Buried Secrets (29 page)

Should he have taken hope from her declaration that he had stirred something within her? Perhaps he should not have left so abruptly. Perhaps—

No. If Gillian really loved him, she would not have let the ghost of a dead lover and an imagined transgression bind her in its unhealthy fetters. He saw no alternative than to take her at her word. She felt something for him—but it wasn’t love.

He would leave Wildehaven tomorrow.

Would he ever see her again? Possibly, for he would visit Wildehaven again. Would she still be at Rose Cottage? Would she want to see him? Was there a hope that in some distant future Gillian’s perceived guilt might fade? That she would let him into her heart?

He rather thought not. She was honored, she had said. Perhaps, but it was apparent she was not moved. Gillian Tate did not now and would never love him.

The words seemed to echo within the great emptiness that filled him, tolling like a death knell. He had never felt so lonely—or so desolate. He had become revitalized during his stay at Wildehaven, having come to the realization that he must repair his life. He had been exhilarated at the idea of sharing that life with Gillian. Now, he merely wondered how he was to get through it at all. Unutterably weary, he remounted Zeus and moved off toward the manor house and his unappealing future.

At Rose Cottage, Gillian returned to the parlor, where she sank into a settee and remained motionless, unable to think or feel beyond the desolation that filled her. Aunt Louisa found her here at length.

“Why, Gillian! Whatever are you doing? I thought you with Cord. Has he left? It is too bad he could not stay—but, we will see him tomorrow.”

“No,” said Gillian quietly.

“I beg your pardon, dear?”

“No,” said Gillian again, speaking with great effort. “Cord will not come here tomorrow. He will be leaving in the morning—at first light.”

“What? But I don’t understand. He said—”

“I know what he said. Aunt,” Gillian said tightly, “but he will not be returning here.”

The tears that had welled in her eyes could no longer be contained. Gillian rose hastily and turned toward the door, but she was stayed by her aunt’s hand on hers.

“Gillian,” she said in a firm voice. “Sit down. Now.”

Gillian attempted to free her hand, but Aunt Louisa was not to be denied. Slowly, Gillian sank back in her chair, passing her arm swiftly over her eyes.

“And you let him leave?” It was not really a question, but Gillian nodded wordlessly.

“Oh, my dearest child,” sighed Aunt Louisa. “How could you have done yourself such an ill?”

“Aunt!” exclaimed Gillian through her tears, “you don’t understand.”

“Perhaps I don’t, dear,” the old lady replied gently. “But do you mind if I hazard a guess?”

Searching in her pocket for a clean handkerchief, Gillian did not answer. Aunt Louisa produced one and handed it to her. “Cord asked you to marry him, I take it—and you refused.”

“Yes, but—oh, Aunt, I cannot marry a man I do not love, after all.” Gillian’s cheeks were wet with tears now, and she dabbed at them futilely.

Aunt Louisa’s brows lifted. “But of course you love him,” she said with a smile. “And he loves you. The two of you have been smelling of April and May since— oh, I don’t know—shortly after he arrived her. Even Henry noticed.”

“You are mistaken. Aunt. I cannot speak for Cord, but—oh, very well, I admit I am st-strongly attracted to him, but—and this I know only too well—I do not love him. The tender emotion, you see, is not for me,” she added bitterly.

The old woman said nothing for a moment, but at last said vehemently, “What nonsense!”

Her words so closely mirrored what Cord had said earlier, that Gillian could only stare.

“Gillian, listen to me.” Aunt Louisa, grasped both of her niece’s hands in her own. “I have never spoken of this because, well, I felt it was not my place, but—I could not help grieve at the way you have hidden yourself from the world since Kenneth’s death.”

Gillian gasped, but Aunt Louisa continued hurriedly. “Yes, I know I have spoken of
that
before. But as to the reason for your flight from reality ...” She paused again for a moment before continuing. “I never knew Kenneth well. I met him only on the few occasions when I visited my sister—your mother—at your home. I must say he seemed a wonderful young man, and it was obvious he was besotted with you. It was equally obvious,” she added tartly, “at least to me, that you did not return his affection.”

Gillian eyed her aunt in growing concern, but still said nothing.

“I think if Annabelle and your papa had not been so ecstatic at the prospect of your marrying such a fine young man, with such excellent prospects, they would have noticed, too. Although, I must say, you made a supremely successful effort to give the impression to those around you—including Kenneth—and, I think, yourself, that you reciprocated Kenneth’s feeling for you, although perhaps that latter effort was
not
so successful.”

At this, Gillian grew rigid. She withdrew her hands from her aunt’s grasp, but did not move as the old lady continued.

“I’ll never forget one afternoon, when you scoffed at Kenneth for refusing to join in a wager—something about jumping across some river on horseback. The project was obviously impossible, and Kenneth refused to endanger either his horse or himself in such a foolhardy exercise. You seemed to feel only contempt at what to most of the rest of us seemed like his sensible behavior. Instead of telling you not to be such an idiot, however, Kenneth merely accepted your taunts in silence—with a sort of sad smile that, frankly, made me want to hit him.”

“Dear Lord,” murmured Gillian. “I remember that. I knew at the time I was being completely unreasonable, but I was driven by a mindless desire for Kenneth to show some spirit. How I berated myself afterward.”

“At any rate, I never once saw you look at Kenneth the way I’ve seen you look at Cord.” Aunt Louisa smiled at Gillian, her wrinkles deepening in understanding.

“I was disappointed, though not altogether surprised, when word came to us just before the wedding that it would not take place after all. And when, a few weeks later, Kenneth hared off to the Peninsula, I could not believe he would be such a looby as to think he must somehow prove himself to you.”

“Aunt!” cried Gillian. She could not believe the casual cruelty of one she knew to be the kindest of creatures.

“Gillian, Kenneth was very dear to you. You loved him as a friend—everyone did. I certainly did. But how could any woman love a man who would try to change everything that made him who he was, simply to mold himself to the expectations of another?”

Again, Aunt Louisa’s words so closely echoed those of Cord’s that Gillian could only stare.

“I speak too intemperately. Many women could have loved Kenneth for what he was. You could not. Nor, I must say, could I. You never knew your Uncle Ferris, my dear, but he was a fine figure of a man. He knew his own mind and followed his own path—and sometimes left me to scramble after him as best I could. Let me tell you, though, Gillian, I reveled in the chase!”

Aunt Louisa’s gaze had taken on a faraway look, but now, with a blush, she faced Gillian once more.

“All I am saying, dearest, is that you must not feel guilty about Kenneth’s shortcomings. He made his own decision in the end—and, who knows? If the Lord had stayed His hand, he might have come home a hero, and perhaps you would have committed the even greater error of marrying the poor devil, thus ruining the lives of two good people.

Her features grew stem in the face of Gillian’s shocked expression.

“The point here is that, while you did not love Kenneth, it is my belief that you do love Cord. Gillian, real love is God’s greatest gift to us foolish humans, and it is not given to us so often that we can afford to toss it aside like an unacceptable piece of cloth at market. My dear,
dear
Gillian, do not allow this opportunity to slip through your fingers. If you have an ounce of good sense—and I know that you do—you will run after Cord and grab him with both hands and never let go.”

Gillian made no response, but gazed blindly into the increasing darkness of late afternoon. Aunt Louisa said nothing more, but at last rose from the seat she had taken next to Gillian.

“I shall leave you now, my dear child, but do think about what I have said.”

At this, Gillian lifted her head. “Thank you. Aunt,” she murmured brokenly. “You are very good. It’s just that I ...” She lifted a hand, unable to complete her thought.

Aunt Louisa nodded and whisked herself from the room with a rustle of her voluminous skirts. Gillian remained motionless for many minutes, until at last the serving girl came in to light the candles against the thickening darkness.

Knowing that Uncle Henry would be returning soon, Gillian rose. She wished to welcome him, of course, after what had no doubt been a triumph for the old gentleman, but she simply could not participate in an evening of celebration. Sending her aunt a message via the serving girl, she climbed the stairs slowly, determined to spend the rest of the evening in her chamber.

At Wildehaven, Cord had finished his instructions to Moresby and Hopkins regarding his imminent departure.

“Very good, my lord,” Hopkins had replied imperturbably to the intelligence that his master wished to be packed and ready to leave early the following morning. He shot a sidelong glance at Moresby.

The two had established a certain camaraderie during his lordship’s visit to the manor, though, of course it was beneath Hopkins’s dignity to declare an actual friendship with one so far beneath him.

“Hunh,” mused Moresby later, when the two sat at Mrs. Moresby’s scrubbed kitchen table to indulge in a convivial tankard. “What bug do ye suppose his lordship got up his arse to lope off to London so sudden?”

“Well,” responded Hopkins in the tone of one who knew very well the workings of his master’s mind, “I can only say this. I’ve rarely seen his lordship in such a taking—and all over a lady!” He shook his head in disbelief.

“A lady? Miss Tate? Sits the wind in that quarter, eh? Me and the missus was wondering about that just the other day. She said she hadn’t never seen Miss Tate in such a frustration over a gentleman. ‘You mark my words, Moresby,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a wedding hereabouts before the cat can lick her ear.’ “

Hopkins snorted. “Doesn’t look much like it now, does it?”

Moresby drained a healthy measure of ale. “Ah, well then.” He sighed gustily. “The course of true love don’t ever run smooth, does it?”

To this, Hopkins deigned to nod in agreement.

Upstairs, Cord readied himself for bed. All evening he had been trying to work up in himself an anticipation of the plans he would set in motion when he returned to London. He could not, however, escape the depression that had seeped into his very bones.

He was sure he would not be able to sleep, but such was his weariness, that he fell into a deep slumber almost the moment after he blew out his bedside candle. He woke early, however, and knew he would not be able to recapture his repose. After a few moments spent in unpleasant reflections, he slid from his bed and donned the garments Hopkins had laid out for him the night before.

Unwilling to wake his man or the other servants betimes, he scribbled a note instructing Hopkins to drive the curricle to London later in the day with his luggage. Cord left his chamber quietly. He would travel to London the way he had come, on horseback. He moved to the stable, saddled Zeus and cantered from the stable yard.

The sky was barely tinged with gray in the east when he crested the rise from which he had first seen Wildehaven those three or so weeks ago. He drew on Zeus’s reins and turned to look back at the manor house. Dear God, he hated to go. For he was leaving some critical part of himself behind. His heart, he supposed he would say if he were one of those maundering poets who spoke of love as though they had the slightest notion of what they were talking about.

“Good-bye, Gillian,” her whispered.

He upbraided himself harshly. He’d be sobbing like a girl in a moment. He grasped the reins once more, but before he could wheel Zeus about, his attention was caught by a flash of movement beyond the house and somewhat to the west. He observed a horse and rider emerge from a small spinney crowning a nearby hill. Silently, they slid through the shadows into the faint early light of day before disappearing into a winding dale. The rider was slender, seeming too small for her mount, a huge, long-tailed gray.

Cord’s breath caught, and his heart leapt into his throat. Was it . . . ? No—he must be—Yes, by God, it was—! Spurring Zeus, he galloped toward the small figure, still some distance from the house, but headed unerringly in that direction.

The sound of her own hoofbeats masked his until he was within a hundred yards of her, but when she lifted her head at last, she swung her horse about and raced toward him, halting to dismount only when Zeus and Falstaff were nearly nose to nose. Cord, too, leaped from the saddle and, running to her, caught Gillian in his arms.

“Cord!” She was half laughing, half sobbing. “I did not know you would be leaving so early! Thank God, I caught you. Oh, Cord! Don’t go! Don’t go away from me!”

His only answer was to crush her mouth beneath his in a kiss that held all the anguished yearning of the night he had just spent. Nothing in all his experience had ever felt so good as the curve of Gillian’s back against is hand or the satin slide of her hair through his fingers. He could say nothing. He could only pour out his feelings against her lips. At last, he lifted his head to gaze at her.

“I am taking your appearance here at this moment,” he said gravely, “as an indication that your sentiments have undergone a change since yesterday.”

In answer, she reached up to take his face in her two hands and pull him to her. This time it was she who initiated a kiss that sent any doubts he might have had scurrying to the stars that still twinkled palely above them.

“To reply to your question, sir,” she breathed at last, “my sentiments have undergone no change at all. It is simply that yesterday I was too stupid to realize what they were. It wasn’t until the clock struck four a little while ago that this epiphany finally struck. Remembering your stated intention of leaving at the crack of dawn today, I leapt out of bed immediately in hopes that I could intercept you.” Her eyes, smoky and mysterious, smiled up at him. “Cord, can you forgive me for my buffle-headedness? I do love you so,” she concluded simply.