Simply Love (29 page)

“It is bright and sunny here,” she said. “It feels…clean here. I want to feel clean again. I don't believe I have felt quite clean in ten years. How foolish a thing is that? I feel so…
soiled
.”

“Shh, Anne.” He turned onto his side and set his mouth to hers. “Don't upset yourself again.”

“Make love to me,” she said. “Make me clean again. Please make me clean.”

“Anne,” he said. “Ah, my dearest.”

“But perhaps,” she said, “you do not want to. I have not been—”

He kissed her into silence.

                  

She had not even known that about herself—that she felt unclean. The hurt, the ugliness, the injustice, the pain had all been pushed ruthlessly inside her, beneath the necessity of living on, of maintaining dignity and integrity, of earning a living, of raising a son.

She had never talked it all out before now. She had never even allowed herself to
think
it all through. She had denied her own suffering. She had never wept—until now, today.

But the weeping had eased the pain, had enabled her to put it all in the past—Albert Moore, Henry Arnold, Sarah, her parents.
All
of it.

And now what was left was the Anne who had survived it all and found solace with another lonely soul, whose life had been as turned inside out as hers had been by circumstances beyond his control. He was here with her now—Sydnam Butler, her husband, her lover.

They were here in this lovely place, just the two of them, surrounded by natural beauty and solitude.

All was perfect—except this feeling of being unclean, spoiled.

Yet cleanliness, peace, joy were surely within her reach at last. They were contained in the power, the energy of love. She had reached out to Sydnam with a love that went far beyond the merely romantic, and now she knew that she could also receive love, that at last—oh, surely—she was worthy of being loved.

Even if he could not give her the sort of love that any woman dreamed of having from her mate…

It did not matter.

He was Sydnam, and he could…

“Make me clean,” she murmured again against his mouth.

He remained on his side facing her as he raised her skirts and unbuttoned his breeches and stroked her stomach and her hip and her inner thighs with his lovely warm, long-fingered left hand. She gazed into his face, so beautiful despite the burns and scars—no, beautiful
because
of them, because of the person they had made him into. Behind his head and all about them the sky was blue and sunfilled.

He touched the moist heat between her thighs.

“You are ready, Anne?” he asked her.

“Yes.”

He lifted her leg over his hip, adjusted his position, and pressed slowly into her. He kept his head back the whole time and held her gaze with his own.

It was exquisite. And it was Sydnam who was inside her. She closed her muscles about him, holding him deep, and smiled.

“Yes,” she murmured.

Perhaps, she thought over the next few minutes, he would not have chosen her as the companion of his life if he had been given a free choice, but he was nevertheless a man filled with love, with tenderness, with compassion. He loved her slowly, deeply, rhythmically, very deliberately, his eye on hers. She bit her lower lip as swirls of pleasure and of wonder radiated up through her womb to fill her whole being with warmth and light until finally there was no room left for ugliness or hatred or bitterness.

Only love.

Simply
love.

He kissed her as he released into her and something in her flowed to meet him.

It was surely the most glorious moment of her whole life. She could smell grass and water and sunlight and sex.

“Anne,” he whispered to her. “You are so beautiful. So very beautiful.”

“And clean,” she said, smiling sleepily at him as he withdrew from inside her. “Clean again. And whole again. Thank you.”

His lips rested warm against hers again as she sank into sleep.

“They have
gone
? Already?”

The Duchess of Bewcastle sank into a chair in the drawing room at Alvesley and held her hands out to warm them at the fire.

“They left this morning,” Lauren said. “How disappointing that you missed seeing them.”

“You will be thinking me very rag-mannered,” the duchess said, smiling at the countess and Lauren, “as if I came here only to see Mr. and Mrs. Butler when in reality I came just as much to see you. But it
is
a disappointment to find them gone, I must confess, Lauren. It has been bothering me that they did not have much of a wedding.”

“We were upset about that too, Christine,” the countess said. “But they were in a hurry to marry, you know, because…Well, because they were in love, I suppose.”

The duchess dimpled.

“Yes,” she said, “David told us all about that. The poor child even had to endure the full force of Wulfric's quizzing glass as a consequence.”

All three ladies dissolved into laughter.

“Sydnam is painting again,” Lauren said, leaning forward in her chair, “with his left hand and his mouth. And the one painting he showed us was wonderful, was it not, Mother, though he declared that it was perfectly dreadful. He said it with a smile, though, and it was clear he was pleased with himself and determined to try again. Father had to leave the room in a hurry, but we could all hear him blowing his nose very loudly outside the door.”

“Oh,” the duchess said, her hands clasped to her bosom, “Wulfric
will
be pleased—about Mr. Butler painting again, that is. And so will Morgan. I must write to her.”

“And it appears that it is all Anne's doing,” the countess said. “We must thank you, Christine, for inviting her to Glandwr during the summer and giving Sydnam a chance to meet her.”

“But it was Freyja who invited her,” the duchess said. “Joshua and David's father were cousins, you know, and Joshua is very fond of the boy. But I will take credit if you insist. If I had not decided to go to Wales with Wulfric after James's christening, after all, then no one else would have gone there, would they? And Anne would not have been invited.”

“We have grown exceedingly fond of her,” Lauren said.

“We all tried very hard to bring them together during the summer,” the duchess told them. “All except Wulfric and Aidan, who have the peculiar and very
male
notion that true love never needs a helping hand.”

They all laughed again.

“I
do
wish they had stayed here a little longer,” she added.

“They are on their way to Gloucestershire,” the countess explained, “to visit Anne's family.”

“Indeed?” The duchess looked interested. “Joshua told us she was estranged from them. I
do
think it is sad to be estranged from one's family. I know from experience, though it was in-laws in my case—in-laws from my first marriage.”

“We have guessed,” Lauren said, “that it is Sydnam who has persuaded Anne to go home.”

“Ah.” The duchess sighed and sat back in her chair, her hands warm again, “it really is turning into a
good
marriage, is it not? But they did not have much of a wedding for all that. When I broached the matter with Wulfric last evening, he insisted that Mr. Butler would probably hate any fuss, but he did finally relent and agree to allow me to organize a grand wedding reception for them. I came to consult you about it. But I am too late—they are gone. How very provoking!”

“Oh,” Lauren said, “how wonderful that would have been. I wish I had thought of it myself.”

The duchess sighed. “Wulfric will look smug when I go home and tell him they are gone,” she said.

“It was a very good thought, Christine,” the countess told her.

“Well,” she said, looking from one to the other of them, “there can be no wedding reception at Lindsey Hall within the next few days after all. But I am not discouraged. How many people could be assembled there at such short notice, after all? Perhaps it was not the best of plans.”

“You have another?” Lauren asked.

The duchess chuckled. “I
always
have another plan,” she said. “Shall we put our heads together?”

                  

Mr. Jewell lived with his wife in a modest square manor just beyond the village of Wyckel in Gloucestershire, a picturesque part of the country.

It occurred to Sydnam as the carriage drove through the village and then turned between two stone gateposts and covered the short distance across a paved courtyard to the front door that they must be no more than twenty-five or thirty miles from Bath.

Anne had been that close to her family for several years.

She was looking very smart in a russet brown pelisse and matching bonnet with burnt-orange ribbons. She was also looking rather pale. Her gloved hand lay in his—today he was sitting beside her while David rode with his back to the horses. At the moment his nose was pressed against the glass and excitement was fairly bursting out of him.

Sydnam smiled at Anne and lifted her hand to his lips. She smiled back, but he could see that even her lips were pale.

“I am glad I wrote to say I was coming,” she said.

“At least,” he said, “the gate was open.”

He wondered how she would feel—and how
David
would feel—if they were refused admittance. But he still believed this was the right thing to do. Anne had faced most of the darkness in her life on the little island at Alvesley four days ago, and it seemed that the sunshine had got inside her since then. They had made love each night, and it had been clear to him that doing so had given her as much pleasure as it had given him.

But today, of course, the sun was not shining—either beyond the confines of the carriage or through her.

“
This
is where my grandmama and grandpapa live?” David asked rather redundantly.

“It is indeed,” Anne said as the coachman opened the door and set down the steps. “This is where I grew up.”

Her voice was low and pleasant. Her face looked like parchment.

The house door opened before anyone had knocked on it, and a servant, presumably the housekeeper, stepped outside and bobbed a small curtsy to Sydnam, who had already descended to the courtyard, his good side to her.

“Good day, sir,” she said. “Ma'am.”

She looked up at Anne, who was descending, one hand on his.

But even as Sydnam opened his mouth to reply, the servant stepped to one side and a lady and gentleman of middle years appeared in the doorway and came through it. Two other, younger, couples followed them out, and behind them a group of children clustered in the doorway and peered curiously out.

Ah, Sydnam thought, they had gathered in droves to greet the lost sheep, had they? Perhaps on the assumption that there was safety in numbers?

Anne's hand tightened in his.

“Anne,” the older lady said, stepping ahead of the gentleman Sydnam assumed was Mr. Jewell. She was plump and pleasant-looking, neatly dressed and with a lacy cap covering her graying hair. “Oh, Anne, it
is
you!”

She took a couple more steps forward, both hands stretched out before her.

Anne did not move. She kept one of her hands in Sydnam's and reached up to David with the other. He came scrambling down the steps and stood beside her, his eyes wide with excitement.

“Yes, it is I,” Anne said, her voice cool—and her mother stopped in her tracks and dropped her arms to her sides.

“You have come home,” Mrs. Jewell said. “And here we all are to greet you.”

Anne's eyes went beyond her mother to survey her father and the two younger couples. She looked toward the doorway and the children fairly bursting out through it.

“We have called here
on our way home,
” she said with slight emphasis on the last words. “I have brought David to meet you. My son. And Sydnam Butler, my husband.”

Mrs. Jewell's eyes had been fairly devouring David, but she looked politely at Sydnam, who had turned fully to face them all. She recoiled quite noticeably. There was a sort of collective stiffening of manner among the others too. Some of the children disappeared inside the house. A few bolder ones openly gawked.

Just a few months ago Sydnam might have been upset—especially about the children. He had spent years basically hidden away in a place where he was known and accepted and very few strangers ever came. But it did not matter to him any longer. Anne had accepted him as he was. More important, perhaps, he had finally accepted himself for what he was, with all his limitations and all the exhilarating challenges they offered him.

Besides, this moment was not about him. It was all about Anne.

“Mr. Butler.” Mrs. Jewell curtsied as he bowed and turned to introduce the others—Mr. Jewell; their son, Mr. Matthew Jewell, and Susan, his wife; Sarah Arnold, their daughter, and Mr. Henry Arnold, her husband.

Sydnam's eye alighted on that last gentleman and saw a man of medium height and pleasant looks and balding fair hair—neither a hero nor a villain as far as looks went. He exchanged a brief but measured look with the man and had the satisfaction of seeing that Arnold knew that
he
knew.

There were bows and curtsies and murmured greetings—and a great deal of awkwardness as Anne inclined her head to them all as if they were strangers.

But Mrs. Jewell had returned her attention to David.

“David.” She ate him up with her eyes again, though she did not move from where she stood.

“Are you my grandmama?” David asked, his voice and eyes still eager. He seemed unaware of the awkward, tense atmosphere that was affecting all the adults. His eyes moved to Mr. Jewell, a tall, lean gentleman with gray hair and stern demeanor. “Are you my grandpapa?”

Mr. Jewell clasped his hands behind him.

“I am,” he said.

“My
real
grandmama and grandpapa,” David said, stepping away from Anne and looking from one to the other of them. “I have new grandparents at Alvesley, and I like them very well indeed. But they are my stepfather's mama and papa and so they are really my
step
-grandmama and my
step
-grandpapa. But you are real.”

“David.” Mrs. Jewell had set one hand over her mouth and seemed to be half laughing and half crying. “Oh, yes, we are real. Indeed we are. And these are your uncles and aunts, and those children, who were told that on no condition were they to step outside, are your cousins. Come inside and meet them. And you must be hungry.”

“Cousins?” David looked eagerly to the doorway.

Mrs. Jewell reached out her hand to him and he took it.

“What a big boy you are already,” she said. “And nine years old.”

“Going on ten,” David said.

Anne stood where she was as if she were made of marble. Her hand was stiff and motionless in Sydnam's.

“Well, Anne, Butler,” Mr. Jewell said abruptly, “you must come inside and warm yourselves by the fire.”

“It is teatime, Anne,” her brother, Matthew, said. “We have been waiting, hoping you would arrive soon.”

“I am very pleased to meet you at last, Anne,” his wife said.

“And your husband.”

“Anne,” her sister, Sarah, said quietly before taking her husband's arm to return to the house, but it was doubtful Anne even heard, as she was not looking their way.

It was not a joyful homecoming, Sydnam thought as he led Anne in the direction of the open door. But neither was it an unwelcoming one. All her family members had taken on the challenge of meeting her again too—presumably they did not all live here. They had come, however unwillingly, because Anne was expected.

Surely there was hope in that fact.

He held Anne's hand in a firm grip.

                  

The house was disorientingly familiar—it was where Anne had grown up and been happy. And yet she sat with rigidly straight back on her chair in the front parlor, like a stranger.

Her father looked older. His hair was now entirely gray, and the lines running from his nose to the outer corners of his mouth were more pronounced and made him look more austere than ever.

He looked achingly familiar, yet he was a stranger.

Her mother had put on weight. Her hair had grayed too. She looked anxious and bright-eyed. She was the woman who had been a rock of security through Anne's growing years. Now she was a stranger.

Matthew had lost his boyish look, though he was still lean and still had all his hair. Five years ago he had been appointed vicar of a church five miles away—he had just said so. His wife, Susan, was pretty and fair-haired and was doing her very best to converse as if this were any ordinary social occasion. They had two children—Amanda, aged seven, and Michael, aged five.

Strangers.

Sarah had grown plump, and Henry had grown bald. They had four children—Charles, aged nine, Jeremy, aged seven, Louisa, aged four, and Penelope, aged two.