Oh, dear.

  And then she heard the unmistakable sounds of someone approaching. She tensed though she did not move. No one ever came here. Not at this time of day especially. She did not want to be disturbed. She had so little time to herself. Perhaps it was one of the gardeners come to cut the grass around the pond. Perhaps he would go away again when he saw her. She was not one of the great personages of the house, but then she was not a servant, either.

  The footsteps stopped. “Ah,” a voice said. “Little birds who fly down from their branches are in danger of being devoured, you know. Big bad wolves—or more probably sleek stealthy cats—are likely to creep up on them unawares and pounce on them.”

  Her heart performed a painful somersault, and she wished she had gone to the lake or to the hill—anywhere but the lily pond. “If I were you,” she said, not moving, “I would not apply for the position of big bad wolf or sleek stealthy cat. You would starve. I believe that on your way here you stepped on every twig that was available to step upon and brushed against every branch that could be brushed against.”

  “Did I?” He chuckled. “But you did not fly up to the safety of your branch, little bird?”

  Her head was turned away from him, but she could hear that he was seating himself on the grass beside her.

  “So that you might order me down and lift me to the ground again?” she said. “No, thank you, sir. When a pleasure has been tasted once, it quite loses its savor.”

  “What an alarming thought,” he said. “What are you doing up and out so early?”

  “Seeking a solitary hour at the lily pond,” she said. “Vainly seeking, that is. And you, sir? Has Mrs. Delaney tired of being worshiped? Or is it Lady Myron? And has not Flossie yet appeared to perform any of her morning duties?”

  “I see that your tongue and a whetstone have been no strangers to each other’s company during the past two days,” he said. “Would you not agree that despite my nocturnal adventures I have been behaving with faultless gallantry to my intended and her mother? Come, you must admit that.”

  “Where I was brought up,” she said, “we were taught that it is a sin to lie. I do not know where a hot enough corner of hell will be found for you when you die, sir.”

  “I prefer not to dwell upon the prospect at the moment, thank you,” he said. “But come, Miss Mangan, would this not be a dreadful world and would not gallantry die an ignominious death if we all spoke the truth without fail?”

  She smiled, but he could not see her expression since her face was still turned away from him.

  “Well, that at least has silenced you,” he said. “Just picture it, my little bird. ‘Madam, you are plain and totally lacking in any shape that might be called feminine. Silks and muslins appear lusterless when hung on your person. Looking at you is a pain only intensified when you open your mouth and speak. Madam, would you dance with me?’ or ‘Madam, would you care to shed your clothes and jump into bed with me? You appear to have been formed expressly for the purpose of satisfying my lust.’ Would I gain myself a place in heaven and a golden harp to play upon if I spoke thus honestly to a lady?”

  “Your lack of tact would doubtless make it impossible for you to indulge in any other sin,” she said. “No woman would allow you within a five-mile radius of her. You might well find yourself living a spotless existence, sir.”

  “Ugh!” he said.

  She could resist no longer. She still wished herself a million miles away, but he was close by. She could tell that by his voice. He was sitting very close to her. She turned her head to rest the other cheek on her knees, and gazed at him. He was wearing a dark cloak. He was bareheaded. He was sprawled on the grass beside her, propped on one elbow. And his eyes were laughing at her. She remembered then what it was that had caused her great stupidity in the first place. It had happened when he had smiled and laughed at her. Nobody ever smiled at her these days.

  “Little bird,” he said, “your eyes are too big for your face.”

  “Am I to thank you for your honesty?” she asked.

  “If you wish.” He grinned. “The thought has just struck me. Did you have a tryst here? Is there some burly and impatient swain hiding in the bushes waiting for me to make myself scarce?”

  “There are probably half a dozen of them,” she said. “But no matter. They will all come back tomorrow. It is my eyes, you see. They slay men by the dozens.”

  “Mrs. Peabody is choosing you a husband,” he said. “Is he chosen yet, little bird?”

  She thought she detected mockery in his voice. “Yes,” she said. “He is a tenant farmer. A prosperous farmer,” she added, emphasizing the adjective.

  “Is he?” He plucked a blade of grass and set it between his teeth. “And ruddy and rotund and sixty years of age?”

  “He is handsome and slender and only two years my senior,” she said.

  He smiled slowly at her. “And how old is that?” he asked. “Twenty-three? Twenty-four? And already a prosperous tenant farmer? He is an industrious man, or a fortunate one.”

  “His father died young,” she said, “and left him everything.”

  “Ah.” He chuckled. “I have heard that even the coolest corner of hell is a mite uncomfortable, little bird.”

  “You will never know, will you?” she said. “You are going to turn virtuous and spend your time on useful accomplishments, like practicing the harp.”

  He chuckled again and stretched out on the ground, one arm behind his head. With the other hand he reached out to touch her arm and ran it down to her elbow and then down to her wrist, which he encircled so that he could draw her arm away from her knees and down to the ground. He clasped her hand firmly and closed his eyes.

  “I am weary,” he said. “And don’t tell me that you know the cause, little bird, and that I deserve to be. One day, when you are married to your young and virile tenant farmer—your prosperous farmer—you will discover that the cause of the weariness can be worth every sleepless moment. Talk to me. Tell me about your life at the parsonage. At a guess I would say you were happy there. Were you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

  He opened his eyes and turned his head to look up at her. “Tell me about it, then,” he said. “Tell me about all the sinners you led back into the fold. I am sure there were many of them. You would have scolded them with your sharp tongue and made them stubborn, and then you would have gazed at them with those too-large sorrowful eyes and melted away all their resistance. Is that how you did it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Every Sunday morning before service all of Papa’s parishioners had to file past me outside the church and gaze into my eyes for thirty seconds each. The church was always full of weeping penitents afterward.”

  He chuckled and squeezed her hand. “Tell me,” he said. “Who was Patricia Mangan before she came here?”

  She was the much adored only child of parents who had both been in their forties when they were blessed with her, as they had always put it. They had been married for almost twenty years before she came along. Her father had always likened himself and her mother to the biblical Abraham and Sarah. She had played a great deal, both alone with her imagination and with the other village children, and had gone to school with them to be taught by her father, the schoolmaster. But there had been work too—household chores set her by her mother, parish chores set her by her father. She had never been idle.

  She had never really thought about her happiness until everything came crashing to an end. She had not been conscious at the time that she was living through an idyll. It had seemed to her a normal, plodding, unexciting type of existence if she ever thought of it. She rarely did. She had just lived it.

  And then when she was seventeen Patrick had been killed in Spain.

  “Who was Patrick?”

  She had been hardly aware that she was talking aloud, that she had an audience. Patrick was the younger son of a gentleman who lived in a small manor outside the village. He had gone to the wars as a young ensign and been killed in his first battle. Patrick had been her childhood sweetheart, the boy she had loved. They were going to be married when he came home, a great hero. In her naivete she had not really considered the strong possibility of his dying.

  But she had learned a swift and thorough lesson about death. Her mother had died less than a year later of a fever, and her father of a chill a year after that. At one moment it had seemed that she had everything—everything to bring her contentment and a continuation of the world as she knew it. And at the next it had seemed that she had nothing. Though that was not true, of course. She must not complain. Her father had had a sister who had done very well for herself by marrying Mr. Peabody, a prosperous gentleman. Patricia had been offered a home with them.

  “Little bird,” Mr. Bancroft said, first squeezing her hand again and then lifting it to his lips. “I am sorry. Life often seems a very unfair business, does it not?”

  “Not to me,” she said untruthfully. “Many women who are left destitute are forced to sell themselves, sir. I have not been brought that low.”

  “And there is always your future with your lusty farmer to look forward to,” he said. “Tell me about your future. What will constitute a happy life to you?”

  A husband and a home. A gentle and a kindly man. A good friend and companion. She did not care about good looks or social prominence or unusual physical strength or intelligence. Just an ordinary, honest, constant man.

  “A rake would not do you, then?” he asked.

  No, certainly not a rake. Someone she could depend upon. And a home of her own. It would not have to be very large or very grand or even very lavishly furnished. Just so that it was her own with a garden for her flowers and vegetables, and perhaps a few chickens. Oh, and dogs and cats. And children of her own. More than one of it was possible. Loneliness could be hard on children even when there were loving parents and plenty of village children to play with. Children should have brothers and sisters if it was at all possible. And she wanted to hold babies in her arms. Her own babies.

  Nothing else really. She did not crave wild adventure or excitement in her life. Only contentment. She would wish too that her husband would live long, that he would outlive her—and that she would not lose any of her children in infancy, as so many women did.

  It was not a very ambitious dream. But it was as far beyond her as the sun and stars. She was not speaking aloud now. It was an impossible dream. Her aunt would never let her go. She was too useful. And she had no dowry. And no beauty. Perhaps if she went away and tried to find employment ... But as what? A governess? A housekeeper? A lady’s companion? She was a lady’s companion already. None of those types of employment, even if she could find any without any experience or recommendations, would find her a husband.

  If only Patrick had not dreamed of the glory of being a soldier. But that was long in the past. He had become a soldier and he had gone to war and he had been killed. There was no point in indulging in if-onlys.

  Mr. Bancroft was sleeping, she realized suddenly. His hold on her hand had loosened, and his breathing was deep and even. His head was turned toward her.

  He was so very beautiful. She let her eyes roam over his perfect features, over his thick, dark hair. Patrick had been blond. The folds of his cloak hid the shape of his body, but she knew that he was both slender and muscular, that a broad chest tapered to narrow waist and hips. One of his legs, encased in pantaloons and Hessian boot, was raised at the knee and free of his cloak. She could see his thigh muscles through the tight fabric. For all his attention to women, which had led her to imagine that he must spend most of his life in bed, he must work hard at keeping himself fit.

  He was so very beautiful. She could feel the warmth of his hand about hers and told herself with great deliberateness that she would always remember this moment. He was a dreadful and shameless rake, and she must be thankful that her lack of beauty and charm and fortune had led him into treating her like this, like a younger cousin, perhaps, when he might have been trying to seduce her. She had had these quiet minutes with him and would be able to treasure them in memory for the rest of her life.

  She was glad she had no beauty with which to tempt him. She was glad he had never tried to make love to her. She bit her lip and tried to believe her own very deliberate thoughts.

  It was full daylight. The sun was probably springing over the eastern horizon, though she could not see it here among the trees. She must go back to the house and prepare herself for the day. She was tempted to sit here until he awoke. Perhaps it would be hours later. But she did not have hours to spare. Besides, she did not want to talk with him anymore. She did not believe she would be able to keep up any of their usual banter. She felt a little like crying.

  She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to lean down and touch her lips to his forehead or one of his cheeks. Or perhaps even his own lips. But she might wake him. She would die of humiliation if he awoke while her lips were touched to his.

  So she merely raised his hand slowly and dipped her head to meet it and set her cheek to the back of it. And she turned her head and brushed her lips against the back of his wrist. Then she set his hand down carefully on the grass, got quietly to her feet, gazed down at him for a few moments longer, and walked softly away into the trees—far more softly than he had approached a half hour or so earlier.

  He was not sleeping. He merely did not want to continue his conversation with her. He did not want to have to walk back to the house with her.

  She had let him into her world, a very ordinary world, but one so alien to him that he did not know how to respond to her. Life had been cruel to her— viciously cruel. And her dreams, though humble ones, were quite, quite beyond her grasp, he knew. He did not for one moment believe in the young and handsome and prosperous tenant farmer or in the ruddy, rotund, elderly one, either. She was too valuable to Mrs. Peabody. Mrs. Peabody was the type of woman who needed someone more than a personal maid to fetch and carry for her, and someone who was always there on whom to vent her spleen. Someone who could not answer back.

  Patricia Mangan would never hold any of those babies in her arms. It was such a humble ambition for a woman to have. She did not crave silks and jewels and fashionable beaux—only a kindly, constant husband and a small and cozy home and some babies of her own.

  It was not pity he felt. He did not believe it was pity. His little bird was too sensible and too courageous a woman to be pitied. It was rage he felt. A rage against Mrs. Peabody, perhaps. A rage against God, certainly. Though he was not sure that God could be blamed for what people did to one another when they had been given the infinitely precious gift of free will.

  He wanted to draw her down into his arms, to hold her against him, to warm her soul against his body. But to what end? He knew of only one thing to do with a woman’s body when it was against his own. He knew nothing about giving comfort. And she did not need comfort anyway. She did not seem to pity herself, or if she did, it was something she fought in the quiet of her own heart.

  He felt humbled by her.

  He could not talk to her. And so he conveniently fell asleep and waited for her to go away. It was his answer to anything troubling in his life—close his eyes and wait for it to go away.

  She did go away eventually—after lifting his hand to her cheek and kissing the back of his wrist.

  God! Oh, Lord God!

  He did not know what she meant by it. A mere tender affection because he had listened to her—and fallen asleep while she spoke? Or—or something else?

  Hell and a thousand million damnations!

  * * *

  The guests had been at Holly house for two weeks and were to stay for another week. Patricia did not like their being there even though there was one distinct advantage to her in that Mrs. Peabody was frequently engaged in outings with them and left her with more than usual freedom. But she did not like their being there nevertheless.

  She did not like his being there. She wanted him to go away. She wanted to be free of him. Since the morning at the lily pond she had been alone with him only once, for a mere few seconds and they had exchanged only seven words, four of his and three of hers. But she wanted him gone anyway. His presence in the house and frequently in the same room as she occupied with her aunt weighed heavily on her spirits.

  The only time they met face to face, or almost face to face, was one morning when she was hurrying along the upstairs hallway with Mrs. Peabody’s second cup of chocolate and he came out of his room just ahead of her. He closed the door and waited for her to draw level with him.

  “Good morning, little bird,” he said quietly.

  “Good morning, sir.” She did not raise her eyes and she hurried on past him. But she was upset for the rest of the day.

  Mrs. Delaney was annoyed with him. Patricia could tell that from the way the lady flirted so ferociously with all the other gentlemen who made up the party— including even Mr. Peabody. Lady Myron was Mr. Bancroft’s current favorite and probable bedfellow. The lascivious looks they had been exchanging more than a week ago had become considerably hotter. And when the lady was passing him one day in a doorway, Patricia saw that she leaned deliberately forward and slid her bosom across his chest—as if the doorway was no more than six inches wide. His eyes had smoked down at her.

  It amazed Patricia that no one else noticed such things. Perhaps one observed more easily when one lived the life of a shadow. Everyone else was perhaps too busy living. And everyone else seemed to assume that a betrothal announcement would be made before the final week drew to an end.

  They could not be blamed for thinking so, Patricia thought, and undoubtedly they were right. He was markedly attentive to Nancy, leading her in to meals, standing behind her to turn the pages of her music when she played the pianoforte, walking out with her, strolling on the terrace with her after dinner before the evening entertainment began, dancing with her if that was the order of the evening, partnering her in cards or charades. He smiled at her and talked with her and devoured her with his eyes and made it appear that he was smitten to the very heart.

 

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