Silent Melody (7 page)

From tonight on her life would have to change more drastically, she thought. But could she bear to live every day as she had lived the past five? Could she do this? Could she live permanently in the wearying world of other people merely because she wanted . . . well, merely because she
wanted
!

“And in addition to everything else,” he said, and her eyes read his lips again, “I have conceived a fondness for you.”

Ah. She had not wanted that. She lowered her gaze and looked at his hands holding hers against him. And yet it was what she must want, for him as well as for herself. A relationship without fondness would not prosper. There could be fondness even if there could not be love. Very deliberately she turned her hands to clasp his, to squeeze them.

He waited for her to look up. “May I have your brother make the announcement tonight?” he asked her. “Now?”

She swallowed involuntarily. Tonight. Now. Once the announcement was made, it would be irrevocable. It would be like being married. There would be no going back from a public announcement. She would be bound to him for life. But that was what she wanted. That was what she had decided for her own future. It would be a good future. The best she could ever expect. Luke had helped plan it. She could trust Luke. Besides, she had already given her consent.

But when she looked at him to nod her head, she found herself shaking it instead.

“Lady Emily?” He frowned. “Not tonight?”

She shook her head again.

“Tomorrow, then?” he asked.

Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. Not tonight, so very publicly. Tomorrow, when there would be just the family to hear—and Ashley, a treacherous part of her mind said. She thrust the thought back.

She nodded and smiled. Yes, tomorrow. By tomorrow her mind would be calm. Good sense would have returned. By tomorrow she would have forgotten that she had danced tonight. With Ashley.

She would never forget dancing with Ashley. It would be etched on her memory like his departure for India. Like the first time she ever saw him. But by tomorrow she would have put it all away again in that deep recess of her being where it would not intrude on daily living or cause suffering to anyone except herself.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said. “Perhaps 'twill be better then. I have not relished the thought of going back into the ballroom and becoming so much the focus of attention. You are cold.”

She had shivered though she did not feel cold at all.

“Let me escort you inside,” he said. “I long for tomorrow. To be able to write to my mother. To know that the future is finally settled.”

She wondered what his mouth would feel like on her own. But she was glad he had not kissed her. Not tonight. Soon enough she would know his kiss and a great deal more. Tomorrow she would think about it. Tomorrow she would begin to prepare for it. Tonight she was weary. So very weary.

•   •   •

Waiting
until today had not perhaps been a great idea after all, Emily thought as she lay wide awake in bed. It was very early—or very late, depending upon the perspective from which one viewed the time. She had been in bed for only a few hours—the ball had ended very late and she had forced herself to stay to the end. She had not slept at all.

It was daylight. She would not sleep now.

There had been an embarrassing air of expectation when they had returned to the ballroom. She feared she had deeply mortified Lord Powell by her insistence that they postpone the announcement. Perhaps Luke's guests thought she had refused him. She still did not know his given name, she thought. Yet they were betrothed.

Yes, they were. She had said yes. Even though they had told no one and no announcement had been made, she had said yes. They were betrothed. He would probably want to be married before the summer was out.

She wished now that she had agreed to allow him to speak to Victor so that the announcement might have been made. It would all be finally irrevocable.

It was irrevocable now.

Emily pushed the bedclothes back from the bed and got out to cross the room to the window. It was the very loveliest time of the day, now when no one was yet up except perhaps a few grooms in the stables. It was the time of day she loved best, the time of day when she felt most free.

She had promised herself, she thought, but she was tempted anyway. She gazed longingly across the side lawn over which her window looked toward the line of trees in the distance. She could not see the river or the falls, but she knew they were there, just beyond the limit of her vision. Her favorite place in the world. Her haven of peace.

It was the way in which her differentness showed. Her need for solitude, for the living things of nature that were as content as she to communicate without demanding reciprocity. To give and to receive without obligation. Her contentment. Her happiness.

Her
loneliness.
Why had she had to grow up? Why had she had to
need
?

Was it Ashley who had taught her unwittingly about loneliness? About the needs of a woman?

She had promised herself that she would not go to the falls while Lord Powell was at the house. It was not a
normal
activity. She had promised herself . . . But it was very early. And no one would be up much before noon anyway after such a late night. Besides, she would not have many more chances for freedom. Once she was married, she would have to be much more careful to behave respectably—normally. She owed him that.

But surely just this once . . .

Less than ten minutes later, Emily was leaving the house and turning in the direction of the trees and the falls. She had paused only long enough to pull on an old and loose sack dress and to drag a brush through her hair. She had hesitated over her shoes. She knew that, lovely as the day looked from inside her room, in reality it would be chilly at this hour of the morning. And there would be dew. But she could not bear the thought of being shod. She had to feel the earth beneath her feet. She had to feel the connection.

Beneath her arm and in her hands she carried her easel and paper and paints and brushes. She had tiptoed into the schoolroom to get them, hoping that she was not making noise that would disturb the children sleeping in the nursery rooms.

She was going to paint.

She had discovered painting fairly recently. She had been taught long ago to paint pretty watercolors by a very competent governess, of course. But she had always found the lessons and the exercises tedious. Why paint something that, however pretty, could not even begin to rival the real thing? Why attempt to reproduce what only God in his majesty could create? But she had discovered real painting, and it had become something of an obsession with her. Something so deeply necessary to her that she wondered how she was to leave it alone when she married Lord Powell.

She would have to leave it alone, at least most of the time. But this morning was hers. Later today he would tell Victor that she had said yes, and Victor would tell everyone staying at Bowden that they were betrothed. Later today she would no longer be free. She would exchange freedom for conformity and the greater independence she would enjoy as a married lady. But this morning she was still free. Or if that was not strictly true, then she would cheat a little.

She would steal one more hour of freedom.

She set her things down when she reached the falls and stood for a long time, as she usually did, looking, listening with her body, smelling, feeling. She let it all seep inside her, the beauty, the wonder, the glory of it. Beneath her bare feet, cold and wet from the dew, she could feel the pulse of the world. The pulse of life.

Idleness was so often seen as a vice. Every moment had to be occupied with busy activity and endless conversation even if one never stopped to ask what purpose was served by a particular task or by a particular communication. Idleness was so often despised. And yet it was in idleness, she knew, that one touched meaning and peace. Sometimes she put the name God to what it was she touched, but the name was too evocative of rules and restrictions and sin and guilt. In the Bible, which she had tried to read since Luke taught her how, she had noted with interest how the great meaning and peace behind everything had instructed Moses not to name it. It had called itself merely the I AM. Emily liked that. It was in idleness that one came face-to-face with the I AM. With simple, elemental Being.

She stood still for more than fifteen minutes before setting up her easel and starting to paint. She worked slowly, even hesitantly, at first, not sure what the paper and the paint and the brush in her hand had to show her today. But soon enough she was absorbed in what she was doing. All else receded.

She was free. She had found a way to pour out all the wordless, unformed passions that were inside her.

A
SHLEY
had slept for maybe a couple of hours, and woke up disoriented, believing he was still in India. He was surprised he had slept at all. He had still been filled to the brim with nervous energy when he went to bed.

He marveled at the coolness of the morning. The blessed coolness. Through the window that he had opened before lying down he could hear birds singing. And somewhere far in the distance, probably in the stables or the carriage house, the faint ringing of a hammer on metal.

He was in England. He was home. He drew in a deep breath of cool English air through his nostrils and let it out slowly through his mouth. Then he threw back the bedclothes and jumped to his feet. He shivered as he crossed the room to the window. He had always slept naked, but perhaps it was not such a good idea now that he was back in a cooler climate.

He was in his old room, one of the few bedchambers that looked out on the front of the house. The terraces of the formal gardens were still bright with spring flowers. Beyond them the long lawns stretched to the stone bridge and the trees in the distance. The trees were bright with their spring foliage.

He was here, where he had longed to be. The thought of Bowden had sustained him through the long, tedious voyage. If he could but get here, he had thought. Irrationally, he had expected to find peace here. He had expected to be able to put everything behind him. Including himself. Or perhaps not. In reality he had known very well that there was no peace to be found—anywhere.

He should get dressed, he thought, and go riding. Luke must have some decent mounts in the stables. A good gallop would blow cobwebs away, if nothing else. Suddenly he craved the recklessness of speed, the feel of a good horse between his thighs. It was early. He was unlikely to encounter anyone else, especially today of all days, after the ball. It had been well into the morning hours before any of them had gone to bed.

He turned to stride into his dressing room, but he did not ring for his valet. Poor Bevins had been up as late as he despite the fact that he had been instructed not to wait up.

An hour later he had completed his ride. He had taken out a powerful and skittish stallion, which his grace allowed no one but himself to ride, the most senior groom on duty had explained pointedly. On the grounds that it was dangerous? Ashley had asked.

“Aye, m'lord,” the man had confirmed.

Ashley had laughed and led the horse from its stall into the stableyard in order to saddle it up himself. And so had begun a grand battle of wills that had lasted the whole of the hour. But he and the stallion understood each other very well by the end of the hour, he thought, patting it on the rump before turning it over to a groom's care and leaving the stables.

He wondered if anyone else was up yet. He stood still, looking toward the house, tapping his riding crop absently against one boot. He was reluctant to return. Reluctant to face anyone. There was something that had to be told this morning.

He drew a deep, slow breath.

And then he remembered something—somewhere. A place that had been gone from his memory until this very moment. Completely, almost as if he had deliberately blotted it out. Strange, really, considering the fact that it had been his favorite part of Bowden, the place where he had spent so many solitary hours. The place where he had always been most likely to find peace. Especially during that last year . . .

The falls. He turned his head toward the trees to his left, and his whip tapped harder and faster. He was strangely reluctant to go there. Although he had forgotten it with his conscious mind, he knew now that in some way it had been the focus of all his longings during his journey home. All his hopes for peace and forgetfulness and oblivion were centered on the falls. An absurd thought. An absurd hope.

It was a hope impossible to be realized. But for as long as he did not go there . . .

His jaw set grimly.

He was going to be even more disappointed than he had braced himself to be, he thought a few minutes later as he made his way through the trees and realized that someone was there before him. He could hear a voice. Luke's? But by the time he had stopped to listen, the man had ceased talking. Perhaps it had been merely a gardener passing by and talking to his dog. But he picked his way more carefully. He had no wish to be seen, to be engaged in social conversation before he had properly braced himself. Even with Luke. Especially with Luke.

He saw Powell first. He was immaculate for so early in the morning, in dark blue frock coat and knee breeches, with embroidered cream cotton waistcoat. His wig was carefully styled and powdered—it was not last night's powder, at a guess.

He was standing silently in front of an easel, his hands clasped at his back. He was frowning. The easel was turned away from Ashley, so he could not see what was displayed there.

Ashley drew back behind a tree. He had no wish to encounter the man he had treated rather badly last night. Emmy's betrothed. Though now that he came to think about it, no announcement of a betrothal had been made, even though Luke had predicted it.

And then he saw her. She was standing some distance away, on top of the pile of rocks that ascended the bank beside the falls. On the flat one that jutted out over the water. She was looking across the water, very still. A gust of wind had flattened her dress against her and sent it billowing out behind. Her hair was blowing out behind her too.

God, he thought. Lord God, Emmy. The dress was a loose sack dress. Very loose. Shapeless. It looked as if it might once have been a rich blue in color, but now it was a nondescript gray-blue. It must have shrunk from repeated launderings; it ended at least two inches above her ankles. Her feet were bare. Her blond hair, unconfined and unpowdered, fell in wild and unruly curls to below her waist.

God, he thought, memory stabbing at him. His little fawn. Except that she was no longer a child. Yet she did not seem quite a woman. She was more sprite than either child or woman. More a graceful and beautiful creature of the wild.

How many times had he seen Emmy standing or sitting on that rock? And yet he had forgotten every single one of them. Just as he had forgotten the falls. Just as he had forgotten her. Yet he could not have forgotten what had been so important in his life. Why had he suppressed the memories?

It was a lovers' tryst, he thought. He felt a moment's resentment over the fact that his first visit to the falls had been spoiled thus. But perhaps it was as well. This was a mere place, after all. There was no magic here. And they had the right, the two of them, to meet where they would. They were to be married. And Emmy was of age. Seven years had passed since those days of his memory. Yes, of course she was of age. She had been fifteen when he left, had she not?

A child then. A woman now.

But instead of turning immediately away, as he knew he ought to have, he watched as Powell removed a handkerchief from a pocket, touched it to his brow, and turned to stride the few steps to the bottom of the pile of rocks.

“Lady Emily?” Lord Powell called.

She could not hear him, of course, but she must have seen him with her peripheral vision and realized that he was speaking. She did not turn her head to see what he said.

There was silence for a few moments. Ashley turned away. He had no wish to eavesdrop on lovers' words. He had even less desire to watch a lovers' embrace.

“Lady Emily,” Lord Powell said again, loudly and distinctly, as if he thought she was only partially deaf. “I shall return to the house now. I shall see you at breakfast? I shall— Perhaps we may talk further?”

Despite himself, Ashley paused and looked back. She had not turned. Powell stood where he was for a few moments, and then turned to stride away through the trees. He was still frowning, and watched the ground at his feet. He did not see Ashley.

A lovers' spat? But how could one quarrel with Emmy? Ashley mused. What could she say to make one angry? She could, of course, ignore one when one was talking to her. Emmy could more effectively ignore someone than most other women. All she had to do was refuse to look at one. It would be a trifle annoying, to say the least.

Ashley grinned and set one shoulder against the trunk of a tree. He crossed one booted foot over the other. Good old Emmy. She was not after all allowing them to walk all over her just because she was deaf. He watched her.

She did not move except to clench her hands at her sides and tip back her head and close her eyes. Her hair cascaded all the way down to her bottom. She looked, Ashley thought, a hundred times more lovely than she had looked last night with her elaborately powdered curls and her silks and lace and her stays and hoops. And yet even last night she had been the loveliest lady at the ball.

His little fawn really had grown up, he thought regretfully. It was strange how one could come back after seven years, totally and dreadfully changed oneself, and yet imagine that everything and everyone one had left behind had somehow been happily frozen in time. If he had pictured Emmy at all during those years, it was as a slender, coltish child.

He had made no sound. Even if he had, she would not have heard it. And he was well behind her line of vision. But after a minute of stillness she opened her eyes and raised her head and looked over her shoulder directly at him. Being Emmy, of course, she had sensed his presence. She had known he was there. She had known he was not Powell—she had refused to turn her head for him.

She had known he was there.

The years had somehow rolled back after all. For the first time, there seemed to be a thread of warmth in the morning.

•   •   •

Usually
she sensed someone coming up behind her, especially when she was alone. But sometimes that intuition failed her. It happened most often when she was absorbed in some activity and lost all sense of time and place. Painting had had that effect on her for the past year or so.

She turned with a start of guilt only when whoever it was was very close behind. She expected to see Anna or Luke. Anna would merely smile and hug her and commend her on her painting and pretend not to notice her appearance. Anna perhaps did not realize that she still treated her youngest sister as a child. Luke would raise his eyebrows and purse his lips and look at her painting and make some satirical remark about witches in the wood.

But it was Lord Powell who was standing there, looking perfectly immaculate. Even his wig had been freshly powdered, she noticed. If only she had heard him coming, she might at least have hidden her painting. Preferably, she would have hidden herself too. She felt suddenly naked. Not physically so but emotionally. He had come unexpectedly upon her other self. The very private self she could explain to no one.

This morning he looked more handsome than usual. Even with the frown on his face and the aghast look in his eyes. He looked very . . . civilized.

“It
is
you, by my life,” he said. His perfect manners appeared to have been left behind at the house, at least for the moment. His eyes moved down her body, from the topmost hair on her head to the tips of her toenails. It was a look of sheer horror.

Emily saw herself through his eyes. She saw her shapeless, shabby dress, with neither stays nor hoops beneath. And her bare ankles and feet. And her wild, tangled hair. In her embarrassment she felt and resisted the totally inappropriate urge to laugh. This was
her
world, she might have told him if she had been able. So very different from his own. Why was she the one called upon to make all the adjustments?

But for five days she had been so very careful. So very determined.

She smiled.

He recovered his lost manners then and made her a hasty but elegant bow. “Lady Emily,” he said.

She tried to picture him without his wig, with dark, close-cropped hair. She rather believed he would look more handsome yet. Though quite undressed by current standards of fashion and propriety, of course. She hated fashion and propriety. Last night she had been dazzled—and wearied—by them. This morning she hated them.

“There are servants up and abroad,” he said. “House servants, grooms, gardeners. 'Twas his grace's butler who informed me that you were up and outside already and had come this way. He also informed me that his grace and Lord Ashley Kendrick are up. You may be
seen,
Lady Emily.”

She had been seen. By him. She could not tell if he was warning her of possible embarrassment to herself, or whether he was scolding her.

She smiled again and raised her shoulders in acknowledgment of the fact that she had been caught out and was perhaps sorry. Yes, she was sorry. This morning was in the nature of a swan song to freedom, she would have told him if she had had words. She must work on some sort of shared language with him, she thought suddenly. As she had with Ashley. But then perhaps she did not want anyone else to know her. Perhaps she hid deliberately behind her deafness and muteness. Perhaps she was too frightened by—or attached to—her differentness to expose it to someone who might not understand or accept. But this man was to be her
husband.