Only Beloved (23 page)

But oh, she thought treacherously a couple of times during the course of the evening, how she wished she could dance at least once. Not all the dances were strenuous ones. But she had promised . . .

The second of the two waltzes planned for the evening was after supper. George had danced the first with her mother, who was as light on her feet as she had been when Dora was a girl. Dora had watched rather wistfully until she had spotted those children up in the gallery and distracted herself by going up to them.

Now the guests were instructed to take their partners for the second waltz. Dora, standing with Barbara, whose attention had been taken for a moment by someone on her other side, cooled her face with her fan until it was taken from her hand.

“You are overwarm?” George asked, continuing to ply the fan. “You have been exerting yourself too much?”

“I have not exerted myself at all,” she assured him. “But is it not the loveliest ball you have ever attended, George? And do feel free to lie.”

“Ah, but I can speak only the truth,” he said. “It is by far the loveliest ball I have ever attended, perhaps because the loveliest lady I have ever known is here.”

“I will not ask who she is,” she said. “I might be mortified by your answer.”

“But I can speak only the truth, remember,” he said. “She is you.”

She laughed and his smile deepened. It had surprised and delighted her since their wedding to discover that they could occasionally exchange silly banter and share laughter.

“I am speaking the truth,” he assured her. “I remember your telling me soon after you agreed to marry me at St. George's that you had always dreamed of waltzing at a London ball. We will do it one day, but will our own ball here at Penderris serve the purpose for now? Will you waltz with me?”

Oh.
She felt a great surge of yearning. “But I promised a certain tyrant that I would not dance at all.”

“The certain tyrant recalls, though, that only strenuous dancing was prohibited,” he said. “He also had a word with the orchestra leader after supper and specifically asked for a slower, more sedate version of the waltz than the one that was played earlier.” He looked deeply into her eyes. “Will you waltz with me, Dora?”

She took her fan from his hand and closed it. “It would make the evening perfect,” she said.

He offered his arm, and she placed her hand on his cuff.

She had waltzed once, at a local assembly in Inglebrook, with a gentleman farmer who must have practiced the steps while prancing away from a frisky bull. It had not been a particularly enjoyable experience, though she had always felt that it could be. It was surely the most
romantic dance ever invented—when danced with the right partner.

She was sure she had the right partner tonight.

He set a hand at the back of her waist and took her hand in a warm clasp. She rested her other hand on his shoulder—so warm and firm and dependable. She had time only to notice a few of the other couples who had taken the floor about them—her mother with Sir Everard, Ann and James, Philippa and Julian. And then the music began.

Any fear she might have had that she would not know the steps well enough was soon dispelled. They moved about the ballroom as though one, and it felt, Dora thought, like being right inside the music and creating it with one's whole body instead of just with one's fingers upon a keyboard. It felt like a creation of all the senses instead of just sound. There were the crystal chandeliers and the candlelight to see overhead and the flowers and greenery below. There were the perfumes of the plants and of various colognes—and even of coffee. There were the sounds of music and feet moving rhythmically on the floor and voices and laughter. There was the aftertaste of wine and cake. And there was the feel of an evening coat beneath her one hand, of a larger hand in her other, of body heat. There were people enjoying themselves. And nothing was static, as nothing ever was with music—or life. Everything swirled about her with light and color, and she swirled in its midst.

All was life and joy.

But there was the one constant at the center of it
all—the man who held her and waltzed with her. Sturdy and elegant, stoic and kind, aristocratic and very human, complex and vulnerable—her companion and friend, her husband, her lover. Creating the music of life with her.

It was strange how such an uplift of euphoria could follow so closely upon life-threatening terror. The two extremes of life. Or perhaps not so strange.

She remembered his saying that he had carried her up to the house from partway down that rock face. The reality of that fact had not impressed itself fully upon her consciousness until now. He had
carried
her.

But thought drifted away as they waltzed and only sensation remained.

She felt a trifle bereft when the music finally drew to a close. But George held her a little longer while the other dancers moved off the floor.

“I would like you to go up to bed now,” he said. “Will you? I will make your excuses, and everyone will understand. There is to be one more set, I believe. And then there will be all the bustle of everyone's leaving.”

She was suddenly weary and nodded.

“Come,” he said. “I will escort you up.”

He left her outside her dressing room, having given instructions downstairs that Maisie was to be sent up without delay. He took both her hands in his and kissed the backs of them.

“Good night, Dora,” he said, and for a brief moment she thought she saw something unguarded in his eyes—some unhappiness, some deep-seated suffering. But the light was dim and she might have been mistaken. He had
not brought a branch of candles up with them. There were only the candles flickering in the wall sconces.

He turned away and strode back along the corridor.

We will talk,
he had said earlier. But she wondered if they ever would.

*   *   *

George was glad he had persuaded Dora to go to bed. He had never hosted a grand ball, though of course this was a country affair and therefore not quite the squeeze he might have expected in London. Nevertheless, he knew something about all the chaos of the ending of a ball, when people suddenly wished to talk with one another as though they had not had a chance to do so all evening, and when carriages jostled for position at the door and then, when successful, had to wait for their owners to take a protracted leave of their hosts and every friend and acquaintance they had ever had. Even when the final carriage had disappeared along the driveway, there were still the houseguests, who wished to talk about how wonderful the evening had been before going off to bed.

Well over an hour had passed since the ending of the ball before George let himself quietly into his dressing room so as not to wake Dora in the adjoining bedchamber. But, just as had happened earlier, like déjà vu, he could hear soft music coming from the sitting room.

Why had he expected that she would be asleep, exhausted as she must be?

He undressed without the assistance of his valet, whom he had instructed to go to bed, and donned a nightshirt and dressing gown before letting himself into the sitting room.

She stopped playing and looked up at him with a smile. She too was dressed for bed. Her hair was loose and had been brushed to a shine. She looked very weary.

“I take it,” she said, “no one left early.”

“No one even left late,” he said. “Everyone left
very
late. A sign of the great success of your ball. It will be talked about for a decade.”

“We must entertain more often,” she said, “even if not always on such a large scale.”

“We must,” he agreed, walking closer to her. “But not tomorrow, if you do not mind, Dora, or the day after. You could not sleep?”

She shook her head. “I was afraid to try.”

“Afraid of nightmares?”

She turned on the stool so that her knees touched his own. She nodded, and he rested one hand against the top of her head and smoothed it over her hair.

“There were only maybe two more steps between me and a vast emptiness,” she said. “And I knew that nothing was going to change his mind. Nothing I said, nothing you said.”

They were both silent for a while until she leaned forward to wrap her arms about his waist and bury her face against his chest. And she wept with great heaving sobs.

He held her, his eyes shut tight, and wondered what the insanity would have felt like afterward if . . .

She wept until the front of his dressing gown and the nightshirt beneath it were soggy, and then she raised her face to his so that he could dry it with his handkerchief. She took it from his hand and blew her nose.

“I want to go there tomorrow,” she told him, setting
the handkerchief down on the bench behind her. “I want to walk along the headland path, and I want to go down onto the beach. This is my home, and if I do not do it tomorrow, I never will. Come with me?”

He was horrified.

“Of course.” And it struck him, even as his knees felt weak beneath him, that she was quite right—and incredibly brave. “But it is very late and we must sleep. I will hold you against the nightmares, Dora. I will not let anyone or anything harm you.” Foolish words in light of his utter helplessness this afternoon. One could not always protect what was one's own. “We will talk, I assure you, but not tonight.” He hesitated a moment. “Allow me to show you something tonight, though.”

She got to her feet and set her hand in his. He took her into their bedchamber and opened the top drawer of the rarely used bureau there. He took out an object wrapped in a soft cloth and unwrapped it. He picked up the nearest candle and held it aloft while he handed her the framed painting.

“It was originally a sketch that Ann made at a picnic one day,” he said. “I asked for it, and she offered to make a proper oil portrait out of it. She made it a little bigger than a miniature. It is a good likeness.”

She gazed at it for a long time. “Brendan?”

“My son, yes,” he said. “I loved him.”

She lifted her eyes to his. “Of course you did,” she said. “He was your son.”

He could see from her eyes that she knew the truth. But she spoke the truth too. Brendan was his son.

“Did you keep it displayed,” she asked him, “before you married me?”

“No.” He shook his head. “It is not for the gallery, though it will probably end up there eventually. It is not for the sight of any servant who steps in here. It is for my eyes alone. And now yours.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He wrapped the portrait carefully and put it away.

“Come and sleep,” he said.

“Yes.”

D
ora woke up to the sound of rain lashing against the window. It was full daylight. George was sitting at the bureau in his shirtsleeves, writing. Amazingly, she had slept deeply and apparently dreamlessly.

She turned quietly onto her side and gazed at him. He did not usually write his letters up here. Indeed, she had never before seen the bureau actually being put to use. But she guessed that he had not wanted to leave her to awaken alone. He dipped his quill pen in the inkpot and continued to write, his head bent over his work.

Her eyes strayed to the top drawer, and she felt tears prick them though she blinked firmly. She had been enough of a watering pot yesterday. There would be no more of that today.

There had been such tenderness in his hands as he had folded back the linen that covered the picture, and such tenderness in his eyes as he had looked briefly at the painting before handing it to her. And tenderness had been in his voice when he spoke.
My son, yes. I loved him.

The boy must have been about fourteen or fifteen when the sketch was made and then painted in oils, a plain-faced, plumpish boy, his fair hair somewhat tousled by the outdoors, the shy suggestion of a smile lending him both vulnerability and charm. He looked as unlike George as it was possible for a boy to be.

It is a good likeness.

I loved him.

It is for my eyes only. And now yours.

There was no family portrait in the gallery. But there was this, a very private, prized possession. A portrait of a boy who had not been his own flesh.

My son, yes.

She must have made some sound. Or perhaps he was just keeping an eye on her every few minutes. He turned his head and then smiled and—oh, she loved him.

“Good morning,” he said softly.

“Good morning.” She had thought yesterday only of herself, of the fact that she might have died. This morning she thought of him. What would it have been like for him now, at this moment, if she
had
died? She did not believe he felt any great romantic passion for her, but she did know he was dearly fond of her and content with his marriage.

Ah, Dora. My belovèd. My
only
belovèd.

Had she really heard those words? Or had it been part of some dream into which she had sunk when she lost consciousness?

“No nightmares?” he asked.

“None,” she said. “You?”

But she knew the answer even before he shook his
head. He had not slept at all. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, and the creases that extended from his nostrils past his mouth to his chin were more pronounced than usual. There was little color in his face.

“There was a letter from Imogen this morning addressed to both of us,” he said, “and one for you from your sister.” He tapped an unopened letter on the surface beside him.

“What does Imogen have to say?” she asked.

“You must read it for yourself,” he said, “but I will play spoiler and tell you her main item of news. We Survivors are all being admirably prolific in ensuring the survival of the human race.”

“She is with child?” Dora sat up abruptly and threw back the bedcovers. “I thought she was barren.”

“So did she,” he said. “Apparently you were both wrong.”

“Oh, goodness.” She began counting on her fingers. “Agnes, Imogen, Chloe, Sophia, Samantha. Me.”

“One wonders, does one not,” he said, “what is wrong with Hugo? I shall have to write and ask him. Though they do have young Melody.”

“Imogen and Percy must be ecstatic. Oh, I must write. It is to them you are writing?” Dora crossed the room barefoot to look briefly over his shoulder—he was writing to them—and to pick up Agnes's letter. It felt fatter than usual. But that, she soon discovered, was because there was another letter folded within it addressed to their mother. It was the first of its kind, Dora was almost sure, though she remembered Agnes's saying she would inform her mother when the baby was
born. She looked quickly at her own letter. But Agnes had not delivered early. She was still feeling large and ungainly and breathless and generally cross whenever Flavian patted her largeness and looked pleased with himself. She was also feeling excited and a bit apprehensive, and since she could not steal Dora herself, then she was going to try to steal their mother away from Penderris instead. She hoped Dora would not mind too terribly much, and she hoped her mother would be willing to come.

“I must have buried memories from early childhood,” she had written. “Although I cannot bring any specific details to mind, I have a general feeling of safety and calm and comfort whenever I think of our mother. Was she like that, Dora? Or is it just you I am remembering?”

“Agnes has written to Mother,” Dora said, holding up the folded letter. “She wants her to go to Candlebury Abbey for her confinement.”

“Oh, she will go,” George said. “But you will miss her.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But they intended returning home within the next week anyway. They have been happy here, I believe, but they have their own lives, as we all do.”

“There will be no walk today,” he said, nodding toward the window. “It is a good thing Philippa and Julian are to stay longer. The roads will be muddy. It is to be hoped our other guests will be able to get safely home.”

It was still raining heavily, and blowing too, judging by the rattle of the window. It was a reminder that autumn was upon them and that winter was not far off.

“Perhaps it will ease up later,” she said. She still desperately wanted to take that walk she has spoken of last night, and the sooner the better, before she lost her nerve. For the very thought of it made her knees turn weak and her heart start thumping. Then she caught sight of the clock on the mantelpiece. She had forgotten about those overnight guests. “I must get dressed and go downstairs. Whatever will everyone think of me?”

“What your husband thinks,” he said, “is that you look rather delicious.”

She shook her head at him and clucked her tongue as she made her way to her dressing room.

*   *   *

The rain eased after luncheon and then stopped. But only just. Dark clouds hung low and the wind still blew in gusts. It was, in fact, a thoroughly unpleasant afternoon, cold and damp and cheerless and best spent indoors. Nevertheless, a group of people left the warmth and shelter of Penderris Hall for the outdoors early in the afternoon, all of them bundled up against the chill as though it were January already. George and Dora led the way, and then came Sir Everard and Lady Havell, Philippa and Julian, and Ann and James Cox-Hampton. All of them had been assured that they must not feel obliged to come, especially the Cox-Hamptons, who had merely called to inquire into Dora's health. All had come anyway, as grim and purposeful as the weather itself.

They might, George thought, have waited for a more auspicious day on which to expose themselves to the cliffs and the beach, but then this outing was not about
pleasure. Quite the contrary. Dora had hovered close to the south-facing windows all morning when she was not seeing overnight guests on their way, fretting over the rain, imagining it had stopped long before it actually did, and considering going out even if it did not stop.

“What are boots and rain capes for, after all,” she had asked at one point of no one in particular, “if one never goes outside in the rain?”

No one had been able to think of a decent answer. Or, if anyone had, no one had said what it was.

Dora had wanted to come out—or needed to, rather—and so all of them had come. She was, George thought, that precious to everyone. She had almost been murdered yesterday, and no one was willing to leave her far out of their sight today. Everyone was ready to pamper her every wish.

They strode first along the driveway Ann and James had driven over half an hour or so ago, their feet crunching on wet gravel. It seemed safe enough, as though they were all on a stroll to the village. The wind buffeted them from behind, though it would cut into them as though to rob them of breath as soon as they turned in the opposite direction. And turn they would, for they were not going to the village, of course. Dora was retracing the route she had taken yesterday. Before they reached the park gates they veered off to their right, toward the cliffs, and then turned right again to walk along the path that ran roughly parallel to the edge for a few miles until it descended a gentle slope to provide an easy access to the beach a couple of miles or so west of the house.

They would not walk that far, though.

George drew Dora's arm firmly through his own and clamped it to his side. He held her hand with his free one. Julian moved up on her other side while Sir Everard offered his free arm to Philippa. Julian would have taken Dora's other arm, but she would have none of it.

“Philippa needs your arm,” she told him, “and Sir Everard does not need two strings to his bow. It might make him conceited.”

Even now she could make a joke that set them all to laughing, though none of them, George guessed, were feeling very amused. Yesterday's events were still much too raw in all their minds. Julian and Havell had been out here with him yesterday afternoon, and their wives had doubtless heard all the details. Dora had told Ann, he believed. He had told James. This was madness.

But it was a necessary madness, it seemed. Necessary to his wife. Dora would not even allow him to take the outside of the path, which would have been the gentlemanly thing to do even under ordinary circumstances. She insisted on taking it herself. He was feeling a terror to rival yesterday's even before they reached the part of the path that skirted the fall and the slight promontory beyond it. She stopped when they reached that and drew her arm free of his. She stepped off the path and onto the grass, which must be slippery from all the rain. George clasped his hands behind his back and fought the almost overwhelming urge to grab her and haul her back to safety. Though she was not unsafe. She was nine or ten feet from the edge.

Everyone else had come to a stop on the path and
stood in an unnatural silence. George wondered if they were all holding their breath, as he was doing.

“It is beautiful,” Dora said. The wind blew her words back to them. “Nature can seem very malevolent at times, even cruel, but really it is devoid of feeling or intent. It just
is
. And it is always beautiful.”

After which strange little speech she turned and stepped back onto the path and took George's arm again. She smiled with what looked like genuine amusement.

“Everyone is so very silent,” she said.

“If the wind were not so noisy, Dora,” James told her, “you would hear all our knees knocking.”

“And our teeth chattering,” Julian added.

“Poor Everard is afraid of heights,” Dora's mother said.

“I do not suppose,” Philippa said, “any one of us is actually in love with heights. It would be foolhardy. But you are quite right, Aunt Dora. This is beautiful—the scenery and the weather. Wild but beautiful.”

“And safe,” Havell said. “It really is safe. The path is not really muddy, is it? I thought it might be slippery, but there are too many small stones. And it is not as close to the edge as I remembered.”

“If you all keep on talking now that you have finally started,” Dora said, “you may even convince yourselves that you would rather be out here enjoying the walk than drinking tea by a cozy fire in the house.”

“Tea?” James said. “Not brandy?”

“I am going down onto the beach,” Dora told them. “But no one must feel obliged to come with me.”

Everyone did, of course.

George had used this particular descent all his life. So had everyone else at the house. Why go two miles to the easy access when this was so much closer to the house? All his fellow Survivors with the exception of Ben with his crushed legs had used it regularly. It was steep and needed to be treated with respect, but it had never been considered dangerous. However, Dora had almost died here yesterday, and Eastham actually had. Today they all picked their way down with more than usual caution until they were standing safely on the beach.

It was not difficult to choose a direction, since to their left stones and rocks and pebbles jutted out into the water and offered a rough passage around a bend to the harbor below the village, invisible from where they stood. That was the route by which the body had been taken yesterday. To their right was a beach of golden sand, bordered on one side by tall cliffs and on the other by the sea stretching apparently to infinity. The tide was on the rise, though it was still some distance away. It was rough today. Waves were breaking into foam well before they encountered the beach, and were tumbling in, one after the other, each one climbing a little higher up the sand before subsiding beneath the next. Farther out, the water was slate gray and foam flecked.

They walked along the beach a short way, all of them silent again, but Dora did not stop below the small promontory upon which she had stood yesterday, nor did she look up. None of them did. Some distance away from it she stopped and turned toward the sea, drawing her arm from his as she did so and lifting her face to the wind.

It was a signal for them all to relax.

“I will bet, Julian,” Philippa cried suddenly, grabbing up her skirts and breaking into a run, “that I can race you to the water's edge.”

Julian looked at the rest of them as she streaked away. “I have to go in pursuit,” he said. “She did not say what she was betting.”

And he was off after her at an easy lope. She looked back to see if he was following, shrieked when she saw that he was, and flew onward.

“Children, children,” James said, laughing and shaking his head.

“I wish
,
Dora,” Ann said, “that I had my sketchbook with me, though it would probably blow away in the wind, would it not? I would love to capture you as you are right at this moment. ‘Woman Triumphant,' or something like that but not so pretentious.”