Silent Melody (19 page)

She
was wearing her new blue and white striped silk open gown. Beneath it, in the newest fashion, she wore not hoops but a white silk quilted petticoat. Her hair was braided and coiled at the back of her head. The coils were covered with a lace cap. Over all she wore her new straw hat, tipped forward to shade her eyes, secured with a ribbon bow at the back of her neck.

She wondered if he would like her appearance. It did not matter except that she wanted him to see how she had changed, how very happy she was. If he had come with any sense of guilt still remaining, with any lingering conviction that he owed her marriage, she wished to reassure him. He had done her a favor, she thought. If he had not come home, she would have married Lord Powell and spent the rest of her life in the country fighting to assert herself over his mother—probably an impossibility. She would not have discovered, at the very elderly age of two-and-twenty, how much life had to offer even a deaf woman.

Emily leaned forward and looked closely at herself in the glass of her dressing room. She would smile at him and he would know that she did not need him at all. Yet when she caught her eye in the glass, she looked away quickly, concentrating on every part of her appearance except her eyes.

He was waiting in the hallway with Aunt Marjorie when she went downstairs. He was early. He wore a dark green skirted coat, fashionably pleated at the back with a matching waistcoat beneath, and buff breeches. His hair, as usual, was unpowdered. He held his three-cornered hat beneath one arm. His blue eyes smiled at her. She was becoming accustomed to his thin face. It made him look quite impossibly handsome.

“Emmy.” He made her a formal bow. “You look quite lovely.”

She gave him the full force of her dazzling smile.

“Lud,” Aunt Marjorie said, “you will quite turn her head, Lord Ashley. I have heard nothing but compliments for Emily since I brought her to town. You will be fortunate indeed if you find time for any private conversation in the park with her.”

He smiled at Emily while Aunt Marjorie spoke, but she had looked to see what was being said about her. She blushed. Not that her head had been turned, she thought. All those silly compliments—those that she bothered to watch being spoken—meant nothing to her. Except that they amused her and kept her mind firmly off—no,
on.
They kept her mind on her newfound happiness.

She looked about her during the drive to the park, watching the people they passed, the elegant pedestrians, the hawkers, who were clearly yelling out news of their wares, the darting children, two dogs on leashes. It struck her suddenly that it could be very frightening indeed to be alone in such a setting—very different from the countryside, where she was rarely if ever afraid. But she had never been alone here. She was not alone now. She smiled and felt Ashley's eyes on her. She would not look to see if he had anything to say.

Ashley. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she fought it with every ounce of her being.

He offered his arm when they had descended from the open carriage and begun to walk. She loved the straight, tree-lined Mall, with its crowds of strollers and groups of people in conversation together. Sometimes she liked to look up to see the branches and the leaves against the sky. But more often she preferred to watch the people and to feel at one with them. Today she could seem to feel only the muscles in Ashley's arm and the warmth of him. Finally she looked up at him from beneath the brim of her hat. He was looking at her, that smile in his eyes. A smile that did not touch his lips.

“You are happy, Emmy?” he asked her.

She told him with sparkling eyes how happy she was. She gestured about her. How could she not be happy?

“Penshurst is rather lovely,” he told her. “'Tis in a valley with a broad park stretching from the house to the road. Between the house and the village to one side of it there is a broad river with a river walk inside the park, which was constructed for maximum beauty and seclusion. And behind the house are wooded hills, mostly quiet and shady but with the occasional and unexpected prospect over miles of quiet countryside. There is a summerhouse up there. 'Tis even furnished, though it has not been touched in years, I believe.”

Penshurst. It was where he lived. Where he belonged. Where Alice had lived. Where he would have lived with her and their son if they had not died.

“You would like it, Emmy.” He had bent his head closer to her and touched his hand to hers. “I wish you could see it.”

For a moment she felt dizzy with yearning. But for only a moment. No, she told him. She laughed and indicated with one arm again the formal elegance of the walk ahead of them and the fashionable splendor of their fellow strollers. This was where she wanted to be. This was where she belonged.

He brought her eyes back to his face. “Do you speak the truth?” he asked her. They were both signing, she realized, with one hand each. “It makes me sad to see—”

But she did not catch the rest of his sentence. She did not learn what it was that made him sad. Two gentlemen had stopped before them and were smiling and making their bows to her. Two gentlemen who were part of her usual group. They complimented her on her appearance, asked her if they would see her at this evening's ball, bowed to a silent Ashley, and proceeded on their way. She smiled brightly at Ashley.

“I do not wonder at your success,” he said. “But is it what you want, Emmy?”

Of course it was. Could he not see it? She told him so with her free hand and her smiles. Then she thought of something else. “Yess,” she said, her eyes sparkling into his. Her one and only word. Her full repertoire.

“I could have taught you the rest of the dictionary, Emmy,” he said. “I still could. And you could have taught me—”

But Mr. Maddox, a young lady on his arm, was making his bow to her and asking her how she had enjoyed the ballet last evening.

She would not look at Ashley after they moved on. She could not. She could feel her defenses, like a very thin veneer, in danger of crumbling. She had not even admitted to herself until now that they were just defenses, that she was not really enjoying herself at all. That her heart was all broken up inside her. And she knew too that Ashley had found no peace since she had last seen him, and probably never would. He did not need to use words or sign language to tell her that.

He touched her hand again and squeezed it, and she had no choice but to look up at him. “I felt sorry for Powell,” he said, “that morning out at the falls when you would not look at him, Emmy. Now you are doing it to me.”

She gazed at him and realized with some surprise that her mask had not deserted her. She was smiling.

“Emmy.” He bent his head very close. She guessed that though he was moving his lips he was making no sound at all. “Is there still a chance that you are with child?
Are
you with child?”

She was not. She had been late, and then she had found her hands shaking out of control with relief when she had discovered she was not. And later, after she had tended to herself, she had thrown herself across her bed and cried. But not necessarily with relief.

Her smile had gone. No, she told him. There would be no child. Any obligation he still felt toward her was over. He was free to think of her merely as a sister again. But she could not tell how relieved he was. His eyes merely gazed back into hers until she lowered her own to his cravat. Yes, there had been the possibility. For two days she had thought . . . But it had not been so.

And she had been sorry. How foolish and irrational emotions could be. If she had been with child, she would have had to marry him. To marry the man who was dearer to her than her own heart while she was merely a dear sister in his eyes. It would have been intolerable. Far more intolerable than this was.

She raised her eyes and smiled at him.

And then she was distracted by another couple who had stopped before them. She turned to look, but she did not know them. They were both smiling at Ashley.

“We meet again so soon,” the man said while the woman laughed.

Emily looked at Ashley. He was nodding in acknowledgment of them. She saw his hesitation, but then he looked down at her.

“Emmy,” he said, “may I present my neighbors at Penshurst, Sir Henry Verney and Miss Verney?” He looked at them. “Lady Emily Marlowe, sister of the Earl of Royce and of the Duchess of Harndon.”

She smiled brightly at them. His new friends, part of his new life. And she liked them. It was foolish, perhaps, to make such snap judgments, but they both looked thoroughly amiable. Miss Verney merely smiled back. Sir Henry made her a bow.

“Of Bowden Abbey,” he said. “I saw it once during my travels. A beautiful place.”

Yes, she told him with a nod. Home. It was more home than Elm Court had ever been, she mused.

“Ah, is that so?” Sir Henry said to Ashley, to whom his eyes had moved for a moment. “Yes, I can tell that you read lips, Lady Emily. I could see that you heard my comment about Bowden Abbey and agreed with it.”

“It must be a strain upon your powers of observation,” Miss Verney said. “But 'tis said that any affliction can be used to strengthen character if one is willing to accept it as a challenge. Would you agree, Lady Emily?”

She was not sure that her deafness had strengthened her character. She was not even sure she had met a challenge. A silent world was as natural to her as a noisy one must be to them, she reflected. But people tended to assume that deaf persons could function as people only if they learned to conform to a world of sound. What about the challenge of silence? Very few people of hearing ever accepted it or even knew that there was a challenge there. People of hearing feared silence, she suspected. But she could not explain all that. Miss Verney was being kind, friendly. Emily smiled, then turned in time to see what Ashley said.

“Emmy is very modest about her accomplishments,” he said. “She is going to dance with me at tonight's ball.”

Emily laughed.

Am I?
she asked him with raised eyebrows when they moved on a minute or so later.

“Now, on what matter am I being interrogated?” he asked her. “My presumption in presenting you to strangers? Or my presumption in telling you rather than asking that you will dance with me?”

Yes, that,
she told him with a signing hand.
Am I going to dance?

“But you will, Emmy,” he said, laughing. All the austerity went from his face when he laughed. It would not be good for her to see him thus too often, she warned herself. “Because you love to dance, remember? Because you have always wanted to dance. And because only I am reckless enough to accept the challenge.”

She laughed again.

“Will you?” he asked her with his hand and his eyes as well as with his lips. “Dance with me? Will you, Emmy?”

Yes, she would. Even in front of all the fashionable world. Of course she would.

It was only as he handed her back into his carriage and she arranged her skirts while he came around to the other side and climbed in that she realized something had changed. She was smiling, laughing, bubbling with happiness—as she had been for a month. But there was a difference. The mask had slipped and had been replaced, for the moment at least, by the real thing.

It was a frightening thought.

“Y
OU
were quite right,” Sir Henry Verney said to his sister as they continued their stroll along the Mall. “There is quite a marked resemblance. I am surprised I did not notice when he called earlier.”

“He is a little taller and more slender,” Barbara Verney said. “Perhaps not quite as dark. And considerably more handsome, I believe. But undeniably like. We were both surprised to hear that Alice had married, and wondered what manner of man had persuaded her into it. Now we have our answer.”

“I wonder,” he said, “how happy she was. One cannot somehow imagine Alice being happy. Not surprisingly, I suppose. There must have been—”

But his sister cut him off. “'Tis better not to discuss it,” she said. “I am sorry I aroused old memories by commenting on the likeness. She came to a terrible end, poor woman. One can only hope she is now at peace. But poor Lord Ashley lost a son as well. 'Tis no wonder that there is a somewhat haunted look about him. Did you find him charming, Henry?”

“A trifle reserved,” he said. “I read a certain coldness in his eyes. But I suppose that making the acquaintance of people who grew up with his wife must have put a strain upon him. It must have taken some courage to call on us. It was a courtesy I appreciate.”

“A coldness?” she said. “I think not, Henry. He has the most soulful blue eyes. But no, you need not look at me like that. I have not conceived a passion for Lord Ashley Kendrick or for anyone else. Did you admire Lady Emily Marlowe?”

“She is a beauty of the first order,” he said, “and has a sparkle that makes her quite irresistibly charming.”

Barbara laughed. “You do not find her inability to converse a deterrent?” she asked.

“On the contrary,” he said. “Any man would consider it an exhilarating challenge to keep those fine eyes concentrated on his lips and to keep that dazzling smile focused on himself.”

“Henry.” She laughed again and squeezed his arm. “You are straying, I do declare.”

“Not so,” he said, chuckling too. But he sobered and sighed. “No, absolutely not, Barbara. I could only wish there were something definite from which not to stray. Am I foolish to be so constant to a dream? But enough of that. Tonight's ball that Kendrick referred to is Lady Bryant's, do you think? Perhaps I will try to engage Lady Emily for a set—if she is willing to lower her gaze to a mere baronet, of course.”

“Any lady should consider herself fortunate,” she said.

•   •   •

Ashley
was somewhat later than he intended at Lady Bryant's ball. Luke and Anna and their children had arrived at Harndon House early in the evening, and he was caught up in all the bustle of greeting them and of adjudicating a fight between young George and James and then wrestling with both the boys, who had united against him while Luke was attempting to soothe a very cross and red-faced Harry and bend an ear to Joy's advice at the same time, and Anna and the nurse were inspecting the nursery rooms with the housekeeper to see that all was in order.

He felt almost cheerful as he stood in the doorway of the ballroom and looked about. He saw Emily immediately. The music was between sets, and she stood close to Lady Sterne, surrounded by gentlemen, as she had been at Vauxhall last evening. She was laughing and plying her fan, flirting with her eyes over the top of it. As had been so last evening, her hair was elaborately styled and powdered and her face was painted with cosmetics. She wore a patch close to one corner of her mouth. She looked quite magnificent in a gown that appeared to be all silver. Only her fan was a different color. It was crimson.

He did not like to see her thus. He remembered his initial reaction to her at Luke's ball, when he had singled her out as the loveliest lady in the room before he had known who she was. It had been one-tenth admiration he had felt, and nine-tenths pure lust. And when he looked at her now, it was hard to see past the outer appearance to the reality within. It was hard to see her as Emmy. He did not like the stirring of desire he felt when he saw her like this. And yet, he thought before he could push the memory away, she had not looked like this when he had possessed her. She had been Emmy then, his wild, reckless sprite.

But he was feeling almost cheerful. She was not with child. She had quite firmly rejected his marriage offers at Bowden. That episode, then, could and must be put behind him. He could safely return to the old relationship with her. It gladdened him that they no longer needed to dread seeing each other. It cheered him to think that he could actively seek her out as he had always done—though only to keep her on the periphery of his life, instead of at its center as he had done when she was a girl. He would avoid drawing her again into his darkness.

He watched her laugh at something one of her followers said to her. And there was pain again—yes, definitely, even though everyone else in the room might look at her and wonder at her total and vivid gaiety. He would have preferred to see Emmy where she belonged, to be who she really was. He smiled slightly and remembered the quite inexplicable disappointment that had warred with relief in him this afternoon. That she was not with child by him. That she would not be forced into marrying him. Relief had won—relief for both their sakes.

And then her eyes met his across the room. He had not been in her direct line of vision, but she had sensed his presence. She smiled her coquettish smile at him; then the fingers of the hand that was not holding her fan beckoned in a gesture that probably only he noticed. She was surrounded by admirers, but for the moment she was ignoring them.

Do join me,
she was telling him.

And then she touched her fingertips to her heart.

I really want you to.

Ah, Emmy.

•   •   •

“Lud,
but 'tis working, Theo,” Lady Sterne said, touching her betrothed's arm and patting it. “He did not like it at all when he discovered that she was engaged for the next two sets after his arrival. He went slinking off to lick his wounds until this set began.”

“He went to the card room and watched young Heyward lose a small fortune,” Lord Quinn said. “Looking as cool and as disapproving as Luke himself can appear, Marj. He has changed from the days of his wild and reckless youth, I warrant you. He has eyes for no one but the gel now.”

“And did you have a word with him this afternoon as you promised?” Lady Sterne asked. “I did think of mentioning the matter myself when he came to escort Emily to the park, but I thought 'twould seem too contrived if you then gave him the same hint.”

“Egad, but it felt wicked, Marj,” he said, “after we have assured the gel that our marrying will make no difference to her prospects. But the more I think of it, the more I like the idea for
myself.
”

She tapped him on the arm with her closed fan. “The thought of a private wedding trip to the Lakes for two weeks has an irresistible appeal,” she said. “But why should we not do it, Theo, and enjoy it too? The idea was not conceived selfishly, after all. 'Twas designed for dear Emily and Lord Ashley's sake.”

“'Tis not sure yet, though, Marj,” Lord Quinn said with a sigh. “I merely dropped the hint. Luke and Anna are not far from Kent now that they have come to town from Bowden, I said. Anna must hope to spend a week or two with her sister after being away from her for a month, I said after taking time to discuss the weather. I sighed, m'dear, after talking about my visits to White's this morning, and remarked that a short wedding trip would have been pleasant if it had not been the middle of the Season and if you had not taken on the duty of bringing out dear Lady Emily—not that you consider it a duty, of course, I hastened to add. But even so . . . And then I sighed piteously. One can only hope now that my nephy will conceive the idea, entirely on his own, you understand—of inviting Luke and Anna and Emily out to Penshurst for a week or two.”

“Lud, 'twill be the very thing,” Lady Sterne said. “Look at them, Theo. The very best-looking couple at the ball, and dancing the minuet as if they were unaware of anyone else's existence. Who would guess that she is deaf, except for the fact that she dances almost
too
perfectly? Dear Emily.”

“If the lad has not had her to the altar by the end of the summer and had her brought to bed of a boy before the beginning of next summer,” Lord Quinn said, “he is no nephy of mine, by my life.”

•   •   •

He
was not quite sure how she did it. He tried to imagine having to perform the steps of the minuet if he could not hear the music. It seemed impossible. But she danced perfectly in time to the music. More even than just that. She danced with grace and a sense of rhythm, as if she held the music inside herself, as if it was the other side of silence.

He smiled at her as he performed the elegant steps with her, and she smiled back. Emmy's smile, happy, exuberant, and yet serene too. No longer coquettish.

And that was it, he thought. She did have music inside her, and beauty and peace and harmony. There were levels on which their two worlds could converge, and strangely, this was one of them. There was the music he could hear and the silent music she could feel. He remembered her painting and her explanation of the feeling of life and exaltation she had tried to reproduce with her brush and her paints. There was a beauty and richness of character and experience about Emmy far deeper than the powdered hair and the rouged cheeks and the provocatively placed heart-shaped patch she wore close to her lips.

An idea flashed into his mind—a desire to see Emmy in the hills behind Penshurst and on the shady walk beside the river. More than a desire—almost a yearning.

Despite his pleasure at once again being so near to Emmy, Ashley was not able to fully enjoy the dance. When he had returned from the card room to claim this set, he had found Emmy surrounded by the usual group of young men—plus Sir Henry Verney and his sister. Miss Verney had been talking with Lady Sterne until she was led away by a gentleman into the set that was forming. Verney himself had been talking with Emmy—and had been soliciting her company for the set following the minuet.

The thought of Verney, of all people, so much as touching Emmy made Ashley want to scoop her up into his arms and carry her forcefully off to a place of safety. Verney had better not consider becoming a regular member of her court, Ashley thought angrily; not if he knew what was good for him. And yet Ashley's mind could not refrain from making the parallel. Ruined and abandoned—Alice by Verney, Emmy by himself. But there was a difference, he told himself. Alice had loved Verney passionately. His abandonment had destroyed all hope of future happiness for her. Emmy had not really been abandoned—he must not add that burden to his conscience. She had abandoned him.

“Thank you,” he said, bowing over her hand when the minuet was at an end and offering his arm to escort her back to Lady Sterne's side. The wedding was only a few days off. Once it was over, he would have no further excuse to remain in town. There was work to be done at Penshurst. And yet the thought of returning there was chilling. That large and empty house was too new to give off any sense of history, but held only the presence of its most recent occupants. Alice was everywhere in that house. If he could fill it with guests . . . even perhaps with children . . . If Emmy were there . . .

He was forced to stand and make conversation with Verney, who had come early to claim his time with Emmy. He was forced to watch the two of them smile at each other and apparently like what they saw. And after a few minutes he was forced to watch Verney lead her away, presumably to find a couple of chairs or a sofa to sit upon. His eyes followed them all the way to the French doors, which stood open onto a veranda. It was bright with lamplight. He could see them strolling back and forth outside the doors for a couple of minutes, then could see them no more.

Verney had taken her down the steps into the garden, which had been made available to guests. There were lanterns among the trees, and seats. Ashley had been out there earlier while waiting for his set with Emmy—only now did it strike him as strange that he had not considered dancing with any other lady.

Certainly there was no reason why a man should not take his partner into the garden for a stroll. The night was warm and the ballroom almost uncomfortably hot. But Verney was not any man. And Emmy was not any partner. Ashley could feel the tension building inside himself, and then the anger. His uncle and Viscount Burdett were standing on either side of him, making conversation. But fury became like a steady hammer blow against Ashley's eardrums, blocking out both the sound and the sense of what they were saying. He excused himself after five minutes had passed and made his way toward the French doors.

•   •   •

She
liked Sir Henry Verney and felt she could relax in his company. Unlike most of the gentlemen who crowded about her almost wherever she went, he did not ply her constantly with compliments and meaningless gallantries. With him she did not feel the constant necessity to smile dazzlingly and to flutter her fan.