Moonless (15 page)

38

Dana

Charles sat in the study, staring absently at the coals, no longer inebriated, although he ached to dive back into the bottle. He wouldn’t. The girls needed him now.

The door creaked and Alexia’s curly head appeared. He smiled and patted the couch next to him. She sat.

“Father, tell me about Dana.”

He stiffened. “How do you know that name?”

She tossed the miniature onto the table before them.

He stopped breathing. Dana’s emerald eyes peered up at him from the canvas, a lush glade of mystery. He ached to brush one misbehaving spiral behind her ear, to feel her silken skin pass below his fingers, to inhale her cinnamon essence and bask in the chime of her magical laughter. But she was dead.

His lips snapped shut. “Where did you find this?”

“The attic.”

His jaw tightened. The muscles worked, twitching downward as he labored to control himself, too late to deny he knew her. “She was a servant girl.”

Alexia crossed her arms. “A servant and you have a portrait of her?”

He slammed his fist into his knee. Alexia jumped. Why must she dig and nudge? Did she
have
to know the truth, to mourn for things past, things that could never be?

“She is . . .” He exhaled, closing his eyes. Dana would want her story told. “She lived at a country inn.”

“An inn?”

He frowned. “My regiment was returning from assignment when Jonah, Rupert’s father, fell ill. I stayed behind with him.”

The musty inn flooded into his mind: its worn floorboards and faded paint, the bright-eyed girl who followed him everywhere he went, her shy smile.

He closed his eyes. “I grew fond of the girl who fed and kept me company, and when at last Jonah recovered I was . . .” He blinked at the memory behind his eyes. “. . . reluctant to leave.”

The stars twinkled in the firmament, turning her skin creamy and dream-like as her head bowed. ‘Don’t go.’ 

He drew his fingers across her chin, tilting her tear-filled eyes up. ‘I must.’
 

She reached for him, and he drew her near, unable to resist her pastel lips.

Every step of the way home he thought of her. He ached at the memory of their single kiss, the need burning in his chest for more. Upon arriving home, he excused himself on the pretense of hunting with Jonah, and went straight back.

She stood in the center of the road, arms open, waiting for him. Her wide eyes quickened his heart with need. He leapt off his stallion and fell into her embrace.

Charles rubbed his forehead, smoothing the age lines. The crackle of the fire haunted him against the silence of the past. “Dana returned with me, but Father was not happy.”

‘No son of mine is going to marry a common tramp!’

Charles stood his ground. ‘You cannot send her away, and if you do, so help me, I will follow.’

He sighed. “She was given a place in our kitchen.” He glanced up and noticed Alexia, her fingers twisted in her lap, eyes wide. He groaned. He could not lay this burden on her.

“Please tell me.” She shifted in her seat, hands coming together as if for prayer. “Please.”

He pushed her clasped hands down. “All this for a resurrected portrait?”

Her green eyes begged, filled with need as Dana’s had been on so many occasions. His fingers squeezed over Alexia’s. “Father sent me away to further my education, and I received word that same year she died from scarlet fever.”

He rose, unable to face the child who so resembled her mother, unable to look into her eyes without revealing the whole of her heritage. He picked up a fire prod and stabbed at the embers.

“Did you love her?”

He stared into the glowing coals as they pulsed and dimmed, like his time on this earth—days he often counted while pondering an afterlife. Did it really exist? And would he be narrowly welcomed into heaven or rightly banished to Hell when his flame finally faded?

He swallowed. “I loved your mother.”

Her skirts rustled. “Tell me how you met her?”

He smiled. “Rosalind, what a flower! Every gentleman sought her hand, but surprisingly, she took to me.” He shook his head. He had not deserved her, ever. “We came together my second year at Cambridge.”

“And you were married?” she encouraged.

“After three years.” He grinned at the memory of his bride in her lovely gown. “At her parent’s parish.” The prod fell to his side. “Then the accident.”

‘They are dead, your parents.’ Rosalind’s hand shook as she offered the letter, her eyes swollen and red.

He turned from the embers. “I came back with my new bride to manage affairs, to take charge of Sarah and inherit this estate.” He waved about the room, gaze landing again on the angelic canvassed countenance. “She was here too, my Dana.”

Alexia gasped. “She had not died?”

He shook his head.

“And you did not know until then?”

He bit down and returned to the glowing cinders.

Alexia’s voice cracked. “What was she like?”

“She was like . . .” He glanced at his daughter, taking in Dana’s pert little frown and wide emerald eyes. He looked away. “Like no one I had ever known.” He gripped the mantle for support. “She loved flowers, willow trees and old oaks. She preferred the feel of moss to shoes and the taste of honey tea to the finest wine. Her favorite time of the day was sunrise, right before the first splinter of light topped the horizon. She said it felt like hope.” He closed his eyes. “My world was as foreign to her as cold marble to a spring lily.”

“What happened to her?”

He sighed. “She died, Alexia. Bitter and alone, she died.”

“That must have been difficult for you.” Her tone dripped with accusation.
 

He turned on her, gaze narrowing. “I made my choice the day I took my vows.” A choice he would have made differently, had he known everything. “Dana decided her own fate.” He sat next to his daughter, exhausted by this conversation. “I would have given my life to make your mother happy. You must know that.”

She frowned.

“I only hope we may make so pleasing an arrangement for you.”

39

Hope
 

The funeral proceeded the second Monday of October. Rupert and Abby greeted Alexia first. So many compassionate souls offered their condolences that she lost count. Façades, every one of them. Her friends remained by her side throughout the day, at least until she escaped to the attic for solitude. Sarah joined her there, patting her hand and placing an arm around her, but her aunt didn’t understand.

Alexia mourned the loss of three people: Mother, Dana, and herself.

The funeral dinner ended—finally! She stepped outside to feel the cold winds of reality, to check herself, to be sure she hadn’t gone completely numb.

She wasn’t who she’d always believed. No one could give that back. It felt as if the blanket of security had been torn away and she’d been left naked and exposed to the torrents of a hurricane. No matter how tightly she hugged herself, she couldn’t get warm!

She turned a corner and halted.

He
stood, propped against a tree, one fist pressed to his brow, eyes closed. Something weighed on him, something as terrible as her own burden.

His eyes opened. They turned to hers, arcane azure touching her skin.

She ran to him. Her arms flew about him before she could stop herself, despite the rigidity of his body. She couldn’t go to Father, not to Sarah. She needed someone—anyone. And he’d come.

His arms circled her slowly, hesitantly. It felt so good to be held, to experience another’s touch without the prejudice of society, to feel secure, to feel warmth—
his
warmth.

Fresh tears started. A wave of gratitude rolled over her. Despite the endless changes, she had one new constant, one she could depend on. He didn’t have to be perfect, he didn’t have to be wonderful, he didn’t even have to want her, so long as she could repose in his embrace.

When the downpour ebbed, she backed away. His eyes pierced into her, brows low, fists clenched, shoulders tight.

She swallowed. What right did she have to throw herself at him, to make her concerns his, to force him to play the role that needed filling—without regard to his position in life or commitments? What if he had a fiancée, a wife, children?

She paced away, chiding herself for being so avaricious.

He stepped in front of her and she halted, covering her reddened face with her hands. “I am sorry, Alexia. I wanted to heal her, for your sake.”

She shrugged, confounded he would care. “She was always sickly.” Her voice caught. She turned away, taking a moment to steady it. “Always in the winter.”

“But I could have given you more time.”

“It would not matter if you had!” She started back toward the house, embarrassment and fury fueling her stride.

“She told you.”

Alexia whirled on him. Did he know of Father’s betrayal? Did he understand her erroneous birth? Did he realize the years Mother had suffered in silence?

He approached, head tilted forward. He stopped right in front of her, reaching out. She braced for contact, uncertain if it would be as unforgettable as lightning in a dark prison cell. His fingers landed just below her ear, sending a buzz down her spine. His eyes were a cloudy rainstorm. “It is not fair you should suffer for their sins.”

His pity was worse than scorn.

She sat.

He hovered a moment before joining her on the ground.

“What do you know,” she asked finally, “about my real mother?”

He propped an arm across his knees. “What do you wish me to tell you?”

“Everything!”

“I did not know her that well.”

“But you did know her?” He stared straight ahead, jaw tight. A couple tears slipped down her face. “Did she want me? Did she love me?”

“Very much.” He pulled a handkerchief from his weather-worn jacket and offered it. She took it, sniffling. “She wished above all else she could be the one to raise you. It was not easy for her.”

Alexia turned to the brown leaves wind-scattered across the trail, dabbing at her eyes as she struggled to recall that docile face from her miniature—so sweet, so guileless.

“She left this for you.” He slid a small octagonal box into her grasp. The exterior glimmered, oriental crimson with a silk floral pattern, hardly weighing more than a farthing.

“What is it?” She frowned and shook it.

He shrugged.

Something rattled within. She prodded the package, twisted it, flattened it, elongated it, but could find no opening. It altered into a diamond, then a cylinder.

His hand landed atop hers. “Given time, you will figure it out.”

She glared at the bauble and put it down. “And what about Father? Where was he when my mother lay dying in childbirth?”

He rose. “It is late.”

He extended a hand to help her up, and she took it. Her feet were instantly below her—so quickly that she stumbled and landed against his solid form. An arm rounded her back tenderly, her legs threatening to give at the elation of his touch.

He turned in the direction of the house, pulling her forward with him, moving out of the garden and up to solid brick walls. They halted at a window, the study window. Father sat within, gazing at the portrait of Dana, fingers tracing the details.

“He gave her up.” Her attention snapped back to her breathtaking captor, inhaling his oaken tang. “He could have kept her for his own, and he gave her up.”

His eyes met hers. The azure depths broke in a myriad of lighter flecks, like stars reflected in an ocean tide. They consumed her, igniting a fire within her breast—an irrational hunger for the tremor in his arm against her back, the heat of his side against hers, the feel of his hand vacillating ever so slightly . . .

He released her and took a few steps back. “You need to go now.”

She swallowed, wishing he would touch her again. A new wave of longing spilled over her, wreaking such a surge of need that it drew tears.

He stepped closer, brow crinkled, her mother’s gift again offered in his grasp. She took the package.

“Alexia.” This pulled her gaze to his eyes. “You are something special. You must know that, no matter what you feel about your birth.”

She nodded, unable to halt the flow of tears.

He brushed her jaw, smiling. “You have no idea how special.”

She blushed.

He leaned toward her, his gaze bouncing down to her lips—like he meant to make contact.

She gasped.

He stopped. His eyes shut, jaw muscles tightening. His teeth clenched. “Go, now!”

She hesitated, confused by the tension in his grimace.

“Please!” he begged.

She turned.

The night’s embrace would have to be enough for her. The cool breeze sent a chill through her bones. She squeezed the little box in her grasp and it shifted in shape. Why did her world have to alter around her like this parcel—yielding to whatever pressure prevailed? Was this part of growing up, or a part of being Passionate? She wished the knowledge had never come to her . . . but then he would never have come into her life.

She glanced back up the garden path, but it was empty.

***

All night she worked at the puzzle-box, triangular panels shifting at the slightest provocation, always presenting a new and bewildering shape. She chased it into a cube, a pyramid, a rectangle, a diamond, a trapezoid, but couldn’t figure it out, and she didn’t want to damage the pretty package to retrieve its contents.

She found her mother’s gift a flattened place in her pocket, a permanent hold.

Sleep was troubled at best. She woke curled at the top of her bed, and at first light the maid aided her into a modest dress. She slipped away to a silent place: the roof. She used to scale up here to sit and admire the sunrise—hope, according to her mother. Only today it didn’t feel as if much hope remained in the world. She worked at the little crimson package, thinking about her dead mother, her surrogate parent, Father’s constant drinking, Sarah’s innumerable suitors, the unrelenting accosts of gentlemen, her own inevitable fate . . .

Agitation festered.

In the midst of this, she remembered
him
. She calmed briefly. Then she recalled how he treated her in the confines of Wilhamshire, how he frowned after embracing her. How he’d pushed her away last night.

She growled in frustration. Her mother’s gift toppled from her grasp and rolled away. A boot came down, halting it.

“If I thought you intended to throw it away, I would have kept it for myself.” His shirt matched his eyes today, a bold thing that took her breath away.

He picked the box up and handed it back. “You will figure it out.” His fingers overlapped hers. Her heart leapt. “When the time is right.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, but he didn’t pull away.

Dark circles ringed his eyes, making her wonder if he’d slept as she had last night. And where had he found bedding?

He took a seat, at last letting go. “You find the most fascinating vantage points.”

She watched him a long moment before turning to the sunrise. As soon as she looked away she felt his eyes on her, but when she turned again, his gaze went to the heavenly orb.

“How does this work?” she asked.

“How does what work?”

“Being Passionate? Losing everything I love?”

“It . . .” He met her gaze, and she instantly found herself searching for the reflected constellations in his sea. “It is very difficult to be what we are.”

The intense pressure of his eyes forced her to turn away. Her attention returned to the little box and she traced the silken lilies, begging the butterflies to dissipate.

“Did you actually meet my mother?” She realized the ridiculousness of the query as soon as it escaped. “Forgive me. I am not thinking clearly. After all, you would have been four when she died? Five?”

He stared off into the dawn. She gave it up.

“Do you want to stay here, Alexia?”

The question took her off guard. “Beg your pardon? On the roof?”

He smirked, head shaking. She swallowed, heart thundering as she recalled the German who came to call, his story about a missing sister. Again she focused on the crimson box. “Where else would I go?”

He shrugged. “There are places.”

She sucked in a breath, tensing. “Why would I leave Father?”

He frowned. “Perhaps you are not so different from Dana after all.”

She toyed with her mother’s gift, stung by the animosity in his tone. “She could not leave Father either, even after he married.”

A varying number of statements started at his lips and faded before he finally shrugged. “Love is a rather . . . complicated thing for us.”

“Love is a rather complicated thing for everyone.”

He glared at his hands. “Not everyone.”

She wondered at the mystery behind his frown. “Not for you?”

“Especially for me.” His eyes pierced her, a fierce storm brewing.

She couldn’t help voicing the question that rushed upon her—so astonished by the ardor of his tempest—and fearing his response. “You have been in love?”

“Have you?” He turned on her.

“I have not had the chance.” She diminished demurely under the weight of his gaze.

“I suppose you have not,” he muttered.

The sky took on an orange hue, the color of liquid gold as cumulus clouds veiled the sun. Comfortable silence overtook them, long but comfortable. She liked sitting side by side with him, even if he did love someone who wasn’t her.

Even if she did torture herself by wishing.

“Do you like it here?” His words startled her, so soft.

She glanced up at him, coming back to herself and realizing what he must mean. “This is my home.”

His gaze shone brilliantly in the new light, like the crystal springs of a secret grove, a place she desperately yearned to wander. He was the only thing that made sense anymore—he and his excerpts of truth. She didn’t want to face them alone. She didn’t want to be alone!

“You are not.”

“What?” She blinked.

He looked away. “Here you have your family, people who love you. Of course it
feels
like home.”

“Of course,” she agreed.

“I should go.” He stood and their eyes connected. He hesitated. “Come with me?”

The suggestion rattled through her like cold ice in warm lemonade. Could she? Could she leave this place and remain in his care? And what of the dangers he’d warned her about?

He offered a hand, lightheartedly eyeing her mother’s gift. “I could not leave this precious bauble up here, worrying whether or not it might accidentally tumble over the edge.”

And then she realized what this must look like, the reason he’d joined her on the roof—as her guardian. He thought she was emotionally overwrought, even likely to inflict bodily harm.

“I am all right,” she dismissed, annoyed.