Elisabeth Fairchild (27 page)

“What would that be, my lady?”

“A fall, Miss Deering.”

Leap of faith. Or is it a fall?

“As deadly as from the top of a Norman tower. You see, he will fall from favor with such a marriage, from power, from social standing, from the respect of his peers. All in an effort to protect your name he will lose his own. The pity of it is, you see, you will fall with him, and I--like the poor governor of the story, shall be left with nothing but sorrow.”

Harsh words. Devastatingly harsh. They shook Elaine, tore at any confidence she might have had that a marriage between her and Lord Wharton might have hope of success.

Lady Wharton it would seem, had nothing more to say. And Elaine, in her own right, had no words with which to defend the idea of a marriage she questioned as much as the widow.

She could see how it would be with Lady Wharton if she accepted her son’s proposal. She had behaved with unvarnished disdain from the start, and yet now that this woman stood in a position to act as her mother-in-law, her displeasure in such a match took on new significance. Lord Wharton was willing to displease his mother for her sake. He was willing to alienate friends, family and social contacts.

Such sacrifice.
A fall?
Perhaps it was.

Women like the Biddingtons would always look down their noses at her. They might speak to her, but only as they spoke to Felicity--condescendingly.

Val’s willingness to sacrifice himself revealed the depth of his kindness--his love? He cared for her enough to make this noble gesture, a slaying of quiet dragons. She shivered to think of such a love, to think how greatly his peers underestimated his kindness--she would not flinch from the word. It was a wonderful characteristic--rare--cherishable. And she would cherish it always, from a distance. Once she had recognized the extent of affection he demonstrated in offering for her hand, Elaine, who loved Valentine Wharton, with the entire depth and breadth of heart and soul, could make no less a noble gesture. She made up her mind to go. Out of her love for him she would give him back his friends, family, his potential to marry well. She could do no less, no matter how painful.

She stepped from barge to pier with firm intention: she must say her farewells to Felicity. More especially, to her father, and then she must slip away. A post coach in Pembroke could take her anywhere she desired.

T
he deep throat of Milford Bay led them to Pembroke Castle.

The ruins were all that a castle should be when viewed from a distance by way of the water’s approach on a clear day, which was how they first saw her. Situated on high ground, surrounded on three sides by water, the old stone lady looked sprung from the sea, white swans her handmaidens. Breathtaking. Magical.

Val thought of his old hip flask. Odd how he thought of it without thirst, only the castle’s image to haunt him, no breath of the dragon. He had no desire for drink of late, too much else to occupy his mind, his appetites, his thirst for a new future.

He smiled, pleased, and wanted to share this small triumph with Miss Deering--his future--he could picture it all so clearly.

The steep inclines leading up to the outer bailey walls were covered in shrub, so that a little forest seemed to have grown in its canopy a magical tree tower, a gatehouse, and crenelated stone walls. It looked an impregnable spot, highly defensible, the jewel of a castle set in green velvet against a blue silk sea.

“As if we have sailed into a fairy tale,” Felicity said, the remark a quiet one, meant for Val’s ears, no one else’s. It warmed his heart to hear his daughter say so, to think that they two shared confidences.

It made him long to make all of her life more like a fairy tale, the kind that ended happily. And yet, such longing was futile. He must content himself with the idea that dear Felicity would find moments, like this one, in which to be happy. Was it not all anyone could hope for in life, after all? Moments of happiness? Of connection? Fairy tale moments. They were doing well, he and his daughter. He had hopes that they would continue to do well, perhaps more than ever with Elaine Deering as his wife. If she agreed to be his wife.

His own fairy tale moment of happiness last night had withered into a state of puzzled confusion. She had responded so readily to touch, to kisses. There was no doubt she enjoyed both. He had been so sure she must say yes to his proposal, without doubt, without hesitation, that he might have been able to give Felicity a new mother and a fairy tale castle all in the same day.

The castle met his every expectation, if not her response. Why had she not accepted his offer immediately?

“Magnificent,” she said when he looked her way.

He nodded, words stuck in his throat, anticipation rising. Finally, she spoke! All morning it had seemed she avoided him, even his glances. After last night’s promising encounter on the beach, his awkward proposal, he had been left unsure just where they stood. Her silence compounded his confusion.

Would she understand? About the castle? His dragons?

“Most impressive to see it first from the seaward side.”

That she spoke again pleased him no end. He smiled as Felicity tucked herself beneath his arm and said, “May we climb to the top of the tower, papa?”

A castle cupped in liquid and still I feel no thirst. It is a miracle, this thing called love. The fiercest heat, all encompassing. The greatest dragon of all.

“If it is at all possible,” he said.

They disembarked, a starry-eyed Felicity holding onto his hand, swinging it playfully as they moved in a gaggle away from water’s edge. The village brought one out of the past, into the present, reminding them this was but the ruin of a castle, the keep and towers crumbling.

Between two towers they went, one fallen, one in fairly good repair, following a pathway other wanderers had etched across a dry ditch mote, stone arches rising where once had stood a bridge.

Landward the castle’s decay was even more pronounced. Arched windows like empty eye sockets stared at the town. Rubble made their walk a challenge. A thatch of vines and weeds encroached upon the soot-grayed face of walls unbuckled by routing forces, vandalism or time. A tired hulk of ancient glory, this castle Pembroke, hunchbacked, the jagged teeth of its walls like an open maw against the sky.

One must pick one’s way carefully, and so they did, Val offering his hand to each of the ladies as they scrambled over fallen stone and mortar.

“How very safe they must have felt with such a keep to fall back upon,” his mother said when they had gained the clearing of the inner ward, and stood staring up at the great keep. “Once a position of power, of strength--only look at it now.”

“Looks like it has lost its roof, “ he said, “but amazing, nonetheless, to see it still stands after more than five hundred years.”

“Closer to seven,” Miss Deering said tentatively, and when everyone in their party turned to stare at her, she said faintly, as if unsure they wanted to hear, “I have read that the castle was built in 1105 by a Gerald de Windsor.”

“What else have you read?” Val asked with an encouraging smile, glad she braved his mother’s disapproving glare. “The Misses Biddington were asking me earlier if I knew of any wonderful histories in connection with the castle.”

“Oh, indeed,” Deliah Biddington fluttered her lashes at him, to be so remembered. “Any great tragedies, or tales of torture?”

A smile lurked in the corners of Miss Deering’s delicious lips. He wanted to kiss her right here in front of everyone to hear her say, with a twinkle in her eyes, “I know nothing of torture but I can tell you a story of romance, and another of conquest.”

“Do tell,” both Miss Biddingtons said, though his mother turned and walked away as though completely disinterested.

“It seems that the same Gerald de Windsor who built Pembroke fell in love with, and married a Welsh princess named Nest.”

“Like a bird’s nest?” Felicity laughed. “What a strange name.”

“Yes. And with the building of this . . . nest for Nest,” Elaine waved at the castle before them like a sorcerer with magic wand, “de Windsor and his wife built one of the greatest Norman strongholds in Wales.”

“Very clever,” Miss Biddington said. “To link two families of power and influence.”

“Indeed,” his mother chimed in rather abruptly from where she stood examining an archway a few yards away, listening after all.

“What else?” the elder Miss Biddington prodded.

“King Henry was born here,” Felicity announced proudly.

And when everyone, including he, eyed the child with some surprise for knowing such history, she, too, blushed, and said, “Miss Deering told me on the way here.”

“And a most attentive pupil you are,” Elaine beamed at her.

“And conquest?” he asked when it seemed she meant to say no more.

She wore a wary look in turning to face him. No. Not wary. This was a look of uncertainty, of awareness, as if she, too, thought of conquest in a context none but they understood.

 “Cromwell,” she said perhaps a trifle too hastily. His mother regarded the two of them most searchingly, before once again looking away with mock disinterest.

“Cromwell ordered the tower destroyed,” his dear Deering went on. “Following a siege that lasted for months and brought the townspeople close to starving.”

“And yet it still stands.” He wanted to hear more, wanted to observe her interaction with his mother, with the Biddingtons. He wanted them to understand how clever she was: well-spoken, well-read, a woman of spirit and poise. He wished to show them in some small way his regard for her mind, her opinion, her thoughts.

“It is damaged,” she said, and looked at him, really looked at him for the first time that day.
Like me. Like her.

“They made every effort to destroy it.”
As they would destroy us.

“And yet, its makers had done a most worthy job,” she went on. “It was meant to withstand anything.”

Will we? Can we withstand disfavor, gossip, snobbery and misunderstanding?

“The walls are almost twenty feet thick at the tower’s base.”

“A sturdy foot,” he said wryly.

“Yes.” She blushed, and nodded, understanding his flirtatious message, and then, expression grown serious, she said, “An unshakable foundation.”

Surely love was just such a foundation. If she loved him they could face anything. But he had yet to determine if she truly loved him--if she meant to marry him.

Lady Wharton was in no mood for climbing. The Biddingtons agreed. The tower walls looked to be far too unsound to go climbing about on them, dirtying gloves and hem. They seemed certain Lord Wharton would agree. With surprise they heard his intentions to climb the stone stairway to the top, if it could be done, with Felicity, to whom he had promised such a diversion. Their brows rose even higher to hear him second Felicity’s plea to the governess to, “Come, Miss Deering. You do mean to come and see the view, do you not?”

Elaine felt the answer stick in her throat, an answer she had used too often of late when it came to the prospect of a moment alone with Lord Wharton. But, in the end, just as she had on the beach after midnight, she uttered that most magic of words, “Yes.”

Inside the tower they picked their way, past fallen stone, and weeds grown high. Birds beat wing above them as they entered, evidence of breaches in the walls, and yet the thick stone walls still cooled the air like a cave, the smell musty and dank, wet stone, and damp earth--the smell of the past peppered in bird droppings and rain spawned moss. Above them a glimpse of what might have been a stairway long ago clung to the wall just beneath a patch of blue sky, all that was to be seen by way of the hole that opened up one side of the tower. A stairway to the heavens, no way up, no way down. They saw it at the same time, knew at once its implication. There was no way to climb this tower, to see the view. And yet neither of them called a halt to Felicity, who ran ahead, calling back to them, “Be careful. The ground is most uneven.”

Here Lord Wharton had perfect opportunity to touch his dear Deering again, to help her over fallen mortar and stone. Elaine did not want to avoid that contact. It might be her last.

One hand grasped her elbow, the other braced the small of her back, and then with sudden dexterity as he helped her over a rough bit, she was swept into his arms, and his lips were on hers, and she did nothing to fight the lightning taste of his lips, the kiss of damp heat, shocking in its haste, in its very public nature.

As quickly as they had come together they parted, for Felicity called back to them, voice echoing with disappointment, “There’s no way up. A single step, that’s all, a single step that leads to nowhere.”

Elaine caught her breath, stepped away from the dizzying embrace, tried to regain her equilibrium.
A single step that leads to nowhere.
Was that what their marriage would be?

His lordship called back to his daughter, all the while looking Elaine directly in the eyes, as if he meant the words for her as much as his daughter. “Never mind, my dear. We shall find something else to do.”

And as soon as he had said as much he was kissing her again, her neck, her temple, her nose, her lips. And she, as desperate as he, kissed back with matching passion, until she regained her senses and reminded them both, “Felicity.”

“I know,” he parted from her reluctantly, breathing hard, eyes fired with desire. “What I do not know is. . .”

“Where shall we go from here?” Felicity scrambled back to them, eyes sparkling, her enthusiasm undiminished. “I hear there is a cave down by the water. A secret hidey-hole that goes under the castle.”

They went to the cave, just the three of them, by way of a turret in the Northern Hall of the castle, as directed by a little sign, through an arch and down a winding staircase built into the limestone foundation. Wogan Cavern it was called. A natural, rounded cave, almost a hundred feet long and half as wide. The natural opening to the sea had been walled in, an ancient wall, it included an archway big enough to accommodate a boat, and several windows, including a large arch for hoisting things. Light streamed through these openings, just as moisture streamed from the ceiling. The floor was uneven, damp and littered with fallen rock. Mineral sediment stippled the walls and ceilings. The place smelled of damp and the sea. One might imagine all sorts of things made their way into the castle thus.