Elisabeth Fairchild (23 page)

“Miss Deering!”

Her runaway thoughts were brought up short by his cry, by the thudding pursuit of his horse’s hooves. She turned, dreading this moment, anticipating it, too, the baskets like anchors, and yet she would not set them down in the grass, would not show the slightest sign of weakness. This moment must be borne, no matter how dreadful. She would bid him farewell. Surely Valentine Wharton understood better than most how to say a graceful farewell.

She waited for the horse to come charging to a halt, the animal magnificent, no less so his rider. Val was just as she remembered, fair and vigorous, his hair guinea gold in the sunshine, his eyes as blue as the sky.

“You run away?” A statement of fact rather than accusation, and yet there was a hint of pique in his voice, in the puzzled knit of his brow.

“I do not run, I walk.”

“Do not quibble with me.”

“I did not presume to consider myself necessary to the happiness of your return.”

“Is this the first thing you have to say to me?” No doubt of his irritation now. Indeed he was scowling at her.

“I--”

“No—“
How are you?”
No –
“It’s good to see you?”
No—
“I’ve missed you?”

“No, I—”

“How are you, Elaine? I would have you know you
are
necessary to the happiness of my return.”

Her breath caught in her surprise he should admit as much.

He did not wait for her response. “You’ve a sun-kissed look. A lovely color in your cheeks. Are you as well as you appear, my Deering? I see you thrive in my absence.”

My Deering.
He called her his Deering! This was going to be harder than she had anticipated. He was not going to make it easy for her.

She took a deep breath. Still her voice shook. “Thank you, my lord. It is sunshine and sea air that improve my complexion, not your absence.”

He swung down from the horse, took the heaviest of the two baskets, and smiled at her, really smiled at her, as if he were so very glad to hear her admit as much, as if he were extremely pleased to see her. “Sunshine and sea air becomes you.”

“You are very kind.”

He smiled, said softly, just above the noise of the waves. “You’ve no idea how often I have longed to be reminded.”

She stifled the joy that threatened to well from her heart into her eyes. No time for tears. She must make the best of this moment. “I hear I must congratulate you.”

“Oh?”

“That you are soon to be married.”

“Ah.” His brows rose. His eyes narrowed against the brightness of the sun, or was it against her claim, as he glanced over his shoulder. “Heard that, have you? Yes, I hope to name a date as soon as I am out of mourning.”

Black. He wore black, for unhappy reason, and a color he hated. And yet in this moment as her heart mourned his verification that he was lost to her, black seemed the perfect color.

“Your trip. Was it fruitful?”

“Well enough. I am told Father’s funeral was everything he would have wanted it to be. Very well attended. A great deal of pomp. Very conservative--even to the shedding of tears.”

“You arrived too late for it?”

“A day.” Regret pulled at his mouth. “I did not ride fast enough.”

“How does your mother hold up?”

“She came with me. Thought the sun and sea might do her good. You shall meet her soon enough.”

“I see you bring quite a few in your party.”

“All of them hoping to boost my mother’s spirits. All of them determined to—” he sighed, “visit Wales.”

“You are fortunate to have such caring friends. Indeed, may I wish you every happiness.”

“I hope you may.”

“I hate to give you short notice, but--”

He laughed. How dare he laugh?

“Do not tell me you mean to leave? You cannot, you see. I shall never survive them without you.” He was amused, as was his tendency, but in this moment she could not bear it that he should doubt her resolve, or belittle her feelings in any way, and so she snapped out rather briskly.

“I do mean to leave. I shall. Almost at once.”

“Why so hasty?”

“I--I simply think it best--most--”

“Appropriate?” A touch of anger in his voice as he fell into step beside her, the horse reacting to his emotion, dancing away rather than follow in an orderly fashion. “You could not be more wrong. It would be very inappropriate of you to leave with so many people . . .”

He put down the basket to soothe the horse, lowering his voice.

“With so many preparations to make. I had plans to show you Grassholm Island and the castle at Pembroke.”

“I am sorry. I cannot stay. You cannot ask me to stay.” She plucked up the basket he had abandoned and set off again.

He and the horse followed, noisy in the grass. “Afraid I might try to kiss you again?”

She paused to look back at him, stricken. “This is inappropriate topic, surely.”

He reached for the basket again his hand brushing hers. “Not at all. It is quite the opposite, you see, for I am determined that we should . . .”

Whatever he had determined, it was interrupted by the thunderous arrival of his party, three horses bearing down on them at once, one of the Biddington sisters insisting, “You simply must show us these burial chambers Felicity claims are to be visited hereabout, Valentine.”

“And prehistoric ruins!” her sister chimed in. It seemed wrong there were only two sisters present, as if they were in some way missing a limb, or at the very least, a head. “It sounds all too fascinating.” She tossed her head coquetishly, curls like snakes in the wind. The suggestion sounded forced.

Felicity slid down from the position she had taken behind Penny, asking, “Might I ride double, papa, on your new horse?”

Val held up the basket in his hand. “Miss Deering requires assistance with her burden, first. I shall just see her to the house and then return to you with all haste.”

His suggestion was met with a chorus of feminine disappointment.

It was Penny Shelbourne who silenced all complaints in saying, “I’ve no interest in burial chambers, and find myself rather weary of riding. I will be happy to help Miss Deering with her baskets, Val. Please stay and entertain your guests.”

She caught him off guard. He could not refuse her offer--did not refuse it.

Elaine led the way, back along the path she and Felicity had taken earlier. Penny Shelbourne had entrusted her mount to Felicity’s care, this unexpected privilege pleasing the child immensely, and ensuring that her father must go along to see that she could handle the unfamiliar horse.

Very cleverly managed. They had all been very cleverly managed.

Elaine kept her eyes on the sea, on the beauty of sky and sunlit water, on the view of high-cliffed Ramsay Island and the distant sandy curve of Whitesands Bay. Beneath them, at the foot of the cliffs, the pleasant sheltered beach of Porthmelgon gave glimpse of sand and shale, sandpipers and gulls. A cormorant fanned its wings on a rock ledge near the water. Above her black-capped terns keened and dove, the bright red of their legs and beaks stark against the white of their bellies. Great grey-backed gulls wheeled, riding the wind. Elaine took it all in, with an undeniable sense of desperation, of loss, as if sand slipped from beneath her feet, as if the sea would sweep her away on a wave. She had the feeling she would never again see St. David’s Head on such a day, in such a light, the wildflowers in bloom.

“It is beautiful here,” Penny Shelbourne shifted the basket she carried from one hand to the other. “I had no idea how beautiful. I can see why Val likes it here.”

Elaine nodded, turning to face this woman who had been so good to Felicity, whom Valentine Wharton had once loved. “You can see why his father made a point to bring him here. Why he makes a point now to bring Felicity.”

“His father?” Penny Shelbourne seemed surprised, as if she should have known. And then she dredged knowledge from the depths of her memory. “Oh, yes, when he was a lad. About Felicity’s age.”

Elaine nodded.

“I begin to think the seaside suites him better than the mountains,” Penny said. “It is as wild as he. As changeable.”

“And yet he is drawn to the quiet of mountains, the grandeur. He said once, “One might find oneself in such scenery.””

The basket swayed between them. A tern rode the breeze above, piping plaintively, “Val said this?”

“He said,” Elaine paused to get the wording right,
“mountains helped him to place himself in proper perspective to the battlefield, to the dragons of war.”
”

Penny looked at her with an arrested expression. “Strange you should say that. Cupid once called Valentine a dragon on the battlefield.”

“They are both men of courage,” Elaine said. “To risk their lives for crown and country.”

“Like the knights of old. When I first saw Val on that horse . . .”

“A beautiful animal. He a wonderful horseman.”

Penny smiled, nodded. “More knight than dragon.”

Elaine had to agree. “Felicity would be pleased with such an analogy, though I think his lordship would have little patience with it.”

“You know a great deal, Miss Deering.”

Elaine did not know what to say to that. There seemed an undercurrent in the way Penny Shelbourne said things.

“Surely you must see he comes to rescue a damsel in distress.” Penny spoke gently--too gently.

She meant he came to rescue her, the governess whose reputation was ruined. Elaine was left speechless, and Penny, it seemed, had nothing more to say. They walked in silence for awhile, the voice of the sea constant, the song of the waves against the shore, the squabbling of the birds.

“Why tell me this? As you see, I am in no need of rescue.”

“You are. You do.”

“From gossip? But none of it is true.”

Penny regarded her a moment, very seriously. “It does not matter.”

“Of course it matters. Truth matters.”

“I have been the subject of just such gossip. Perhaps you knew?”

Again silence swelled between them, until Elaine blurted, “You think he would rescue me for your sake?”

“He will not allow a woman to be disgraced because of his connection with her. Not again. Surely you must see that. He views it as his responsibility to set things right.”

“And you think that would be wrong?”

“It does not matter what I think. His mother will try to stop him. The Biddington’s . . .”

“He is meant for one of them.”

She nodded.

“And you? Why tell me this? What do you want?”

“I want whatever is best for Val, for Felicity. They have endured enough gossip.”

“I see.”

“What will you do?”

Head high Elaine took one last look at the sea. “I shall do what I think best for Val. For Felicity. They have, as you say, endured enough.”

Even as she said it, Felicity came riding to meet them, excitement over her news lending her face a beautiful glow. “We are to take a boat to Grassholm Island tomorrow! To see the gannets. Papa said, of all things, we must see the gannets first!”

And thus Valentine unknowingly managed to keep Elaine from leaving on that first day of his return. It was the tale of gannets, after all, that had convinced her to come to Wales. She could not leave before she had seen such magic with her own eyes. Could she?

M
orning found them sailing across the wide mouth of St. Bride’s Bay, south to Skomer Island, Valentine Wharton and his bevy of beauties: his mother sourly regarding Miss Deering, while the Biddington sisters vied for his attention and Penny spent her time providing Felicity with distraction.

All he could think of was:
will it be as I remember? As I described it to her?
His gaze strayed again and again, away from Miss Biddington’s ceaselessly moving mouth, to a pair of lips he would much rather move with kisses. What would her reaction be when she saw them? Would the sight of hundreds of birds, thousands of birds, catch hold of her heart as it once caught hold of his?

The weather was with them. A few miles out to sea, and they spied the island. Conditions could not have been more perfect. Visibility was at its best.

From a distance, Grassholm’s rounded, black basalt crown looked rather like a pumpernickel bun dusted with flour and poppy seeds. Only the bread was alive. The flour dusting moved. Poppy seeds took wing. Rising walls of birds took flight, stirred by their approach, birds hanging black and white in the blue sky, above acres of nesting birds. Thousands of birds. An awe-inspiring feathered movement.

There was no evidence of man here, no soil, no fresh water, no plant life, only birds by the thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands: birds in flight, birds perched shoulder to shoulder, white and gray and black bird feathers littering the sea, bird droppings turning the black basalt white, bird voices keening and crying, overpowering the voice of water dashing against stone.

The rock rose forbiddingly from the water, no good landing sites for a boat, only bird perches and seal sunning ledges. Black tipped wings flapped at sight of them like rows of women fanning themselves. Voices raised in a gossipy chorus of croaking and gurgling. The very rocks seemed to come to life as they neared, gray seals barking, rolling, bounding for the water by the score.

Nature’s nursery, not just gannets here, there were kittiwakes by the hundreds. Black and white, smaller than the gannets, their flight more sweeping and graceful than gulls, their falsetto cry of kittiwake--ache--ache, unmistakable. Guillemot and Razorbills, too, skimmed low over the water in flocks of a half dozen or so, strikingly black in contrast to so much white, but outnumbered, their voices almost lost among the masses of brooding gannets.

Gannets owned the island, outnumbering the others by the hundreds, big as swans, the largest startlingly white, with stark black wingtips and yellowed head feathers, their pale eyes and beaks lined in black, like Egyptian pictographs. The young were brown speckled with white, or awkwardly splotched black and white the entire length of their wings, the wedge shaped tails edged in black.