Silent Melody (29 page)

He held her and held himself from sleep. He would not take her back to her room before daybreak. But he would have to take her there before any servants were abroad. No one could know that she had spent several hours of the night here.

He stared into the darkness. He hated to see what had become of Emmy. He hated to see her cringing with fear even when there was no foundation for it—she had been safe in his home tonight. She had tried to be brave. They had all pressed her to allow someone to sleep in her room with her, but she had been stubborn in her refusal to show such weakness. Dear Emmy. He longed to see the serenity and the peace back in her life. The strength.

It had not escaped his notice earlier that she had not made love, that she had merely surrendered her body to his penetration. And her mind and all her emotions too. He had felt almost as if she had abandoned herself to ravishment, as if she had given up the very essence of herself to his male domination. He had not enjoyed the lovemaking. He had given her what she had so obviously wanted and needed, but he had not enjoyed it. He had grieved for the person she had denied—for Emmy. For his little fawn.

He still grieved for her.

He waited for light to dispel the last shadows of darkness before kissing her on the lips and blowing gently against her ear. She stirred sleepily and tried to burrow against him. He quelled desire.

“Emmy,” he said, kissing her again. “Wake up.” She would not hear him, of course, but his kisses, and his finger running lightly up and down her spine, would wake her.

Her eyes were blank. She looked at him and then about the room. It was as he had guessed: she had woken from her laudanum-induced sleep frightened and disoriented, and had come scurrying to him without consciously knowing it. Perhaps she would not even remember that he had made love to her.

“You came to me for comfort,” he told her. “'Tis all right, Emmy. I will always be here for you. As you were there for me when I first returned to England. I will take you back to your room before anyone is up and about. 'Twould not do for anyone to know you had been here.”

She got obediently out of bed and waited while he belted his robe about him. He opened the door and made sure the corridor was empty before setting an arm around her and taking her to her room. The bed was unmade, as she had left it when she came to him. He drew her close to him and kissed her.

“You will be all right on your own?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“Promise me you will not go out this morning?” he asked.

She nodded again.

“Go back to bed,” he said. “Sleep some more, Emmy. You are quite safe here, I promise you.” He let her go and was about to turn back to the door. But there was something lying on her bed. Something he instantly recognized. His eyes stilled on it. He felt suddenly cold.

“How did Alice's portrait get here, Emmy?” he asked.

She turned her head to look at it and her eyes widened. Her face paled. She looked bewildered when she turned back to him.

“You brought it here?” he asked, signing to her. “Why?”

She frowned.

Why had she gone into that room? Why had she brought Alice's portrait here? It was on the bed, hinged to the matching portrait of Gregory Kersey. On the bed she had got out of last night in order to come to him. She had been terribly frightened, her eyes large with terror, her teeth chattering.

“Come,” he said gently, picking up the double picture frame and looking for something to set about her shoulders. But there was no shawl or robe in the room. He put his arm around her and drew her close.

The door to Alice's dressing room was wide-open. So were the doors into the bedchamber and the sitting room. The bedclothes were drawn back, the sheets creased, the pillows dented. A satin night robe was flung across the foot of the bed.

Emily's arm came up. Her hand was trembling. She indicated the robe and herself.
Mine,
she told him by the gesture.

Inside the sitting room the drawer of the escritoire where the portraits had been was wide-open. He set them back inside and closed the drawer.

He turned Emily toward him and lifted her chin. She was very pale. “Laudanum has terrible effects on some people,” he said. “You must not be upset, Emmy. You are not going mad, I do assure you. I am going to take you back to your room and leave you there for a very few minutes. I am going to fetch Anna to you. You are not going to be alone again until you leave Penshurst. I cannot see you like this, always frightened, always pale. I will send you away, and after I have sold Penshurst, I will come for you.”

She moaned.

“I will see you happy again and at peace again,” he said before drawing her close for a few moments. “I swear it, my love.”

He took her back to her room and hurried to knock on Luke's door. He was going to dress after talking to them and sending Anna to Emmy, and then he was going to talk to Rod, even if it meant waking him up at this early hour. They had business to discuss—the sale of Penshurst.

“K
ATHY?”
Sir Henry Verney removed his three-cornered hat when she opened the cottage door. It was very early in the morning. “You wished to talk with me?”

She had sent word the night before with his steward, who had spent the evening visiting her father. He had had the message last night, but it had been too late to come then. He had slept scarcely a wink all night. But if he had expected to be given hope by the first sight of her face, he was disappointed. She looked almost haggard.

“Yes.” She leaned against the door. “I did not know to whom to talk. Papa would be merely upset. It was you or Lord Ashley Kendrick. But I cannot go to him or ask him to call upon me here. He might tell—” She stopped and looked at him with troubled eyes.

Ah, so she had not changed her mind. She had not summoned him to make him the happiest of men.

“Fetch a shawl,” he said, “and we will walk. Eric is still asleep?”

“And Papa too,” she said.

He offered his arm as they walked toward the bridge and was relieved that she took it. They crossed the bridge and turned to walk along the footpath beside the river, on the opposite side from Penshurst park.

“What is making you so unhappy?” he asked her after she had had time to compose herself. “How can I be of service to you, Kathy?”

“I do not know where to start,” she said, looking up at him with liquid brown eyes.

“Wherever you wish,” he said. “I have all morning, all day to give to you if necessary.”

She drew breath a few times. Finally she spoke. “I always assumed that we would marry,” she said. “You and I, I mean. I did not believe the difference in our stations would hold you back and I was . . . fond of you.”

“Yes,” he said. “I always assumed it too. I loved you.”

“I do not know quite what it was with him,” she said. “With Gregory. Suddenly he seemed to—to need me. I do not believe he loved me, but he pressed his attentions on me with single-minded determination. I do not know why I responded as I did. I was flattered, perhaps. He was from Penshurst, after all. Papa
worked
for him. Or I felt his need and responded to it. The love you and I seemed to share was a quiet thing. I did not fully realize until afterward how—how deep it was. I—I do not know why I responded to him.”

“I thought,” he said, and he could hear the hurt in his own voice, “that you had stopped loving me, Kathy. That you had grown to love him.”

“I think I persuaded myself 'twas so,” she said. “I knew 'twas not even before he died. Henry, there was no Mr. Smith. I have never been married.”

“I know that,” he said quietly.

“You knew?” She looked up at him and bit her lower lip.

“Before you even returned here,” he said. “And if I had not known, I would have realized it as soon as I saw Eric.”

“He does resemble Gregory, does he not?” she said sadly.

“Kathy.” Hope stirred painfully in him again. “Was that why you refused me yesterday? Did you think I did not know? Did you believe I would not want you if I knew you had never been wed? If I knew of Eric's illegitimacy? These things do not matter to me at all. You would be my wife. He would be my son.”

“I think,” she said, her voice shaking badly, “I am guilty of terrible things. Much worse than these.”

“Tell me, then,” he said. “'Tis time. You used not to be as quiet, as unhappy as you have been since your return. He is a lovely child, Kathy, and you are a good mother to him. There seems to be no reason for lasting unhappiness. What are these dreadful things you mention?”

“I went to stay with my mother's family,” she said. “They took me in and were kind to me. I was very fortunate. But I was angry and bitter. I had ruined my life, turning to him in his need and away from everything that would have led to my permanent happiness. And even my chance for respectability had been snatched away at the last moment when he died on our wedding day. My son, who would have been heir to Penshurst after his father, was instead a bastard. And Papa—poor innocent Papa, who had always taken such great pride in his work—had been dismissed. All because of
her.
I do not know why she hated me so, unless it was that I was merely the daughter of her father's steward. But I was a lady. Papa is a gentleman. After all, Gregory would have married sooner or later. She must have realized that. But she did hate me. And I think she hated him too after he told her about me. I think—Henry, I have always thought that she killed him. Is it wicked to suspect such a thing?”

“No,” he said.

“Is it true, then?” She stared at him with wide eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe so, Kathy.”

“There was a man,” she said. “My cousin's friend. He was enormously wealthy, having inherited money from several relatives, though he was rather unhappy about owning no land of his own. He was handsome, charming, sympathetic, attentive. I was soothed by his interest. Gregory was dead, I had lost you—I was grateful to him. I poured out all my bitterness to him, all my hatred, all my suspicions.”

“Perhaps it was not in the best of taste to do so,” he said when she paused in obvious distress. “But 'twas understandable, Kathy. I wish you had come to me.”

“No,” she said, “you do not. You were hard and bitter, Henry. You were unkind to me—not that I blame you. If I had told you afterward that I was to have his child . . .”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, you are right. I hated you for a long time.”

“I did not know,” she said, “that he was conceiving a passion for me, that he was becoming angry on my behalf, that he was plotting revenge on my behalf. Oh, he talked about avenging the wrong that had been done me. He was an army officer and he thought it possible that his regiment would go to India, where of course Lord Kersey was living, at some future time. He said he would see to it that one day Eric would live in his rightful home and that I, as his mother, would live there too. 'Twas all a game to me, a gleeful, spiteful dream. I encouraged him.”

“To India,” Sir Henry said quietly.

“And then,” she said, “long after I had forgotten about it, and about him too, we heard of Alice's and her son's horrible deaths. And only a few days after that there came a letter from him, telling me that he was in India and enjoying his duties there. Nothing more. Nothing about Alice. The suspicions have gnawed at me ever since. I have wondered about it, worried about it, had nightmares over it.”

“'Twas a coincidence, Kathy,” he said, covering her hand with his own. “'Twas a coincidence, by my life. You must forget it. Alice and her son died accidentally in a fire.”

“But he is at Penshurst,” she said quickly. “He is Lord Ashley's friend, Henry. His friend from India. Major Roderick Cunningham.”

“Zounds,” he said, his reassuring touch turning to a grip.

“He has talked to me,” she said. “He has told me that soon Eric and I will be living at Penshurst—with him. I am terrified of him, Henry. What has he done for my sake? And what is he planning to do—for my sake? Yesterday morning Lady Emily Marlowe was shot at. By whom? Why? I fear I know the answer to the first question at least.”

“You have done the right thing in telling me,” he said. “I shall handle it, Kathy.”

“I am afraid even for you,” she said. “What if he sees me walking with you? I should not have come out with you like this.”

“You must not fear for me,” he said.

“But am I guilty of murder?” she asked him. “If he did . . . Am I?”

“Of course you are not.” He turned her to him and held her firmly by the upper arms. “Of course you are not, Kathy. I will have to tell Kendrick what you have told me. May I?”

“You do not think that he would say something to Major Cunningham?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I do not. I have had reasons not to like the man particularly well, but he is no villain. Kathy, why did you refuse me yesterday? Because you were frightened? Because you felt you were guilty of some villainy? Because you are an unmarried mother? Or because you do not want me?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Perhaps for all except the last reason,” she said.

“I will ask you again then,” he said, “after this thing is settled.”

“Henry,” she said, “what are you going to do?”

“I am going to consult with Kendrick first,” he said. “But one thing I promise you, Kathy: Cunningham will not be frightening you again. I can wager Kendrick will say the same for Lady Emily Marlowe.”

“You will not—” She gripped the edges of his coat beneath his cloak. “I could not bear it if you were hurt.”

He kissed her for the first time in years. She clung even more tightly, pressing her lips hungrily back against his.

“Just one thing,” he said when he raised his head. “You will not be living at Penshurst. But you might start wondering if you might like to live at Willowdale Manor. And if you think Lady Verney a prettier name than Mrs. Smith. And if you think Eric Verney sounds like the name of a successful lawyer or businessman or clergyman.”

“Henry,” she said, “be careful. Oh, do be careful.”

•   •   •

Luke,
Ashley, and Major Cunningham took the children riding and amused them outdoors for an hour afterward. Anna stayed at home with Emily, conversing cheerfully as she sewed. Afterward the two of them went to the nursery to play with James and Harry. Luke was there too, helping Joy practice her penmanship, listening to George read aloud.

Emily let James ride her around the nursery like a horse. She sat beside Harry, making his face light up with merriment and his arms flap and his legs kick with excitement. She looked at Joy's writing when it was brought to her and smiled her approval. With her one good hand she helped James build a castle with his wooden bricks.

They were to go home to Bowden tomorrow. If it had not been for the difficulty of organizing all the children and their baggage as well as their own, Anna had assured her, they would go today. But she would see to it that Emily was not left alone for a single minute. Tonight she would sleep in Emily's room and when Harry needed her, she would simply have his nurse bring him from the nursery.

None of them mentioned the incident of Alice's room, though Emily was sure Ashley must have told them. It was too embarrassing and too disturbing to think about. She must have been sleepwalking from the effects of the laudanum. But she had actually
lain
on that bed. She had brought those portraits back to her own room. And then she had gone to Ashley's. She could not remember going there. She could remember only being in his bed there this morning, warm and comfortable and safe, and unwilling to wake up. There was only one isolated memory of the night before. She could remember his making love to her.

It was hard this morning to smile, to watch people's lips instead of withdrawing into her own very solitary silence, to give her energy and her cheerful attention to the children.

She hated feeling like this. Frightened, out of control, haunted. Guarded. She hated thinking of Anna and Luke as guards, robbing her of privacy and curtailing her freedom. She was afraid to be alone, afraid to go outside, afraid to run up the hill to the summerhouse. And yet she wanted to do all three. She resented her fear. And irrationally she resented the people who protected her from it. The very people she loved most in the world.

She hated the feeling.

And she hated the thought of going. And of Ashley's leaving Penshurst for her sake. Had he been serious this morning when he had talked of selling it? He must not do so. Not for her sake. She must persuade him not to do anything so foolish. But he would never be willing to bring her back here. And she would probably always be afraid to come. If he did not sell, then . . .

She did not believe she was going to be able to live without him. She had thought so before. She had thought so when he left for India, and again over a month ago at Bowden. She had lived without him for seven years. She had lived without him for that month in London. Yes, she told herself firmly, she would be able to do it again. But the very thought threatened to pitch her into a black void of panic.

And then she laughed as the tall, thin tower she had been building for James finally collapsed—and looked up to find that Ashley was there. He snatched James up, tossed him toward the ceiling, and set him down on the floor again. He was smiling, but she could see weariness and tension in his face.

“I shall be with Emmy for the next half hour,” he was telling Luke. “I have to go out then—Verney has summoned me on some business that apparently cannot wait beyond today. But when I return, we will all go out for a drive. The children too. We will take food and drink with us and have our tea in the outdoors. Rod is belowstairs now, charming my housekeeper and my cook and arranging it all for me. We must enjoy your last day here.”