by Mary Balogh
“Do be careful,” Rachel called from some distance away. She was standing up in the water and shading her eyes with one hand.
He grinned down at her and stood up slowly on the branch, using his arms for balance. It still held. He had to show off for her, of course. He walked out to the very end of the branch, struck a pose, his body straight, his arms out ahead of him. And then he bent his knees and launched himself off into space, his arms straight above his head, his chin tucked in, his legs together, his feet pointed back.
He cleaved the water and streaked through it, arcing upward a moment before he would have crashed against the bottom. There was the familiar surge of exuberance at having done something daring and dangerous and long-forbidden during his growing years, and then he broke the surface, shook the water clear of his eyes, and grinned toward his equally daring, reckless coconspirators and partners in crime.
But only Rachel York was there, her hand pressed over her mouth and then dropping away as she smiled in obvious relief.
There was a feeling of deep, stomach-churning disorientation.
Who was it he had expected to see?
Who was it? It was more than one person actually. Let him remember just one of them, though. Just one. Please? Please let him remember just one.
Rachel was wading in his direction, a look of concern on her face, but she stopped when she was shoulder-deep and the floor of the lake was still falling away beneath her feet.
“What is it?” she asked him. “You hurt yourself, did you not, you foolish man. Did you hit your head? Come here.”
He was treading water. He gazed back at her, but he did not go to her. He swam to the bank instead, pulled himself out, and made his way up the slope without looking back.
There was no reason why he should not remember, was there? His head wound must have healed by now both inside and out. The headaches had gone away except when he strained too much to remember. He had been prepared to be patient. He had been patient. But sometimes panic attacked him like a thief in the night.
He sat cross-legged on the blanket, draped his wrists over his knees, and bowed his head. He tried to concentrate upon deep, even breathing. He tried to bring his consciousness to a place below his chattering, frightened mind.
He did not hear her coming. He knew she was there only when one cool arm came about his shoulders and the other slid beneath his arms to circle his waist. Her head came to rest against his shoulder, facing away from him. Her wet hair fell down over his arm. She was kneeling beside him, he realized. She did not say a word.
“Sometimes,” he said after a while, “I feel completely unmanned.”
“I know,” she said. “Oh, Jonathan.”
“That is not my name,” he said. “I have been robbed even of my name. I do not know who or what I am, Rachel. I am more of a stranger to myself than you are or Geraldine or Sergeant Strickland. At least you can tell me stories about yourself and I can form impressions of you as a person who is a product of her upbringing, though you have brought your own unique character to bear upon it. I have no such stories of myself. My oldest story is of waking up in the house on the Rue d’Aremberg to see four painted ladies looking down at me. That was not much longer than a month ago.”
“I know who you are,” she said. “I do not know the what of your life. I do not know any of your stories except the ones in which I have shared. But I know you as a man of laughter and vitality and generosity and daring. I do not believe you can have changed in essential qualities. You are still you. And I have seen your courage in the weeks since I have known you. You may believe at moments like this that you will collapse and let life slip away from you as something meaningless that you no longer value. But you will overcome such moments. I know it because I know you. I do. I wish I could call you by name because a name is important—it becomes part of a person’s identity. But even without a name I know you.”
He listened to his breathing again, but after a couple of minutes he noticed that he had tipped his head to one side to rest against the top of hers.
“Do you know why I suggested this charade?” he asked her. “I did not even realize it myself until this moment. It was not entirely for your sake, though I did believe at the time that it would be best for you to wrest your fortune from a tyrant who cared nothing for you. It was for my sake so that I would not have to go in search of my identity.”
“You were afraid you would not find out who you are?” she asked him.
“No!” He pressed his cheek more firmly against her damp hair. “I was afraid I would. I was afraid I would discover my father and my mother and not know them. Or brothers and sisters. Or a wife and children. I was afraid I might look at them and see only strangers. I might see a child, Rachel, a child I begot and loved, and that child might be a stranger to me. And so I gave myself a reason for not going yet. Perhaps my memory would come back naturally if I waited, I thought. Or I suppose that is what I thought. It was not conscious.”
“Jonathan,” she said softly, and held him for long minutes while he grappled silently with the blackness of despair.
“I suppose,” he said at last, lifting his head, “Phyllis will be mortally offended if we do not eat every last crumb of the tea she sent with us.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Are you hungry?”
“A little,” she admitted. “Yes, actually, I am ravenous.”
“I could eat the proverbial horse,” he said, realizing in some surprise that it was true, even if not quite literally. “And should we be amazed when we have indulged in a bout of vigorous lovemaking and a brisk swim?”
She did not answer him. She moved instead to the picnic basket, which she opened and began rummaging inside. Her drying hair hung about her face like a dark gold curtain, so that he could not see her expression. She seemed to have forgotten to dress before eating.
He gazed at her, though not with lascivious intent. What would he have done without her all these weeks?
What would he do without her when the month was over?
LIFE AT CHESBURY PARK SETTLED INTO SOMETHING OF a pattern after that day on the island. And despite the fact that she had got herself deep into a tangle and could not see any way of getting herself out of it, Rachel was almost happy.
She loved living in the country. Strolling in the parterres or through the park beyond them, riding with Jonathan with increasing ease and skill, learning to swim and row on the lake, picnicking in various beauty spots, sitting in the drawing room window watching the rain come down on wet days, visiting various parts of the farm with Jonathan and Flossie and Mr. Drummond, calling upon the laborers with baskets of food supplied by Phyllis, riding in the carriage to call upon neighbors, exploring the village shops and being shown around the church and the churchyard by Mr. Crowell—she could never have enough of it all, she believed.
She could be happy here for a lifetime without ever craving the busier activities of London. There was somehow a feeling of rightness about it all, as if she belonged here.
She was enjoying her uncle’s company too, unwillingly at first but then with a kind of gratitude and joy. She had taken to visiting him most mornings in his sitting room while he rested. Sometimes they sat looking out the window, scarcely talking at all, though their silences were never awkward—sometimes he even dozed. Sometimes he told her stories about her grandparents and about her mother. She felt as if she were gradually regaining a heritage of which she had been almost totally unaware.
He took her and Jonathan to the portrait gallery on the upper floor one rainy afternoon when there were no visitors. It was a room that was not kept locked, though she had avoided going there until then. He explained her relationship to a whole host of ancestors pictured there, and she felt a welling of emotion as the emptiness, the loneliness, of her life began to fall away from her. She did belong.
The only portrait of her mother was a family group, painted when she was three and Uncle Richard was a slender, good-looking,
golden-haired young man. Rachel almost feared to look at first, but then she peered hungrily at the little girl with her rosy, round cheeks and mass of blond ringlets. She could not fit that child’s face to the very vague memory she had of her mother’s, though.
“She looked like you when she was older,” Uncle Richard said.
“Papa always regretted that he had not had her portrait painted,” Rachel told him. “Sometimes I try and I try, but I cannot bring her face to mind.”
Her hand was in Jonathan’s, she realized at that moment, and he was lacing his fingers with hers and tightening his grip. He was comforting her, and yet at least she knew who her mother had been. She could remember her father clearly. Uncle Richard was still alive. This was her ancestral home, and here were the portraits of her ancestors.
She turned her head to smile at Jonathan. There had been a certain quiet tenderness to their relationship since that afternoon on the island, though they had both been careful not to invite a repetition of what they had done together there. Neither had breached the open doorways between their rooms since then. And yet there was that tenderness, which was not an act on either of their parts, though it was winning Uncle Richard over to approving their supposed marriage, Rachel sensed, even more than their earlier attempts to look like a couple in love had done.
She was glad she would be able to remember him this way—though there was an ache of almost unbearable pain about her heart at the thought that the day of their parting was drawing closer.
It seemed to her that Jonathan had found some contentment during these weeks too. It was very obvious to her that he loved the farm. He spent a great deal of time out there or talking with Mr. Drummond. He also spent a great deal of time with Uncle Richard, and she knew that they talked about farming, that sometimes Jonathan worked into the conversation ideas for developments or innovations that Mr. Drummond had suggested to him or that he had thought of for himself.
Uncle Richard even gave the nod of approval for a few of the suggested changes. He liked Jonathan, she thought. He respected him.
She wished there were an easy and painless way out of the tangle they had got themselves into, but she could not see it. And so she would not dwell upon it. After this was all over, she would confess the truth and beg forgiveness, and then it would be up to her uncle whether to grant it or not.
Her four friends, she sensed, were happier than they had been all their lives.
Apart from the fact that she could not keep the household accounts because she could not read or write, Geraldine had assumed most of the duties of the housekeeper. She was busily and happily organizing the indoor servants, even the menservants, since the butler was elderly and seemed not even to notice that he had lost control, and she had everyone engaged in conducting a full inventory of linens and china and crystal ware and silver and other household items of any value. The house had begun to gleam under her rule. She still insisted upon being Rachel’s maid, but during her spare time she sat in the housekeeper’s parlor, working at mending jobs.
She was quite unlike the Geraldine Rachel had known in Brussels, but she seemed somehow to be in her element. She fussed over Sergeant Strickland until he—not unwillingly in Rachel’s estimation—took over much of the leadership role with the menservants and became unofficially the butler, though Mr. Edwards still held the title.
Phyllis was happily cooking and ruling her new domain, the kitchen at Chesbury Park. And since she was such a superb cook and good-natured to boot, no one seemed to resent her intrusion.
Flossie, in addition to keeping the household books with meticulous care, was busy being courted by Mr. Drummond.
“You do not have to worry, any of you,” she assured them all one night when they were gathered in Rachel’s dressing room and Sergeant Strickland was standing in the archway between the two dressing rooms, his massive arms crossed over his massive chest. “I have told Mr. Drummond the truth about myself without implicating any of you. He knows who I am, and he still wants to step out with me, the foolish man.”
“Lord love us, Floss,” Phyllis said, clasping her hands to her bosom, “how romantic! I think I am going to weep. Or swoon.”
“Don’t do that, Phyll,” Bridget advised. “You would knock your head against the edge of the washstand—and then you would swoon again over the sight of your own blood.”
“Are you going to have him?” Geraldine asked Flossie. “I would offer to be your bridesmaid, Floss, but it would look strange when I am Rache’s maid, wouldn’t it?”
“He is a gentleman,” Flossie said, looking rather tragic.
“So?” Geraldine planted her hands on her hips and looked belligerent.
Flossie did not answer.
Bridget walked back and forth to the rectory every few days, visiting Mrs. Crowell and her garden. She also kept disappearing into the park at every opportunity with various garden implements and a large apron and her wide-brimmed straw hat.
None of them seemed overly impatient to be off on the trail of the villain who had stolen both their money and their dream. And Jonathan had described his reluctance to begin his own search.
And so Rachel relaxed into an enjoyment of the weeks that preceded the ball Uncle Richard had insisted upon hosting.
Much preparation had gone into making it an impressive entertainment, and the neighborhood was buzzing with the happy prospect. No one else for miles around had a ballroom, and even though there were occasional assemblies in the rooms above the village inn, there was apparently a special sense of awe surrounding a private ball in a private ballroom.
What she would do, Rachel had decided, was enjoy the event to the fullest, and then, after it was over, do something decisive about the future. She would ask Uncle Richard once more for her jewels, and if by chance he gave them to her, then she would go away, sell at least some of them, and do with the proceeds what she had planned to do. If he did not agree, she would give up trying to persuade him and simply go away.
Her friends would be on their own. So would Jonathan.
She had tried to do something for him. She had written to three of her acquaintances in London, and she had had replies from two. Neither had knowledge of any gentleman who had been missing since the Battle of Waterloo. She had not expected that they would. But she was disappointed nonetheless, she had to admit to herself. She would have liked to help him recover what he had lost in that fall outside Brussels.
She would never see him again after they left here, she supposed. It was altogether possible that she would never hear of him again either, that she would never know if he had found his people and his past. There was something quite devastating in the thought. But she would not let herself dwell upon it.
Neither would she allow herself to wonder what she would do after she had left here. Much would depend, of course, upon whether she had her jewels with her or not.
And what about her uncle? How would he feel when he learned how much he had been deceived? Again, she supposed, much would depend upon whether he had given her the jewels or not.
She still did not know how deeply he cared.
Despite everything she looked forward to the ball with almost feverish excitement. She had never attended any entertainment nearly so grand, and never a ball. She could dance only because her father had liked to dance and had taught her during his brighter, more carefree moments, humming the tunes himself and teaching her to be both precise and graceful in her steps.
But to dance with other gentlemen in a ballroom with a real orchestra . . .
To dance with Jonathan . . .
There were no words with which to express her sentiments.
Uncle Richard had summoned the village seamstress and commissioned her to remain at Chesbury for a few days to make the ladies’ gowns if they so desired. Rachel was given no choice. She was to have a new ball gown, and no expense was to be spared. There was a brief argument with Jonathan about who would pay for it, but Uncle Richard would brook no opposition t
o his will.
“Rachel is my niece, Smith,” he said, holding up one hand, palm out. “If I had had my way, she would have had a come-out in London when she was eighteen and I would have footed the bill for the whole Season. As it stands, this is her come-out ball as well as her wedding ball, and I am not to be denied the pleasure of clothing her for the occasion.”
His strange words might have upset Rachel a little, but who was she to be indignant over a lie? Anyway, she was touched more deeply than she cared to admit over her uncle’s obvious eagerness to make amends.
“Thank you, Uncle Richard,” she said, very close to tears. “You are generous and kind.”
Jonathan merely bowed to him and did not argue further. Would he have been able to pay for the gown anyway? Rachel wondered. How much did he have left from his winnings in Brussels?
The last few days before the ball passed happily and rather as if they had wings. And finally the day of the ball itself arrived. Morning slipped into afternoon as servants, including numerous extras hired especially for the occasion, hurried about in order to get all ready in time. And the afternoon slipped away until it was finally time to retire to their rooms to dress for the evening.
It was only when Rachel entered her dressing room and saw all her finery laid out and Geraldine waiting with a steaming hip bath that reality struck her. She was almost sick with anticipation—this was, after all, her first ball. But it was also the beginning of the end.
Tomorrow . . .
But she would not think of tomorrow yet.
There was tonight to live through first.
CHAPTER XVIII
OH, LORD, RACHE, I COULD WEEP,” GERALDINE said. “But instead I’ll find a quiet corner and dance the night away with Will, whether he wants to or not.”
