Face to Face (The Deverell Series Book 2) (8 page)

A sound startled her, and she looked up to see Varian exiting his dressing room. He carried something long, wide and flat. Merry’s eyes flashed with surprise. “I’d forgotten you said you brought me something.”

With a charming smile, he replied, “I deliberately did not remind you on our walk back to the house, in hopes of not inciting you to violence a second time. Please don’t hit me with the case. As I said before, the gift is not from me.”

She made a face at him to mask all the other things she was feeling, as he motioned her to the chairs invitingly arranged before the fire place. Her curiosity was fully aroused now. Instead of sitting in the chair beside him, she settled on the floor at his feet.

Varian set the package before her. “There is a note.”

Her eyes widening as she stared at her name neatly penned on the face of the note, Merry recognized the writing instantly. The gift was from Indy. Surprised and perplexed, she broke the seal. She read the note silently:
Happy birthday, Merry. I could think of no better person to entrust the care for this. Regards, Indy.

She stared at the note. “It’s a birthday present for me.” She looked at Varian then. “How did Indy know it was my birthday this week? I never told him.”

Varian shrugged as though the mystery was of no concern. He had wondered the same thing himself, but the boy was as unwilling to explain how he knew this as he was his purpose in bringing Merry aboard ship. Questioning Indy had only brought persistent silence. Merry was easier to read than the boy. It was clear she knew nothing about the boy’s motivation or how he had known this.

Varian said, “Why don’t you see what he sent you? I think you will be pleased.”

Merry opened the wrapping to find a leather portfolio. She gasped as she began going through the thick stack of sketches. They were of her. Dozens of them, in every mood and turn. She spread them out across the rug, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Did you know Indy was this talented?” she asked. “They are extraordinary.”

“He is most skilled, Little One. I’ve seen but a few of his sketches. He does not share them willingly so it is a compliment he gave these to you. I would say this collection is among his best work.”

Varian watched Merry float down to lay on her stomach on the floor as she smartly examined each one. The boy was in love with her. It showed in every stroke and line, though Varian did not doubt Merry failed to see that. Merry failed to see the obvious far too often. It was a blessing, though at times a curse.

Varian gladly cut off the trek of his thoughts when Merry turned to look over her shoulder and smiled at him. What this situation did not need was one more level of complication. It was complicated enough as it was.

Lifting a sketch from the ground, she eased up to sit with her back against his chair, holding the portrait beneath him. “What is a compliment is how the boy sees me. The sketches are so full of detail and life. Remarkable. But his perception of me.” She blushed. “Only an excessively vain woman would believe this image was how she truly appeared. No woman is as beautiful as the boy sees me.”

Varian paused to pull into order his internal arrangement. The portrait she held was one of her in his shirt, sitting on the window bench in familiar pose, arms hugging knees. It was in profile, her face tilted to capture the light, her hair a magnificent cloud around her, and it breathed of her essence in every stroke.

Whispering, “You are more beautiful, Merry. The boy is close. But you are perfection and even the most skilled hand could not capture that.”

Merry felt her insides melt in response.
Danger, Merry. Danger.
She changed course quickly. “But how did Indy know it was soon my birthday?”

~~~

Merry fell asleep on the floor in Varian’s bedroom surrounded by the portraits. The next morning she woke alone in his bed. Rolling over, she found his pillow undisturbed beside her, but she had sensed before spotting it that he had not joined her. The plush sheets were a pleasant cocoon around her, but they did not hold his warmth or scent.

Tossing the blankets aside, she realized her gown had been removed and all that remained was her dainty, sheer chemise. Blushing at the thought of Varian undressing her, she saw the sketches had been carefully gathered and were now again secure in the case.

Every day she went a little deeper into the trap and she could not seem to stop it. In those rare moments of honesty with herself, she was not sure she wanted to stop it.

Padding barefoot across the chilly wood floor, Merry gathered the sketches and her gown, then cut through Varian’s dressing room to the adjoining door to her suite. She was almost through it when she spotted the coat and trousers he’d worn the day before. Cursing herself over her woman’s heart—a heart that propelled her often in fathomless acts—she rummaged through his pockets.

Nothing. Then she surrendered to the impulse to lift his shirt to smell it. Nothing. Only his own scent and a hint of wintergreen. Surely, if he had lied yesterday about his purpose in Richmond, the cloying scent of jasmine Regina wore would have left a hint in the fabric. But there was nothing pressed into the shirt except his own scent.

Dropping the sketch case on her bed, she realized why the boy had sent her this gift. He had known when she left the
Corinthian
she wasn’t returning to ship and had sent her this memento as a goodbye. So claimed by her thoughts and turmoil her final day on ship, she had not said goodbye to the boy when she’d left. She regretted that today. Indy had become a dear friend. A trusted ally. A cherished confident. She had not been as generous with him as he deserved. She had only been concerned with herself that day.

When she joined the sisters in the breakfast parlor, April greeted her inquiry of the Captain’s whereabouts in a thrilled, sheepishly knowing way. The sisters knew everything that happened at Winderly. It was clear they knew she had passed a night in Varian’s bedroom.

They would prove, if nothing else, amusing jailors for Merry. If she couldn’t outwit them in the coming days, then she merely was unwilling to be outwitting.

Chiding herself for that last uncharitable thought, Merry said, “I’m sorry, April. What did you say?”

“He left. Early this morning. Cousin Varian said not to expect him until late.”

The sisters took her this day to a meadow with a small pond. April’s basket carried a lunch. Aline’s contained a silly collection of possession intended to amuse them. There were books, the necessities for embroidery, and Aline’s day ledger, which she seemed to carry everywhere.

When the sisters made to return to the house, Merry declined and asked if it were permissible to set awhile alone by the pond. It was a beautiful day, the meadow spectacular, and the quiet a soothing balm for all that troubled her.

Reluctantly, after a stern warning not to venture from view of the house, the sisters left her, their silly chatter fading on the gentle breeze. Quiet.

Staring in wonder at the magnificence of Winderly, she could not shut down the worry that Varian was leaving her here. It was not that the thought of life at Winderly was displeasing. It was a glorious place he had built here, where every kind of happiness could dwell. It was knowing she would be here without him that made it a distressing fate. Why was he leaving her and would she ever see him again?

No, Merry. No. Don’t go there.

That question made her turbulent emotions a thing of even greater agony. She did not want to leave
him
. The possession of tears was no longer a thing she could avoid.

Perhaps she should tell him she loved him. Would that change her fate in this?

No, Merry, it would be a dangerous thing to tell him you love him.
She shook her head.
Too late, he knows you are in love with him.

 Lying back in the grass, she let the peacefulness around her soothe her heart. It would be as it would be. Life went on dragging you with it and men, it seemed, did so as well. A woman must learn to be patient, her mother had always said. She heard a bird in the tree.

“Boo little bird,” she whispered up at the feathers in the branches. “I am not a patient girl. I cannot learn to be because life wishes it. ”

The silliness of having voiced that last thought to the bird made Merry laugh. Laughter was a wonderful thing. It soothed her flesh and heart.

She sat up from the tall grass and stared at the view. She looked in all directions. There was nothing to see not pleasing to the eyes. If one was to be left in America, she could not imagine a more remarkable place.

She lingered at the pond all afternoon and made the trek to the house slowly. She paused to examine the trees, the flowers, and the wild life that darted in her wake. It was all so beautiful. Beyond anything she could have imagined.

Her heart swelled with the wonder that she was walking on American soil not far from the soil her own mother had walked on at the very same age. Rhea, stylish and elegant perfection, had an odd vein of unconventional whim. She understood her mother better walking here. It was not unconventional whim, at all. It was a touch of America in Rhea’s spirit.

She was almost to the pasture gate on the dirt path. She had touched and smelled everything she could. Her senses were hungry and relished each exploration. Scooping up a handful of soil from the field beside her, Merry lifted it to her nose, smelling its pungent richness.

It was still in her hand as she settled in a lushly deep meadow, the grass bright with pink clover, dandelion, and thistle. She laid back in its cushiony cradle, listening to the birdsongs and the vigorous melody of work from the fields. The spiky resonance of the fiery midday sun stroked her cheeks with the heady fragrances of the soft wind tempering it in a cooling caress.

There was a vivid wakefulness to all her senses. America was sprawling and wild and untamed in all her extravagant splendor. Even here where a piece of her had been carved by a man. Nature’s color exploded in a brilliant mosaic for the eyes. All scents were spicy and bold in a blend of the Virginia’s essence. And the earth beneath Merry seemed to have a drumming heartbeat that never rested like her own.

~~~

Varian watched from the porch rail until he caught sight of Merry. She was speckled from head-to-toe in the reddish and purple flower heads of thistle, lying in a deep bed of grass, by the time he reached her. The gossamer dark cloud of curls was spotted of their petals and a splattering of pink clover. One hand held a long leaf of sweet pasture grass, her tiny teeth softening the edge at tip. The other delicate palm was clutched in a ball where moist dirt peaked from between the creamy whiteness of her fingers.

It was almost as though she floated above the grass, there was such peacefulness in the languid lay of her limbs. Every lush curve of body was detailed in the simple lines of her gown of faint shell-pink Flanders muslin. It melted and hugged her. The smile on her face was of bliss, eyes closed, inky long lashes casting shadows on softly tanned cheeks. She reached for a stem of dandelion, blew on it until the white particles fell on her face. She had never looked more ethereal.

If there had been a shred of doubt in Varian that he loved her, it would not have survived the vision she made. The pure colors of Merry, her spirit and flesh, were set free and dazzling in their unfurling. All hue around her was muted in comparison.

Varian sank down on the verdant bed next to her, on his side, his body close and turned toward her. She neither lifted her lids nor startled. There was quiet between them for a long time. She sipped the colors of nature and held them, more vivid now that they were her own. She sipped him and held him spellbound.

She turned onto her side toward him, her body curling over in a fluid glide, limbs turned to earth with the lazy, graceful motion of a drowsy, content kitten not ready to stir.

Merry didn’t open her eyes, but said on a breathy voice, important, “Do you have a handkerchief, Varian?”

The words could have so easily been misread as a part of Merry’s whimsy. It would have not suited the aura of her at this moment, so there was nothing whimsical about her, not even with such a peculiar phrase eased in airy earnest between them. For once, Varian could read her not at all. That fascinated him all the more. He was in even greater entrapment by her at this moment.

He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and her soft breath from her pink parted lips brushed his hand as she made a slow move to retrieve it. With dainty fingers she spread it wide on the grass between them and then spread it with the soil she’d been clutching.

It took her a moment to explain what she was doing, a careful search of words for her because this was serious to her. “I love my cousin Kate very much. She is a year older than I. We were always going to explore America together. She is a creature who understands through her senses. She needs to touch, to feel, to breathe of things as I do. I can describe America to her, its beauty and how it makes me feel, but she will never understand without this why I feel at peace here. The oneness I feel lying in this grass. I can’t take all of Virginia home to Kate. I will have to settle for a little bit of her earth. Do you think it will hold its scent, or will it fade with time?”

Merry’s eyes lifted to him then and they were brilliant pools of endless azure. Running a fingertip down the sloping curve of her cheeks, letting it trace only once around the silky line of her under lip, he whispered, “I don’t know if it will hold its scent, or if it will fade with time. How do you mean to explain to your cousin Kate with this, Little One?”

There was a dreamlike sweetness to her smile. Merry’s face moved into him, kitten soft cheek moving in a light rub on his chest, and then she took a deep inhale of breath. She pulled back and brought his own arm to him.

“Smell,” she instructed. When he did, her smile curled upward in happy sureness. “You are an English cool mist on fragrant grass whispering of wintergreen. Refined, calm and elegant. It floats all in the air around you, wherever you are. A hint, always subtle, but there and dominating the air. Fragrance of home. You are England. So is Kate.”