She collected her drawing supplies and headed out to the stables. In no time, she had a horse saddled and was on her way. The wind was in a furor today, whipping her hair loose from the simple twist it was in. It was not the type of day Lenora would have liked to come to the cliffs. She was never easy out there, though the grotto was fairly protected from the elements. Besides that, there was always a melancholy atmosphere in the place, as if it would never see happiness. Now, however, that only drew her more, grief calling to grief. She hurried out to the cliffs, securing her mount before rushing through the hidden crevice and into the grotto.
It was as it had ever been. Seemingly carved by ancient giants, looking out over the great sea. Making one feel they were at the edge of the world.
She made her way to the boulder, next to the Viking symbol Synne had carved into the stone. Laying her bag on the ground, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes.Forget him, her mind whispered.He’s gone, and will never return.Even as she fought to purge him from her mind, however, her heart had quite another idea. As battered as it was, it insisted on holding on tight when she so desperately wanted to forget.
The tears came then, a torrent of them. They fell unchecked down her cheeks. And she realized in that moment that there was no way on earth she could release herself from him. Her heart would belong to him always. She would always regret losing him, would always mourn him, until her dying day.
Hopelessness filled her. And with it came a grief she had never felt before. Grief for a life she had desperately wanted, though she had known all along that her part in Hillram’s death had made that an impossibility. She had been too cowardly to face her guilt over that tragedy, and this was her penance.
She gasped, her hand finding the stone wall, her fingers digging into Synne’s carving. She could not handle this pain. It would destroy her. She’d held back as long as she could, but she was tired, so damn tired, of fighting what was in her heart. Heaving a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes shut and did what she had never allowed herself to do: she let go.
Like a wave, it crashed over her head, filling her up until she thought she’d drown from it. The force of it ripped an uncontrollable sob from her aching chest. She let it come, dropping to her knees, falling to the cold stone floor.
She cried as she hadn’t since her mother’s death. Her arms came about her middle, holding tight as the grief wracked her body. As if she could hold herself together by sheer force. But nothing could stop it now that it had started. On and on, it rolled, the tears falling until there was nothing left to give. And still it demanded more from her, turning her inside out with the pain of it. And all the while images flashed through her mind: Peter’s cold eyes when he’d turned her away, the pain in Hillram’s face when she’d told him she didn’t love him, her father’s disappointment as she failed him once again, Peter attacking Lord Redburn. Hillram’s eyes closed forever, his blood soaking her skirts.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, her sobs subsided and then stopped altogether. She lay there for a time, breathing deeply, her cheek pressed to the dirty stone floor. When her body started to ache, she rose, her limbs stiff. She stood there, looking down at the damp patch her tears had left on the ground, then to the wide-open ocean beyond the grotto. She had come to the Isle hoping to free herself of her guilt over Hillram’s death by forcibly remembering the most painful memories of their time together. But she was going about it all wrong. She had been from the start.
Because it all came back to her how much shehadcared for him. He had been one of her closest friends. They had been playmates when young, confidants as they’d gotten older. Yet she hadn’t been able to love him. Not as he’d wanted, not as he’d needed. Not as he’d deserved. She rubbed her aching chest. That final truth had overshadowed all the good that had been between them. And because of that, she hadn’t grieved for him as she should have.
Weary beyond belief, she stumbled back, to the rock she had been sitting on. As she sat, her foot hit something hard.
Her bag.
She stared at it uncomprehendingly for a time. For three years, she had thought that by refusing to paint from her heart, she was somehow serving a necessary penance. Instead she had managed only to stifle emotions that she needed to properly come to terms with Hillram’s death. She had not realized that truth until her growing feelings for Peter had begun to awaken the part of herself she had brutally repressed.
It was time to face her memories, and the emotions that came with them, now. Or she would never properly heal. Frightened but determined, she reached down with shaking fingers, pulling her drawing pad and a pencil from the bag.
She balanced it on her knee and looked out over the grotto. And then, putting pencil to paper, she began to draw.
The lines came haltingly at first, her fear still holding her back. Soon, however, her fingers found their rhythm. She expected to draw the grotto. Yet it was Hillram that appeared on her paper, his face youthful and carefree as it had been when they’d first become friends. When that sketch was done, she pulled out a fresh page. Again her fingers went to work, this time sketching Hillram at the Elven Pools, a tricorn hat perched atop his head, holding a stick aloft as his sword. Another sketch of Hillram, and another, until she had a small stack of them, remembering all he had been to her. When her pencil finally stilled, she stood, holding the pages to her chest, and moved to the edge of the shelf. Then, giving the drawings a gentle kiss and a whispered“I’m sorry, my dear friend,” she let them go.
They sailed off on the wind, twisting and dancing in the air as if to bid her farewell before falling from view. She felt it then, the loosening of the band around her chest. But she wasn’t done yet, though exhaustion pulled at her.
Returning to the boulder, she took up her supplies once more. Now, however, instead of Hillram, she drew Peter. Image after image blossomed from her pencil, each one coming faster than the one before: Peter glowering and angry on that first day, Peter vulnerable at the dinner party, Peter kissing her in the ballroom, Peter coming for her in the storm. She did not stop until every page had been covered with sketches of him. At the end of it all, she looked down at her work and smiled. Though she missed him, though she would always miss him, she could look back and remember the happiness of the time they’d shared.
The idea that she could feel joy through her pain so stunned her, a laugh soon followed. She’d thought to return to who she had been before Hillram’s death. But that young girl was no more. This was who she was now.
And she was glad of it. She felt stronger than she had ever been in her life.
But she had best be getting back to Seacliff. They would be wondering where she’d gone and must be worried sick. Packing up her supplies, she started off for the house.
Her contentment, however, was short lived, for there was a familiar carriage in the drive.
Lord Redburn.
Goodness, but she had forgotten about him completely all the morning long. Her steps faltered, reality crashing down on her. She had felt as if she were a new person. But nothing had changed in her life. Peter was gone and on his way back to America, and she was still engaged to a man she did not wish to marry.
Frustration and anger pounded through her. She had punished herself these three years, thinking she was worthy only of a loveless marriage, believing she didn’t deserve to follow her heart.
But that wasn’t true. She had her passion for her art back now, and a new lease on life by finally embracing both the bad and the good in her past. She had not deserved to be made to feel she must marry Hillram, though she had loved him only as a friend, had not deserved to be foisted off on Lord Fig or Lord Landon or Lord Redburn. And she had not deserved to be second in Peter’s life, overshadowed by a revenge he could not let go of. Like the water of the Elven Pools, determination and persistence bringing about unimaginable beauty, she deserved to cut her own path in life.
But what could she do to claim her independence? As a woman of good breeding, she had neither skills nor experience.
The bag holding her supplies bumped into her leg. She had forgotten about it. In a flash, she remembered the fever that had overtaken her to draw, and the relief she had found in it.
Her fingers tightened on the strap. Perhaps there was something else for her, after all.
She marched inside and straight on to Lady Tesh’s sitting room. Her gaze immediately fell on Lord Redburn seated close to Lady Tesh and Margery.
