Edith Layton (8 page)

She raised her head, and looked into his eyes. “It’s not just my hair,” she said bleakly. “Look at me, Miles, if you can bear to.”

“You’re pale,” he said, scrutinizing her, “which will pass too.”

“I’m changed,” she said dully. “I’m white as a
fish belly. If that were all, I could deal with it. But look at me,” she insisted, her voice rising. “Have you really seen me? I have black circles under my eyes, my lips are ragged and gray. My arms are covered with black and blue marks and red round puckered scars, and there are slashes on my wrists and bruises on the insides of my elbows too.” She rocked with grief as she added, “And my breast and stomach are covered with so many dark red circles!”

He held her tighter to stop her rocking, but added lightly, “My dear, please listen to yourself. First you complain you’re too white, now you say you’re black and blue and red. Sounds amazing colorful to me.”

She didn’t smile. Her eyes, those lovely blue eyes, the only things to escape the ravages of illness, turned to his. “And my body…it’s wasted.”

“A fine thing to say about having married me,” he said.

She stared at him.

“I see you’ve lost your sense of humor too,” he said sadly. “Annabelle. I looked. I saw. I see. But believe me, I’m so glad you’re here to complain that what you look like hardly matters. If you don’t believe me when I say that you’ll regain your looks, at least believe that. You live. That’s foremost with me.”

“That’s guilt and duty speaking,” she said
softly. “Because there’s no other reason for you to want me alive, at least as I am now. Why should you? You hardly know me.”

That last was so true he couldn’t speak for a moment. She’d said what he’d been thinking, and ruing, for all these past days. But he’d commanded men in worse situations; he knew how to deal with shock. His own shock couldn’t be allowed to rule the day. “Thank you. But I am not quite a fool,” he said. “I wouldn’t have married a woman who was one. You’re clever, and you have—or did have—a sense of humor. You have a well-informed mind. That, I know.”

His hand went to caress her hair until he realized he couldn’t. He held her shoulders instead. She didn’t answer, but he felt her body grow less taut. She lowered her head to his chest again. “I am ashamed that you should see me so,” she whispered.

He chose to misunderstand her. “Don’t be. Why, even the best, bravest men can falter under fire or when they think their ship is sinking. So don’t worry. I’ll forget that I saw you losing your faith in me, if only for a moment.”

Now he heard it. Faintly, but definitely. He heard her giggle. And he, at last, could breathe again.

“I
’d like to sit in the sun, please,” Annabelle said.

Miles stopped in his tracks. He’d been about to put her down in a chair in the shade of an old linden tree, where she’d sat for the past several clement days. “Harry would have my head for it,” he finally said, looking at her where she lay in his arms. “You can’t risk a draft, and it’s breezy today.”

“The breeze is warm,” she said. “I’d like to feel the sun on my face.”

“You’ll get freckles,” he said, because he couldn’t tell her what he was really worrying about, which was what might happen to her poor exposed scalp if she sat in the full sunlight. She couldn’t wear a wig, not any from the local shops,
or even one of the fine ones they’d found up in the attic that had been left by previous occupants. Wigs had only been out of fashion for a quarter century. Before that, almost every occupant of the lodge, gentleman and lady, had worn one. Miles had searched the attics and come down dusty and triumphant to present a selection of them.

Annabelle had looked at the outmoded styles with horror.

But Mrs. Farrow had been as pleased at Miles when she saw them. “The good thing about human hair,” she’d assured Annabelle, “is that all they need is a good wash to be renewed.”

“I can style them whichever way you want, my lady,” Annabelle’s maid had promised.

There was a fantastic choice, the colors and textures of hair as varied as the people who had worn them. Annabelle selected three whose color almost exactly matched her own. When her maid had finished with them, and shown the wonders she’d done with scissors and brush, Annabelle’s eyes had lit up, the look of delight on her thin face momentarily reminding Miles of the woman she’d been.

But wearing them proved impossible. The pressure and weight of even the lightest of them hurt Annabelle’s head. When she tried again after a few more days when her headaches began to subside, the prickling of the newborn hair on her tender scalp made wearing a heavy wig more than
burdensome; it made the itching exquisite, she said. So she decided to wear lacy caps as she waited for her hair to grow back, and pretended that nothing would suit her better.

She looked quaint in her frilly caps, nothing like the beautiful Lady Annabelle, but rather like a starved little Pilgrim. It hardly mattered to Miles. He’d gotten used to this pale stranger. Her terrible sorrow was hard for him to bear, especially since he was sure she never complained about what really hurt her. She grumbled about the hardness of chairs and the coldness of rooms, but seldom about important things, and never about her appearance. He didn’t have to hide all the looking glasses in the house. After that first incident, she avoided them entirely now.

“Freckles?” she said crossly now. “Wouldn’t that be better than pallor? I won’t stay long in any case.” Her voice grew softer. “It’s just that I so want to feel the sunlight on my skin. Odd, isn’t it? The sun is a fashionable lady’s worst enemy, but now I yearn for it…I suppose because I’m not fashionable anymore. Oh! Enough of my self-pity, put me down before your arms start aching. And in the sunshine, please!”

He almost smiled at her comment about him getting tired of holding her, but it was too sad. He carried her out each day because he couldn’t bear to give the task to a footman. It was as physically easy for him as it was emotionally difficult to hold
his fragile wife in his arms. Her weight was so insignificant now he could bear her all day with the ease of carrying a handkerchief. She reminded him of a little spider monkey, and felt like one in his arms, making him think of the one his onetime mistress in Spain used to carry on her shoulder. In fact, when he picked Annabelle up the similarity of the sensations that came to him was immediate, striking, uncomfortable, and impossible to forget.

Annabelle had been a tiny woman made larger by her personality and those incredible good looks. Now she was merely a small woman. Her hair was the least of what had changed. Her bones were prominent—he’d never realized how small-boned she was, he’d been too busy noting her breasts and hips and rump, he supposed. That embarrassed him now.

She’d said that she’d had nothing to lose but her looks. He’d been appalled for both of them when she’d said it. One thing was sure: little of her beauty remained. She’d had fine features but now the gauntness of her face overwhelmed them. Her figure had vanished. So what did she have left?

She’d been so bitter and morose those first days of her convalescence he’d thought she’d lost her personality too. Now she was mending and grew less irritable every day. So it well might be that she’d recover everything illness had taken from her. Even if that were so, Miles wondered about their future together. If she regained her looks it
might be enough for her, but would it ever be enough for him again? Her illness had more than transformed her, it had made him think about the meaning of marriage.

Now he looked around the garden for a place to set her down, a place sunny enough to suit her whim, shady enough to ease his qualms. Being in England, sun was at a premium even in the summer so the gardens were all in full sunlight. This was a country lodge, but also a gentleman’s home, so the lawns all around it were closely cropped by sheep or neatly scythed by gardeners. There was forest, but it was a long walk away. Brooks and streams ran everywhere, and a clever former owner had even diverted one to run near the lodge. He’d constructed a concrete channel, lined by flowers that led to a pretty ornamental pool filled with water lilies and golden fish. But that was in full sunlight too.

Miles supposed he could set up an umbrella for his invalid wife, and should have done. But for now?

He compromised. There was a small bench set beneath a huge elm, and he put her down there in the dappled sunlight at the edge of the canopy of leaves. He tucked her wrap around her shoulders and then sat beside her, watching as she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky.

It was very quiet, nearing noon. The birds had
finished saluting the morning, and the only sound was the soft flutter of the leaves above them. Miles stretched out his legs and gave himself to the silence.

“You must be bored to bits,” Annabelle said suddenly. She didn’t open her eyes, and spoke as though to the sky. “Fine honeymoon for you this is, carrying an invalid from chair to bed and back again. You can go riding, you know.” She paused, swallowed, then added in that same cool voice, “You can even go away for a while if you wish. Back to London—or wherever.”

“Can I?” he said, carefully.

“Of course. It is, after all, only guilt and duty that keep you by my side, isn’t it?”

She still didn’t look at him. But he watched her. Her face seemed to have taken on a bit of color, and he wondered how much was the effect of the sun on that fragile skin, and how much the effect of whatever emotions she kept so strongly in check. It was no little thing for her to send her husband away on her honeymoon. He had few illusions about their relationship and knew it wasn’t as though she couldn’t bear to be without him. But she had no family or friends there, only servants. So it was noble as well as kind of her to offer, and he was touched and shocked by it. Whatever else he expected of her, it wasn’t that.

Duty and guilt? How could he deny it? He
couldn’t claim love or even friendship kept him there by her side. She’d never believe him. To say he stayed because of worry for her health was true, but too cold and even cruel.

“I’d look very fine leaving my wife on our honeymoon just because she was indisposed, wouldn’t I?” he said lightly. “And how many people would believe me if I said that?”

She seemed to relax. That, she seemed willing to believe.

“I’m not entirely a town creature,” he went on. “I do love this place. I can ride, as you say, or go walking. And I really enjoy fishing; the trout here are amazing.”

Her eyes snapped open, she turned her head to look at him. “Trout? Really?” she asked excitedly. “But you were a sailor. I thought you seafaring fellows only caught whales and dolphins and such.”

He laughed. “Few whales. But mackerel and many another fine dinner. Not much sport in that; ocean fishing is a matter of tides, luck, and strength. But trout! Now, they need a man with stealth, cunning, and skill. One who’s willing to practice to find the perfect cast, and research in order to pick the best lure. It’s a lot of bother for just trying to prove I’m smarter than a fish. But when—if—I do, it’s as delicious as any fine dinner—even if the fish gets away.”

“Yes,” she sighed, “I know. I wish I could join you. But I can scarcely walk, much less go wading
if I had to. As you say, it doesn’t take muscles. Still, I haven’t the strength to pull in a minnow.” Her spirits lifted again. “But tell me about them, please. How big do they run here? Where’s your favorite place to cast: deep pool or running stream? At dawn or dusk? And do you use flies that you make yourself, or do you buy them?”

He laughed. “You, a fisherwoman? You amaze me. Tell me, who designs your fishing gowns?”

“Not a fisherwoman, an
angler
, if you please,” she said, and then added wistfully, “I wear boys’ clothes—that is, I used to. I fished with my father when I was a girl. We’d leave at dawn and stay until dusk, or until we got something for our efforts. He had special boots made for me, and when we saw how my clothes looked after a dunking when I went too enthusiastically after a fish on the line, he let me wear breeches.”

Miles couldn’t imagine this woman ever wearing boys’ clothing, wading in icy water, casting a line, pulling a fish from a hook. Not as she had been before her illness, or as she was now.

“I was very good at it too,” she said, raising her chin as though she’d heard his thoughts. “I used a blue elver fly, my favorite lure. It took me a while to learn to cast; in fact, I almost didn’t get beyond that point. A bad cast made me the recipient of a hook in my arm. It had to be cut out, and left a scar. See?” she asked, pushing up a tight-fitting sleeve to prove it to him.

She pointed to the thin white line on her forearm, looked up, and saw his expression. There was more than pity, there was shock and sorrow. Then she realized that the scar was hardly discernible among all the purple and yellow bruises and cuts on her thin blue-white arm. She hastily pushed her sleeve back down and raised her head higher. “I suppose it’s not so bad now, but then I thought Mama would have a fit,” she said briskly. “My father said it would be a badge of honor. Well,” she admitted, “he had to say something to stop both our tears.”

“Call that a scar?” Miles said quickly, schooling his expression to one of mock scorn. “See this?” He tapped his chin. “From a cannon. I got it in battle.”

“Oh my!” she said, diverted. “Were you in much danger?”

“From myself,” he said with a laugh. “Because, you see, I got the wound quite literally from a cannon. Some fool hadn’t tied it down, and it went rolling during a groundswell. I tried to be a hero and secure it myself. It almost secured me, to the deck, and forever. Now, if you want to see a battle scar, there’s one on my leg, and another on my hip…” He paused, and using a mock spinsterish air, added, “But only if you ask me nicely, and when we know each other better.”

Annabelle went still. He realized it was perhaps not the best thing for him to have said to his wife,
a woman who should have known where all his scars were by now. “So,” he said too brightly. “As to your wound, I suppose that put an end to your fishing lessons?”

“Oh no,” she said. “We went out again, though we both were more careful after that. I got quite good, actually, although I never caught the grandfather of all trout my father told me about. I’m glad of it. I think I caught sight of him once, sleeping in the shallows, the sunlight shining on his scales. He was huge. Wily and strong, my father said. We named him Uncle George and my father insisted we say good morning to him before we started fishing, then bid him good night before we left, even though we couldn’t see him. If we didn’t, he said, we’d never catch a fish again because he was the king of the stream.”

She smiled in reminiscence, “I don’t think my father wanted to catch him. In fact, if he ever did I’m convinced he threw him back, because Uncle George made that pool, and without him it would have just been fishing.”

“I tell you what,” Miles said on a sudden inspiration. “Would you like to watch me fish? We can take a chair for you, maybe in a few days when you’re feeling stronger and it’s a little warmer. My favorite spot is under some overhanging branches, so it’s cool there even on mild days. It’s in a deep part of the pool, near the rocks, just before the streambed takes a dip and the water starts
rushing away. It won’t be as much fun as fishing for you but I’m sure you’ll enjoy criticizing my cast and my lures.”

He smiled as he said it and saw her beginning to smile in return. “You know, I think I’ll take you there now just to see it—if you’d like.”

“I would.”

“Then let me get a warmer wrap for you,” he said, rising. “While I’m at it, I think I’ll send a lad to the village to see if we can get you an invalid chair. We won’t have to use it for long,” he added, seeing her suddenly stricken expression. “If you really needed one I’m sure Harry would have said so. He wrote out a long list of instructions before he left and didn’t so much as mention one.” Harry had also cautioned that they shouldn’t be deceived by her continuing recovery. He’d confided that she wasn’t out of danger and would be in jeopardy until she got her strength back. So they had to be careful with her. Surely, Miles thought, diversion would speed that recovery.

“Now that I think of it, it’s an excellent idea; I can wheel you everywhere. I’ll even get you a knobby walking stick,” Miles added, seeing her distaste for the idea. “You can wave it and grumble, and smack me smartly if I take a wrong turn. If you’re going to play the invalid for a while you might as well give a complete performance, right?”

She grinned. It was no longer the provocative expression it had been, but it brightened her white, tired face.

“I’ll just be a moment,” he said. He waved his arm to catch the attention of a gardener working near the house, signaling him over. “I won’t leave you alone,” he told Annabelle as the old man began shambling toward them. “Here’s a fellow to keep you company while I’m gone and see to any need that might arise, and he can entertain you with talk of turnips and thistles.”