Elisabeth Fairchild (16 page)

“Master Valentine is not at home to visitors,” Yarrow croaked daily, as dour as any black bird. She grew to expect as much.

“Will you see to it that he forwards these things to Felicity?” She handed him a box of clothes, puzzles, and books. The fifth such box. “And this doll? “ A doll with button eyes, and a dress made of the same poplin as one of Felicity’s own. “It is very dear to her.”

“Yes, miss. Indeed, I will.”

“Can you tell me nothing of her, Yarrow? Has not Val seen fit to tell you her direction? Does he pass along my letters?” She asked this morning as she did every morning, sure that eventually he would seek out some word for her if only to stop her asking.

“I regret to say that I have no word from Master Wharton,” he said, no regret visible in his austere features.

“And Val?” She changed her pattern this morning in asking. “How does he fare? Is he well with his parents gone? I have not seen him about in the village, since his friends departure.”

“Master Valentine . . .” He paused,  and the faintest trace of emotion touched his features, so quickly did it pass she could not be sure just what the emotion was. “Has received a letter.”

“From Felicity?”

“No. Mr. Shelbourne.”

“Oh?”

“Master Valentine speaks of joining his friend.”

“Doe he?” She felt a twinge of jealousy, that Cupid wrote to Val and not to her. That he wished for Val’s company.

“I shall tell him you most kindly asked after his health,” Yarrow said, as he closed the door.

Heart aching, she mounted Archer, the pony Felicity had ld above all the others, and set off for home, by way of Caesar’s Tower, as it was called, though to her mind it would always be Lady Anne’s tower. She thought of Cupid, of what he might have said to Val in a letter--of what he might have said to her, had he written.

The fells beckoned, their quiet solitude akin to her own, and thus a comfort to her when melancholy threatened, but she had gone no farther than the old sycamore on the green nearby when she heard hoofbeats and turned to look back.

A man on a bay followed, the flag of pale hair familiar, the wind whipping Val’s cloak, a dark cloud against the pale stone backdrop of castle and keep. The horse he rode tossed its head, as if the reins bound its mouth too tight.

She turned the pony to meet him.

Val cocked his head, pale hair blown wildly askew, blue smudges beneath his eyes, an air of weariness and dissipation weighing his posture. She wondered if he could possibly be drunk at this hour of the morning, assumed he was.  He swayed in the saddle.

“Penny, Penny, Penny,” he drawled, his horse towering, a dangerously lascivious gleam lighting his eyes. “You wanted me? You have wanted me every day now for how many weeks?”

She looked about her, at the empty castle, at the windswept vacant road. Her bonnet cut off sight of him briefly. The wind rifled her skirt. When she looked up from batting it down, his gaze lingered on her nether regions.

“I want news of the child,” she said bluntly. “Will you forward her things? Better yet, will you give me her direction, that I might send them? Write her?”

“The child, the child, always the child,” he grumbled, his breath white on the breeze, his handsome nose gone scarlet in the wind. “Do you think of nothing else, my dear?” He guided the bay closer to Archer, his stockinged calf brushing her knee as he drew alongside. In his gloved hand something glinted. “Do you not remember the night I gave you this?”

Penny frowned. “That is Felicity’s locket. Why do you not let her keep it?”

He smiled at that, and leaned close to catch a lock of her hair upon gloved hand, “Did you think of me, Penny, my love, when I went away to war?”

She pulled away,  surprised, the tug on her hair making her scalp tingle unpleasantly. “I did,” she admitted.

The bay crowded the pony, so that their legs were trapped, side by side, between the warm bellies of their mounts.

“Do you think of me now?” He leaned close, the smell of whiskey on his breath, the scarf at his throat slapping one ill-shaven cheek.

She recognized desire in his world-weary gaze, and thought of the night he had left her, remembering distantly how charming he had been, how close she had come to falling head-over-heels.  She felt no pull for him, now, nothing at all other than pity.

“Have you none of the passion of that night left in you, my dear? Your mother’s passion? “ His gaze roved over her with far more familiarity than she could stomach.

The pony, as uneasy as she with his proximity, snorted, and made a move to step away. He grabbed at the cheek strap with one hand and dared settle the other upon the pommel around which her legs were bent. The wind, contrary creature, covered his hand with the wayward edge of her skirt.

“My mother . . .” Heat flared in her cheeks, while a chill settled in her nether regions. She knew nothing of her mother, other than that she looked like the painting above her father’s bed, other than her secret.  She considered a moment telling him the truth, but stopped herself--npurpose served other than to salve her ego.

“Does she still warm the bed of some handsome gypsy king?” he drawled, in an offensive tone.

“She is dead,” she said flatly.

That gave him pause, but not for long. “And you?” he asked. “Has the fire within you gone out, as well? Or is it banked embers I see in your eyes?” His hand strayed, caressing her calf.

 She slapped at his arm with her quirt and turned the pony. “I will not make the same mistake again.”

He nursed his knuckles, heat again in his eyes, this time of anger as he called out, “A pity.”

She halted the pony, turning in the saddle, the wind very cold on her cheek, her ears, nose and fingertips chilled. “I would remind you of the consequences of your last bout of foolishness.”

The bay snorted, as if expressing an opinion.

He shrugged, gloved hands impatient on the reins. “You are like a broken music box. With but one refrain. Have you been loved by no one since I went away? Would you change tune, I wonder, if I were Cupid bent on sweeping you away?”

“As Eve was?” she bit out.

“Eve?” He stared at her blankly, then laughed.  “Oh! Would you call men snakes, then?”

“Snake, indeed. You do not so much as ask what happened to her.”

He frowned, confused. “Her?”

The bay raised its tail. The odor of fresh dung engulfed them.

“Eve. Evie Branwaithe.”

Still he stared at her without comprehension, the stench all too appropriate.

“Felicity’s mother,” she said impatiently.

His brows rose, puzzled look undiminished. “Eve of Appleby?” He frowned as the bay stepped away from its own effluence.  “Felicity’s mother? But . . .everyone said . . .”

“Everyone said?” She stared at him, astonished. “Of course everyone said. I have led everyone else to believe what they wanted to believe. It was best for Felicity that they think I was her mother rather than the local strumpet. But, Val! You were there.  Surely you remember.”

He blinked, slow-witted. “I remember sweet kisses, your arms wound about my neck. I remember even sweeter lovemaking, all of you wound about . . .”
“No.” Fire flooded her cheeks. She shook her head, hands so tight on the reins the pony backed a step. “Kisses, yes. I offered them freely. I thought . . .I thought myself in love with you. I thought you cared for me above all others. You said as much. Do you remember?”

He said nothing, his attention turned inward, trying to recall.

“You asked too much,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “No.”

“You went to her.” The now distant pain gave the words an unexpected tremulousness.

“No, no!” He spoke with vehemence,  the bay suddenly sidestepping, nervous beneath him. Confusion twisted features she had once considered dear.

“How could you?” she asked. “How could you go straight from the warmth of my arms to her bed?”

His head shook in denial. “I . . .I’ve no memory of it.”

“You had been drinking.”

“Drinking?” He laughed, a bitter sound. “I was drunk,” he said, as if it were a jest. “I have been drunk these six years and more.”

The wind kicked last year’s leaves across the road with a hollow rattle.The pony shook its head.

“Perhaps it is time you stopped.” The suggestion sounded sensible enough, to her way of thinking.

He laughed. Oh, how he laughed. It rang out like a clarion, setting birds to flight, lifting the bay on its hind legs, hooves lashing the air. He kept his seat. “Ha! Just like that? You sound like Cupid. Stupid Cupid. He is forever telling me to stop. Just stop. As if it were an easy thing.”

He turned the still jittery bay,  chuckling harshly.

“But, how much of your life is forgotten,” she called after him. “Lost? Remembered falsely?”
“Don’t you understand?” He flung the words over his shoulder, slow and sarcastic, as if explaining to an idiot. “I do not want to remember.”

“The war?” she asked of his back, the wind catching her words.

He laughed harshly. “What a ridiculous question. Of course the war.”

“But, the war is over,” she said.

“Ah!” he said snidely, looking back at her, lip curled. “Thank you so very much for pointing out the blindingly obvious.”

She gigged the pony to follow. “What memories were you drowning before the war?” she shouted, angry now.

“What?” Face red with pique, he jerked the bay to a wall-eyed standstill.

“The night before you left. The night you went to Eve. Why were you drunk, then?”

He wiped at his mouth, as if to remove a bad taste. He barked a short laugh, “I was afraid.”

Afraid?

“That the fighting would be over before my ship sailed. I worried,” his voice seethed with bitterness “that I should never have another opportunity--that all the fighting might be finished before I had chance to try my hand. Fool!” he shouted. “Fool!”

Spurring the bay much more roughly than the creature deserved, he rode back the way he had come.

Chapter Nineteen

Alexander sped down the steps of the elegant Georgian country house that he considered home--for the moment. He had been born here, reared here, and yet it was more his elder brother Simon’s house than his, Simon’s birth-rite. He had felt the truth of it most strongly upon his return. His sisters were married and gone to live elsewhere. His parents had aged greatly in his absence, and Simon and his wife took up residence here as if it were already theirs. The servants answered to their command. Their child had been born here. Lost here. The heir’s heir--a loss felt keenly by all.

As keenly as he felt out-of-place here. No one knew what to say when he told them he had quit the 95th, had shed the feathered shako and all it stood for, for good.

The questions were voiced in their eyes. What will you do now? Where will you live? How do you mean to make a living, if not in the military? He longed for answers himself. He longed for a sense of place--and thought often of Appleby, of Miss Foster.

 He greeted the approach of the hired coach, with lightened heart despite the bleakness of his mood. Arms wide, he met Oscar’s descent from the carriage.

“I bring you the gray.” Oscar stepped to the rear of the wheels, where the poor,  dust-coated animal was tied. As they led the creature around the house to the stables, boots crunching on gravel, Oscar gave Alexander’s black armband a squeeze. “I wish my visit might be on happier terms. My condolences.”

“Yes.” Alexander said with a heavy sigh. “A promising lad. He will be sorely missed. Most especially by my sister-in-law. She is quite prostrate with grief.”

Oscar plucked at his mustache. “Are you sure my visit is not ill-timed?”

Alexander smiled. “I have been missing your much abused mustache.”
Oscar stopped his plucking with a sheepish grin.

“And, I have been longing to hear news of . . .”

“Val? He refused visitors, you know? Have not seen hide nor hair of him since the day you left, though I did stand thrice weekly upon his doorstep, and frequented the pub he was said to favor.”

Alexander looked him in the eye. “Not Val.”

A smile touched Oscar’s lips. He made a move to stroke his mustache, and stopped himself. “Not Val you are hankering to hear of? Well, I’ve much to tell you of my luck at fishing. One could not wish for better waters than in the vale of Eden.”

Alexander’s lips twitched with amusement. “Fish tales can wait. It is . . . . ”

Oscar lifted a hand. “Let me guess. Could it be Miss Foster you would hear news of?”

Alexander nodded. “I have fresh appreciation for what she must be suffering in the loss of a child. You went to her, as I asked?”

Oscar’s smile faded. “I did. And together we called upon Val, with no more luck than when I called upon him alone.”

A lad ran out from the stables to take the gray.

“See to it he has water, and a well deserved rub down,” Alexander clapped the horse affectionately on the flank.

The lad touched his cap and led the animal away.

Alexander returned to the house, by way of the rose  garden, picking up their conversation as if there had been no interruption. “How did she seem?”