by Mary Balogh
She slipped from the house, not even stopping to ask that a footman fetch her shawl. The night would be warm, she was sure, after such a hot day. She had smelled the roses as soon as she had got down from the carriage earlier. Algie had a rose garden at the east side of the house, a maze of pathways, trellises, and blooms.
She was home, Rachel thought happily, and she could finally put from her the madness of the previous few weeks when she had fancied herself in love with David Gower. It was not a pleasant feeling to be in love. It was so much more comfortable merely to love. To love Algie.
She had no difficulty in finding her way in the darkness. The moon was bright, and though there was no color in the blooms she passed, there was fragrance enough to give them infinite beauty. She breathed in their heavy scent and seated herself on a wrought-iron seat. She lifted her face to the sky and closed her eyes.
Oh, yes, she thought, these were the best of times, these moments when she was in the grip of a powerful and aching yearning, when she was aware of her own insignificance in comparison with the vastness of the universe. It was at such times that her physical being seemed almost a hindrance. She wanted to be out there, part of it all. She wanted to dance, to lift her arms to the sky, to worship the loveliness around her with the motions of her body. But on this particular night she did not give in to the urge. She sat quietly listening to the peace around her.
***
David Gower had just escorted the old vicar to the room he was to occupy for the night. He was to leave the vicarage the next day. All his personal effects were shut away in boxes and trunks. Algernon had persuaded him to stay the night at the Hall. And he was weary, the old man confided to David after he had explained the workings of the parish to his successor for surely the tenth time in the past three days. The party had been delightful; he was touched and honored. But such excitement was not for old men. David had persuaded him to retire quietly, promising to make his good-night greetings to the company gathered in the drawing room.
Yet finding himself alone, David was reluctant to rejoin the company immediately. He would steal some time for himself. After all, no one would know that he and the vicar were not still busy in the library.
And so it happened that the outdoors lured David, and the scent of the roses took him also in the direction of the rose garden. This part of Singleton Hall he would miss. He must see about planting some rosebushes in the garden of the vicarage. He had noticed that there were no flowers there at all. He stopped in order to take a partly open bloom gently between two fingers, cupping it in his palm. How exquisite, he thought, though it looked black against his hand instead of the deep red that he knew it must be.
He found his eyes focusing suddenly beyond the flower on the still form of Lady Rachel, seated on one of the garden benches. His first reaction was to believe that she held herself so still in the hope that he would not see her there. But when he looked more carefully, he could see that her head was thrown back and her eyes closed. She was unaware of his presence. She looked almost as if she were deep in prayer, though a more normal attitude of prayer would be a bowed head. He withdrew his fingers with unconscious care from around the red rose.
David took a step backward. He had no wish to intrude on someone who was so obviously concentrating on something beyond herself. He knew the value of such moments. But even as he began to turn so that he might make his way quietly to another part of the grounds, Lady Rachel opened her eyes and saw him. She was not startled. It seemed almost that he was part of her dream or her prayer or whatever it was that held her so rapt.
"Do you ever feel that you are imprisoned inside yourself?" she asked. "That you wish to get out and cannot?"
He smiled and strolled forward to stand before her. "Yes," he said. "It is the yearning of the soul for the absolute, I believe. Most of the time we are too busy to feel it. And perhaps that is just as well. It can be a frustrating feeling at the same time as it exalts the mind, can it not?"
Rachel gazed up at him with wide, dreamy eyes. "Is it death?" she asked "Is it a death wish I have?"
David clasped his hands behind his back and looked gently down at her. "In a sense, yes," he said. "But you must not begin to think you have a morbid mind. I have seen people die. It has been part of my training. And you know, there is often fear, bitterness, defiance at first. But almost always toward the end I have been awed to watch acceptance and peace, even a kind of radiance come to the dying person, as if he realized at last that it is foolish to cling to the body when he might be free to face the joy of eternity."
"But I do not wish to die!" Rachel said, looking more herself as she gazed up at the man who was standing before her. "I would not be able to see the moon and the stars or to smell the roses if I were dead. And I would not be able to feel and to wish and to wonder. I sometimes believe it is better to wonder than to know. Will not heaven be a rather dull place?"
He laughed softly. "I don't know," he said. "I may be a clergyman, but I have experienced only what is this side of the grave, you know."
"I forgot that," she said. "There is something about you-I do not know what it is. One imagines that you must know everything. I think if I were in great trouble I would come running to you, convinced that you could set everything right."
His smile had faded. "I am glad if I inspire confidence," he said. "It is part of my calling to do so. But you must not set me on a pedestal. I am but a man. No more." Rachel rose to her feet to stand in front of him. "And no less."
"I know," she said softly, and her hand rose quite of its own volition, it seemed, and she touched her fingertips to his cheek. "Yes, I know that."
He raised his own hand and covered hers, holding it against his cheek. "Sometimes I wish I were less so," he said, his eyes looking deeply into hers.
Rachel shook her head. But she said nothing, merely stared back, mesmerized by the night and the near-trance out of which his appearance had drawn her and by his quiet presence now so close to her.
There was no surprise whatsoever in his kiss. She had never been held thus against the full, warm length of a man's body. And she had never been kissed thus, with lips that trembled against hers and moved over them, parting and persuading hers to do likewise. She had never known a kiss in which tongues as well as lips embraced. She had never had a man's hands explore her back and her hips, cup and caress her breasts. And she had never felt a man's heartbeat quicken, his breath grow hot and quick against her face and throat. She had never known more than the brief, passionless meeting of her lips and Algie's in the sheep meadow. But nonetheless she knew no surprise.
She had known this would happen to her one day. Not with her mind. But she had known. This was right. This was the way it must be. It was all inevitable. She had always known that this would be the culmination of it all. And she had known this would be the man. She had sensed it as soon as she had set eyes on him on Bond Street that morning. She had known that they would love each other, that heaven and earth could not prevent this moment.
She surrendered to the inevitability of her love, making no coy endeavor to avoid the intimate meeting of their clothed bodies, obeying without shrinking the eager demands of his hands, his mouth, and his tongue. Her mind, which had been still in a half-trance when she rose to stand before him, awoke fully at his touch. She knew against whose body she pressed her own. She knew who was kissing her and wanting her with a hot physical urgency. And she could feel neither dismay nor guilt nor shame.
She was with the man she loved, the man she had always been meant to love, the man she had recognized at their first encounter. Nothing else mattered at that moment. Nothing else existed.
Rachel found herself gazing up into the shadowed eyes of the man who held her, her head bent back over his arm. She could not see if his eyes registered ardor or dismay. "David," she said, and she knew quite clearly what she said. Her mind deliberately formed the words. "I have always loved you. There is only you."
He did not immediatel
y answer. He did not release her. She was still pressed to his warm length. Her head still rested comfortably against his strong arm. But he had gone away from her. She felt his withdrawal.
"I cannot say I am sorry," he said carefully. "An apology would imply that I feel regret. Perhaps I do feel sorrow for myself, that I have given in to a temptation that I thought in my pride I had under control. I had determined never to touch another woman-or even think of her in this way-until I had asked her to be my wife and she had consented. I have done you a great wrong, my dear, and knowing that, I shall suffer greatly for this night's indulgence."
"I can marry you," Rachel said eagerly. "We love each other, do we not? And once one admits to love, nothing else matters. I will be happy with you. It does not matter that you do not have rank or fortune. Those things are quite unimportant. And I will make you happy, David. You will see."
He was shaking his head. He had loosened his hold on her. He held her now by the hands. Looking at him, Rachel let her voice trail away.
"No," he said. "No, Lady Rachel, we can never marry. We both know that. My life can never be yours. I have done you a great wrong tonight."
"You think I cannot give up my life of luxury?" Rachel cried. "You think that I will miss all the assemblies and all the fashionable dresses? I would live in rags in a mud hut with you, David. I would!"
He was shaking his head still, a look of great gentleness in the eyes that looked down into her earnest face. "No, my dear," he said, "you will never be my wife. And with the rational part of your mind, the part that has not been affected by the magic of the moonlight, you know that it could never be. And so we must never be together like this again. We must never think of each other this way again."
Rachel's face was becoming stormy. "Give me a reason," she said, "Give me one good reason why I may not marry you."
He looked at her in silence and squeezed her hands. "I am not asking you," he said at last.
"Oh!" Rachel recoiled almost as if he had slapped her. "But you wish to, do you not? You wish to marry me? You do love me, David. Admit that you love me."
His hands tightened on hers once more and then released them altogether. "I do not love you, Lady Rachel," he said, clasping his hands behind his back and looking her very deliberately in the eye. "For a few mad moments I wished to possess you, that is all."
"Oh!" Rachel stood very still, trying to make out the expression in his eyes. "I don't believe you," she whispered eventually. "It is not true. Why do you want to hurt me? Because you are hurting so badly yourself? I… Oh."
She gathered the sides of her flimsy gown in her hands and turned from him to stumble and then run along the winding path to the terrace and along to the front doors of the Hall. She left behind her a young man whose hands clasped each other tightly behind his back as if only by clinging together could they hold him from collapse. The pallor of his face was not evident in the moonlight.
***
It was two days later before Lord Rivers paid a call at Oakland. He had been busy the day before seeing Vicar Ferney on his way to his new home and then going with David to the vicarage. He had wanted David to stay with him for a few more days. Indeed, his original offer had been for David to live with him permanently. But for some reason his cousin had been as eager to move into his new home as if he had just inherited a grand mansion.
And Algernon was feeling restless, as he always did for a week or so after his return from town. It was not that he disliked the country. In fact, he was always glad to return to what seemed to him a more normal way of life. But the change of pace was disconcerting after weeks of constant activity.
He had decided to walk over to Oakland to take Rachel out. Though that was not as straightforward a matter as it usually was, he realized. Her guests had not yet arrived, but Miss Barnes was there. Miss Barnes must have a walking partner too. He had thought immediately of David. He was the obvious choice. He knew Miss Barnes, and it had certainly appeared when they were in London that he had a preference for that young lady. She would be a good choice of wife for David. She was a calm, sensible woman. Algernon could imagine her as a vicar's wife, soothing the ruffled spirits of those who came to the vicarage to find David from home.
However, on this occasion it seemed unlikely that his cousin would be willing to come. He would still be too wrapped up in the novelty of his new life. Algernon chose Raymond Holland instead, and the four of them decided to walk across the hills to the Red Fox Inn, where they might refresh themselves with cider or lemonade before returning.
It had seemed like a good plan. Algernon had envisaged a quiet and peaceful afternoon stroll. But it was evident almost as soon as they left the house, Celia Barnes on Holland's arm, Rachel on his, that all was not well. Rachel's manner was bright and brittle, her chatter loud and constant. She pulled at his arm and strode on ahead of the other two so that they were a noticeable distance ahead before the house was even out of sight.
"What is it, Rache?" he asked, patting her hand on his arm during one of the rare moments when he was able to put in a word.
He might as well have taken a fork and burst a bubble. She stopped chattering immediately and seemed to collapse inward on herself.
"I have missed you, Algie," she said in such a tone that he thought she was about to cry. "I did not see you for five whole days. And now I have not seen you since the dinner the night before last. I have missed you."
"I did not call yesterday mainly because I thought you would need to rest after your long journey and the busy evening immediately after it," Algernon said. "I wish I had come now, Rache."
"I feel a little lost when I do not see you frequently," she said. "That is all. I don't think I altogether enjoyed London, Algie. I feel a little frightened."
He patted her hand again and looked closely at her. "What is this?" he said. "Is this the young lady who took the ton by storm, who had every eligible gentleman dangling after her? Is this the young lady who has been the envy of every other female because the Marquess of Stanford has been paying court to her? Is that the trouble, Rache?" His tone had gentled. "Did he not come to the point?"
"Yes, he did," she said, "and I am so bewildered. I know that I should be delighted, you see, but I can't be. If I marry him, I shall have to leave home. And I am not old enough to leave here, Algie. I would not know how to go on."
"You, Rache?" he said kindly. "You will be a success wherever you go, you know. I am confident of that."
"Oh, Algie," she said, turning a face of such unhappiness up to him that he gripped her hand tightly and leaned his head toward her, "I want you to offer for me. I have always thought we had an understanding. We have, have we not? But when I try to think about when we have spoken of it, I cannot remember a time. And then I think it is all in my imagination and you do not mean to offer for me at all. And I think I would die if you do not want me, Algie. I don't feel safe with anyone but you."
Her voice was thin and breathless, quite unlike her usual bright and happy prattle.
Algernon turned quite pale. He continued to grip her hand but said nothing for a moment. "Rache!" he said at last. "Don't upset yourself. Of course I am very fond of you. You know that, you little goose. And of course you are safe with me."
"But that is all?" She looked back at him distraught. "There is no understanding between us? It has all been in my imagination? You are not going to offer for me?"
"I don't think this is the time to talk about such a thing, Rache," he said, patting her hand, trying to soothe her. "You are upset about something and of course you turn to me. As you should. We have always been dear friends. But I think perhaps that is all I am to you, Rache. You are very young, and you have had great success this Season. When you have calmed down, I am sure you will find that you wish to be free to choose a husband far more dazzling than I am."
"No," she said. "No, it is not true, Algie. I love you. You are the very dearest person I know. And I am sure I will only ever be happy with you. I will
make you happy too. You do love me, don't you?"
"Of course I love you," he said. "You have always been my dearest little Rache. You know that."
"Then marry me," she said, her face suddenly bright and eager again. "Marry me, Algie. Let us not wait any longer. I am nineteen and I have made my come-out. Marry me so that I may be with you all the time and be safe. I will make you happy, Algie. I swear it. It will be my life's work to make you happy. And we will have children. I will give you children."
He looked down into her eager face, his own still pale. "Let us wait just a little while before making anything official," he said. "We will keep all this to ourselves until summer is over and all your guests are gone, shall we? We can decide then what is best to do. In the meantime, you have houseguests to entertain, and you may well be glad of your freedom yet."
"And in the autumn we will be betrothed?" Rachel's face was lit up with happiness. "We will, Algie? And you will speak to Papa? Oh, I am so happy. I do love you so." She stopped in her tracks, flung her arms up around his neck, and hugged him so hard that he thought for one moment that she was trying to strangle him.
"Do have a care, Rache," he said, glancing back in some anxiety to be sure that the other couple was not yet in sight. He put his arms around her and hugged her briefly and comfortingly, his pale face hidden against her shoulder for a moment.
"Kiss me, Algie," she said suddenly, taking him by the lapels of his coat and looking at him with bright and urgent eyes. "Hold me and kiss me. Please."
"I say, Rache," he protested, his hands going to her waist. But he put his mouth to hers and kept it there for a few moments before lifting his head and glancing uneasily back the way they had come.
