by Jess Russell
To have a friend who was a woman was sheer joy for Olivia. She had never had a close female friend, being always surrounded by men and the Army life. It had been a long, hard road, but she and Egg had survived. And they would continue to survive though their next step was so uncertain. Oh, where would they call home after Valmere? How could Egg leave her Bert?
And how could Olivia let go of her own terrible fantasy? Standing in their cove, arms about each other’s waists, feet and legs bare as the water foams over their toes. He bends to whisper something in her ear and she turns to kiss his mouth. Then a sound, a cry. They turn as one, and laughingly run to a blanket where a bassinet sits. He gently lifts the edge of a blanket, bordered in the palest blue, and scoops their son into his arms. Then he looks at her, his eyes shining with love.
Olivia squeezed her eyes shut again. The tears slipped out anyway.
A mourning dove called, beautiful and plaintive. A moment later its mate echoed back in clear, round chords.
****
Had it only been a week? Despite his lawyers badgering him with daily communications of wills, and cases of So-and-so vs. Such-or-other, yet another message from Daria wanting money for information, his tenants plaguing him with drainage problems and too much sun or too little rain, and Uncle Bert admonishing him for leaving the Campbell girl hanging, Rhys was never busy enough to be able to put Olivia out of his mind for more than five minutes, if that.
He tethered Sid in a shelter of an outcropping of rock and strode up to the promontory hoping to find some peace.
Each time he came to the estate, he prepared himself to see the cliff bare and the old watchman gone. But as he rounded the top of the rocky path, his breath caught. There it was, lowering out of the mist, like an ancient king rising above its rude domain, daring the spring to come and touch his battered and broken crown.
As a boy he had lain beneath the tree’s weathered arms and dreamt of castles and crusaders, of King Arthur and dragons, and of huge sea vessels with towering masts.
The sight never failed to calm him. Not being a particularly religious man, he supposed it would be like seeing a holy relic to a priest. He reverently touched its chapped bark, his eyelids closed. His talisman.
How was he to get past this woman? How was he to snuff out this flame that gave him such life? Such hope?
The old tree’s response was only a faint moan. He was pathetic, looking to trees for answers when he hardly knew the questions.
Really it was a simple matter. He should just ride over and take the blasted woman. After all they had made a bargain. Two encounters were not nearly enough payment for his investment.
Investment? More like entrapment. Envelopment. Enlivenment. In love…?
The thought slid under his skin, making him shiver. Preposterous. She might as well be on the moon, their stations were so unbreachable. And what would be gained? Was he to finally open his heart to a woman who held no future for him other than something transient and sordid? And it would eventually become sordid. He must take a wife, and it could not be Olivia Weston. As it stood, the codicil was still firmly in place. He must marry and soon.
His men had combed every bawdy house in London and beyond, but Dee Gooden was nowhere to be found. Maybe she was dead? He had almost rather find her, pay her off, and know it to be done than wonder if she might suddenly appear to threaten his peace. He could not lose Valmere. His memories, good and bad were steeped in these cliffs. His mother was buried here.
He had been to his mother’s grave this morning hoping for a sign. But unless you counted one scared rabbit skittering past the headstone and a tattered butterfly lighting for a moment on his shoulder, there was no enlightenment from his half-hour’s time.
Someone had laid yellow roses at the stone’s base. Mac, he guessed, or perhaps Mrs. Cotton. He added his own somewhat crushed heather and sweet william, and flicked at a nonexistent weed.
Why did she have to die and leave him so very lonely? Surely he would not be so inflexible and cold if she had been there to guide him. Other people seemed capable of love, why not he? Why should he be denied that staple of life?
Rhys glanced at the tiny headstone next to hers. Christopher Ryan Addison George Merrick—such a long name for such a short life. Christopher had flowers as well, but Rhys had no heather for him.
Rhys rolled his head back, looking up into the huge arms of the tree, the prickle of nostalgia sharp in his nose. The oak’s gnarled fingers held a few bright new leaves as if they were offering them up to God. Proof of the life it still held within its ancient roots. He concentrated on one small leaf as it shuddered and winked in the light. How could it last against the winds that lashed this bluff? How could such a fragile wisp hold on?
Rhys turned out to the fetch of open sea. It was a bloody leaf, for God’s sake. He hated the helplessness that accompanied such maudlin thoughts. He hated the feelings that seeped beneath the wall he had so carefully constructed. This fortress had been impregnable to messy emotions and passions that would, from time to time, hurl themselves at his battlements. But it could not withstand Olivia’s laughter, her smile, the tiny scar that he loved to trace on her left thigh…Why could he not simply take what he wanted? His father always had. Had he tamped down his father’s vices so much he was now incapable of satisfying any of his baser requirements?
But that was the problem; he did not just want his itch scratched. The idea of Olivia simply servicing him because of some contract, where every detail and eventuality had been laid out and witnessed by his solicitor, made his stomach roil.
But what else was available to him with this woman?
He must marry.
She was unsuitable.
Those two rules were as fixed and timeless as the old tree. His back against the tree, he wrapped his arms behind him around the trunk, his exposed wrists pressing painfully into its bark. What did he want? He wanted…He wanted her to…he squeezed tighter…to love him.
Shards of heavy bark broke off in his hands and he let his arms fall. The thought escaped the dark recesses of his brain, and like Pandora’s famed box, once open, he knew instinctively, he could never recapture it.
Love. He loved her.
He closed his eyes, as if blotting out the world would make him safe in his precious dream. Yes, if she could love him just a little…
He supposed to gain her love required trust and openness, vulnerability. Concepts he had so little experience with. Nevertheless, his mind strained toward the ideas. He wanted these things in his life. But how?
It was no use. He was defective. His heart was the problem, everything out of order and garbled, so his mind had to take up the slack. He was like one of his clocks, handsome enough, but too tightly wound, too measured and in control. He was a thing—a machine. There was no use pretending.
The thunder brought him back to earth as the wind came up sharply. A curtain of heavy rain pelted the slick waves into dimpled pewter, the winds pushing it to claim more and more territory till it finally lashed at him on the rock. He held his hands out to the wet and looked up at his tiny leaf, so bright against the darkening sky, so strong in its ability to bend with the wind and endure the pounding rain. A flash of lightning and a frightened neigh. Sid.
Seeing a puddle steadily filling a depression in the rock, he realized it had been raining for some time now. What a fool. Here he was in the bloody rain, risking poor Sid and his boots no less, when he should be tupping the woman he desperately wanted.
Rhys mounted and headed to the dower house.
He had not seen her sheltering against the base of the far cliff. Her blue-gray gown must have made her chameleon-like against the rock face. He had been pressed against the old tree for what seemed an eternity, like a figurehead braving the blast.
She had stood transfixed as well; sure that if she moved a fraction he would glance down and catch her spying, breaking the spell. Nature finally broke it for them in the form of snapping thunder. She heard the wh
inny of a horse. And he was gone.
In a frenzy, she began to dash down charcoal marks on the white pages held between her shaking hands. The marks became the old tree, the ragged cliff, and the man. She ripped a page to unearth a blank one. More marks shaping his harsh and tortured profile, the hands, huge and square, gripping the tree, the wind blowing the many capes of his coat about his body. More blank sheets and more marks.
Her hands, now cold and raw, could hardly hold the chalk, but she was loath to quit. She stared up at the cliff, still seeing him there so fresh in her mind. But the rain had found her, blowing into her meager shelter. She had stayed too long. No matter, the image of him was indelible on her mind. In her heart. She had no need of studies and renderings. She knew the painting. It already existed fully realized in her soul.
****
Rhys managed to race across the parterre and get to the stables as the worst of the storm hit. It was going to be a wild one. He had been bent on going to her, ready to hash out some sort of agreement, when the storm really broke. Sid was never good with thunder and worse with lightning. So Rhys deferred his own needs, choosing to stay in the stables to soothe the poor beast. He would change out of his wet clothes and order the carriage as soon as the storm abated, and then they would resolve this mess—his mess.
Sipping his warmed ale, he weighed the risks of removing his soaked boots. Would he ever get them back on?
The stable door swung wide admitting a strong wind and a soaking footman.
“Have a care, Albert,” Rhys whispered as Sid wheeled at the sound of the door crashing back on its hinges.
“Pardon, Your Grace,” the young man gasped, holding his side with one hand and swiping the running powder from his wig with the other. “I am sent to tell you Lady Wiggins is at the house now, Your Grace, and in such a state.”
Rhys tossed the rest of his ale and hung the mug on a hook. He called to a groom to take over with Sid.
“What is the matter? Is it her lungs? Has Dr. Asher been called?” He thrust his arms into his cloak and rushed to the door.
“No, Your Grace, her ladyship is well. It is her companion, sir, Mrs. Weston.”
Rhys stopped dead.
Albert gulped. “Lady Wiggins says she has been out all day and has not come home. She fears Mrs. Weston is out in the storm.”
Rhys need hear no more. Heedless of Sid’s nerves, he shouted for a horse to be saddled posthaste and then sprinted past Albert into the deluge and the house.
****
She should have left long ago but the sky, the mercurial sky, kept her riveted to the cove.
What a show. First brightest cerulean blue, and then churning into more turquoise and then into an impossible green-yellow, like an old bruise that hung above the black roiling sea. She rolled up her drawings of Rhys and tucked them beneath her arm. She gripped the nub of charcoal, the damp chalk disintegrating in her fingers as she pushed herself to capture the drama being played out before her.
Oh, if she only had some color! She turned to the cliff face, seeking the niche where she had stored her precious paints, but they might as well have been in Timbuktu. By the time she got there and back, the sky would have moved on to a whole new spectacle. Instead she scrawled “viridian, mars yellow, venetian red” in the paper’s margin, hoping the notes would be enough.
She stopped only when the charcoal was reduced to the size of a pea. The rest ran in a mess down her arm. She flung it away and rolled her drawings up with the others, sheltering them against her body. She felt so alive, so vital. She took one last look at the boiling brew above her and turned for shore.
How was it possible the sea had risen so fast? Feeling the cold water lapping at her ankles, she jerked the hair from her eyes, willing herself not to panic. Good God, the storm was right on top of her. As if to mock her, lightning pierced the back hurling clouds and a bare moment later, thunder boomed in answer. She almost lost her balance as the freezing water surged up to her calves.
Gasping, she tried to take stock of her situation. The rocks, which had served as stepping stones to the beach earlier in the day, were hidden with sloshing water, and like capricious children, only revealed themselves when it was far too late.
She used her free hand to wrench her twisted skirts from around her legs and held them high as she blindly felt for the next rock.
She made it but just barely. On the third rock, she was not so lucky; her ankle twisted and she slipped. She flung one arm out to catch herself, the other still clutching her precious drawings.
Water soaked the bottom edges of the paper and the charcoal images began to shift, running in muddy streaks down the wilted pages. A particularly strong gust of wind ripped most of them out of her arms. Her mouth opened in a silent cry, her arms reaching to capture at least one. But it was hopeless. With a crazed laugh, she tossed the rest up into the wind and surf. They rode the churning foam and then disintegrated into nothing.
****
“She went out this morning early, about six or so.” Mrs. Wiggins wrung her still-reddened hands. “Mrs. Fields said Amy gave her some bread and cheese about then.”
She took a few steps toward the window and then turned back to his uncle. “The morning was so fine. Was it not, Bertram? I never thought…Last evening when she proposed her plan, I told her to have a care, for old Mac had said it was sure to storm today. She only laughed and said she could brave a little water and not to fuss.”
Rhys pulled out his watch. It was half-four now and with the storm, almost full dark.
“Lady Wiggins, did she say where she was going?” Rhys tried to make his voice sound calm.
The woman shook her head. “Only that she wanted to catch the sunrise. Oh, but that has been ages ago. I had been to Mrs. Hargett and only got home myself as the first drops of rain began to fall.” She began crying in earnest now. “Oh why did not I come home sooner?”
“Now, now, Eglantine, you could not know and must not upset yourself unduly. Roydan will find her.” He softly stroked her hand. “Be assured, she will be safe and within your sight in no time.”
Rhys’s brain clicked into military mode. There was no room for emotion—only action.
“Your Grace.” It was Shields. “Mrs. Weston’s horse has just returned to the stables.” But before he could ask, the butler shook his head. “No, Mrs. Weston was not with Opalina. The head groom said it’s likely the mare was frightened in the storm. The reins are broken.”
“I want every man available, mounted and ready to move out as soon as may be.” He turned to Shields. “Bring my pistols and plenty of powder. We will need rope as well and as many lanterns as you can find. When the storm finally abates, there will be almost no moon.” He turned again to Mrs. Wiggins. “Madam, you must have Dr. Asher at the ready.” The woman looked as if she might faint at any moment. Rhys caught her hands. “She will need you strong and ready when I bring her home. And I assure you, madam, I will.”
“Let us move out!” He said shoving the pistols from Shields into his pockets. “We have not a moment to spare.”
Rhys pulled his hat down low, pushed through the door, and out into the storm.
****
The problem was she could not swim.
Yes, she was chilled to the bone, yes, she was terrified of the thunder and the lightning, but mostly, she was petrified of drowning.
The water was over her knees and rising steadily. Her ankle, even half numb with cold, throbbed as if it had a heart of its own. She lifted it out of the water, her skirts dragging against her, just as a huge wave rolled through the inlet. Scrambling to save herself she thrust her leg back down into the brine, but her ankle collapsed under her weight, and she plunged below the waves.
Rhys spent the next hour combing the coast, but the light was almost nonexistent in the gloom and driving rain. He had set up a signal with his men, if anyone found her, to fire off three consecutive shots. Thus far, he had heard nothing. But with the competing thunder, it was
impossible to distinguish nature from man.
He began to doubt the wisdom of attempting to scale the cliff side. It had seemed the most prudent plan when he stood on the lower bluff trying to get a better vantage point of the cove below.
Rain lashed his face, and his hat lifted off his head. It skittered along the face of the cliff only to be dashed back against the black streaming rock and then plummeted into darkness. His hair plastered against his cheek, he jerked his head, needing to see his next hold in the rock.
His foot slipped and his arms tore with pain, stretched beyond human capacity, or nearly. His hands bit into the crag as he fought for purchase. Pieces of shale fell away, and his knee scraped against the jagged rock. He would not be able to support himself much longer. Scrambling, his foot connected with a narrow shelf nearly up to his waist. He began to move on.
Lurching up out of the water, Olivia gasped for air, her ankle screaming in pain. Her burning lungs sucked in mist-soaked air as an incoming wave tore at her, threatening to crash her into the huge rocks. But even as she fought, she felt the dreadful pull below. The undertow.
Her head rang as it cracked against a rock, her teeth smashing together, the salt in her mouth mixing with the tangy iron of blood. She must hold on or be sucked under.
Her fingers slid over slimy rock as seaweed snaked by her mouth and wrapped round her neck. There was nothing to hang on to. Her lungs were burning again, panic seeping into every pore.
Oh Saint Anne, how could she keep fighting this terrible pull?
She couldn’t. She had no more strength, and she let her body go lax. Ghostly pale, her dress floated up around her, a final shroud. Her mind disconnected from her body, as if she were merely a spectator in her own death.
But, no, something was pulling her back. Her numb mind tried to focus. Then she saw. It was her gown. Miraculously it had wrapped itself around the boulder, snagging on something.
Praying it would hold, and using her last bit of energy, she reached up and grabbed the thin fabric pulling herself back into the dress, even as the cloth shredded.
