Elisabeth Fairchild (7 page)

She stifled a bitter laugh, looking away from those smiling eyes. All people were
not good. It bothered her that he looked as if he believed she was. Taking refuge
on the stool before the harpsichord—an instrument she knew well—she sang instead,
and took joy in singing. She always found solace in music.

Her host lifted his voice to join hers, with a surprisingly self-conscious, slightly
off-key delivery—head ducked low—like a lad afraid to sing but gamely trying anyway.
She found something imminently likable in his good-natured effort, completely endearing.
It worried her, for she had not yet decided it prudent to care for another Copeland.

She had come with every intention of righting wrongs. It would not do to like her
target too much, or his off-key voice. And yet, her inner admonishments came too late.
Affection undeniably weakened her resolve.

The musicians joined in with laughing, self-confident exuberance.

She allowed the gentlemen to sing “Greensleeves” alone, their voices joined in mutual
commiseration over loves that had done them wrong, to cast them off discourteously.
She knew better than they the pain they sang about, but to open her mouth on that
pain would have reduced her to tears, and she would not be so weak—not ever again.

Her host locked eyes with her as he sang the chorus. She wondered if he believed himself
cast off discourteously in his attempts to kiss her. She hoped he did, and then immediately
regretted the emotion. Some frighteningly dark and wounded part of her spirit still
meant to make him suffer as she had suffered the discourtesies a Copeland had done
her.

Restless, she rose as they sang the next to last verse, and went to the window. These
cheerfully desolate gentlemen prayed that their constancy might be seen, and that
once before they died, their loves might vouchsafe to love them. Yet through all their
musical gift-giving and pleading, the Lady Greensleeves wouldst not love them.

It was the other way around, she wanted to shout at them. He wouldst not love me.
Never loved me. Did cast me off most discourteously. The next to the last verse almost
reduced her to tears. She had prayed to God, just as the singers claimed to. Prayed
and received no answer, no indication that he heard her cries at all until this Christmas—this
Copeland who had invited her to return to Broomhill Hall once more.

She turned her back on the singers as they crooned of forgiveness and constancy even
in the face of cruel rejection. The last verse angered her. She could no longer fathom
such a love, had never known such a love, only dreamed of it, believed in, and been
deceived by it.

She had long considered the matter, and still she was uncertain. Was she wrong to
show herself at Broomhill this Christmas? Would it have been better to ignore the
invitation, to go on day after day enduring heartbreak, abandonment, and betrayal?

The violins faded.

“Shall we stop? Are you tired?” her host asked quietly.

She turned from the dark view, from darker thoughts.

“One more,” she suggested. “If the piper knows it.”

Copeland nodded. “One more, then. Your choice.”

Belinda bent to whisper in the player’s ear.

Head bobbing, he lifted the bagpipes to play, murmured instruction to the other musicians,
and said, “Here’s a Christmas tune you’ll not have heard before, my lord.”

She waited for the pipes to lead the way, then added her voice, words rolling off
her tongue, bringing a puzzled look to her host’s dark brow as she closed her eyes,
investing all energy in singing.

He did not understand the language, did not recognize the song. No one ever did. None
but the islanders.

***

Haunting, beautiful, words an unintelligible siren song of sadness, and beauty, the
dirge-like tune slid down from high notes, briefly lilting, sinking further, to the
one word he did understand. Bethlehem. The piper made his instrument moan, a melancholy
match for the clear heights of her voice, mirth and sadness inextricably bound.

Nothing like the bagpipes to remind one of the bittersweet brevity of life. Of Henrietta’s
brother—years cut short in battle. Dear, heartbroken Hen had wept upon Copeland’s
shoulder to the tune.

Could he ask it of her again? In weeping for him? So soon? He thought not. Tears burned
in his eyes, unshed. Copeland blinked them into submission, unwilling to exhibit the
depths of his private sorrow, unwilling to reveal how much the song reminded him of
all that he would forget—of how beautiful life was, how temporary. It left him melancholy
to think his existence should be cut short, and by his heart, of all things—the seat
of love and human kindness.

He clenched his teeth and might have voiced his desire that the music stop had Belinda
not turned in that moment, tears glistening on her cheek, tears glittering in her
lashes. The song seemed meant for weeping, and he was not the only one with sadness
to bemoan.

The final note faded. The bagpipes wheezed into a humming silence. Copeland studied
Miss Walcott’s tear-stained face, relieved of his own need to cry—bewitched by her
tears.

She turned away, twisting the lace on her sleeve, light glossing her braided hair.

Copeland dismissed the musicians with quiet thanks. They carried away their instruments,
left the room quieter than before, memory of the music lingering.

They two were left to the room’s faint song, to the shift and crackle of the fire,
the voice of the clock growing louder as the snow tapped for entry at the windows.
Copeland drew a handkerchief from his pocket and went to her.

He held the pure white lawn out to her, a gesture of comfort.

Chill fingertips brushing his, her lips parted. Astonishment mingled with her tears
as she traced the wet track on his cheek. “You weep?” she whispered.

He dashed his palm against the telltale moisture. “Your song was most moving.”

She nodded, turning her back to him, her hair, the slender grace of her neck beautiful,
as she had seemed beautiful to him in the stairwell at their first meeting. The soul-baring
song seemed to have opened a wound in both of them, to have brought them closer: minds
and emotions.

“The song stirred you?” Her eyes, sparkled blue with unshed tears and firelight...

Her song had stirred the sadness of a lifetime. Hers. His. More than the song, she
stirred him. He did not know how to tell her that, or even if he should.

She dabbed tears, her hands entrancing. He stepped away, allowing her time to recover,
allowing himself the same privilege.

“The language,” he said quietly, unwilling to break the odd spell enchanting them.
“I did not recognize the language.”

“Few would. Manx is little known.”

Still she avoided his gaze, indeed, they two would seem to dance a strange, slow visual
ballet, circling the edges of the room, avoiding confrontation with emotion, with
each other.

“Are you from the Isle of Man?”

“Yes.” The tendrils at the nape of her neck gleamed like polished brass as she stepped
from firelight into gloom.

“Do you miss it?” he asked. He felt as if in some way he chased after her.

“Yes.” Soft, her voice, almost inaudible.

“Do you wish to return?”

She spread her hands, as if the idea exceeded her grasp. “Too far away. Too long ago.”
She halted before the window, a silhouette blurred against moonlight.

“What brought you such a long way?” he asked.

A bitter laugh welled from the darkness. “A man,” she said. “A man lured me from Man.”

Chapter Ten

Copeland could not resist delving. He must know. “Who?”

Belinda Walcott passed before the fire like a shadow. “It does not matter.”

Copeland thought it mattered—a great deal. Why else did she weep? “I have never been
to Man. But my brother speaks of it fondly.”

“I’m sure he does,” she said tersely, light fingering the fretwork of her braids.
“There is much that is beautiful to be found there.”

Light and dark. She was everything light and dark. “Would you return, if you had the
means?”

She stared into the fire, face illuminated, eyes reflecting flames.

“I cannot,” she said fiercely, as if there were no more questions to be asked.

“Why?” he persisted, most ungentlemanly, he knew, yet it was within his capacity to
send her home if she wished.
A Christmas present
, he thought, the perfect gift for this woman he had no presents for. It would be
deemed excessive if anyone discovered he had done so, most inappropriate in a bachelor.
But it did not matter. So little really did in the grand scheme of things when life
drew breath to blow out the candle.

Who could it hurt if he were dead and buried when the truth was discovered? That he
had returned a young woman to her homeland? Would Henrietta misinterpret his generosity?
He would not like to hurt his dear Hen in any way.

Belinda sighed and turned to the window. Caught between the light of moon and fire,
the pale translucence of her cheek and the flickering magic of brazen tresses captivated
him.

“It is a long story.” Her voice carried a defeated note, a lightless sound from one
bathed in light.

She avoided his eyes—did not want to tell him, and he was not one to force a woman
to his will no matter how deep his curiosity. “You are tired,” he said.

“Yes.” She seemed relieved he did not press for detail as she headed for the door.

“I beg pardon if I have in any way fatigued you.”

“Not at all.” She stopped and made brave attempt to smile. “I enjoyed our evening,
my lord. You have been most kind.”

Was it his imagination, or did her chin tremble in so saying?

“Actually, I have been rather remiss.” He stared at the floor, that she might have
a chance to collect herself.

“In what way?” Her voice sounded calm enough; her gaze was unshaken.

“I must apologize for not raising an issue earlier that is, I am sure, as much a concern
to you as it is to me.”

Head tilted, a single curling lock of hair fell like gold thread against her cheek.
He found himself bothered by that straying strand, as he had never been bothered by
wayfaring wisps of Henrietta’s hair. He wanted to smooth it into place. He could not
look away.

“Whatever do you mean?” The silken curve of her lips proved equally fascinating.

“I speak, Miss Walcott,” he kept his voice low, “of your ruination.”

Her eyes widened in dismay, then narrowed, ice cold. “Whatever do you mean?”

He took a deep breath.
Out with it,
he thought,
no matter how distasteful.
“You bring with you no chaperone.”

Her mouth formed a thin, brittle line. “What of it?”

“There is no other lady present to give your reputation protection. As I would not
see your character in any way sullied, I would suggest you take into the anteroom
of your bedchamber one of the female staff . . .”

She smiled, a chilling display of teeth. One golden eyebrow raised. “Do you mean to
ravage me, in the middle of the night, my lord?”

He bit down on his lower lip. The idea was provocative, but laughable. “It is not
my habit to ravage guests, no, but society will assume the worst.”

That audacious brow arched higher. “Is that the worst you can do to me?”

Their conversation never worked out as expected. He rather liked that. It proved far
more stimulating than always knowing what a woman must say next. He sensed he would
never be able to finish Belinda Walcott’s sentences, as he sometimes finished Henrietta’s.

Thought of Henrietta wiped the smile from his face. “I should not in any way, care
to make your life a misery.”

A pucker troubled her brow. “And if I refuse? Would you then propose to me, to satisfy
society’s notions?”

He smiled at her jest, responding in kind. “Would you sink so low as to compromise
your way into a title and fortune?”

She did not smile, in fact she looked at him quite straightforwardly. “I have known
those who do. I knew a Copeland once who did.”

Copeland shrugged. “Well, Miss Walcott, I must warn you. I marry no woman.”

She seemed surprised. “Ever?”

“Never,” he said with all the certainty he could muster.

She considered this a moment in silence. “So the Copeland title and fortune go to
your brother? The one who speaks well of Man?”

“When I die, yes.”

So serious she looked, so reserved. “Why are you set against marriage, my lord?”

He tried to lighten the exchange, asking with a smile, “Why refuse the presence of
my maids?”

“I value my privacy,” she said. “And quiet. Can you promise me these maids do not
snore?”

“I cannot.”

She shrugged. “I beg you will not trouble me, then. I fear not for my reputation.
And you need not fear I shall insist upon marriage. It is an institution I hold in
no great regard.”

With that she slipped through the doorway.

He stood a moment staring at the vacant opening, considering her parting shot. What
had she meant? What gave her such an ill opinion of marriage?

Rather than follow her to find out, he went to the window to gaze at the garden, the
mournful strains of her Christmas song playing through his memory.

The snow lent his view a ghostly chill. They had passed the whole evening without
mention of ghosts—but Miss Walcott was most definitely haunted by an unhappy past.

***

Belinda watched snowflakes glow golden and blue as they passed the stained glass
fleur-de-lys
. Frost had set its fingerprints on the pane. It clutched the moonlit garden below,
smothering the pond, a dark spot in the night, like a panicked eye, not yet gone glassy.

Laughter sounded in her memory. Her own laughter, a breathless Christmas joy, a bride’s
joy. She had run up the stairs and into this room that long-ago night—laughing, a
newlywed’s anticipation lending flight to her feet. Never before had she experienced
such glee. Not the melancholy that gripped her now, like the strains of the song that
had set her to weeping. No. Her heart had raced that night. Her veins had coursed
with the heat of what was to come—her mistaken perception of it, at any rate. Nothing
could have prepared her for what really happened.

The memory left her cold—motionless in the cold room.

Movement drew her attention to the garden below. A dark-coated figure raced across
the blanket of white toward the pond.

He always came, the man in green, when her heart was aching, too heavy with the past.
He turned his head as he ran, his stride long and loping, the moon of his face paler
than the snow, the dark hollows of his eyes fixed.

“Stop it!” she whispered.

She banged her forehead on the window. “Please stop!”

Of course he did not stop.
Never had. Never would.
He turned his attention toward the pond, into which he ran without hesitation, hands
out—reaching—always reaching.

She did not know then the gift in his running, the beautiful gift of it.