She was his only hope.
It was a thought, an instinct, that came from deep within, from a past so long ago that it might have been from another lifetime altogether. When life had overwhelmed him and there had seemed to be nowhere to turn and no one to go to, he had always stumbled off to find Clarissa Greenfield, to pour out everything that was threatening to blow him apart into a million pieces. It had always worked. It had never failed.
But that was then. This was now.
He had learned long ago the secret of tranquil living. Of contented living. He had learned that he did not need to rely upon any other person for his peace. Everything he needed was within himself. Friendships could enrich his life, but the substance came from inside. He had learned to like himself, even to love himself in a non-narcissistic way that had nothing to do with vanity. He had certainly learned to love his life.
And in so doing he had spurned the incredibly selfless love of his own brother.
Reggie.
He did not want to go back to using Clarissa as a crutch.
He did not want to be the boy he had been when he did just that. He was a fifty-year-old man now. He had thought his life all sorted out. He had liked his life—of which he was already thinking in the past tense, he realized. He had thought himself capable of dealing with any unwelcome change or crisis that might come his way—poor health, loss of business, anything. Yet along had come change in the form of a pleasant young man and woman, his nephew and niece-in-law, and he had crumbled almost before their very eyes.
He had held himself together in the days since by sheer effort of will. After last evening’s reception and soiree, his face had literally ached from the half smile he had kept upon it.
Clarissa had known anyway.
He gathered up his equipment, even the broken arrow, which he stuffed inside the quiver, and made his way toward the drive. Until he reached it he was not sure which way he would turn. He was so very tempted to turn toward the village and home. He turned instead toward Ravenswood. He owed Clarissa an explanation atleast. He certainly did not owe her the humiliation she might feel if her expected guest simply did not show up. She might even be the laughingstock among her servants. It did not bear thinking of.
The door into one of the arched tunnels on either side of the front steps that led into the courtyard was open. Matthew could see daylight through it, a sign that the door at the far end of the tunnel was open too. He left his quiver and bow beside the steps and walked through.
The courtyard was bright with midafternoon sunshine. Strange—it was only now he was noticing that it was a sunny day. Warm too. The covered cloisters that ran all about the outer perimeter were in shade, but the grass in the large square open to the sky was almost emerald green, and the rose arbor at the center was bright with color and the steady spray of rainbow-hued water shooting up from the fountain there.
He had only ever seen the courtyard before now during fete days, when display tables for various crafts were set up against the cloisters and the place teemed with people. He stopped for a moment to feel the full beauty and serenity of the place.
The most beautiful part of it was walking toward him from the arbor, her hands outstretched for his.
“Matthew,” she said. “I am so glad you came.”
“How could I not when you had invited me?” he asked, taking both her hands in his and squeezing them tightly. “This is a beautiful place.”
“Yes, it is,” she said. “I love walking in the cloisters in the winter when it is not too cold or blustery. And I love to sit here during the summer. The four wings of the house keep the scent of the roses inside. And I never tire of gazing at the fountain. There are so many colors within water. Yet it seems colorless in itself.”
She had linked a hand through his arm and was leading him toward the arbor, where she sat beside him on a wrought iron seat.
“I did invite Owen to join us, at least for a while,” she said. “But he has gone riding with Ariel Wexford and Edwina Rutledge and his cousin Clarence. I believe I have convinced him that I do not need a jailer every hour of every day, or even a chaperon. Now I need to persuade him that he will lose his sanity if he decides to spend the whole of the summer here with just his mother for company.”
She made light conversation while a footman and a maid brought out trays of dainties and tea and lemonade. His arrival had been watched for and noted, then, despite the fact that he had not knocked upon the front door.
“Thank you,” she said after everything had been set down upon a table before her, and the servants withdrew silently. “Will you have tea or lemonade?”
“Lemonade, please,” he said.
She poured them both a glass and put one of everything upon a plate before handing it to him. He wondered if he could find enough appetite to eat at least something. He sipped his lemonade. It was delicious and almost icy cold. How did they do that in what must be a hot kitchen?
“Did you have a good practice?” she asked him.
“Yes, thank you,” he said.
She had a way of looking at him, a way that demanded truth and was fully aware when it had not been spoken.
“No,” he said. “No, I did not. The bull’s-eye was elusive today and my timing was off. Perhaps I did not place the target in quite the right place. Or perhaps I am just tired.”
“Or perhaps you cannot forget your nephew’s visit,” she said.
He bit into a jam tart, which was as light as air and had obviously been made with fresh preserves. He swallowed the mouthful before he answered.
