A Lady Under Siege (32 page)

“What do you mean?”

“What’s your definition?”

“Love is something proven over time. True love behaves itself.”

“Is it spontaneous, like a lightning bolt, or something cultivated?”

“Why do you ask these things?”

“My father wishes to marry you,” Daphne blurted out.

“Does he?”

“Yes. What would you say to him?”

“I think he needs to ask me himself.”

“I just know you’ll say yes!” Daphne said excitedly.

“He needs to ask me himself,” Sylvanne repeated.

L
ATER IN THE AFTERNOON
, as the shadows grew long, Thomas made his way to Sylvanne’s chamber. She had dressed herself in a lovely robe of lavender and had her hair pinned up off her shoulders to expose her graceful neck. He took it as a sign, confirming the breathless guarantee Daphne had given him, that he would not be disappointed.

They exchanged the briefest of pleasantries before she said, “I know why you’ve come.”

The neutrality in her voice surprised him. He suddenly felt less confident, more self-conscious, a rare feeling for him.

“Well?” she prompted.

“Yes. Well. I think it best for all concerned, if, what I mean to say is, you’re a fine woman, and beautiful, a prize for any man, and Daphne needs a mother, and I need a wife, and you need a husband—” He winced at the awkwardness and inelegance of his words. It was not coming out as he’d imagined it would. “My dear Lady, it comes down to this—there’s too much sadness in the world, and not enough happiness. I see a way for two disparate souls to combine to make happiness.”

“Are you in love with me?” she asked. He saw her lower lip tremble just a little.

“Yes. I believe I am. I want to be, don’t you see? You’ve displayed such tremendous strength of character in all I’ve put you through. We began as enemies, and I admired you for putting up the good fight. As allies, I feel we could conquer the world. That’s if you’ll have me, of course.”

“And what about this woman, this Meghan that you say dwells within me? Do you love her too?”

“I can’t say for certain.”

“Last night you told me you’d never yet lied to me,” she said. “Does that still hold true?”

“Yes. I can’t say that I truly love her, because that’s something else. A dream.”

“I will marry you, on two conditions,” Sylvanne told him.

“I haven’t even formally asked yet,” he smiled.

“Wait until you hear the conditions, then you’ll know to ask, or not.”

“Continue then. You amaze me.”

“First, you must promise truly that you will never speak the name Meghan to me, or speak to her through me, again.”

He nodded.

“Second, you must do your utmost to find a method to drive her from my mind. I want my mind to myself, and I want you to myself.”

She had delivered these conditions with a brave, stern countenance, but now her face softened into girlish vulnerability. “Is that too much to ask?” she said quietly.

He shook his head. “I will marry you,” he answered, and knew for certain that he truly did want to.

“You haven’t asked me,” she smiled.

“Will you marry me?”

She went to him, cautiously. His arms encircled her trembling body and held her tightly to him a long time, until her ragged breathing calmed. “I had to make promises to win you,” he said. “What will you promise me in return?”

She pulled back to look up into his broad, unguarded face, and said solemnly, “I promise to be a good and faithful wife, and to give you children and love them with you, as you love Daphne. And I promise to love Daphne as my own, as the eldest, as my mother loved me.”

46

“E
ver read
First Love
, by Turgenev?” Derek asked.

“No, but if
you
have, I’m impressed.”

“Oh I’m well-read, if nothing else. It’s about a teenage boy who falls for a beautiful, sophisticated girl next door, and they’re always talking over the wall between their houses. Kind of like us.”

Derek stood in his back yard, resting a hand on top of the fence, looking up at Meghan, who sat on the rail of her deck, close enough to him that she could easily reach out and touch his hand. “Betsy’s home, so it’s best we keep the fence between us,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d admit to reading romances.”

“It’s not that kind of romance. It’s realistic—it ends tragically.”

“Then it’s not a
romance
romance.”

“Oh really? So Romeo and Juliet doesn’t count either?”

“I’m thinking of modern romances, the formulaic ones, where the gruff, manly dude meets his match with the plucky gal, and they live happily ever after,” she said.

“It happens, I suppose,” he said. “But it’s getting rarer. There’s no shortage of plucky gals, but the gruff, manly dude is an endangered species.”

“Thomas and Sylvanne are getting married,” she said abruptly.

“Really? Wow. I thought you’d sound more excited. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me right off the bat.”

“I know. I should be excited. She’s a tough cookie, I must say. She extracted conditions.”

“Which are?”

“Well, officially, he’s never to talk to me, or even speak my name, ever again.”

“That’s not new.”

“And secondly, she wants him to find a way for this to end—she wants me out of her head.”

“Can you blame her?”

“No. I know I’m being ridiculous, but it hurts. The way he agreed to it so easily, I feel like I’ve been dumped.”

“He didn’t dump you, he just went with the flow—men agree to stuff all the time without having any intention of carrying through on it. Especially with women. Especially when it comes to romance.”

“You’ve had experience with that?”

“Less than most, I’d say. I prefer to let the chips fall.”

“So basically you’re saying he lied to her.”

“It’s not lying, exactly, it’s avoiding an argument. He agreed he should do something about it, but did he specify what?”

“No.”

“There you go. No action taken. So in the meantime you’ll still be in her head, he’ll still be in my head, you’ll still get to see each other.”

“Or maybe he really does want me out of her head.”

“If he wants you out of her head, it’s easily done.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your therapist suggested it. She gave you a prescription, remember? All you have to do is take some pills and you’ll stop dreaming. End of story.”

Meghan felt a chill run through her. “Oh God,” she said.

“You told me about it, so he knows about it,” said Derek. “The fact that he didn’t suggest it to Sylvanne means he wants to carry on with the status quo, don’t you think?”

“Or else he didn’t think of it because it didn’t register when he heard about it, or he’s forgotten about it.”

“Well now he knows. Thomas, my man, there’s a readymade plan. It’s up to you to accept or reject it.”

She clenched her hands together tightly and brought them to her chest. A sudden pain had seized her, a premonition of heartbreak.

“What is it?” Derek asked.

“Nothing.

“Should I come over?”

“No. I told you Betsy’s here.”

“I’m offering comfort, not anything out of bounds.”

“Thank you. But comfort would be more physical than I want her to see between us right now. We had a talk—it’s all been a bit much for her with the separation, and her dad springing the idea of a new wife and baby on her. She wants me to herself right now. I don’t think she’d like to see us hugging.”

“That’s cool. Wouldn’t want her running into traffic again.”

“No, definitely not.” She relaxed a little, and reached down to put her hand on his, atop the fence. “Comfort can come from just holding hands,” she said.

He didn’t say anything.

“You’re very patient,” she said.

He shrugged. “You’re not?”

“No. I’m just—I can’t wait for the night. I want to see what he does.”

47

S
ylvanne wanted to be married as soon as possible, and Thomas, taking her at her word, decreed a mere two days from proposal to ceremony. The wedding would thus be a hurried, intimate, nearly private affair. Daphne appointed herself Mademoiselle In Charge Of The Bridal Gown, but there was no time to sort through rolls of fabric or consult with dressmakers. Here Sylvanne’s practicality came to the fore, and the former farm girl settled for what was at hand, a kirtle of pale green silk she found in Daphne’s mother’s wardrobe, which she then transformed by adorning the neckline and bodice with embroidered pink flowers from one of her own dresses. “Would it trouble your father if I wore this?” she asked Daphne, and the girl said not to worry, for in the first place she had never seen her mother wear the dress, and secondly, even if her father knew of it, he would never recognize it with the lovely floral addition.

Well pleased at having so effortlessly fixed on the bride’s attire, the two of them retired to Daphne’s room for a far more thorny undertaking—to choose a dress acceptable to a twelve-year-old girl. Sylvanne passed the better part of the afternoon helping Daphne into all sorts of gowns and kirtles, some the girl’s own, some her mother’s, and some Sylvanne’s, but no matter how she tucked and reshaped them to suggest how they could be altered to fit to perfection, none met with Daphne’s wholehearted approval. Among an ever-more frantic scattering of dresses they were found by Mabel, who poked her head in for a surprise visit. “I heard the wonderful news and just couldn’t stay away,” she gushed.

“This is fortuitous—we’re in need of a third opinion to break the tie,” Sylvanne told her.

“No no, Madame, any such major decision must be unanimous,” Mabel insisted. Daphne modeled several of the leading candidates, while Sylvanne pinned them to improve their lines, but still the girl stubbornly refused to make up her mind. “Such a parade of lovely fabric overwhelms my head and makes it ache,” Mabel said gruffly. “This is turning more arduous than I expected. Daphne, run down to the kitchen and get us some dandelion tea, there’s a good girl. Have them put a bit of brandy in it.”

“I’ll get one of the maidservants to go,” Daphne replied.

“No, I’d rather you did. I need to have a wee chat with Madame, alone. We’ll be done by the time you get back.”

“Fine—exile me from my own room,” the girl said peevishly. She departed in a sulk.

Sylvanne said to Mabel, “I was wondering why you came and lingered, when I’m sure your husband and boys expect you home.”

“Yes, well, I’ve something quite important to say, or at least I’ve been told it’s important, although I don’t thoroughly grasp its meaning,” she announced. Sylvanne looked at her questioningly. Mabel continued, “I’m feeling a little like an actor in some troupe of travelling minstrels, for my lines have been fed me, and I repeat them without fully comprehending them.”

“And who gave you these lines?”

“Your fiancé, Madame—your soon-to-be husband. He made a promise never to speak to a certain woman again, and determines to keep it, yet he feels there is one more message this woman needs to hear.”

“She doesn’t,” Sylvanne said sharply.

“Please, Madame. Hear me out before you decide what your husband is up to, and whether he should be scolded or praised.”

Sylvanne made an effort to rein in her sudden temper. “Alright then. Proceed. Declaim.”

“Very well.” After clearing her throat experimentally, as if tuning a musical instrument, and cupping her hands together over her chest in preparation, Mabel at last began to speak. “To the Lady who Dwells Within. That’s who this is addressed to. Ahem. Dear Lady, who listens to me now—Lord Thomas has a favour to ask of you. Last night he dreamt that the man Derek spoke to you of a medicine, a potion of some kind, that your physician—he’s not sure of her title, but she’s a counsellor of sorts, and of late she suggested this potion to you, so that you would sleep without dreams.” Here Mabel paused, to gauge Sylvanne’s reaction.

“Continue,” Sylvanne bade her.

“Lord Thomas would be most pleased, then, if you did indeed possess such a potion, that you should take it, so as to be affected by it, so as to be absent from Lady Sylvanne’s mind on her wedding night, so that her first night of Holy and sanctified marriage might truly be a private joining between husband and wife. Furthermore, he asks that you consume this dream-stifling potion regularly, from now forward, so that he may concentrate his full devotion toward his new wife, whom he intends to love fully and completely. Are you alright, Madame?”