Autumn Rain

by Anita Mills

  Bell looked to Elinor. "Until London."

  "We are in mourning," Arthur answered for her.

  It was not until the younger man had left, taking his wounded vanity with him, that the old man turned to her. "Two words, my dear?"

  She sighed. "Yes."

  "Perhaps and later?"

  It was the first time she'd smiled since Longford left. She shook her head. "Go and away."

  He caught her hand, lifting it to his lips, a totally uncharacteristic gesture for him. "My dear, your devotion honors me. I must surely be the most fortunate of men."

  She eyed him suspiciously. "Bellamy Townsend is an unprincipled rake—I should be a fool to refine too much on anything he said, don't you think?"

  "Most definitely." He looked outside, then sighed. "It rains again, and you are blue-deviled, aren't you?"

  She started to deny it, then nodded. "Yes."

  "Shall we say a game of piquet? A pound a point, perhaps?"

  It also was not at all like him to put himself out to entertain her, particularly not since he hated cards, preferring the challenge of chess instead. "All right," she decided. Anything was better than sitting around, moping like a mooncalf over Lucien de Clare.

  It was not until he'd dealt the pasteboards that he looked across the small table at her. "You miss him, don't you?"

  There was no question who he meant. Not knowing where he meant to lead her, she considered pretending ignorance. "Yes," she answered finally.

  "It was the common struggle." He discarded.

  "What?"

  "For his life, my dear—for his life. And now that he is nearly recovered, you miss that which has occupied so much of your time and thoughts."

  "I don't—"

  "You must not think I mind it," he went on. "Indeed, but I should not take it amiss if you were to pay him a call when the weather clears."

  "Oh, I don't think—well, it's the country, and—"

  "Precisely. There are not too many tattlers here." He met her eyes. "Your play, my dear."

  It was always difficult to follow him, for one was never quite sure when he meant to close the trap. She tried to keep her voice light. "I am sure there is enough talk as it is, my lord, for he was here nigh to a month. You heard Lord Townsend, after all."

  "An unfortunate guess—nothing more," he reassured her. "Do you good to get out of the house."

  "Do you mean to go?"

  "No. Leg pains me—stupid complaint." He threw down another card. "Take Mary."

  "Actually, I had thought perhaps to go into Tintagel to order some black lace and ribbons."

  "On your birthday? Surely not. Give Mrs. Peake a list and she may obtain what you need when she goes into the village for me."

  She tossed down a card. "One birthday is very much like another, Arthur."

  "Well, perhaps this one will be different. I understand that Mrs. Peake has ordered all your favorite dishes-even an apricot tart with raspberry sauce."

  "You despise apricots, my lord," she reminded him.

  "Ah, but it's not my birth anniversary, is it?"

  She kept waiting for him to say something unpleasant, but he did not. Instead, when he tired of the game, he merely added up the points and paid off, taking a handful of guineas from his purse and pushing them across the table.

  "I'm afraid I am not so good a player as Longford," he murmured.

  It seemed as though every time he spoke with her, he mentioned the earl, until she thought she could not bear it. And every time, she had to appear disinterested, to sound noncommittal. Could he not see what he did? Could he not see she was afraid to even think of Longford? That Lucien's very name made her think of what they'd done?

  "Yes," he said, putting away his purse, "I think it would be quite civil of you to call—and take Mary, of course."

  CHAPTER 27

  The seventeenth was a reasonably warm, pleasant September day. It was also the day she turned twenty. And yet for all that the household prepared to celebrate the occasion, she felt isolated, alone. She sat at her writing desk, trying to compose a letter to Charlotte, but it had been so long since she'd seen her sister, it was like writing to a stranger.

  "Mrs. Peake is wishful of knowing if ye got yer list," Mary reminded her, interrupting her already elusive turn of thought.

  "Tell her I have left it in the silver basket in the hall."

  "It ain't like him to do it, you know," Mary added, shaking her head.

  "Who?"

  "Yer husband."

  Elinor felt a brief irritation. "What is it that he's doing?"

  "Gone with Mrs. Peake—said he favored a visit to the barber."

  "For what? Daggett keeps him in trim. And I cannot think he wished to be bled."

  "Like I said, it don't make sense." Mary moved to the wardrobe door and lifted out a gown. "Said you was to wear this when we go ter visit his lordship."

  Elinor's fingers clenched, snapping the shaft of the quill. "I have not the least intention of calling on Lord Longford," she declared.

  "It don't seem right—man ran tame here fer more'n a fortnight—and now it's as though he's fallen plumb off the earth."

  "I doubt he feels much like being out and about," Elinor muttered.

  "No—s'pose not. Then ye ain't wearing this?"

  "No."

  "Lovely day, ain't it?"

  Elinor felt as though her nerves would shatter into pieces, leaving nothing of her sanity. She rose and went to the window. Below, the flowers still bloomed in the mildest of England's climates. It was sunny, as bright as summer almost, and when she looked across the wide expanse of parkland, she could see the jutting crags that rose above the sea.

  "I think I should like to ride," she decided impulsively.

  "Ye want as I should send down to Ned?" the maid asked.

  "No. I think I'd like to go alone."

  "Well, the air'd do ye good—no doubt about that—but his lordship ain't—"

  "There are no smugglers out in the day."

  "No, but—well, ground's rocky, ye know—ye could lose yer footing, and—"

  "Just get a habit!" Elinor snapped. Contrite on the instant, she passed a hand over her face, apologizing, "Your pardon, Mary—I know not what ails me."

  "Humph! It's the old man, if ye was ter ask me. Twenty and ye ain't—"

  "I don't want to hear it! Do you think I like this life I lead? Well, I do not! But what am I supposed to do about it? Flirt with the likes of Bellamy Townsend? Poison Arthur? I am well and truly caught, Mary—well and truly caught!"

  "Oh, madam—I did not mean—well, he ain't going ter last ferever, ye know."

  "So my father told me—five years ago." Then, realizing what she'd said, Elinor sighed again. "Mary, I don't want him to die precisely. I—"

  "Ye just wish he'd a-wed somebody else, don't ye?" the maid clucked sympathetically. "Aye, but then ye'd not be Lady Kingsley, would ye?"

  One should not admit one's private thoughts to one's servants, but Elinor could not help it. "As if I ever cared for that, Mary—as if I ever cared for that. I should rather have been a—a milliner and had someone to love me!"

  "Aye, I know. Me—I wish we was back in Lunnon. I got me eye on Jem."

  "Jem?"

  "Jeremy. Ye know—the one as was at St. James Market with ye. The day that Longford—"

  "Yes," Elinor muttered, cutting her short. "I remember it."

  "Well, he ain't no older'n me, ye understand, but we like each other well enough." The maid colored, then looked down at her feet. "Oh, ye don't have ter worry about no babes—I told him I was a-wanting to wed first, ye understand." As she spoke, she shook out a black riding habit trimmed with black braid. It was rather austere, but when one was in mourning, there was not a great deal of style. And for all Elinor cared, it could have been a black sack.

  Once she had it on and Mary had fastened the frogs across her chest, she viewed herself in the cheval mirror. She looked more hagged now than when Longford
had been so very ill. Longford. The man was everywhere within her thoughts. She sat, letting the maid brush her hair and twist it into a knot on her crown.

  "Was ye wanting the hat with the turned-up brim?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Well, it becomes ye, I think—frames yer face, ye know, and the veil ties around it right nicely."

  "I told you—it doesn't matter."

  Mary placed the hat over her hair, taking care not to loosen it, then pulled the veil down and tied it at the back of her neck. "Aye—it becomes ye," she decided, satisfied.

  "I look like a woman trying to hide."

  "Nay, ye look real mysterious—like one o' them females in the novels."

  "There are times when I feel like a Gothic heroine," Elinor admitted. "Sometimes I think there is nothing else as can go wrong in my life."

  "Ye riding ter the sea?"

  "No." Elinor took a deep breath, then exhaled fully. "I am going to see Charley."

  For a moment, the maid's face betrayed her alarm. "But he's dead!"

  "The cemetery. Why must you and Longford assume I mean to throw myself off a cliff?"

  "Oh. Well, it don't seem like the place ter go, but—"

  "It is quiet, and no one prattles there."

  She ought not to have said that, she ought not to have said a lot of things, but she was out of reason cross. It was not until Ned, the stable boy, brought her smart little bay mare to her that her mood lightened. Air—she was going to breathe the air. And for a little while, she was going to forget Longford.

  The path to the cemetery was rocky and narrow, cut deeply by centuries of use, and the small stone church stood as it had since there were Plantagenets on the throne. Mignon picked her way down the steep lane, then stopped at the gate.

  Elinor dismounted, tied her horse to the iron grating, then let herself into the churchyard. Despite the sun, the spreading branches of a tree that had been used to hang cavaliers on during Cromwell's war cast shadows over the moss-covered stones. She walked slowly among the graves, taking the long way around to the brown, still-soft earth that covered Charles.

  She stared down, trying to weep, trying to feel, but she was empty. Finally, she dropped to her knees and began to talk to him, speaking at length of things they'd shared, of dreams, of laughter, of a common defense against Arthur's coldness, until the words tumbled out, one over the other, so rapidly that she scarce made sense.

  "I read the journal, Charley—every word. I read it over and over," she said finally. "And I thank you for it." She sucked in her breath, this time trying not to cry, and went on, "Thank you for loving me, Charley. Thank you for standing with me." The tears began to flow, trickling at first, then streaming freely down her cheeks. "I did love you—I did," she whispered, choking. "But not as you asked. You said—you said I didn't have to say it—that I didn't have to promise. You said it was enough if I cared. And I did—Charley, I did! And—and no matter what happens, you are forever in my heart."

  The wind moved the leaves, rattling them softly, making the shadows dance over the spaded earth. "Maybe if you'd held me—maybe if you'd kissed me more—if I'd known sooner—" She stopped. She was doing it again— she was telling him what he'd always wished to hear. "No," she admitted sadly. "You are—you were—my friend, Charley. Always my friend.

  "It's funny, isn't it? I guess there are different ways to love. If you'd come back, I'd have had to tell you, you know. But I know what you felt. I know what you felt, for I feel it now also. I—I think I love Longford, Charley—and I cannot. I cannot!"

  "Here now, missy—it don't do no good talking to the dead." She looked up, startled by a man's voice. "The dead don't answer, 'cause they can't hear." It was one of the men who'd buried Charles. He tamped a lump of earth with a heavy, dirty boot. "Best go on—got another one to dig."

  "Who?"

  "The Barrett boy. Fell off his horse—banged his leg bad."

  "His leg?" she asked incredulously. "I never heard of anyone dying from such a thing."

  He nodded. "Turned bad—poisoned him." He walked closer, and she could smell sweat and smoke on his clothes. It was obvious that he did not recognize her. "Guess you heard about the earl, eh?"

  Her heart nearly stopped. "The earl?"

  "Longford."

  "No—what?" she asked cautiously.

  "Nearly died—guess they didn't get all the bullet."

  "Oh." Relief flooded through her. For a moment, she thought something else might have happened to him. "Yes, I know, but he is recovering."

  "Glad to hear of it."

  He moved on, leaving her alone again at Charles Kingsley's grave. And it was as though she could hear Charley speak, she could hear his enthusiasm when he'd seen Longford at Hookham's. Charley'd idolized him.

  She walked back to where she'd left her horse and mounted it, draping the skirt of her habit over her knee. Leaning forward slightly, she brushed the dirt and dead grass from the black cloth, then she nudged Mignon forward, wishing fervently that some long-distant queen had not brought the darned sidesaddle to England.

  She couldn't say she felt good, but at least she felt better. She'd had the chance to say the goodbye that everyone had denied her.

  The breeze blew through the black veil, drying her tears. That part of her life was over. But not forgotten. Never forgotten.

  She was probably a terrible fool, but when she'd told Charley that she thought she loved Longford, she'd meant it. Even now, she had but to think of him to remember everything about him—the way his black hair lay wetly against his forehead when his fever broke, the beautiful, nearly perfectly chiseled features, the strong, well-defined chin, the size of him. But most of all, she could feel his body against hers, she could remember the way he'd made her feel when he'd kissed her. And she wished fervently that Fate had been kinder, that somehow Longford had not been wed when her father had thrust her into that inn room those years ago.

  She wanted what other women had—she wanted someone to love her in mind and body and spirit. She wanted someone to hold and someone to hold her—and she wanted that man to be Longford.

  She looked up, seeing the road that divided between Langston Park and the village of Bude. And on impulse she took the side she knew she ought not to take. She was frightened, armed only in her fragile pride. It was not until she was within the gates of the Park itself that she wanted to turn back. But she was too late—he was standing on the wide portico with someone—and he'd seen her.

  She raised her hand in salute, then reined in. It was George Maxwell—Leighton—who came to dismount her.

  "Lady Kingsley—what a pleasure."

  But the earl was watching her quizzically, his black eyes betraying nothing beyond curiosity. She wanted to run and had nowhere to go.

  "I—uh—Mignon stepped on a rock—and I—I thought she might be going lame." It sounded stupid even to her own ears, for they'd seen her ride up. She looked to Longford. "I thought perhaps you might send me home in your carriage."

  Leighton smiled, then offered gallantly, "Happy to take you up myself. First time I've had a decent conveyance since Bell came—took himself off this morning, by the by."

  "No." Longford spoke curtly, his eyes still on Elinor. "I'd have somebody look at her horse."

  "Send it home later," Leighton suggested.

  She wiped damp palms on her skirt and shook her head. Her heart was pounding in her throat. "No— if she is all right, I suppose I ought to ride her. I just thought—"

  "Yes, well—happy to, you know. Got to run—promised Wilmington I'd stop in. He couldn't abide Bell, I'm afraid, but I suspect it was more that he thought Lady Wilmington could." As he said it, he winked at Lucien, who did not respond at all.

  Lucien waited until Leighton's carriage was halfway down the drive before he said anything to her. "You might as well come in and have a glass of punch." The familiar, faintly derisive smile that had haunted her for five years played at the corners of his mouth. "If the h
orse is not lame, I'm sure it needs a rest."

  He held the door for her, and she walked past him, every fiber of her body seemingly aware of just how close and yet how far away he was. He stopped long enough to inform a footman to send to the stables for someone to look at "her ladyship's horse, which may be going lame," then he opened another door, this one to a comfortable saloon. He waited only until she was inside, then he closed it carefully.

  As pale as she was, she was still the most beautiful creature of his memory. For a moment, he merely wanted to drink in the sight of her. His eyes met hers soberly. "I'm honored, Lady Kingsley."

  And once again she thought he mocked her. She swallowed hard, trying to stifle the awful fear that threatened to overwhelm her. While he watched her, she reached to untie her veil and remove her hat, letting it drop to the floor.

  "You must wonder why I have come," she began, scarce hearing her own voice for the pounding in her ears.

  "Yes." His expression grew wary. "You cannot accuse me of anything I have not accused myself." He turned to ring for the punch.

  "Please don't." She swallowed hard, her throat aching, and her chest seemed almost too tight for breath. She waited until he swung around to face her, then she dared to meet his eyes. "You see, I—I am here because I need someone to hold me. I—"

  She got no further. He was there in the instant, and his arms closed around her with an eagerness that matched her own, and he buried his face in the knotted hair on her crown. "Nell, Nell—" he whispered, his voice sending a shiver down her spine, "I've scarce thought of anything else." He stood there, holding her closely, savoring the feel of her.

  "I—I don't want you to let me go, Lucien," she choked, clinging to him as though he were life itself.

  He could almost feel her pain, and he knew what it had cost her to come. While he still had resolution, he tore her arms away and pushed her back that he could look at her. "Do you know what you do?" he demanded harshly. "Do you know what you are wanting?"

  She nodded. "More than anything in my life, Luce."