Jennifer Wilde

by Marietta Love Me

  I was in a daze as Ogilvy drove past the beds of flowers and pulled up before the steps. He climbed down, helped me out. I stared up at the aged brown structure, so much larger close up, steeped in history and tradition, undeniably intimidating. I hadn't the strength to move up the steps. I couldn't. Now that we had arrived I was paralyzed with terror. The windows seemed to stare down at me like accusing eyes, haughtily assessing me, demanding to know what right I had to be here. Sensing the state I was in, Ogilvy quietly asked if I would like him to fetch someone,

  "No—no. You wait here, Ogilvy. I—we'll see about the luggage. I'm sure there'll be someone to help you with it."

  "Very well, ma'am."

  My legs were so weak they would hardly carry me up the steps. There was a large black iron knocker in the shape of a hawk's head in the center of the huge oak door, but before I could reach for it the door opened. A tall, skeletal servant in shabby, royal blue velvet livery and a powdered wig looked at me with watery, inquiring eyes. He was very old, well into his seventies, I judged. His skin was like wrinkled parchment. The wig was slightly askew.

  "Yes?" he demanded.

  "Lord Hawke," I said. "I've come to see Lord Hawke,"

  The servant held the door back and ushered me into an immense hall with faded Oriental rugs on the parquet floor. Heavy chests stood against the walls, and a suit of armor stood sentinel. A huge staircase of polished wood led up to the gallery above. The servant asked my name. I shook my head, much too nervous to speak. He hesitated, looking me up and down, taking in every detail of my person and attire, finally padding away. Minutes passed. I stood there in the hall, wondering if I were going to swoon. Then I heard footsteps and turning, saw Derek coming through a doorway.

  He was tall and slender and handsome as a god with those perfectly chiseled features, that unruly, raven-black hair, those grim, gray eyes. He was wearing high, polished knee boots and snug black breeches and a shirt of fine white lawn opened at the throat, exquisite white lace spilling from the wrists of the full, gathered sleeves. He sauntered toward me with a questioning look in his eyes, not recognizing me at first. The tilt of my hat concealed part of my face. I turned slightly, facing him directly.

  He stopped in his tracks, staring, and the color drained from his face. He shook his head, those dark gray eyes stunned, full of shock.

  "My God," he said. "Oh my God."

  He shook his head again, staring at me in stunned amazement, and I waited for him to rush to me and crush me into his arms and cry out with joy. He didn't. He continued to stare at me, trying to take it in, trying to master those emotions that must have been raging within. A long moment passed before he finally spoke again. He was in control now, but there was a tremor in his voice nevertheless.

  "I—I thought you were dead."

  "I know. I know, my darling. I thought you were dead, too. For months and months I thought you'd been murdered. I didn't want to go on living, and then I finally learned that you were alive, that you'd returned to England."

  Why didn't he rush to me? Why didn't he fold me to him and hold me tightly and weep with joy? Why did he stand there so hesitantly, a perturbed look in his eyes? His mouth was a tight line. A deep, disturbed frown cut a furrow between his dark, arched brows. He wasn't pleased. Something was bothering him, and as I looked at him a strange, icy calm came over me. I knew. Even then I knew, and I felt no reaction whatsoever.

  "I thought you were dead," he repeated. "I didn't think you could possibly survive. Roger told me. Before I killed him he told me you'd been sold to pirates and—"

  "And you made no effort to find me," I said quietly.

  "Marietta, you don't understand. You—Christ! Christ!" He slammed a fist into his palm.

  "I came as soon as I could," I said.

  "If only I'd known!" he exclaimed. " If only—"

  She came slowly down the stairs. She was cool and blonde and elegant, every inch the patrician, unquestionably lovely. Her eyes were a clear light blue, her silvery-blonde hair pulled away from her face and worn in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a loose, flowing pink velvet dressing gown with long, full sleeves. The garment was gathered tight beneath her swollen breasts and fell in heavy, sumptuous folds to her feet, designed to conceal the fact that she was extremely pregnant and failing to do so. She paused at the foot of the stairs and looked at us with mild inquiry, waiting for him to introduce me.

  His frown deepened. His mouth grew tighter. For a moment he was completely at a loss, and then he took a deep breath and plunged in.

  "Angela, this is—this is a friend of mine. From America. Marietta Danver. Marietta, my wife."

  "How do you do," she said pleasantly.

  "Angela, Miss Danver and I have—business to conduct."

  She accepted the explanation with remarkable grace.

  "I was just on my way to the music room. Perhaps you'll both join me there later on. You must ask Miss Danver to stay to tea, Derek."

  She smiled at me, polite, unsuspecting, charming. She hadn't overheard us. I was certain of it. Those lovely eyes were completely without guile. She was the perfect wife for him, I thought, born to pour tea from a silver pot, born to be chatelaine of a great house like this one. He was extremely fortunate, I reflected. Lady Angela was ideal. Giving us another smile, she moved on down the hall, heavy pink velvet rustling softly. Derek watched until she was out of sight and then turned back to me.

  "She's lovely," I said.

  "Marietta, you must let me explain. I—"

  "You owe me no explanations."

  "I don't love her. I never did. I felt I had to marry, felt I had to sire an heir as soon as possible. Angela's pleasant. She's very undemanding, very placid, utterly content. She—"

  "I don't care to hear any more, Derek."

  "If only you knew how often I've—I went through hell, Marietta. When I lost you I went through hell, I didn't think it was possible to go on. I love you, damnit! I love you still. I've never stopped loving you. I can't let you go!"

  "It seems you have no choice."

  "We can work something out." There was an edge of desperation in his voice. "We can—I want you. I want you! There hasn't been a night since I first saw you standing on that auction block that I haven't wanted to—"

  He came to me at last. He seized my upper arms, holding them tightly, and I looked into his eyes and saw the misery in them and knew that he did indeed love me. He loved me, yes, in his own selfish way, and he wanted me still. An apartment in London? Discreet visits several times a year? We could work something out, yes, and it would be enough for him,

  "We have to talk," he said urgently. "Not here. Not now. I—the inn. I will come to the inn tonight, as soon as I can get away. Take a room there, Marietta, Wait for me."

  I was silent for a moment, and finally I nodded. He released me, filled with relief. He sighed and brushed a hand across his brow, He took my hand and led me to the door and opened it, and we stepped outside. The coach stood in front of the house with the pyramid of luggage strapped on top. Ogilvy was stroking one of the horses, speaking to it in a gentle voice. Hearing the door close, he turned around and stood up straight, waiting for instructions.

  "Go to the inn, Marietta," Derek told me. "Have your man take your bags in, get you a room, then send him on his way. We'll use the inn until we can make other arrangements."

  I didn't say anything. He squeezed my hand so tightly I winced.

  "I love you, Marietta," he said, "I love you. I need you."

  "I know," I said quietly.

  He led me down the wide, flat steps and opened the door of the coach. Ogilvy gave me a questioning look. I told him to take me back to the inn. He nodded and climbed up onto his seat. Derek looked into my eyes for a long moment, still holding my hand, and finally, rather curtly, handed me into the coach and closed the door. "Tonight," he said. He moved back to the steps and stood there with hands resting on his thighs, watching as we departed.

  We d
rove slowly past the wild, unruly flower beds amok with vivid splashes of color, past the formal gardens so carefully laid out over two hundred years ago. The drive gradually curved, and I could see the house again, small from this distance, a child's dollhouse, brown and ugly. He was still standing on the steps, a tiny figure, details indiscernible, and his wife was beside him, a vague blur of pink and silver-blonde, I wondered idly what he was going to say to her. We turned into the parkland and the house was lost to sight, and as we drove past the unkempt lawns with the lovely oaks and the deer, grazing still, not bothering to look up, I waited for the shattering pain.

  It didn't come. There was a feeling I couldn't quite identify, but it wasn't pain. It wasn't grief. All these years. I thought, all these years I have loved him with all my heart and soul, and now that love is gone and I don't even feel the loss. We passed through the portals again and started through the wooded area, and I gazed out the window, frowning as I tried to identify the elusive feeling inside. As the woodland vanished and the sunsplattered fields stretched out on either side under the pale blue sky, I realized it was relief. I felt relief, and slowly, slowly, a marvelous elation began to stir.

  I had loved him, yes, and for years that love had been an obsession, even after I had realized its futility, even after I knew he could never return my love in kind. Doubts and apprehensions had begun to assail me in New Orleans, for I had known then that he never intended to marry me. I had denied the knowledge, clinging to my illusions, and even after I believed him dead I had clung to the ghost of that love. . . even after it had been supplanted by another love much stronger than anything I had ever felt before, a love so beautiful, so bright, so elating it had filled my heart and made music inside, I had stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. I had almost thrown it away. I had almost. . . . What a fool I had been. What a fool!

  Tears of joy spilled over my lashes as I saw at last what was in my heart and realized it wasn't too late. Thank God. Thank God it wasn't too late. He was waiting for me. Tor he had known. All along he had known. . . .The elation stirred, swelling, sweeping through me, filling me with a magical bliss so beautiful I could scarcely endure it. He loved me. He loved me. I loved him, too, with every fiber of my being, and I couldn't wait to tell him so, couldn't wait to throw myself into his arms and beg him to forgive me. As tire carriage drove into the village and began to slow down I tapped furiously on the window behind Ogilvy's head and threw it open.

  "Don't stop at the inn!" I cried urgently. "Drive on. Take us back to London, and—and, Ogilvy, please hurry! Please hurry!"