The pleasure they shared would become bitter in memory, laced with regret and frustration.
He pulled away from her and watched as her eyes filled with tears again.
“You will put me off too, then?” she whispered.
He shook his head in answer and moved his hand behind his back to take hold of the knob for the French doors. One of the men who had been reading earlier had apparently given it up to watch them through the glass. The man’s face reddened when David unexpectedly opened the doors and caught him watching.
David leveled his eyes to the man, keeping his expression hard. “Find Mrs. Connell and tell her that her daughter is indisposed and in need of her assistance.”
The man hesitated, but when David raised his eyebrows expectantly, the older man nodded quickly and hurried from the room. David turned back to the veranda, but Marta was gone. His coat remained crumpled on the stones, and he picked it up on his way to the veranda steps.
He held the coat over one arm as he ran down the stairs onto the garden paths—five that led off in different directions through the sprawling garden that was dark and wholly unknown to him.
“Marta?” he called softly, then noted prints in the brush of snow accumulated on the ground. She’d taken the second path to the right. Sending a prayer of thanks for God’s mercy in this fortunate snowfall, he followed the tracks until he found her beneath an arbor, woven with the boney remains of wisteria now dormant with winter. She sat on a stone bench, her knees pulled to her chest and her whole body shaking.
“Marta,” he said, moving toward her and unfurling his coat so that he might lay it over her shoulders.
She lifted her head and then put one hand toward him, the palm out to keep him back. “Leave me,” she said in a fractured voice.
“You know I won’t. You will freeze out here.” He attempted to drape the coat over her shoulders again, and she slapped it away.
“I hope that I do freeze to death,” she snapped. “At least then I will be free of this miserable existence!” She curled back into herself, knees to chest, face buried in her skirts, hands layered over the back of her bowed neck.
He sat on the edge of the bench, not daring to touch her, the rejected coat hanging loose in his arms. She seemed fragile enough to shatter at the slightest touch, and yet he felt sure that if he took her into his arms again she would melt. “I am so sorry that you have faced such hardship, Marta, but there is joy yet to be had.”
“You have said that before,” she said into her skirts, which muffled the words but did not prevent them. He had to lean in to hear her as she continued. “You told me to do my best, to hope for better, but it will never be better than this. I will continue as a broodmare for my husband, should he decide to ensure his legacy. I will feel everyone’s pity and scorn. I will live day in and day out with empty darkness pressing in from every side. I cannot do it any longer. I would rather be dead than live this way for another day.”
He wanted to believe this was the drink talking, but he suspected that this was not the first time she’d had such thoughts.
“You must find a way, Marta,” he said. He placed a hand on the toe of her shoe sticking out from beneath her skirts. She withdrew the foot, leaving his hand against the cold stone. “I am so sorry for the hardship, so very sorry, but you can find a way back to light.”
“There is no light for me,” she said, shaking her head but not lifting it.
“You know that is not true. You have two beautiful children and—”
“They deserve better.” She began to cry again, and he scooted closer and threw the coat over her shoulders. She allowed it and lifted her tear-streaked face to look at him. “Everyone thinks that I am heartbroken over Father’s death, but it is the envy of him that besets me. He is free of it, isn’t he? Free of the canker life can be. Free of the hurt and—”
“Mr. Woodbury?”
A wide-eyed Mrs. Connell, dressed in an emerald-green ball gown and three feathers poking up above her head, stood a few feet away. Marta groaned and put her head back on her knees. The coat slid off, and he took a moment to pull it over her shoulders again before he stood and faced Marta’s mother. “Mrs. Connell,” he said, walking toward her as she stared in shock at her daughter, who curled up around herself again.
David took Mrs. Connell’s arm and led her a few steps closer to the house as she craned her neck to look over her shoulder at her daughter. Then her eyes snapped to his face, and her jaw tightened. “What on earth is going on here?”
The accusation sparked fire in his chest, and he dropped his hand before he gave her a good shaking. “Your daughter is in shambles,” he said through gritted teeth. “How is it that you did not see it before now?”
“Shambles?” Mrs. Connell said, looking back at Marta, who appeared even smaller now. Mrs. Connell wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, then looked back at David. “What have you done to her?”
It took him a moment to realize she was accusing him of taking advantage. He gave a humorless laugh. “I spared her falling apart in front of a ballroom full of people—she’s drunk off her uncle’s cider because it was the only way she could face this night. Have you truly not noticed her despair?”
Her expression fell, reminding him that Mrs. Connell had buried her husband the same day Marta had bid farewell to her father. The realization cooled his anger. “It has been a difficult year,” Mrs. Connell said, her chin trembling. She looked past him toward the house. “I had hoped that this house party would be a remedy for all of us, but then none of my other daughters could come and . . . ”
“I am very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Connell,” David said with gentleness when she let her words trail off. “Please forgive me my accusation. It was out of place.” He paused for a breath. “Marta is not well. The loss of her father has compounded with other sorrows, and I truly fear for her health.”
“What do you mean, other sorrows?”
He didn’t know what to say—did he know more of Marta’s struggle than her own mother? “Have you spoken to Marta about what these last months have been like for her?”
“I have been traveling,” Mrs. Connell said, sounding apologetic. “I—I needed distraction after Robert’s death. Until yesterday, I had not seen her since right after little Samuel was born, and I . . . well, I was concerned. I asked her to take a walk with me this afternoon, once she was rested from the travel, but she begged off. She said she was simply tired from the travel, and we will be here for two weeks, so . . . I thought I would have plenty of time.”
David nodded, relieved by Mrs. Connell’s ignorance because that meant there was potential for her to intervene now that she knew. “Marta is in no condition for company tonight. Can you return her to her bedchamber and have tea brought up so that the two of you might talk of what’s brought her to this?”
“Brought her to what?”
He did not dare repeat the wish for death Marta had expressed to him. “Your daughter is in despair. She needs your love, Mrs. Connell, and your caretaking. She may not be in a condition to stay at the house party, but she should not be alone right now, and I am not the right person to intervene. Do you understand what I am saying?”
She nodded slowly, tears in her eyes as she once again looked past him toward her shivering daughter, still wrapped in a tight ball of navy satin on a bench in the snow. “Yes, Mr. Woodbury, I think that I do.” She took a step toward Marta, then turned to him. “Will you please ask the kitchens to send a tray to her room? I shall see that she gets there, and I will not leave her side, I assure you.”
He nodded, then watched as she sat down beside her daughter and put her arm around her shoulders. Marta unraveled into her mother’s embrace, and David turned back to the house, the sound of her sobs urging him forward to do whatever he could to help, though he knew it was not enough.
Ninth
Marta
Marta kept her chin up and smile in place as she entered the ballroom, in an atte
mpt to hide her anxiety. Mother had assured her that very few people had noticed her state during the few minutes she’d been in the ballroom last year, but as tonight’s ball had drawn closer, the embarrassment had become overwhelming. Almost overwhelming enough for her to not come at all—except that, as much as she hated to be here, she hated even more not to be.
She needed the guests to know she was well, but equally important—and a bit more personal—she hoped to apologize to David. Her heart squeezed in her chest to think of the position she’d put him in last year . . . and how he’d cared for her despite her shameful behavior. They, of course, had not spoken or written to one another since then. She needed to tell him in person how much she appreciated his friendship and how she was doing now.
She followed Mother to one of the groupings of chairs set aside for the guests more interested in conversation than dancing—it was almost funny that, at the ripe old age of twenty-five years, Marta had become part of the matron contingent. Pauly’s wife, Laurel, sat with her for a time, easing the transition more than Marta deserved, until she was called away. She and Pauly were sharing the hosting duties with Pauly’s parents tonight, which made the time Laurel had spared that much more valuable. Marta looked at the bright decorations and thought of her children. Next year they would come with her and stay in the nursery, as she had done when she was a child. How they would adore the bright colors and special holiday treats—she wished they were with her now.
Mother joined the group from time to time, but she’d always preferred to mingle with the crowd, and Marta appreciated that she did not hover, even though she surely wanted to. Over the course of this last year she and her mother had been able to build a different relationship between them, as much mother and daughter as woman and woman, with their own separate but difficult journeys.
Marta kept her back toward the ballroom because even though she’d had a full year to prepare for this, she was not sure what to say to David when she saw him. When the footmen brought drinks to the group, she chose a glass of lemonade. She had a glass of wine with dinner and sometimes a single glass of sherry in the evenings, but never more than that, in order to assure herself and everyone else that she would not get lost in the drink again. She had not had any of her uncle’s cider this year at all. The lemonade was delicious.
As the evening continued, she settled into herself, in this place filled with good memories, holiday cheer, and people who loved her despite her struggles. Family and friends made a point of saying hello, and although thoughts about David were never far from her mind, she did not let those thoughts eclipse the overall experience of the evening. She could not approach him, of course, which meant it would be up to him to seek her out. She’d had to accept that he might choose not to.
She was listening to Mrs. Marchant relay the Christmas traditions of Germany when someone cleared his throat from behind her. She looked over her shoulder without considering that it might be him. When her eyes met his, however, she felt a rush of gratitude and could not keep a smile from her lips.
“Mrs. Henderson,” he said, as the chattering of the circle of grandmothers went silent. “The waltz is about to be announced. Would you do me the honor?”
She blinked back grateful tears and nodded her response, because she did not trust herself to speak. By the time she was on her feet, he was at her side. When she placed her hand at his elbow, he covered it with his other hand. The buzz of conversation rose up behind them like snow flurries behind carriage wheels as they walked from the group of women. They had just reached the edge of the floor when the conductor announced the Christmas waltz. They were soon surrounded by other couples as they took their place on the floor.
As always, David led the steps with expert precision, and she did not need to think of where to put her feet. They knew the way.
“I am—”
“It is so good to see you, Marta,” he interrupted before she could finish her apology.
She blinked at him. “Is it?”
He laughed, a warm, rich sound. “Of course it is. I only tell you the truth.”
“After last year, I wondered if I would see you again.” She hated to sound petulant but did not know how else to say what needed to be said.
“Yet you came, which I interpret to mean that you hoped you would see me.”
“Of course I hoped I would see you. I just . . .” Despite her lack of reason that night and her blurred recollection of her time in the ballroom—without gloves, good heavens—she remembered very well the way she’d pressed herself against him, rose up on her toes to kiss him. Her neck and chest heated up with shame at the memory, and she stared at his cravat. “I am so sorry, David. That you saw me that way, that I acted so shamefully, that I ruined what has become such a beautiful thing.”
“Ruined? What did you ruin?”
“This,” she said, looking about the room since she could not gesture with her hands. “Our waltz, our friendship.”
“You think you ruined our friendship?”
“I behaved so badly.”
“You acted from a place of deep heartache and pain, and as your friend, I am very grateful that I was in a place to help. You are improved, yes?”
She nodded, but when she opened her mouth again he spoke before she could.
“That is what I wished for as my Christmas gift this year. To see you smile, hear you laugh, know that you are well. Are you well?”
She allowed herself to see her the way he was choosing to see her as she raised her eyes to meet his. “You do not hold my actions against me?”
“Are you well?”
“You do not feel revolted by—”
“Marta,” he said, his voice low and serious enough that it drew all her attention. “You did not injure me in any way, so do not apologize. I will not hear it. I am truly grateful to have been part of what I hope has been a year of healing for you. According to Sophie, you are doing well; is that true? And remember our pact before you try to placate me.” He smiled and lifted one eyebrow.
She could not help but smile back. Dear Sophie.
“You’ve spoken with Sophie?”
“Of course,” he said, smiling again. “She is my sister.”
“And you asked her after my welfare?”
He pulled his eyebrows together. “Of course. I have thought about you every day. Prayed for you every day. And though I knew I could not be a part of the caretaking you needed, I took great comfort in knowing Sophie was doing what she could.”
“Did you send her? She came to stay with her husband’s aunt in April and was at my house the next morning. She came every day, first to visit in the parlor, then to walk through the woods. She was a very good friend to me, David. Did you send her?”
David lifted his eyebrows. “If you believe I can order my sister about to do my bidding, then perhaps you and I are thinking of two different Sophie Woodbury Pentletons.”
She looked into his face for several seconds, taking in each detail—the increasing amount of silver in his hair, the deepening smile lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, the perpetual shadow of a beard that she still had never touched. “I have been nothing but an irritation in one way or another since the day we met, David. You owe me nothing, not a single thing, and I do not deserve your forgiveness or your grace.”
“Marta,” he said softly, then looked past her and swallowed and led them through a gentle turn. She sensed there was something more he wanted to say, but wouldn’t. Because he was a good man. She took a breath and grabbed hold of the peace of this moment.
“I am well, David,” she said. “I have found peace in my life. I am happy.”
He met her eyes again, and she smiled. A real smile.
“Mother stayed with me through March, and my sisters took turns after that. Sophie came in April and helped me turn a corner I did not know I needed to turn. She made me go out of doors, she showed me how to interact with my children again. My family was essential to my improvement, bu
t there is something about the very nature of family, that you know they will love you no matter what, which made Sophie’s presence that much more reassuring due to the fact that she did not have to be there. She—and you—saved me.”
“Do not say that,” David said, shaking his head.
“We only speak the truth to one another, David,” she reminded him, keeping her tone light. “You do not want me to apologize, so I won’t, but you cannot stop me from thanking you for your kindness. Then and now.”
“I will accept your gratitude, then,” he said with a half smile and a nod of his head. “I am grateful to have had some small part in your improvement.”
“You are a much bigger part than you seem to want to admit,” she said, “but I shall not press it and make you uncomfortable. I am grateful for your friendship.”
“Thank you,” he said humbly. “And . . . Greggory?”
Sophie must have told him. Otherwise she did not think he’d have asked so directly. “We are better,” she said. “Mother wrote to him, and he came, which I did not expect. He is who he is, but I am not holding that against him the way I had been all these years. He’s softened with the children, he is more considerate of my views. We have reached an accord that is sustainable, I think.” There was more she could say, but she chose not to because it would cross that line that was essential between David and herself. The door between their rooms remained closed, but they were discussing the possibility of more children. She did not know if he was still keeping his woman in London, but she was no longer hearing reports of him being about Town with her. The accord was not an easy one, but she had found her place—just as David had advised her to do.
“I am very glad to hear that,” David said.
“As I am to say it,” she agreed.
“You sound strong.”
“I do not always feel strong,” she admitted, noticing that the music was coming to an end. What she would not give for an hour longer of this dance. She spoke quickly to be sure and get all the words in. “And I am not sure of anything other than the truth that God has put good people in my path, and I will not discount that gift by focusing only on those things that are difficult. I am trying to find joy in each new day, and most of the time, I do. Today, I am brimming with it. I am at peace with my life, David. It is a very good place to be, and I thank you for the help you have given me, over the course of the years we have danced this dance, that has helped me find this place.”
A Christmas Waltz Page 8
