by Liz Carlyle
Just then, Antonia interrupted his introspection by hastening down the stairs while making profuse apologies to both Gareth and the groom, and explaining Mrs. Waters’s illness. “And so we got her upstairs to bed,” she finished as Statton helped her mount. “Mr. Kemble has gone for Dr. Osborne.”
“Yes, so he said,” Gareth remarked. “I trust she will recover quickly.”
“I hope so,” said Antonia, wheeling the gray neatly around. “Good-bye, Statton!” she said, waving. “Thank you for coming to help out today!”
Antonia glanced across at Gabriel, and despite her worry over Nellie, she felt a wave of feminine admiration. Like anticipation, it was a welcome feeling after what had seemed an emotional drought. Gabriel was dressed for the country today in snug buff breeches and brown tasseled knee-boots which looked as if they had been molded to his calves. He wore the dark brown coat which he favored, and beneath it, a beautiful cream-colored waistcoat and impossibly snowy linen. In fact, his entire appearance was just a touch more elegant, but Antonia could not have put her finger on what it was, specifically. Mr. Kemble, she decided, had a trick or two up his sleeve.
She apologized again for being late. “I fear Nellie has spoilt your surprise,” she said as they circled around the carriage drive. “She has told me all about the new staircase at Knollwood.”
At that, Gabriel laughed, causing his eyes to crinkle charmingly at the corners. “No, that is hardly a surprise,” he said. “Turn here and go up behind the stables.”
She did so, but once up the little hill, she saw nothing save the entrance to the old bridle path.
Gabriel motioned towards it. “This is your surprise,” he said. “Watson has had it cleared. The shortcut to Knollwood is now yours to use as you please.”
Antonia felt her spirits oddly lift. “Shall we take it, then?”
“Yes, I plan to give you the grand tour,” he agreed. “As I recall from childhood, it is a pretty path, with a waterfall, and a little folly above the lake.”
The trip through the wood was peaceful, with Antonia turning this way and that in her saddle to admire everything around them. The path circled above the estate’s small lake, which extended from the pastures well up into the wood, where the pond’s source, a little cascade, came splashing down a rocky outcropping, then rushed beneath an arched stone bridge.
As they turned and began the climb toward Knollwood, Antonia spied the folly, a fanciful thing made of rough stone and mortar which matched the bridge. It was primitively built and far from elegant, but it had a magical quality which made it look entirely at home in the forest.
Gareth lifted his hand and pointed at it. “Cyril and I once pinched a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from Selsdon’s coachman,” he said. “We went up there to smoke it.”
Antonia laughed. He seemed so serious-minded now. It was hard to imagine him doing anything wayward. But if her husband’s stories were to be believed, he had been very wayward indeed. She found it a sobering thought.
“Antonia?” Gabriel had edged his mount nearer. “Are you perfectly all right?”
“Yes.” She lifted her head and smiled. “It is just that you seem so serious-minded now. What happened to you and Cyril? Were you caught and soundly whipped?”
“Oh, our punishment was swift, and entirely self-imposed,” he said. “We became deathly ill—you don’t wish to know the specifics. Just trust me when I say I spent enough time hanging over that stone balustrade to know that I never wished to smoke again.”
“May we walk up there?” she asked impulsively. “Or are we expected at Knollwood?”
Gabriel shook his head. “We needn’t even go unless you wish to,” he said, dismounting.
He tied his horse to a sapling which had escaped Watson’s hand scythes, then turned to help her down. Antonia felt his hands come around her waist, solid and strong, and he lifted her from the saddle with ease. But the path was not wide, and he stood very close as he set her down. Their coats brushed. She felt the heat of his eyes upon her and caught his gaze. Finally, Gabriel let her feet touch the ground. Antonia tried not to feel disappointed.
“I shall tether your horse.” Did she imagine it, or had his voice roughened? “There are some stone steps just there, beneath the leaves. No—wait. I shall give you my arm.”
The steps up to the folly were indeed slick with damp and leaves. She kicked the first two clear, then Gabriel stepped around her, smiled, and took her hand. It was large and solid, and for an instant, Antonia wished he would never let go. She felt safe, yet oddly in control when Gabriel was near. Perhaps he really was a guardian angel. With a smile playing at her lips, she considered it. No, he was just a little too wicked to be any sort of angel—and far too intriguing.
“It is always damp in this little hollow,” he said, sounding perfectly natural again. “There is moss everywhere, and bizarre little toadstools. Cyril used to claim that fairies came out here at night.”
“I believe they might still do,” she murmured, looking about.
At the top of the stairs, she stepped up into the folly, which was open at one side but was otherwise encircled by a stone balustrade. Deep inside, a wide bench had been built into the shelter. Gabriel stripped off his riding gloves, and she did likewise. Together, they used them to sweep away the dead leaves. When the worst was gone, they sat down together. She could feel the heat and the strength almost radiate from him, though only their arms actually touched.
It was not enough. She wanted more; wanted to know him in every possible way. But it was not what he wanted. Moreover, he was too guarded; too locked up tight within himself. There was a darkness inside him which gave her pause. With a suppressed sigh, Antonia put away such thoughts and looked out across the balcony at the lake’s beginning, far below.
“It is beautiful,” she finally said. “We are so high up, and the hill is so steep. It is amazing they ever built this here.”
“No one uses it,” said Gabriel quietly. “No one ever has—save for Cyril and me, so far as I know.”
“There is another folly,” Antonia remarked. “A pavilion, really. It is a grand, elegant thing made of Portland stone and marble. Someone said they used to have picnics there.”
Gabriel did not answer. Antonia felt something inside him shift, and she turned to look at him. His jaw was clenched, his face otherwise devoid of expression. “Yes,” he finally said. “It is down that road by the orchard, about half a mile on. There is a deer park, and beautiful gardens—and a lake which is…very big.”
“Yes, I walk there sometimes,” she answered, lightly covering her hand with his. The warmth of his hand and the strong sinewy strength in his fingers when he gripped hers was comforting at first, and then a little disconcerting. “Gabriel? Did I say something wrong?”
He shook his head, but his eyes were focused far into the distance. “It was there—in the deer park—that Cyril died,” he answered. “I wonder no one has asked me about it. I have been waiting—almost wishing, really—that someone would, and just get it over with.”
Antonia didn’t know what to say. “I had heard…yes, that there was an accident.”
His head swiveled about, his eyes almost accusing. “No you didn’t,” he said. “You heard I killed him. And I suppose that I did. But no one here ever once used the word accident.”
Antonia let her gaze fall. “No, you are right,” she admitted. “But then, the only person who ever spoke of it was…my late husband.”
“Yes, and I’ll bet he spoke of little else,” said Gareth grimly. “It became, I believe, the focus of his existence.”
“He was an angry, bitter man,” she whispered, toying with her gloves. “But in his defense, Gabriel, I can only say that I know what it is to lose a child. It…it makes you mad with grief, I think.”
“With grief, yes,” he returned. “But did you look for someone to blame?”
“Oh, I did not have to look, Gabriel,” she said hollowly. “I knew who was to blame. Me. Me a
nd my awful, shrewish temper.”
He shook his head. “No. No, I do not believe that was the cause of a death.”
She turned a little on the stone bench and took both his hands in hers. “But I did it, Gabriel,” she said. “I caused it, as surely as if I’d killed her myself. I pushed and I pushed, until…until the worst happened.”
To her shock, he circled his fingers around her wrists and turned her hands over. “Antonia, I think this is the worst that could happen to anyone,” he rasped. “I want to know…I want to know, Antonia, why you did this to yourself. To your beautiful, beautiful body. This is a tragedy, too. The burden you bear is a tragedy.”
Antonia could not find the words. She stared at the scars, the scars she tried never to look at; thin, white curls like silvery worms drawn over her veins and tendons.
Gabriel cursed beneath his breath. “God, Antonia, I did not bring you here for this,” he whispered. “This was to be a pleasant outing. Suddenly I have ruined it, asking things I did not mean to ask. But since I saw those scars, I have been—I don’t know. Wounded for you. Cut up a little inside. I just…I just can’t understand why.”
“Why?” she echoed. “Why does it matter any more?”
“It matters,” he answered, his voice hollow. “I need to understand—these scars, your life—how can you have hated yourself so much? What happened? I find myself frightened for you, Antonia. And frightened for myself.”
“It was my husband, Eric,” she whispered, drawing her hands away and wrapping her arms around her body. “My husband is what happened. I was…so angry with him.”
“Antonia,” he said quietly, “you did not harm yourself because you were angry. You are far too sensible for that.”
For an instant, Antonia sat perfectly still. No one had called her sensible in—well, years and years. A rush of gratitude choked her for a moment. “No, no, I did not,” she finally answered. “He had left us, you see, Beatrice and me, at his country house a few miles from London. I thought we had married to be together. That it was true love. I did not know—no one told me at first—that Eric had a mistress in Town.”
Gabriel shut his eyes. “Oh, Antonia.”
“He had kept her for many years,” she pressed on. “They had two children, Gabriel. I never dreamt—I had thought our marriage perfect. He had wooed me and won me, and said that he loved me to distraction. But it all turned out a lie, and me a fool. We fought often over it, and because of that, he moved us to the country. Afterward, Beatrice and I saw him only once a month, perhaps. I became with child again—a desperate gesture, was it not?—but it did not help. Every time, the fights grew worse. I hated him for humiliating me, and I hated him for ignoring his daughter.”
“Poor child,” Gabriel whispered.
Antonia shook her head, lips pursed. “The thing is, Gabriel, in looking back, I do not think Beatrice really cared or understood,” she whispered. “I think it was just me—my jealous pride. I did not mean to, but I used her. And it cost me everything.”
“What happened, Antonia?” he asked. “What happened to Beatrice?”
She forced herself to look straight into Gabriel’s eyes. “One afternoon Eric started back to London late,” she said. “He was oddly desperate to go—to her, I suppose. It was overcast and drizzling. I could hear thunder in the distance. And he had his phaeton brought round, of all the idiotic things to drive. We were fighting, as we always did. Fighting about his leaving, fighting about the lateness of the hour. I accused him of leaving us for her.”
“It sounds as if he was,” said Gabriel quietly.
“Eric called me a shrewish cow,” she whispered. “I accused him of ignoring Beatrice, of never spending any time with her. I don’t know why I said it; by then she scarcely knew him. But he looked at me, and it was as if he simply snapped. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Put the chit in the damned carriage and I will take her back to London. Perhaps that will put an end to your whinging.’”
“Good Lord,” murmured Gabriel.
“I was horrified, of course, and it showed,” she said. “But Eric seized upon the notion like a madman. ‘No!’ he said to me, ‘No, damn you, you wish the child to spend time with her father—then by God, let me have her!’ Then he snatched her up—no coat, no hat—and drove away hell-for-leather.”
“Christ, the child must have been terrified.”
“No, no, Beatrice thought it a great joke,” said Antonia. “And I shall never forget the look Eric shot me as he whipped up his horses. It was a look of…of utter triumph. Beatrice was with him, not me. And she was happy—screeching with joy—until they made the turn at the foot of the drive. Later they said…they said that the shoulder was soft from the rain. The carriage—it just went over. I saw it all. I knew—oh, God, I knew.”
“It would have been quick, Antonia,” Gabriel rasped. “She would not have suffered.”
But Antonia felt almost numb now. “The servants carried the bodies back in a cart,” she whispered. “It had begun to pour rain. Someone…someone tried to take me away, but I would not go. Blood and mud and water was everywhere. On them, on the floor. And then I looked down…and realized it was my blood. My water. It was like my life’s blood—my child’s life’s blood—flowing out of me. I knew then that my temper had killed Beatrice—and that it was going to kill the child that was coming.”
“Was there…no chance?”
A lone tear ran down her cheek, singeing her skin. “I named him Simon,” she whispered. “He was so perfect—so beautifully made. They christened him at once. They knew, you see. He lived two days. And then…and then I had nothing to live for.”
“Oh, Antonia,” he whispered. “I am so sorry.”
She turned her wrists over and stared at them through a well of tears. “I do not even remember this,” she said. “It was the first of many things, Gabriel, that I do not remember. I did not lie to you about that. But Nellie—she found me. In the rose garden. I had a paring knife. Father came, and took me to a place—a country house—where I could rest, he said. And he left me there.”
“Dear God. For how long?”
Antonia lifted her shoulders. “Months,” she said simply. “And when I came out, Papa took me to Greenfields—that’s his estate—and within a few weeks, he told me he had arranged a marriage with the Duke of Warneham. That the duke was willing to have me, and that I was lucky. I did not care enough to fight. I just…did not care.”
Gabriel set an arm about her shoulders and drew her to him. She let his warmth and comforting scent surround her, and let her eyes drop shut. “I had to know, Antonia,” he said quietly. “I am so sorry for making you relive it.”
“I relive it every day,” she said. “But perhaps a little less? No, that is not right. A little less obsessively. It is as you once said, Gabriel. I will mourn my children every day for the rest of my life, but eventually, perhaps, not with every breath.”
“I hope you can reach that point,” he said, “for your sake, Antonia.”
They sat quietly for a long moment, and Antonia could feel his gaze. He was measuring her. Wondering, perhaps, if he had pushed her too far. But it had been almost a relief to tell him. She was so tired—so desperately tired—of not talking. Not feeling. It was as if she had turned herself off and was only now reawakening—to pain, yes, but perhaps to some of life’s joy, too. The warmth of the sun. The sound of the fountains in the garden. The small pleasure of deciding what to wear each day.
And then there was the physical pleasure which Gareth had given her, which was not just reawakening but healing. The comfort of his voice and his touch, and the reassurance of his sheer strength and broad shoulders—things which shouldn’t have mattered but strangely did. She was falling; falling fast and hard again. She was waking up, coming back to life, and she could not seem to stop. She was not even sure she wanted to stop.
“Have you never been in love, Gabriel?” she asked softly.
He surprised her, answering without hesitatio
n. “Yes, once,” he answered. “Passionately so, I thought. But it did not end well.”
She laughed a little bitterly. “The passionate ones never do,” she said. “I think it is better to fall in love slowly.”
He had leaned back into the bench and propped his booted feet upon the stone ledge. “Is that what happened with you and Eric?” he asked, crossing his boots at the ankles. “Was it love at first sight?”
She hesitated. “It is pathetically embarrassing. Must I say?”
“I wish you would,” he said quietly.
Antonia drew a deep breath. “He was at Cambridge with James, my brother,” she said. “I had known him forever, I think, and had been infatuated with him for just as long. And when I came out, he danced attendance on me. It was like a fairy tale. Then he offered for me—and like the child I was, I really believed I was going to get my happy-ever-after.”
“I am sorry you did not, Antonia.”
“Don’t be,” she answered. “I mourn my children, not my husband.”
The branches beyond the folly clattered, and a pair of squirrels came racing down the tree. For a long while, she watched them leap and chase one another, all the while wondering if Gabriel was secretly laughing at her girlhood fantasies.
When he said nothing, she turned to him. “What about you, Gabriel? You give the impression of a man whose heart has been broken.”
He had tipped his hat down as if he might be drowsing, but he was not. She knew him too well now to be fooled. Finally, he spoke. “I suppose I wanted a fairy tale, too,” he said. “But of a different sort. I fell in love with Rothewell’s sister.”
“Oh,” she said sharply. “Your business partner?”
He tipped his hat back up. “You have been paying attention,” he said.
Antonia blushed and looked away. “What is her name?”
