Carousel of Hearts (11 page)

Simon sought desperately for words that she would believe, cursing his clumsiness. “I do want to marry you, but you know how tense we’ve been with each other.  How we’ve been making each other unhappy. I think that much of the problem is the speed of events. With the wedding so close, everything we do or say takes on added weight and we end up at odds with each other. We must take the time to learn how to be comfortable.”

Antonia just stared at him, her eyes wide and stark. Thinking that she was concerned with what people would say, he offered, “Very few people even know about the betrothal, so postponing the ceremony should occasion no embarrassment.”

“I don’t care what other people think!” she retorted. “What matters is how you feel. If you really loved me, you could not be saying such things. If after several months there are still problems, would you wish to marry?”

Simon had known this discussion would be difficult, but he had not dreamed how painful it would be. The thought of losing Antonia, with her gifts of beauty and laughter, was intolerable. And yet ... “Do you think that it would be wise to marry if we are making each other miserable?”

“What kind of love fears to take the pain along with the joy?” She was trembling with the force of her emotions. “The future is always a gamble, and waiting six months ‘to get to know each other better’ won’t guarantee happiness.”

There was some logic to her words, yet Simon knew that he was right too. “Of course there are no guarantees, but even if life is a gamble, we can improve the odds of happiness by being sensible—”

She interrupted him. “How can one be ‘sensible’ about love? I am not a theorem or a stone or a star. I am a woman, and I need to be loved.”

As tears welled up, she angrily dragged the back of her hand across her eyes. “Very well, I will be sensible. Clearly our notions of what constitutes marriage are incompatible and we will not suit. Therefore, I release you from the engagement you so foolishly entered into. Since you did not care enough to even notify the newspapers, you are spared the effort of writing a retraction.”

Aching, he took several quick steps toward her. “Antonia, I don’t want to end our betrothal. I love you.”

She skittered back, her lovely face stark with misery. “Don’t make it worse, Simon. You’re right, it was all a mistake. I am a flighty, frivolous female, not at all a sensible choice for a serious man. God forbid that you should gamble on something as important as marriage.”

He reached out a pleading hand, wishing he’d never spoken. Perhaps it really would be better to go ahead with the marriage and work out their differences after.

Before he could touch her or withdraw his words, she twisted away. “Just go, Simon. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

Antonia slipped past him and darted out the door, tears pouring down her face. She looked very young and utterly desolate.

Lord Launceston knew a great deal about rocks, stars, and comets, but his knowledge of how to deal with distraught females was nonexistent. By the time he pulled himself together to follow Antonia outside, she was almost out of sight, racing toward the stables. He guessed that she was going to take one of her suicidal rides through the hills.

If so, there was nothing he could do to stop her. He prayed that her usual skill and luck would prevent her from breaking her neck.  If she injured herself, his guilt would be unbearable.

Paralysis held him in the doorway of the cottage, feeling that he had just made the worst mistake of his life. It was hard to assimilate that a few short minutes of argument had destroyed everything between him and Antonia.

The thought braced him. Surely the intensity of feeling that bound them could not just evaporate. Antonia was hurt and angry and had reacted emotionally. When she calmed down, perhaps she would miss him as much as he already missed her.

He would wait two or three weeks, then contact her again. The worst she could do would be to dismiss him again, though God knew that would be bad enough.

It was a plan of sorts, and it gave Simon something to cling to through the mists of pain. In the meantime, he must leave Thornleigh immediately. He could not possibly stay under her roof after such a scene.

He headed back to the house and ordered his valet to pack his belongings and arrange for them to leave before the afternoon was over. Then he went in search of Adam.

Adam was in the music room with Judith. If Simon had not been numb with unhappiness, he might have noticed the air of intimacy between them. Instead, he plunged into his own business. “I’ve come to say good-bye.”

Catching sight of his friend’s face, Adam immediately got to his feet and crossed the music room. “What’s wrong?”

“Lady Antonia and I have decided we will not suit, so I am leaving Thornleigh.” Simon tried to sound normal, but from the others’ expressions, he was not successful.

His voice lowered to reach Adam’s ears only. “She’s gone dashing off into the hills. P-perhaps . . . perhaps you should go after her. She might be too reckless.”

“I will.” Adam regarded him soberly, concern vivid on his face. “Is there anything I can do?”

Lord Launceston recalled his earlier thoughts. “When Antonia has had time to reconsider, she may regret that she has acted so hastily. I shall write you. Will you keep me informed of her feelings?”

After speaking, Simon realized that he was asking his friend to act as a spy. Indeed, if Adam had to choose between supporting his cousin and Simon, he would certainly choose Antonia.

Fortunately Adam took Simon’s words in good part. “In other words, Antonia has flown up into the boughs,” he translated. “Don’t worry, I shall do what I can.”

Judith joined them, her gray eyes warm with sympathy as she offered her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

Simon bowed over her hand, then tried to smile. “So am I.” After a quick handshake with Adam, he escaped the room, fearful that too much sympathy would cause him to break down.

* * * *

After Lord Launceston left, Adam swore a soft oath under his breath. Judith tried to interpret the meaning, then decided with bleak honesty to tackle her fears head on. “Perhaps Antonia is no longer an unattainable dream, Adam. I will not hold you to our engagement if you regret making it.”

Her words hung in the air for a painful eternity before Adam answered, his mouth twisted. “Do you think so little of my constancy? What happened between Simon and Tony has nothing to do with you and me.”

Relieved, Judith forced herself to change the direction of her thoughts. If she could not let herself trust Adam, she would poison the honesty of what was between them. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I just have trouble imagining that a man would prefer me when Antonia was available.”

“The fact that she may not marry Simon does not make her available to me,” he said rather dryly. “Besides, I think it likely that the breach between them can be repaired. When my cousin has calmed down, she will undoubtedly be sorry she sent Simon away, and he seems prepared to try again.”

Judith remembered the sense of magic between Simon and Antonia at their first meeting. “I hope you are right.”

“So do I, in spite of what you might think.” He bent over to give Judith a light kiss. “Simon thinks that Tony has gone haring off into the hills, which sounds just like her. I’d best go after her.”

“If anyone can find Antonia, it would be you.” Judith sighed. “I’ll start canceling the arrangements for the wedding.”

As they went off on their separate tasks, Judith thought wryly that someone had to clean up the wreckage after the romantic leads had enacted their drama at center stage. Well, she had always been good at that sort of thing.

* * * *

One of the grooms confirmed that her ladyship had stormed off on her favorite horse, and not even dressed for riding. The groom had been unsurprised; very little that the mistress did could surprise anyone at Thornleigh.

Adam took his time riding after his cousin. He had a fair idea of where she would end up, and it wouldn’t do to get there too soon.  Antonia would need some time alone. Later, she would need comfort, and he was experienced at giving that.

High in the rugged upland peaks was a protected ledge he and Tony had named the Aerie. An improbable patch of grass and flowers grew
in front of a rocky overhang, making a comfortable spot to lie and watch the world.

This had been their special retreat when they were children. They had come often to talk, to dream, to watch the hawks soaring over the valley. Adam had not come here for perhaps a dozen years, but he could have found his way blindfolded.

Sure enough, his cousin’s horse was tethered in the dale below. Adam dismounted and tied his own mount, then made the final scramble up the steep hillside.

At the top he passed through a narrow cleft in the rock and found himself in the Aerie. Antonia was huddled in the grass with her arms around her knees, her yellow morning dress much the worse for wear after her ride.

She must have heard the sound of his approach, but she didn’t look up, just continued to gaze at a peregrine falcon floating with effortless grace on an air current. Of course she knew that only Adam would come here.

He dropped cross-legged beside her in the grass. “Can you bear company?” he asked in a conversational tone.

“As long as it is you.” Antonia still didn’t look at him, simply accepting his presence. She had been crying, and she was so pale that he could see traces of the golden freckles that had frosted her cheeks when she was a child.

There was also gooseflesh on her bare arms,  The afternoon was a cool one. Adam peeled off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

The coat was large enough to go twice around her, and she accepted it gratefully. “Thank you.” There was a long silence before she spoke again. “Simon told you what happened?”

“Only in the most general way,” Adam said carefully. “He said the two of you had decided you would not suit. He will have left Thornleigh by now.”

His words rekindled her grief and she began crying again, raw sobs wrenched from the depths of her heart. So Simon had taken her at her word and was gone. She would never see him again.

Part of her had secretly hoped that he cared enough to follow her, or at least to stay at Thornleigh. She was willing to be convinced that he loved her. But she had been right. Lord Launceston did not care as much for her as she did for him. At this very moment he was probably congratulating himself on his fortunate escape.

As Antonia doubled over in tears, Adam pulled her close, cradling her securely against his broad chest. Once more she accepted the refuge he offered, but this was not like her unaccountable terror in Peak Cavern.  This time sunlight would not dissipate the black clouds. She cried for lost youth and lost dreams, for all the bright illusions of love that she had wanted so much to believe in.

Adam wordlessly gave her a handkerchief and eventually she subsided into hiccups, then silence. The only other sounds were the perpetual soughing of the wind and the occasional distant cry of a bird.

After a long time had passed, Antonia asked in a small voice hoarse from crying, “Is love even possible, Adam?”

“Of course it is.”  His certainty was immensely comforting. “Unfortunately ‘love’ is an imprecise word, used to describe a wide variety of feelings. The Greeks knew better and had words for different sorts of loving. But even they described only a handful of the complicated needs, desires, and demands we call love.”

Antonia considered his statement, her brain moving rather slowly. “What do you mean?”

“There is the love of mother for child, of friend for friend, of sibling for sibling, of a person for an object or nation or ideal. Each of those is real, each different. And they are just the beginning.”

He considered. “If I were a philosopher trying to classify the kinds of love, I would divide them into two categories.  The first category is generous love, where one wants the best for the beloved, even if it means personal loss for the one who loves. It also includes the kind of love that accepts the beloved as he or she is, knowing that differences are part of what makes love real.”

Adam shifted his position, settling Antonia more comfortably under his arm. “My second category is selfish love, where one is more concerned for oneself than for the other person. It includes obsession, where one seeks to possess and change the beloved. ‘Because I love you, you must be what I think you should be.’ Generous and selfish love are quite different, yet sometimes the two are intertwined so closely that they cannot be separated.

“You asked if love is possible, but you were really asking about romantic love. I know it is possible, but people have different ideas of what it is. Often ‘romantic love’ means physical attraction. That is compelling, but without friendship and respect, it can be a volatile base for a marriage.”

He stopped to let that sink in before adding, “Your personal ideal of romantic love might be one that is very hard to fulfill. If you know exactly what you mean by love, you should be able to answer your question of whether it is possible.”

Even in Antonia’s present muddled state, she knew that he was offering her oblique advice as well as comfort. Was her love for Simon generous, or selfish, or some of both? Too often she had been critical, not accepting him as he was, yet she had genuinely wanted to please him as well.

It was easier to recognize that her idea of romantic love was a demanding one. Simon had been unable to meet it. Perhaps no man could.

Bleakly she accepted that the ending of the betrothal had been entirely her fault. Hurt and insecure, she had lost her temper and blamed him for the fact that he thought differently from her.

She doubted that Simon would be willing to forgive her when she had behaved so badly. He was a gentle and easygoing man, and she had made him wretched.

Adam made no attempt to draw her out. He simply held her, warm and undemanding. In all of Antonia’s lifetime, he was the one person she had always been able to depend on. Ever since they were children, she had known that he cared for her even when she was at her naughtiest, even on the rare occasions when temper had made her lash out at him.