Elisabeth Fairchild (29 page)

V
al stood on the clifftop at St. David’s head, a bottle in each hand, looking out to sea, prepared to get royally drunk, soused to the gills, rollicking snookered. He found no joy in the prospect, no joy at all, and yet there was nothing left for it but to get drunk--to forget. He had trusted in St. David, who had found his inspiration here, trusted his inspiration must return to him here, where she had left him. But she had failed him, Miss Deering, as much as his attempts to find her had failed.

Her mother, her sister, had refused to respond to his letters. He had been turned away from six different doorways, by young women who in some way resembled her, as though they offered her up to him in pieces, her hair, her hands, her mouth. They listened to his pleas with the same wariness he had once read in her eyes. He wondered what she had said to them of him, how she had warned them to send him away.

The girl’s school had no idea as to her whereabouts. The gentleman he had hired to hunt for her by way of the posting coaches came back empty-handed, but for word of Palmer. She had not reconsidered his scurrilous offer. He did not have her tucked away in private rooms. Thank God for that much.

She filled his thoughts, his memory. He could not look at Felicity without thinking of his dear Miss Deering: of her gentle way with the child, of the light in her eyes on a moonlit beach, of the way in which her wary attitude toward him had changed, blossomed, bloomed. He thought of her mouth, their kisses, the press of her body to his. She had wanted him, cared for him, cared for his daughter. She had, he thought, loved him, and still she had left him. It made no sense, only pained him, a knife to the heart from the last person in the world he had thought capable of bringing him pain--quiet, biddable Miss Deering, his dear Miss Deering. His heartache’s ease.

Why had she turned her back on him? Fled in the night, to parts unknown, without so much as a fare-thee-well?

He thought of her father, of Palmer. Had she in some way found him just as contemptible? Just as unworthy? He knelt amongst the wildflowers to uncork the bottle, hands awkward, shaking. The cork did not come easy, and yet in being freed its popping sound familiar. He lifted the cork to his nose, the smell an old friend, beckoning, full of promise. He tossed it into the grass, stared at the open bottle, mouth watering.

Slowly he lifted the bottle to his lips--the glass cold--as cold as his memories of late. He would forget, forget it all, shut out the voices of the past, of love’s abandonment. He would drown his sorrow, scorch away the burn of the spirits.

And yet, something within him raged, persistent, a voice that would not be silenced. A warning.

Dragon’s breath. False courage.

Felicity.

The spirit of the grape never touched his lips.

With a burst of anger more fiery than the alcohol, with a shaken, wind-caught cry of, “Damnation!” he tossed the bottles one after another, twin glittering arcs, over the edge of the cliff, falling, twisting, catching the light, contents spilling, tinkling in destruction on the rocks below. Then he stood, head bent, bowed by the weight of sorrow that made heart and soul ache, and he thought of Miss Deering, who had proven not at all endearing in the end, abandoning him, abandoning his daughter.

He whispered fiercely, “Damn you!”

Elaine watched him rage against the wind, wine bottles given to the rocks and sea. She heard the anguish in his cry, and knew at last how much she had hurt him in leaving. It was a scene she would never forget, a moment in which sight and sound and smell were imprinted indelibly on her memory.

She had once believed this man a monster, but in the end she had proved monstrous in leaving him, without a word, without an explanation, without apology.

He stood near the stone byrne, resting place of a much loved king, resting his head upon the tilted stone, his shadow long, his hair tossed in the wind, his face bright with the sun as he turned, hastening down the slope, into the valley through the ruins, through walls that spoke of man’s dwelling here long ago, raised circles in the grass, heather, wildflowers, circles where walls had once stood--long gone--the walls gone now, the people long dead and buried, and it struck her how brief life was, how precious. How futile were the walls with which they tried to hem it in.

Valentine Wharton was precious to her--she had allowed him to breach her defenses, to storm the walls with which she had long held the world at bay--a notorious womanizer and rogue, repulsed for imbibing too freely. Not a monster but a man, the kindest of men, a kind-hearted Valentine. How foolish she had been to believe all that was said of him, how foolish to turn her back on the gift of his willingness to change, his affection, his offer of marriage.

He looked up, caught sight of her, paused, and then he flung up his arms, as if to stay her, as if he would not have her take another step.

“What are you doing here?” he shouted, hair and eyes wild, nostrils flaring.

She went to him, her feet gaining speed as she slid down the hill, her skirt belling out behind her, caught up on swaying flower heads: broom, bindweed, stonecrop and gorse. She came to a halt a few arm’s lengths away.

The tide rushed against the rocks below, and yet she could not throw herself as wildly against him when he assumed this stone like-stance, arms crossed over his chest, jaw rigid, expression unwelcoming.

“Is this the first thing you would say to me?” she asked.

Birds scolded from above.

He retreated from her approach, tone and manner brusque, “What do you do here, Miss Deering?”

She said nothing for a moment, out of breath, unsure if, after all, he wanted her here. So darkly did he scowl at her, so distant was his look.

“I wanted to be the hero,” She caught at a breathless laugh, and yet it escaped her anyway.

That caught his attention, replacing his scowl with the knit of question in his brow. “You wanted what?”

“In your fairy tales. I wanted to be a women who conquered dragons, who did the right thing. For you. For Felicity. No matter the cost. As you intended to.”

He rubbed his hand across his mouth, tone angry, resistant. “And I was the cost?”

She exhaled heavily, let the sighing breath of the sea fill the silence, and then explained, “I believed you meant to play hero, saving damsels in distress. Saving this damsel in distress when you could not save Penny Foster, or Felicity. I was not sure that you loved me.”

He raked an impatient hand through windblown locks and turned away. “You made that all very clear to me. And yet you return. Why?”

He was not going to make this any easier. She could not blame him, only tried to reach him however she might. “A very kind gentleman once told me . . .”

He frowned.

She swallowed hard and moved closer, that she might see his face more clearly, that he must look at her. “Not to say no when I meant yes.”

His frown deepened. She did not know what to do with this hard, angry, unwelcoming expression. She did not know what to say next.

“Y-you mean. . . ?” He seemed as breathless as she, with anger rather than exertion. “You have the gall to come to me . . .”

“Yes,” she said firmly.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

His lips pressed tight, as if at a bitter taste. “To say. . .”

She nodded, the word catching in her throat, tears as salt as the sea in her eyes. “Yes.”

He shook his head like a bull, still angry, still raging. She had never seen him so angry. “Yes, what?”

Her eyes burned. His anger seemed completely undiminished. It had been a mistake to come, to leave a perfectly good position, to risk all, even rejection, and yet she had. She must throw her heart at him, let the walls down, let her pride smash as completely as the wine bottles he had flung from the cliff top.

“Yes, I love you, Valentine Wharton.” She whispered, the words rising in volume, catching on the wind, raw with feeling. “Yes, I would kiss you. Yes, I would tear off my clothes and run into the sea with you. Yes, I will marry you, if you will still have me. I love the kindness in you, the strength, the intelligence, the decency.” Her voice shook. She stopped, steeled herself to go on. “I love the fact that you stood ready to sacrifice all for my honor. I love most of all the way you have looked at your daughter with love in your eyes, the way you have looked at me. I wonder if you can find it in you to look at me that way again. Can you not find it in your heart to take us home with you”

He stood a moment, breathing hard, as if they ran a race, as if his anger were a new wall he would build between them.

Above the sea a bird hovered, a single gannet, poised to take the plunge.

“Leap or fall?” she asked, the words a challenge.

Val loosed a little huff of breath and flung open his arms.

With a tearful cry Elaine flew into them.

“My dear Deering,” he murmured against her hair, cheek, lips.

“My kind-hearted Valentine.” Her words came muffled from his shirtfront.

“How I have longed to hear you say it.” He kissed her ear, her temple, her forehead. “I have missed you. Dear God, Elaine, how I have missed your confidence in my kindness, the look in your eyes, the taste of these lips.”

They did not speak again for quite some time, communicating their feelings in a number of other ways, breaking down all sorts of walls--generating all sorts of heat.

Breath of the dragon. Blessed breath of the dragon.

____________________

V
alentine Wharton never did buy his colors. He was much too busy attending to preparations for a Valentine’s Day wedding. His beloved wife, Elaine, insisted they make a point of spending their anniversaries in Wales, if not every other year, at least as often as time and the births of their children, permitted. They always took Felicity with them, the eldest of their brood, until she was a woman grown, with a husband and children of her own.

The years passed, and with them came a growing flock of children. Often, Cupid and Penny and their own band of nestlings, were lured into the wilds of Wales, where over steaming cups of Darjeeling tea, served in beautiful cloud cups from a Chinese dragon teapot, very much like the one that had been smashed, they heard, again and again, tale of a Widnot who struck fear into many a Welshman’s heart, and of the magical palace at the bottom of Bala lake. There, too, they learned to build elaborate sandcastles on the beach near St. David’s head, and the names of all of the wildflowers there, and were encouraged to explore the vine-draped ruins of Pembroke Castle with its dripping cave and heaven-bound staircase. Best of all, they clamored every visit to take the boat to Grassholm Island to watch the seals slide into the sea at their approach, and listen to the voices of the kittiwake-ache-aches, and watch, again and again, the gannets’ leap of faith. Thousands upon thousands of them.

And never a fall. On that they were in complete agreement.
Never a fall.

Setting locations throughout the book are real, as are the historical details concerning the sites.

An exception: While the fictional Caxton Castle is inspired by, and modeled after, the real Chirk Castle, the fictional Biddington and Myddulph families are modeled in name and motto only after the very real Myddelton and Biddulph families, whose admirable mottoes are indeed
Sublimiora petamus
and
Inveritate triumpho
—“Seek the sublime” and “I triumph in the truth.” In paying homage to this fascinating castle, its history and its owners I would in no way imply the story actually took place. The Biddington sisters, and their families, are entirely fictional creatures.

Pembroke Castle is no longer quite the vine-draped ruin of the Regency period. In 1880 a Mr. J. R. Cobb spent three years restoring what he could. Additional, extensive restorations were made in 1928 by Major-General Sir Ivor Philipps, KCB, DSO.

Both castles are well worth a visit, as are the islands along the coasts of Great Britain where hundreds of thousands of beautiful coastal birds nest every year.