by Justine Cole
She met Boggin, the old, wrinkled gardener. He liked to identify the plants in his herb garden for her or talk of flowers that were just beginning to bloom. He named the trees that surrounded the house, often repeating himself, sometimes lapsing into silence in the middle of the conversation. But Noelle didn't mind; she felt comfortable with him.
When Noelle returned from her walks, she would enter the house through the kitchen as a precaution against encountering any of an increasing number of neighbors who were making their way to the Peale doorstep. As Constance had predicted, the story of her unusual guest had spread rapidly throughout the countryside, and rivalry was growing by the day to be the first to catch a glimpse of the young Englishwoman who had been raised in India. Despite the announcement that her guest was convalescing and would not be strong enough to have visitors for some time, Constance's callers continued to arrive on one pretext or another.
So, during the late afternoon when they were most likely to appear, Noelle made it a habit to secrete herself in the library, where a maid would bring her milk and a generous stack of tiny watercress sandwiches. Sometimes she would practice printing her letters, but more frequently she would continue browsing through the books that fascinated her.
In the evenings Noelle would excuse herself from the dinner table and retire to her bedroom and Robinson Crusoe. She now recognized many of the shorter words; however, the longer ones continued to befuddle her. She would sound them out laboriously, but by the time she was done with a sentence, she would realize she had concentrated so hard on reading the individual words that she had lost all sense of the meaning. So she would start again. "I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York . . ."
One evening as she lay propped up in her bed, Robinson Crusoe open in her lap, there was a soft rap at her door. It was Letty.
"I'm here to brush your hair, miss," she murmured, staring at the toes of her shoes.
Noelle was startled. "Why would you want to brush my hair, Letty?"
"Mrs. Peale told me I'm to brush it every night," she answered stolidly.
"Well, you can just tell Mrs. Peale I'll brush my own hair." Noelle was indignant; she had been as cooperative as she could manage since Constance had agreed to teach her, but this was too much. She wasn't about to be combed and brushed like a trained lapdog.
For the first time since she'd entered the bedroom, Letty's bovine eyes rose to meet Noelle's. "I couldn't do that, miss," she said impassively.
"Why on earth not?"
Letty seemed to be confused by the question as if the very thought of going against Constance Peale's will were so foreign to her as to be incomprehensible. Finally she clumped to the dressing table, where she picked up Noelle's hairbrush and stood waiting patiently.
Noelle sighed with exasperation. "Please tell Mrs. Peale that I do not require your services."
But Letty was not to be deterred. She anchored her bulky form into the French carpet, a marble Nike armed with a hairbrush. "Mrs. Peale said I'm to brush your hair every night," she repeated phlegmatically.
Winning an argument with a block of wood would be easier than swaying Letty from her purpose. Noelle cursed softly under her breath as she seated herself in front of the gilded mirror.
Letty set to work. She began slowly, pulling the brush carefully from Noelle's scalp to the cropped ends of her hair. Gradually she became more forceful, brushing until Noelle's scalp tingled. Finally she stopped and pulled a small pair of silver scissors from her pocket. With practiced efficiency, she snipped away at the damaged hair.
Noelle sighed as she studied her reflection. True, her hair no longer looked like such an unruly thatch; there was even a faint suggestion of curl to the now even ends. But the cutting, so far, could not change the ugly carrot color she was coming to detest more each day in this house, which held far too many mirrors.
These days would have been ones of peace and contentment for Noelle had it not been for her nightmares and the ever-increasing likelihood that she was pregnant. Her relationship with Constance settled into one of polite formality. They were together at lessons and at meals; otherwise they avoided each other.
Noelle came to love the beautiful house more and more as each day passed. She would wander through the rooms, admiring the graceful proportions of the furnishings or running her hands over a smooth curve of polished wood. Picking up a piece of crystal, she would feel its weight, then hold it up to a window and watch the sunlight fractured into rainbows.
Her old life began to take on a sense of unreality, and she had to remind herself more and more frequently that her presence in the white stone house was the dream.
Chapter Nine
It was six weeks to the day since she had arrived in Sussex. Noelle had awakened to find that her body had not accepted the bitter seed that had been forced upon it. Jubilantly she had danced a circle about the blue bedroom, finally catching one of the bedposts in her hand and swinging herself out in a gay arc.
Now, as she fastened her petticoats around her waist, she tried to absorb the realization that she was finally free; her nightmare was over. She could return to an existence she understood, a place where she was respected.
Plopping herself down on the floor, she brought her knees up under her chin and contemplated going back to her old life. Her bare toes dug into the carpet; absentmindedly she reached out her hand to stroke the soft pile. Such a pretty room; the blue and white, so calm and clean. She was going to miss this bedroom.
Snatching her hand from the carpeting, Noelle uttered a particularly foul expletive and pushed herself from the floor. She tried to recapture her earlier happiness as she finished dressing, but she could not. The relief at not being pregnant was still there, but with it was a sadness at the thought of leaving this beautiful house. She realized too late how much better off she would be if she had never lived here. How squalid and desperate her old life seemed in comparison.
She draped a dun-colored shawl around her shoulders, picked up her copy of Robinson Crusoe, and decided to sit in the garden until it was time for her lessons. She needed a chance to sort out her thoughts.
A hint of chill still hung in the morning air as she let herself out of the house. She gazed around her at the brick wall covered with fragrant honeysuckle, the fountain with its stone cupid, and finally, inevitably, admitted to herself that she did not want to leave. She had become ensnared by this house and the existence it represented. It was as if she had permitted a net to be thrown about her the night she arrived. It had seemed inconsequential, a delicate thing, fragile, easy to throw off. Now, when it was too late, she had discovered that she couldn't rid herself of it so simply; its gossamer strands were intricately woven and strong beyond their appearance.
She sat on the edge of the fountain, dipping her hand into the frigid water as she tried to understand the changes that had come over her in the past weeks. She remembered the carriage ride that had brought her here and the solemn vow she had made to revenge herself against Quinn Copeland. What of that vow now? Had she become so softened by her new life that she had forgotten it? Was this what luxury had done to her—blunted the edges of her will, made her soft and vulnerable, incapable of grappling with the unlovely?
No! Every fiber of her shrieked denial. Perhaps she was more vulnerable now, but her hatred for Quinn Copeland still burned as strongly today as it had the night she was violated. Even though she was no closer to avenging herself than she had been that night, she knew, with a chilling certainty, that the day would come when she would make good her promise.
Feeling somewhat better, she rose from the side of the fountain and began wandering about the garden, enjoying it for what might be the last time. The earth smelled rich and fecund as it began to warm to the day, and she turned her face up to the sun.
"Oh, there you are." Constance swept into the garden. "Since it is so pleasant this morning, let's treat ourselves and have our lesson here. Goodness knows, we should enjoy it now, for it will almost c
ertainly be raining before the day is over."
Sitting down upon the stone bench, she held out several sheets of paper to Noelle. "Why don't you begin with the list on top? You've learned so quickly, I see no reason to keep reviewing the simpler words."
Noelle looked at the papers in Constance's outstretched hand, but instead of taking them, she walked to the fountain and bent over to pick up her copy of Robinson Crusoe from where she had laid it on the gravel.
"If you don't mind, Mrs. Peale, I would like to read this instead."
Constance quirked her head slightly. "So," she said quietly, "it has happened."
Noelle smiled, and with her back proudly straight, settled herself beside Constance. She opened the worn volume and began to read hesitantly.
I was bom in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family, though not of that country, my father being a foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull. . . .
As she went on she gained confidence, and the words came more easily. Sometimes she stumbled; occasionally she held onto a vowel longer than she should or dropped a consonant; but by the end of the first chapter it was obvious that Noelle could read.
When she was done, she raised her eyes to meet those of her teacher. Constance was looking at her with unveiled pride, a wide smile on her face. "Noelle, you are an amazing young woman. You should be very proud."
"And you as well, Constance."
Noelle jumped at the intruding voice and spun around to see Simon Copeland stepping out of the deep shadows next to the house. He walked toward them with an easy stride, a commanding figure in a well-fitting dark brown coat with buff trousers and a mustard waistcoat.
"Simon!" Constance exclaimed as she sprung up from her seat. "You didn't tell me you were coming." Two faint pink spots caught on her cheekbones.
"I was nearby," he said, his American accent sounding out of place in the English garden. "Spent the night with Lloyd Graham over at Hightowers and thought I'd drop by to see how you both were faring before I returned to London. I see you've been faring very well."
Slowly his eyes took in the changes that rest and good food had brought to Noelle's appearance. Her body still looked painfully thin, especially in the hideous oversize dress she was wearing, but her face had lost its pinched, starved look.
"I apologize for not telling you I was coming, but my trip was last minute. I didn't have time to send you word. Actually, I was looking forward to surprising you."
Once more his gaze turned to Noelle. "But it seems as though I was destined to be the one surprised. So, you can read now."
"Mrs. Peale has been kind enough to teach me." She kept her tones even and clear as Constance had instructed.
Simon gave his business partner an admiring grin. "You really are a paragon, Connie. Is there anything you don't do well?"
Constance answered tartly. "I'm not the paragon, Simon. I already knew how to read. It is Noelle who is to be admired. She is a remarkably determined young woman."
"So I see. Well, Noelle, now that you have learned to read, what is next? Painting? Music?" Then, eyeing her dress distastefully, he added, "Fashion?"
Resignedly Noelle rose from her seat and faced them both. "Nothing is next. I am going back to London."
Simon's words went unheard in the force of Constance's protest. "But, Noelle, I thought we agreed."
"Yes, we did. And I have kept my part of the agreement," she responded flatly, keeping her warring emotions well in check.
Suddenly, understanding dawned on Constance's face. "You have discovered you are not carrying a child."
Noelle nodded her head, not trusting herself to speak. She would never let either of them see how the decision to leave tore at her.
"When did you find out?"
"This morning."
Even in her misery, Noelle had to suppress a smile as she saw Simon redden at the intimacy of the discussion and turn his eyes to the ground.
"And so, you chose today to read to me from Robinson Crusoe because you believed this was to be your last lesson."
"Not 'believed,' Mrs. Peale. It was my last lesson."
"Ridiculous!" Simon erupted. "There is no reason that your lessons can't continue. I want you to stay right here."
"No," Noelle exclaimed more harshly than she had intended. "I agreed to stay until I knew if I was carrying a child. Well, now I know I'm not, and that's that."
Constance's eyebrows rose at the emotion in Noelle's tone. "You are welcome to stay as long as you like."
"No!" Gathering up her shawl, she faced Simon. "Mr. Copeland, I would like to leave this afternoon if that is possible. Will you please honor our agreement and see that I am returned to London?"
She turned her back on the two and had begun to stride purposefully toward the house when Simon's hand caught her shoulder, and she was turned to face his anger.
"Dammit, Noelle, you're not going one step further until I hear what this is all about. What in the name of God is so special about your sordid little life in London that you're willing to give up all of this?"
Furious at his touch and at herself for wanting so much to abandon her pride and agree to stay, Noelle shook herself from his grasp and raged at him. "It's none of your business why I want to go back to my sordid little life. It's my life, and it has nothing to do with you—or with you." She stabbed her finger toward Constance.
Simon turned his anger on Constance. "What the hell is she talking about?"
For a moment Constance was speechless. First Noelle shaking her finger at her, now Simon shouting. It was all too much! Her voice was tight with fury as she vented the indignation she had been suppressing for so long at Noelle.
"Why, you disagreeable little chit! How dare you speak so rudely. It will be a pleasure to have you out of my house. From the moment you arrived here, you have been insufferable, rebuffing every friendly overture I have made with insolence and hostility. And all without the slightest provocation from me."
"Oh, I've had plenty of provocation. Why can't you be honest enough to admit it?" And then the words she had never intended to utter burst from her. "You breeze through this house so sure of yourself. Your money, your upbringing, your education—they're all just the way they're supposed to be. It really is too much for you to be expected to take a pickpocket into your home, isn't it? Oh, but I forget, a woman of background must take pity on those less fortunate." Emotion choked off any more of what she would have said.
There was something so agonizing in her face that Constance felt her own anger abating and began to speak more calmly. "Noelle, you are mistaken. Oh, I have often thought what a shame it was that you did not have the advantages you so obviously should have had. But pity? No one could pity you. You are an intelligent young woman with a strong character, and I happen to hold those traits in much higher regard than I do upbringing and family background. I am not such an elitist as you seem to think."
Refusing to listen to the part of her that said that Constance was speaking from her heart, Noelle chose to interpret her words as patronizing. "Elitist!" Her voice was filled with scorn. "What big words you hurl at the stupid little pickpocket. The poor, ignorant creature; so defenseless; such a burden." She glared venomously at Constance. "Well, you did your duty. You practiced your friggin' Christian charity so now your precious conscience can rest easy!"
"That's enough!" Simon's voice cut through the fragrant morning air of the garden like the crack of a whip. "I will not have you abuse Constance any longer."
Impatiently he thrust a hand through his thick, dark hair. What happened between these two strong-willed women to upset all his plans?
"You don't have to defend me, Simon. Now, if you will excuse me."
Without so much as a glance in Noelle's direction, Constance walked toward the house, her tiny embroidered slippers making a soft, crunching sound on the gravel path. A robin, peacefully sunning himself near the house, flew up in alarm as the door of the house shut behind her.
Suddenly Noelle was overcome with shame. She had transferred her own pain at leaving into anger at Constance. Regardless of her motives, Constance had given her the most precious gift she had ever received, and Noelle was deeply in her debt.
"Mrs. Peale!" Gathering up her skirts, she ran toward the house. Roundly cursing both of them, Simon followed.
Constance had just reached the base of the staircase when Noelle caught up with her. "Mrs. Peale, I'm sorry. I should never have said what I did. I owe you so much that I can never repay, and I am deeply grateful."
Slowly Constance turned, knowing what it had cost Noelle's pride to admit she was wrong. "I accept your apology." She smiled faintly. "Now, you must tell me why you have been so antagonistic to me. There is a reason, isn't there?"
Holding his breath, Simon watched as Noelle slowly nodded her head and then paused to collect her thoughts. Finally she said, "I overheard you talking with Mrs. Finch about me on my first morning here."
"Mrs. Finch? What on earth . . . ?"
Slowly comprehension dawned on Constance's face and, with it, consternation. Mrs. Finch's accusations . . . her own attempt to placate the woman's injured dignity . . .
"Oh, my dear," she cried, resting her hand on Noelle's arm. "What a muddle. No wonder you have resented me so."
