Elisabeth Fairchild (22 page)

Elaine tucked the unopened missive into her pocket, and thanked Mrs. Olive and asked her again if she was sure she did not care to come with them on their picnic--knowing she would say no, and yet wishing her to feel welcome.

Mrs. Olive smiled and waved, and shook her head. “It is enough of a walk for these old legs just to go to the posting house and back every day, my dear.”

They set off without her.

The sun was shining, the day unusually still, the ground they must cover gently sloping along the cliff’s edge, an unobstructed view of the ocean on their left, on their right the boulder strewn rise of Carn Llidi where burial chambers had been found beneath the stones at the top. Ahead Carn Twic gave shoulder to the slope, behind it Carn Hen. It was a perfect day to study wildflowers, perhaps to do a few watercolor studies of blushing mallow and the long-stalked mayweed, cheery white chamomile and purple sea asters, pale blue sea holly, and star-like stonecrop. And as they walked butterflies accompanied them, flitting white and brown and orange.

They were slowed by the weight of two great baskets they carried with them, one containing a little press used to flatten flowers, also watercolors, paper, brushes, and a book on the proper and common names of England’s native blossoms. The second basket was filled with everything needed for a picnic, and a perfect picnic it would be. The potential of such a day was undeniable.

The waves made music, a great rhythmic, unending hushing sound as the water rushed against the foot of Craig y Creigwyr, the cliff’s name almost as musical as the ocean’s voice. Elaine was reminded of the day she and Lord Wharton, and Felicity had walked the walls of Chester, and discussed why a river might change its course.

“Perhaps the river tires of one bed and decides to try another,” he had said.
Would I tire of such a man’s bed? Could such a man be as constant and as comforting as the ceaseless sound of the sea?

She liked to imagine he could. Liked to imagine all sorts of things in connection with the memory of his lips upon her forehead. She thought he meant to kiss her lips. She imagined at times that he had, a magic moment that would have changed everything. She would know the taste of him had he claimed her mouth. She would know if the rush of desire within her whenever she thought of him was real.

However, if he had she would have been gone from this place by now, not trudging along a cliff side imagining his return, imagining him on his way back to them this very moment. How much like the rushing of the waves were her thoughts of him. She wished him there, and she hoped he might stay away, that the magic of his kiss upon her forehead might never be proved mundane, or meaningless. For the present, like the waves, it embodied the idea of eternity. It seemed part of a perfect day along with the heat of the sun and the brisk breeze that tugged strands of hair from her careful crown of braids.

The day slowed to their walking rhythm, baskets swinging, a relaxed and liquid pulse. The water’s heartbeat filled their senses, became part of them, like the keening of the gulls, the piping of the terns, the languidly rocking flight of a dozen gulls.

This, the westernmost fingertip of land that stuck out along the north edge of Whitesands Bay, was a favorite place to explore, first because of spectacular ocean views, sparkling in every shade of green and blue and silver as it stretched seemingly forever to the north, while to the south, the waters must bend to wend through Ramsay Sound, fanning around the spectacularly high, rocky cliffs of Ramsay Island, where seals barked and auks nested. Here, too, lurked the horseshoe inlet to the secluded sands of Porthmelgon where the surf curled in fine white plumes, and beyond, stretched the wide, golden sweep of Whitesands Bay.

Another reason they came regularly to St. David’s Head was because the area made a natural outdoor classroom. Here one might see flora and fauna in abundance, birds, butterflies and moths, wildflowers and sea grasses, rocks and sand and sea. Here lurked a fascinating pocket of ancient history, too. Man had long walked these coastal pathways, leaving his mark upon the land. The cliffs were pock-marked with caves, and topped by an ancient burial chamber guarded by a huge flat capstone raised on a singular vertical pillar. Coetan Arthur it was called, and like Tomen Bala a great king was reputedly buried beneath the great stones. Carn Llidi loomed nearby, with more leaning stones, and in the wildflower carpeted valley in between, if one looked carefully, ancient dry stonewall ruins, ditches, ramparts and hut circles were still to be seen beneath the bindweed, heather, stonecrop and gorse.

The sun warmed their faces, the sea breezes brought color to their cheeks, and the unstinting and endless beauty of the place brought smiles and a sense of great peace to their hearts. Felicity was intrigued by the notion that her father had seen this place before her--that his father before him had thought to bring him here.

The child felt free to speak of the long ago death of her unknown mother at the great burial mound, the funeral that had taken her father away, that he might honor his father’s passing, the grandfather she would never know.

In the hushing rhythm of the waves washing the rocks below, Elaine felt the pulse of earth, wind, and sun. She heard in the never ending purl of water on stone, the passage of the days without Valentine Wharton become weeks, weeks become months. Every morning she clothed herself in dresses he had insisted she have, dresses delivered to her by post--cloth and thread that touched her skin, as he had touched her--wrapping itself around her almost as tightly as he wound himself into her thoughts. Every day she thought of the quirking amusement of his lips, the intensity of his gaze, the teasing tone of his voice.

And as blue gray waves rushed to the shore, turning back on its own froth of foaming white, and threw itself against the rocks once more, she wondered what was to become of this rush of feeling, of the terrible wave of yearning within her when next they met.

Elaine waited to open Anne’s letter until after they had eaten, and Felicity was thoroughly absorbed in faithfully reproducing the delicate star-marked pink bindweed with her watercolors.

Elaine saved the letter like a bon-bon to savor. Once eaten it would be gone, this brief contact with her dearest sister, so far away. With fingers that trembled a little in anticipation Elaine cracked the wax seal, the paper blindingly white in the sunshine, her sister’s familiar hand stirring feelings of almost unbearable homesickness.

“What is this I hear of you?” The words leapt from the page, the hand in which her sister wrote more erratic than usual. “Rumor would have it that the notorious Valentine Wharton has made another conquest in his bastard daughter’s governess!”

Elaine stared at the page in disbelief. A tern gave cry overhead, a lonely, worried sound, its’ shadow flickering over the stones of the nearby burial carn, the darkness flashing momentarily between her and the sun. She read the lines again and then again, and still they did not make sense to her.

Who started such a rumor? Why should anyone say such a horrible thing? Could this be Palmer, rearing ugly head again? Would he dare to so brutally besmirch her name? Monster that he was!

She read on, hoping to glean some clue. What rose from the page was evidence of another monster, the three-headed kind.

“It seems the widowed Lady Wharton pushes her son toward marriage. The odds-on-favorite is the youngest Biddington heiress. Did you not meet her? Is she deserving of him? It is predicted one of them will soon take up residence at Wharton Manor. Please write,” Anne bade, “And tell me if this can be true. Are you ruined, dear sister? Are you in danger of being cast off as soon as Wharton takes a wife? If so, do not despair, I know a woman with children in need of a governess, who will take you in on my recommendation, should you require such a post.”

The words swam before her, the world swam, too, as the hush of the waves went on without change, unmoved by the shifting sands of change beneath her feet.

The sound of hoof beats approaching roused her from the swim of words. Head reeling Elaine observed a black horse, a man astride--cape flying out behind him--horse and rider moving as one. And for a moment, observing him, Elaine felt the world fall away, the cries of the birds stilled, the ocean hushed, her heart thudding in time with hoof beats. Here it was, what she had been waiting for. This horse. This rider.

No mistaking him. Valentine Wharton had the finest seat she had ever witnessed. Like the knight in the fairy tale, like a painted illustration, Lord Wharton approached on a beautiful black animal with arching neck and a white star on his forehead.

In the distance, following him, three more horses, their pace more circumspect, three women riding sidesaddle, hems fluttering, cockaded hats bobbing.

No fairy tale, this. Unless a three-headed Gorgon figured into the story.

Felicity abandoned her paints, left her painting to the wind, and ran toward the horse shouting, “Papa!”

In a trice Wharton swung down from the saddle, arms wide. His daughter, once so reserved, ran straight into those widespread arms. Lifting Felicity high, laughing, he swung her like a bell, words flowing between him and the child far more freely than Elaine had ever before had the pleasure to hear.

They progress
, she thought, and wondered,
What of us?

Val saw Miss Deering and wished that he might run to her in the same overjoyed manner he ran to his daughter. His dear Deering wore a blue dress, not black. A dress he had never seen before, one of the dresses he had insisted upon, he supposed. It fit the shape of her nicely. He had thought about the shape of her often in his journey, over paperwork, in the company of his relentlessly mournful mother.

Would any woman miss him so much in passing? Miss Deering had sprung to mind. Mrs. Olive had written to say his daughter missed him, and that Miss Deering asked after him every day.

He had imagined the cool peace of her, like the lake, imagined cradling the heat of her foot in the palm of his hand once more, the marzipan sweetness of her forehead beneath his lips. And more. He had imagined far more.

He wondered what she would have to say to him after such a long absence, after all that had been said by those who thought the worst of them. Perhaps she knew nothing of that. He hoped that might be the case. Too painful, otherwise, and he would not bring her pain--in any way.

It was as a result of the gossip he did not go to her first. He was glad that Felicity ran to him, glad she was glad to see him, glad that absence compelled her to rush into his arms. How good it felt. How pleasant the rush of words with which she meant to tell him all that he had missed.

He would have liked to swing Miss Deering in his arms just as fervently, would have listened even more closely had she rushed to spill a font of words in his ears, but she maintained her distance--the governess in the background--as it should be--not as he wanted it to be.
He cast glances her way, more than once, but had the feeling his glances were ill-timed, that she turned her eyes on him more than once as well, and yet never their gazes met.

She stood watching, waiting, relegated to the background again, part of the scenery, the cause of his troubles in the eyes of these women--his party--two of the Biddington sisters, and Penny. These women, along with his mother, had decided it was their job to keep him out of trouble.

He focused on his daughter, lifting her into his saddle to lead her toward those who followed. They must all get a taste of the seaside he was told. He knew their real reason for coming. Meddlers in scandal, well meaning, every one. Damsels in shining armor who would rescue a knight in distress from the dreadful dragon of his daughter’s governess.

E
laine gathered together their watercolors, brushes and the flower press. She knew what she must do, knew how things had changed--in an instant--in a letter--in the haughty glances from the Biddington sisters--in the pity to be seen in Penny Foster’s steady gaze. She watched the youngest Biddington flirt with Val, establishing her claim on him, making sure all saw, making sure she saw.

Felicity was swept up in their gaiety, their laughter, presents and prancing horses. She spoke to them of wildflowers, curly dock and arrow-grass, couch-grass and thistle, earning praise for her cleverness in knowing the names. No credit due the now notorious governess, who earned only arch glances, and an occasional whispered comment behind shielding hands.

Elaine gathered up the baskets, their contents lighter now, the picnic eaten. No need to beg Felicity’s assistance. She was pack horse strong. She quietly withdrew from their happy gathering, headed back down the coastal path, the day spoiled, her mood spoiled, baskets banging against her legs, arms growing weary.

Time to pack her bags. Time to advertise for a new position.

And yet. Who would take her? A young woman made notorious, in not one, but two separate gentlemen’s households.

The baskets bruised her, heavier than she had anticipated--certainly more awkward, and yet she would not ask for help, could not, from this group who found her wanting in so many other ways.

She shifted the weight and went on, along the pathway that led past Arthur’s burial stone, past the ancient remnants of a fort, fortifying her own resolve to be strong, to manage this turn of events with as much competency and calm as she could muster.

She would not look back to catch a final glimpse of Valentine, of her dear Felicity. She would not. She would put one foot in front of another and make her way through centuary and sandsedge, sandwort and evening primrose, past the bright blue funnels of the Viper’s Bugloss, and the notched crimson petals of Bloody Crane’s-bill. She must remember the black and white wave top flights of the guillemot and the razorbill. This might be her last chance to see them, her last walk along the coast, back to the house called David’s Rest, to the comfort and support of Mrs. Olive’s able arms. She had only to pack a bag, and make her way to the posting house. A posting coach would carry her away--to Anne--to the promised position.