Simply Love (11 page)

“Shall we sit together, Miss Jewell?” he suggested. “Unless you have other plans, that is.”

“No.” She smiled at him. “Thank you.”

And so she had all the pleasure of observing and listening to the entertainment in company with a gentleman who was not also someone else's husband. It felt absurdly exhilarating.

Joshua and Lady Hallmere sang a few English folk songs first, with Joshua accompanying them on the pianoforte. They were surprisingly good, though Lady Hallmere began with a disclaimer.

“I have absolutely insisted that we be the opening act,” she explained to the audience. “I have a strong suspicion that the others are going to be vastly superior—I
know
Judith will be—and I have no wish to be forced to follow them.”

Joshua, at the pianoforte, grinned while the audience laughed.

One could not help liking Lady Hallmere, Anne thought, for all her prickly ways.

“Just sing, Free, and put us out of our misery,” Lord Alleyne called out.

Mrs. Llwyd—a small, dark-haired, very Celtic-looking lady—played next on her large, beautifully carved harp, and Anne soon found herself blinking away unshed tears and feeling as if she had been transported into another world and another culture, so beautiful was the music she produced.

“It always seems to me,” Mr. Butler said softly, leaning toward Anne during the short pause between pieces, “that the harp somehow captures the very soul of Wales.”

“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, you must be right.”

And then Mr. Llwyd got to his feet and sang to his wife's accompaniment in a light, pleasant tenor voice to which Anne could have listened all night though he sang in Welsh and she did not understand a single word.

She felt rather sorry for Lady Rannulf, who was to conclude the entertainment. Lady Hallmere was the wise one in having insisted upon going first.

Lady Rannulf was extremely beautiful, with a full, voluptuous figure and glorious red hair. But the idea of her acting alone, without any supporting characters, somehow embarrassed Anne even though she had been told that the lady was a good actress.

“I hope,” Mr. Butler said, “she does Lady Macbeth. I have seen her do it before, and she is quite extraordinary.”

She played Desdemona first, her hair down, her elegant green evening gown somehow transforming itself into a nightgown purely through the power of suggestion as Desdemona waited in bewilderment and misplaced trust for Othello to come to her in her bedchamber and then pleaded her case with him and begged for her very life.

It truly was extraordinary, Anne agreed, how she gave the impression that her maid and, later, Othello were there in her bedchamber with her and yet carried the scene alone. It was more than extraordinary how she lost all resemblance to the Lady Rannulf Anne had known for almost two weeks and became the innocent, loving, loyal, frightened, but dignified wife of Othello.

The return to reality when the scene was over was disorienting for a moment.

And then, at the special request of the Duke of Bewcastle, Lady Rannulf did indeed play the part of Lady Macbeth, also with hair loose and dress become nightgown—also a night scene. But there the resemblance between the two scenes and characters—and even the actress herself—ended. She became the powerful, ruthless, mad, tormented Lady Macbeth, sleepwalking and trying desperately to wash away the blood of her guilt. Anne found herself sitting forward on her chair, her eyes fixed on the lady's hands, as if she really expected to see the blood of King Duncan dripping from them.

She was, she realized as she applauded enthusiastically with everyone else, in the presence of greatness.

Mr. Butler was looking expectantly at her.

“Well?” he said.

“I have not been so well entertained for a long time,” she told him.

He laughed. “I thought perhaps you would admit that you have
never
been so well entertained,” he said.

“I have a friend,” she explained, “who has become all the rage throughout Europe. She has the most glorious soprano voice I have ever heard. She taught at Miss Martin's school until just two years ago.”

“And she is?” he asked.

“The Countess of Edgecombe,” she said. “She was Frances Allard before she married Viscount Sinclair, now the earl.”

“Ah,” he said, “you mentioned her before, and I believe I had heard of her before that. But I have never had the pleasure of listening to her sing.”

“If you ever
do
have the chance,” she said, “you must not miss it.”

“I will not.” He smiled again while all about them family and guests were getting to their feet and conversing and laughing, the formal entertainment at an end.

“There is to be dancing,” he said. “It is my cue, I believe, to return home.”

“Oh,” she said before she could stop herself, “please do not leave yet.”

The carpet was being rolled up from the drawing room floor and the French windows at one end of it thrown back, since the room had grown stuffy. Mrs. Lofter was taking her place at the pianoforte, having offered earlier in the day to play. It had been the duchess's idea that some informal country dancing would be a more pleasant way of ending the evening than playing cards would be, though a couple of tables were being set up for the older people.

Anne felt instantly embarrassed. What if he had been waiting for some excuse to get away from the gathering—and from her?

“Must I sit and watch you dance, then?” he asked, smiling at her. “I would be envious of your partners, Miss Jewell.”

It was the first thing he had said to her that was remotely flirtatious.

“But I have no wish to dance,” she said, not quite truthfully. “We will sit and talk, if you wish. Unless, that is, you have your heart set upon returning home.”

“What I do have my heart set upon,” he said, “is drawing some cool night air into my lungs. Would you care to step outside, Miss Jewell, to see how brightly the moon shines tonight?”

How foolish they had been, she thought, getting to her feet, to have wasted more than a week of days during which they might have met occasionally and walked and conversed together. But at least there was this evening—and there would be Sunday morning to look forward to.

“Yes, I would,” she said. “May I run and fetch a shawl?”

A few minutes later they stepped out through the French windows while the card players settled into a game and two lines of dancers were forming amid a great deal of noise and merriment. No one would have noticed them leave, Anne thought.

“Ah,” Mr. Butler said, standing still and looking upward. “I thought it would be a bright night. There is not a cloud in the sky, and see—the moon is almost at the full.”

“With a million stars to supplement its light,” she said. “Why is it we are not constantly awed by the size and majesty of the universe?”

“Habit,” he said. “We are accustomed to it. I suppose if we had been blind from birth—in
both
eyes—and could suddenly see, we would be so overwhelmed by a night like this that we would either gaze upward at it until dawn or else cling to the earth, afraid that we were about to fall off. Or perhaps we would simply assume that we were at the center of it all and the lords of all we beheld.”

The air was deliciously cool after the heat of the day. Anne let her shawl fall to her elbows and drew in a deep breath of the slightly salt air.

“What a good idea of yours,” she said, “to step out here.”

“If you want a night view that will truly awe you,” he said, “you should climb to the top of the hill over there. Have you been up it in the daytime?”

The hill to which he pointed was part of the park, but it was also part of the cliff-top scenery, a rise of land that was covered with gorse bushes and wildflowers and grass. None of the walks and games had ever taken Anne actually to it, but she had often admired it and thought she must go there alone or with David one day before they left.

“No,” she said, “but I can believe there is a lovely view from up there.”

He looked down at her evening slippers. “Is it too far to go now?”

It struck her suddenly that perhaps it was too far for a single lady to go with a single gentleman at night, but she dismissed the thought. She was twenty-nine years old and an independent woman. She was no delicate young girl to be hedged about by propriety and chaperones.

“It is not,” she said.

They walked slowly, talking as they went. It had not occurred to either of them to bring a lantern, but it would have been quite superfluous anyway. It was one of those nights that are almost as bright as day. The hill was higher and steeper than it looked. By the time they had scrambled to the top Anne was breathless, and the soles of her feet were smarting from having stepped on a few jagged stones with only her thin evening slippers for protection. But she knew immediately that the climb had been worth the effort and the pain.

“Oh, look!” she said as she did just that herself.

But Mr. Butler was looking at her, the breeze, which was stronger up here, ruffling his hair.

“I knew you would be impressed,” he said.

Even at this time of night she could see that there was land visible for miles about, slumbering peacefully under a summer sky. But it was the sea that drew her attention. It stretched below them in a huge arc, faintly silver in the light from above, one wide band of moonlight stretched across it from horizon to shore. The long outcropping of land to the right jutted into the middle of the moonbeam, looking very black in contrast, and more than ever like a roaring dragon. From this high up the sea beyond it was visible too.

“One cannot help but admire that dragon,” she said, pointing. “It is roaring defiance to the whole ocean, not at all intimidated by the sheer size and power of it.”

“We could all learn a lesson from it,” he said, laughing. “Can there be a lovelier view anywhere?”

“I doubt it,” she said fervently. “I am very glad you brought me here.”

“I would suggest sitting for a while,” he said, “but you are wearing a pretty gown. Perhaps you would sit on my coat.”

“My shawl will do,” she said, taking it from about her elbows and opening it out. “You see? It is big enough for both of us.” She turned and spread it on the rough grass at their feet and sat down on one side of it.

After a moment he joined her there.

“I come here sometimes,” he said, “when I just want to sit and meditate. I come here even in the winter when it is cold and blustery. That is one thing about wild, natural beauty. It is never the same and yet it is always lovely and soothing to the soul.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Then he asked her about the school, and she told him about her friends there and about the rest of the staff, about the girls and their lessons and other activities. She talked for a long time, prompted by his questions and his obvious interest in her answers, and she realized anew how very fortunate she was to have found employment that felt more like a happy way of life than work.

“And what about you?” she asked him. “Is being steward here something that really interests you?”

He described his duties to her and told her about the home farm and laborers, about the tenant farms, about some of the villagers, about his particular friends there.

“The trouble with being steward to an absentee landlord,” he said, “is that one comes almost to believe that one is the owner. I have grown very attached to Glandwr and the countryside and people hereabouts. I hope never to leave. But I have told you that before.”

Finally they lapsed into silence again. And Anne, though she still gazed in wonder at the sea, realized that the loveliest view of all was above her head. But it made her dizzy to tip back her head to look up.

She lay back on the shawl, crossing her hands beneath her head.

“Ah,” she said, “that is better. I wonder just how many stars we can see.”

“If you wish to count them,” he said, chuckling as he turned his head to look down at her, “please do not let me stop you.”

“And there must be as many more that we cannot see,” she said.

“How far does the universe stretch, would you say?”

“Forever,” he said.

“My mind cannot grasp forever,” she told him. “There must surely be an end somewhere. But the big question is—what is beyond the end?”

He lay down beside her, still chuckling.

“I suppose,” he said, “there are astronomers and philosophers and theologians who will not cease seeking the answers and perhaps one day they will succeed. I share your curiosity. But sometimes I just marvel.”

“Yes.” Her eyes roamed across the sky. “We were meant to seek. But we were also meant simply to accept and enjoy. You are right. I can see the Big Dipper. It is the only thing I can identify by name, alas. But it does not matter, does it?”

“It does not matter,” he agreed.

They turned their heads to smile at each other and then both gazed upward again, glorying in the wonder of it all.

And yet…

And yet there was suddenly another dimension to the awareness Anne felt. They were close enough that she could feel his body heat along her right side. They were a man and a woman lying together on a deserted hilltop at night, almost but not quite touching. They had talked and talked together. They had laughed together.

They were friends, she thought.

But it was not friendship that added a certain spice to the heightened sensual awareness that star-gazing had brought. It was something far more carnal. She felt his masculinity and secretly reveled in it though she had no wish whatsoever to act upon it—or to have him do so.

Or perhaps she did.

She was just terribly afraid—afraid of him, afraid of herself.

She did not explore either her thoughts or her feelings in any depth, though. She simply enjoyed the moment, knowing that when she was back at school, deep into the routine of the autumn term, she would remember this night and relive every moment, every sensation, and perhaps even shed a few very private tears for what might have been in her life if only…