She whimpered in fear . . . and the dream faded, grew vague. A low voice told her she was safe; someone touched her and called her by her name. She calmed, slept deeply, and drifted into a different dream.
She was in a flower meadow, lying on a bed of grass. There was no horizon; in any direction, the flowers stretched forever, soft and waving, every color imaginable. A man lay beside her, a different man, not the one in the doorway. This was the empty-handed man, the one who never hurt her.
They lay without touching until she put her hand on his shoulder. Afterward she knew it had been the signal—that he couldn’t touch her until she touched him, because that was their rule. Why didn’t I do this sooner? she thought, or said, and the empty-handed man smiled just before he kissed her.
She could see their mouths, like two other people’s mouths coming together. Delicious, how sweet, how luscious the kiss was. She changed the dream by an act of her will so that it could be her mouth under the man’s, tasting and being tasted. Lips and then teeth, soft and then hard, and tongues gliding together with such serious playfulness, the perfect mouth caress. Drowning, she was drowning in sensation, and everything was allowed, everything was permitted. Don’t make me wait, she thought, or said, and the dream changed again and they were rolling and turning over the crushed sweet grass, and the empty-handed man’s hands glided on her skin, leaving color wherever he touched, blue-green over the white of her belly, bright yellow on her breasts, purple and crimson on her thighs. His body floated over hers and she had him, yes, and it was what she wanted, but—it wasn’t enough, she couldn’t feel him, and everything was just out of reach. Half awake now, she knew it wasn’t real, and she wanted to weep from the frustration, the maddening inadequacy of this dream.
When she opened her eyes, she found herself staring up into Sebastian’s. Was it nighttime? He’d lit a candle; she could see the shadows flickering on the wall behind his bare shoulder. He watched her with his head propped on his hand, his brown hair tousled. She thought she would smooth her fingers back over the boyish cowlick—and realized she was resting her hand on his chest.
Then and now mingled as fragments of the dream floated back in disorienting patches. Had she touched him in her sleep? Was he the one who had soothed her with his voice? She opened her mouth, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. Her scattered thoughts came together, and finally she knew who the empty-handed man was. The connection slid into her brain smoothly, hardly causing a ripple, but afterward nothing was the same.
Why didn’t I do this sooner? the dreaming woman had wondered. Touching the man had been the key, the beginning. But Rachel couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Some things never changed, and her fear was one of them. She couldn’t move.
How would she have answered if Sebastian had asked her then if he could touch her? Too late; she’d never know now. And all she felt when he finally lowered his head and put his mouth on hers was gladness.
She lay quiet and passive, drifting between dreamer and actor, reluctant to decide, putting off thinking of anything. This was like the dream and not at all like the dream. Sebastian never hesitated, and all his movements were fluid and smooth, like a dancer’s, and the way he loosened and pulled and peeled away her clothing was like a dance, a seamless ballet for bare arms and shy, naked legs. She could hardly wait to feel their stomachs touch, and for a little while that was enough, just the slide and press of their skin, his with a downy fleece of hair to rub against hers. The center of herself seemed to be in her belly, and she thought that heavy, intimate pressure would be enough. But it wasn’t. She felt the dream-frustration, the identical emptiness at the real center, and she embraced him with her legs, and closed her eyes when he penetrated her.
Gentle and soft, sweet, unrushed, the quietest lovemaking, like a dance still, real but not real. The music was their breathing, and the slide of fingers on warming skin, and the whispery sound of kisses. It’s you, she began to chant to herself at odd intervals. What did it mean? It’s you. What did it matter?
She couldn’t touch the goal he was urging her toward so gently, could not let go of herself to reach out for it. Did he know? Could he tell that this tender striving was futile? Oh, but it was lovely, the touching and the closeness, she wanted it to go on and on. He murmured something, a most intimate question, and she answered it with the truth—“No, I can’t.” He kissed her with a desperate sweetness that moved her and made her heart ache. “Sweetheart,” he called her. Then he buried his face in her hair and set himself free, his body trembling a little in the effort not to hurt her. Holding to him tightly, she knew a moment’s envy, because he could surrender his self-control as easily as hold onto it.
“I broke my word,” he said when it was over, curling on his side behind her, pressing her back against him.
“Are you in pain?” she whispered. “Your side—”
“‘I won’t touch you,’ I said. Now I could tell you I’m sorry. Would you believe me?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
She felt his breath on the nape of her neck. He was laughing. “Sweet Rachel,” he murmured, “it would he a lie.”
Arrogant as always. She did something she’d never done before: she initiated a kiss. On his fingers, which were entwined with hers. She felt his lips on her shoulder, then his teeth, his lips again.
After he fell asleep, she pretended they were married, an ordinary husband and wife taking their rest together, their arms and legs tangled unconsciously because they trusted each other. Loved each other. Since this was as close as she would ever come to that domestic ideal, she allowed herself to enjoy it. Just for the moment.
Sleep crept closer. Before it overtook her, she heard the echo of the whisper in her head again—It’s you. Please, God, don’t let it be true. But she was afraid it was true. If it was, she was lost.
XII
“MRS. WADE? You in there?” His arms were full of a big, bulky box; Sebastian had to knock on Rachel’s door by kicking it with the toe of his boot. “Open up, Mrs. Wade!”
He heard rushing footsteps just before she threw open the door. Her surprised face was damp and she still had a towel in her hand; she’d been freshening up before she went down to see about getting the evening meal started—he knew her housekeeperly schedule almost as well as his own now.
“What’s wrong?” she asked worriedly, staring at him, staring at the box.
“Nothing’s wrong. Close the door, then come and open your present.” He went past her and set the wooden crate in the center of her sitting-room rug. “Hurry, this present won’t wait.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. She sidled closer, holding her hands together under her chin. “Is it really a present?”
“Yes. It’s a gigantic hat; Miss Carter and Miss Vanstone and I have been working on it for days.” He laughed when her eyes went wide as saucers: she’d actually believed him for a second. Well, why not? He’d never told her a joke before. “No, it’s not, you goose. Hurry and open it, will you?” Before it opens itself.
She came closer. “What could it be?” she wondered, running her hand along the top of the box. Just then a snuffling sound came from within. “Oh,” she said, and snatched her hand away. “It’s alive!” Sebastian made a face, as if to say, Who knows?
A small hook around a nail head was all that was keeping the lid down. She flicked it open with her finger and lifted the hinged top carefully, half an inch at a time. Before the dark gap was two inches wide, a nose and then a head poked through, then two yellow paws, and finally the writhing, wriggling body of the whole excited puppy, leaping out with a graceless but effective bound and landing on the floor at her feet.
“Oh, it’s a dog,” she cried softly, and immediately sat down on the floor beside it.
Sebastian knelt beside her. “I thought you might like to have it.”
“Ohh,” was all she could say as she s
troked the animal’s soft sides and let it sniff at her and lick her cheek.
“I told Holyoake to ask among the tenants and see if he could find one. I told him there was only one criterion—it had to be a yellow dog.”
She lifted her head from the puppy’s to look at him. He’d had reservations about the wisdom of this gift, but the expression on her face told him his idea was perfect. Inspired. “Oh, Sebastian.” She shook her head at him, at a loss. He wanted to kiss her, but the dog got in the way and kissed her first. “What’s his name? Is it a he? Where will I keep him? Oh, it’s a beautiful dog.”
It was hardly that. Halfway between a puppy and an adult, it was a gawky adolescent dog, vaguely retriever-ish, with something else thrown in, something too immature yet for precise identification. Hound? Terrier? Only time would tell. “Yes, it’s a male. He may have a name, but William didn’t catch it. He’s yours now, Rachel, if you want him.”
“Oh, yes, I want him. My brother had a dog when we were little,” she confided. “They gave me a cat, but I always liked the dog better.”
They sat on the floor together while the puppy began to explore the room. Sebastian watched her while she watched the dog, and her delight was his dazzling reward for a moment’s thoughtfulness. She was beautiful. She had on her black dress today, and even though he’d grown fond of it in a way, as one grows fond of anything one associates with a lover, a sweetheart, he had hopes that he was seeing it for the last time. He’d ordered new gowns for her from a dressmaker in Exeter, and with any luck they’d begin to arrive this week.
“A name,” she said consideringly, following the dog’s antic explorations with her shining eyes. She leaned her shoulder against his. “Since he’s a yellow dog, we could call him Amber. Is that too feminine?”
“Definitely.”
“Mmm. What about Apricot?”
Sebastian snorted and made a face.
“I know—Buttercup.”
Now she was teasing him, and the novelty was enchanting. “If you name this dog Buttercup, I swear I’ll take him back from whence he came.”
The puppy found its way back to them and began to play a game of tug with the handkerchief Rachel whipped out of her pocket. “I’ve got it. Dandelion. No, listen,” she insisted when he started to quibble, “he could be ‘Dandelion,’ but we’d call him ‘Dandy.’ That’s all right, isn’t it? Dandy!” The pup’s ears went up at that, no question about it, and Rachel sent Sebastian a look of triumph.
He was besotted. “He’s your dog; name him Powder Puff for all I care. You can keep him here if you like, although you’d have to house-train him. Or he could sleep in the stables with Collie and the lads. No telling how big he’s going to get. Shall we take him for a walk?”
“Now?”
“Why not?”
She took some persuading; she still had work to do, she said, and a meeting with Judelet later to discuss the kitchen staff’s shortcomings. Sebastian overruled her halfhearted objections, and a few minutes later they were strolling through the gatehouse arch, with Dandy at their heels.
They stopped on the bridge to watch the sun sparkle on the chattering river and to look at the house. “Do you think Lynton Hall is ugly?” Sebastian asked conversationally. He could hardly remember his own first impression of it anymore; it was simply Lynton to him now, the house where he lived.
“Oh, no, I think it’s very handsome. It has a few flaws, but I think it carries them with great dignity. And it doesn’t take itself too seriously, does it?”
He smiled, thinking of the ridicule Sully and the others had heaped on it. Rachel was right and they were wrong, because she was a better person. She saw more clearly, not only with her shrewd eyes but with her tolerant heart.
“I thought I’d have that chimney fixed,” he mentioned, pointing. “And new slates put on the eaves where the rain’s been washing in. Holyoake says it’s been washing in for about a hundred years.”
She looked at him quizzically. She was probably thinking it was odd that he was the one breaking a hundred-year-old tradition of neglect. He couldn’t account for it himself. “What’s your house like in Rye?” she asked as they started to walk again.
“It’s called Steyne Court. It’s huge, colossal, a great beast of a house. I’ve always hated it.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know. It swallowed me up when I was a child. It has all the warmth of a memorial to the war dead.”
“But you’ll go to live there, won’t you, once you inherit your father’s title?”
“Yes, I suppose, for a primary residence. Most of the time I expect to be in London. What else? It’s what one does.” Frowning, he picked up a stick and flung it into the path ahead of them for the dog to chase. They went along for a while without speaking. “Do you ride?”
She smiled and shook her head.
“I’ll teach you. I know the horse who would suit, a mare called Molly, gentle as a lamb. Are you game?” The prospect intrigued him.
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you afraid of horses?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“What, then? I promise you’d enjoy yourself.”
She shook her head again, smiling, keeping her eyes down.
He let it pass. For the first time it dawned on him that she might not want their affair carried on in public. Of course; that must be it. He felt like slapping his forehead. For a man who prided himself on his understanding of women, he’d been remarkably slow where this one was concerned. But he would do better. When all his faculties were engaged, there was no sharper student of the feminine mind than Sebastian Verlaine. He really believed it.
They’d come to the far reaches of an abandoned canal, a tributary of the Plym, used ten or twenty years ago for transporting goods up from Devonport and Plymouth to the moorland towns. “Is this your land?” Rachel asked, and he nodded. “And your cows?” She pointed to a lazy huddle of fawn-colored Jerseys, idling under a tree in the near field. While they watched, the cows began to lumber toward them, curious, phlegmatically craving a diversion. The low stone wall forty feet away kept them at a respectful distance. Dandy, who had been snuffling in the weed-choked canal water, jumped a foot in the air when he saw them. After one brave yip, clearly counterfeit, he made a dash for Rachel and dived behind her skirts.
“I knew we should’ve named him Buttercup,” she joked, petting the excited dog to calm him.
“Ingrate. He’s known me longer—ten minutes at least—but he comes to you for protection.”
“If you wore skirts,” she said consolingly, “I’m sure he would come to you. And don’t forget, you put him in a box and I let him out of it. He’s a very smart dog; he knows who his friends are.”
They sat down on a fallen beech tree not far from the river and contemplated the stagnant water, the piercing blue of the sky, the wildflowers blooming along the riverbank. “I used to dream of flowers,” Rachel told him presently. “Sometimes I could close my eyes and pretend that my cell was a greenhouse.” She smiled wryly. “Quite an imaginative feat, but I had a lot of time to practice. I’d picture myself watering and pruning with the hot sun streaming through the glass. Pulling up weeds. Digging with my hands in the clean soil.”
He took one of her hands from her lap and kissed it. She smiled and shook her head slightly, telling him not to feel sorry for her. But pity wasn’t the emotion he felt. “That’s over. All that bleakness—it’s finished.”
She bowed her head. “Yes, of course. I know that.”
“No, I don’t think you do. But you will.” He smiled, to lessen the solemnity; that had almost sounded like a threat, and he’d meant it as a vow. “They sent you to an early grave, Rachel, but I’m going to dig you out of it and resurrect you. Revive you.”
She looked at him strangely. “I’m not sure anyone can do that.” I can.
He noted the double negative, but he didn’t worry about it. He had two immediate goals: to make her laugh and to make her come. He thought of telling her, but decided it would make her too self-conscious. Might even inhibit her, slow down the inevitable. But that both goals would eventually be realized, he hadn’t the slightest doubt.
The summer sun dipped behind the oak trees at their back; a fresh breeze had sprung up from the south, bearing the faint, barely noticeable odor of the sea. Rachel stood up and began to pick the moon daisies that grew in patches alongside the canal. He watched her for a while, admiring her slow, effortless grace. Dandy brought him a stick. He threw it over and over, at lengthening distances, until the puppy began to flag and finally collapsed, with only enough strength left to chew the stick.
Rachel wandered back, resuming her place beside him on the log. She was easy with silence, easier than he was; certainly she was more used to it. He could make her smile now, but her eyes were always sad. He put his arm around her, and she relaxed against him, taking back one of the flowers from the bouquet she’d given him and holding it to her nose.
“How did it begin?” he heard himself ask. “Why did you marry your husband? Tell me about the girl in the photograph.”
“Oh,” she murmured. “That girl.” She took two more flowers from him and began to plait the long stems together. “I look at her sometimes and wonder who she was, what became of her. As if she were an old acquaintance I can barely remember.”
“Tell me about your life before you went to prison.”
“What would you like to know?”
Everything, he thought. “Were you happy when you were a child?”
“Yes,” she answered, but not very forcefully. “But I was very shy. And spoiled, I’m sure. My mother always told me I was beautiful, that I was destined for great things. Great things,” she repeated, her voice full of melancholy. “She had such high hopes for me. I never felt I was doing enough to live up to her expectations.”