Silent Melody (20 page)

Smiles seemed to come easily to Sir Henry Verney, as if they were his natural expression. Looking at his wide-spaced gray eyes, she thought that before many more years had passed, he would have permanent wrinkles at their outer corners. But they would be attractive. They would be laugh lines. He was an attractive man, large and solid, with a pleasant face. He was a man to be comfortable with. A man to trust, she thought, though she did not know him at all.

“'Tis hot in the ballroom,” he said, “and you have been dancing. Would you care for a stroll outdoors, Lady Emily? The garden is lighted and there are other people there. I have Lady Sterne's permission to take you strolling—if 'tis what you wish.”

He was making sure that she would not feel uneasy about agreeing to something that sounded so heavenly, Emily reflected. He had even spoken with Aunt Marjorie. She smiled and nodded and set her arm along his very solid one. She would be glad to go outside, where it would be darker and less crowded and cooler—and where she would not see Ashley. Her mind and her heart were still in an uncomfortable turmoil after their dance. There had been the wild exhilaration of dancing again, of feeling form and rhythm and movement. And part of the wildness and of the exhilaration had been the sight of Ashley, tall and slender and more than usually elegant in a wine-colored velvet skirted coat with silver embroidered waistcoat and gray knee breeches and sparkling white linen and lace. In addition, his hair was powdered tonight.

She would have suffocated if she had had to remain in the ballroom, she thought.

He lived near Penshurst in Kent, Sir Henry told her as they strolled on the veranda. He lived with his mother and his sister, though he often came to London for a few weeks at a time. His sister liked to shop and visit here and they both enjoyed the entertainments of the Season. He liked to travel more extensively too, he told her as he led her down the steps into the garden, though most of the time now he stayed in the British Isles so that he would not be too far from his mother if she had need of him. He had made the Grand Tour of Europe, of course, as a very young man.

Emily smiled at him and invited him to tell her more. He was not a talkative man. There had been welcome silences between the things he had told her. He seemed to realize that silences were not as awkward to her as they seemed to be to most people, that sometimes she appreciated moments without conversation so that she could turn her head from looking at her companion's lips in order to look about her and relax. The garden was pretty, its trees and lawns intersected with several paths, all converging on a central fountain which spouted water that looked multicolored in the light of the lanterns.

They arrived at the fountain and stood gazing into the spray for a whole minute. Emily could smell the water. Although none of the spray touched her, she could feel the dampness and knew that the merest breath of a breeze could send droplets against her face and hands. She half closed her eyes and saw the lantern light filtered through a million drops of water. She could almost imagine herself back in the country. But Sir Henry leaned slightly toward her and she turned her eyes to his lips.

“I always think there is no sound more soothing than that of flowing water,” he said.

She smiled, allowing amusement to show in her face.

“Zounds. Pardon me,” he said, looking stricken. “That was unbelievably tactless of me.”

But she laughed and pointed to her eyes. She indicated her nose and breathed in, and rubbed her fingertips over her thumbs.

“You use your other senses and find them just as soothing,” he said. “And I am forgiven, Lady Emily?”

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled as she nodded, to indicate that there was nothing to forgive. The ballroom had become uncomfortable with the heat of so many people. She had felt the discomfort. Did it also become uncomfortable with the noise of so many people? she wondered. If so, then she had been spared that annoyance. She set her arm along Sir Henry's again so that they might resume their stroll.

But before they could do so, before she could turn her head to concentrate on his account of his Grand Tour, she had that familiar feeling again. He was close by. Closer than the ballroom or even the veranda. Her eyes found him standing some distance away, slightly to one side of the foot of the steps down into the garden. He was alone. Why had he come? she wondered. Was he merely hot and in need of air? Lonely? Unhappy?

But her partner had been about to speak. She turned her head and her attention determinedly toward him.

“I was away from England for longer than a year,” Sir Henry said, “completing my education. That is the polite way of saying that I enjoyed myself enormously, Lady Emily, doing all that was wild and extravagant. But perhaps I was learning too. 'Tis through wildness and extravagance that we learn the value of steadiness and moderation, I often believe. Are you sure you wish me to bore you with the tale of my adventures?”

She nodded, but she laughed to tell him that it would be no bore. He must have been to Paris, where Luke had lived for ten years. He must have been to Italy and seen all the riches of architecture and painting and sculpture, and to Switzerland and seen the mountains and the lakes. He must have been . . . She did not know of any other places. She knew so little.

She watched his lips intently and lived his experiences in her imagination. And yet all the time she knew that Ashley was not leaving the garden. He stayed at the foot of the steps for a while and then strolled the paths. He stood at the fountain, leaning back against the stone wall that surrounded it. He watched them. She was sure he was watching them, though he did not come close or so much as lift a hand in greeting.

“Ah,” Sir Henry said at last, raising one hand and cocking his head in a listening gesture, “the music draws to an end. 'Tis the end of the set and I must return you to the ballroom. You are an excellent listener, Lady Emily.” This time he did not apologize, though he did wince when he realized what he had said. He laughed, and Emily joined him. “I have enjoyed our half hour together. Perhaps we may repeat it some time?”

She nodded as he led her to the steps and up onto the veranda and into the ballroom. She did not turn her head. She did not need to. She knew that Ashley had remained at the fountain.

•   •   •

There
had been nothing to worry about. Not as far as Emmy's physical safety was concerned anyway. But Verney had touched her, taking her arm along his. He had bent his head toward her as they walked. He had talked to her, smiled at her, laughed with her. She had given him her attention, her smiles. She had looked as if she enjoyed his company, as if she understood what he said.

And all the time Ashley had visualized him with Alice. Seduction? Rape? Had it been that? No, hardly. She had loved him, been obsessed with him. He would have used that smiling charm he was now using with Emmy. In order to win her love, in order to seduce her. He had had all the time in the world—they had been neighbors all their lives. And then he had abandoned her, the daughter of his neighbor, sister of the man he had called friend. And that friend had died in circumstances that were mysterious if not downright suspicious. Had there been a confrontation after the other hunters had dispersed that morning?

Ashley watched them return to the ballroom when the interminable set finally came to an end. He dropped his head and closed his eyes. If Verney was going to start taking an interest in Emmy, then there was another reason to—

A sudden crunching of gravel caused him to lift his head to see who was approaching.

“I feel compelled to ask,” Sir Henry Verney said to him, “though perhaps it is impolitic to do so—was I being watched during the past half hour?”

Ashley considered his reply. He had not quite made up his mind to have a confrontation. But he supposed it was inevitable.

“Yes,” he said.

Sir Henry was silent for a while, apparently expecting an explanation. “Might I be permitted to know why?” he asked at last.

“Lady Emily Marlowe, despite her age, is innocent in the ways of the world,” Ashley said. “And she has no voice with which to draw attention to herself.”

The amiable face of his neighbor tightened with noticeable anger, though he kept it well under control. His right hand, though, Ashley noticed, moved and came to rest on the hilt of his dress sword.

“I find that explanation insulting,” he said. “I must remember, however, that you stand somewhat in the nature of a brother to Lady Emily and that her affliction has perhaps made her family overprotective of her. I am a gentleman, Kendrick. In future, if I seek out the company of the lady, with her chaperon's permission, and if the lady herself chooses to accept my company, I would expect you to refrain from appointing yourself her watchdog.”

So he was going to start paying court to Emmy. Probably deliberately so, now that he knew his attentions would annoy the man who had married Alice.

“I know about you,” Ashley said quietly.

Sir Henry stood motionless. His hand was still on the hilt of his sword, though he did not grip it.

“Did you think my wife would have told me nothing?” Ashley said. In fact, she had told him almost nothing, but Verney did not need to know that. He knew all that was essential to know. Verney had to understand his fears for Emmy. “She told me everything.”

Sir Henry said nothing for a long time, though his hand fell away from his sword. “Ah,” he said at last. “I wondered, of course. You must have loved her very dearly. You do not wish to see Lady Emily acquainted with someone who was involved with that ugliness. I believe I can understand that. But I will say nothing, you know, to sully Alice's name. I never have and I never will. I am glad you know, though. I would always have wondered and would always have felt somewhat awkward in your company.”

Somewhat awkward?
But he would not feel it now? “Zounds!” Ashley came up to a full standing position from the fountain wall against which he had been half reclined. His hand clapped on to the hilt of his own sword. “You will say nothing to sully her name?
You
will say nothing, sir?”

In another moment he would have scraped his sword free of its scabbard. In another moment Sir Henry Verney would have done likewise, his hand having returned to his sword hilt. But someone laughed not far off, someone who was strolling along one of the paths with a companion. And Ashley, facing toward the house and the ballroom, became aware of his surroundings again—and of the fact that Emily was standing at the foot of the steps to the veranda.

“If you wish to meet me,” Sir Henry said, letting his hand drop to his side once more, “perhaps we should go through the proper channels, Kendrick. I see no reason for a meeting, but I will not cry off if you wish to make a formal challenge.”

“No,” Ashley said, concentrating on letting the tension flow out of his body. “No, 'twould be ridiculous. The events to which we refer happened long before I met Alice. But I would make it clear that I will protect Lady Emily Marlowe's honor with my life, if necessary.”

Sir Henry made him a half bow. “I abhor violence,” he said. “I choose to read no personal insult into those last words. Lady Emily's honor is perfectly safe with me. But I see now that I misunderstood the true nature of your concern for the lady. Good evening, Kendrick.”

He turned and strode away in the direction of the ballroom. Emily, Ashley saw, was no longer standing at the bottom of the steps. She had moved to one side and was hidden to Verney's view behind a tree. She stood where she was after he had disappeared into the ballroom.

Like Verney, she had come out to talk with him, Ashley realized. And talk she would, with her hands and with those eyes of hers. He was not sure he was equal to looking into them.

I see now that I have misunderstood the true nature of your concern for the lady.

He walked toward her.

S
HE
had not seen Sir Henry Verney go back outside. But she had not seen Ashley come inside either, and she wondered what he was doing in the garden, why he had gone there, why he had been alone. She shook off her followers by smiling at Lady Sterne and making her way pointedly toward the ladies' withdrawing room. But she did not go there. She went out onto the veranda instead and down the steps into the garden.

And she found that he was still at the fountain, talking with Sir Henry. Quarreling with him. She was not close enough to read lips, but she could see Ashley's face and she did not fail to notice how his hand went to his sword. For one heart-stopping moment she expected to see him draw it. She instinctively hid herself a few moments later when Sir Henry came striding along the path toward the steps.

But Ashley had seen her. He came toward her, a curious half smile on his lips.

“Come, Emmy,” he said when he was close enough for her to read his signing hands. “Walk with me.” And he took her hand and drew it through his arm and held it firmly against his side.

She would not look at him while they walked. Had they been quarreling over
her
? But why? For once she wished desperately for speech. At one side of the garden there was a small rose arbor, separated from the rest of the garden by a trellis over which the plants had been trained. There was a wrought-iron seat inside and lanterns hanging from the trellises. There was no one else there. He led her inside and indicated the seat. She sat down and he took the place beside her. She turned to look at him.

“Emmy.” He took one of her hands between both of his. “You came out here to scold me, as he did? For acting as a watchdog? I ask your pardon. I remember, you see, how someone took advantage of your innocence just a month ago when you were out of doors alone with him. I feared for you.”

She snatched her hand away and stared at him incredulously. He made it seem—
sordid,
what had happened between them. And how dared he suggest . . .

He reached for her hand again and held it tightly while he closed his eyes and dropped his head.

“I feared for you,” he said again when he lifted his head. She could see torment in his eyes. “Emmy, stay away from him. Anyone but him. Stay away from him—for my sake?”

From Sir Henry Verney?
But why?
she asked with her free hand. He was such a very amiable gentleman. She liked him better than any of the other gentlemen who partnered her and conversed with her. She frowned.

“Zounds,” he said, “you will not be deceived by a lie and you will not accept an appeal without a full and truthful explanation, will you? Sometimes I wish you were as other women are. Do you see more deeply because you are undistracted by sound, Emmy?” He raised her hand briefly to his cheek.

No, she would not be lied to. She would always know if he lied.

“My wife was once fond of him,” he said. “No, more than fond, Emmy. She loved him. He encouraged her and then cruelly rejected her. She never quite recovered her spirits.”

Ah. For a while her mind did not quite grasp what she had just been told about Sir Henry Verney—her heart was too fully occupied. Alice had never fully returned Ashley's love, then. She had always pined for a lost love. And now Ashley had been forced to meet that man.

“And so you see,” he said, “why I fear for you, Emmy. He has the sort of looks and charm that I can imagine might be attractive to many women. But he is a cruel man. Stay away from him. Promise me?”

But she was frowning again. Sir Henry Verney deliberately cruel? Taking pleasure out of luring a woman into loving him only to dash her hopes and turn away from her? Oh no, she could not believe it. There had to be some other explanation. Unrequited love, for example. He and Alice must have known each other for a long time. They had probably grown up together. And he
was
an attractive man. Perhaps she had fallen in love with him but he had been unable to return her feelings. Perhaps she had exaggerated the truth when telling Ashley—and why, for that matter,
had
she told him? How could she have been so cruel? That must surely be the explanation, though. After all, she herself knew all about unrequited love. But she would never have given Lord Powell reason to suspect the truth if she had married him.

“You do not believe me,” Ashley said. “You must believe me, Emmy. He can hurt you.”

No. She shook her head. Sir Henry Verney could not hurt her even if what Ashley said about him was true. Her heart could never be hurt by Sir Henry. Or by any other man. It was that fact that had enabled her to enjoy the past month so well—except for the past day. It was hard now to realize that Ashley had come only last evening.
No,
she told him with her hands.
I am happy. I am me.
She was not vulnerable the way he feared.

He gave up. He sat back on the seat beside her and drew her arm through his again. The evening was almost chilly when one was sitting still. She felt the warmth of his arm and side against her arm and of his shoulder touching hers. She ached to let her head fall sideways to rest against his shoulder. A long time ago she might have done just that, but no longer. She had a sudden memory of lying naked against his clothed body, his cloak snugly about her. She remembered the intense tiredness that had succeeded the shock of what had happened to her just before that. She remembered sleeping in his arms. Yet now she could not even put her head on his shoulder.

He moved then, turning slightly toward her and setting an arm about her shoulders. “You are chilly,” he said.

She shook her head. She did not want this moment to end, even though she knew she should go back to the ballroom. Aunt Marjorie would wonder where she was. But stillness and silence were so important to her, and there had been little of the former lately. She had reveled in busyness—just as if the gap really could be bridged, as if she really wished it to be. Did she? Did she want to be like others but inferior because of her deafness?

He sat still and silent with her for a long time, as if he felt her need, or perhaps even shared it. But he spoke at last, touching his fingers lightly to her chin so that she would look.

“Emmy,” he said, “after the wedding, Luke and Anna will be coming to Penshurst with me for a week or two. At least I believe they will come once I have asked them.” He grinned engagingly. “Anna will not want to leave you so soon. You have not even seen her yet. They arrived this evening, you know, before I came here.”

Oh. She smiled. Just a few weeks ago it had been a relief to get away from Bowden and all her family. But suddenly a month seemed an age. She could hardly wait to see Anna.

“And there are only three days to the wedding,” he said. “Emmy, have you considered that Lady Sterne and my uncle would probably enjoy some private time together, perhaps even a short wedding trip? For a week or two, perhaps, before they resume all their usual social activities?”

But Aunt Marjorie had assured her that her new marriage would not in any way interfere with the social activities she had planned for Emily. Emily must never feel she was in the way, Aunt Marjorie had said. And Lord Quinn had echoed her words.

“You need not look so dismayed,” Ashley said. “Of course they love you. But of course too they will be newly wed. Be kind to them, Emmy. And to Anna and yourself. And to me. Come to Penshurst too. Just for a week or so, until Theo and Lady Sterne return to town—though she will be Lady Quinn by then, will she not?”

Emily felt such a surge of yearning that for a moment she felt almost robbed of breath. It was so very foolish to want him. She had refused the opportunity to spend the rest of her life with him, because she knew the misery of seeing him and of being close to him like this when there could never be anything between them except friendship.

“I want you to see Penshurst, Emmy,” he said. “'Tis a magnificent, almost new place. But I did not enjoy being there alone. I found it cheerless. I want my family there with me. And you. I want you to see the river walk and the hills. I want to see you in the summerhouse. I want to see you happy. You are not really happy here, Emmy. And you must not deny it. Not to me. I know you too well.”

How could she be happy—at Penshurst? But she had read the description of the place on his lips and had a mental picture of it as his home—as the place where he had been, where he would be for the rest of his life. How could she ever be happy if she never saw it for herself?

“Say yes,” he said. He grinned at her again.
“Say
yes, Emmy.”

“Yess,” she said.

He had moved his head forward so that he was looking directly into her face. “Thank you,” he said. “You will not regret it. I will give you a happy time there, I promise. And I will teach you more words. A vocabulary of one word is nothing to boast about, by my life. Not for your teacher, that is. I shall teach you whole sentences.”

She shrugged and laughed.

“Emmy,” he said. “Ah, Emmy. And you shall teach me—more than I will ever teach you. Please, Emmy—teach me.”

Even as her heart lurched at the strange plea, he leaned forward and set his lips to hers and kept them there for several moments. They were warm, gentle, quite without the passion with which he had kissed her at the falls. His arm was still about her and she found the side of her head coming to rest against his shoulder after all. She felt warm again, and very sad. She closed her eyes and kept them closed for a few moments after he had raised his head.

He was looking at her with a matching sadness in his own eyes when she opened hers. “I am so sorry,” he said.

They gazed at each other in sadness. She wondered for what he had apologized. She did not think it was for the kiss—it had not been a passionate embrace.

“Come,” he said at last. “I must return you to Lady Sterne and all your admirers.” He touched a finger to the small black patch she wore close to her mouth, and smiled. “I have just realized something tonight, Emmy. I cannot hold you back from being all grown up, can I, no matter how dearly I wish to believe you are still that girl I knew. My little fawn.”

No. No, he could not. But she knew that he would never really see her as anything but that girl—despite what had once happened between them.

He got to his feet and offered her his hand.

•   •   •

“Lud,”
Lady Quinn said, seating herself on the empty chair beside Anna and fanning herself vigorously, “there is nothing like a wedding—one's own wedding—to make one feel like a giddy girl again. It seems almost indecent for people our age to have such a crush of guests.” She smiled fondly at her groom, who was talking with Luke and the Earl of Weims and a few other gentlemen some distance away.

“You look very happy, Aunt Marjorie,” Anna said with a smile, and she leaned over impulsively to kiss her godmother's cheek. “'Tis what I have hoped for for years. I am so very fond of Uncle Theodore.”

“And you look like a giddy girl, Aunt Marjorie,” Agnes said with a laugh.

“Mercy on me,” Lady Quinn said.

“Or perhaps 'twould be better to say you look like a young bride,” Charlotte said.

“A
lovely
young bride,” Constance added.

Lady Quinn laughed heartily and turned her attention to a wedding guest who had come to speak with her. The wedding had taken place a mere few hours before at St. George's, which had been packed with fashionable members of society. And at the duke's insistence, the wedding breakfast had been eaten in the ballroom of Harndon House. Now the guests were relaxing in the ballroom or wandering out to the garden or into other rooms while an army of servants discreetly cleared the tables.

Lady Quinn turned back to Anna. “Faith, child,” she said, “you must think me totally lacking in a sense of duty. I undertook to bring Emily to town for the Season, yet I have married in the middle of it and now Theo is whisking me away to the Lake District for two weeks. But I would not have consented, Anna—and Theo would not have suggested it—if Emily had not assured me that she wishes to go to Penshurst with you and Harndon. Oh mercy on me, he is my nephew now and told me but an hour ago that I must call him Luke. Emily wrote me
three
letters, child. I had to believe that she really wishes to go.”

“She does, Aunt Marjorie,” Anna said. “She wrote to me too. She wants to spend a couple of weeks with me and the children. She misses us, I daresay, as we miss her. But she will come back for the rest of the Season. I can scarce believe the change in her.” She turned her head to look across the ballroom, and all the ladies with her did likewise.

Emily was sitting on a low chair near the French doors, looking elegant and lovely and flushed and very slightly disheveled. Charlotte's baby was in her arms and showing persistent interest in her pearl necklace. Anna's Harry was sitting on the floor at her feet, beating some toys with the flat of his hand. Joy was standing at her shoulder, disentangling the baby's hands from the pearls. Agnes's youngest was straddling Harry so that he could look Emily directly in the eye and hold her attention while he told her some lengthy tale.