Wilde, Jennifer (69 page)

Refusing
to spar with him, I went upstairs myself. I sat down to finish the book I had
started the day before. It was almost one o'clock in the morning when I finally
turned the last page, but I knew I wouldn't be able to get to sleep for some
time yet. Since I hadn't undressed, I decided to go down to the library and
select another book. Placing a candle in a polished copper holder, I lighted it
and stepped into the dark hallway.

It
took me fifteen minutes to select the right book. As I started back up the
staircase, I thought I heard stealthy footsteps moving down the hall above. The
candle flickered out, intensifying the darkness beyond. Reaching the top of the
stairs, I paused and peered down the hall just to reassure myself. My heart
seemed to stop beating, and I almost dropped the candlestick. Faint rays of
moonlight seeped through the window at the end of the hall. I saw a man
standing in the shadows.

I
was paralyzed with fright. I tried to call out, but my throat was constricted
and no sound would come. The man stood very still, a dark form barely visible.
I realized that he was standing directly in front of the door to Meg's bedroom.
As I watched, he opened the door and slipped quickly inside. Fear gave way to
amazement. I found it hard to believe that either of them would take such a
risk. She must have left the back door unlocked for him; he must have slipped
into the house while I was in the library. I stood there for several minutes,
overwhelmed by the boldness of it all, and then I returned to my room, still a
bit shaken. I would keep their secret, but God only knew what would happen if
Helmut found out.

The
letter arrived the following afternoon. Soiled, crumpled, the ink faded, it had
come all the way from Wales. I found it miraculous that it had reached me at
all, addressed as it was simply to "Marietta Danver, Natchez." It had
been written months before, and I wondered how many hands it had passed through
before it had finally reached mine. The ship's captain who had brought it to
New Orleans had entrusted it to another captain who was departing for Natchez,
and he had given it to a man who, fortunately, remembered that Marietta Danver
had become the wife of Helmut Schnieder.

I
was greatly relieved that Helmut wasn't in when the man brought the battered,
water-stained missive to Roseclay. There would have been far too many
questions. I took the letter into the small drawing room downstairs and,
sitting down on the sofa, opened it with trembling fingers. Written in a bold
but childish hand and full of dreadful errors in grammar and spelling, it was
charged with vitality and aglow with Angie's personality.

The
village, she informed me, was bleak, bleak, bleak, all brown and gray and
black. Kyle's relatives were bleak, too, so grim and taciturn they looked as
though they spent most of their time staring into open graves. Nevertheless,
she was determined to cope, and she had absolutely transformed the dank, depressing
cottage they had moved into. She had had the place completely whitewashed, had
put up red curtains, hung polished copper pots over the fireplace. She had
waxed the dingy hardwood floors until they gleamed like dark gold. She had
become
quite
domestic and was even learning to cook.

Instead
of going into competition with the owner of the solitary pub in the village,
Kyle had simply bought him out, and Angie had been aghast when she saw the
place. It was so dark you could grow mushrooms, and the smell was not to be
believed. It had taken a solid month to clean it up, paint it, make it sparkle.
They had enlarged the fireplace and put in new windows and a long brass rail
for the bar. She had outraged Kyle's relatives by insisting on working the taps
herself, had outraged them further by wearing her fancy dresses.
Someone
had
to make the place lively, she insisted, for Kyle was still silent and stern and
rarely cracked a smile.

Be
that as it may, he was ever so generous, amazingly considerate and, she confessed,
absolutely incredible in bed. Wales might be a desolate place filled with
windswept moors and driving rain, but she had never even dreamed she could be
so happy. She hoped that I would find such happiness myself, if I hadn't
already. She asked about the shop, begged me to write and, in closing, said she
thought I might like to see the clipping she was enclosing. She had come across
it in a London newspaper.

I
retrieved the envelope and shook it. The yellow clipping fluttered into my lap.
It contained an account of the case that had taken London by storm, involving
as it did greed, deception, adultery, and one of the most distinguished
families of the aristocracy. I read the piece shaking with emotions I thought I
had buried. Derek had finally won his case. He was declared his father's
legitimate heir and legal owner of both title and estates that his uncle had
appropriated. He was now Lord Derek Hawke, and Hawkehouse belonged to him,
along with all the annual revenues.

I
put
both letter and clipping back into the envelope and slipped the envelope into
the pocket of my skirt. Surely he was happy now. He had his title, had the
majestic old Elizabethan mansion and countless tenant farms. I had no doubt he
would soon have a wife, as well. A cool, refined woman of impeccable
background, she would be everything I wasn't. Angie's letter had been written
months ago. Perhaps he had already married. Conflicting emotions began to well
up inside me, and I was amazed to find my lashes damp with tears. I brushed them
away. I wasn't going to think about it.
I
wasn't.

After
I went up to my room and put the letter away in my desk, I began to look for
Meg. I had to talk to someone. I had to
be
with someone. All those
feelings that had been locked away for so long were trying to break free, and I
knew that if I allowed them to do so, I would be utterly demolished. That hard
shell I had built around myself was threatening to collapse. I had to fight the
flood of memories swelling up, gathering force, ready to crash over me and
sweep away my defenses. I would talk to Meg, no matter what her mood. I didn't
trust myself to remain alone. We would discuss books, clothes, talk about
anything... anything to take my mind off tousled dark hair, cool gray eyes,
perfectly chiseled features....

I
knocked on the door of her bedroom. When there was no answer, I opened the door
to find the room was empty. Perhaps she was down in the library. I checked, but
she wasn't. The library was empty, too. I moved briskly through the house in
search of her, but she was nowhere to be found. Hurrying outside, I decided to
check the grounds and walked quickly down the path toward the gardens. I saw
her then. She was coming back toward the house. As I called out to her, Meg
stopped and seemed to pull back. Drawing nearer, I saw her white face, her
tear-stained cheeks, saw her shoulders trembling.

All
thought of my own problems quickly vanished, for Meg looked as though she was
going to collapse at any moment. Reaching her at last, I took hold of her hand.

She
didn't try to pull away. Her eyes were filled with terrible anguish.

"Meg,
what's wrong?"

She
didn't answer. She seemed not to have heard.

"Something's
happened. You look deathly pale. You're trembling. What is it?"

She
shook her head and made a feeble effort to free her hand.

"You
must let me help you," I said.

"No
one can help me." Her voice was a bare whisper.

"Come.
We—we'll go back inside."

"Leave
me alone. Please—please leave me alone."

"Meg—"

She
looked up at me with those pain-filled violet-blue eyes, her cheeks stained
with salty trails, the corners of her soft pink mouth quivering. I realized
that she was in a state of shock, incapable of coherent speech, and I had to
get her back to the house. As I led her up the pathway, she moved as one in a trance
might move. Once inside, I took her into the small parlor and sat her down on
the sofa.

Pouring
a small glass of brandy, I forced her to take it. She gazed at it as though she
had no idea what it might be.

"Drink
it, Meg," I said.

She
obeyed. I took the empty glass from her and set it down. She held her hands
clasped in her lap, staring down at them as though they belonged to someone
else. The windows behind the sofa were open. The long draperies stirred in the
breeze.

"Do
you feel better?" I asked.

"I
suppose so," she said.

The
anguish in her eyes had been replaced by a grim resignation that, in some ways,
was even worse. She looked up at me, and I saw that she had summoned at least a
surface calm. Her cheeks were still deathly pale, her hands still clasped
tightly in her lap, but when she spoke, her voice had only the faintest tremor.

"He's
leaving," she said. "We—we had an argument. He said we must marry
immediately. I told him it was impossible. He wanted to know why, and I
couldn't explain."

"You're
talking about James?"

"He
was waiting in the woods behind the gazebo, just as he said he would in his
letter. I didn't want to see him, but I knew I had to. I knew I had to send him
away before—before something terrible happened."

"I—Meg,
I don't quite understand."

"You
brought the letter. He asked me to meet him. I did."

"But—"

"He
said he would be waiting at two o'clock in the afternoon, said he would be
there every day until—until I came. I didn't—I couldn't bring myself to meet
him yesterday, but today—I knew I had to get it over with. I knew I had to send
him away."

"You
haven't seen him before?"

"This
afternoon was the first time I've seen him in four years."

I
suddenly felt very, very weak. A cold wave of horror washed over me, and I
tried to tell myself it couldn't be. I must be mistaken. Stepping over to the
table, I took glass and decanter and poured myself a brandy. My hands were
trembling. Meg continued to talk, speaking calmly, but her voice seemed to come
from a long way off.

"He
was there in the woods, waiting just as he'd said he would be. He pulled me
into his arms. 'At last,' he said, and I thought he was going to burst into
tears of happiness. I did not let him kiss me. He loves me— still. After four
years he loves me as much as ever, perhaps more. He said we must be married
immediately, must elope at once, and—"

I
drank the brandy. All the pieces fitted together now, and I realized what I
should have guessed from the first. I knew why he had married me. Helmut didn't
give a damn what people thought, but there were certain taboos even he didn't
dare break publicly. I moved over to the window and peered out, clutching the
drapery with my hand, staring at the sunshine-washed lawn. He needed a wife
as... as a smokescreen. If he had a wife, if he flaunted her in public, no one
would ever suspect... I let the drapery fall back in place and closed my eyes,
trying to fight back the horror that seemed to shriek inside.

"James
asked me if I loved him," Meg continued. "I lied. I said I didn't. I
said it had—had just been a youthful infatuation. I told him he was a fool to
think I would still—feel anything after four years. He looked as though I'd
struck him. His face turned white. He seized my arms and said I had to be
lying. I just stared at him coldly, hurting so terribly inside, knowing I
mustn't let him—"

"You
still love him?" I asked. My voice was flat.

"I
love him with all my heart."

I
moved over to the table to pour another glass of brandy, but after I had poured
it, I set the glass down. It wouldn't help. I turned to look at Meg again. She
seemed composed, yet fresh tears were streaming down her cheeks. She didn't
seem to be aware of them.

"He
said there was no reason for him to stay in Natchez. He said he couldn't live
in the same town with me, knowing how I felt. He's going back to New Orleans.
He—he said he was going to pack immediately and take the first boat in the
morning. I told him that was best. I wished him well. I—I felt as though I was
dying inside."

"You
must go with him."

"I'd
give anything in the world if that were possible."

"Why
isn't it?"

"I
can't discuss it," she whispered.

"I
know, Meg."

She
raised her eyes, and when she saw the expression on my face, she drew back
against the cushions. Her cheeks turned even paler.

"Last
night I went down to the library to fetch a book. When I started back upstairs,
I thought I heard someone moving down the hall." My voice was as calm as
if I were discussing the weather. "When I reached the top of the stairs, I
saw a man slip into your bedroom. I just assumed it was James. I assumed you'd
left the door unlocked for him, that he had slipped upstairs while I was
looking for a book."

"You
know," she whispered.

"It
was Helmut, wasn't it?"

Meg
bit her lower lip. She nodded. The tears still streamed in tiny, sparkling
rivulets.

"How
long, Meg?"