Mrs. Smith spoke to her about Eric, about the sadness of the fact that he had no brothers or sisters. Her husband had died—she looked down at her hands for several moments before continuing. She spoke about growing up at Penshurst. She had lived in this cottage, though she had been at the house a great deal. She had been educated with Alice Kersey. They had even been friends—when they were children, she added pointedly. Emily was left with the impression that they had no longer been friends once they had grown older.
She found Katherine easier to understand than her father. Nonetheless she decided she would not stay too long, reasoning that it must be a strain on strangers to entertain her when they had to bear the burden of conversation alone. And it was a strain upon her to be the only guest—to have to concentrate upon everything that was said and nod and smile in the right places. But as she was leaving, and after Mrs. Smith had called to George, the woman turned to her and smiled.
“I do thank you for coming,” she said. “You are very easy to talk to. You seem to be part of a conversation even though you say nothing. Do come again—if you wish, that is. You are staying at Penshurst for a while?”
Emily nodded, took her leave warmly, then walked back to the house with George, feeling that she had made a friend. Someone who had not smiled at either Ashley or Luke yesterday but who had smiled at her both then and today. Someone who felt anger over the fact that her father had been dismissed from his position as steward at Penshurst after the death of Mr. Gregory Kersey. Alice’s brother. Who had dismissed him? Sir Alexander Kersey, who had been in India at the time? Alice, who between the time of her brother’s death and her own departure for India must have been in charge at Penshurst? But why? And Katherine Smith had not liked Alice. At least, that was what her one comment had implied.
But Emily had no real wish to know about the past. Even though she knew she would look back on these two weeks and feel pain because they were over and would probably never be repeated, she was going to enjoy them anyway. She was going to enjoy Ashley’s friendship and the freedom he had offered her. She was going to enjoy being here in this place, for which she felt such a strange and strong affinity. And it was such a relief to be back in the countryside, to look forward to the prospect of time alone with nature. Ashley had even permitted her to absent herself from visits, to leave off her hoops and her shoes, to paint...
Ashley, she thought, understood her more than anyone else, even Anna and Luke. Ashley understood that though handicapped, she was a whole person.
Ashley...
She sighed. She had to remember that in two weeks’ time she would be leaving again. Leaving Penshurst.
Leaving him.
19
FORthree days she explored the huge park about Penshurst. The more cultivated parts before the house she walked through with everyone else, including a few of Ashley’s neighbors who called upon them while the weather remained fine and warm. The other parts, the wilder, more extensive parts, she roamed over alone. She slipped out in the mornings, sometimes even before the sun rose, and in the afternoons after they had eaten if there was no visit planned, or immediately afterward if they went somewhere or someone came to call on them. Once she went out in the evening instead of staying to help entertain the visitors Ashley had invited to play cards.
The river walk extended for a whole mile and was very beautiful. But Emily discovered that the riverbank beyond the walk was even lovelier, with its long, sometimes coarse grass and myriad varieties of wildflowers. The hills behind the house, which did not look high from in front, were nevertheless wooded and secluded. And the artfully planned clearings afforded wonderful views over rolling, pastoral countryside. The summerhouse Ashley had referred to overlooked the river and miles of empty farmland. The house and the village were hidden from view behind the trees. She suspected that whoever had built it there had wanted to feel utterly secluded, utterly alone. It was, as Ashley had said, sparsely furnished. But she knew as soon as she set foot inside it that he had had it cleaned and spruced up. There were even clean, soft cushions on the worn sofa and a folded-up blanket.
On the third morning she took her painting things up to the summerhouse, though she did not try to do anything with them. She did not know yet what she wished to paint. Although she felt all the beauty of this new part of the country, it had not yet spoken to her soul. But she knew it would. She had to give it time. Time, real time as opposed to human time, could not be rushed or forced. She was content to sit on the sofa and gaze out the low window opposite—out and down the hill and across the river and the countryside beyond.
On that third morning Ashley came to her. She had left the door of the summerhouse open, and she became aware after several minutes had passed of a shadow in the doorway. He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, smiling at her.
“I knew,” he said, “that you would look at home here, Emmy.” He glanced toward her easel. He used his hands to speak. “I am glad you are going to paint again. And I am glad to see my sprite back.”
She had not brought any of her oldest clothes from Bowden. But she had put on her simplest gown this morning without either hoops or padded petticoat. She had tied her hair back loosely with a ribbon. She was barefoot. She had forgotten until these last three days how much she needed that contact with the earth.
“May I?” he asked, indicating the seat beside her on the sofa.
She nodded and he came inside and seated himself. He took her hand in his. But he said nothing more. For half an hour or perhaps longer they sat side by side, hand in hand, looking at the view, watching early morning turn into definite day. There was no more perfect communication than silence, Emily thought. Perhaps that was an easy paradox for her to learn, but she felt that Ashley was learning it too—as he had asked to do. Perhaps she really did have something to teach him, something to give him. He was giving her speech and she was giving him silence.
She had wanted to give him comfort when his emotions had been too tempestuous for there to be any comfort. Perhaps she could give him some comfort now. And perhaps she could weave memories for herself to take with her into a lonely future.
“I shall leave you, Emmy,” he said at last after squeezing her hand to draw her eyes to his lips. “Stay here as long as you wish. Thank you for allowing me to share some of your time here.” He leaned over her and kissed her softly on the lips. Then he was gone.
She wondered if it would be easier if he did not like her at all. If in his own way he did not love her. If he had not invited her here. If she had not come. She closed her eyes, blocking out the beauty of the view. No, she could not be sorry that he felt a fondness for her. And she knew that she would never be sorry that she had come here. Somehow, in some strange way, she knew it had always been intended that she come here. It was a puzzling thought, and a restful one.
Except that in less than two weeks’ time she would have to leave again and return to London. And not see him again for a long, long time.
If ever.
•••
Onthe fourth morning she went in a different direction, away from both the river and the hill, which were a strong lure in her search for solitude and peace. But she wanted to see all there was to see, and so she went in the opposite direction from the river and the approach to the house. She went across lawns and past the lime grove and in among the trees until she came to the edge of the park. It was marked by a hedgerow, with the road beyond.
It seemed sad not to go farther. The clouds, which had brought rain during the night, were moving off, and the sun was just rising. The air was fresh and cool. The grass and soil underfoot had made her feet tingle with cold. But she could not go farther—not looking the way she did. And not in a neighborhood where she was not well known and would not be able to communicate with anyone she met. She shook her head and closed her eyes, feeling the wind blow her hair out behind her. She had not even tied it back this morning.
There was a gap in the hedgerow into which a wooden stile had been built. She climbed over it and sat on the top rung, facing out over the fields and meadows beyond the road. It was lovely, she thought. There was not the obvious beauty of the river here or the seclusion or the panoramic views of the hill. There was just a basic unspectacular loveliness about it. It was England. It was home.
She was rather sorry she had not brought her paints and her easel. She rather thought she could paint here—the wonder of the ordinary. Though even the seemingly ordinary could appear extraordinary when one opened one’s eyes and one’s heart to it.
But her reverie was interrupted. She could feel someone else’s presence. She jerked her head to one side to look along the road to her right. For the merest moment she felt a surging of gladness. He had come again. But she knew even before she saw the man that he was not Ashley. Something inside her always seemed to know unerringly when he was close by.
He was sitting on horseback a short distance away, handsomely dressed in riding clothes with a cloak for warmth and highly polished boots. His three-cornered hat was tipped slightly forward over his eyes. He was grinning appreciatively at her.
