“Now tell me,” he said quietly, “that you know me, Emmy.”
She closed her eyes again and swayed on her feet. But after several moments she took a few hurried steps toward him, wrapped her arms tightly about his waist, and pressed her forehead to his cravat.
“I know you,” she said in words.
Why did her words feel like absolution? Like forgiveness? She did not have the power to forgive him. No one had that power. Perhaps not even God, whom he had never asked. There was no forgiveness.
He set his arms like iron bars about her, buried his face against her hair, and wept. Wept with deep, painful, racking sobs. For a long time he could do nothing to bring them under control. For a long time he touched the very bottom of despair. But he held on tightly to Emily, who leaned warmly and softly into him. And he knew that he was clinging to the only hope he might ever have of pardon and peace.
•••
Itwas a damp and misty morning. The grass was wet and chilly beneath her bare feet. But she walked up onto the hill anyway, not even trying to see down into the valley or ahead of herself into the trees. She walked to draw tranquillity from the morning.
He was far more troubled than she had ever realized. The burden of his guilt was far heavier than he had indicated. And yet she could not feel totally dejected this morning. He had not loved Alice. It was a selfish thought to delight in, but she could not help repeating the thought over and over in her mind. He had not loved Alice. His terrible suffering had not been caused by grief over a lost love.
She remembered the look in his eyes as he had made love to her the afternoon before. And his determination that she know all before he offered her marriage again. He had not tried to excuse his own guilt. He had tried to show himself to her as he saw himself—evil and unforgivable. She remembered how he had cried in her arms as if his heart would break, perhaps because she had tried to tell him that he was still Ashley, that he was no different now than he had been seven years before. Only more wounded. Deeply wounded.
There was hope this morning. Hope for him. Hope for herself. She knew that when he asked again, she would say yes. Happiness was by no means assured them. But unhappiness was certain if they parted—for both of them, she believed. He needed her as she needed him. It was the dependency of love. Neither needed the other as any sort of crutch. They needed each other because they cared for each other, because the world was a more meaningful place when the other was close.
He had seemed quite genuinely cheerful last evening when they had all attended a soiree at a neighbor’s house. It was true that he had avoided being in close company with Sir Henry Verney, though the two of them had been civil to each other. But he had treated Miss Verney and everyone else with his old amiability. Perhaps in time this new home and this new neighborhood, despite the fact that Alice had lived here, would bring stability and peace to his life. Perhaps she would be able to help. She breathed in the clean, damp smell of the air. This morning she was beginning to believe that this would be her home for the rest of her life. And the thought was deeply pleasing to her. She was no longer haunted by Alice’s ghost.
She had even lost her fear of Major Cunningham. Not her dislike, it was true; she doubted she would ever grow to like him. But perhaps that was unfair. He had contrived to speak privately with her last evening. He had sat beside her a little apart from most of the other guests, who were grouped about the pianoforte listening to the musical offerings of several of their number.
“Lady Emily,” he had said, a look of frank apology on his face, “will you ever be able to forgive me?”
She had not known quite how to react. A swift glance had shown that both Ashley and Luke were not far away.
“My behavior was unpardonable,” he had said. “Even if you had been what I mistook you for, ’twould have been unpardonable. I will not even try to justify what I said and what I suggested. I can only ask humbly for your pardon, without any expectation that it is my right to receive it. Will you forgive me?”
It had been a handsome apology and she had been able to see nothing but shame and sincerity in his eyes. She had nodded her head quickly.
“My sincerest thanks,” he had said. “And my sincerest good wishes. Ashley is my dearest friend, but it does not take the intuition of friendship to see that he has conceived a deep affection for you. May I hope for his sake that you return it?”
She would not answer that. It was none of his concern.
“I ask only,” he had said, “because ’tis my dearest wish to see him happy again, and I believe you are the lady to make him happy. But not here—at Penshurst, I mean. Always here the memory of his late wife would come between you, Lady Emily. Pardon me for speaking so frankly about what seems not to concern me. But friends must always wish the best for each other. I have offered to purchase Penshurst. I like it. So I am somewhat partial, you see.” He had smiled. “Persuade Ashley to accept my offer. ’Twill be for your happiness and his.” He had looked apologetic again. “And mine.”
It had not been easy to understand every word; he was undoubtedly unaccustomed to talking to a deaf person. But she had understood the main message, she believed.
She still felt surprise. He wished to buy Penshurst. Was he not an army officer? She hoped Ashley would not sell. She had felt a strange attachment to Penshurst almost from her first sight of it.
But at least this morning she could feel a certain respect for the major. She would work on growing to like him. After all, people constantly did unforgivable things. Why would forgiveness be of any value if it were reserved only for forgivable offenses? And didn’t Ashley wrongly believe thathehad done something unforgivable?
The mist was lifting in places. She stood still to gaze downward at a short stretch of the river that had for the moment come into view. The mist had made her hair damp. She lifted a hand to push it back behind one shoulder.
And then she felt such a piercing dread that she became momentarily paralyzed. There was the quite irrational terror that her heart had stopped and would not start beating again. She seemed to have forgotten how to draw breath into her lungs.
She did not know where the terror came from. And for those few moments she was unable even to turn her head to find its source. There were only mist and trees and hillside—and a wide bloody swath across the back of her lifted hand.
She stared at it as if it were someone else’s hand, someone else’s wound. Several moments passed before she recognized that the main focus of her feelings was pain. Her eyes turned to the tree trunk directly behind her and gazed at it. Her mind must be working very sluggishly, she suddenly thought with great lucidity. She had been staring at the bullet embedded in the trunk for several seconds before she really saw it. Now she stared for several more seconds. And then again down at her hand, from which the blood was dripping onto her skirt.
Panic took her then and she hurtled blindly downward through the mist, wailing loudly without realizing that she was doing so. The silence was a ravening terror at her back.
A footman in the hall of the house gaped at her, but he did not have to react further. Luke was on his way downstairs. He paused for a moment before hurrying toward her. She collided with his chest and clawed at him.
“Hush, hush, hush,” he was saying, but she did not look at his mouth. He lifted her chin and held her head steady. “What have you done to your hand? It appears to be bleeding rather copiously. Hush now. Hush, Emily. I shall take you to your room and we will have it seen to.”
But she clawed at him again without seeing his words. And then other hands gripped her shoulders tightly from behind. She did not hear herself scream.
