“Bed, you say? Please tell me you’ll be joining me there.”
She glanced over at the roses she’d neglected. “I’ve still some work to do here in the garden. You should get some rest, and I’ll wake you in time for tea.” She needed to get away from him, to rid herself of the distraction, or she’d never get anything accomplished.
“Oh, very well,” he grumbled.
Emmaline couldn’t help but smile. It was easy to imagine what he must have been like as a boy. “That’s the spirit,” she said cheerfully. “Why, we’ll have you better in no time.”
But as soon as the words left her lips, she wished she could take them back. Her smile disappeared at once. Because as soon as he was well, he’d be leaving her—leaving Orchard House, and Haverham. Or worse still, making her leave Orchard House. That was why he’d come, after all. To put her out.
Reluctantly, she dragged her gaze to meet his. All the mischief and merriment had completely fled his features. Was he thinking the same thing she was? Likely so, she realized. There was no getting around it—they were on borrowed time, and every step he took toward recovery meant a step away from her.
Tears burned behind her eyelids, but she would not let them fall. Soon enough, she’d be alone again. And then she’d have all the time in the world for tears.
Jack heard a gasp, felt a movement beside him in the dark. In the distance, thunder rumbled. He heard a whimper, realized it was Emmaline. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sat up and reached for her just as a flash of lightning illuminated the room. “Emma?” he whispered, touching her shoulder. “Emmaline?”
She didn’t respond. A crash of thunder rattled the windowpane beside the bed. He heard Emmaline’s sharp intake of breath, felt her body trembling.
Because of the storm?
It didn’t make sense. Emmaline was strong, perhaps the strongest woman he’d ever met. What was a storm, compared to the war and its horrors?
When the next flash of lightning lit the sky, he saw that her hands were pressed against her ears, her eyes squeezed shut. “Emmaline?” He shook her shoulder this time, leaning over her prone form.
“Stay down,” she murmured. “Trench mortars. Nerve gas…” Her voice trailed off as she rolled to her side, her legs drawn up to her belly.
“No, no, it’s just thunder. A storm.” He cupped her cheek with his palm, surprised to find it damp. “Emmaline?”
Another crash of thunder shook the glass, and she sat up with a gasp. “What…what happened?” she stammered. “Where am I?”
She’d been sleeping, he realized. Dreaming.
“Home, love. At Orchard House.” He drew her against his chest. Her heart was beating wildly.
“Jack?” Her fingers dug into his flesh.
“I’m here,” he answered, pressing a kiss against her temple.
She let out her breath in a rush. “Dear God, Jack. I had a dream, a terrible nightmare. I was back at the front, and you were there. You and Christopher. There were mortars going off everywhere, and I was trying to get to both of you at once, trying to…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I could not save you, not both of you.”
“Shh,” he murmured against her hair. “It was just a dream, probably triggered by the thunder. But you’re safe, everyone’s safe.” Except Chris, of course, who was beyond being saved. Jack wondered whom she’d chosen in her dream, but didn’t dare ask.
She began to cry, hot tears scalding his chest. “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
Perhaps that was his answer?
“Don’t cry, Emmaline.” He couldn’t bear to watch a woman cry, particularly if he’d played a part in it. And it seemed he had—at least, in her dream.
At once, rain began to pelt the glass. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed as the storm reached its climax. He held her tight, murmuring soothing words as she continued to sob. By the time the storm subsided, her tears were reduced to sniffles and she lay against his shoulder, spent.
“I hope you’ll forgive me,” she said at last. “I’ve no idea what came over me. The dream…it was so very real. I could hear the mortars, smell the smoke in the air, and I was helpless to do anything. It was like losing Christopher all over again. And you—” she shook her head “—I didn’t want to lose you, too.”
He didn’t know what to say in reply, didn’t know what she wanted to hear. He’d hoped beyond reason that there was a future for them, but had feared that she wasn’t quite ready, that this had only been an interlude of sorts, as far as she was concerned.
“Oh, I know I’ve no claim on you,” she continued. “It’s just that the thought of you leaving, of finding myself all alone again—”
“I’m not going anywhere, Emmaline,” he interjected, buying time. “Not just yet. The quarantine, remember?”
“Yes, yes, of course. The quarantine.” Raising up on one elbow, she peered down at him sharply. “You must tell me, Jack—is there someone at home, waiting for you? Someone who…well, who would not be happy to know what we’ve done here?”
He swallowed hard before replying. He had to tell her the truth—there was no other way. “I was engaged until very recently,” he said simply.
“What happened?”
He should have known it would not be that easy. “I called off the wedding. Despite my assurances to the contrary, she is not convinced that I won’t change my mind, given time.”
“Do you love her?” Emmaline asked.
The pain in her voice slashed through his heart. “I did love her once. Perhaps I still do,” he answered truthfully. “But whatever I felt with her, it’s nothing compared to what I feel with you. I know it sounds trite, but damn it, Emmaline, it’s the truth.”
She nodded, biting her lower lip. For a moment, she said nothing, and Jack let out a sigh of relief. But then came the question he’d hoped she wouldn’t ask. “How long? Since you broke off the engagement, I mean.”
This was where it would get dicey. What would she think of him if he told her the truth? That it had only been a matter of weeks? After all, her husband had been dead for nearly a year, and her feelings for him still lingered. Yet he could not possibly lie to her, not if he wanted a future with her. And he did want a future with her, goddamn it.
“It was recent, wasn’t it?” she asked when he remained silent. “I thought as much.”
There was nothing to do but say it. “Three, maybe four weeks.” And now she’d think that he’d used her, an easy fuck to help him get past the heartache.
She reached a still-trembling hand up to his cheek. “It’s all right, Jack. Perhaps…perhaps we both needed this. To forget the past, to move on with our lives.”
No, he wanted to yell. No. It was more than that. He squeezed his eyes shut, resisting the urge to push her on the matter, to try and make her see the truth. Because upon closer inspection, the truth seemed mad—that he’d somehow managed to entirely forget the woman that he’d loved for several years, the woman he’d planned to marry, and fallen in love with her instead, in less than a fortnight, and with him barely conscious a good portion of that time.
Why would any sane person believe that? It was far easier to believe that he’d been using her—and worse still, she made it sound as if she’d been using him, too.
“I’ll cherish this time we had together,” she murmured, her breath warm against his ear. “Always.”
Just like that, she’d dismissed him.
Yet when she rolled atop him, he did not push her away. If she wanted to use him yet again, then by God, weak and desperate fool that he was, he would let her.
7
“WHAT’S THIS?” EMMALINE ASKED, REACHING for the ragged leather book that Jack held in his hands. The cover was battered and scarred, some sort of Celtic symbol etched in gold leaf that was crumbling away.
Jack readjusted the wire-rimmed spectacles he wore when reading. “Funny you should ask—it’s quite curious, really. I found it tucked in a drawer, over behind the shelves in the back. It a
ppears to be a book of legends, and there was a note card tucked into this spot, here.” He held the open book out to her. Around the margins, someone had scribbled notes in red ink.
“Well, what does it say?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
“It’s the same story as the pantomime. You know, the one acted out at the Beltane festival, about the May Queen and her husband, the Winter King. And look—” he flipped the page over “—here’s a plate depicting the cuckolding Green Man, just like the etching on the bench in the garden.”
She shrugged. “It’s a fairly common image, Jack. There’s one carved in the gate, too—did you notice? Just above the peephole?”
“Ah, yes, the peephole.” He flipped several pages. “There’s something here about that, too. According to the legend, that’s how the Winter King learned of the May Queen’s infidelity. He spied her in the arms of Green Man through the peephole.”
Emmaline couldn’t help but smile. “It’s not the same peephole, of course. This is just a story, a fancy bit of make-believe. It’s not about the garden here at Orchard House.”
“Why do you suppose there’s a peephole in a garden gate, anyway? What does one do in a garden that would require such a thing?” His hazel eyes were dancing with mischief behind the smudged lenses of his spectacles.
Emmaline felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she remembered just what she and Jack had done in the garden not two days past. “I’m sure it’s just for decoration,” she murmured. It hadn’t occurred to her that someone might have spied on them, but now that the idea was planted in her mind, she’d never be able to dismiss the possibility. Good God!
“Anyway, whoever wrote these notes in the margin noticed the same similarities I did. Look, there’s even a well mentioned!” He’d become quite animated, Emmaline realized. The color was beginning to return to his cheeks, and his jaw suddenly looked less hollow.
She smiled, taking in the length of his legs stretched out from the leather chair where he sprawled. “It’s just a coincidence, Jack. Surely you realize that.”
He tapped the page with his finger. “And here the author talks about how the fruit shriveled up on the trees once the Green Man was banished to the garden. You’ve an orchard.”
“Yes, outside the garden walls. Come now, Jack, you’re just being silly.”
“Haven’t you ever felt…I don’t know, somewhat lusty out there?” he asked.
“What, in the garden?” she hedged, remembering the times she’d pleasured herself there, before Jack had arrived. She had felt somewhat lusty there, though she could not explain why. She’d only thought herself lonely at the time, missing a man’s touch.
“I wonder if there are any standing stones nearby,” he mused, turning the book sideways to read a note scribbled in the corner of one page.
Emmaline shook her head. “I haven’t seen any. I could ask Mrs. Talbot, I suppose.”
“We have a circle of standing stones at home,” he said distractedly. “My sister used to like to go there to write. She said she felt some sort of energy there, or some nonsense like that.”
“Your home is in Dorset?” she asked curiously. He’d mentioned Dorset before, but nothing more specific than that.
“Yes, in Bedlington. A quiet little village if ever there was one. Aisling was always desperate to get away. I quite enjoy it, myself. More so when my father’s away,” he added cryptically.
“You don’t get along with your father?”
Jack’s eyes darkened at once. “Oh, we get along well enough, the bloody bastard. It’s my mother he torments. Keeps a mistress in London, you see. Which wouldn’t be so terrible, I suppose, if my mother didn’t love him so desperately.” Jack’s voice had taken on a hard edge.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” Emmaline said.
“Don’t apologize.” He closed the book and set it on the chair’s arm. “Anyway, it’s not a secret. I suppose I should be grateful that he spends nearly all his time in town. Running the estate keeps me occupied, after all. It’s only too bad that Aisling inherited the head for figures instead of me.”
“You love your sister very much, don’t you?” Emmaline asked, noting the way the tension in his jaw seemed to disappear each time he mentioned her.
His mouth curved into a smile. “She’s a bloody brat, but yes. By God, you should hear the way she curses! Always having the last word, and trust me, her words are colorful. Perhaps sometime…never mind.” He waved one hand in dismissal.
What had he meant to say?
“Anyway,” he continued, “it’s a good thing she managed to overcome her snobbery in time to realize what a good chap Will Cooper is. Took a bit of maneuvering on my part, but she played right into my hands,” he said with a laugh.
“Was her husband in the war?”
“Yes, and he managed to come through unscathed but for the loss of hearing in one ear. A mortar explosion,” he explained. “I lost my hearing entirely for a fortnight after Saint Quentin, but eventually it returned to normal. Seems like a small price to pay, considering the fate of the rest of my unit.” His face grew taut, his mouth pinched. At once, the appearance of vim and vigor that she’d admired only moments before abandoned him.
Emmaline lifted the book from the chair’s arm and perched there beside him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “If you’d like to talk about it, Jack, go ahead. I know I can’t erase the memories, but perhaps I can share the burden. I was there on the front. I know how dreadful it was. And before that, I lost both my parents to influenza, one right after the other. I’m no stranger to loss.”
He reached up to cover her hand with his. “I’m sorry, Emmaline. Listen to me, going on, when your losses were all far more personal than mine. You must think me a terrible coward.”
She didn’t think anything of the sort. She knew what war did to people, knew the lasting effects of witnessing such horror on a daily basis. “Of course I don’t think you a coward,” she said, leaning into him.
For several moments they sat like that in silence, their breathing in perfect unison. An energy seemed to course between them, leaching away the sensation of loss and replacing it with a peacefulness that Emmaline hadn’t felt in ages. He must have felt it, too, because he seemed to relax against her.
“Go on,” she prodded, far too comfortable to move a muscle. “Tell me what else your battered little book says about the garden.”
And so he did.
“Amazing,” Dr. Hayward said, removing the stethoscope from his ears and draping it around his neck. “A remarkable recovery.” He turned toward Emmaline, smiling broadly. “Perhaps you should consider coming to work for me, Mrs. Gage. I could use a good nurse. Regular office hours, and all that.”
Emmaline shook her head. “I’m afraid that managing Orchard House is a full-time occupation at present,” she said, then realized her mistake. Jack hadn’t yet said what he meant to do with the property. She’d considered asking him if there was any way she could rent the house, but knew she could never afford to do so.
She glanced over to where he sat, buttoning up his shirt. His face was an unreadable mask. She wondered at his sudden glumness. They’d had a pleasant morning, after all, poring over old photographs she’d found in the attic. It was only when the doctor appeared that the smile had seemed to vanish from Jack’s face, taking his good mood along with it.
“As for you,” the doctor said, turning his attention back to Jack, “I’m afraid you’re not quite well enough to risk the drive back to Dorset. Not yet, at least.”
“No?” Jack asked. There was something in his voice—disappointment, perhaps? She couldn’t be sure.
The doctor shook his head. “No. You’re in far better shape than I expected, but still too weak to safely take the wheel, particularly all alone and in a roadster, where you’d be exposed to the elements.” He stroked his whiskers, looking pensive. “I suppose you could return to the hotel, but I’m inclined to say that it’s not prudent to do so. I’d rather
we continued the quarantine till the end of the week, unless Mrs. Gage objects.”
Emmaline was caught off guard. “No, I…he can remain here at Orchard House as long as necessary. I’ve no objection. Unless Mr. Wainscott does, that is.”
“Of course not,” he said, though he did not meet her gaze.
Dr. Hayward nodded his approval. “Good, good. And what of your health, Mrs. Gage? Have you shown any symptoms since your exposure?”
“No, nothing at all,” Emmaline said. “I’ve been quite well. I must have already been exposed to this particular strain at the hospital in London.”
“Likely so,” the doctor agreed. “We’ve had no other cases here in Haverham, so it looks as if we’ve dodged the proverbial bullet. Well, I suppose I should get back to the office.” He busied himself returning his things to his black leather case. “Oh—” he held up an envelope “—I nearly forgot. Mrs. Talbot asked me to give you this. It must have gotten mixed up with her post.”
Emmaline took the envelope from him, recognizing the familiar script. “It’s from my husband’s sister,” she said with a smile. It had been ages since she’d received a letter from Maria and hoped she was well. “Thank you, Doctor. Here, let me show you out.” She led him out of Jack’s room, toward the front hall. Jack remained perched on the edge of the bed where they’d left him.
“I’ll stop by again at the end of the week to check on him one last time,” Dr. Hayward offered as he tipped his hat onto his head. “He seems a bit distracted. Hope he’s not giving you too much trouble. I know this is terribly irregular—Mrs. Talbot is ready to have me drawn and quartered for putting you in this situation. Thank heavens her husband is a man of the cloth!”
“Mr. Wainscott has been a perfect gentleman,” Emmaline said, “and an easy patient, Doctor. And tending him, well…perhaps it’s reminded me why I became a nurse in the first place.” She liked to be needed, she realized. Useful.
“Perhaps you’ll reconsider my offer, then. Once you’re better settled here at Orchard House, that is.”
The Pleasure Garden: Sacred VowsPerfumed PleasuresRites of Passions Page 24
