Silent Melody (32 page)

“Nine months from the
wedding day,
'tis to be hoped, Theo,” his wife said placidly while Anna blushed and Luke raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips again.

•   •   •

Luke
had discouraged him from coming to Bowden Abbey until the day before his wedding. And family members, Ashley had discovered to his chagrin, moved about England with tortoiselike speed. Despite the fact that he had acquired a special license the very day after Emily had agreed to marry him, more than two weeks passed before he was finally permitted to go to Bowden to claim his bride.

And when he finally arrived there and finally saw her again, it was to find her ringed about,
walled
about with sisters and sisters-in-law and assorted other relatives, so that all he could do was bow formally over her hand, inquire formally after her health, and converse formally about the weather and other such scintillating subjects. And then she was whisked off to spend the night at Wycherly with her sister Agnes. Anna and Charlotte followed her there early on the morning of the wedding day.

His wedding day!

“Zounds, I feel like a damned Paris beau,” he said when he was ready to leave for the church. He frowned at his image in the pier glass of his dressing room. He was resplendent in silver embossed satin skirted coat with silver embroidered waistcoat, gray breeches, white stockings and linen, and heeled and buckled shoes. His hair was powdered white, carefully rolled at the sides and bagged in black silk behind.

Luke met his eyes in the mirror. “You have something against Paris beaux, Ash?”

Ashley grinned. As usual on dress occasions, Luke, all in rich green and gold and white, would turn heads even on Paris's most fashionable boulevard.

They were early at the church. Or Emmy was late. He did not know which. But it seemed that he waited an eternity at the front of the village church, trying to look dignified, trying to feel calm. What if she had changed her mind? What if she did not come at all? Would she send a message? Or would he stand here like this, feeling the eye of every guest in the pews on him, until noon came and went, until dusk descended?

And then she was there.

She looked incredibly beautiful. He watched her as she came closer down the aisle, her hand resting on Royce's sleeve. She wore an elaborately trimmed sack dress of palest gold, with a train. The heavy robings down the edges of the open gown were of a darker gold and matched the color of her frilled, flounced petticoat and of her heavily embroidered stomacher. The two deep lace frills at her elbows were also trimmed with gold lace. Her hair was piled rather high over pads. Gold rosebuds and green leaves were entwined in it. It was unpowdered.

She was the other Emily. The one he had first seen and admired without knowing who she was on the night of his return to Bowden. The one he had seen and admired in London. And yet when her eyes met his and when she smiled—her bright, warm, serene smile—she was his Emmy too. His little fawn of the loose dress and the bare feet and the wild mane of fair hair. She was each and both and all. She was everything. He smiled back at her.

The service began, the marriage service that would make them man and wife, that would bind them together with love for the rest of their lives. The Reverend Jeremiah Hornsby led them through it with a slightly pompous competence until it came Emily's turn to make her vows. She was to watch Hornsby's lips and nod her acceptance of the words as her own. But a look passed between Hornsby and Emily, a look of mutual understanding. Almost a look of conspiracy.

“I, Emily Louisa, take thee, Ashley Charles,” Hornsby said.

“I, Emily Louisa, take thee, Ahshley Charles,” Emmy said.

Ashley guessed that they had practiced it endlessly, the two of them. He knew she would speak the whole of it, that she would pledge herself to him in words for him to hear, for the whole world to hear. He knew too that they must have practiced in secret—he was half aware of the distinctly audible gasp and murmuring from their gathered relatives. But he did not look at them. He looked only at her, deep into her eyes, each time she turned back from watching Hornsby's lips. He tightened his grasp of her hands.

And he smiled at her.

“Until death do us part. So help me Gahd.”

He would tease her about that pronunciation later.

“God,” she said, correcting herself and then smiling in triumph.

Ashley heard nothing else of the service until Hornsby was telling them and the world that they were man and wife. She was his—for the rest of his life. How could he possibly have come to deserve such happiness? But of course he had not. All he had done was love—and allow himself to be loved. So simple—so complex.

He lowered his head and kissed her. His wife. His love. His serenity and peace and joy.

Her eyes, when he raised his head again, said all the same things back to him.

They were married.

•   •   •

They
had decided to stay at Bowden Abbey for the night and leave for Penshurst early enough in the morning that they could make the journey in one day.

They had retired early to Ashley's old suite of rooms amid the knowing smiles, the tears—from Anna, Agnes, and Constance—and the mildly ribald comments of Lord Quinn. They had gone immediately to bed and had made love with lingering slowness and exquisite sweetness. And Ashley had called her his wife, whispering the words against her mouth—at least, she guessed that that was what he had whispered when he lifted his head and apparently repeated the words so that she could see them in the candlelight.

They had lain quietly in each other's arms and then made love again and relaxed once more—until he had told her that there were no more sounds, that he was convinced everyone, even down to the last servant, was in bed. They had smiled conspiratorially at each other as they had got up and dressed and slipped down the stairs and outside.

And now they were where they had planned to come ever since they had been alone together for a few minutes in the carriage after their wedding. They were at the falls, standing side by side on the highest rock, the one that jutted out over the water. Their fingers were entwined. It was a beautiful, warm night. The stars seemed almost close enough to touch. They were like lamps in the sky, so that even without the moon, which was almost full tonight, it would have been nearly as bright as day.

“Well, little fawn,” Ashley said, turning her to him and taking her other hand in his free one. “We are back where it all started.”

“Yes,” she said. They had first met in Luke's drawing room, but this was where they had first talked, sitting together on this rock, her feet dangling in the water. She thought of him as he had been then—very young and handsome and restless. And of herself focusing on him all the love and devotion of her girl's heart. She thought of lying here facedown, alone, living through the terrible pain of his departure for India. And of his return and all that had followed it.

“But not where it will end,” he said. “Tomorrow we will go home. To Penshurst. To our new life. I have had those rooms cleared out, Emmy. All is gone. And I want you to change everything else that does not suit you. I want it to be your home. Ours. There will be a wedding to attend soon—Henry Verney is to marry Katherine Smith. And I am encouraging my steward to desert me—as he phrases it—in order to move back to the north of England, where he comes from and which he misses. I will offer his position to Binchley.”

She smiled at him, then used their private language to reply.
I am very happy,
she told him.

I am very happy too.
He spoke to her without words. He pulsed a lightly closed fist against his heart.
I really mean it. I feel deeply.

But there was something else she wished to say in words, though she could have signed it to him. She wanted to
tell
him.

“Ahshley,” she said.

“Emmy.” He smiled. “I love my name on your lips more than on anyone else's in the world.”

“Ahshley,” she said again, using her hands too. “You. Me. A baby.”

She was not quite certain, of course, and she had felt unable to ask Anna. But she was almost certain—with her body. With her heart she knew it beyond a doubt.

She watched his eyes brighten with tears. He bit his lip. And then he caught her up in his arms and held her very close. He was talking to her, she knew. But it did not matter that she neither heard nor saw the words. Words were not important.

She kept her eyes open and looked up at the vast sky and at the stars. The whole sky and the earth too, the whole universe was singing. Did it matter that she could not hear? The melody, the dance, the joy were in her heart. And in his.

And then she could neither see nor hear. His mouth found hers and she closed her eyes.

There was only a silent melody.

Enjoyed
Silent Melody
? Read on for Lucas and Anna's story in another Mary Balogh classic,

Heartless

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“F
AITH,
child,” Lady Sterne said to her goddaughter, “'tis time you gave some thought to yourself. Always it has been your family—first your mama, may God rest her soul, and then your papa, may God rest his, and always your brother and the girls. Well, now, Victor is of age and has come into his inheritance, Charlotte has married, Agnes is as pretty as a spring meadow and is like to marry as soon as we have presented her to some eligible gentlemen, and Emily . . . Well, you just cannot make yourself a martyr to your youngest sister. 'Tis time you looked to your own interests.”

Lady Anna Marlowe smiled and watched her younger sister at the other end of the gallery being fitted out for fashionable clothes suitable to be worn in London. Bolts of fabric, mostly silks and shimmering satins, were piled on tables, some of them partly unrolled. There was some excitement about the scene and about the anticipation of seeing the clothes made and worn, she had to admit.

“Agnes is eighteen, Aunt Marjorie,” she said. “I am five-and – twenty. On the shelf, one might say.”

“And I vow that is where you wish to stay,” Lady Sterne said sharply. “Life slips by fast, child, and increases in pace as one gets older, I swear. And life can become filled with regrets for what one might have done in the past but did not do. 'Tis not too late for you to seek a husband, but in another year or two perhaps it will be. Men do not look for breeders among women who are staring thirty years in the face—and men of course look for breeders when they choose mates. You have a great deal of love to give, Anna. You should now be looking to giving it to a husband and to receiving love in return— and position and security.”

That last point hit home. Victor, Anna's only brother, had recently celebrated his twenty-first birthday. With university days behind him and his title still new to him—he had been the Earl of Royce since Papa's death a little more than a year ago—he was soon to return home to take up his responsibilities there. And he was newly betrothed. Where did that leave her? Anna wondered. And Agnes and Emily? Suddenly their home did not seem quite home any longer. Not that Victor would turn them out, or Constance for that matter. But one did not like to intrude on a newly married couple in their own home—especially not in the status of spinster sister.

She was a spinster. Anna clasped her hands rather tightly in her lap. But she could not marry. The thought brought with it the familiar shortness of breath and coldness in her head. She fought off the dizziness.

“I brought Agnes to London at your urging, Aunt,” she said. “'Tis more likely that she will find an eligible husband here than in the neighborhood of Elm Court. If she can be settled, I will be content.”

“Lud, child,” her godmother said, “I urged you to
bring
your sister, not send her. I intended that you both find husbands. But you most of all, Anna. You are my godchild—the only one. Agnes is nothing to me except the daughter of my dear Lucy. For although you are all sweet enough to call me aunt, I am no such thing, you know. I see that Madame Delacroix has all but finished with her measurements.” She got to her feet. “I will have you, too, decked out properly for town, my dear. Excuse my bluntness, but you look quite rustic. Even your hoops—they should be twice the size they are.”

“Large hoops look quite ridiculous,” Anna said. Ridiculous, but wondrously feminine and pretty, she thought treacherously. And her godmother had just reminded her that there was no real tie between her and Agnes. Could she be expected to take Agnes about to all the social events at which it was to be hoped she would attract a husband? Was not that Anna's responsibility? And would not it be wonderfully exhilarating to dress fashionably and to go about in society just a few times? Just for a short while?

I will return. And of course you will be here when I do so. You will remember, my Anna, that you are mine? Body and soul?
The voice was as vivid in her head as if the man who had uttered them stood at her shoulder and spoke the words now. They had been spoken a year ago at Elm Court. A long time ago and a long way away. He would not come back. And even if he did, it would surely do no harm to enjoy herself a little before he did. She was only twenty-five. And really, there had been very little enjoyment in her life. Surely just a little . . . It was not as if she was going to be in search of a husband, after all. She knew very well that she could never marry.

“Well, perhaps,” she said, getting to her feet to stand beside Lady Sterne, “I could have a few new clothes made so that I will not shame you if I do venture out with you once or twice.”

“Lud, child,” her godmother said, “'twould be difficult for you to do that when you have such beauty. Nevertheless, fashion is of importance. Come.” She linked her arm through Anna's and moved her forward across the room. “Let us proceed before you change your mind.”

Agnes was flushed and bright-eyed and was exclaiming that she could not possibly need all the clothes Madame Delacroix claimed to be the bare essentials for a young lady of quality making her first appearance in society. Anna's heart went out to her sister. She was eighteen years old and had been in mourning for two years—first for Mama and then for Papa. Even before that, Mama had been ill with consumption and Papa had been—well, he had been ill too. And there had been the poverty. There had been very little chance for Agnes to enjoy her youth.

“Lud, child,” Lady Sterne said to Agnes, “'twould not do at all, you know, for you to be seen in the same dresses time and again. Madame knows her job. Besides, she has had strict instructions from me. And now 'tis Anna's turn.”

Lady Sterne had insisted from the start that she would bear all the expenses of the few months to be spent in London. It would be a dream come true for her, she claimed, to have two young ladies to take about and introduce to society. She had never had children of her own. Anna had brought some money with her—Victor had insisted that she take some from the estate though it would be years before he could expect to make it prosper again. And perhaps he never would if . . . But Anna refused to pursue the thought. She was not going to think about any of that for a month or two. She was going to give herself a chance to heal a little. She had told her godmother that she would keep a strict account of all that was spent on her and Agnes, that she would consider it a loan to be repaid when she was able.

And so, after all, she found herself being taken into the capable hands of Madame Delacroix and measured and poked and prodded and pricked and draped. It seemed that she stood still for hours while discussing with the two older ladies fabrics and trimmings and designs for petticoats, stomachers, open gowns, closed gowns, sack dresses—it was all very dizzying. She was laced into stays far tighter than she was accustomed to and looked down in some embarrassment—and some fascination—at the way they pushed up her breasts, making them seem larger and more feminine. And she was tied into whalebone hoops so wide that she wondered how she would pass through doorways.

She enjoyed every moment.

How wonderful it was, she thought, to feel young and free. Not that she was either in reality. Youth had passed her by. And as for freedom . . . well. She felt slightly nauseated for a moment when she remembered how very much she was not free. If
he
should come back from America as he had sworn he would . . . But she was not trying to break free forever. Merely for a couple of months. Surely he would not begrudge her that much time even if he knew about it.

How wonderful it would be to feel youthful and free for two whole months.

“I vow, child,” Lady Sterne said when the fitting was finally over, “the years are falling off you by the minute. You have had a hard time and have remained devoted to your family throughout. Now is the time for yourself. And 'tis not too late. As I live, I am going to find you a very special husband.”

Anna laughed. “'Twill be enough to attend a few balls and concerts, Aunt,” she said. “I will remember it all for a lifetime. I have no need of a husband.”

“Pshaw!” said her godmother briskly.

•   •   •

“Egad,
but you made us all look like bumpkins tonight, lad,” Theodore, Lord Quinn said, slapping his thigh with delight as he seated himself in a deep chair in his nephew's library and took a glass of brandy from a valet's hand before the man was dismissed. He laughed heartily. “'Twas the fan that really slayed 'em.”

Lucas Kendrick, Duke of Harndon, was neither drinking nor sitting. He stood elegantly propped against the marble mantel. He raised the fan to which his uncle had just referred, a small ivory and gold affair, and opened it to waft it languidly in front of his face. “It serves to cool one's brow in a warm room,” he said. “It has a purely practical function, my dear.”

His uncle was in a mood to be amused. He laughed afresh. “Pox on it, Luke,” he said, “'tis pure affectation as are the powder and rouge and patches.”

His nephew raised his eyebrows. “You would have me appear in society half naked, Theo?” he asked.

“Not me, lad,” Lord Quinn said. He took a sizable mouthful from his glass, savored it for a few moments on his tongue, and then swallowed. “I have spent time in Paris and know how men dress and behave there. Though even there, as I remember, you have a reputation for leading fashion rather than following it. 'Tis perhaps a good thing that you also have a reputation as a deadly shot and swordsman, or it might almost be thought . . .”

“Yes?” The clear gray eyes of his nephew narrowed slightly and the fan stilled in his hands. “What might almost be thought?”

But his uncle merely laughed and looked him over from head to toe with leisurely appreciation. His amused eyes took in the powdered hair neatly set into two rolls on either side of the head, the long hair caught behind into a black silk bag and tied in a large bow at the nape of his neck—it was his own hair, not a wig—the austerely handsome face with its dusting of powder and blush of rouge and one black patch; the dark blue silk coat with its full skirts and silver lining and lavish silver embroidery and facings; the silver waistcoat with blue embroidery; the tight gray knee breeches and white silk stockings; the silver-buckled shoes with their high red heels. The Duke of Harndon was the very epitome of Parisian splendor. And then, of course, there was the dress sword at his side with its sapphire-jeweled hilt, a weapon with which his grace was said to be more than ordinarily adept.

“I refuse to answer, lad,” Lord Quinn said at last, “on the grounds that I do not fancy having the tip of that sword poking out from my backbone. But it was kind of you to leave White's Club early tonight. You will be the topic of conversation there for the rest of the night, I warrant you.” He chuckled once more. “The fan, Luke. Zounds, but I swear Jessop very near swallowed his port, glass and all, when you first drew it out and opened it.”

“If you will remember, Theo,” Luke said, fanning himself again, not participating in the laughter, “I left Paris with the greatest reluctance. You talked me into it. But I'll be damned before you also talk me into becoming the typical English gentleman, stalking about my land with ill-fitting frock coat and staff in hand and hounds at heel and English ale in my stomach and English oaths on my lips. Don't expect it of me.”

“Hark ye, Luke,” his uncle said, suddenly serious. “If I had to persuade you to come back home, 'twas only because you would not take the responsibility on your own shoulders and everything is like to go to wrack and ruin at Bowden Abbey in your absence.”

“Perhaps,” the Duke of Harndon said coldly, “I do not care the snap of two fingers what happens to Bowden Abbey and all who live there, Theo. I have done well enough without them for the past ten years.”

“Nay, lad,” his uncle said, “I know you better than most. Cold you may appear to be when you are not charming the ladies and coaxing the most lovely of them into your bed, and cold you may have the right to be after the unjust way you were treated. But I know that the Luke of ten years ago is still in large measure the Luke of today. You care, lad. Besides, there is such a thing as responsibility. You are the Duke of Harndon now and have been for two years.”

“I never looked for such a position,” Luke said, “or expected it, Theo. There was George older than I, and George married ten years ago.” There was something resembling a sneer in his voice for a moment. “One might have expected there to be male issue in the eight years before his death.”

“Aye,” his uncle said, “but there was only the one son, stillborn, Luke. Like it or not, you are the head of the family, and they need you.”

“They have a strange way of showing need,” Luke said, fanning himself slowly again. “If 'twere not for you, Theo, I would not even know if any of them lived or all were dead. And if they are in need, they may be sorry if I begin to answer it.”

“'Tis time for old wounds to be healed,” his uncle said, “and the awkwardness of a long and mutual silence to be overcome. Ashley and Doris were too young to be held responsible for anything that happened, and your mother, my sister—well, your mother is as proud as you, lad. And Henrietta . . .” He shrugged expressively, unable to complete the sentence.

“And Henrietta is George's widow,” Luke said quietly, his fan still.

“Aye.” Lord Quinn sighed. “You have begun badly, lad, leasing this house instead of taking up residence at Harndon House. 'Twill be thought strange that you live here while your mother, brother, and sister are there.”

“You forget, my dear,” Luke said, looking keenly at his uncle from beneath half-lowered eyelids, “that I care not one fig for what people think.”

“Aye, 'tis so.” Lord Quinn drained his glass. “But you have not even called on them.”