Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  I would learn to love this land. Eventually I would become a part of it, and I would forget that other land with its rolling plains, its rivers with cottonwood trees shading the muddy banks, its mockingbirds and the coyotes I had heard about but had never seen. That land was fresh and new and boisterous and demanded much from those who would dwell there. Jeremy would fit right in, I thought. He had the drive, the vitality, the strength to conquer that land. I could see him riding across a plain in his vaquero suit, the wind in his face, his hair whipping about his head. I wished him well. I wished him all the happiness in the world. I hoped he would find it, just as I had found mine.

  The carriage rocked gently from side to side as we covered mile after mile, the horses moving at a leisurely trot, their hooves making a steady clop-clop on the hard-packed road. The wheels skimmed with a whirring sound, and harness jangled. I could see the back of Ogilvy’s head through the little window behind the driver’s seat. How long had it been since we left London? Two hours? Three? I leaned back against the padded velvet cushion, remembering a much younger woman who stood on an auction block in Carolina, remembering the tall, severely handsome stranger who coolly outbid the blond man in buckskins and took her away in a wagon to a run-down plantation house surrounded by cotton fields. That seemed so long ago. It might have happened to someone else.

  I had loved him from the first, and I had tried so hard to please him, cooking his favorite foods, keeping the house shiny and clean and smelling of lemon and beeswax, polishing his boots, mending his clothes, loving him, wanting him so as I retired alone to my narrow bed each night. Embittered by a disastrous marriage, hating all women, he had denied the feelings I stirred in him until finally, unable to deny them any longer, he had taken me with brutal force, resenting me even as he acknowledged the love that burned fiercely inside him. He had never been comfortable with that love, for he believed it somehow diminished him and made him vulnerable. He had fought against it, had thrust me out of his life not once but twice, selling me to Jeff Rawlins and, much later, abandoning me after he had killed Jeff in a duel. But in the end he had come back, at last accepting the fact that he couldn’t live without me.

  Mile after mile after mile, wheels spinning, hooves clopping, through another village, past verdant green fields behind low, gray stone walls, low hills rising on the horizon, each moment that passed bringing me closer and closer to the man who still believed I was dead. Perhaps I should have sent a letter ahead of me, I thought, but no, no, this way was better. I wanted to be there to stem the shock, to see the joy in his eyes when he realized it was actually true. He would seize me. He would crush me to him. We would never, never be apart again, and I would make him happy … so happy. The green fields gradually vanished, merging into moors that stretched endlessly on either side of the road, grayish-brown grass taking on a pale lavender hue in the sunlight, stretches of peat like elongated black ponds.

  The sun was directly overhead when Ogilvy slowed the horses and pulled over to the side of the road. Ogilvy climbed down from his perch and, a moment later, opened the door for me and helped me alight. My legs were a bit unsteady. Ogilvy smiled and clambered up to fetch the basket secured in front of the pyramid of luggage. The sunlight was warm. A faint breeze blew over the grassy moors, and there was a pungent, earthy smell. I could see part of an old Roman wall crumbling in the distance, the ancient gray stones streaked with rust and covered with patches of dark green moss.

  “We’ll just stop for a short spell.” Ogilvy said, hauling down the basket. “Give the ’orses a bit of a rest.”

  “How much longer will it take?” I asked.

  “Coupla ’ours, once we get goin’ again. Plenty of food ’ere, ma’am, ’ard-boiled eggs, cheese, pork pies.”

  “I’m not very hungry, Ogilvy. You enjoy your lunch.”

  “Sure you won’t join me?”

  I nodded, giving him a polite smile. He shrugged and took the basket over to the low stone wall.

  “Wish that Tibby were ’ere to share it. She’s somethin’, that one, tiny as a kitten an’ just as playful. I plan to call on ’er as soon as I get back to London.”

  Ogilvy cracked an egg and peeled it, and I stretched my legs, walking slowly along the road, enjoying the peaty smell of the moors and the strange, eerie beauty. There were more clouds in the sky now, floating slowly across the blue and casting purple-gray shadows that floated over the moors. Two more hours, I thought. The full realization of it seemed to hit me all at once, and for the first time I acknowledged the apprehension I had been feeling all day long. It had been building slowly, steadily mounting. What if he weren’t there? What if he.… I forced the doubts from my mind, refusing to give shape to them, but a nervous tremor remained.

  We were soon on our way again, Ogilvy stowing the basket away and helping me back into the carriage, the horses moving at a brisker clip now after their short break. The moors gave way after a while, replaced by hilly terrain dotted with trees, and then there were pastures, a patchwork of brown and tan and yellow and green. An hour passed, ten minutes, twenty, an hour and a half and I tried to hold the bewildering confusion of emotions at bay, tried to hold on to some semblance of calm. We reached the village. Ogilvy pulled up in front of the large, sprawling inn. I opened the tiny window and told him someone inside would surely be able to give him directions to Hawkehouse. He climbed down and disappeared through the door.

  I was tense now, so tense I could hardly sit still. Ogilvy came back out a couple of minutes later and climbed back onto the seat, turning to speak to me through the window.

  “It’s outside th’ village, ma’am, three or four miles. We’ll be there in no time.”

  I shut the window and sat back, fingernails digging into my palms as we began to move again. It seemed to take us forever to get out of the village, each minute an eternity. We passed more fields and a wooded area and then turned up a drive that went on and on and on until we finally passed through two thick brownstone portals surmounted by an ornamental black iron archway with a black hawk in the center, amid the curlicues. We were in parkland now, enormous oaks shading the grassy, rather unkempt lawns. A small herd of deer grazed serenely a short distance away, looking up with a singular lack of concern as the carriage passed. Ogilvy had slowed down. We seemed to be crawling.

  The drive curved, parkland giving way to formal gardens, equally unkempt, and I saw the house in the distance, a huge brown Elizabethan mansion with towers on either side, a fake battlement stretched between them, multilevel roofs rising behind, a rusty-green in the sunlight. Dozens of windows caught the afternoon sunlight, reflecting it, and wide, flat steps led down from the massive portico. It was ancient and ugly, but, to my eyes, the loveliest sight I had ever seen. Flowers grew in wild, multicolored profusion in front of the house, and there were terraced gardens on both sides, ancient fountains splashing, trellises laden with shabby vines partially covering the walkways.

  I was in a daze as Ogilvy drove past the beds of flowers and pulled up before the steps. He climbed down, helped me out. I stared up at the aged brown structure, so much larger close up, steeped in history and tradition, undeniably intimidating, I hadn’t the strength to move up the steps. I couldn’t. Now that we had arrived I was paralyzed with terror. The windows seemed to stare down at me like accusing eyes, haughtily assessing me, demanding to know what right I had to be here. Sensing the state I was in, Ogilvy quietly asked if I would like him to fetch someone.

  “No—no. You wait here, Ogilvy. I—we’ll see about the luggage. I’m sure there’ll be someone to help you with it.”

  “Very well, ma’am.”

  My legs were so weak they would hardly carry me up the steps. There was a large black iron knocker in the shape of a hawk’s head in the center of the huge oak door, but before I could reach for it the door opened. A tall, skeletal servant in shabby, royal blue velvet livery and a powdered wig looked at me with watery, inquiring eyes. He was very old, well into his seventies, I ju
dged. His skin was like wrinkled parchment. The wig was slightly askew.

  “Yes?” he demanded.

  “Lord Hawke,” I said. “I’ve come to see Lord Hawke.”

  The servant held the door back and ushered me into an immense hall with faded Oriental rugs on the parquet floor. Heavy chests stood against the walls, and a suit of armor stood sentinel. A huge staircase of polished wood led up to the gallery above. The servant asked my name. I shook my head, much too nervous to speak. He hesitated, looking me up and down, taking in every detail of my person and attire, finally padding away. Minutes passed. I stood there in the hall, wondering if I were going to swoon. Then I heard footsteps and turning, saw Derek coming through a doorway.

  He was tall and slender and handsome as a god with those perfectly chiseled features, that unruly, raven-black hair, those grim, gray eyes. He was wearing high, polished knee boots and snug black breeches and a shirt of fine white lawn opened at the throat, exquisite white lace spilling from the wrists of the full, gathered sleeves. He sauntered toward me with a questioning look in his eyes, not recognizing me at first. The tilt of my hat concealed part of my face. I turned slightly, facing him directly.

  He stopped in his tracks, staring, and the color drained from his face. He shook his head, those dark gray eyes stunned, full of shock.

  “My God,” he said. “Oh my God.”

  He shook his head again, staring at me in stunned amazement, and I waited for him to rush to me and crush me into his arms and cry out with joy. He didn’t. He continued to stare at me, trying to take it in, trying to master those emotions that must have been raging within. A long moment passed before he finally spoke again. He was in control now, but there was a tremor in his voice nevertheless.

  “I—I thought you were dead.”

  “I know. I know, my darling. I thought you were dead, too. For months and months I thought you’d been murdered. I didn’t want to go on living, and then I finally learned that you were alive, that you’d returned to England.”

  Why didn’t he rush to me? Why didn’t he fold me to him and hold me tightly and weep with joy? Why did he stand there so hesitantly, a perturbed look in his eyes? His mouth was a tight line. A deep, disturbed frown cut a furrow between his dark, arched brows. He wasn’t pleased. Something was bothering him, and as I looked at him a strange, icy calm came over me. I knew. Even then I knew, and I felt no reaction whatsoever.

  “I thought you were dead,” he repeated. “I didn’t think you could possibly survive. Roger told me. Before I killed him he told me you’d been sold to pirates and—”

  “And you made no effort to find me,” I said quietly.

  “Marietta, you don’t understand. You—Christ! Christ!” He slammed a fist into his palm.

  “I came as soon as I could,” I said.

  “If only I’d known!” he exclaimed. “If only—”

  She came slowly down the stairs. She was cool and blonde and elegant, every inch the patrician, unquestionably lovely. Her eyes were a clear light blue, her silvery-blonde hair pulled away from her face and worn in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a loose, flowing pink velvet dressing gown with long, full sleeves. The garment was gathered tight beneath her swollen breasts and fell in heavy, sumptuous folds to her feet, designed to conceal the fact that she was extremely pregnant and failing to do so. She paused at the foot of the stairs and looked at us with mild inquiry, waiting for him to introduce me.

  His frown deepened. His mouth grew tighter. For a moment he was completely at a loss, and then he took a deep breath and plunged in.

  “Angela, this is—this is a friend of mine. From America. Marietta Danver. Marietta, my wife.”

  “How do you do,” she said pleasantly.

  “Angela, Miss Danver and I have—business to conduct.”

  She accepted the explanation with remarkable grace.

  “I was just on my way to the music room. Perhaps you’ll both join me there later on. You must ask Miss Danver to stay to tea, Derek.”

  She smiled at me, polite, unsuspecting, charming. She hadn’t overheard us. I was certain of it. Those lovely eyes were completely without guile. She was the perfect wife for him, I thought, born to pour tea from a silver pot, born to be chatelaine of a great house like this one. He was extremely fortunate, I reflected. Lady Angela was ideal. Giving us another smile, she moved on down the hall, heavy pink velvet rustling softly. Derek watched until she was out of sight and then turned back to me.

  “She’s lovely,” I said.

  “Marietta, you must let me explain. I—”

  “You owe me no explanations.”

  “I don’t love her. I never did. I felt I had to marry, felt I had to sire an heir as soon as possible. Angela’s pleasant. She’s very undemanding, very placid, utterly content. She—”

  “I don’t care to hear any more, Derek.”

  “If only you knew how often I’ve—I went through hell, Marietta. When I lost you I went through hell. I didn’t think it was possible to go on. I love you, damnit! I love you still. I’ve never stopped loving you. I can’t let you go!”

  “It seems you have no choice.”

  “We can work something out.” There was an edge of desperation in his voice. “We can—I want you. I want you! There hasn’t been a night since I first saw you standing on that auction block that I haven’t wanted to—”

  He came to me at last. He seized my upper arms, holding them tightly, and I looked into his eyes and saw the misery in them and knew that he did indeed love me. He loved me, yes, in his own selfish way, and he wanted me still. An apartment in London? Discreet visits several times a year? We could work something out, yes, and it would be enough for him.

  “We have to talk,” he said urgently. “Not here. Not now. I—the inn. I will come to the inn tonight, as soon as I can get away. Take a room there, Marietta. Wait for me.”

  I was silent for a moment, and finally I nodded. He released me, filled with relief. He sighed and brushed a hand across his brow. He took my hand and led me to the door and opened it, and we stepped outside. The coach stood in front of the house with the pyramid of luggage strapped on top. Ogilvy was stroking one of the horses, speaking to it in a gentle voice. Hearing the door close, he turned around and stood up straight, waiting for instructions.

  “Go to the inn, Marietta,” Derek told me. “Have your man take your bags in, get you a room, then send him on his way. We’ll use the inn until we can make other arrangements.”

  I didn’t say anything. He squeezed my hand so tightly I winced.

  “I love you, Marietta,” he said. “I love you. I need you.”

  “I know,” I said quietly.

  He led me down the wide, flat steps and opened the door of the coach. Ogilvy gave me a questioning look. I told him to take me back to the inn. He nodded and climbed up onto his seat. Derek looked into my eyes for a long moment, still holding my hand, and finally, rather curtly, handed me into the coach and closed the door. “Tonight,” he said. He moved back to the steps and stood there with hands resting on his thighs, watching as we departed.

  We drove slowly past the wild, unruly flower beds amok with vivid splashes of color, past the formal gardens so carefully laid out over two hundred years ago. The drive gradually curved, and I could see the house again, small from this distance, a child’s dollhouse, brown and ugly. He was still standing on the steps, a tiny figure, details indiscernible, and his wife was beside him, a vague blur of pink and silver-blonde. I wondered idly what he was going to say to her. We turned into the parkland and the house was lost to sight, and as we drove past the unkempt lawns with the lovely oaks and the deer, grazing still, not bothering to look up, I waited for the shattering pain.

  It didn’t come. There was a feeling I couldn’t quite identify, but it wasn’t pain. It wasn’t grief. All these years, I thought, all these years I have loved him with all my heart and soul, and now that love is gone and I don’t even feel the loss. We passed throug
h the portals again and started through the wooded area, and I gazed out the window, frowning as I tried to identify the elusive feeling inside. As the woodland vanished and the sun-splattered fields stretched out on either side under the pale blue sky, I realized it was relief. I felt relief, and slowly, slowly, a marvelous elation began to stir.

  I had loved him, yes, and for years that love had been an obsession, even after I had realized its futility, even after I knew he could never return my love in kind. Doubts and apprehensions had begun to assail me in New Orleans, for I had known then that he never intended to marry me. I had denied the knowledge, clinging to my illusions, and even after I believed him dead I had clung to the ghost of that love … even after it had been supplanted by another love much stronger than anything I had ever felt before, a love so beautiful, so bright, so elating it had filled my heart and made music inside. I had stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. I had almost thrown it away. I had almost.… What a fool I had been. What a fool!

  Tears of joy spilled over my lashes as I saw at last what was in my heart and realized it wasn’t too late. Thank God. Thank God it wasn’t too late. He was waiting for me, for he had known. All along he had known.… The elation stirred, swelling, sweeping through me, filling me with a magical bliss so beautiful I could scarcely endure it. He loved me. He loved me. I loved him, too, with every fiber of my being, and I couldn’t wait to tell him so, couldn’t wait to throw myself into his arms and beg him to forgive me. As the carriage drove into the village and began to slow down I tapped furiously on the window behind Ogilvy’s head and threw it open.