"This evening, if you like, we can sit in the library," he said hesitantly. "I've some letters to write, but if you don't think you'll be bored…"
"I won't be." She was almost embarrassed at the transparent happiness in her voice. "I'll see you at dinner." This evening would be the first step, and eventually there would be others. She wasn't sure exactly where the path would lead, but she knew that it was one she must follow.
The meal was the most lighthearted they had yet shared. Falconer wondered if his wife was looking forward to spending the evening together as much as he was, then decided that that was impossible. Still, she was happier than he had ever seen her. Though he hadn't realized until now, when the difference was obvious, she had been growing increasingly quiet, her characteristic glow muted. He reminded himself that even self-contained young women who enjoyed solitude needed some companionship, and for Ariel, he was what was available. He would not take her desire to see more of him too personally—but that didn't mean that he couldn't enjoy it.
They went into the library for coffee, still talking, tangible warmth between them. Falconer was careful not to strain that fragile web of feeling, for he wanted it to grow stronger.
She took a chair and gracefully poured coffee from a silver pot. Garbed in a blue silk gown, she looked especially lovely tonight, her delicate coloring as fresh as spring flowers. As she handed him his cup, she said, "Today I got a letter from my former governess, Anna. Have I ever told you about her?"
When he answered in the negative, Ariel continued, "After leaving Gardsley, she found a position teaching the two daughters of a widower who lives in Hampstead, just north of London."
He stirred milk into his coffee. "Is the man intellectual or artistic, like so many of those who live in Hampstead?"
She laughed. "So he is. Mr. Talbott designs fabrics and furniture for industrial manufacture and is quite successful with it. He also has the good sense to appreciate Anna. In fact, they married on the same day we did. They went to Italy for a honeymoon and have only just gotten back. Anna apologized for not writing but said that she's been so busy and happy that she didn't quite realize how much time had gone by. She has invited us to visit her in Hampstead—the house is very large." Ariel looked shyly over her coffee cup. "Would you be willing to do that sometime? You'll like Anna, and Mr. Talbott sounds like a wonderful man."
Falconer frowned, but he didn't want to spoil the mood of the evening. "Perhaps someday," he said vaguely.
Ariel regarded him thoughtfully, then changed the subject. They talked of other things until the coffee was gone. Then she stood. Falconer feared that she had changed her mind and was going to go upstairs until she said, "I'll read while you do your letter writing." She gave him a bright, slightly nervous smile. "I don't want to distract you from your work."
When she was this close, it was hard to think of letters, but obediently he went to his desk and started writing. He had a large and varied correspondence, for letters were a way to be involved with people without having to meet them face-to-face.
Cerberus was pleasantly befuddled by having them both in the room and wandered back and forth, flopping first by Falconer, then ambling to the chair where Ariel was reading. Tripod was lazier and simply curled up on the desk on top of a pile of notepaper. Falconer could not remember when he had been happier. The library, with its deep, leather-upholstered furniture, had always been his favorite room, and having Ariel's presence made paradise itself seem inferior.
But the evening became even better. Hearing a sound beside him, he absently put his left hand down to ruffle the dog's ears. Instead, he touched silken hair. Glancing down, he saw his wife curled up against his chair. "Ariel?" he said, startled.
She glanced up, both teasing and apologetic. "Cerberus enjoys having his head scratched, so I thought I'd try it." Her smile faded. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have disturbed you."
"No need to apologize." He turned his head away so that she couldn't see under the cowl. "I'm ready for a break." As if they had a life of their own, his fingers twined through her shining tresses. He had thought his scarred fingers had little sensation, but now he would swear that he could feel each gossamer strand separately.
With a soft, pleased sigh she relaxed against the side of his chair. For perhaps a quarter of an hour they stayed like that while he stroked her head, slender neck, and delicate ears. As he did, joy bubbled through him like a fountain of light, and his mind rang with the words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's famous sonnet. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…
For he did love this exquisite girl who was his wife. On their wedding day, when she had expressed her dislike of being courted solely for her beauty, he had felt ashamed, for he could not help but be bewitched by her loveliness. Yet even that first moment, when the sight of her had been like an arrow in his heart, he had sensed that her beauty was even more of the spirit than of the body.
The idyll ended when Tripod, deciding that she needed attention, suddenly jumped down into Ariel's lap. Ariel laughed and straightened up. Falconer started to withdraw his hand, but before he could, she caught his fingers. Then she very deliberately laid her cheek against the back of his hand.
Her skin was porcelain smooth against the coarse scars that crippled his two smallest fingers and made the rest of his hand hideous. Yet she did not flinch. He began to tremble as waves of sensation pulsed through him, beginning in his fingers and spreading until every cell of his body vibrated. For the first time he wondered if it might be possible for them to have a real marriage. She did not seem repulsed by the scars on his hand; was there a chance that she might be able to tolerate the rest of him?
The thought was as frightening as it was exhilarating. His emotions too chaotic to control, he got to his feet, then raised her to hers. Hoarsely he said, "It's time for bed. But perhaps in the morning, you might join me for a ride?"
Her smile was breathtaking. "I'd like that."
He turned out the lights, then escorted her upstairs to her room, the animals trailing along behind. At her door she turned to him. "Good night, James," she said in a soft, husky voice. "Sleep well."
In the faint light of the hall, she looked eager and accessible, her lips slightly parted, her hair delectably disheveled from his earlier petting. Instinct told him that she would welcome a kiss, and perhaps more. But she was so beautiful that he couldn't bring himself to touch her.
"Good night, Ariel." He turned and walked away, feeling so brittle that a touch might shatter him. The idea that they might build a real marriage was too new, too frightening, to act on. He might be misinterpreting her willingness. Or, unspeakable thought, she might believe herself willing but change her mind when she saw him. One thing he knew: if she rejected him after he had begun to hope, he would be unable to endure it.
Ariel went to bed in a state of jubilation. He had been happy to have her with him, she knew it. He hadn't even minded when she had foolishly succumbed to her desire to come closer. Best of all, he wanted her to ride with him. Perhaps they might spend all day together. And perhaps even the night… ?
The idea filled her with blushing excitement. She was unclear what happened in a marriage bed, but knew that holding and kissing were involved, and she definitely liked those things; she still tingled from the gentle fire of his touch.
If intimacy began with a kiss, in what exciting place might it end?
Her fevered emotions made it impossible for her to sleep. Finally her tossing and turning elicited a growl of protest from Tripod, who needed her twenty hours of sleep every day. Ariel surrendered and got out of bed. As she lit the lamp on her desk, she decided that the best use of her high spirits was to answer Anna's letter, for she was now in the same elevated mood that her friend had been.
Her stationery drawer contained only two sheets of notepaper, which wouldn't be enough. She must get more from the library. Humming softly, she donned her robe, then took the lamp and went downstairs. The shifting shadows made her think of g
hosts, but if there were any about, they would surely be benevolent ones. She must ask James about Belleterre's ghosts; any building so old must have at least three or four.
With ghosts on her mind Ariel opened the library door, then blinked with surprise. In the far corner of the room, framed by dark shelves of books, floated an object that looked horribly like a skull. She gave a sharp, shocked cry.
A flurry of sounds and movements occurred, too quick and confusing for Ariel to follow. The object whirled away, accompanied by a soft, anguished exclamation. Almost simultaneously there came a thump, a swish of fabric, then a resounding slam of the door at the far end of the library.
Shaken and alone, Ariel knew with a certainty beyond reason that something catastrophic had just occurred. She raggedly expelled the breath she had been holding, then walked to the far corner of the room. A low lamp burned on a table; that was how she had seen… whatever it was that she had seen. A book lay open on the floor, and she knelt to pick it up—Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets from the Portugese.
Dear God, the other occupant of the library must have been James with his hood down. She tried to recall the fleeting image that had met her eyes when she had entered the room, but try as she might, she could remember no details. The floating object had been the right height for his head; the skull-like whiteness must have been his hair, pale blond like hers, or perhaps prematurely white. Covered by his dark robe, the rest of his body had been invisible in the dark, which had made the sight of him so uncanny.
With sick horror she guessed that he had dropped the book and fled because of her shocked exclamation. She leaned dizzily against the bookcase, the volume of poetry clutched to her chest. He must have thought she was reacting to his appearance with disgust. But she hadn't even really seen him! She had simply had ghosts on the mind, then been disconcerted when she saw something ghostly. But to James, who was so profoundly ashamed of his appearance, it must have seemed as if she had found him repulsive. He would not have fled like that, without a word, if he hadn't been deeply wounded.
Anguished, she realized that this was what the servants had feared. She had the power to hurt her husband, and unintentionally she had done so. He must ache all the more because they had been starting to draw closer together; certainly that fact magnified her own pain.
Determined to explain to him that it had all been a ghastly mistake, she turned out the light he had left, then lifted her own lamp and went upstairs to his rooms. She hesitated outside the door, for she had never been inside and to enter uninvited was an invasion of the privacy that he wrapped around himself as securely as his cowl. But she couldn't allow the misunderstanding to go uncorrected. The pain in her heart was well-nigh unbearable, and he must hurt even more.
She turned the knob to his sitting room, and the door swung smoothly inward, but there was no one inside. Swiftly she searched the sitting room and the bedroom next door. Nothing but solid, masculine furniture and richly colored fabrics. She opened the last door and found herself in his dressing room, but he was not there, either. She was about to leave when her eye was caught by a small, framed picture.
She was startled to see that it was one of her own drawings, but not one she had done since coming to Belleterre. Frowning, she examined it more closely. It was a sketch of her favorite oak tree at Gardsley, and it had been done in springtime. The paper had been crumpled, then flattened, and some of the charcoal lines were a bit blurred. Realizing that it was a drawing that she had discarded, she cast her mind back to when she must have sketched this particular subject. It had been the day that she had first seen James, when he had visited her father. He must have found the drawing then.
She touched the elaborate gilded frame, which was far more costly than the sketch deserved. No one would frame such a drawing for its own sake, so it must have been for the sake of the artist. She felt incipient tears behind her eyes. Yes, he must care for her, little though she deserved such regard.
Swallowing hard, she withdrew and quietly searched the public areas of the house, stopping when she discovered that the French doors in the drawing room were unlatched. The housekeeper would never have permitted such laxity, so James must have gone outside this way.
He could be anywhere. She refused to believe that he would harm himself—the incident in the library couldn't have been that upsetting—so soon he would come home. Determined to wait up for him, she returned to his rooms and curled up on the sofa with a knee rug around her. But in spite of her intention to stay awake, eventually fatigue overcame her.
She was awakened by his return, even though he made no sound. Her head jerked up from the sofa, and she stared at her husband. His hood was firmly in place, and he was so still that she could tell nothing of his mood. Her lamp was guttering, but outside the sky was starting to lighten.
Quietly he said, "You should be in bed, Ariel."
She drew a shaky breath and went straight to the heart of the matter. "James, what happened in the library—nothing happened. I didn't see you, just unexpected movement. That's why I was surprised."
She was still fumbling for words when he raised one hand, cutting her off with his gesture. "Of course nothing happened," he agreed in an utterly dispassionate voice. After a pause he continued, "It occurred to me that since you've been lonely, perhaps you should visit your friend Anna for a few weeks."
Ariel rose from the sofa, the knee rug clutched around her. "Don't send me away, James," she begged. "You don't understand."
As if she hadn't spoken, he said, "You'll like Hampstead—close enough to London to be interesting, far enough away to be quiet. Send Mrs. Talbott a note today and see if it's convenient for you to come." He stepped to one side, holding the door open in an unmistakable invitation to leave. "You might as well go. With winter coming there's much to be done around the estate and I won't have much time for you. I don't want you to be bored, so it will be best if you visit your friend."
Chilled by his manner, she repeated desperately, "James, you don't understand!"
His robe quivered faintly. "What is there to understand?" he asked, still in that soft, implacable voice.
Defeated, she walked to the door. She paused a moment when she was closest to him, wondering if she should take his hand, if touch might convince him where words couldn't.
Sharply, as if reading her mind, he said, "Don't."
A moment later she was in the hall outside and his door had been firmly shut behind her. Numbly she pulled the knee rug around her shivering body and walked down the long passage to her own rooms. Perhaps she should do what he suggested. Not only would she benefit from Anna's warm good sense, but if she was gone for a fortnight or so, it would give her husband time to recover from the unintentional hurt she had inflicted. When she returned, he would be more open to her explanation. Then they could begin again. After all, the incident had been so trivial.
She refused to believe that he might not recover from it.
Talbott House, Hampstead
October 20th
Dear James,
Just a note to tell you that I've arrived safely. It's wonderful to see Anna again, she is positively blooming. Mr. Talbott is a broad, merry elf who is everything hospitable. He makes wonderful toys for the children. I had wondered if his daughters might resent the fact that Anna went from being their governess to their mother, but they adore her. Apparently their own mother died when they were very young.
I'll finish this now so that it can go out in the next post, but I'll write a longer letter tonight.
Your loving wife,
Ariel
Talbott House, Hampstead
November 10th
Dear James,
You were certainly right about Hampstead. It's a charming place, full of interesting people. Not at all like the ghastly society sorts that I met during my Season.
Remember the letter I wrote where I wondered who owned Hampstead Heath? I've since been told that the gentleman who held the manorial rights to the h
eath recently sold them to the Metropolitan Board of Works so that the area will be preserved for public use forever. I was glad to learn that, for people need places like the heath. Walking there reminds me a bit of Belleterre, though of course not so quiet and lovely.
Last night we dined with a young literary gentlemen, a Mr. Glades. He is something of a radical, for he teased me about being Lady Falconer. He's very clever—almost as much so as you—but his mind is less open, I think.
I know you must be terribly busy, but if you found time to scribble a note to tell me how you are, I would much appreciate it. Of course, soon I'll be home myself, so you needn't go to any special bother.
Your loving wife,
Ariel
Belleterre
November 20th
My dear Ariel,
No need to rush back. I'm very busy doing a survey of improvements needed on the tenant farms. My regards to your amiable host and hostess.
Falconer
Talbott House, Hampstead
December 1st
Dear James,
Last week, to amuse the girls, I made some sketches illustrating the story of Dick Whittington's cat. Without my knowing, Mr. Talbott showed them to a publisher friend of his, a Mr. Howard, and now the fellow wants me to illustrate a children's book for him! He says my drawings are "magical," which sounds very nice, though I don't know quite what he means by it. While I'm flattered by his offer, I don't know whether I should accept. Would you object to having your wife involved in a commercial venture? If you don't like the idea, of course I shan't do it.
Almost time for tea—I'll add to this later tonight,
I miss you very much.
Your loving wife,
Ariel
Belleterre
December 3rd