“I’m sure you’ll go far.”
“I intend to,” he said firmly.
I suspected that the “friend” who had arranged his post was of the feminine gender. Probably the wife of some official, I thought, an older woman with a pouting mouth and worldly eyes who sought a return to youth in the arms of younger men. A woman like that would find Brence Stephens impossible to resist, and I suspected that he would have no qualms about using his male allure to achieve his own ends.
“I suppose you’re engaged to some local squire,” he said.
I shook my head. He lifted an eyebrow in surprise.
“No? I should have thought you’d have been long since spoken for. There must be suitors by the score.”
“There are no suitors, Mr. Stephens.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I’m sure Lady Andover will be able to explain things to you. Once, long ago, she was a—a friend of my aunt’s.”
“Ah,” he said, “so there’s a mystery.”
“There is no mystery,” I replied.
He didn’t pursue the matter, but I could tell that he was intrigued. Undoubtedly, he would ask his cousin about me and, undoubtedly, she would tell him that I was the bastard daughter of an aristocrat and her gypsy lover. Lady Andover knew all about me, and by this evening Brence Stephens would, too. Some of the old resentment returned, but I banished it immediately.
The horse followed a curve in the road. In the distance I could see the towering oak trees and the large graystone house surrounded by shabby gardens wild with a riot of flowers. Directly behind the house the moors began, ground covered with grayish-brown grass faintly touched with green, gradually rising in a series of small hills. The terrain was ancient, windswept, savagely beautiful. Beyond those barren hills there were more moors leading to the grove where the gypsies used to camp.
For a moment, thinking about the camp, I forgot the man beside me. I could see the little girl with pigtails rushing across the moors. I could see the painted caravans, the campfires that blossomed among the trees as twilight fell, and I could see those dark, exotic men and women who were fierce and volatile but so very kind to me, taking me in, making me a part of that intimate, tempestuous family. But that was all in the past. I was grown now. Never again would I be a part of that vibrant world.
“You love this land, don’t you?” Brence Stephens said.
“It’s part of me,” I replied.
“You must teach me to love it. My cousin tells me I must see Land’s End. It’s not far from here, I understand.”
“A mile or so,” I said.
He tugged on the reins, stopping the horse in front of the gate set in the low gray wall that surrounded the property. The gardens were ablaze with color, and the towering oak trees cast long, heavy shadows over the road; the house was only partially visible behind the low hanging limbs. Brence Stephens climbed out of the carriage with indolent grace and reached up to help me alight, his hands encircling my waist. His fingers tightened, lifting me, drawing me toward him. When he set me on my feet, he maintained his hold for several seconds, peering into my eyes. His own dark eyes were inscrutable.
“I’d like to see you again,” he said.
“I—I don’t think that would be wise.”
“No?”
He let go of my waist. I felt relief and disappointment at the same time. He continued to look into my eyes, and again I had a desire to reach up and touch those full, finely carved lips. The premonition I had felt earlier returned, even stronger this time. Every instinct told me that this man was a threat to me, and somehow that made him all the more alluring.
“You’re afraid,” he said. “It’s there in your eyes.”
“You’re imagining things, Mr. Stephens.”
“There’s loneliness, too, and sadness.”
“I must go inside.”
“Don’t be afraid, Mary Ellen.”
His voice was gentle and persuasive, husky, like music. It was beautiful, and he was beautiful, too, aglow with rugged vitality. Disturbing new emotions blossomed inside me, unfolding like petals, and I tried to hold them back. I didn’t want to feel them. I didn’t want to step over that invisible threshold that beckoned. I drew back, wishing he would leave, wishing I had never gone to the village. His eyes held mine, compelling me to accept those things I tried desperately to deny.
“I’ll call on you tomorrow,” he said.
“You mustn’t come here.”
“Then I’ll meet you. Tomorrow afternoon, at two o’clock. I’ll be at Land’s End. You’ll come.”
“No.”
“You’ll come,” he promised.
He left then, climbing into the carriage without another word, without so much as a backward glance. I stood by the gate, watching him drive away. I stood there long after the carriage had disappeared from sight. Something had happened to me, something irrevocable. I thought of my mother and her Ramon, and for the first time I fully understood what had happened to her so many years ago and why she had been willing to sacrifice all for love.
IV
I did not go to Land’s End the next afternoon. I wanted to. With all my heart, I wanted to see Brence Stephens again, but I knew that it would be a mistake, that it could lead to nothing. He probably hadn’t shown up himself, I reasoned. After he talked with his cousin and learned of my background, he had probably shrugged his shoulders and put me out of his mind. I was trying to put him out of mine. It wasn’t easy. I was strangely discontented in a way I had never been before.
I forced Fanny to take her medicine and to stay in bed while I did the necessary housework. I tried to read George Sand’s new novel, but it was all about love and, much as I admired her work, I found the emotional passages much too disturbing. Two days passed, and on the morning of the third day after the encounter on the road, John Chapman came to see me. Fanny showed him into the drawing room and creaked slowly up to my bedroom to announce his presence.
“I’ll be down shortly,” I told her. “Offer him a glass of sherry.”
Fanny nodded, coughed, and left the room. Putting away my book, I removed the blue cotton dress I was wearing, folded it up and set it aside, in no hurry to join my guest. He could wait. It would be good for him. John Chapman wasn’t used to waiting. Wearing only my petticoat, I sat down at the dressing table and began to brush my hair. When I was finished, I lingered in front of the mirror for a moment, examining myself with critical eyes.
I wished that I were beautiful, but that I would never be. Beauty meant delicate features and clear blue eyes and soft blond curls. My hair was the color of a raven’s wing, tumbling to my shoulders in dark waves that gleamed with blue-black highlights. My eyes were a satisfying deep sapphire blue, but my cheekbones were too high, my mouth too full. The girls at the academy had called me “The Spaniard,” teasing me about my rich coloring. They had teased me about my figure, too. It wasn’t proper for a respectable young woman to have such a slender waist, such voluptuous curves.
The dress I slipped into showed off those curves to advantage. It was a pale violet silk printed with tiny dark blue and pink flowers. Aunt Meg had delighted in buying me clothes, and I possessed an extensive wardrobe, with dresses far more sophisticated than those ordinarily worn by girls my age. The violet silk had short puffed sleeves, and the low-cut bodice emphasized my bosom. It was tight at the waist, and the long skirt was very full.
Stepping back from the mirror, I turned this way and that, studying the effect of the dress. I was pleased with what I saw. I might not be a demure English beauty, but I had something that men seemed to find much more intriguing than mere beauty. Brence Stephens had been aware of it immediately, and John Chapman was aware of it, too, acutely aware. This intangible quality was as yet untested, but I sensed that it was a valuable asset, a weapon to be discreetly employed in the struggles ahead.
I had never been concerned about my looks the whole time I was growing up. I had thought only of dan
cing, working for hours on end, consumed by an ambition that left room for nothing else. A change had taken place in me, and with it had come a new wisdom, something I knew must be instinctive with every woman. I didn’t welcome it. I fervently wished I could return to being an innocent schoolgirl, but I had grown up. Aunt Meg’s death had awakened me to the grim realities of life, and the meeting with Brence Stephens had awakened something else, something I had sensed fleetingly in the past but never fully realized until I looked into those dark, knowing brown eyes.
I was a bit nervous as I started downstairs to the drawing room, for I was going to have to handle John Chapman very carefully. He had agreed to give me six weeks before turning me out, and I needed that time. I had to make some kind of plans for the future. I had no idea what I would do, but perhaps I would find some solution during the time allotted me. Until now I had been too grieved by Aunt Meg’s death to give much thought to what was going to happen to me.
Pausing at the foot of the stairs, I braced myself for the meeting with Chapman. I was fully aware of the kind of “arrangement” he wanted to make with me, even though he had yet to express it in words. I had no intention of agreeing to it, of course, but I didn’t want to offend him. Not yet. He could turn me out tomorrow if he chose to, and if I annoyed him, he wouldn’t hesitate to do just that.
John Chapman had come to Cornwall six or seven years before, new-rich, self-educated, an upstart who seemed intent on taking over the whole county. Not only did he own tin mines, but he had been buying property right and left, ruthless in his quest for power. The villagers detested him, but those not actually in debt to him depended on their jobs at the mines in order to survive. The gentry looked down on him, but all felt obligated to give him at least a token acceptance. None dared snub him outright.
He was very rich, and he was powerful, by far the most powerful man in this part of Cornwall. He had drive and determination and a complete lack of scruples. Men like Chapman were taking over England. Wealth was supplanting lineage as the symbol of authority, and blue blood didn’t mean nearly as much as money in the bank. The old order was knuckling under, unable to withstand the force and vigor of the new breed.
Chapman stood up as I entered the drawing room. Setting his empty sherry glass aside, he looked at me with gray-green eyes that took in every detail of my appearance.
“Good morning, Mr. Chapman,” I said. “How kind of you to call.”
“I was passing by, thought I’d stop and see how you’re getting along.”
He still studied me, as though I were a piece of property he considered buying. He was a large, sturdily built man, well over six feet tall, all hard muscle. Forty-two years old, still unmarried, he had red-bronze hair and broad, rugged features. The jaw was strong, the mouth full but hard. Certain women would find him quite attractive, for he had incredible presence, exuding vitality and an aura of brute strength. He was actually rather striking in his polished brown knee boots, snug tan breeches, and dark pinkish-tan corduroy jacket, a strong, ruthless figure who made the room seem much smaller.
“You’re looking lovely.”
“You’re being gallant, Mr. Chapman.”
“I’m being frank. You’re a lovely girl, Mary Ellen.”
I lowered my lashes demurely, a faint blush coloring my cheeks. I was acting the part to perfection.
“I hear you had a little trouble at the village the other day. I understand a couple of the village boys tried to be familiar.”
“It was nothing.”
“You shouldn’t go out without a chaperone, you know.”
“Indeed?”
“A lovely girl like you—it isn’t safe.”
“I can take care of myself, Mr. Chapman.”
“If you want to go out, let me know. I’ll be happy to come by for you in my carriage. You need to get out, get some fresh air. I’d be glad to take you for a drive any time, any time at all.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble, Mr. Chapman.”
“Trouble? It would be a pleasure.”
His lips were slightly parted and his eyes were dark with male hunger. He looked as though he wanted to crush me in his arms, as though it took great effort to restrain himself. It gave me a curious sense of power, but I was apprehensive, too. This was all so new to me, and I felt ill-equipped to play the games I knew I would have to play.
“Have you thought any more about the future?” he inquired.
“I—there hasn’t been much time.”
“Of course not. Your aunt’s death was a great blow.”
“Fanny has had a letter from her sister in Devon. She wants Fanny to come live with her. Fanny said I could go with her. Perhaps I could find some kind of employment in Devon. I could teach dancing, or perhaps I could be a governess.”
“Ridiculous for a girl who looks like you to worry about such things. You have youth, beauty, charm—” He hesitated, a husky catch in his voice. “The future shouldn’t concern you at all.”
“I have no money,” I said.
“That needn’t bother you.”
“In just a few weeks I’ll have no home.”
“That needn’t bother you, either.”
“But—”
“I don’t want you to worry, Mary Ellen.”
Drawing his brows together into a stern line, he moved nearer. He was so very large. I was in his power, he thought, and that pleased him, gave him a feeling of superiority. I took a step backwards, my eyes apprehensive. He liked that. He smiled a satisfied smile, male, masterful, savoring his power over the weak female.
“I think you know what I’m suggesting,” he said.
“I—I think so.”
He took my hand and drew me toward him. Tilting my head back slightly, I looked up into those eyes that were so hungry. I longed to draw back and slam my hand across his face, to slap that smug, arrogant half smile off his mouth, but I didn’t. I lowered my lashes again, the demure maiden I knew instinctively he wanted me to be.
His fingers tightened over mine. “I’m prepared to be very generous, Mary Ellen.”
“It—it’s all so confusing.”
It was the perfect thing to say. Chapman nodded, releasing my hand. He stepped back, tugging at the lapels of his jacket, finally resting his hands at his sides. I moved over to the window and gazed out at the pale blue sky, feeling him behind me, feeling his eyes taking in my profile, the curve of my throat, the line of bare shoulder. I touched the faded brocade drapery, holding it back a little, letting the sunlight caress me. After a moment I turned and looked at him, a resigned look in my eyes.
“I’ll consider what you’ve said, Mr. Chapman.”
“Good.”
“I’ll need time.”
“Of course. I said I’d give you six weeks.”
“You’re very … considerate.”
He smiled. He felt very good now, very sure of himself.
“I won’t press you, Mary Ellen. I realize you’ve had a great blow, losing your aunt, learning the true state of her finances. You must feel as though the bottom’s dropped out of your world.”
I nodded, my lower lip trembling.
“I think you’ll find our … uh … arrangement quite satisfactory, Mary Ellen.”
With that, he smiled again and said he must be off now to his business. I accompanied him to the front door and nodded politely as he stepped outside. Chapman took my hand and lifted it to his lips and kissed my palm for a long, lingering moment, and I tried not to cringe. Releasing my hand, he gave me a final, triumphant smile and strode confidently toward the gate. As I watched him climb into his carriage and drive away, I wondered if all men were as easy to manipulate. Chapman thought he had won, but the victory was mine. I wished I could feel better about it.
V
I had no destination in mind. I simply had to move, to be out, alone with my thoughts. As I walked, the breeze caught and toyed with the skirt of my pale violet silk dress. It wasn’t a sensible garment to w
ear for taking a walk, but I had been too upset to bother changing. The encounter with Chapman had been disturbing even though I had won the time I needed. Afterwards, anger had set in, anger at myself for playing the game, anger at him for assuming he could do with me as he pleased. After the anger came sadness, and for the past hour I had been fighting tears.
Life was so unfair, so very unfair. I had been on the brink of realizing all my dreams when Madame Olga had accepted me as a student. And then everything had vanished with Aunt Meg’s death. Darling Aunt Meg. How she had sacrificed for me. How she had loved me. No, no, I mustn’t allow myself to think of her. I couldn’t, not yet. I had come to terms with my grief, and now I must come to terms with reality. I had to banish every trace of self-pity. That would only hinder me. I was going to do more than survive; I was going to cling stubbornly to my dream of success. Somehow, I would make it materialize for me.
Skirt whipping, hair tousled, I walked across the dusty fields that ran to the edge of the cliffs, thinking about the immediate future and trying to formulate some plan. Fanny wanted me to go to Devon with her, and at the moment that seemed to be the only solution. I certainly couldn’t hope to find any kind of employment here in Cornwall, and any kind of arrangement like that Chapman had in mind was out of the question.
There were many wealthy families in Devon. Perhaps I could indeed become a governess, temporarily, at least until I saved enough money to finance classes with Madame Olga. I would keep up my exercises, my practice, keep my body in shape. Somehow I would get to London, and if it took an extra year or two, I would simply have to wait. But I wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t even acknowledge the possibility of defeat.
I walked across the fields until I reached the edge of the cliffs, and then I followed the line of cliffs, stepping over small rocks. The land began to slope downward, the waves were closer, and I saw Land’s End ahead. I had not consciously planned to come this way, but now it seemed right. When I reached the rocky stretch that jutted out into the water like a giant brown paw, I walked to the farthest point and sat down on one of the boulders.
Dare to Love Page 3
