The Pleasure Garden: Sacred Vows\Perfumed Pleasures\Rites of Passions (31 page)

“I wonder if there are any standing stones nearby,” he mused, turning the book sideways to read a note scribbled in the corner of one page.

Emmaline shook her head. “I haven’t seen any. I could ask Mrs. Talbot, I suppose.”

“We have a circle of standing stones at home,” he said distractedly. “My sister used to like to go there to write. She said she felt some sort of energy there, or some nonsense like that.”

“Your home is in Dorset?” she asked curiously. He’d mentioned Dorset before, but nothing more specific than that.

“Yes, in Bedlington. A quiet little village if ever there was one. Aisling was always desperate to get away. I quite enjoy it, myself. More so when my father’s away,” he added cryptically.

“You don’t get along with your father?”

Jack’s eyes darkened at once. “Oh, we get along well enough, the bloody bastard. It’s my mother he torments. Keeps a mistress in London, you see. Which wouldn’t be so terrible, I suppose, if my mother didn’t love him so desperately.” Jack’s voice had taken on a hard edge.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Emmaline said.

“Don’t apologize.” He closed the book and set it on the chair’s arm. “Anyway, it’s not a secret. I suppose I should be grateful that he spends nearly all his time in town. Running the estate keeps me occupied, after all. It’s only too bad that Aisling inherited the head for figures instead of me.”

“You love your sister very much, don’t you?” Emmaline
asked, noting the way the tension in his jaw seemed to disappear each time he mentioned her.

His mouth curved into a smile. “She’s a bloody brat, but yes. By God, you should hear the way she curses! Always having the last word, and trust me, her words are colorful. Perhaps sometime…never mind.” He waved one hand in dismissal.

What had he meant to say?

“Anyway,” he continued, “it’s a good thing she managed to overcome her snobbery in time to realize what a good chap Will Cooper is. Took a bit of maneuvering on my part, but she played right into my hands,” he said with a laugh.

“Was her husband in the war?”

“Yes, and he managed to come through unscathed but for the loss of hearing in one ear. A mortar explosion,” he explained. “I lost my hearing entirely for a fortnight after Saint Quentin, but eventually it returned to normal. Seems like a small price to pay, considering the fate of the rest of my unit.” His face grew taut, his mouth pinched. At once, the appearance of vim and vigor that she’d admired only moments before abandoned him.

Emmaline lifted the book from the chair’s arm and perched there beside him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “If you’d like to talk about it, Jack, go ahead. I know I can’t erase the memories, but perhaps I can share the burden. I was there on the front. I know how dreadful it was. And before that, I lost both my parents to influenza, one right after the other. I’m no stranger to loss.”

He reached up to cover her hand with his. “I’m sorry, Emmaline. Listen to me, going on, when your losses were all far more personal than mine. You must think me a terrible coward.”

She didn’t think anything of the sort. She knew what
war did to people, knew the lasting effects of witnessing such horror on a daily basis. “Of course I don’t think you a coward,” she said, leaning into him.

For several moments they sat like that in silence, their breathing in perfect unison. An energy seemed to course between them, leaching away the sensation of loss and replacing it with a peacefulness that Emmaline hadn’t felt in ages. He must have felt it, too, because he seemed to relax against her.

“Go on,” she prodded, far too comfortable to move a muscle. “Tell me what else your battered little book says about the garden.”

And so he did.

“Amazing,” Dr. Hayward said, removing the stethoscope from his ears and draping it around his neck. “A remarkable recovery.” He turned toward Emmaline, smiling broadly. “Perhaps you should consider coming to work for me, Mrs. Gage. I could use a good nurse. Regular office hours, and all that.”

Emmaline shook her head. “I’m afraid that managing Orchard House is a full-time occupation at present,” she said, then realized her mistake. Jack hadn’t yet said what he meant to do with the property. She’d considered asking him if there was any way she could rent the house, but knew she could never afford to do so.

She glanced over to where he sat, buttoning up his shirt. His face was an unreadable mask. She wondered at his sudden glumness. They’d had a pleasant morning, after all, poring over old photographs she’d found in the attic. It was only when the doctor appeared that the smile had seemed to vanish from Jack’s face, taking his good mood along with it.

“As for you,” the doctor said, turning his attention back
to Jack, “I’m afraid you’re not quite well enough to risk the drive back to Dorset. Not yet, at least.”

“No?” Jack asked. There was something in his voice—disappointment, perhaps? She couldn’t be sure.

The doctor shook his head. “No. You’re in far better shape than I expected, but still too weak to safely take the wheel, particularly all alone and in a roadster, where you’d be exposed to the elements.” He stroked his whiskers, looking pensive. “I suppose you could return to the hotel, but I’m inclined to say that it’s not prudent to do so. I’d rather we continued the quarantine till the end of the week, unless Mrs. Gage objects.”

Emmaline was caught off guard. “No, I…he can remain here at Orchard House as long as necessary. I’ve no objection. Unless Mr. Wainscott does, that is.”

“Of course not,” he said, though he did not meet her gaze.

Dr. Hayward nodded his approval. “Good, good. And what of your health, Mrs. Gage? Have you shown any symptoms since your exposure?”

“No, nothing at all,” Emmaline said. “I’ve been quite well. I must have already been exposed to this particular strain at the hospital in London.”

“Likely so,” the doctor agreed. “We’ve had no other cases here in Haverham, so it looks as if we’ve dodged the proverbial bullet. Well, I suppose I should get back to the office.” He busied himself returning his things to his black leather case. “Oh—” he held up an envelope “—I nearly forgot. Mrs. Talbot asked me to give you this. It must have gotten mixed up with her post.”

Emmaline took the envelope from him, recognizing the familiar script. “It’s from my husband’s sister,” she said with a smile. It had been ages since she’d received a letter from
Maria and hoped she was well. “Thank you, Doctor. Here, let me show you out.” She led him out of Jack’s room, toward the front hall. Jack remained perched on the edge of the bed where they’d left him.

“I’ll stop by again at the end of the week to check on him one last time,” Dr. Hayward offered as he tipped his hat onto his head. “He seems a bit distracted. Hope he’s not giving you too much trouble. I know this is terribly irregular—Mrs. Talbot is ready to have me drawn and quartered for putting you in this situation. Thank heavens her husband is a man of the cloth!”

“Mr. Wainscott has been a perfect gentleman,” Emmaline said, “and an easy patient, Doctor. And tending him, well…perhaps it’s reminded me why I became a nurse in the first place.” She liked to be needed, she realized. Useful.

“Perhaps you’ll reconsider my offer, then. Once you’re better settled here at Orchard House, that is.”

Emmaline just nodded, her entire future far too uncertain to commit to anything at present.

The doctor smiled at her warmly. “Well, good day, Mrs. Gage.” With a bow, he took his leave.

As soon as Emmaline shut the door, she glanced down at the envelope still clutched in one clammy hand. Maria’s letter. She would see that Jack was settled back in bed, and then perhaps she’d go out to the garden to read it. While she was there, she could water the roses and check on the lavender that had begun to bloom behind the bench. Each day seemed to bring something new to the garden, the brown slowly gaining a more verdant hue, spots of color appearing where there had been none. She could not explain it, but since Jack’s arrival, life had begun to return to the barren plot.

Much like her own bleak existence, she realized. What would become of them both, once they’d parted?

With a shake of her head, she forced away the unpleasant thought and hurried back to his bedside. She found him reclining against the pillows, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

“Jack?” she whispered, pulling a blanket up to his waist.

“Hmm?” he murmured. He opened his eyes, his gaze at last meeting hers. There was something there that she hadn’t seen before, something so raw, so hungry, that Emmaline’s breath caught in her throat. For a moment she was rendered entirely mute, her heart thumping against her ribs.

He took a deep breath, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he did so. “Emmaline, I—” He abruptly cut himself off, closing his eyes, shuttering them from her. “Never mind. I’m a bit tired. Would you mind if I rested?”

“Of course not,” she murmured, tucking the blanket more tightly about his hips. “I’m going out to the garden for a bit. I’ll check on you when I return.” She reached for one of his hands as she leaned over to kiss his forehead.
Still cool.
Beneath her fingertips, his pulse felt strong, perhaps a bit fast. She made a mental note to check it again later.

“I won’t stay gone long,” she promised. Later, she would attempt to lift his spirits. Perhaps they could do a jigsaw puzzle, she decided. She’d seen several in the library.

She glanced back down at the letter, anxious to learn what news it contained.

8

EMMALINE WAS THERE IN THE GARDEN, SITTING on the stone bench, just as Jack expected. He closed the gate and took several steps toward her, waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. She must have heard the latch open, must have sensed his approach.

And yet she sat unmoving, her head bowed, her hands folded in her lap atop a creamy white envelope. The sky had turned a dusty lavender. Tea time had come and gone, and Emmaline had never come to wake him as she’d promised. Instead, he’d awoken on his own, a bit disoriented and groggy after such a long nap.

And then he’d remembered the letter—from her husband’s sister, she’d said. It was clear that, in her heart, she and Christopher Gage were still joined. There was no room for him, never would be. Jack had realized it the moment the words had left her lips. It had been a sobering thought, an arrow shot through the sail of his confidence. There was no point in declaring his love, not now. At best, he hoped they could part friends.

Still, he grew alarmed when she continued to sit there, as still as a statue. As he drew closer, he could see that she had
been crying. Her nose was red, her eyes wet and swollen. “Did you receive some bad news?” he asked, unable to curb his curiosity.

She started, as if she’d been oblivious to his approach. “What? Oh, no.” She swiped at her nose with one wrist.

Her dark eyes looked slightly wild, he realized. Panicked, perhaps. What the hell was in that letter?

“You’ve been crying,” he said, feeling foolish for stating the obvious, but he hadn’t any idea what else to say. “You’ve been sitting out here for hours.”

At last she turned to face him. Her pain was palpable, a living, breathing thing that seemed to suck all the goodness right out of the garden. “This letter is from my sister-in-law,” she said at last, her voice breaking. “She’s written me all these lovely things about how much Christopher loved Orchard House, about how happy he was visiting his aunt Mathilde here, how glad she is that I’m here. She says…she says she hopes that I can feel his presence here, keeping me company, watching over me.” Her voice tore on a sob. “But I haven’t felt that at all, Jack. Not since you arrived, at least. What kind of woman am I, what kind of wife, to have forgotten him like that? To have moved on so quickly, so easily?”

He knelt before her, taking one of her trembling hands in his. “It’s been a year, Emmaline. What kind of woman would sit here, day after day, pining away for a husband who’s been gone so long? I’ll tell you what kind—a lonely one,” he answered when she said nothing. “The kind who buries herself right alongside her husband. You’ve every right to get on with your life.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she snatched back her hand. “That’s easy for you to say, considering you were engaged to marry someone else only a few short weeks ago. How easy it must seem to you.”

“That’s not fair,” he protested. “You’ve no idea how hard it was for me, how much I hated hurting Claire like that. But this is different—Christopher’s gone, Emmaline. He’s gone, and he’s not coming back. Your continued suffering doesn’t change that.”

“You think I don’t know that?” she snapped.

“Then why punish yourself for moving on with your life? Do you honestly think if Chris were here with you in spirit, watching you, that he’d want to see you sad and lonely? Wouldn’t he want you to be happy instead? To be loved?”

“Loved?” she choked out. “Who said anything about love?”

Jack took a deep, fortifying breath. “I am. I’m saying it now. I love you, Emmaline Gage.”

Her eyes widened, her mouth forming an
O
of surprise.

Jack continued on, needing to get it all out in the open. “I realize it seems rash, that I sound fickle and inconstant. And perhaps I am, but damn it all, I
do
love you. I’d planned to tell you so, right up until the moment I realized that you’re still in love with your husband. Your
late
husband,” he corrected.

“But…but you said you were still in love with your fiancée,” Emmaline sputtered. “Just yesterday, you told me so.”

“I said that perhaps I still loved her, not that I was still
in
love with her. There’s an enormous difference, you know.”

Emmaline shook her head. “No, I don’t know. You either love someone or you don’t.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple, Emmaline. I’ve known Claire for many years. We were friends long before we were lovers. I can’t just turn off my feelings for her like a switch.”

“Of course not,” Emmaline said with a shake of her head. “It’s just that…that…oh, never mind!” She rose, her gaze darting around wildly, as if looking for an escape.