Ashley hurried into his dressing room.
She was on the river walk, standing still and gazing at the water, when he caught up to her. She was watching a mother duck with a string of little ones bobbing along behind her on the surface of the river. She was smiling. The smile did not fade when she saw him approaching. She pointed at the birds.Beautiful,she told him, kissing her fingertips and extending her hand toward the river.
He had been a little afraid that she would resent his presence as an intrusion on her solitude, but she did not look resentful. This was all so very beautiful, she told him again with one all-inclusive sweep of an arm. Despite the fashionable dress and the cap and hat, which made her look deliciously pretty, she looked more like the Emmy he loved. Her hair—what he could see of it beneath the hat—was unpowdered. Her face was clear of cosmetics and patches. Her smile was without the forced gaiety that had chilled him at Vauxhall.
“Yes,” he said, using his hands as well as his voice. “I told you you would love it, Emmy. And there is so much more to see.”
He found himself wondering if she would have looked so happy in this place and at this moment if she had married him, forced into it by propriety and the pressure both he and their families had exerted. They would have been together now for more than a month. They would have been lovers for that long. His mind, which had shied away from the memories and had shuddered at the very idea of thinking carnally of her, considered the thought somewhat sadly now. She had not wanted to marry him and had been strong-minded enough to hold out against all the persuasions.
He had brought her here to woo her. But he must not be overconfident, he knew. And he must do nothing to lose her friendship. Emmy’s friendship, he was realizing anew, was all he had to cling to. All that could turn his life around and give him occasional moments of peace. It had once been very much a one-way thing. He had talked at her, used her for his comfort—and felt superior because he could hear and speak and she could not. But friendship was a two-way process. Both friends had to give, both had to receive. Emmy had much to give—not through words or the inadequate substitute for words they had devised and would continue to devise, but through silence. He needed to listen to the silence. And he had much to give—acceptance, understanding, the willingness to recognize the validity of her world. Love. But friendship first and foremost. If that was all he could have of her for the rest of his life, then he would be very careful not to forfeit it.
He drew her arm through his and strolled with her, not even attempting for several minutes to talk. Conversation was really not necessary, he realized, when one could share quiet companionship with a friend. The river flowed quietly to one side of them. Trees and shrubs, most notably rhododendrons, carefully placed and selected, closed them in on the other side, so that there was an air of utter seclusion and peace. It all now seemed complete with Emmy there. And more lovely than it had ever seemed before.
“Did you bring your painting things with you?” he asked her at last, touching his fingers first to her chin so that she would turn her head.
Yes, she told him.
“But you have not used them since you were at Bowden?” he asked.
No, she had not.
“Why not?” he asked.
I, she told him with her hands and her whole body and with the bright smile she had used in London,have been too busy enjoying myself to think of painting.
“Yes,” he said, “I know you have been busy enjoying yourself. But painting is important to you, Emmy.”
Yes, she admitted after a few moments, with obvious reluctance.
“Enjoyment for the sake of itself becomes less enjoyable as time goes on,” he said.
She frowned in incomprehension.
“You would not enjoy that life forever,” he told her.
She admitted the truth of that only by directing her eyes downward. He left her to her thoughts for a while—but he had to persist. He had the uncomfortable feeling that his violation of her body had jolted her out of the world she had created from her own silence. It had been a happy world for which she had found no comparable substitute. If he could do nothing else for her, he would give her back her world.
“Emmy?” He touched her hand and brought her eyes back to his face. “Will you do something for me?”
She looked wary.
“I invited you here,” he said, realizing the truth of his words even as he spoke them, “so that I could offer you freedom. You took freedom in your own hands when you refused to marry me. ’Twas incredibly courageous of you, when your whole family was united with me against you. But you have used your freedom to deny yourself, to deny all that is most beautiful and most meaningful in your life. You are deaf, Emmy, and mute, even if you have learned to say one word and may in time learn more. You cannot live the life that women with hearing live—not without giving up all that is most precious to you. I want to give that back to you—here, with this.” He gestured to the river and the park around them. “Do you understand me? Have I hurled too many words at you?”
She had stopped walking. She drew her arm free of his and looked at him with troubled eyes. But yes, she told him with a sign he recognized. Yes, she had heard him.
“Emmy,” he said. “Let me give you something of real worth. I want you to feel free here to do as you will. If you want to wander here or in the hills, do so. If you wish to absent yourself from any visits I will organize for your sister and Luke, then do so. If you want to let your hair down or go barefoot, do it. And most of all, paint. It is your way of speaking—without the encumbrance of words. Take your easel and your paints to the summerhouse if you will. Will you please accept this gift from me?”
For a moment her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back. And she nodded. “Yess,” she said.
And the thing was, he thought, that he had meant the wordfreedom.He wanted her to be free, just at the time when he also wanted to clasp her tightly to him and never let her go. But one could never clasp Emmy close without crushing all the life out of her, he realized. She was a free spirit and would never flourish in captivity. She would never have been happy if she had married him at that particular time and under those particular circumstances. The realization was infinitely saddening. Perhaps the time and the circumstances would never be right.
Selfishness could not help but intrude. “Emmy,” he said, “may I join you—just occasionally? Not all the time. Not even often. Just sometimes? You will never know how much nourishment I have drawn from just being near you.”
She lifted one arm and cupped her hand very gently about his cheek. She nodded.
“I may?” He held her hand where it was and turned his head to set his lips against her palm. “Are we also going to make a talkative woman out of you?”
She smiled sunnily and shrugged, turning both hands upward.Why not?
