so that they could stroll along the sand beside the water. The sparkle and exuberance had gone from her, he saw with some regret, but there was still a barrier gone from her. Her more peaceful mood seemed still to be relaxed. She did not walk beside him with stiff spine and raised chin. Her face was not a disciplined and expressionless mask. One glance down at her showed him that she was still beautiful.
And he found as they strolled along together that the absence of conversation between them was not at all uncomfortable. After a few minutes he was able to relax almost as much as he could during solitary walks in the same place. In some ways even more so. It made for contentment to know that there was someone beside him in tune with his thoughts and feelings. For the first time he began to feel that perhaps a marriage between them would be possible. Perhaps she was even beginning to overcome her distrust of him. Certainly there had been no evidence of it since they had left the house.
He would like to make more of the moment. He would like to stop walking again and just stand and gaze out to sea with her beside him, his arm around her waist, holding her against his side. He would like to put his arms right around her, hold her against him, kiss her even. Not with passion. The passion had gone out of the morning several minutes before. But just from the contentment of the moment. He wanted affection to grow between them. He wanted to be close to her. He wanted a real marriage.
And he knew suddenly and with some amazement that he would not after all have been happy with Eunice. There had been affection between them, yes, and she had been incredibly kind to him. They had shared a stimulating friendship. But he could not have strolled like this with Eunice, silent and contented. And he could never have even dreamed of holding Eunice in his arms out of mere affection. She would have allowed it, as she had allowed him the deepest intimacy of all whenever he had wished for it. But she would have given like a mother to a child, because of his need. She had no emotional need for him. He did not want another mother. He wanted a wife.
Yes, he needed a wife. He had often thought that he could very easily develop into a hermit when Madeline and Dominic finally moved away permanently and when his mother was not in residence. The thought had sometimes seemed attractive. But a solitary life would not satisfy him after all. He wanted to share his life with a woman. And he wanted children. There was too much need in him to give love to make the life of a hermit a possibility.
And soon he was to have a wife. Alex. And he was beginning to think that he wanted her, despite all the strange prickliness of her character. It was not just that he must learn to love her. He thought it very possible that he would grow to love her. And now, today, hope had been born in him that she might after all allow herself to be loved.
He touched her fingers with his and smiled down at her. “All truants have to creep home eventually, alas,” he said, “unless they become runaways. Shall we run away to sea, Alex, and never return? Or shall we go back and think of a plausible excuse for our lateness on the way? We must have missed luncheon by an hour.”
“It would mean three days in our rooms at least with Papa,” she said. “And prayer and fasting and Bible reading the whole time.”
“Would it?” he said. “Will a cold luncheon instead be sufficient penance?”
“Yes,” she said, turning with him to walk up the beach to the head of the valley, her arm no longer linked through his, but their hands clasped together again.
It was possible after all, she thought, and her spirits rose anew. It was possible to be free, to do something merely because one wanted to do it. And not have to face consequences. Freedom despite the chains. It was altogether possible to be happy.
And it was possible to be with Lord Amberley and not resent him. It was possible to walk with him, to have her hand in his, to look occasionally into his blue eyes, to talk with him, to laugh with him. Even to be silent with him, as she was now. It was possible.
She thought that she might even endure his kiss at that particular moment without losing herself and without panicking as she had the day before. Today everything seemed possible. It seemed possible that she could marry him and live comfortably with him. It seemed possible that marriage, even one not of her own choosing, need not be a prison. Marriage would bind her to this man, but within those bonds she could perhaps be free. After all, was not life itself very similar? One was bound to life and could not escape death. But there was freedom and happiness to be achieved within it.
“You must be very weary,” he said when the house was well in sight. “We have walked several miles.”
“Decidedly footsore,” she admitted. “But I suggested the walk, remember? Thank you, Edmund.”
Lord Amberley’s bailiff was waiting for him at the foot of the steps leading to the main doors. Both Madeline and Lady Amberley were with him.
“Edmund,” Madeline called, hurrying toward him and Alexandra, “whatever has kept you for so long? Mr. Spiller was going to ride for you, but I have been assuring him for almost the last hour that you were not far behind Mr. Purnell and me and could not be longer than a few minutes.”
Lord Amberley looked inquiringly at his bailiff. “Miss Purnell and I have been playing truant and strolling by the water,” he said. “What on earth can be so important that it cannot wait?”
“It is Joel Peterson, your lordship,” the bailiff said. He was dressed for riding. He was twisting his hat in his hand.
“What about Joel?” the earl asked with a frown.
“Oh, Edmund,” Lady Amberley said, “the poor man has upset a cart and could not get out of the way of it as it fell. He has been carried home, but it is feared that he is badly hurt.”
“I was on my way there,” Mr. Spiller said. “But I thought you would want to come with me, your lordship.”
Alexandra withdrew her hand from Lord Amber
ley’s as he stepped forward.
“Yes, indeed,” he said. “He is badly hurt, you think? How on earth did he come to upset a cart? When did you hear of this, Spiller?”
“Close to two hours ago, my lord,” the bailiff said. “Seth Harrison rode over as soon as it happened.”
“And I had to be from home!” Lord Amberley said. “Well, Spiller, let us waste no more time. You have had my horse saddled?”
“He is all ready in the stable yard, my lord,” the bailiff said.
Lord Amberley began to stride in the direction of the stables.
“Edmund?” Alexandra called, her hand outstretched to him.
He stopped and turned back. “Mama,” he said, “Alex has had no luncheon. Will you see to it?”
“PAPA WILL BE MOST vexed if he ever finds out how you have been behaving, Alexandra,” Lady Beckworth complained. “I wish he had not declined the invitation to accompany us here. I feel altogether unable to cope with you. You are so headstrong that only your father seems able to tame you. James is no good at all.”
Alexandra sat on a stool in her mother’s dressing room, where she had been summoned after her late luncheon. She had not wanted to eat, but Lady Amberley had taken her arm and insisted.
“I know just what an appetite good sea air can arouse,” she had said. “And as for being late, my dear Alexandra, think nothing of it. I had three children who were invariably late for meals despite the existence of a nurse who had a ferocious bark but no bite at all. All three of them quickly had her wrapped around their little fingers, especially Dominic. I am only too glad to see Edmund take the time to show you around.”
“But that poor man,” Alexandra had said. “Who is he?”
Joel Peterson was one of Lord Amberley’s field laborers, she discovered. He lived in the village with his wife and two half-grown boys.
