Silent Melody (22 page)

Perhaps, she thought, it was because Penshurst was his. Ashley's.

They all went outside later in the morning, after breakfast, when the air was warm. At first they strolled with the children about the more cultivated part of the park and Ashley pointed out various features—a lime grove, a small artificial lake, views over the surrounding countryside. But soon enough the children demanded more by way of entertainment, and Luke and Ashley played ball with them while Emily sat with Anna on the lawn and Harry sat too and bounced his palms on the grass. Then Ashley was galloping about with a delighted James on his back and Luke was raising his eyebrows and telling his brother that he would have warned him if he had been given a chance. And so poor Ashley found himself having to gallop George and Joy about too. He collapsed onto the grass afterward in mock exhaustion while Joy and James simultaneously wrestled with Luke.

George had come running over to his mother. “Mama,” he said, “I want to go and play with the little boy.” He pointed off in the direction of the village.

“The little boy?” Anna frowned. “At the cottage, do you mean? Eric? But perhaps he is busy, George. Or perhaps his mama has taken him somewhere.”

“I want to go and see,” George announced.

“He
is
a sweet-looking child,” Anna said. “But Papa and Uncle Ashley are looking after Joy and James”—James had just jumped onto Ashley's stomach and was being rolled in the grass—“and Harry is going to be hungry soon. I will have to take him inside. You cannot go alone. Perhaps this afternoon.”

But George was in no way daunted. “Aunt Emily can take me,” he said.

Emily smiled and nodded. She would enjoy the walk. And if Eric Smith lived alone with his mother and grandfather, perhaps he would enjoy having a new playmate. She got to her feet and brushed the grass off her petticoat.

“You are too good, Emmy,” Anna said. “You will be sure he does not outstay his welcome? Children know woefully little about etiquette.”

George ran on ahead when they were close to the park gates. He could see Eric swinging on the garden gate outside the cottage. The two of them were in earnest conversation by the time Emily came up to them. She smiled at Eric.

“George has come to play,” he told her. “I am four years old. What is your name?” He transferred his attention to George and then looked back at her. “Oh,” he said, “you cannot hear or speak? Can you understand me?”

Emily nodded. But Mrs. Smith had appeared in the doorway. She was wiping her hands on a white apron.

“Mama,” Eric called, keeping his face turned toward Emily, “George has come from the house to play with me. This lady cannot hear and cannot speak. But she can understand. You have to look at her, though.”

Mrs. Smith looked embarrassed. She beckoned Emily. “Please come in,” she said, mouthing the words clearly.

And Emily suddenly felt embarrassed too. She had been used to wandering about Bowden, where people knew her and made allowances for her. These people would be dreadfully put out. And so would she. What if they talked and she could not understand? What if they did
not
talk and looked very uncomfortable? But it was too late to think of such things now.

Mrs. Smith smiled when Emily came through the gate and approached the cottage door. “You are Lady Emily Marlowe? Have I remembered your name correctly? How kind of you to bring the little boy—he is the duke's eldest son?—to play with Eric. He is frequently lonely, but he has a wonderful imagination.” She flushed. She had been speaking very slowly. “Do you really read lips?”

Emily nodded and smiled.

The cottage was plainly but neatly furnished. Mr. Binchley was coming downstairs as Emily stepped inside. He was clearly a gentleman, as his daughter was clearly a lady, though Emily guessed that they were by no means wealthy. He made her a bow and smiled warmly.

“This is an honor, my lady,” he said. “And how do you like Penshurst?” He turned away and appeared to be offering her a chair. He was not easy to understand. And then he turned toward his daughter, appearing startled, and finally looked at Emily. “Really?” he said. He seemed acutely embarrassed.

Emily smiled at him.

Mrs. Smith disappeared into the kitchen, perhaps to make tea.

Emily sat with Mr. Binchley, who looked about as uncomfortable as a man could possibly look. There was no one to break the silence—and Emily knew that people who could hear were always distressed by silence. She could say
yes
and break it, she thought, but though the idea amused her, she was not feeling comfortable. Far from it.

Mr. Binchley caught her eye and they smiled weakly at each other. His hands fidgeted in his lap. Emily lifted hers and beckoned with her fingers. When he looked at them, she made flapping gestures and beckoned again.
Speak to me.
She felt remarkably foolish.

“I never knew of any deaf-mute reading lips,” he said.

She smiled with genuine amusement and tapped her chest.
I can,
she was telling him, and then laughed.

The laugh must have done it. He visibly relaxed and started to talk, a little more slowly than he had at first. She found to her relief that she could understand much of what he said. He told her about Penshurst and the neighborhood, and about how pleased everyone was to have the new owner living at the house at last. He had been steward at Penshurst for many years, he was telling her when his daughter returned with the tea tray, until his retirement after the death of Mr. Gregory Kersey, Sir Alexander Kersey's son.

But Katherine Smith looked up at him tight-lipped and Emily turned her head in time to read her lips. “Must you always keep alive that myth, Papa?” she said. “You did not retire. You were replaced.”

“This is neither the time nor the place, Katherine,” he said. He got to his feet and bowed to Emily again. “I will leave you ladies alone.” He smiled kindly at her. “Thank you for calling, Lady Emily, and for bringing the child. He is the Marquess of Craydon?”

Emily nodded.

Mrs. Smith spoke to her about Eric, about the sadness of the fact that he had no brothers or sisters. Her husband had died—she looked down at her hands for several moments before continuing. She spoke about growing up at Penshurst. She had lived in this cottage, though she had been at the house a great deal. She had been educated with Alice Kersey. They had even been friends—when they were children, she added pointedly. Emily was left with the impression that they had no longer been friends once they had grown older.

She found Katherine easier to understand than her father. Nonetheless she decided she would not stay too long, reasoning that it must be a strain on strangers to entertain her when they had to bear the burden of conversation alone. And it was a strain upon her to be the only guest—to have to concentrate upon everything that was said and nod and smile in the right places. But as she was leaving, and after Mrs. Smith had called to George, the woman turned to her and smiled.

“I do thank you for coming,” she said. “You are very easy to talk to. You seem to be part of a conversation even though you say nothing. Do come again—if you wish, that is. You are staying at Penshurst for a while?”

Emily nodded, took her leave warmly, then walked back to the house with George, feeling that she had made a friend. Someone who had not smiled at either Ashley or Luke yesterday but who had smiled at her both then and today. Someone who felt anger over the fact that her father had been dismissed from his position as steward at Penshurst after the death of Mr. Gregory Kersey. Alice's brother. Who had dismissed him? Sir Alexander Kersey, who had been in India at the time? Alice, who between the time of her brother's death and her own departure for India must have been in charge at Penshurst? But why? And Katherine Smith had not liked Alice. At least, that was what her one comment had implied.

But Emily had no real wish to know about the past. Even though she knew she would look back on these two weeks and feel pain because they were over and would probably never be repeated, she was going to enjoy them anyway. She was going to enjoy Ashley's friendship and the freedom he had offered her. She was going to enjoy being here in this place, for which she felt such a strange and strong affinity. And it was such a relief to be back in the countryside, to look forward to the prospect of time alone with nature. Ashley had even permitted her to absent herself from visits, to leave off her hoops and her shoes, to paint . . .

Ashley, she thought, understood her more than anyone else, even Anna and Luke. Ashley understood that though handicapped, she was a whole person.

Ashley . . .

She sighed. She had to remember that in two weeks' time she would be leaving again. Leaving Penshurst.

Leaving him.

F
OR
three days she explored the huge park about Penshurst. The more cultivated parts before the house she walked through with everyone else, including a few of Ashley's neighbors who called upon them while the weather remained fine and warm. The other parts, the wilder, more extensive parts, she roamed over alone. She slipped out in the mornings, sometimes even before the sun rose, and in the afternoons after they had eaten if there was no visit planned, or immediately afterward if they went somewhere or someone came to call on them. Once she went out in the evening instead of staying to help entertain the visitors Ashley had invited to play cards.

The river walk extended for a whole mile and was very beautiful. But Emily discovered that the riverbank beyond the walk was even lovelier, with its long, sometimes coarse grass and myriad varieties of wildflowers. The hills behind the house, which did not look high from in front, were nevertheless wooded and secluded. And the artfully planned clearings afforded wonderful views over rolling, pastoral countryside. The summerhouse Ashley had referred to overlooked the river and miles of empty farmland. The house and the village were hidden from view behind the trees. She suspected that whoever had built it there had wanted to feel utterly secluded, utterly alone. It was, as Ashley had said, sparsely furnished. But she knew as soon as she set foot inside it that he had had it cleaned and spruced up. There were even clean, soft cushions on the worn sofa and a folded-up blanket.

On the third morning she took her painting things up to the summerhouse, though she did not try to do anything with them. She did not know yet what she wished to paint. Although she felt all the beauty of this new part of the country, it had not yet spoken to her soul. But she knew it would. She had to give it time. Time, real time as opposed to human time, could not be rushed or forced. She was content to sit on the sofa and gaze out the low window opposite—out and down the hill and across the river and the countryside beyond.

On that third morning Ashley came to her. She had left the door of the summerhouse open, and she became aware after several minutes had passed of a shadow in the doorway. He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, smiling at her.

“I knew,” he said, “that you would look at home here, Emmy.” He glanced toward her easel. He used his hands to speak. “I am glad you are going to paint again. And I am glad to see my sprite back.”

She had not brought any of her oldest clothes from Bowden. But she had put on her simplest gown this morning without either hoops or padded petticoat. She had tied her hair back loosely with a ribbon. She was barefoot. She had forgotten until these last three days how much she needed that contact with the earth.

“May I?” he asked, indicating the seat beside her on the sofa.

She nodded and he came inside and seated himself. He took her hand in his. But he said nothing more. For half an hour or perhaps longer they sat side by side, hand in hand, looking at the view, watching early morning turn into definite day. There was no more perfect communication than silence, Emily thought. Perhaps that was an easy paradox for her to learn, but she felt that Ashley was learning it too—as he had asked to do. Perhaps she really did have something to teach him, something to give him. He was giving her speech and she was giving him silence.

She had wanted to give him comfort when his emotions had been too tempestuous for there to be any comfort. Perhaps she could give him some comfort now. And perhaps she could weave memories for herself to take with her into a lonely future.

“I shall leave you, Emmy,” he said at last after squeezing her hand to draw her eyes to his lips. “Stay here as long as you wish. Thank you for allowing me to share some of your time here.” He leaned over her and kissed her softly on the lips. Then he was gone.

She wondered if it would be easier if he did not like her at all. If in his own way he did not love her. If he had not invited her here. If she had not come. She closed her eyes, blocking out the beauty of the view. No, she could not be sorry that he felt a fondness for her. And she knew that she would never be sorry that she had come here. Somehow, in some strange way, she knew it had always been intended that she come here. It was a puzzling thought, and a restful one.

Except that in less than two weeks' time she would have to leave again and return to London. And not see him again for a long, long time.

If ever.

•   •   •

On
the fourth morning she went in a different direction, away from both the river and the hill, which were a strong lure in her search for solitude and peace. But she wanted to see all there was to see, and so she went in the opposite direction from the river and the approach to the house. She went across lawns and past the lime grove and in among the trees until she came to the edge of the park. It was marked by a hedgerow, with the road beyond.

It seemed sad not to go farther. The clouds, which had brought rain during the night, were moving off, and the sun was just rising. The air was fresh and cool. The grass and soil underfoot had made her feet tingle with cold. But she could not go farther—not looking the way she did. And not in a neighborhood where she was not well known and would not be able to communicate with anyone she met. She shook her head and closed her eyes, feeling the wind blow her hair out behind her. She had not even tied it back this morning.

There was a gap in the hedgerow into which a wooden stile had been built. She climbed over it and sat on the top rung, facing out over the fields and meadows beyond the road. It was lovely, she thought. There was not the obvious beauty of the river here or the seclusion or the panoramic views of the hill. There was just a basic unspectacular loveliness about it. It was England. It was home.

She was rather sorry she had not brought her paints and her easel. She rather thought she could paint here—the wonder of the ordinary. Though even the seemingly ordinary could appear extraordinary when one opened one's eyes and one's heart to it.

But her reverie was interrupted. She could feel someone else's presence. She jerked her head to one side to look along the road to her right. For the merest moment she felt a surging of gladness. He had come again. But she knew even before she saw the man that he was not Ashley. Something inside her always seemed to know unerringly when he was close by.

He was sitting on horseback a short distance away, handsomely dressed in riding clothes with a cloak for warmth and highly polished boots. His three-cornered hat was tipped slightly forward over his eyes. He was grinning appreciatively at her.

A stranger.

He raised his eyebrows. “I thought you must be deaf,” he said.

He must have been speaking to her before she became aware of his presence. She smiled at him, feeling some amusement as well as some embarrassment at his words. He was a young man, rather dashingly handsome.

“Egad,” he said, “but I am glad I took to the road early this morning. Have you escaped from your milking chores, wench?” He dismounted from his horse as he spoke and led it closer to her.

Oh. She felt her smile fading as she shook her head. What a wretched embarrassment to be mistaken for a milkmaid. This would teach her to stay well within the confines of the park when she was dressed thus. And she could not even explain.

He laughed and said something she could not see. But he continued. “You would be wasted squatting on a milking stool caressing udders,” he said. “I could put your hands and your . . . derriere to far more pleasurable use.” Brown eyes roamed over her from head to foot, pausing suggestively with the pauses in his speech. He abandoned his horse to graze on the grass at the side of the road and strolled closer to her.

Emily shook her head firmly and lifted her chin. Her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast. It was just the sort of situation that sometimes appeared in her nightmares. In reality she was rarely alone in a place where a stranger might come upon her. She wished desperately that her legs were on the other side of the stile. She mentally calculated how long it would take her to swing them over. He was not a particularly tall man, she noticed, but he was very solidly built, and he had an indefinable air of command about him. He looked like a man accustomed to having his own way.

“I have rendered you speechless?” he said, laughing at her again. “Come, wench, I would taste of those lips. And perhaps of something else too. Yes, undoubtedly of something else, though I would do more than taste there—I would delve deep for a sweeter feast. The road
is
deserted, I am happy to see, and the hedgerow in yonder field is quite secluded.”

She did not see every word. She did not need to. She was desperately frightened.

Ashley.
Ashley.
For the moment fear paralyzed both her body and her mind. All she could do was silently scream out his name and wish for a miracle.

The stranger took another step toward her.

“No.” She held her hands palm out in front of her. “No.”

“No?” He became instantly haughty, though the laughter was still there in his eyes. “No, wench? But I say yes. I will give you the chance to earn half a sovereign for yourself before breakfast. A princely sum for a truant milkmaid. But perhaps I will judge that you have not earned even half a farthing if you protest.”

Her brain was beginning to function again. She half smiled and kept her eyes on him as she swung her legs over to the other side of the stile. He stood still in order to watch her.

I am Lady Emily Marlowe. I am a guest at Penshurst. The Duchess of Harndon is my sister.
But there was no point in wasting time verbalizing the words in her mind that she might have written down if she had had the chance. It was impossible to speak them. Her mind, still terrified but mercifully released from its paralysis, worked frantically.

“Ah,” he said, obviously believing that she moved in compliance with his suggestion, “the offer of half a sovereign has done the trick, has it? This will be rare sport, wench, money or no money, I warrant you. I daresay you enjoy a good rutting as well as I.”

He was within arm's reach of her. She started suddenly with surprise, her eyes as wide as saucers, gazed beyond his shoulder at the imaginary rider who was not approaching down the road behind him, and pointed with one dramatic arm. She hoped—oh, she hoped and hoped she could say it right.

“L-l-look!” she said.

And then, when his head went back over his shoulder, she hurled herself down from the stile and began to run. The grass was slippery among the trees, but her toes gripped it surely. She knew that she had only a few seconds' grace. It would not take him long to climb over the stile, and surely he could run faster than she. Her back crawled with terror and for once the silence was menacing, but she dared not waste a moment in looking back. She tried to decide whether it would be better to weave among the trees, hoping to lose him, or to run a straight course through them, as she was doing. She tried to decide what she would do when he caught her. Panic was robbing her of both breath and rationality. And finally she could deny the panic no longer. She turned her head to look back.

She could still see him, though he was not close. He was only just on her side of the stile. He was down, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out ahead of him. He must have skidded on the wet grass. He touched his right hand to the brim of his hat in a mocking salute. He said something, but she could not read his lips at that distance. She turned her head again and ran on.

Ashley was not at home. She entered the house at a run, looking neither to left nor to right. She raced upstairs and hurled herself at the door of his bedchamber and through it. He was not there. Nor was he in his dressing room. She gripped the back of a chair there for a moment, gasping for breath, setting a hand to the stitch in her side, not sparing a single thought to wonder how she even knew where his room was. Then she raced downstairs and into the breakfast parlor. It was empty.

The footman in the large tiled hall looked at her impassively. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he show any reaction to her disheveled appearance. But he had come closer to the door of the breakfast parlor.

“His lordship is out riding, my lady,” he said with careful lip movements, “with his grace. Her grace is, I believe, with Lord Harry in the nursery.”

Anna. Luke. She stared blankly at the footman. She had not even thought of running to either one of them for help. But Luke was gone anyway, and she would not disturb Anna, who she knew must be feeding Harry. She nodded to the footman and turned back to the stairs.

She paced in her room, with the door firmly shut, for several minutes, stopping frequently at the window to peer downward. But she did not know where he had gone or from which direction he would return. And she could not see the stable block from her window. She finally threw herself facedown onto the bed. She wanted his arms tight about her. She wanted her head against his heartbeat. She wanted the strength of his body enclosing her. She wanted to climb right inside him. She gathered fistfuls of the bedcover into her hands and held tight. And then she turned onto her side and drew up her knees, curling as nearly as she could into a ball. She started to shake so uncontrollably that her teeth chattered, but she could not even reach out to pull the cover over herself for warmth and protection.