“Emmy,” he said, “may I present my neighbors at Penshurst, Sir Henry Verney and Miss Verney?” He looked at them. “Lady Emily Marlowe, sister of the Earl of Royce and of the Duchess of Harndon.”
She smiled brightly at them. His new friends, part of his new life. And she liked them. It was foolish, perhaps, to make such snap judgments, but they both looked thoroughly amiable. Miss Verney merely smiled back. Sir Henry made her a bow.
“Of Bowden Abbey,” he said. “I saw it once during my travels. A beautiful place.”
Yes, she told him with a nod. Home. It was more home than Elm Court had ever been, she mused.
“Ah, is that so?” Sir Henry said to Ashley, to whom his eyes had moved for a moment. “Yes, I can tell that you read lips, Lady Emily. I could see that you heard my comment about Bowden Abbey and agreed with it.”
“It must be a strain upon your powers of observation,” Miss Verney said. “But ’tis said that any affliction can be used to strengthen character if one is willing to accept it as a challenge. Would you agree, Lady Emily?”
She was not sure that her deafness had strengthened her character. She was not even sure she had met a challenge. A silent world was as natural to her as a noisy one must be to them, she reflected. But people tended to assume that deaf persons could function as people only if they learned to conform to a world of sound. What about the challenge of silence? Very few people of hearing ever accepted it or even knew that there was a challenge there. People of hearing feared silence, she suspected. But she could not explain all that. Miss Verney was being kind, friendly. Emily smiled, then turned in time to see what Ashley said.
“Emmy is very modest about her accomplishments,” he said. “She is going to dance with me at tonight’s ball.”
Emily laughed.
Am I?she asked him with raised eyebrows when they moved on a minute or so later.
“Now, on what matter am I being interrogated?” he asked her. “My presumption in presenting you to strangers? Or my presumption in telling you rather than asking that you will dance with me?”
Yes, that,she told him with a signing hand.Am I going to dance?
“But you will, Emmy,” he said, laughing. All the austerity went from his face when he laughed. It would not be good for her to see him thus too often, she warned herself. “Because you love to dance, remember? Because you have always wanted to dance. And because only I am reckless enough to accept the challenge.”
She laughed again.
“Will you?” he asked her with his hand and his eyes as well as with his lips. “Dance with me? Will you, Emmy?”
Yes, she would. Even in front of all the fashionable world. Of course she would.
It was only as he handed her back into his carriage and she arranged her skirts while he came around to the other side and climbed in that she realized something had changed. She was smiling, laughing, bubbling with happiness—as she had been for a month. But there was a difference. The mask had slipped and had been replaced, for the moment at least, by the real thing.
It was a frightening thought.
16
“YOUwere quite right,” Sir Henry Verney said to his sister as they continued their stroll along the Mall. “There is quite a marked resemblance. I am surprised I did not notice when he called earlier.”
“He is a little taller and more slender,” Barbara Verney said. “Perhaps not quite as dark. And considerably more handsome, I believe. But undeniably like. We were both surprised to hear that Alice had married, and wondered what manner of man had persuaded her into it. Now we have our answer.”
“I wonder,” he said, “how happy she was. One cannot somehow imagine Alice being happy. Not surprisingly, I suppose. There must have been—”
But his sister cut him off. “’Tis better not to discuss it,” she said. “I am sorry I aroused old memories by commenting on the likeness. She came to a terrible end, poor woman. One can only hope she is now at peace. But poor Lord Ashley lost a son as well. ’Tis no wonder that there is a somewhat haunted look about him. Did you find him charming, Henry?”
“A trifle reserved,” he said. “I read a certain coldness in his eyes. But I suppose that making the acquaintance of people who grew up with his wife must have put a strain upon him. It must have taken some courage to call on us. It was a courtesy I appreciate.”
“A coldness?” she said. “I think not, Henry. He has the most soulful blue eyes. But no, you need not look at me like that. I have not conceived a passion for Lord Ashley Kendrick or for anyone else. Did you admire Lady Emily Marlowe?”
“She is a beauty of the first order,” he said, “and has a sparkle that makes her quite irresistibly charming.”
Barbara laughed. “You do not find her inability to converse a deterrent?” she asked.
“On the contrary,” he said. “Any man would consider it an exhilarating challenge to keep those fine eyes concentrated on his lips and to keep that dazzling smile focused on himself.”
“Henry.” She laughed again and squeezed his arm. “You are straying, I do declare.”
“Not so,” he said, chuckling too. But he sobered and sighed. “No, absolutely not, Barbara. I could only wish there were something definite from which not to stray. Am I foolish to be so constant to a dream? But enough of that. Tonight’s ball that Kendrick referred to is Lady Bryant’s, do you think? Perhaps I will try to engage Lady Emily for a set—if she is willing to lower her gaze to a mere baronet, of course.”
