She would have to leave it alone, at least most of the time. But this morning was hers. Later today he would tell Victor that she had said yes, and Victor would tell everyone staying at Bowden that they were betrothed. Later today she would no longer be free. She would exchange freedom for conformity and the greater independence she would enjoy as a married lady. But this morning she was still free. Or if that was not strictly true, then she would cheat a little.
She would steal one more hour of freedom.
She set her things down when she reached the falls and stood for a long time, as she usually did, looking, listening with her body, smelling, feeling. She let it all seep inside her, the beauty, the wonder, the glory of it. Beneath her bare feet, cold and wet from the dew, she could feel the pulse of the world. The pulse of life.
Idleness was so often seen as a vice. Every moment had to be occupied with busy activity and endless conversation even if one never stopped to ask what purpose was served by a particular task or by a particular communication. Idleness was so often despised. And yet it was in idleness, she knew, that one touched meaning and peace. Sometimes she put the name God to what it was she touched, but the name was too evocative of rules and restrictions and sin and guilt. In the Bible, which she had tried to read since Luke taught her how, she had noted with interest how the great meaning and peace behind everything had instructed Moses not to name it. It had called itself merely the I AM. Emily liked that. It was in idleness that one came face-to-face with the I AM. With simple, elemental Being.
She stood still for more than fifteen minutes before setting up her easel and starting to paint. She worked slowly, even hesitantly, at first, not sure what the paper and the paint and the brush in her hand had to show her today. But soon enough she was absorbed in what she was doing. All else receded.
She was free. She had found a way to pour out all the wordless, unformed passions that were inside her.
5
ASHLEYhad slept for maybe a couple of hours, and woke up disoriented, believing he was still in India. He was surprised he had slept at all. He had still been filled to the brim with nervous energy when he went to bed.
He marveled at the coolness of the morning. The blessed coolness. Through the window that he had opened before lying down he could hear birds singing. And somewhere far in the distance, probably in the stables or the carriage house, the faint ringing of a hammer on metal.
He was in England. He was home. He drew in a deep breath of cool English air through his nostrils and let it out slowly through his mouth. Then he threw back the bedclothes and jumped to his feet. He shivered as he crossed the room to the window. He had always slept naked, but perhaps it was not such a good idea now that he was back in a cooler climate.
He was in his old room, one of the few bedchambers that looked out on the front of the house. The terraces of the formal gardens were still bright with spring flowers. Beyond them the long lawns stretched to the stone bridge and the trees in the distance. The trees were bright with their spring foliage.
He was here, where he had longed to be. The thought of Bowden had sustained him through the long, tedious voyage. If he could but get here, he had thought. Irrationally, he had expected to find peace here. He had expected to be able to put everything behind him. Including himself. Or perhaps not. In reality he had known very well that there was no peace to be found—anywhere.
He should get dressed, he thought, and go riding. Luke must have some decent mounts in the stables. A good gallop would blow cobwebs away, if nothing else. Suddenly he craved the recklessness of speed, the feel of a good horse between his thighs. It was early. He was unlikely to encounter anyone else, especially today of all days, after the ball. It had been well into the morning hours before any of them had gone to bed.
He turned to stride into his dressing room, but he did not ring for his valet. Poor Bevins had been up as late as he despite the fact that he had been instructed not to wait up.
An hour later he had completed his ride. He had taken out a powerful and skittish stallion, which his grace allowed no one but himself to ride, the most senior groom on duty had explained pointedly. On the grounds that it was dangerous? Ashley had asked.
“Aye, m’lord,” the man had confirmed.
Ashley had laughed and led the horse from its stall into the stableyard in order to saddle it up himself. And so had begun a grand battle of wills that had lasted the whole of the hour. But he and the stallion understood each other very well by the end of the hour, he thought, patting it on the rump before turning it over to a groom’s care and leaving the stables.
He wondered if anyone else was up yet. He stood still, looking toward the house, tapping his riding crop absently against one boot. He was reluctant to return. Reluctant to face anyone. There was something that had to be told this morning.
He drew a deep, slow breath.
And then he remembered something—somewhere. A place that had been gone from his memory until this very moment. Completely, almost as if he had deliberately blotted it out. Strange, really, considering the fact that it had been his favorite part of Bowden, the place where he had spent so many solitary hours. The place where he had always been most likely to find peace. Especially during that last year...
The falls. He turned his head toward the trees to his left, and his whip tapped harder and faster. He was strangely reluctant to go there. Although he had forgotten it with his conscious mind, he knew now that in some way it had been the focus of all his longings during his journey home. All his hopes for peace and forgetfulness and oblivion were centered on the falls. An absurd thought. An absurd hope.
It was a hope impossible to be realized. But for as long as he did not go there...
His jaw set grimly.
He was going to be even more disappointed than he had braced himself to be, he thought a few minutes later as he made his way through the trees and realized that someone was there before him. He could hear a voice. Luke’s? But by the time he had stopped to listen, the man had ceased talking. Perhaps it had been merely a gardener passing by and talking to his dog. But he picked his way more carefully. He had no wish to be seen, to be engaged in social conversation before he had properly braced himself. Even with Luke. Especially with Luke.
He saw Powell first. He was immaculate for so early in the morning, in dark blue frock coat and knee breeches, with embroidered cream cotton waistcoat. His wig was carefully styled and powdered—it was not last night’s powder, at a guess.
He was standing silently in front of an easel, his hands clasped at his back. He was frowning. The easel was turned away from Ashley, so he could not see what was displayed there.
Ashley drew back behind a tree. He had no wish to encounter the man he had treated rather badly last night. Emmy’s betrothed. Though now that he came to think about it, no announcement of a betrothal had been made, even though Luke had predicted it.
And then he saw her. She was standing some distance away, on top of the pile of rocks that ascended the bank beside the falls. On the flat one that jutted out over the water. She was looking across the water, very still. A gust of wind had flattened her dress against her and sent it billowing out behind. Her hair was blowing out behind her too.
God, he thought. Lord God, Emmy. The dress was a loose sack dress. Very loose. Shapeless. It looked as if it might once have been a rich blue in color, but now it was a nondescript gray-blue. It must have shrunk from repeated launderings; it ended at least two inches above her ankles. Her feet were bare. Her blond hair, unconfined and unpowdered, fell in wild and unruly curls to below her waist.
God, he thought, memory stabbing at him. His little fawn. Except that she was no longer a child. Yet she did not seem quite a woman. She was more sprite than either child or woman. More a graceful and beautiful creature of the wild.
