Susan Carroll (25 page)

For a moment Phaedra had a dizzying view of
the Heath's stone gates and the cobbled drive below. Quickly
drawing herself back in, she mopped at her brow with the heel of
her hand.

Her heart pounded with fright, but she
adjured herself not to be a fool. After all, it was not as though
she had actually been in danger of falling the three stories to the
ground below. She would have to squeeze her entire body through the
window to be in peril of that.

Phaedra lingered by the window, resentful of
the pale blue sky, so indifferent to her misery, and the sun,
glinting with appalling cheerfulness off the cobblestones wet from
last night's rain. She wished there was some way she could spring
from the window ledge and fly like some silver-winged bird, far
from the Heath, fleeing these gray stone walls that had never
harbored anything for her but unhappiness.

But what made her longing to escape so keen
this particular morning?, Perhaps it was the memory of a night that
would never come again, of blue eyes whose longing and despair tore
at her heart, then froze her with the menace of secrets she was not
permitted to understand. Perhaps it was merely a wish to avoid the
pain of watching Armande ride away.

"I'm glad he's going. Glad!" she whispered
fiercely.

But her heart condemned her for a liar. She
blinked hard, staring out at the summer-blue sky dotted with fleecy
clouds. No, she would not weep again. For the truth was, no matter
how much Armande desired or needed her, it made no difference.
Nothing could change the fact he was a man caught up in some
dangerous intrigue. She would not make the mistake of being
ensnared in those silken bindings, of once more becoming enamored
of a man whose life held no place for her.

She had a life of her own to live, and it was
time to get on with it. Her resolve taken, Phaedra squared her
shoulders, determined to think no more of Armande, at least not
this day. Stalking away from the window, she uprighted the chair
and resumed her place at the desk. Reaching for her quill pen, she
dipped the tip in the ink, forcing herself to concentrate on
finishing her composition.

... and how can a nation which declares
itself to be enlightened continue to cower behind the ancient cry
of "No Popery," like children howling in terror of bugbears in the
night? Too long have Catholics been denied their rights to vote and
hold office simply because of the bigoted fears of king and
parliament.

She continued in the same strain for a few
more terse paragraphs before signing the name of Robin Goodfellow
with a large flourish. There. Although the writing was done in
haste, her message was clear. Freedom! Freedom from English rule
and emancipation for the Catholics who made up the suppressed
majority in Ireland. Honest folk martyred for the sake of their
religion, like her own cousin. At this thought, a reluctant smile
curved Phaedra's lips. Truthfully, she could not picture a less
likely candidate for sainthood than Gilly. But for all his
nonchalance, she knew there was a serious side to his nature, one
that had often been angered by the persecution of his countrymen.
Perhaps this essay of hers would merit more of Gilly's approval
than her ill-conceived piece about Armande had done.

And perhaps Gilly would be more inclined to
forgive her for the fact that he had gone on a fool's errand. She
suffered a pang of conscience when she thought of her cousin
wasting time and money in France to discover what she already knew,
that Armande was not the Marquis de Varnais. It didn’t matter,
anyway. After today she would likely never see Armande again.

Phaedra briskly sanded the parchment to dry
the ink, trying to keep her mind busy with matters other than
Armande's departure. She thought of the considerable sum of money
Jessym had promised for her next essay. The difficulty would be,
with Gilly away, in finding a way to get the writing to her
publisher. She trusted no one else, with the exception of Jonathan,
to act as courier for her. But she could not bring herself to take
advantage of her old friend's devotion, knowing full well how such
an errand would distress the nervous man. She might well be forced
to await Gilly's return-but who knew when that might be?

Her reflections were interrupted by the sound
of the ormolu clock chiming the hour of eleven. Her gaze traveled
to where the timepiece sat. It was the only ornament on the shelves
that had remained empty since the day Ewan had destroyed her books.
She supposed Armande would be packed, preparing to leave.

Phaedra folded the essay and locked it inside
the desk drawer. She suddenly knew she could not endure being in
the house when Armande left. Her grandfather was sure to rage at
her for not exerting enough charm to make Armande wish to stay. Her
lips twisted into a bitter expression when she thought of exactly
how much charm she had exerted. But it had not been enough.

She could not face Sawyer Weylin's wrath just
now, could not endure bidding farewell to Armande as though he were
but the merest acquaintance passing through her life. Her only hope
of maintaining her composure lay in losing herself on the grounds
until she was certain Armande had gone.

Fearful of encountering him, she did not even
risk returning to her room to fetch her bonnet. She crept down the
backstairs, drawing a sharp-eyed glance from Hester Searle as she
skirted through the kitchens. Ignoring the woman, Phaedra let
herself out the kitchen door, making her way through the rose
garden at the back of the house, and headed for the gravel walks
beyond.

But she had not gotten as far as the dense
shrubbery when a voice, barely audible, pronounced her name.
"Phaedra?"

She bit down upon her lip, despising herself
for the hope that flared in her heart, but she could not suppress
it all the same. She held her breath as she turned around. Her
heart sank.

It was not Armande rising from the stone
bench, the morning breeze riffling the dark strands of his hair.
Phaedra watched as Jonathan crossed the garden to her side,
wondering what on earth he was doing at the Heath so early. She had
no desire for the comfort of Jonathan's solemn smiles this morning,
and regretted she hadn't walked on, pretending not to have heard
him. But she felt immediately ashamed of her impulse to avoid her
old friend, who had always been so kind to her. Concealing her
impatience, she managed to greet him in cheerful tones. "Why,
Jonathan. What a surprise. What brings you out to the Heath at such
an hour?"

He blinked at her, his smile fading in
confusion. "Don't you remember? I spent the night at the Heath
because of the storm. I told you I meant to do so."

"Oh." She bore but vague recollection of
parting from Jonathan. She had thought he'd summoned his carriage
to return to the city-but then she had been absorbed in her card
game with Armande.

Quickly she attempted to recover her error
lest she hurt Jonathan's feelings. "Aye, of course. What I meant
was, it is such a surprise to see you sitting alone in the garden.
Why are you not breakfasting with Grandfather?"

"I never eat much in the mornings." He
regarded her eagerly. "Were you going out walking, my dear? I
should be only too pleased to accompany you."

Phaedra heard his suggestion with dismay. She
needed solitude now, needed it like a drowning man needs air. But
how could she spurn his offer without wounding him? Only one reason
occurred to her.

"To own the truth, it is already so warm and
sticky I was not planning on a walk." She fingered the high
neckline of her saffron morning gown in what she hoped was a
convincing manner. "I should rather pay a visit to the pond
instead."

"The pond! You are not thinking of going
swimming again." Jonathan looked as horrified, as though she had
proposed leaping from London Bridge into the treacherous depths of
the Thames.

"I have been swimming since I was a wee
girl," she said. "My cousin taught me. I could likely swim the
channel if I chose."

"I know that well, but ... " Jonathon
faltered, his pockmarked cheeks flushing beet-red with
embarrassment.

Phaedra guessed he must be recalling the day
he had come upon her enjoying the waters of the pond in quite her
natural state. The incident had occasioned poor priggish Jonathan
far more distress than it had herself. Although he could not meet
her eye, he continued, "But I always worry so about currents or
intruders."

"Pooh, what could happen to me on my
grandfather's own land? And as for a current, that would be an
astonishing thing to find in any pond, let alone a man-made one."
Her unhappiness caused her to add with a shrug. “So if I did drown,
it would be entirely my own fault. Not that my death would be of
any great loss."

"Don't ever say that!" Jonathan seized her
hands. “You cannot imagine what it would mean to me if I lost you.
I would as soon be dead myself."

"I only spoke in jest, a poor one, I admit. I
am sorry."

Recovering from her surprise at his outburst,
she tried to withdraw her hands, but he clung to her.

“You simply do not realize how I worry about
you. All I have ever wanted is to see you protected."

“I know that, Jonathan and I thank you. I do
not know what I would have done without your friendship.” Phaedra
had always been touched by his devotion but his earnest avowals
made her feel uncomfortable. Smiling at him, she managed to
disengage her hands.

"My! How- maudlin we have become. And on such
a beautiful day, too. If I mean to have my swim, I'd best be going.
Pray excuse me, Jonathan."

Feeling somewhat guilty for thus abandoning
him, Phaedra slipped past the hedge, affording him no opportunity
to speak again. She was aware of how his eyes followed her: He
reminded her of a faithful hound being forbidden to accompany his
mistress.

"Forgive me, dear friend," she murmured.
Since he was still watching her, she had no choice but to continue
on toward the pond as she had stated. In truth, as the sun rose
higher, becoming a fierce blaze in the sky, swimming began to seem
not a bad notion. It had been a long time since she had done
so.

Next to the garret, the pond was the only
other refuge she had ever found at the Heath, a place of delicious
solitude. Her grandfather and his friends preferred the comfort and
order of the gardens by the kitchen to the wilderness which had
been created for him at great expense. The pond was situated well
past the manicured lawns and the intriguing gravel walkways
considered de rigueur for any gentleman's estate these days.

Sawyer Weylin's landscaper, Bullock, had
leveled all the towering oaks and diverted the course of the brook
that had once flowed naturally over the Heath's lands. In their
stead, he had erected a woodland cluster of flowering trees and
shrubbery, an artist's conceit, attempting to improve upon
nature.

Phaedra pressed through the thicket of
carefully arranged bushes toward the pond. The symmetrical shape of
the clear silvery water would have fooled no one into thinking this
bucolic scene had been crafted by the hand of God. The red deer
imported to lend it credence had fled long ago, seeming to vanish
into thin air. Although Phaedra had never informed her grandfather,
she thought she had once detected the aroma of roast venison
wafting from one of the crofter's huts down the lane.

As she swept off her sash, she regarded
Bullock's creation with affectionate contempt. She supposed it was
no more tasteless than the fake Greek temple or hermitages that
adorned other estates. At least her grandfather had never gone so
far as to hire a hermit to stalk about his lands. And the pond did
serve a most useful function-at least for her.

Phaedra struggled to undo the lacings of her
gown and stripped it off over her head. Her petticoats and
stockings followed. Here she felt none of the shyness that had made
her so awkward in Armande's bedchamber. This was her element,
reminding her of her childhood in Ireland, when she and Gilly had
paraded in the buff, learning to swim in a God-created pond with
all its familiar discomforts of reeds and rocks. In those days she
had basked in complete innocence of the nudity of her own body, an
attitude most of the Irish shared. It had taken years as an
Englishwoman to teach her to be a prude.

Phaedra paced to the edge of the pond.
Despite the warmth of the sunlight, she regarded the glassy surface
of the pond with momentary trepidation. The waters were never
anything but chilly. But she had been taught long ago there was
only one way to approach it. Drawing in a deep breath, she plunged
into the pond feet first, allowing the water to close over her
head.

The shock of the cold water enveloping her
was at first terrible, then delightful, as though every pore in her
body had been jarred awake. Striking the surface of the water, she
swam about with vigorous strokes until her blood felt warmed by the
exercise.

Pausing to catch her breath, she tread water,
before stretching out, trailing her arms in a floating posture. She
basked in the feeling of her own numbing exhaustion, the soothing
way the cool waters buoyed her up and lapped against her.

But it was not long before the sheer quiet of
the place began to oppress her. Even the larks and the chattering
squirrels seemed to shun the little copse, as though they detected
the artificiality of it. Yet she continued floating, determined to
keep her mind from straying back to thoughts of Armande.

She had no use in her life for any man. Had
she not just escaped her bondage to Ewan? What was Armande de
LeCroix but a distraction? He diverted her from her real goal-to
earn enough money to become independent of her grandfather and all
his schemes. She set her mind to the task of finding a way to
deliver her material to Jessym. She could not afford to wait for
Gilly's return, even if this meant she had to run the risk of going
to the printer herself. Londoners were notoriously fickle. Robin
Goodfellow could easily become last week's sensation, if she did
not stir up some new controversy with her pen.