Only Enchanting (40 page)

“And for us too?” she asked him, turning her face back to his.

He raised their hands and kissed the backs of hers.

“I understand,” she said, though he had said nothing, and he believed she probably did.

Magwitch, the butler, and Mrs. Hoffer, the housekeeper, were standing side by side outside the open front doors. Within, Flavian could see a row of starched white aprons on one side and a row of white Vs—shirtfronts, he guessed—on the other. The servants were lined up to receive them.

He was home. As Viscount Ponsonby.

David was gone, a part of family history.

*   *   *

Agnes really did think the house and park beautiful. Indeed, she thought Candlebury Abbey must be one of the loveliest places on earth. She would be happy if she never had to leave it.

They spent three days together, she and Flavian, wandering about the park together, hand in hand—yes, indeed. She made no remark upon it when he first took her hand in his as they walked, and laced their fingers. She almost held her breath, in fact. It seemed so much more . . . tender than walking with her arm drawn through his. But it was no momentary thing. It seemed to be his preferred way of walking with her when they were alone.

The park was larger than she had thought at first. It extended beyond the bowl-like depression in which the house was situated. But all of it—lawns and meadows and wooded hills, paths and rides, all of it—was designed to look natural rather than artificially picturesque. The lake and the waterfall too were natural, and the stone hermitage to one side of the falls was not a folly but had at one time been inhabited by monks for whom the abbey was too crowded and busy a place.

“I always l-liked to think,” Flavian said, “that they all left behind them something of the p-peace they must have found as they meditated here.”

She knew what he meant. It seemed to her that they found peace together at Candlebury during those days—almost. Except that there was a depth of brooding in him just beyond where she could penetrate with her companionship. It was understandable, of course. She had expected it.

He had shown her about the house and about the ruins of the old abbey. But there was one set of rooms he avoided, and he pretended not to notice when she stopped outside the door, waiting expectantly for him to
open it. He walked on past, and she had to hurry to catch up to him.

They had a few callers, among them the rector of the village church. But although the rector expressed the hope that he would see them at church on Sunday, Flavian returned a vague answer that sounded like a resounding no to Agnes.

“We will not go to church on Sunday?” she asked after the rector had left.

“No,” he said curtly. “You may go if you wish.”

She looked closely at him and understood in a flash. The churchyard must be where the family graves were. And his brother’s grave. The set of rooms they had not entered while exploring the rest of the house must have been his brother’s.

The loss of parents, siblings, spouses, even children was something all too many people experienced. The death of loved ones was all too common an occurrence. It was almost always sad, painful, difficult to recover from, especially when the deceased had been young. But it was not rare. She had lost a husband. His brother had been dead for eight or nine years. But Flavian had never let him go. He had come home from the Peninsula because his brother was dying, but he had left before David actually died. Flavian had been on his way to rejoin his regiment when it happened and had not returned until after he was wounded.

Those details at least were not among his missing memories. She knew he felt deep shame and unresolved grief.

“I will not go to church without you,” she said. “Is there a way to get to the top of the waterfall?”

“It is a b-bit of a scramble,” he said. “We used to make d-dens up there as boys and hold them against trolls and pirates and Vikings.”

“I can scramble,” she told him.

“Now?”

“Is there a better time?” she asked.

And off they went, hand in hand again, and she might almost imagine that he was happy and relaxed and at peace.

They shared a bedchamber, the one that had been his as a boy, without any pretense of having a room each. A small room next door had been made into her dressing room. They slept together each night, always touching, usually with their arms about each other. They made love, often multiple times in the course of the night.

Life seemed idyllic.

And then, one night, Agnes awoke to find herself alone in bed. She listened, but there was no sound of him in his dressing room. His dressing gown was gone from the floor beside the bed. She donned her nightgown and fetched a shawl from next door. And she lit a single candle.

She looked in the drawing room, in the morning room, in the study. She even looked in the dining room. But there was no sign of him. And when she peered out of the drawing room window, she realized that she would not see him even if he was out there. It must be a cloudy night. All was pitch-dark.

And then she thought of somewhere else to look.

She picked up her candle, went back upstairs, and made her way to the door she had never seen open. There was no light beneath it. Perhaps she was wrong. But part of her knew she was not.

She rested a hand on the doorknob for a long time before turning it slowly and silently. She pushed the door a little way open.

The room was in darkness. But her candle, even though she held it behind her, gave sufficient light that
she could see an empty bed in the middle of the room, with a still figure seated on a chair beside it, one hand resting on the bedspread.

He must surely have seen the light, even if he had not heard the door opening. But he did not turn.

She stepped inside and set the candle down upon a small table beside the door.

*   *   *

It had felt amazingly good to be back, to be home. It always had. Even though he had quite enjoyed school, he had always longed for the holidays, and on the few occasions when Len had tried to persuade Flavian to go with him to Northumberland for the long summer holiday, he had always found an excuse not to go. This was where he had belonged, where he had wanted always to belong.

His very love for Candlebury had been his pain too. Why did that pair always go hand in hand? The eternal pull of opposites? For the only way Candlebury could belong to him for the rest of his life was through the death of David without male issue. And though he had known it would happen, he had not
wanted
it to happen. His love of home had made him feel guilty, as though he resented the fact that his brother stood in the way of his happiness. It was not
like
that.

Ah, it was never like that,
he was telling his brother when he awoke with a start.
It never was, David.

Fortunately he had not been speaking aloud. But he was fully awake and rattled. And feeling guilty again. He had not been to see his brother. Idiot thought, of course. But he had been avoiding David since his return, avoiding his rooms, avoiding the churchyard, avoiding all mention of him or thought of him.

Why had he never felt this way about his father, much as he had loved him?

It was clear he was not going to go back to sleep, even
though Agnes felt warm and comfortable against him and he was tired. Briefly he thought of waking her, of making love to her. But there was a strange blackness in his head. It was not exactly depression. Or a headache. Just . . . blackness.

He eased himself out of the bed, found his dressing gown on the floor and drew it on, and let himself quietly out of the room. It was an unusually dark night, but he did not light a candle. He knew his way without needing any light. He let himself into David’s bedchamber and felt his way to the window. He pushed back the curtains, though there was not a great deal of light to let in. He could make out the shape of the bed, though, and of a chair against one wall. He drew up the chair to the side of the bed and sat on it. He set one hand flat on the bedspread.

It was where he had always sat when his brother was too unwell to get up. It was where he had sat for many hours both day and night during those final weeks. And he had always set his hand on the bed so that David could touch it whenever he wanted and so that
he
could touch
David
.

Why had they always been so much closer than any other brothers he had known? They were as different as night and day. Perhaps that was why. The balance of opposites again.

The balance was no longer there.

The bed was empty.

What had he been expecting? That a ghost or spirit would have lingered? That there would be some sense of his brother here? Some comfort? Some absolution?

Why did I leave you to die alone?

He knew why. He had been head over ears in love, and he had wanted to celebrate his betrothal before returning to the Peninsula.

But why was I going back there?

He had known David was dying when he came home on leave. He had not really expected that he would go back, although he had set a date for doing so. He would inherit the title and properties and have all sorts of responsibilities to keep him at home. He certainly had not intended going back while his brother was still dying.

Why did I leave you?

Flavian did not hear the door open behind him, but he was aware of dim light and then of a slightly brighter light, of the door closing softly. He had woken her. He was sorry about that. And strangely glad. He was not alone any longer. He did not have to do his living alone.

He did not turn, but he waited for her to come close, as he knew she would. Then he could smell her familiar fragrance, and one of her hands came to rest lightly on his shoulder. He raised his own hand to cover it and tipped back his head until it came to rest against her bosom. He closed his eyes.

“Why did I leave him?” he asked.

It did not occur to him to offer her his chair or to draw up another for her.

“You were here for a few weeks after coming home on leave?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he said.

“Did you sit with him all that time?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You joined the military three years before that,” she said, “because you did not want to be trapped into marrying Lady Hazeltine—or Velma Frome, as she must have been then. Yet after being home for a few weeks, all the time sitting here with your brother, you were so eager to marry her that you left him and went to London to your betrothal ball and then dashed off back to the Peninsula. How did that come about, Flavian? What else happened during those weeks?”

“I went out for w-walks and rides,” he said. “It was emotionally d-draining to be here in this room all the time, even though he was p-peaceful. He was just s-slipping away, and there was nothing I could do. . . .”

He closed his hand around hers and drew her forward to take her on his lap. He set one arm about her waist, and she twined one about his neck.

Ah, God, he loved her. He loved her.

“And did you meet Velma outside, as you had used to do?” she asked.

And suddenly that great yawning core of blackness exploded into the searing light of a crashing headache, and he gasped for air. He pushed her off his lap, staggered to the window, fumbled with the catch, and raised the sash until he could feel cold air blowing in. He rested his balled fists on the windowsill and bowed his head. He waited for the worst of the pain to go away. Everything was wide-open. He could remember . . .

. . . everything.

“They were in London for the Season,” he said. “But they came h-home. I think my mother m-must have written to Lady Frome. Velma had not taken well with the
ton
after a few years of trying. Frome is not well-off or particularly well connected. She could have found a husband even so, but she aimed too h-high. She wanted a title, the grander the better. None of this was ever said in so m-many words, of course, but it was not d-difficult to piece together the truth. But I was home, and David was d-dying, and . . .”

And they had come. He was not sure Sir Winston and Lady Frome had come from any other motive than concern for their neighbor. And he was not sure his mother had written to Lady Frome for any other purpose than to inform her of the imminent demise of her son. He
hoped
none of them had had any other motive.

Velma had come almost daily to inquire about David, though she never came up to the sickroom. Sometimes she came with one or the other of her parents, but often she came alone, without either maid or groom, and on those occasions his mother had directed him to escort her home. And whenever he went outside for a breath of air, whether on foot or on horseback, almost invariably he came upon her—or, rather, she came upon him. It was
just
like old times. And always there were tears and sweet sympathy and tender memories of when they had been younger.

He had been soothed by her sympathy. He had begun almost to look forward to seeing her. Watching life ebb away from a loved one must be one of the most excruciatingly wretched experiences anyone could be called upon to endure. Even though he had seen more than his fair share of death in the wars, none of it had prepared him for what he was going through now.

One afternoon, while they were sitting in a little clearing above the waterfall, looking down at the lake, listening to birdsong and the sound of water, he had kissed her. Quite voluntarily. He could not blame her for it.

And she had told him that she loved him, that she adored him and always had. She had told him she would make the best viscountess he could possibly dream of. She had told him they must marry as soon as possible, by special license, so that they would not be delayed by the year of mourning that lay ahead when David died. And she would be by his side to support him through that year. She looked good in black, she had told him. He must not be afraid that she would look dowdy and let him down. Oh, she adored him.