Regret Not a Moment (7 page)

Devon’s maid, Alice, entered the room, carrying a bowl of broth on a small silver tray.

“Here’s a snack for you, Miss Devon,” she said, drawing up a silk-upholstered armchair to the young woman’s bedside.

“Thank you, Alice. You know, if you would put it in a cup, you wouldn’t need to sit here and feed me.”

“True, but if I put it in a cup, you won’t drink as much, and you need to build up your strength.” And with that Alice took a spoonful of the hearty-smelling liquid and brought it toward Devon’s mouth. Devon swallowed it without further argument.

Alice took that as a good sign and decided to broach the subject on her mind. “Miss Helena has asked if she could call on you today,” said Alice, in a studiedly conversational tone.

Devon stiffened at the words, but said nothing. As she had regained her memory of the riding accident, she had grown more and more furious at Helena Magrath Hartwick. Now she was tempted to tell Alice to send the young woman away when she next called.

Alice, as though reading Devon’s thoughts, said, “She’s been here every day since your accident, Miss Devon. She’s been frantic with worry.” At each visit, Helena had asked to see Devon, but Dr. Hickock, sensing that an unpleasant scene might occur, had put her off. He did not want his patient’s strength taxed. Today, however, he had told the Richmonds that Devon might begin receiving visitors, knowing full well that Helena would be among the first. That was fine. Devon was out of danger.

“Helena worried!” said Devon cynically. “Feeling guilty, you mean.” She slipped a finger inside the cast on her arm, trying in vain to scratch a spot just beyond her reach. Her forced inactivity and her discomfort grated on her nerves.

Alice did not reply, knowing that Devon’s better nature would finally make her agree to see Helena. Indeed, the young woman’s Southern upbringing was such that she could not commit a deliberate act of rudeness.

“All right,” Devon told Alice, in a tone that indicated she was girding herself for an ordeal, “ask her to come up when she gets here.”

Alice nodded approvingly, pleased that she had judged Devon correctly. “She’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” said Alice, trying hard To keep a touch of smugness from her voice. She rapidly propelled a spoonful of broth toward Devon’s mouth.

Devon stared at Alice as she swallowed, eyes wide with pretended outrage. “Rather sure of yourself, weren’t you?”

“Not at all, Miss Devon. I was sure of your good breeding.” Devon laughed at her tone of righteous innocence.

“You know me better than I know myself.”

“I’ve known you longer, Miss Devon, since before you were born.” Again, both women laughed at this silliness.

“Stop making me laugh,” Devon cried, “it hurts!”

Still chuckling, Alice stood and put the empty bowl back on the silver tray. “I’ll send Miss Helena up when she arrives.”

After Alice departed, Devon lay back in the bed and closed her eyes. She was tired again. She wished she had not said she would see Helena, but it was too late.

Her mind wandered back to the day of the accident. Before the hunt began, she recalled, she and Helena had talked. Now she remembered the conversation clearly. It had been about John Alexander. He had left Virginia suddenly. Thinking of it, Devon experienced a sharp twinge of pain in her throat. She had hoped for something to come of their meeting. He had seemed so right for her, so attracted to her. Why had he left? Was there someone else in his life? she wondered.

Then she shook her head to clear it. Maybe his leaving had nothing to do with her. Maybe it had been a business matter. It was self-centered, she chided herself, to believe that she influenced his actions. In any event, perhaps he would return. Helena had said that John’s business with Mr. Magrath was not finished. That gave her hope.

An image of their afternoon by the brook came to her. Even in her injured state, a flush of warmth suffused her body. She felt a physical longing for his touch. What promise it had held for her! Was it possible that she loved him? He had so many of the qualities she admired in a man, but when she thought of him, she did not think of those qualities; she thought only of his lips on hers, his hands on her body. She ached with the memory of it.

What if he did not return? Would her longing for him fade? Worse yet, what if the feeling did
not
go away and he did
not
return for her? Return
for her
—that’s how she thought of it. How could anyone live with such persistent yearning? she wondered. She had almost tasted its fulfillment. Could almost guess what her married girlfriends giggled about in hushed conversations, quickly stifled when she appeared. But did only married women know such pleasure? Could she ever be like those women she read about in the novels buried in dusty corners of her father’s library? Women who were men’s
mistresses.
Of course not, she told herself, it was unthinkable that she should ever commit such an act without marriage. But the alternative—never knowing the pleasure of lying with a man, never knowing the feeling of a strong body against her softer one—seemed equally unthinkable.

The feel of the linen nightgown against her bare breasts as she thought of such things aroused her. They wanted to be touched. She wondered how John would touch them. Would he kiss them? She had read of such things. The idea filled her with unspeakable desire. Tentatively, she reached her good hand to her breast and cupped it. She imagined it was John’s hand. Between her legs, she was wet with the heat of her imaginings.

Then she heard the door open ever so quietly. She quickly dropped her hand and tried to push herself into a more upright position, wincing at the pain in her side as she did so. With irritation—both at the pain and at the interruption—she saw Helena edge into the room cautiously, like a soldier expecting to be ambushed. Her pale redhead’s complexion grew paler still when she saw Devon. Devon could not help but be amused by the look of horror on Helena’s face as she took in the extent of her injuries, but Devon held her smile in check. She knew that the moment was agony for Helena, but she could not bring herself to make things easier for her.

“Devon?” Helena sounded as though she were uncertain that the person in the bed was indeed the beautiful young woman of whom she had been so jealous just two weeks ago. Her voice quavered apprehensively.

“Helena.” Devon uttered the word in a neutral, reasonable tone, but one devoid of warmth.

“Devon… you’re sitting up. You must be… better?” Again she concluded her sentence with a question mark in her voice.

She wants to be reassured, Devon thought. She wants me to convince her that I’ll be fine and that she’s forgiven. But Devon was too angry for that.

“I’m better than I was two weeks ago, if that’s what you mean,” she snapped.

So far, Helena had remained just inside the door. Devon had not invited her to sit in the armchair beside the bed, the only chair in the room other than the round, skirted little seat in front of her vanity. But she could not continue to withhold common courtesy. “Please come in and sit down, Helena,” she said, in the tone of a school principal commanding a truant.

Reassured by the familiar phrase, if not the tone, Helena expelled her breath in a long sigh and quickly took the seat. She reached her hand toward Devon’s, then stopped, as though uncertain whether the gesture would be rebuffed.

Devon felt a twinge of pity for Helena. She could read in her face many sleepless nights fraught with anxiety and guilt. So—much less harshly than she had originally intended—she said, “Helena, what in the world got into you that day?”

“Oh, Devon, I don t know, I just lost control. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I was stupid. I never want to get on a horse again. I’ve never been a good rider.” The words came in a torrent. All the suppressed emotion, all the tension of the past two weeks found an outlet in the river of words rushing from Helena’s lips.

Devon could not deny the truth of Helena’s words, but the other young woman’s humility was disarming. How could she flog someone so intent on self-mortification? “Helena, I’ll admit you’re not the best rider I know, but you usually show good sense. You don’t ride horses that are too hard for you to handle, you stay in the rear of the hunt. Why were you up front that day?”

Helena blushed at the question. She did not reply. Her eyes were cast down, as though studying the fluffy comforter on Devon’s bed.

“Helena?” Devon asked again, this time more sternly. She wanted an answer.

“I was jealous,” said Helena in a small voice.

“Jealous!” Devon repeated the word more in surprise at Helena’s honesty than in disbelief. She knew that Helena had always been jealous of her, from the time they were children.

She remembered an incident that had occurred when the two little girls, then ten years old, had received their first horses. Prior to that time, they had had ponies. The parents had given the girls the horses at the same time. They thought their daughters would be good company for each other as they learned to jump. Both girls had perched proudly on their new mounts, feeling very grown-up in the smart new riding habits that had come with the horses.

Devon remembered all four parents, indulgent expressions on their faces, encouraging the girls to take the horses through various paces around the Magraths’ riding ring.

Helena went first, diligently walking, trotting, and cantering her new horse. She performed the exercises correctly, if rather ploddingly. Polite applause greeted the girl as she returned to where the adults stood leaning against the whitewashed enclosure that marked the riding ring.

“Very good, Helena. We may just make a rider of you yet!” Magrath said. He did not mean to wound; he was simply insensitive to the impact of his words on his daughter. But Helena’s hurt was evident to Devon. Magrath found his daughter lacking in grace, and both girls knew it.

“Now you, Devon,” said Magrath, oblivious to his daughter’s pain.

Because she pitied Helena, Devon made no attempt to show off. But her natural athletic ability, combined with her love and understanding of horses, made her a joy to watch. Helena, sitting astride her horse near the adults, could not help but overhear the words of praise for Devon’s skill.

“You’ve got a natural there, Chase. Don’t know where she gets it,” Magrath teased. As Devon drew nearer, she heard the good-natured ribbing of her father, and laughed, but Magrath’s next sentence silenced her. “Now if she were
my
daughter,” he joked, “I would understand her being such a horsewoman.”

Devon quickly looked at Helena to see the effect of the words. Helena worshipped her father and wanted so much to please him. As Devon expected, her friend wore a strange, pinched look.

Devon knew Helena could see her watching, but the redhead stared stonily ahead, refusing to meet her eyes.

“What’s wrong, dear, why did you stop?” Laurel Richmond asked. Devon was so distracted that she hadn’t realized she had stopped.

“I just… don’t feel well,” she said. She didn’t want to continue riding. She couldn’t bear to see the other girl’s humiliation.

“Well, you’ve both had a great deal of excitement for one day. Why don’t you give your horses to the groom and then we’ll go inside for lemonade and cookies,” said Rosalind Magrath, blind to her daughter’s distress.

The two little girls quietly walked their horses to the stable.

Without exchanging a word, they dismounted and handed their horses to the groom. As they headed toward the house, Helena uttered two sentences Devon would never forget.

“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me, you know. My father loves me better than anyone in the world,” she said with quiet vehemence.

Devon, embarrassed for her friend, did not know how to respond.

“He does!” Helena cried insistently. It was the tone that struck Devon. Helena seemed to be trying to convince herself, not Devon, of the truth of what she was saying.

The sad thing, Devon thought now in retrospect, was that Magrath probably
did
love his daughter more than anyone on earth, but had no idea of Helena’s need for reassurance.

Devon, remembering the event, knew that riding was a sensitive subject for Helena, but since Helena had brought it up herself, Devon decided to continue the conversation. She hoped it would clear the tension between them that had started with that long-ago ride and grown worse in recent years.

“Are you jealous because your father hasn’t invited you to become a member of the hunt?” Devon asked, sure that this was what Helena meant.

Helena looked at Devon blankly. “The hunt?” she asked, as though she did not know the meaning of the words.

“You said you tried to ride to the front because you were jealous,” said Devon, exasperated at having to explain Helena’s own words to her.

“Not of that!” Helena said in surprise.

“Then what?”

Helena stared at Devon incredulously. “You really don’t know?”

“Know what?” asked Devon impatiently.

“Brent.”

Devon recoiled as though she had been slapped. “You must be joking! I’ve never indicated any interest in Brent. Not since long before you were engaged. And even then…” She let the sentence fade away as she realized it would be impolite to admit that she had never found the other woman’s husband overly attractive. He was a good friend. She liked him. They had enjoyed each other’s company for a time, but on Devon’s side at least, the relationship went no deeper than that.

“I know,” Helena said with quiet dignity. “You have always behaved properly. It’s him. He still… admires you. I’m not certain—and I really don’t want to know for sure—but I think he may still love you.”

Devon became alarmed. She could not bear the thought of Brent actually being in love with her. “Surely you’re imagining things. People gossip so. You mustn’t listen,” said Devon, covering Helena’s hand with her own. For a moment she forgot that Helena was one of the worst gossips in the county. As on that day fifteen years before, Devon wished only to reassure her, to see her confidence bolstered. It was odd; she and Helena had been neighbors all their lives and they were regarded by others as friends. But their relationship had never developed into real friendship. Helena’s insecurity prevented her from giving Devon the trust necessary for friendship. Helena had always felt like a failure in comparison with Devon and had thus behaved at times with hostility, at times with prickly defensiveness. Devon, not the sort to tolerate unfriendly behavior, was simply indifferent to Helena. But sometimes, when events occurred that reminded her of Helena’s insecurity, Devon felt sorry for her.