Anne Perry - Defend and Betray

Then his eyes went to the backs of the chairs and he felt a wild lurch of familiarity clutch at him and his muscles tightened convulsively. The antimacassars were embroidered with a design of white heather and purple ribbons. He knew every stitch of it, every bell of the flowers and curl of scroll.

It was absurd. He already knew that this was the woman. He knew it from what Markham had told him. He did not need this wrench of the emotional memory to confirm it. And yet this was knowledge of quite a different nature, not expectation but feeling. It was what he had come for-at last.

There was a quick, light step outside the door and the handle turned.

He almost choked on his own breath.

She came in. There was never any doubt it was her. From the crown of her head, with its softly curling fair hair; her honey-brown eyes, wide-set, long-lashed; her full, delicate lips; her slender figure; she was completely familiar.

When she saw him her recognition was instant also. The color drained out of her skin, leaving her ashen, then it flooded back in a rich blush.

“William!” She gasped, then collected her own wits and closed the door behind her. “William-what on earth are you doing here? I didnt think I should ever-I mean-that we should meet again.” She came towards him very slowly, her eyes searching his face.

He wanted to speak, but suddenly he had no idea what to say. All sorts of emotions crowded inside him: relief because she was so exactly what all his memories told him, all the gentleness, the beauty, the intelligence were there; fear now that the moment of testing was here and there was no more time to prepare. What did she think of him, what were her feelings, why had he ever left her? Incredulity at himself.

How little he knew the man he used to be. Why had he gone? Selfishness, unwillingness to commit himself to a wife and possibly a family? Cowardice? Surely not that-selfishness, pride, he could believe. That was the man he was discovering.

“William?” Now she was even more deeply puzzled. She did not understand silence from him. “William, what has happened?”

He did not know how to explain. He could not say, I have found you again, but I cannot remember why I ever lost you!

“I-I wanted to see how you are,” he said. It sounded weak, but he could think of nothing better.

“I-I am well. And you?” She was still confused. “What brings you to…? Another case?”

“No-no.” He swallowed. “I came to see you.”

“Why?”

“Why!” The question seemed preposterous. Because he loved her. Because he should never have left. Because she was all the gentleness, the patience, the generosity, the peace that was the better side of him, and he longed for it as a drowning man for air. How did she not know that? “Her-mione!” The need burst from him with the passion he had been trying to suppress, violent and explosive.

She backed away, her face pale again, her hands moving up to her bosom.

“William! Please…”

Suddenly he felt sick. Had he asked her before, told her his feelings, and she had rejected him? Had he forgotten that, because it was too painful-and only remembered that he loved her, not that she did not love him?

He stood motionless, overcome with misery and appalling, desolating loneliness.

“William, you promised,” she said almost under her breath, looking not at him but at the floor. “I can't. I told you before-you frighten me. I don't feel that-I can't. I don't want to. I don't want to care so much about anything, or anyone. You work too hard, you get too angry, too involved in other people's tragedies or injustices. You fight too hard for what you want, you are prepared to pay more than I-for anything. And you hurt too much if you lose.” She gulped and looked up, her eyes full of pleading. “I don't want to feel all that. It frightens me. I don't like it. You frighten me. I don't love that way-and I don't want you to love me like that-I can't live up to it-and I would hate trying to. I want…” She bit her lip. “I want peace-I want to be comfortable.”

Comfortable! God Almighty!

“William? Don't be angry-I can't help it-I told you all that before. I thought you understood. Why have you come back? You'll only upset things. I'm married to Gerald now, and he's good to me. But I don't think he would care for you coming back. He's grateful you proved my innocence, of course he is-” She was speaking even more rapidly now, and he knew she was afraid. “And of course I shall never cease to be grateful. You saved my life-and my reputation- I know that. But please-I just can't…” She stopped, dismayed by his silence, not knowing what else to add.

For the sake of his own dignity, some salve to his self-respect, he must assure her he would go quietly, not cause her any embarrassment. There was no purpose whatever in staying anyway. It was all too obvious why he had left in the first place. She had no passion to match his. She was a beautiful vessel, gentle at least outwardly, but it was born from fear of unpleasantness, not of compassion, such as a deeper woman might have felt-but she was a shallower vessel than he, incapable of answering him. She wanted to be comfortable; there was something innately selfish in her.

“I am glad you are happy,” he said, his voice dry, catching in his throat. “There is no need to be frightened. I shall not stay. I came across from Guildford. I have to be in London tomorrow morning anyway-a big trial. She-the woman accused-made me think of you. I wanted to see you-know how you are. Now I do; it is enough.”

“Thank you.” The relief flooded her face. “I-I would rather Gerald did not know you were here. He-he wouldn't like it.”

“Then don't tell him,” he said simply. “And if the maid mentions it, I was merely an old friend, calling by to enquire after your health, and to wish you happiness.”

“I am well-and happy. Thank you, William.” Now she was embarrassed. Perhaps she realized how shallow she sounded; but it was at least past, and she had no intention of apologizing for it or trying to ameliorate its truth.

Nor did she offer him refreshment. She wanted him to leave before her husband returned from wherever he was- perhaps church.

There was nothing of any dignity or worth to be gained by remaining-only a petty selfishness, a desire for a small revenge, and he would despise it afterwards.

“Then I shall walk to the station and catch the next train towards London.” He went to the door, and she opened it for him hastily, thanking him once again.

He bade her good-bye and two minutes later was walking along the lane under die trees with the wind-swung leaves dancing across the sunlight, birds singing. Here and there was a splash of white hawthorn blossom in the hedges, its perfume so sweet in the air that quite suddenly it brought him close to unexpected tears, not of self-pity because he had lost a love, but because what he had truly hungered for with such terrible depth had never existed-not in her. He had painted on her lovely face and gentle manner a mask of what he longed for-which was every bit as unfair to her as it was to him.

He blinked, and quickened his pace. He was a hard man, often cruel, demanding, brilliant, unflinching from labor or truth-at least he had been-but by God he had courage. And with all the changes he meant to wreak in himself, that at least he would never change.

Hester spent Sunday, with Edith's unintentional help, visiting Damaris. This time she did not see Randolph or Felicia Carlyon, but went instead to the gate and the door of the wing where Damaris and Peverell lived and, when they chose, had a certain amount of privacy. She had nothing to say to Felicia, and would be grateful not to be faced with the duty of having to try to find something civil and noncommittal to fill the silences there would inevitably be. And she also felt a trifle guilty for what she intended to do, and what she knew it would cost them.