HEheld her for perhaps an hour. He did not want to risk waking her. She had been so very distressed, and now she was sleeping peacefully. He wondered if she had realized, or if she would realize when she thought back, how reluctant he had been to do this to her. He had tried to soothe her, to comfort her, without violating her. He had tried to cling to what he had told her only a few days before, that he had brought her here to see her happy, to set her free. He had not wanted to enslave her again.
She had been distraught, clinging and sobbing, and yet she had been unwilling for him to light a candle. She had not wanted to talk. He had talked to her, but of course she had not heard. She had not wanted to talk about whatever it was that had frightened her. Finally he had known that only one thing would bring her any comfort. And so he had given her what she had given him at Bowden. He had given himself.
If there was one consolation, he thought as he held her afterward, it was that her fear could not have been occasioned by what he had begun to suspect. She would surely not have taken him into herself so eagerly if she had been violated just this morning.
He edged away from her at last, sliding his arm from beneath her head. She grumbled in her sleep and turned her head farther into the pillow. He found the tinderbox and blew a flame gently to life so that he could light one of the candles. He set it on the table and sat down on the sofa after covering her with her cloak.
There were going to have to be some answers, he thought, looking down at her. Tonight if possible. Definitely tomorrow. He was beginning to think that he carried his punishment with him wherever he went. His punishment was to watch all who were dear to him hurt by his presence, even when he was trying to show them love. Perhaps it was fitting that it was happening here at Penshurst. He should not have brought Emmy here.
There were answers that must be gathered, he thought. Answers about Alice’s relationship with Verney. Answers about Gregory Kersey’s death. Answers about Ned Binchley’s retirement—why had he retired so soon after Kersey’s death when he was a comparatively young man and had clearly loved his job, and when his retirement appeared to have impoverished him? And there must be answers about today. What had happened to Emmy?
There seemed to be no relationship among the questions, he thought. And he was not sure what could be gained from learning the answers—except that knowing the last would help him know what he must do for Emmy. He certainly could not see that there was any connection between what had happened here over the years, culminating today, and what had happened in India.
And yet, he thought, sitting here in the summerhouse, surrounded by darkness and silence and gazing down on a sleeping Emmy, something deep inside him seemed to be telling him that everythingwasconnected. It was an absurd thought. What could possibly connect the horrifying accident in India to Emmy’s fright today? Or to Binchley’s retirement? Or to Kersey’s accidental death?
God, he thought, gazing down at Emily, her face and shoulders all but obscured by her tangled hair. God, but he loved her. And another long-suppressed memory surfaced in his mind. He remembered saying good-bye to her when he had been on his way to India. It had been on the driveway at Bowden. She had been leaning back against a tree and he had been standing in front of her. Touching her with his body. Kissing her lips. And feeling desire for her. He had been horrified at the time—hence the repression of the memory. He had felt like a man lusting after a child. But she had not really been a child. She had been halfway to womanhood. She had been fifteen years old.
Even then, he thought, part of him had known that he loved her totally—as a friend, as a brother, as a man. Most of all as a man. He had been afraid of such a vast, all-encompassing love. And so he had repressed it. Until now.
She was looking up at him. He did not smile at her or she at him.
“I will not allow harm to come to you, Emmy,” he said, not at all sure he was capable of keeping such a promise. He used signs along with the words. “I will always protect you, even with my life. Will you not trust me?”
Yes, she told him with a slight nod of the head.
“I do not like to see you frightened and vulnerable,” he said. “I have come to see you as a woman of strong character and indomitable will, Emmy. I have come to believe that you are stronger than I. ’Twas seductively sweet to be able to comfort you tonight as you comforted me not so long ago. But I would rather take away the source of your fear if I might. Something happened this morning?”
No, she told him with a slow shaking of the head.
“But somethingmighthave happened?” he asked her. “You escaped from it?”
Still the shaking of her head. But her eyes told him this time that she was lying. Her eyes had become opaque—deliberately so. Why would she not tell him? Or even Luke? Was she afraid of causing trouble? Among neighbors, perhaps? Did she think it better to keep her secret and contain her fear as best she could? It would be so like Emmy to do that.
“I begin to realize,” he said, “that I should have stayed in India, or that at least I should have come here and stayed away from Bowden. You would have been happy, Emmy. You would have been preparing for your wedding to Powell.”
She sat up sharply, reached out a hand, and touched his knee. She was shaking her head. “No,” she said. “No, Ahshley.” He must not blame himself, her eyes and her hands told him. He must not blame himself.
“Well.” He patted her hand. “Come then, Emmy. I will take you home.”
No, she told him. No, she was going to stay here.
“All night?” he asked her, frowning.
“Yes.”
He might have expected it, of course. Where would one expect Emmy to go if something had upset or frightened her? To where there was the comfort of other people? Certainly that had happened this morning—she had come running to him. But it was more likely that she would go running to the source of all that had brought serenity and happiness to a life that most people would have found impossibly difficult. Yes, it made sense when one knew Emmy to understand that she would spend this night up here in the hills rather than in the safety of her room at Penshurst.
“Very well.” He curled his fingers about hers. “Then I will stay here with you, Emmy.”
She did not argue. She got to her feet and drew him to his. She led him outside. As he had anticipated, the sky was bright with moon and stars. The moon was shining in a bright band across the river below them. They stood outside the summerhouse for a long time, gazing at the sky and the land, holding hands until he released hers and set an arm loosely about her shoulders and she rested her head on his shoulder.
He wondered if the love she undoubtedly felt for him could possibly grow the one extra dimension. But it was not something deeply to be wished for, he supposed. He had not earned forgiveness and perhaps never would. His life was still full of darkness and perhaps always would be. He seemed to have been a blight on those he loved since his return from India and was perhaps incapable of ever bringing happiness to another person. Especially to Emmy.
Though, of course, he knew he must offer her marriage again. Once more there was the chance that she would be carrying his child. He did not know if he hoped more that she would accept him or that she would reject him.
But tonight was something of a time out of time. He turned his face into her hair and kissed the top of her head. She sighed. Tonight, he thought, she was in love with him because she had needed him and he had brought her comfort—and pleasure. He had never had a woman take that kind of pleasure from him before tonight. He had been awed by it. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow would bring back the safety of daylight and would be a new day. Tomorrow she would be strong again. She would love him in her own sweet, strong way again.
But tonight was a time out of time. A time to be silent and at peace. Silent... Silence, he realized, was more than an absence of speech. One could be silent and yet have one’s mind so teeming with words that the silence was loud with inner noise. True silence involved a letting go of words, both spoken and thought. It involved abandoning oneself to one’s senses. It involved... merely being.
