Tangled (52 page)

Rebecca was aware suddenly that someone was coming up behind her. She even knew who it was. She did not turn. Julian's death had driven something of a wedge between them. They had both grieved deeply during the past week, but separately, not together. It was almost as if they both felt guilty, as if they both felt they had been partly responsible for Julian's death.

He came down on his haunches beside her. She gazed out across the lake.

"Papa was concerned about your being here alone," he said. "You needed to come back, Rebecca?"

She nodded.

"Would you rather be alone?"

"No." She shook her head, and he sat down on the grass beside her.

"He was always a very strong swimmer, David."

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"Yes."

"And the wound was not so very bad, was it?"

"He had survived worse," he said.

"And he could easily have called for help even though we were all selfishly gathered around Charles."

"Yes."

"He wanted me to divorce him," she said. "There were grounds. I suppose you knew that there were other women even after our marriage, didn't you?"

"Yes," he said.

"I was to think about it and give him my answer the next day," she said. "But I think he knew it was something I just could not do."

David said nothing.

"Did I drive him to it?" she asked. "Because I could not have that on my conscience, did I force him into this?" She gestured with one hand toward the lake.

"No," he said. "I have blamed myself too, Rebecca. I let myself hold you and almost kiss you at the house and he saw us. I held you and Charles after Julian had rescued him. He must have seen us. I did not turn immediately, as I should have done, to help him out of the water. I assumed that he was in no danger. But it was not my fault or yours."

"Whose, then?" she asked.

"I think it was a gift," he said quietly. He drew breath as if to explain his meaning, but it did not need to be explained. He said no more.

"Did he think we wanted him dead, then?" she asked. "And did we? Did he know how many times I had thought that it might have been better if he had not come back?"

"And how many times I had thought it?" he said.

"David," she said, "I loved him. He was my dearest boy. He was my love."

"I loved him too," he said. "He was my friend and my brother.''

"And we owe Charles's life to him," she said.

"Yes."

"I used to be annoyed because he showed no interest in Charles,"

she said. "Because he only ever referred to him as 'the child.' But he gave his life for Charles."

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"Yes," he said. "And for us."

It was unsettling to feel so many conflicting emotions. It was disturbing to feel that she no longer knew whom she loved or even what love was. Perhaps that was because she had never suspected that love could be so many dimensional. She had loved Julian and David.

Both of them as lovers and husbands. Both simultaneously. Did one of those loves have to be real and the other imaginary? Could they not both have been real?

The terrible gloom that had engulfed her with the black crape since the week before seemed suddenly eased. She had not forced Julian into what he had done. She had not betrayed him. She had not failed in her love for him.

Of his own free will he had given her a precious, precious gift. Two gifts. First, her son, and then her freedom. Perhaps three gifts—he had given her precious memories of him. She only hoped ... Oh, she only hoped . . .

"Do you think he knew that I loved him?" she asked.

"Yes," David said. "He knew. And he knew that Papa and I loved him too."

"So it was not done out of bitterness or despair?" she asked.

"No," he said. "It was done out of love. He spoke the truth when he said that none of those other women meant anything to him, Rebecca. He had a weakness that he could not seem to conquer. But he did love you. You were the only woman who meant anything to him. He worshiped you."

"Yes," she said.
He died for me.
But she did not say the words out loud. "And so he died a hero after all."

"Yes."

They sat side by side in silence for a long while. But it was neither a bitter nor a grief-stricken silence. It was a peaceful one. Rebecca found that she could look at the spot where Julian had drowned and at the place on the bank where she had wept over his body and feel only deep love, not the wrenching pain she had been feeling for a week. She lifted her face to the healing warmth of the sun.

"I am going back to Stedwell tomorrow, Rebecca," David said at last.

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She had not thought of the future. She had deliberately kept her mind on the present and the past. She did not know what to expect of the future.

"I'll leave Charles here," he said. "I'll stay away for two months.

May I come back then—to you?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"I don't think we need to wait a full year," he said. "It will not be disrespectful to wait less. Ours are exceptional circumstances. And there is Charles to think of."

"Yes," she said. "He needs both of us."

"We should wait at least the two months, though," he said. "I'll go home tomorrow."

"Yes," she said. "I think that is a good idea, David."

They would remarry, then. Without any fuss or romance. Without any declarations of love or passion. Because it was what Julian had died to make possible. Because Charles needed both of them. And for another reason too. She knew there was another reason, but it was not the time either to think or to talk about that.

It felt right to come to a quiet agreement this way.

"I want another child." She did not know where the words or the idea came from, but she knew as she heard what she had said that it was what she passionately wanted. Life reaffirmed. Love growing and spreading to more and more people. For that was what love was. That was what she had discovered during the past week.

"We'll have another, God willing," he said. "Together. ''

Yes, they had had Charles together. Although it had been in her womb that he had been carried, keeping him there had been a joint effort. A combined labor of love.

They sat in silence again, both gazing out across the lake. After a while he set his hand palm up on the grass between them, not touching her. She was aware of it though she had not looked down, and she set her own hand palm down on top of it. He laced their fingers together and held her hand in a firm clasp.

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The July wedding in the village church at Stedwell was a rather subdued affair since the family of the bride and groom and even the couple themselves all wore mourn-

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ing. And yet it was neither a gloomy nor an unhappy event.

The church was crammed full, partly with guests from other places, most notably the Earl and Countess of Harrington and the bride's brother and sister-in-law. But it was filled too with the viscount's friends and neighbors of all social stations. All had been overjoyed to learn that they were to have their viscountess back again after a lengthy absence.

Some of those neighbors had decked the church with flowers. The schoolchildren, standing outside with their schoolmaster during the ceremony, waited with excited impatience to pelt the bride with blooms as soon as she emerged from the church.

There was a more than ordinary sense of tension in the church when the rector asked if anyone knew of any impediment to the marriage about to be solemnized. There was a collective sigh of contentment later when bride and groom said "I do," and again when the rector pronounced them man and wife. Charles, standing on his grandfather's lap, stabbed one finger in the direction of the couple, turned triumphantly to Katie, and announced for all the church to hear, "Mama!"

The groom kissed his bride and again there was that whisper of a sigh. Charles turned, having lost interest in the proceedings, and hunted for his grandpapa's watch chain. Louisa narrowly averted disaster by drawing a favorite toy out of her handbag when Katie seemed about to take exception to the fact that another child was mo-nopolizing her papa's lap.

And then everyone was outside the church and wanting to greet the newly married couple. For a few moments it rained flowers. The bride laughed and turned her face up to them. The groom caught one and threaded it into her hair beneath the brim of her bonnet, the pink of the bloom a startling contrast to the unrelieved black in which she was clothed.

Everyone had been invited to Stedwell for breakfast. Everyone. The bride had been quite adamant about that. And all would eat together and mingle together. Tables were spread out along the terrace and guests milled around them, filling plates and lifting glasses from large

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trays, and strolled about on the lawns and down beside the river and onto the bridge.

The gardens were looking a great deal better cared for than they had looked for years, several people agreed— those who had known Stedwell before the viscount returned to it two years before.

They were fortunate to have a pleasant day for the wedding, since the weather through most of the summer so far had been indifferent at best. It was so much more festive to be able to remain outdoors than to have to crowd into the ballroom, which had been the alternate site for the breakfast.

Everyone wanted to kiss the bride again and shake the groom by the hand before leaving. Although it had been nominally breakfast that they were eating, it was well into the afternoon before everyone except the house guests had driven away. The house guests themselves were quite content to drift back into the house and seek out their rooms for an hour or so of relaxation. The children, who had excited themselves to exhaustion during the celebrations, which they had been allowed to attend, gave in reluctantly to the insistence of their nannies that it was nap time with no arguments allowed.

The wedding was over.

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"Are you tired?" David asked. They were standing in the hall, having just watched the earl escort a quite largely pregnant Louisa upstairs.

"No." Rebecca shook her head. "I am too excited to be tired."

"Come, then," he said, taking her hand and lacing his fingers with hers. "I have something to show you."

He led her outside again and along the terrace to the side of the house, where they had set up the rose arbor the year before. The hedges had grown high enough now to shield it from both wind and prying eyes. Rebecca had not seen it. She had returned to Stedwell only the afternoon before with the earl and Louisa and the children.

"Oh," she said, coming to a halt under the trellised archway—which was covered with budding and blooming roses.

"Oh, David." It quite took her breath away. It was a private little heaven, rich with blooms and their

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scent. The fountain was shooting sprays of water into the air.

"I was working on it anyway," he said. "But I have given our gardeners no peace over it in the last three months, since I knew you were coming back."

"You said the roses would bloom this year," she said.

"And they have." He looked gravely down at her.

She stepped inside the arbor and turned all about, reveling in the sights and the smells. She had not realized until this moment how much her vision had been bounded by black since Julian's death.

"I love it," she said. "Is it my wedding gift, David? It is the most beautiful gift in the world. Living beauty and the promise of endless springs, endless summers. Oh, thank you."

He came toward her and framed her face with his hands. She gazed up into his eyes, all barriers gone, all defenses down, all self-deception in the past, all misunderstandings over and done with. She wanted the moment to last forever.

"Are you happy?" he asked her.

For answer she felt tears welling to her eyes. But she smiled and nodded. "Yes. Oh, yes, I am, David."

"It is not just because of Charles, then," he said, "and of what you feel you owe Julian? Not just because you want another child?''

"It is because of those things, yes," she said. "For all three. They are such important reasons, David. But not just for those. Perhaps not even mainly because of them."

"What, then?" he asked.

She gazed into his eyes. So very blue. She had not realized quite how much she had missed them. "Because you are my life," she said.

He kissed her softly with closed lips and smiled down at her. His eyes were so lovely when they smiled. He had smiled so little during their first marriage. There had been so much to mar their joy then.

But they were being given a second chance. And she knew that neither of them would squander that chance. She smiled back.

She had smiled so little during their first marriage. He had not even realized it fully until now, when she was

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smiling at him with quiet joy.
You are my life.
The words warmed him to the innermost recesses of his heart.

"And you are mine," he said. "Did you know that I have always loved you?"

"Always?" Her eyes widened.

"Always," he said. "As a boy I adored you. I have adored you ever since. Every moment of every day. I adore you today. I'll always love you."

"David," she said. "Oh, David, I'm glad all the clouds have gone away. They have, haven't they? There were so many clouds. But I grew to love you despite them. I didn't expect to or even want to. I almost did not realize I did until it was time to force myself to stop loving you."

There was a brightness in her face that confirmed her words despite the tears. All the clouds had rolled away. Only sunshine was left. And he held his sunshine in his arms. She was his bride, his wife.

"Put your arms about my neck," he said. They were spread against his chest.

"Why?" She did as she was told, smiling at him. She was expecting to be kissed.