To Have and to Hold (11 page)

"Yes, if you like," he said agreeably, and they set off at a leisurely pace, rather like two friends out for a stroll. He thought of taking her arm, but decided against it. He wanted her company today, nothing more. This was a leisurely seduction; he was enjoying the preamble too much to rush the climax.

Knowing there would be no conversation unless he initiated it, he asked presently, "What did you particularly miss in prison, Mrs. Wade?"

After a surprised moment, she answered, "There wasn't one thing, my lord."

"Three things, then. And they needn't be the main things, if that paralyzes you. Just the three you think of first."

"Flowers," she said immediately, glancing at the steep sides of the hard-packed road, where milkwort sprawled in exuberant blue and white tangles. "And . . . light. Long views of the world in natural light."

He frowned. "You were not allowed to go outside at all?"

"On the contrary, we had daily exercise in the prison yard."

"What was daily exercise like?"

She glanced at him, assessing his interest. "We walked, my lord."

"Walked? Where?"

"Nowhere. In circles. Two circles, one inside the other. For an hour every day, immediately following chapel. That comes out," she added dryly, "to a distance of approximately two miles."

He mulled that. "You walked in silence?"

"Of course."

"Could you cheat? Whisper something to a neighbor as you passed?"

"Some did, yes. The art of ventriloquism flourishes in a prison yard, as you can imagine. But it's not easy; the guards are watchful, and one must always stay fifteen feet behind the prisoner next in the circle."

He tried to picture it. It seemed barbarous. "Was there no enjoyment in it, then, not even the pleasure of moving about?''

"We were a plodding procession, my lord. The pace was set by the slowest—old women or young children. The word 'exercise' doesn't really describe our little parade." He was still flinching mentally from the thought of children in a convict prison when she went on. "But, yes, there were compensations. The chance to see the sky, or the reflection of clouds in a rain puddle. The feel of wind, the smell of it. Sometimes there were birds to look at, rooks mostly, but occasionally a thrush or a lark. Once ..." She broke off, making a sheepish face. He'd never heard her say so much at one go before.

"Once?" he urged, fascinated.

"Once ... a dog bounded out of nowhere and tried to play with us. It was a yellow dog, very large and shaggy, very—excited. I never knew where he came from. I petted him." The bold, wistful way she said this last made him imagine her hoarding the thought of the yellow dog for months, even years, using the memories of soft fur and wet tongue to comfort herself in the long hours of her imprisonment. "But then," she finished softly, "the guards captured him and took him away."

A melancholy silence fell between them. "So," he said to break it. "Flowers and long views of the world in sunlight. One more, Mrs. Wade."

"It's . . . difficult. There are many things I could say."

"Say them, then."

She breathed a sigh. "Food with flavor. Warm water to wash in. Colors. One night of sound, peaceful sleep. But—all that—" She made a gesture with her hand, saying they weren't important. "The main thing . .."

"What?"

She darted another glance at him. "People. Human contact, human warmth. Simple conversation. The lack of it made me sick. Not physically, but in my ..."

'' Soul," he murmured.

She made no answer. Evidently her soul was not a subject she was prepared to discuss with him.

"You were not permitted to speak at all?" he asked grimly. "To anyone?"

"We could speak to the warders, but only in answer to their questions. Never to each other."

"But surely—"

"Ways were got round it, yes, of course. But the punishment- if one were caught made the risk . . . costly."

A chill of revulsion tamped down his unwholesome curiosity in the details of prison discipline. But not for long. "What kind of punishment—"

"My lord, do you come from Sussex? I believe someone told me that," she broke in, sounding almost shrill. He looked at her in surprise; she'd never dared to ask him a personal question before. Her features were set and stiff. It was clear that further inquiries about how order was kept at Dartmoor Prison would be futile.

"Yes, it's true," he answered equably. "I was born in Rye."

"Do you—is it—a large family?"

The simplest social discourse was still an obstacle course for her, around which she lumbered awkwardly, like a woman in shackles and leg irons. Then, too, he was a viscount and she was a domestic servant; no matter how politely or impersonally she phrased her diversionary questions, they were bound to sound forward, even impudent. He could sympathize with her dilemma, but he wasn't much keener to talk about his family than she was to talk about prison.

"No, not large," he said briefly. "Just my parents and a sister."

"Are your parents living?" she tried next.

"I suppose so. The last I heard."

She looked at him in surprise. "You aren't close?" she hazarded.

“Close? No, I wouldn't say we were close. My father is the Earl of Moreton," he thought to add. "He's dying; the doctors have given him half a year at the most."

"I'm very sorry. How terrible for you. You must..." She trailed off, seeing his expression, which he imagined was more amused than grief-stricken. "It must," she amended nervously, "be very hard on your family."

"No, not really. We don't care for one another much in my family."

She thought that over, gazing off through a patch of woods that flanked the road on her side. "I suppose you'll return to Rye, then, after your father's gone?"

"Yes, for a little while. Long enough to hear the will read, at any rate."

"And then you mean to return to Lynton for good?"

He laughed at that. "Lord, no. Why would I? I'll be rich, Mrs. Wade, and I'll be an earl. 'Why then, the world's mine oyster, which I with sword will open.' Or, more aptly in my case, with
purse."
She said nothing. "You're silent," he noted. "I think I hear disapproval in your silence."

"Not at all. Certainly not."

"Certainly not. You wouldn't presume."

"No, I would not."

"Ah. My mistake, then. But tell me, Mrs. Wade, if you were in my place, which would you choose: a life of absolute luxury and comfort, spent anywhere you liked, Paris, Rome, Constantinople, anywhere in the world, with time and the means to explore every earthly pleasure that man in his wicked ingenuity ever devised—that's on the one hand. Or a residence in what we might in charity term a backwater, populated by the salt of the earth, brave, honest souls who nevertheless lack a certain
je ne sais quoi
—sophistication, shall we say. A wholesome life, no question of that, lived close to God's good clean earth, but—-forgive na&—perhaps a trifle
too
close. WelK" be prompted. "Come, which would you choose? You might think of it as a choice between a fast Arab stallion and a big, sturdy Clydesdale."

Her lips quirked. "My lord, I can hardly decide which of my two dresses to put
oh
in the morning. I'm afraid deciding between two completely different styles of life would be quite beyond me."

He'd suspected from the beginning that an arid sense of humor lurked somewhere beneath all the reserve. She showed him new facets of herself every day. What might it be like to have a normal conversation with her, both of them speaking naturally, unconstrained by status, or fear, or sexual politics? Diverting, perhaps—but that wasn't why he'd gone to the trouble of employing her. If he wanted normal conversation, there were any number of women with whom he could have it. Mrs. Wade was meant to serve an altogether different function.

He'd noticed her looking slightly less nunlike of late, and now he tried to guess why. It wasn't her clothes, which remained steadfastly black or brown and unrelievedly somber. It wasn't her face, which had more color but not much more animation than on the day they'd met. She still glided rather than walked, but he'd discovered that was natural, not learned, her usual, quite graceful way of moving. The difference was partly in her posture, the way she held herself— not stooped any longer, as if she expected the sky to fall in at any moment. She walked with her shoulders back and her chin up, meeting the world head-on. It was a small shift, but it changed everything. Her slender figure looked youthful because of it, not careful and pained, almost decrepit. It pleased him to see the change, and intrigued him to speculate on what other surprises she might have in store for him.

Oddly enough, as soon as the thought had fully formed in his mind, she changed again. Conversation on her end ceased. Her luminous eyes dimmed, and she stopped looking about her, training her gaze on the ground in front of her feet, holding onto her elbows.

Sebastian glanced around, trying to see what could have caused this abrupt withdrawal, but there was nothing. Except that they'd entered the village. Was that it? Cottages lined both sides of the High Street, a narrow, gently climbing thoroughfare whose hard-packed surface didn't give way to cobbles till the second bridge over the serpentine Wyck, almost at the village green. Passersby tipped their hats or bowed, hardly able to veil their surprise at seeing Lord D'Aubrey in the town, not only on foot but in the company of his infamous housekeeper. As he returned their greetings in kind, it struck him that Rachel might receive a much less hospitable welcome when she made her weekly visits to the constable's office. Did she ever meet open hostility? He thought of what the vicar had told him about Lydia Wade, her late husband's daughter. Did other people in Wyckerley feel the same violent antagonism toward her?

It was a disturbing thought. To counteract it—he didn't have time to worry about Mrs. Wade—he announced casually, "I've been thinking of having an entertainment at the Hall one day soon. Something for the locals, I think, a kind of open-house affair, nothing too formal, meet the new squire and all that. Does that sound like something you would care to organize for me, Mrs. Wade?"

Her steps slowed gradually until she stopped. They were in front of the mayor's unattractive Tudor home, two stories of half timbers and whitewashed clay surrounded by a pretentious black iron fence. Rachel had turned pale as a sheet; she actually looked ill.

"It won't be much work," he said smoothly. "I'll give you a list of the people I wish to invite. Judelet can plan the menu, but I would want you to act as my hostess, greeting the guests and so on." She stared at his shirtfront, her straight mouth closed, the lips pressing together in intermittent nervous spasms. "What do you say, Mrs. Wade? May I count on you for that?"

"My lord," she finally got out.

"Hmm?"

Her glance flickered over him knowingly just for a second, telling him she fully comprehended the game he was playing with her now. "My lord, I would ask for a little more time."

He'd expected her to cave in, agree to his unkind plan without a whimper, and suffer the consequences with her usual hopeless stoicism. Was this tentative quibble progress? That depended on what the object was—his object, not hers—and as to that he wasn't sure; he alternated between wanting to save her and wanting to push her to her limit.

"You would ask for a little more time," he repeated, as if he didn't quite understand. "For what purpose?"

Her struggles with self-expression always fascinated him. "I'm not—I feel as if I couldn't—I'm afraid I wouldn't do justice to you or your friends at such an entertainment."

"Why not?"

She looked around for a distraction, but no one approached them, no one came to her rescue. "It's just—I'm not—fit..."

Uncharacteristically, he took pity on her. "You've spent the last ten years in a small room by yourself," he said softly. "You've lost the ability to converse easily with others, and you're still nearly incapable of making choices, even simple ones. The good people of Wyckerley believe you're a murderess, and you not unnaturally find dealing with them a trial and an embarrassment. You want to keep to yourself and attract the least amount of attention while you try to rebuild some semblance of a Me. If it were up to you, you would rather not organize and play hostess at a party for a lot of hostile strangers.''

Her astonishment—that he could have any idea of what her inner life was like—wasn't nattering, but it was intriguing to watch. The clear, nearly achromatic eyes widened; before self-consciousness overtook them, her features grew positively animated. Girlish— she looked like the girl in the stiff family photograph, young and fresh, still capable of amazement. She put her hands together in a fervent, almost prayerful gesture. Gratitude made her smile naturally, for once. "My lord, I'm very—"

"But, of course, it's not up to you, is it? It's up tome."

Ah, now it was dread he got to watch take over her mobile countenance, and—could it be?—a flash of righteous anger, quickly hidden before, God forbid, it could give offense. She was
too
easy to read, not enough of a challenge for him today. But what could account for anyone having a face that transparent? The absence of mirrors in her prison cell? Or had the ten-year prohibition against looking at others caused her to forget that people's faces gave away their emotions?