by Mary Balogh
She stood still for more than fifteen minutes before setting up her easel and starting to paint. She worked slowly, even hesitantly, at first, not sure what the paper and the paint and the brush in her hand had to show her today. But soon enough she was absorbed in what she was doing. All else receded.
She was free. She had found a way to pour out all the wordless, unformed passions that were inside her.
5
ASHLEY had slept for maybe a couple of hours, and woke up disoriented, believing he was still in India. He was surprised he had slept at all. He had still been filled to the brim with nervous energy when he went to bed.
He marveled at the coolness of the morning. The blessed coolness. Through the window that he had opened before lying down he could hear birds singing. And somewhere far in the distance, probably in the stables or the carriage house, the faint ringing of a hammer on metal.
He was in England. He was home. He drew in a deep breath of cool English air through his nostrils and let it out slowly through his mouth. Then he threw back the bedclothes and jumped to his feet. He shivered as he crossed the room to the window. He had always slept naked, but perhaps it was not such a good idea now that he was back in a cooler climate.
He was in his old room, one of the few bedchambers that looked out on the front of the house. The terraces of the formal gardens were still bright with spring flowers. Beyond them the long lawns stretched to the stone bridge and the trees in the distance. The trees were bright with their spring foliage.
He was here, where he had longed to be. The thought of Bowden had sustained him through the long, tedious voyage. If he could but get here, he had thought. Irrationally, he had expected to find peace here. He had expected to be able to put everything behind him. Including himself. Or perhaps not. In reality he had known very well that there was no peace to be found—anywhere.
He should get dressed, he thought, and go riding. Luke must have some decent mounts in the stables. A good gallop would blow cobwebs away, if nothing else. Suddenly he craved the recklessness of speed, the feel of a good horse between his thighs. It was early. He was unlikely to encounter anyone else, especially today of all days, after the ball. It had been well into the morning hours before any of them had gone to bed.
He turned to stride into his dressing room, but he did not ring for his valet. Poor Bevins had been up as late as he despite the fact that he had been instructed not to wait up.
An hour later he had completed his ride. He had taken out a powerful and skittish stallion, which his grace allowed no one but himself to ride, the most senior groom on duty had explained pointedly. On the grounds that it was dangerous? Ashley had asked.
“Aye, m’lord,” the man had confirmed.
Ashley had laughed and led the horse from its stall into the stableyard in order to saddle it up himself. And so had begun a grand battle of wills that had lasted the whole of the hour. But he and the stallion understood each other very well by the end of the hour, he thought, patting it on the rump before turning it over to a groom’s care and leaving the stables.
He wondered if anyone else was up yet. He stood still, looking toward the house, tapping his riding crop absently against one boot. He was reluctant to return. Reluctant to face anyone. There was something that had to be told this morning.
He drew a deep, slow breath.
And then he remembered something—somewhere. A place that had been gone from his memory until this very moment. Completely, almost as if he had deliberately blotted it out. Strange, really, considering the fact that it had been his favorite part of Bowden, the place where he had spent so many solitary hours. The place where he had always been most likely to find peace. Especially during that last year . . .
The falls. He turned his head toward the trees to his left, and his whip tapped harder and faster. He was strangely reluctant to go there. Although he had forgotten it with his conscious mind, he knew now that in some way it had been the focus of all his longings during his journey home. All his hopes for peace and forgetfulness and oblivion were centered on the falls. An absurd thought. An absurd hope.
It was a hope impossible to be realized. But for as long as he did not go there . . .
His jaw set grimly.
He was going to be even more disappointed than he had braced himself to be, he thought a few minutes later as he made his way through the trees and realized that someone was there before him. He could hear a voice. Luke’s? But by the time he had stopped to listen, the man had ceased talking. Perhaps it had been merely a gardener passing by and talking to his dog. But he picked his way more carefully. He had no wish to be seen, to be engaged in social conversation before he had properly braced himself. Even with Luke. Especially with Luke.
He saw Powell first. He was immaculate for so early in the morning, in dark blue frock coat and knee breeches, with embroidered cream cotton waistcoat. His wig was carefully styled and powdered—it was not last night’s powder, at a guess.
He was standing silently in front of an easel, his hands clasped at his back. He was frowning. The easel was turned away from Ashley, so he could not see what was displayed there.
Ashley drew back behind a tree. He had no wish to encounter the man he had treated rather badly last night. Emmy’s betrothed. Though now that he came to think about it, no announcement of a betrothal had been made, even though Luke had predicted it.
And then he saw her. She was standing some distance away, on top of the pile of rocks that ascended the bank beside the falls. On the flat one that jutted out over the water. She was looking across the water, very still. A gust of wind had flattened her dress against her and sent it billowing out behind. Her hair was blowing out behind her too.
God, he thought. Lord God, Emmy. The dress was a loose sack dress. Very loose. Shapeless. It looked as if it might once have been a rich blue in color, but now it was a nondescript gray-blue. It must have shrunk from repeated launderings; it ended at least two inches above her ankles. Her feet were bare. Her blond hair, unconfined and unpowdered, fell in wild and unruly curls to below her waist.
God, he thought, memory stabbing at him. His little fawn. Except that she was no longer a child. Yet she did not seem quite a woman. She was more sprite than either child or woman. More a graceful and beautiful creature of the wild.
How many times had he seen Emmy standing or sitting on that rock? And yet he had forgotten every single one of them. Just as he had forgotten the falls. Just as he had forgotten her. Yet he could not have forgotten what had been so important in his life. Why had he suppressed the memories?
It was a lovers’ tryst, he thought. He felt a moment’s resentment over the fact that his first visit to the falls had been spoiled thus. But perhaps it was as well. This was a mere place, after all. There was no magic here. And they had the right, the two of them, to meet where they would. They were to be married. And Emmy was of age. Seven years had passed since those days of his memory. Yes, of course she was of age. She had been fifteen when he left, had she not?
A child then. A woman now.
But instead of turning immediately away, as he knew he ought to have, he watched as Powell removed a handkerchief from a pocket, touched it to his brow, and turned to stride the few steps to the bottom of the pile of rocks.
“Lady Emily?” Lord Powell called.
She could not hear him, of course, but she must have seen him with her peripheral vision and realized that he was speaking. She did not turn her head to see what he said.
There was silence for a few moments. Ashley turned away. He had no wish to eavesdrop on lovers’ words. He had even less desire to watch a lovers’ embrace.
“Lady Emily,” Lord Powell said again, loudly and distinctly, as if he thought she was only partially deaf. “I shall return to the house now. I shall see you at breakfast? I shall— Perhaps we may talk further?”
Despite himself, Ashl
ey paused and looked back. She had not turned. Powell stood where he was for a few moments, and then turned to stride away through the trees. He was still frowning, and watched the ground at his feet. He did not see Ashley.
A lovers’ spat? But how could one quarrel with Emmy? Ashley mused. What could she say to make one angry? She could, of course, ignore one when one was talking to her. Emmy could more effectively ignore someone than most other women. All she had to do was refuse to look at one. It would be a trifle annoying, to say the least.
Ashley grinned and set one shoulder against the trunk of a tree. He crossed one booted foot over the other. Good old Emmy. She was not after all allowing them to walk all over her just because she was deaf. He watched her.
She did not move except to clench her hands at her sides and tip back her head and close her eyes. Her hair cascaded all the way down to her bottom. She looked, Ashley thought, a hundred times more lovely than she had looked last night with her elaborately powdered curls and her silks and lace and her stays and hoops. And yet even last night she had been the loveliest lady at the ball.
His little fawn really had grown up, he thought regretfully. It was strange how one could come back after seven years, totally and dreadfully changed oneself, and yet imagine that everything and everyone one had left behind had somehow been happily frozen in time. If he had pictured Emmy at all during those years, it was as a slender, coltish child.
He had made no sound. Even if he had, she would not have heard it. And he was well behind her line of vision. But after a minute of stillness she opened her eyes and raised her head and looked over her shoulder directly at him. Being Emmy, of course, she had sensed his presence. She had known he was there. She had known he was not Powell—she had refused to turn her head for him.
She had known he was there.
The years had somehow rolled back after all. For the first time, there seemed to be a thread of warmth in the morning.
• • •
Usually she sensed someone coming up behind her, especially when she was alone. But sometimes that intuition failed her. It happened most often when she was absorbed in some activity and lost all sense of time and place. Painting had had that effect on her for the past year or so.
She turned with a start of guilt only when whoever it was was very close behind. She expected to see Anna or Luke. Anna would merely smile and hug her and commend her on her painting and pretend not to notice her appearance. Anna perhaps did not realize that she still treated her youngest sister as a child. Luke would raise his eyebrows and purse his lips and look at her painting and make some satirical remark about witches in the wood.
But it was Lord Powell who was standing there, looking perfectly immaculate. Even his wig had been freshly powdered, she noticed. If only she had heard him coming, she might at least have hidden her painting. Preferably, she would have hidden herself too. She felt suddenly naked. Not physically so but emotionally. He had come unexpectedly upon her other self. The very private self she could explain to no one.
This morning he looked more handsome than usual. Even with the frown on his face and the aghast look in his eyes. He looked very . . . civilized.
“It is you, by my life,” he said. His perfect manners appeared to have been left behind at the house, at least for the moment. His eyes moved down her body, from the topmost hair on her head to the tips of her toenails. It was a look of sheer horror.
Emily saw herself through his eyes. She saw her shapeless, shabby dress, with neither stays nor hoops beneath. And her bare ankles and feet. And her wild, tangled hair. In her embarrassment she felt and resisted the totally inappropriate urge to laugh. This was her world, she might have told him if she had been able. So very different from his own. Why was she the one called upon to make all the adjustments?
But for five days she had been so very careful. So very determined.
She smiled.
He recovered his lost manners then and made her a hasty but elegant bow. “Lady Emily,” he said.
She tried to picture him without his wig, with dark, close-cropped hair. She rather believed he would look more handsome yet. Though quite undressed by current standards of fashion and propriety, of course. She hated fashion and propriety. Last night she had been dazzled—and wearied—by them. This morning she hated them.
“There are servants up and abroad,” he said. “House servants, grooms, gardeners. ’Twas his grace’s butler who informed me that you were up and outside already and had come this way. He also informed me that his grace and Lord Ashley Kendrick are up. You may be seen, Lady Emily.”
She had been seen. By him. She could not tell if he was warning her of possible embarrassment to herself, or whether he was scolding her.
She smiled again and raised her shoulders in acknowledgment of the fact that she had been caught out and was perhaps sorry. Yes, she was sorry. This morning was in the nature of a swan song to freedom, she would have told him if she had had words. She must work on some sort of shared language with him, she thought suddenly. As she had with Ashley. But then perhaps she did not want anyone else to know her. Perhaps she hid deliberately behind her deafness and muteness. Perhaps she was too frightened by—or attached to—her differentness to expose it to someone who might not understand or accept. But this man was to be her husband.
“Zounds, but it does matter.” His frown had returned, and his heavy brows almost met over the bridge of his nose. “The careless shrug does you no credit. Appearances do matter, especially in one who is the daughter of an earl and one who is to be a baroness and wife of the head of a family. I have younger sisters, who will look to you as a model of appearance and behavior. I do not believe your deafness can be used as an excuse for such shocking impropriety.”
Emily frowned in incomprehension. Why was he angry? She looked into his eyes and raised her chin. She did not often feel anger, but she felt it now in response to his. Though she realized that her appearance was improper and that after five days it must be a shock to him to see her thus on the sixth. He was speaking hastily, before he had given himself time to digest what he had seen and to react more rationally.
She watched him draw a deep breath and watched his frown lessen in ferocity. Perhaps he had realized his mistake. Perhaps he would apologize for his hasty and hurtful words, beg her pardon. Perhaps he would smile at her and she at him. Perhaps they would even laugh together. And perhaps she would run back to the house ahead of him and change into more acceptable clothes, and there would be an end to this unfortunate encounter.
But his eyes had moved beyond her shoulder and focused on her painting. Her first instinct was to move across in front of it, to block it from his view. But she did not do so. It struck her suddenly that through her painting she could communicate with him for the first time beyond smiles and nods. She could show him something of her inner self. She felt terribly afraid and almost breathless in anticipation. She moved to one side and watched his face.
His brows snapped together again. He gazed at her painting rather as he might at a poisonous snake. He turned to her after he had gazed long and hard.
“You did this?” he asked.
She nodded. Why was he angry?
“But what is it?” His polished manners seemed to have deserted him yet again.
It was not obvious, then? Her painting was no substitute for words? She lifted her arms and indicated the trees around them. Then she raised her arms to the sky, stretching her fingers tautly upward, and closed her eyes. Then she looked at him again.
“I see no trees or sky in the painting,” he said. “Did his grace not hire a drawing master or a governess capable of teaching watercolors when you were in the schoolroom, Lady Emily?”
She nodded.
“My sisters have had the good fortune to enjoy the services of a very superior governess,” he said. “They all paint charmingly. I have paintings of theirs hangi
ng in my study and my bedchamber. They have been taught to create gentle beauty out of the world around them.” She watched him intently. It seemed important to see every word he spoke.
God had created gentle beauty. And ferocious beauty too. She had no interest in slavishly copying what had already been done. But perhaps to people who could hear—and talk—it was not so important to be able to speak through a painting. She wondered if he would understand even if she could explain to him. She had the rather alarming notion that he might not. The burden of understanding was always on her. She was the odd one, the one who lacked speech and wits. Or so it seemed sometimes. But she was being unfair to Luke and Anna and a few other people.
“This,” he said, indicating her painting and turning his face to it, “is the ravings of a madwoman.”
She was not sure if he had meant her to see his lips. But she had. She had been watching intently, and her eyes widened in shock and hurt and anger.
“I beg your pardon,” he said too late, looking again at her. “’Tis not entirely your fault, perhaps. I am beginning to understand that his grace might have been too lenient with you, Lady Emily, because of your affliction.”
She thought of Luke leaning over her desk as she learned to read, firm and implacable despite her frequent tears and occasional tantrums, telling her that the effort might well kill him and shatter his marriage but that she would read and write and that they would persevere for one more hour before stopping for tea. And yet never for one moment—she had never quite known how he did it—had she doubted that he loved her dearly. If she had, she would probably never have learned.
“’Tis understandable,” Lord Powell said, his eyes softening somewhat. “He must pity your affliction. My mother will help you when we are married.”
But she had been too deeply shocked, too deeply hurt to be soothed by his apology or his assurances, though she saw his lips offer both. And now indignation had been added to everything else. His mother would help her to learn what was what? As if she were a gauche and ignorant, somewhat spoiled child. Or a half-wit perhaps.
