Elisabeth Fairchild (19 page)

Heart aching, Elaine leaned back in the long grass, and hid her thoughts there, and stared at the deepening blue of the sky rather than confront the color of her feelings.

A
voice sounded from the pathway, rousing Elaine from an unplanned doze to the sight of a sky gone deep turquoise and gold, the shadows wrong, too long, the grass, the lake tinged with amber.

Penny Shelbourne. The voice was Penny Shelbourne’s. She said something about the view to be had from such a vantage point.

Elaine’s first instinct was to jump up and say How do you do? and indeed the view is quite spectacular, but when she opened her mouth what came out was a breath catching, “Ow!”

Her right leg had gone to sleep. Her right foot did not seem to be connected to her leg at all, and her left foot had no feeling whatsoever until she moved it, a wooden limb. A pang shot the length of both legs when she moved them, all pins and needles.
How long did I sleep?

And then her whole body seemed for a moment to go to sleep, to sink lower in the shadows that stretched out to wrap her. Valentine Wharton topped the lip of Tomen Bala. No mistaking his silhouette against the sinking sun, golden hair gleaming, backlit, his shoulders, his torso, his horseman’s thighs grown familiar--even beloved. Elaine had to admit she loved him in that moment, in the twinge of jealousy she felt in watching him extend a helping hand to another woman--the hand whose glancing touch she had grown to treasure.

So close they stood for a moment, he and Penny Shelbourne. Closer, surely, than was entirely necessary? Certainly closer than she liked to see.

The shadow of the mountain reached for her, claimed her, the ground suddenly colder, damp. Elaine’s hands trembled. Her legs tingled with a thousand pins and needles, and a shiver ran the length of her spine as Valentine Wharton said, “I am glad to have this moment alone, Penny, just we two. Many is the time I have longed for it, and we were always interrupted.”

Dear God!
Elaine closed her eyes. Did he mean to make love to a married woman? His best friend’s wife? Was Valentine Wharton all and more than she had ever imagined?

Elaine wished she might stop up her ears and fly away from Tomen Bala. What to do now? She could not interrupt, in the very moment when he complained against it. She gave her leg an irritable shake and bit down on her lip in order not to cry out. She could not stand up in this moment without falling down, but neither could she simply sit here eavesdropping, without a word. They must eventually realize she lurked in the shadows, a snake in the grass. She must say something. But what? No timing it well, simply do the thing.

Open your mouth, Elaine! Stand up, and shake out your cloak, and your legs.
And then what? Hobble past them without falling down?

Was it possible? Could it be done? No. Her vocal chords were as paralyzed as her legs, for in that moment Val--her beautiful Val--took Penny’s hand in his.

Elaine could not look away. Nor could she speak, jaw frozen, breath trapped.

Her heart still went on beating. It’s steady thump sounded in her ears. The same pulse throbbed in wrist, and fingertips. These hands he had on more than one occasion had reason to touch. Her fingers had tingled then almost as much as her toes did now. Numbness? Did he render her numb as well as mute? No. Every nerve ending seemed awakened to a new and tingling awareness, as if she had never before understood the sensitivity of her own flesh, nor the power of touch.

Did Valentine Wharton stir the same tingling awareness in Penny Shelbourne? It pained Elaine to think it must be so.

“I have been beastly to you,” he said, voice low, apologetic.

Beastly? In what way, beastly?

“I cannot blame it all on the spirits,” he said. “Though they may have misled me. Not a day has passed that I do not regret having so abused you.”

Abused her? What has he done to this woman? Do I really want to know?

“Can you--will you--forgive me?”

Elaine buried her face in the sweet smell of the grass, ashamed. This apology was not meant for her ears. To continue listening was unpardonable, and yet there was no getting up now--not now--no explaining why she had not announced her presence earlier.

Penny Shelbourne responded by removing her hand from his and taking a step away. Elaine risked a glance as the silence between them lengthened. Did she mean to refuse him? Surely no woman could refuse such a moving plea.

He seemed to hold his breath. God knew Elaine held hers.

Penny Shelbourne said at last. “I am glad of your apology, Val. I agree. We must put the past behind us. Felicity and Alex love us both too much for us not to be good friends. But, as for forgiving you--”

The line of his back tensed, his leg flexing, as if he braced for a blow. Elaine tensed as well, a tension born of sympathy, and the well-deserved worry that she must eventually be found.

“I forgave you long ago,” Penny Shelbourne said.

Elaine wanted to loose a heavy sigh of relief, but dared not risk making a noise. Val’s shoulders visibly relaxed.

She paced away from him, this woman he had once loved. “How could I not forgive the wild young man who has become such a loving father to Felicity? She does well with you, Val. You should be proud.”

He turned to face the lake. “Give all thanks to Miss Deering. She molds Felicity into a model young lady, not I.”

Elaine almost choked to hear such an admission. She buried her face in grass again--a mistake--the grass tickled her nose. She came very close to sneezing. Not true, Elaine thought, and yet his praise pleased her--especially praise directed to this woman he loved. It renewed her intention to stop this despicable eavesdropping. Model young lady, indeed!  She focused on flexing her toes, on moving her great, gallumphing, wooden block feet. She must not listen to another word. She must slither down the side of Tomen Bala without their ever knowing she was there. Without a sound. A daunting task, but she would do it--she would--as soon as she could move all of her limbs without crying out involuntarily.

“You underestimate your impact, Valentine Wharton,” Penny said from above her. “On all the women in your life. You always have.” She laughed. “I am sorry to have underestimated this governess of yours.”

Elaine froze, afraid to move, all ears. This she must hear. It directly concerned her, after all.

“I know not to rely on gossip for the true accounting of a woman,” Penny said.

Gossip? Memory stirred--something Felicity had said. Penny Foster had borne the brunt of a great deal of malicious gossip on the child’s behalf. She had allowed an entire village to mistakenly believe Felicity was her illegitimate daughter, rather than the local strumpet’s baseborn brat. But what had gossip to do with her? The true accounting of her.

“How wrongly the gossips misjudged you, Penny Foster.” Valentine Wharton’s voice softened, went husky. “I misjudged you.”

How warm his tone. How unexpectedly gentle. Intimate.

Pins and needles in my heart.

“Penny Shelbourne now,” she corrected him.

“I have not forgotten.”

Wistful. He sounded wistful. Elaine closed her eyes to that, an echoing emotion in her own heart. This had nothing to do with her.

“You will always be Penny Foster to me.”

“Town touch-me-not?”

He barked out a laugh. “Cupid told you?”

“He did.”

Old memories. Mutual memories. Definitely nothing to do with her. Elaine decided she really ought to be crawling down Tomen Bala now. Hands and knees. Could she do it on hands and knees? At least far enough that she might stand and not be seen by them?

“A cruel name,” he was saying.

He was cruel. He abused her? Misjudged her? And yet she responded with undeniable affection. Certainly forgiveness.

“I will always be grateful to you, Val.”

“Grateful? How so?”

“For bringing your friend Cupid home to Appleby.”

He did not sound as happy as she. “A great many things might have been different had I not.”

“Yes. We would not have met. I might not now be a mother.”

“Or married,” said he, and Elaine chose that moment to make her move, to shift her position with a wince, with a sudden rattle of shifting stone.

“Or married,” Penny agreed. Elaine stopped, hand to mouth, the pain shooting through her legs excruciating. Another moment. She must wait another moment then try again.

“I was well on my way to becoming the village spinster.”

“I was in love with you, you know?” He paced the perimeter of Tomen Bala, treading closer, his words loud and clear.

Oh God!
Elaine’s buried her face in the sweet smell of crushed grass, and flexed her toes, and flexed her legs, forcing the burn, the pain. She did not want to hear this. How it pained her to hear this.

Penny seemed to think he spoke in jest. “In love with me?” she scoffed. “You demonstrated an odd way of professing your affections, Val.”

His laugh was harsh, his voice tight with pain. “The spirits did my talking. They have, I’m sure you’ve noticed, singularly foul mouths.”

Elaine stifled a laugh, hands flying to cover her mouth. She devoutly hoped neither of them heard her sudden breathy exhalation. Strange how one might wish to laugh and cry simultaneously.

“You are now a sober man.”

“I drink tea.” His pacing brought him closer. “Can you picture it?”

Elaine could picture him no other way.

“You will do differently next time.”

“Next time?” His voice sounded as if it came from directly overhead.

Elaine fell still, afraid he must hear the slightest of moves.

“Next time you fall in love. You will, you know. A Valentine cannot go unloved through life, broken-hearted. It goes against grain.”

Elaine held her breath, awaiting his answer, afraid he must see her.

He laughed, no mirth in it. A pained sound. Lord, he sounded as if he stood directly above her on the slope.

“You think a broken heart so easily mended?” he asked gruffly.

Sadness washed over her, as gentle as the sound of the lake below.

“Mine was broken, Val.” Penny reminded him. “And now is mended.”

He whirled and paced away, his voice grown more distant, his tone ironic, even bitter. “And I did the breaking, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Not a kindness.”

Elaine lifted her head. She could just make him out in the twilight. Had he seen her? Surely not.
Please God, not.

“You may find this strange,” he drawled, his distant, uncaring manner recovered. “But there are those who persist in finding me kind, despite all my failings.”

Elaine caught her breath.

Penny spoke carefully, voice grown distant. “I have always seen the potential of kindness in you, Val.”

He laughed brusquely, the noise a dismissal of her claim. “When?”

“Dearest Val.” She sounded in no mood to grow maudlin, her voice amused, hard to make out, as if she had begun to climb down Tomen Bala. “I shall always fondly remember the lad who kissed me first.”

With that she was gone, into a darkness that left only the scent of her perfume to linger, and the memory of her words.

Elaine remained very still in the grass where she lay, deeply moved by their exchange, waiting for Valentine Wharton to tire of the view, to follow his childhood friend. Waiting for him to go.  She could not relax until he was gone, could not rid herself entirely of the pins and needles until she relaxed.

With utter surprise and disbelief she heard him say, “And what of your first kiss, Miss Deering? Will you remember it fondly?”

She lay face down in the grass a moment, too stunned to move, breath held. Had he really known she was there the whole time?”

“Come, come. Don’t be shy,” he coaxed from the growing gloom above her. “You cannot think I would not see you.”

V
al studied the slope below, sure he had seen the pale moon of her face, illuminated by the last, saffron and salmon rays of the sun, the shape of her cloak a shadow among the shadows. And there, he could make out the peak of her bonnet, the black splay of wool against the grass. His imagination did not run away with him. The all too proper and appropriate Miss Elaine Deering sat up with a most unladylike moan.

“I am so very sorry not to have revealed my presence, earlier.” Her voice floated up to him, irresolute, uncertain. “I ought to have said something, my lord.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “You bloody well ought to have.”

“I had no intention of eavesdropping.”

“Really?” he drawled. The word could not be more caustic, burning with well-deserved scorn.

“It was quite impossible, however, to Ow! OW! Ow! extricate myself, Ow! from where I was sitting without . . .”

The heat of his anger cooled in an instant. “Are you injured?” He vaulted through long shadows down the gloom-touched side of Tomen Bala to stand over her, breathing hard. Had she fallen? Perhaps been lying here unconscious? Why did she not get up?

She muttered meakly, “Injured. Not at all. Ow! Ow!”

“And yet you would seem to be in pain?”

He knelt beside her in grass gone indigo, the scent of it, the scent of her rising to meet him. He closed his eyes, the better to drink it in. Sweet almond. Grassy almond. She always smelled of almond--marzipan--his favorite sweet. He opened his eyes with a mind to taste such a sweet, wondering what her lips tasted of--her mouth--his skulker’s lips. Those lips were his for the taking here in the growing darkness where she had dared to lurk--listening.

She waggled her limbs back and forth rather furiously beneath the dark folds of gown and cloak. A most curious and amusing amount of fabric twitching, drawing his attention to her nether regions.

“Ow. It is only that my feet have gone completely numb.”

“Fell asleep, did you? Or does crouching in the dark listening to other people’s conversations have a tendency to cut off one’s circulation?”