"Secrets of the Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Balogh Mary)

CHAPTER 6

THE DRIVE out to Beechen Cliff was not a long one. They soon left behind them the noise and glare of Bath, though soon enough they had climbed the hill far enough to see the yellow-white buildings spread below them.

Sarah was glad that the Misses Seymour were of the party. They were sensible, well-bred young women with whom she felt comfortable. Miss Seymour was a few years older than she, Miss Stella a year or two younger. Both had been brought up in modest circumstances in a country parsonage. They reminded her of the Clarences, the vicar and his wife with whom she had been friendly in the past four years. These sisters would not condemn her or shun her company even if they knew the truth about her, she felt certain.

With the Clarences she had been able to hold her head high again and put the past behind her. She had confided her story to them, and they had assured her that she would be no more condemned than was the poor adulteress in the Bible whom Jesus had refused to judge, telling her to go and sin no more. Even less so, in fact, the vicar had told her. Being ravished could hardly be counted a sin. The only real wrong she had committed was not telling the Duke of Cranwell the truth that he had every right to know.

Cranwell finally decided to halt the conveyances and leave the horses in charge of the groom who had ridden on the box of his own carriage with the coachman. They would walk the rest of the way to the top, he announced.

Lady Murdoch was all good-natured compliance. "This is a most delightful spot," she declared. "I can be well content to spend a few hours here."

She insisted on being handed down from the carriage immediately and called upon Lady Cavendish in the other carriage to do likewise.

"I am sure the traffic along here is not heavy, Bertha," she said. "Let me take your arm ^-and we shall walk along for a little way. It is best not to try to climb higher, you know, for then the young people out of politeness would feel obliged to slow down to our rate of walking, and we should altogether spoil their enjoyment. Not but what we could have outpaced them in our heyday, eh, Bertha?"

The two friends were soon strolling in leisurely fashion along the road by which they had come, the heavy figure of Lady Murdoch leaning on the arm of her slim, upright companion.

"Lady Fanny." Winston was bowing and smiling and offering his arm to her. "Shall we lead the way to the top and leave behind the stragglers?"

She linked her arm through his and they began the climb. Sarah's hope of spending the time with the Misses Seymour was dashed when Mr. Phelps claimed her instead.

"Finally, Miss Fifield," he said, "I may solicit with some confidence the company of the fairest lady in Bath. His grace will walk with his betrothed, you see, and Mr. Stonewall and the captain are taking charge of the Misses Seymour. That does seem to leave you and me as obvious companions."

"Your logic is irrefutable, sir," Sarah replied, and resigned herself to an afternoon of matching wits with Mr. Phelps. He was not an unpleasant companion. He obviously was a man of some intelligence, which he used in her case to flatter outrageously. She enjoyed keeping up the repartee, refusing to allow him the last word.

They reached the top of the slope only a little behind Winston and Fanny. The others were quite a distance behind. The two sisters and their escorts, she noticed were in a group talking animatedly. Cranwell and Hannah made frequent stops, during which he could be seen to fan her face with his handkerchief. She seemed to be having some difficulty reaching the top.

"Oh," Fanny said, stretching wide her arms as if to embrace the city below, "it truly is a splendid sight and well worth the climb. I am so glad you suggested it, Lord Laing."

Winston bowed graciously. "How could I resist an outing that was almost bound to bring an even greater sparkle to your eyes and roses to your cheeks?" he said with one of his charming smiles.

"And how could I resist the hope that a stiff climb would encourage Miss Fifield to lean more heavily on my arm?" Mr. Phelps added.

"I protest, sir," she said. "You are the one who is short of breath."

"Alas, ma'am," he said, "you have too much of youth to enable me to realize my hope."

"Miss Fifield," Fanny said, her sparkling eyes regarding her new acquaintance, "shall you and I walk farther around the hill and see the view from a different point?"

But four of the stragglers had by this time reached the top of the hill, and Captain Penny immediately directed his attention to Fanny and suggested the same walk as she had wanted to take with Sarah. She shrugged at that lady, linked her arm through the captain's, and set off with him into the breeze at the summit.

Hannah was leaning heavily on Cranwell's arm, the color high in her cheeks when they joined the others a few moments later.

"I fear I am not used to such exercise," she panted, looking apologetically around the group.

"I can see that Lady Hannah is in need of a rest," Winston said. "I guarantee that the view will quite take your breath away, ma'am, once you have got it back again and had a chance to take a second look. There is a group of stones over there that were created by nature as seats for weary climbers, I am convinced. May I lead you there?"

He was at his most charming. Sarah recognized the gentleness of manner that was meant to lull a female into believing his motives to be quite selfless. She felt instant alarm. Was he not even to be contented with flirting with Lady Fanny? Must he use his charm on George's betrothed as well?

Hannah looked up at him with gratitude and immediately transferred her arm from Cranwell's to Winston's. He led her away in the direction of the large flat stones.

Miss Seymour was eyeing a copse of trees just below the summit to the left and declaring that it would make quite a delightful setting for a watercolor. Her sister agreed.

"But just imagine, ma'am," Mr. Phelps said. "You would have to carry all your painting paraphernalia up here. Unless, of course"-he bowed elegantly-"you would accept the services of a humble admirer."

"Shall we walk that way and see if it really would suit?" Mr. Stonewall suggested amiably. "Can't say I'm an authority on the picturesque m'self."

He and Miss Seymour led the way toward the copse with Mr. Phelps and Stella following.

The Duke of Cranwell and Sarah were left alone, both standing rigid with dismay in the spot where the group had shielded them from each other's company but a few moments before.

Each was to think afterward that the solution was easy. Sarah could quite easily have followed Winston and Hannah, claiming fatigue. Cranwell could as easily have offered to take her there and then wandered away as if to admire the view alone. But it is always easy to think of the right thing to do too late. In the event, they both just stood where they were.

The silence lengthened to the point of further embarrassment.

"Do you admire the view, your grace?" she asked finally, closing her eyes with dismay at the utter inanity of her question.

He did not answer. He stood silent a moment longer, then turned his head to look at her. He looked very grim.

"What are you doing here, Sarah?" he asked coldly. "You must know that your appearance in public is quite improper."

She flushed. "Yes, I do know," she said.

"Then why?"

She hesitated. It did not occur to her to tell him that it was none of his business what she did. "I had no choice," she said. "Lady Murdoch decided to come here for the sake of her health."

"And what is that to you?" he said. "Could you not have told your cousin that you chose not to come?"

"No, I could not do that," she said.

"Why not?" His tone was harsh. "Could you not resist the opportunity for pleasure?"

Sarah flushed again. "I have been living with Lady Murdoch only one month," she said. "I could not have asked so soon for the special favor of being left behind."

"Are you so beholden to her?" he said sharply.

"I depend entirely on her generosity," she said. "Dependents have no choice where they go, your grace."

He looked at her closely, his eyes narrowed. "Is there such need?" he asked. "Do you have no money of your own left?"

"No," she said.

"I thought I had provided well enough for you," he said. "You should have been able to live in modest comfort for a lifetime. You must have been very extravagant."

She lowered her eyes. "As you say," she said.

There was silence between them for a while as she kept her eyes lowered to the ground and he looked searchingly at her.

"Why did you not apply to me if you were destitute?" he asked abruptly at last.

She looked up at him startled, her eyes wide. "I would have died sooner," she said.

"Why?" he asked quietly. "You were my wife."

"I was," she said vehemently. "Was, George. You divorced me. I did not even want to accept the money you settled on me, but Uncle Randolph said I must. Do you think I would ever again make myself beholden to you? I would rather beg and starve."

"I would have thought you could think of another alternative," he said.

She looked at him wide-eyed, unable to believe that he meant what she thought he meant. But he was sneering, an expression she had never seen on his face before. She clenched her hands into fists, but she could not prevent herself from trembling or her voice from shaking.

"No," she said, "I could not."

Captain Penny and Fanny were strolling back toward them again, though still some distance away. Cranwell looked hastily toward them.

"Listen to me, Sarah," he said. "You know that it is quite unacceptable for a woman to appear in society when she has once been involved in the scandal of divorce. No one would receive you if the truth were known. It is even more unspeakable for a whore to mingle with respectable people."

Sarah was turned to stone. Her hands were still in hard and painful fists at her sides.

"You need not fear that I will expose either of those unsavory truths about you," he continued. "I could not bear to have people know your identity and realize my connection with such a creature. I will keep my mouth shut if you behave with suitable decorum while we are thrown into company here. You will stay as far away from my sister and my fiancee as you possibly can. And the oftener you are out of my sight, the happier I shall be. Do I make myself understood?"

"Ye-e-e…" Her voice was shaking so much that she could not even get the word out. "Yes, your grace," she said finally, and turned and began to stumble down the hillside in the direction of the carriages.

The Duke of Cranwell stood looking after her. He felt almost immediate shame. Even after four years she still had the power to bring out the worst in him. Hatred, spite, the desire to hurt: they were all emotions that he had thought foreign to his nature. He had said to her what needed to be said, and he could not feel sorry for that. But had he really needed to call her a whore? It was a word that normally would not pass his lips. Yet he had used it just a minute before to describe Sarah, his former wife. Why had he allowed himself such a vulgarity? He knew the answer, of course. The word had arisen from his bitter desire to hurt her, the woman who had hurt him almost beyond endurance.

He watched her stumble and fall onto one knee lower down the hill. Instinct made him start forward as if to rush to her assistance. But he held himself in check and watched her pick herself up and proceed more slowly.

"George, I am so glad you consented to bring us here," Fanny called as she and Captain Penny came closer. Her cheeks were still flushed with color and her eyes bright. "The air is most exhilarating."

Cranwell eyed her and her companion. They both looked immensely pleased with themselves. He approved of her companionship with such a man. The captain was the younger son of a baronet of good repute, he had learned, an ambitious young man who had risen with unusual speed in the army to his present rank. He had won commendation for bravery in Spain, from whose wars his regiment had but recently returned.

Cranwell was not quite so sure about Winston Bowen, who had also singled his sister out for some attention. He did not need to investigate that young man's credentials. He had been Viscount Laing since the death of his father less than a year before, and he was heir to an earldom. He believed Laing's estate to be a prosperous one.

He turned to watch Winston walk toward him with Hannah on his arm. His head was bent to her and he was smiling encouragement. He had reduced his own stride to match hers. He seemed to be a man of considerable charm and gentleness of manner in addition to occasional gaiety. There was, in fact, only one objection to him, and that was his connection with Sarah. They had grown up almost like brother and sister, the viscountess had once told him. That might possibly mean that if he and Fanny did form a connection, Fanny would frequently move in the same circles as Sarah. But to be fair, Cranwell decided, he could hardly object to the suitor merely on those grounds.

"Where did Miss Fifield go?" Hannah asked when Winston had returned her to Cranwell's side. "Did she go back to the carriages alone?"

"Yes," he replied. "She did not want to wait. She is concerned about t Lady Murdoch's health, I believe." And now he was telling lies to add to his other sins.

"That is a pity," Hannah said, and blushed. "I wished to speak to her."

Cranwell looked his inquiry at her.

"Grandmama has invited several of her acquaintances to tea tomorrow," she said, "and I wanted to invite Miss Fifield. I like her," she added lamely.

"I shall go on ahead," Winston said with a smile and a bow, "and make sure that she does not go riding off before you descend the hill, Lady Hannah. You may speak to her before she leaves."

"Oh, thank you, Lord Laing," Hannah said with a grateful smile.

Sarah descended the hill more slowly after she had fallen. Her knee was scraped, she was sure, and her ankle hurt when she put her weight on it, but she was glad of the pain because it had brought her to her senses. It would not do at all to arrive in the presence of the two older ladies in panicked flight, sobbing hysterically.

She tried desperately to bring herself under control. He had called her a whore. She put her hands over her ears and shook her head from side to side as if the action could shake the word from her mind. A whore! And it was not the first time. He had called her that once before. And she had not then denied it. She had felt almost as if it were true. She had allowed herself to be taken on three separate occasions. She had not fought as fiercely as she might because of the blackmail. And she had never been able to tell anyone of the blackmail even after Graham was dead and could no longer be harmed. In the years since, she had recovered somewhat from her feelings of degradation and convinced herself that she was not to blame for what had happened. But George had called her a whore again. And she felt as wretched and as soiled as she had ever felt.

She had partly forgotten that, fault or no fault, she was still a fallen woman. Nothing could restore virginity and innocence, once lost. The past would always be with her, making it forever impossible for her to hold up her head in decent society. She had partially forgotten during the four quiet years she had lived in her cottage, minding her own business and trying to make amends for her scarlet past by doing good works. And now she was totally forgetting the careful and kindly reassurances of the Reverend Clarence.

George was right. She had done him a terrible injustice four years before, and she owed it to him to stay out of his life.

She could equate herself with Winston. He had wronged her terribly while claiming to love her. She had done exactly the same to George. If she had truly loved him, she would have had the strength of will to resist his courtship. She had tried, of course. When he came to the house day after day, she had tried to show indifference, even coldness to him. She had begged Aunt Myrtle to tell him she had the headache or simply that she did not choose to walk with him. But Aunt Myrtle had been puzzled. He was such a pleasant and influential man, a duke. He was obviously very interested in Sarah. Surely she could not reject him so ruthlessly.

And she had given in. Aunt Myrtle had never actually ordered her to accept George's invitations. In her heart of hearts she had wanted to go. Life had held so much of misery in the year since she had seen him last. There had been the constant fear of Winston's return in the summer. And there had been the numbing grief of Graham's death early in the autumn. She had not even been alarmed by his cold, since he had very frequently caught chills. It was only when his fever rose and he became delirious that she had agreed with Aunt Myrtle that the doctor must be sent for. He had seemed a little better on the third day of the fever. He had known her. She had held one of his hands. With his other hand he had stroked hers and smiled sleepily. "Pretty hair," he had said.

"Pretty dress, Sare."

And then he had become delirious again. Two hours later he was dead.

It had taken her two weeks to come out of her stupor and realize that Gray was really gone. It took several more for her to realize that now she was also free of Win when he should return from Europe. He could no longer harm her brother.

She was free, but not free to walk with the Duke of Cranwell. Never free to be with him and accept his attentions. But she had walked out with him. And all too soon she had found herself unable to conceal the interest she felt in what he had to say to her, and unable to resist the powerful attraction she felt for him. She had come to live for his visits. And she had felt herself come alive again under his regard, as she had the previous year.

She knew that he was about to offer for her. Unbelievable as it seemed, she sensed his growing love for her. And it was perfectly clear to both her and Aunt Myrtle what he was discussing with Uncle Randolph the afternoon he asked to talk with him privately. And she tried hard to steel herself for the ordeal ahead. There was no doubt whatsoever in her mind that she would refuse him. She had to. There was no choice in the matter.

But what had happened? Her resolve had crumbled in the space of a few minutes and she was almost begging him to marry her, to marry her soon, before Winston could return from Europe and stop her and before even' a decent time of mourning could be observed. And when he took her into his arms, the last vestiges of common sense disappeared. For the first time she was being held by a man whose closeness did not make her flesh creep and her stomach heave. She was terrified that his kiss would bring back all her horror of physical intimacy. At the same time, she almost hoped that it would do so. Then perhaps she would have the strength to put a stop to this madness.

But it was not so. Being kissed by George was the most wonderful experience of her life. He was a great deal smaller than Winston, only a few inches taller than she, and slender. She did not have the feeling that her head was about to be snapped off her neck or the sensation of being swallowed completely in his embrace. And there was no feeling in the kiss that he wanted to devour her body, that it was only that for which he panted. It was a shared experience, a kiss they exchanged equally, an embrace in which they demonstrated their love of each other without the medium of words. He held her closely but lovingly. She could break away at any time. She put her arms around his neck in a gesture of free surrender and reveled in the feel of his lips on hers, his warm breath against her cheek.

It was not quite like that, of course. At the time, she did not analyze her feelings. She did not even think consciously. But she knew that she had found the meaning of her own life. She had reached a safe haven. She loved him.

And so she had sinned. She had given in to temptation and done something far worse than any of those unspeakable acts she had performed with Winston. She had married George Montagu. She, a fallen woman, degraded, unclean, had played a terrible trick on the man she loved most in the world. She had married him.

She had meant to' tell him, of course. He accepted an invitation to stay at Uncle Randolph's and moved there the day after his proposal. He stayed for almost two weeks. Then he went home for two weeks in order to settle some affairs before coming back to marry her in the village church. He decided to tell no one until after the ceremony, though the Saxtons must have guessed some of the truth. He did not want anyone trying to persuade him to have a grander wedding, and he did not wish to appear disrespectful to her dead brother. She persuaded her uncle and aunt to maintain a similar silence. They were to be the sole witnesses at the wedding.

She meant to tell him during those two weeks. Several times as they strolled outside or sat together in the salon or music room she felt her heart thump uncomfortably and her breath shorten as she prepared to begin her confession. But the moment never seemed right. Always she put it off until a more suitable time. After he went home, she planned to write to him. It would be easier to tell him in a letter, and easier for him to reject her. Every day she wrote, and every day the letter was torn up because it did not seem just right. She would tell him when he returned the day before the wedding, she decided. He would spend some hours at the house, though he was to stay the night at the local inn. But she was not able to do so.

Apart from this terrible inability to tell George what he most needed to know, Sarah found the days with him enchanted ones. She lost all traces of shyness and talked and talked with him, reestablishing and deepening the friendship that had grown the year before. Unknown to her, she became again the beautiful, vibrant, and interesting girl she really was.

She relaxed in his presence, no longer alarmed if they were left alone in a room, no longer concerned that they walk within sight and sound of the house. She no longer cringed away from being touched. She loved to link her arm through his and rest her shoulder only just below the level of his. She loved holding hands with him, as she did sometimes when they walked, and feeling the slim strength of his fingers. She sometimes touched the calluses on his palm, and kissed them once.

He laughed. "Will you be offended to marry a laborer, love?" he asked.

Her heart was in her eyes as she smiled back. "I shall be proud, George," she said, "to know that I am not wedding a soft aristocrat who does not know the meaning of work."

She loved the touch of his body and his mouth on hers. And she marveled that she felt no shrinking, only a yearning for more, a longing to give herself fully as the ultimate gift to him. He did not kiss her frequently, and when he did so, he pulled away again as soon as passion threatened to replace affection. He smiled at her once and touched his forehead to hers.

"I am sorry, love," he said. "I would not have you think that my desire is stronger than my love. I shall always try to treat you with the reverence I feel even after we are wed. You are so beautiful, Sarah. I can scarcely believe you love someone as ordinary as L" She felt worshiped. And she learned to accept her own basic worthiness again. She must not be as evil as she had thought if George loved her. He taught her not to be afraid of her own beauty. For so long she had considered herself ugly and dirty. He once traced the features of her face with his fingers, admiring the smoothness of her complexion, the unusual green of her eyes, the high arching of her eyebrows. He teased her about these, declaring that she constantly looked surprised. And he taught her to value the one feature she had always hated because it made her so conspicuous: her hair.

"I hate red hair," she said once in the salon, when he sat beside her, his hand resting gently on her curls. "Everyone has to comment on it and assume that I must.have a bad temper."

"Not red, love," he said, smiling tenderly into her eyes. "Titian. There is a world of difference. You have the most lovely hair in the world." He bent his head and kissed the curl that he held.

And all the time, while she gloried in his love and in her newfound sense of worth, she carried the burden of her secret, the knowledge that she must talk to him and watch his look of love turn to one of revulsion. She was convinced that she would lose him once he knew the truth. And she did not tell him. She married him.

Sarah's slow steps had carried her down to the level of the horses and carriages. She stumbled along, trying to look calm and cheerful as she reached the carriage from which the sound of voices was coming.

"Why, Miss Fifield," Lady Cavendish said as Sarah drew level with the open door, "are you back already? I declare Adelaide and I have been talking so much that it seems a mere few minutes since you left. But are you alone?"

"I came ahead of the others," Sarah said hastily, "to make sure that Lady Murdoch is not too fatigued."

"Gracious, I am not at all fatigued, cousin," Lady Murdoch said, leaning forward and looking closely at Sarah, "except that my back aches and the rheumaticks in my legs prevented me from walking far. But has something happened to upset you, dear?"

"Oh no, really," Sarah said. "I merely stumbled coming down the hill and hurt my leg slightly."

Lady Murdoch threw up her hands in alarm and insisted that Sarah climb into the carriage and put her foot up on the seat. She examined the leg herself, despite Sarah's assurance that really she was scarcely hurt at all.

"My dear cousin," she said, "your ankle is badly swollen. I marvel that you were able to walk at all on it. It is most unfortunate that one of the gentlemen was not with you to carry you to the carriage. I am sure it has not done you good at all to have your weight on the ankle. And your knee, my dear! The skin has been completely scraped away. We shall have to summon a doctor immediately on our return."

"Please do not fret, ma'am," Sarah said, and burst into tears.

"My poor Miss Fifield," Lady Cavendish said, "I do feel for you. It looks as if you will not be able to participate in any of the pleasures of Bath for at least a couple of days, and that is a very disappointing prospect for a young lady. But we will not desert you, my dear. If you cannot leave your lodgings, then Hannah and I will visit you there. And I daresay Fanny and his grace will come too. And I wouldn't be surprised if your cousin doesn't call on you as well. He seems fond of you. You will have so much company that in a few days' time you will be glad to go out merely to have some peace and quiet."

Sarah tried to laugh through her tears. "I am sorry," she said. "How missish of me to cry merely because I have had a little fall. But I beg you, ma'am, not to curtail your own activities merely on my account. I shall be quite contented to spend a few days at home with a book and my netting and embroidery, if indeed my ankle is badly sprained."

Winston arrived at that point and was all solicitous concern when he heard about the fall. He jumped into the carriage, knelt on the floor, and felt Sarah's ankle.

"It really does feel swollen," he said. "But there is no cause for serious alarm, Sarah. You would not have been able to walk on it at all if it were broken. Merely a slight sprain, we will hope."

Sarah itched to slap him. Even through the throbbing of her ankle and the misery of her feelings, she was well aware that under cover of her long muslin skirt Winston's hand had reached higher than her ankle and was unobtrusively caressing her leg. And getting away with it. How could she protest and slap him in the present company? She finally got rid of his hand by wincing and pushing at his arm as if his touch had hurt her injury.

Hannah was the next to appear at the doorway of the carriage, a few minutes after Winston had alighted.

"Oh, Miss Fifield," she said, "I am so glad you have not left yet. I was afraid you would have set off for Bath again because Miss Seymour and Stella were ahead of us. And I did want to make sure that you will be coming to Laura Place tomorrow afternoon to take tea with Grandmama. I am sure she has asked Lady Murdoch, but I was afraid that she might have assumed you would consider yourself invited too without actually mentioning it to you. Will you come?"

"Miss Fifield has had a fall and has sprained her ankle," Lady Cavendish explained as Sarah gazed at the girl in embarrassment.

"Oh, I am so sorry," Hannah said. "How very dreadful for you. Your grace," she called to Cranwell, who had stayed out of sight, "do come and see poor Miss Fifield. She has hurt her ankle."

Sarah thought she would die of humiliation when Cranwell joined his fiancee and looked in at her.

"Can you put the foot to the ground, ma'am?" he asked. "Do you need a physician?"

Sarah could not look at him. She shrank into the corner of the carriage.

"My first task will be to send for one, your grace," Lady Murdoch said. "I inquired after the most reputable doctor in Bath as soon as I arrived. I shall doubtless have need of his services before our stay is over. I suffer badly, you know, from the rheumaticks and indigestion. I have always had the most delicate stomach. I am quite a martyr to the migraines as well, though I suffer those more in the winter when I can go outside less often to take the air. But I am very thankful, now that I did have the forethought to think of a doctor, though it might have seemed unnecessary when the waters have such miraculous healing powers. Now you will be able to avail yourself of his services, dear cousin, without the delay of having first to find out who is a real doctor and who is a quack in the place."

Cranwell nodded. "Miss Fifield must ride home with her foot up on the seat," he said. "She must not aggravate the injury. Lady Cavendish, will you take Miss Seymour up in your carriage? Miss Stella can sit beside Lady Murdoch, perhaps."

Sarah thought the afternoon would never be over. She was very thankful when the carriage finally moved off, even though the bumping did not help ease the throbbing in her ankle. Stella was quiet and sensible and talked of other matters once she had made polite inquiries about Sarah's fall. Lady Murdoch fussed and pulled her vinaigrette out of her reticule, not to restore the senses of the patient, but to calm her own ruffled nerves. But Sarah found her cousin's distress for her injury strangely touching. It was almost like having a mother to worry over her.