The Gilded Web

by Mary Balogh

  She turned and smiled brightly at him. “I cannot resist crossing the stones,” she said. “We used to do it frequently as children. But it was far more dangerous because the two middle stones used to be very unsteady. And of course, being children, we used to dream up all sorts of games to make the crossing even more dangerous. Like having to walk backward or having to hop on one foot. We even did it blindfold once, but we got into dreadful trouble then because Dom fell in, and I jumped in after so that he would not have to face the punishment alone.”

  “And what was the punishment?” he asked. “A thrashing?”

  “No,” she said. “That was why I jumped in. Dom would doubtless have been beaten, but Papa would never beat me because I was a girl. I thought he would not be able to thrash Dom and not me if we were guilty of the same offense. I was right. We were sent to the kitchen to wash our clothes and a whole pile of other clothes besides. What a horrid task it was. It took us hours of scrubbing and rubbing and stirring and pegging out. And then we had to iron everything afterward.”

  “And were you cured of crossing the river blindfold?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “The next time we did it, it was with our ankles tied together, I believe.” She laughed.

  “I shall come across with you,” he said, and set out across the stones without further ado.

  Madeline’s heart sank. She had been hoping that he would decide to go back up the hill to join the others. She followed him across the stepping-stones, placing her hand in his when he stopped to assist her over the largest gap. And whose decision was it to turn when they reached the other side and begin to stroll along the bank in the opposite direction from that taken by Anna and the boys? she wondered a few minutes later. Neither had suggested it, but that was where they were strolling nonetheless.

  “Do you feel the necessity for us to make noise again today?” he asked. “I do hope not. I believe I ran out of both school and university stories a few mornings ago.”

  “No,” she said, “I would not wish you to exert yourself, sir. I am quite happy to commune with nature for a few minutes, if you are.”

  But how could one commune with nature, she thought, when one was feeling thoroughly irritated with one’s companion? How could one appreciate the varying shades of green around one and the sound of the breeze in the branches of the trees and of the water rushing by? She might as well be blind and deaf.

  “This is ridiculous!” she blurted after a few minutes.

  He turned an inquiring look on her, his eyebrows raised, that one lock of hair down across his forehead again. “What is ridiculous?” he asked.

  “You walking along in silence; me walking along in silence,” she said. “Sometimes silence can be deafening. I cannot hear anything else around me.”

  “Your life has been filled with trivial noises,” he said. “Prattle. Gossip. Talk of fashions and other trivialities. Anything to fill the silence. It is no wonder that silence is loud to you. It is something quite alien to your experience.”

  “Oh!” Madeline stopped walking and turned to face him. “How obnoxious you are. You must always cast me in the role of silly, giddy female. A few days ago you were very angry with me, demanding to know what I knew of your life, and said that only someone very silly would presume to know what had happened during thirty years of another’s life. But you are doing exactly the same thing. You assume you know everything there is to know about me, and you have concluded that that really is not a great deal.”

  “Am I not right?” he asked, infuriating her further by his failure to show suitable contrition. “Is not life for you the pursuit of one amusement after another?”

  “No, it is not,” she said. “But of course you will not believe me. I am a woman beneath your contempt, obviously.”

  “What else is there?” he asked. “Who is Lady Madeline Raine? What is important to you in life?”

  “My family is important to me,” she said. “Dominic. Edmund. Mama. Amberley Court.” She turned to walk on.

  “You are more than twenty years of age, are you not?” he said. “Have you found nothing to replace this home in your affections? It is not yours really, you know. It is your brother’s. Have you not been altogether too busy enjoying yourself and adding to the list of your male conquests to do anything as dull as getting married and having children?”

  “You are older than I am,” she said indignantly. “And you are unmarried. Is it different for women? Can women prove their worth only by marrying and giving birth? I want to marry, and I want to have children, but I do not want to do either merely for the sake of respectability. I want to marry for love. I want my children to be born out of love. You see? You are wrong. If I were as silly as you think, the only thing on my mind would be matrimony. Almost all the girls with whom I made my come-out were married long ago.”

  “Love!” he said, his voice a sneer. “You are always the romantic, are you not? People do not marry for love. They marry to suit their personal interests. And women do not bear children from love. They bear them because some man lusted after them.”

  “How horrid you are,” she said. “How very horrid. I would pity the woman you l-lusted after, as you put it. How ugly it would seem to have your child.”

  It was only as the words were already beyond recall that she realized how very shockingly unladylike they were. How could she possibly have even thought such things? But she was not given a chance to burn with shame and embarrassment, as she undoubtedly would have done. James Purnell caught her arm in a painful viselike grip and jerked her closer to him.

  “You know nothing!” he said. “You know nothing of what it would be like…” The pressure on her arm increased even further, and he shook his head in frustration.

  Madeline was very frightened. His dark eyes burned into hers. His face was harsh with fury. She thought he was going to do her violence. She set her hands defensively against his coat.

  She had always enjoyed being kissed. There was a deliciously naughty feeling about allowing a man’s lips against hers, and an exhilarating challenge about knowing just when she must push him away and smile apologetically at him.

  But there was nothing enjoyable about James Purnell’s kiss. His mouth came down bruisingly on hers, cutting the soft flesh behind her lips against her teeth. His hands held her arms like vises, forcing her against him so that she was aware of every hard contour of his body from her shoulders to her knees. She felt as if she were being ravished. And the embrace—if it could be called that—was quite beyond her control, quite beyond her power to end.

  When he finally lifted his head, he did not immediately release his hold on her or put her from him.

  “You are playing with fire, my lady,” he said very quietly. “It would be better far for you to keep to games that you can win. Flirt with the captain. He seems to be the perfect gentleman. I am not. Stay away from me if you know what is good for you.”

  He took his hands from her arms, and she pushed away from him. She said nothing. She was too bewildered, too frightened still. She turned and brushed at her skirt with unsteady hands.

  “I am sorry,” he said curtly from behind her. “You have done nothing to deserve such treatment. No woman should be subject to violence. I am sorry.”

  She turned without a word and began to walk back the way they had come. She had to make an effort not to stumble. Her legs felt decidedly unsteady. He walked beside her, a little distance away. They were silent.

  I AM JUST A SILLY GOOSE, I KNOW,” SUSAN SAID, peeping up at Lord Eden from beneath her lashes. “Everyone must become very impatient with me. I spoil everyone’s enjoyment.”

  “Just because you would not cross the river?” he said. “Nonsense, Susan. From my experience, the grass is just as green and the trees just the same height on this side as they are on the other. It really is of no consequence at all that we are strolling on this bank instead of that.”

  “But not just crossing the river,” she said. “Ther
e was my fear of the cliffs a few days ago. And yesterday Lieutenant Jennings was obliging enough to invite me to ride. Howard came too and we called on Nancy Morton to come with us. But I was afraid to move at a faster pace than a canter when everyone else wanted to enjoy a gallop. Everyone said that it did not signify, especially the lieutenant, but I know that I was a burden on them.”

  “I’ll bet you weren’t, though, Susan,” he said gently. “Oh, to your brother, perhaps. Brothers are dreadfully impatient and unsympathetic creatures, are they not? But not to anyone else. I do not find your fears in any way burdensome.”

  “Do you not?” she asked wistfully. “You are excessively kind. You were always kind to me even when I was a nuisance of a little girl. Do you remember rescuing me from the tree?”

  “Indeed I do,” he said. “One of your brothers—Harold, was it?—was telling you that since you had got up there on your own, you could jolly well get down on your own too.”

  “But I would still be up there if you had not come and helped me down,” she said.

  “What were you doing on that branch, anyway?” he asked. “You had gone up after one of the kittens, had you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You were my hero for a long time after that, my lord.”

  “What?” he said. “Past tense, Susan? You mean I am no longer your hero?” He grinned at her.

  “Oh,” she said, and blushed. “It would not be fitting now, my lord.”

  “Indeed?” he said. “What a shame. I think I rather fancy being a hero.”

  “Of course,” she said, “I still admire you greatly. You are kind, my lord. You are not impatient with weakness.”

  “You refer to yourself again?” he said. “But you are not weak, Susan. You merely have an excess of imagination and sensibility. There is nothing wrong with that. On the contrary. Who wants a woman who is always brave and independent and never needs a man’s help at all?”

  “Oh,” she said, “I am not at all like that, am I?”

  He looked down at her, at her wide-eyed, rather anxious look, her mouth a little rosebud as it formed another “Oh.” Yes, she was just exactly the sort of female that most appealed to him—small and sweet and helpless. Quite adorable, in fact. He would like to wrap her in his arms and protect her from all of life’s ills for ever after.

  He was unaware that they had stopped walking until he found himself gazing into her wide hazel eyes and glancing down at her mouth. It drew him like a magnet. One taste. Oh, just one taste.

  He straightened up and smiled regretfully down at her. “Susan,” he said. “Dear little Susan. We must not, you know. It would not be fair to you.”

  “Must not what?” she asked, her eyes wide with innocence.

  “Was I the only one having wicked thoughts?” he asked with a shaky smile. “I would like nothing more in this world than to kiss you, Susan. But it really would not be fair to you if I did so.”

  Her eyes were swimming in tears suddenly. “I do not know what I have done to make you think I am of such easy virtue,” she said. “I have given you no cause, my lord.”

  “Susan!” he said, taking her hand between both of his and patting it. “I thought no such thing. But you look so very fetching this afternoon, and these surroundings are so lovely and so peaceful. I confess I almost lost my head and kissed you. But only as a sign of my regard, you see. If it was wrong of me to feel that way, the fault is all mine, believe me. You have been the perfect lady, Susan.”

  Her tears spilled over. “I try,” she said. “I know that Papa is only a farmer and a tenant of his lordship. I know I am no grand lady. I know I may not aspire to winning your admiration, my lord, or that of any other grand gentleman. But I try to be genteel. And I have never allowed a gentleman to kiss me. I am sure I would faint quite away if anyone tried.”

  He patted her hand once more and reached in his pocket for a handkerchief. “What a monster you must think me,” he said. “Dry your eyes, Susan, and say you forgive me. Will you? I did not mean to frighten you or give you a disgust of me. Truly I didn’t. Forgive me?”

  She patted her eyes dry and returned the handkerchief into his outstretched hand. “Of course I forgive you, my lord,” she said. “Though there is really nothing to forgive, I am sure. I am just being a silly goose.”

  “Come,” he said, offering his arm again. “It is time I returned you to your mama, Susan. Besides, I think it must be close to teatime, and I for one am hungry. Are you feeling better now?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said. “You are very kind, my lord.”

  Lord Eden, remorseful over his own clumsiness and insensitivity, was quite in love as he slowed his pace to help his companion up the steep slope of the hill.

  ALEXANDRA STROLLED ALONG THE top of the hill beside Lord Amberley. He did not offer her his arm.

  “Dominic was showing you the abbey ruins?” he asked. “Is it not a tragedy that so little remains?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It must have been beautiful. These are such peaceful surroundings for a religious house.”

  They strolled on, gazing down the tree-studded slope of the hill.

  “He wants to join the army in Spain,” she said. “Lord Eden, that is.”

  “Ah,” he said, “he has told you that, has he? I believe he is really serious about the matter. Mama has been hoping it was a boyish whim. But Dominic has passed somewhat beyond boyhood.”

  “He should go,” she said. “He told me earlier that he will be forever sorry if the war ends and he has not been a part of it. I think he would, too. He would always feel that his life was unfulfilled. A person’s life is too precious to be controlled by others, is it not?”

  “You think I try to control Dominic?” he asked. “It is not so, I assure you. I have always told him that he must decide for himself what he wants of life and then do it. He is quite free to join the army anytime he wants.”

  “There are more ways of controlling another than just giving commands, though,” she said. “That is Papa’s way. Then there is the way that puts constraints on another that are quite invisible and that neither party may be even aware of. Do you know what I mean?”

  He looked at her, frowning. “I am afraid not,” he said.

  “Lord Eden says that your mother would allow him to go if she knew that he really wished it, and he has said what you have just said to me. That is, that you have given him the freedom to decide for himself. Indeed, he tells me that he does not even need your permission to buy a commission. But don’t you see that you are binding him hand and foot with love?”

  “Binding him?” he said. “With love? Is that not rather a contradiction in terms?”

  “No,” she said. “I do not know quite how to explain myself. If you and your mother—and Madeline—ranted and raved at Lord Eden and forbade him to go, he would have something to fight against. He would be able to decide either to obey or to rebel. But as it is, he has the obligation of knowing himself loved, of knowing that he has the power to hurt people he loves in return. And he knows that he will cause suffering if he decides a certain way. You are not setting him free simply by saying that he may decide for himself. He is not free at all.”

  He had stopped walking. He stood gazing out across the valley. “Then there is no such thing as freedom,” he said. “Or no such thing as love. If what you say is true, then the two things cannot exist side by side.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, standing beside him. “I have not thought this all out. I am thinking as I speak. You can set Lord Eden free. You can tell him that he must go, that your feelings and your mother’s feelings are secondary to the great pride you will feel for him if he fights for his country. You can hide your terror that he will die. If you do this, you will do so because you love him. You see? Freedom and love side by side.”

  Lord Amberley turned to her and smiled. “It is a daunting thought,” he said, “that love can sometimes be a destructive force. I am not sure I believe it. I will have to think over what
you have said and see if I can find a flaw in it. Are you fond of Dominic?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He is eager and youthful.”

  “And yet,” he said, “he did you a great wrong.”

  She smiled and turned to walk on.

  “But you do not see it that way, do you?” he said, walking beside her again. “You see me as the author of your troubles, do you not? I am the one who trapped you into all this.” He gestured around him with one arm. “It is the same thing that we have been talking about, is it not? I have put chains on you.”

  “You meant well,” she said. “I know that. And you yourself had to make a great sacrifice in order to do what you thought must be done to help me.”

  “But you resent the fact that I did so,” he said.

  “I had refused your help,” she said. “You had done what honor demanded, as Lord Eden did. I refused your offer, and I also told you, if you remember, that I would not need your return if the situation got nasty. Your obligation was quite at an end there.”

  “But, Alex…” He caught at her arm and brought her to a stop. He turned her to face him. “You were suffering. And you would have suffered much more. Both during that evening and in the days to come. And I believe your father would have made you suffer. You would have continued to do so for the rest of your life. How could I stand by and see that happen?”

  “It was not your problem; it was mine,” she said. “I have been made into a thing again, as I have been all my life, a commodity—and rather a nuisance of a commodity—to be passed from hand to hand. I don’t want to be owned. I don’t want to be a thing. I want to be me. To make a life for myself, I would hope. To suffer if necessary. But I want it to be my life and my suffering. My choice.”

  His face had turned rather pale, she noticed. The customary smile had totally disappeared from his eyes. “I have never wanted to own you, Alex,” he said. “I have told you from the start that you are free to be yourself here.”

  “Yes,” she said, “but I must marry you. You would never dream of setting me quite free, would you? You are too gallant to risk allowing me to suffer scandal and ostracism and punishment at my father’s hands. How very free you leave me, Edmund.”