Marjorie Farrell (17 page)

* * * *

That night, Arden excused herself right after supper and went up to bed. Gareth followed not long after, and seeing her bedroom door open, could not resist going in. He called her name softly, and then saw her, lying sound asleep on her side, fully clothed, with her hands drawn up to her face. He walked over and gazed down at her. Her face was relaxed in sleep and
she
looked like a young girl, not the proud lady she acted during the day. He uncurled the fingers of her right hand and very gently kissed the burned palm. The room was beginning to feel chilly, so he pulled the bedspread up over her. As he did, he noticed the ball of fur curled up against the small of her back.

“She must have been exhausted not to notice you, Mott,” he whispered. The cat twitched an ear in response. “Well, you can help keep her warm,” said Gareth, and he tiptoed out of the room, wishing, for the hundredth time, that the marriage were a real one, and that he and not the cat could be curled up next to his wife.

The next morning Gareth came down to breakfast to find Janie’s cousin bustling around the kitchen. The porridge was smooth, the toast evenly sliced and the smell of bacon and coffee wafted through the door. He was dipping his toast in the last of the egg yolks by the time Arden came down.

Her hair was still hanging down in braids, since her hands were too stiff to pin it up, and she , therefore, looked young and vulnerable.

“How is your palm, Arden?” inquired her husband.

“A bit better, and so is my finger,” she answered, flexing both hands experimentally. “The rash and swelling seem to have almost disappeared.” Gareth noticed her wince, however, when she started to cut up her bacon, and he quickly rose and said, “Here let me help you.” He stood next to her, taking her knife and fork in his hands, and cut up her eggs and bacon and buttered her bread. The way his hands brushed hers and the pressure of his shoulder against her made her feel quite breathless. They had not been this close in weeks and Arden had forgotten Gareth’s effect on her. She was relieved when he resumed his seat, for his nearness aroused feelings in her that she did not wish to recognize.

Gareth had quite deliberately created the physical intimacy, for he was hungry for it. He did not think that he imagined the currents of attraction that had passed between them in London or just a minute ago, but Arden never let down her guard.

She had her eyes on her plate and her cheeks were becomingly flushed as she pushed bacon and eggs onto her fork.

“Arden.”

She looked up, surprised by the intensity of his tone. Gareth looked into her eyes, and again, for one second, he felt he had caught a glimpse of the real woman who was hidden somewhere behind the cool and arrogant exterior. Arden felt known, the way she had for that moment on the staircase in London, and she was just as terrified. Before Gareth continued speaking, she lowered her eyes, feeling it was the only way to keep her soul safe. A longer look and she would have been his. He recognized her deeper self, a self she was only half-conscious of, and it scared her. Without thinking, her face changed subtly, and when she looked up again, it was with the eyes of the arrogant young lady.

“Yes,” she replied in a tone more fit for a stranger than a husband.

“Could we not make a better job of this marriage? I know that it was not your choice, but many others who started the same way have come to care for one another.”

Arden could feel herself begin to respond. Gareth’s quiet sincerity and the memory of his closeness a moment before made her feel something deep inside, something, however, which felt dangerous to her sense of self. For a moment, all hung in the balance, and she was trembling with desire and fear. All she needed to do was nod a yes and she would feel Gareth’s arms around her, feel…

“I do not mean to rush you into an intimacy you may not want, but I am sure we could at least be good friends.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Gareth knew that the moment was lost. Arden’s face, which had softened, became hard again, and the tenuous thread of connection was broken. Damn. He had tried to word his suggestion carefully. He had not wanted to push her or make her feel he was demanding a consummation of the marriage. And he most certainly did not want her to know the depths of his feelings. He must have been mad to think that she would welcome any kind of intimacy with him.

“I do not see how there could ever be friendship between us, Captain Richmond,” said Arden coldly, inwardly cursing her moment of weakness. What a fool she was to think he cared for her. “You married me, knowing I was unwilling, you brought me here to this remote and dirty little farm where my only contacts are with filthy old shepherds and you expect me to regard you with warmth? You have my dowry, you can trade on my rank and position. You have everything you wanted and I have nothing. Not a good foundation for friendship, would you say? The only thing you can do for me to make this bearable is to leave me alone.”

Gareth flushed with shame and anger. Thank God he had not opened himself to the ultimate humiliation of letting her know he loved her. He had only suggested what anyone might have under the circumstances. But that was the last time he would even do that. He pushed back his chair, wiped his mouth carefully with his napkin before tossing it down on the plate and replied coolly, “You are quite correct, Lady Arden. You were an unwilling bride and I have gotten what I wanted, so why shouldn’t you? I will be very busy for the next week, getting the sheep down from the fells for market, so you will not be bothered by me at all. And after that, I will find a way to restore you to the life you so obviously prefer. If your Aunt Ellen is not free after the summer, then perhaps your Aunt Millicent could be persuaded to see you through the Little Season, where you will find plenty of targets for your wit. Good morning.”

Gareth turned on his heel and left before Arden could utter a word. And what could she have said, after all? She didn’t want to go back to London, she suddenly realized. It was boring and lonely. Of course, it was boring and lonely here at times, but she had to admit that despite her words to Gareth, she was beginning to love the dales. There was something about the wide and empty moors that called to something deep in her in the same way that Gareth’s gaze did. She was lonely, yes, but then, except for Ellen and Celia she had always been lonely. Always been the bystander, the looker-on, the one who stood outside of things.

Because she felt that she only “belonged” in the presence of Celia and Ellen and her father, because she experienced herself as outside the circle, she had learned to make the most of it. She became the witty, critical outsider. She was the one who held in her hands the small glass ball of every encounter, who peered in at the small people inside and shook down the snow.

She had thought Gareth was going to say that she belonged here with him. But he hadn’t, and she didn’t want to belong to this eccentric household anyway, did she? Gareth was right. She would return to London in the fall and somehow convince Ellen to come back to Stalbridge. She may be bound to Gareth for life but she need not live with him. And if her father disliked the scandal, then it would serve him right for forcing this marriage on her in the first place.

Gareth was happy to throw himself into sheepherding. He breakfasted and was out before Arden got up, and he came in late at night and ate leftovers in the kitchen. His constant activity kept his mind off the failure of his marriage most of the time. Although it could hardly have been called a marriage aside from the reading of the vows, he would say to himself. He found it hard to believe that he, an easygoing man of the world, had been such a fool. But then, he was a risk-taker, and in battle and with women, sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. This time he had lost royally. So much for the new Marquess of Thorne bringing his marchioness home. He would breed no heirs, and would have to sit down with his aunt and see if there were any distant relatives of his to succeed him.

The marriage could be annulled, since it had not been consummated, of course, but Gareth doubted that Arden would want to go through the humiliation and scandal it would entail. So they would most likely live separately, and eventually find long-or short-term liaisons.

* * * *

After three or four days of no Gareth at the table or in the parlor, Arden found herself missing him. No, not
him
she would protest to herself, but the presence of another adult other than a servant. She was beginning to love Janie, but could hardly invite her in to be a dinner companion. And Gareth had at least offered some companionship. Even if they had only been polite, she missed Gareth’s accounts of his day and his quiet presence by the fire.

One afternoon, after a solitary dinner, Arden donned her riding habit and was just coming down the stairs when she heard a wild barking. It seemed to be coming from the back of the house, so she opened the kitchen door. There she saw a sheepdog apparently attacking Janie, who had been out in the garden.

Arden ran out, nearly tripping over Mott, who was standing in the yard, his tail three times its usual size. She grabbed a broom which was leaning next to the door and advanced toward Janie, ready to drive the dog away, when she realized that Janie was talking to him. He kept grabbing at her skirt and trying to pull her along.

“What is it, tha old bully? What does tha want with me?”

“Are you all right, Janie?” Arden asked softly as she walked slowly, brandishing the boom.

“Aye, I’m fine lass, but I don’t know what is wrong with him.”

“Has he gone mad?”

“No, lass, not in the way tha means. I think he wants me to follow him.”

Janie seemed to be right. The dog would tug at her skirt and then trot off, looking over his shoulder to see if she followed, and then bark wildly and come back and pull at her again.

“Do you know whose dog he is, Janie?”

“Aye. It is old Gabriel’s. I’m wondering if something happened to t’old man. And I can’t go with him. My ankle is still not quite reet.” Janie looked at Arden pleadingly.

“Do you really think the old man is in trouble? Or is the dog just playing games?”

“Oh, lass, these dogs don’t play games. They are all business, especially when it comes to market time.”

“All right, Janie, I will go up to Gabriel’s hut and see what has happened.”

“Good, lass. I’ll send Jake down to t’village to fetch t’doctor in case we need him.”

“I just follow the path all the way?” asked Arden, pointing in the direction she and Gareth had walked that first day.

“Aye, lass.”

“Well, get yourself in, Janie, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Arden realized halfway up the field that a habit and riding boots were not the ideal costume for walking up the fells. Her habit trailed in the back and the boots would not hold the path like her walking brogues. At least she was not running out of breath as soon this time, for her legs and lungs were more used to long tramps.

The dog would run on ahead and then run back to her, whining with anxiety. She patted his head each time he came back and spoke reassuringly to him and to herself, falling into the dialect: “Na’ then, lad, it’s all reet. Likely tha master has just found an injured sheep he can’t leave and sent tha down for help.” Arden hoped that was all. But she could not help thinking that the shepherd was an old man and could easily have had some sort of spell, no matter how hale and hearty he looked.

Halfway to the hut, the weather began to change. The sky turned gray and the cool breeze became a biting wind.

“Damn,” Arden muttered as she felt the first drops of rain and realized they were in for a shower. Or worse, she thought as the rain began to come down hard and heavy. Her boots, which had been slippery to begin with, were no help at all as the path turned muddy, and she was relieved to see that they were almost at Gabriel’s hut. As she turned down the path to the shepherd’s dwelling, however, she saw that the dog had stopped and was looking toward the top of the scree. He must be wrong, she thought desperately. The old man must be near here, and she continued to the hut. As she opened the door and called out Gabriel’s name, the sheepdog came up behind her and began tugging at her skirt, dragging her away from the hut and toward the path to the top of the hill.

“I can’t go up any higher, I can’t,” she explained. “Surely he can’t be way up there?” She let the animal pull her, step by step, away from the hut and back onto the main path. She went reluctantly, hoping with every step to get a glimpse of the old man. Although with the rain coming down so hard, she realized that she would never find him on her own.

As they climbed, the path, which was steep before the hut, seemed to rise straight up and then disappear. The grass was gray and yellow, not green, and studded with rocks and sheep droppings. Arden felt if she stood upright, she would fall over backward, off the side of the hill and down onto Richmond House.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I can’t. There is no path at all.” Her boot slipped and she went down on one knee. When she tried to stand up, she was again overwhelmed by the feeling of being pulled backward. Erect, she was standing at what felt like a twenty-degree angle to the earth, which thrust itself up in front of her menacingly. If she looked up, she got dizzy, and she was incapable of looking behind her.

“I’ll get help,” she reassured the dog, as she made her decision to go back rather than go up. But she couldn’t even do that, she realized. She was paralyzed by her fear and could net make her legs carry her anywhere. The rain was plastering her hair to her head, the dog was whining and she was stuck halfway up the scree and would likely be there for the rest of her life.

Suddenly, the dog stopped tugging at her skirt and pulled at her arm. His strength knocked her off balance and she found herself on her hands and knees, clinging to the fell side for dear life. She felt something wetter than the rain on her face and knew it was the dog’s tongue licking her face, crooning to her, looking into her eyes as if to say “You must” to her “I can’t.”