She giggled—he loved the way Adèle could giggle without sounding in any way childish but only gloriously joyful.“Onlyfor fifty years?” she asked. “But twice, John? Is itpossible?”
“Perhaps not for another week or two,” he admitted, grinning. “I must confess to feeling close to exhaustion.But after another week or two... You had better prepareyourself.”
Being Adèle, she had caught only one thing he had said. She moved closer, getting slightly above his level as shedid so. She drew his arm away from her neck and put herown arm beneath his instead. She drew down his head topillow it on her breast while her free hand smoothed gentlythrough his hair.
“Sleep, my dearest love,” she said. “No more talking. You are exhausted.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, feeling deliciously warm and comfortable and sleepy. “But it was in a very good cause,you know.”
“Sh,” she said, “and don’t be foolish.”
He was smiling as he slid into sleep.
She had always wanted to be John’s wife. Certainly she had always known that she would never be any man’s wifeif she could not be his. But there had been a few years—perhaps about five after the age of fifteen, when she hadactively dreamed of what marriage with him would be like. It had always been dream rather than hope. By that time he had been away from home a great deal and hadtreated her only with a careless sort of affection when hewas home—except perhaps for that kiss on her seventeenthbirthday.
And by the time she was fifteen she had understood the difference in their stations. He was the heir to a viscount’stitle and properties and fortune—he inherited when she waseighteen on the death of his father. She was the eighth andyoungest child of a gentleman of no particular fortune orimportance. When she was nineteen a great-aunt had takenher to town for a month of the Season. She had hated it.She had felt out of her depth surrounded by such wealthyand important people. And she had seen that John was agreat favorite—and that he had something of a reputationas a rake.
The year after that he was ill.
Dreams—which she had never expected to become reality—had given way to despair. She would not be able to bear a world without John in it.
And then the dream had become a different one. One that had come achingly true just a few weeks ago. It hadbeen such a narrow dream. She had not asked for much.She had been more grateful than she had ever been able toput into words for what she had been given. She had notbeen greedy.
Now the dream had expanded again like a glorious explosion of light, and she was happy beyond thought. And afraid.
The disease had gone. There seemed no doubt about it now. Although he had not seen a physician and she did notsuggest it to him, she knew that he was getting better. Sheknew it no longer just with faith but with certainty. Every day he was stronger. Although he was still very thin, he was noticeably putting on weight and acquiring a healthycolor. There were no more fevers and no more coughedblood. His eyes no longer looked on death but on life.
They walked now every day on the beach, sometimes almost briskly. They climbed the hills, pausing for breathas much for her sake as for his. They talked and read andwrote letters to their numerous brothers and sisters and toher mama and papa. They even argued—usually about thewisdom and comfort of leaving windows open. Those arguments always ended the same way. If she was chilly, healways said, grabbing her, she would just have to submitto being warmed—but not by closing the windows.
They made love so often—by night and by day—that sometimes her cheeks could become flushed just thinkingabout it and wondering if it was normal and proper. Shedecided that if it was not, she did not care for normality orpropriety. On the few occasions when she hinted that heshould not exhaust himself, he would laugh and tell herthat she could cuddle him afterward as she had done thatfirst time.
Making love, she had discovered, was a process that was taking a very long time to learn. Every time there wassomething new and something different. He was surely thebest teacher in the world, though he claimed sometimes—she did not know how it could be—that he was also a pupil,that she was teaching him dimensions of the art he hadnever dreamed of before.
Making love, she had decided, was the most wonderful bonding experience imaginable. She could not understandhow any two people could do those things when they werenot married or even particularly devoted to each other. Shecould not imagine the pleasure being divorced from the love and the commitment and the union of hearts and souls.
As she had expected after their walk to Awelfa, they soon had company. People for miles around with any claimto gentility left their cards and returned for tea and conversation. The calls had to be returned. They issued a fewinvitations to dinner and cards. They accepted a few similarinvitations. The dance at the assembly rooms above thetavern in the village was approaching and John seemed determined that they would go—and dance.
Adèle was more happy than she had known it was possible to be. She had had a month of married life when she had expected a few days, a week or two at most, of nursinga dying man.
But reaction was beginning to set in. Happiness had always been something to dream of, not something to be lived. She began to be afraid of happiness. What if, afterall, he was merely going through a respite in his illness?What if there should be a sudden relapse and death? Couldshe bear it now that she had let down her defenses, nowthat she had tasted what life with him could be?
It was a fear she tried to ignore. If it was to be so, there was nothing she could do to prevent it merely by worryingabout it. And surely if she did not live to the fullest now,she would forever regret it should she be left alone andgrieving for the rest of her life.
Other fears were more nebulous, but they nibbled away at the edges of her happiness with equal relentlessness. Hewould tire of Cartref soon despite what he had said whenhe first began to recover. The house was small by the standards of his main home. There were not many families ofhis own social standing in the area. They were far from anysocial center. They had been in Wales for a month. He wasgoing to be bored soon and restless. John had always been restless. And now, day by day, his energy was returning.
She feared that when they returned to England she would lose him. She had nothing with which to hold him excepther love and her devotion to him. They had never beenquite enough. She knew that in the normal course of events,if he had not been ill, he never would have thought of herin terms of marriage. He would tire of her. She had nodoubt that he would always be kind to her, that he wouldalways feel an affection for her, that he would always guardher from hurt. But she could picture how their life woulddevelop. She would live in the country. He would join herthere for a few weeks several times a year. For the rest ofthe time he would live in London or some other fashionable center. He would have mistresses, whom she would knowabout, though no one would ever tell her and he wouldprotect her carefully from ever finding out.
They would tell each other and themselves that the arrangement suited them both.
She did not believe she would be able to accept such a life after this month of living and of loving. But she wouldhave to accept it. She would have no choice.
She dressed for the assembly with a mingling of excitement and wariness. She had always loved dances, except perhaps the fewtonballs she had attended in London withher great-aunt. And yet she feared that John would find thisone unsatisfying and would begin to have a hankering toreturn to his old life.
She was wearing her wedding dress of silver gauze over white satin, with the pearls John had given her as a weddingpresent. She fingered them dreamily as her maid put thefinishing touches to her hair. She remembered how she hadfelt when he had given them to her—the one and only giftshe would ever receive from him. She had realized how she would prize them for the rest of her life.
There was a tap on her dressing room door and he stepped inside and held the door open to allow her maid toleave.
“Ah,” he said, his eyes wandering over her after he had closed the door again. “Your wedding clothes, Adèle.” Hefrowned for a moment. “Was I really that sick? It is almosthard to remember already. I thought you must be a harbinger of the angels who I hoped would soon be meeting meon the other side.”
