Dare to Love (47 page)

“Will—will you be all right?” I asked shakily.

“Don't worry about
us
!” Wilhelm exclaimed. “We plan to leave Barivna ourselves as soon as we finish up here.”

“We're going to Paris!” Hans cried. “We're going to rent a garret and Eric is going to become a great painter and I'm going to write great epic poems and Wilhelm is going to beg on the streets or pick pockets for a living or—”

Wilhelm scowled and gave his friend an amiable shove. I signalled them to come closer to the window and then kissed each of them on the cheek. The driver clicked the reins. The students cheered as the carriage began to move down the drive. I looked at Brence and started to say something but couldn't speak.… Layers of darkness descended, dark gray, gray-black, pitch black … and a strong arm curled around me as I drifted into unconsciousness.

The carriage was jouncing and people were shouting. I opened my eyes and saw that we were in the middle of town and soldiers were rushing the carriage, but we were still moving. A soldier leaped and caught hold of the window frame and held on. Brence raised his pistol and fired; the soldier fell away and I sank into oblivion again. I woke again later on and realized we were moving up a mountain road and there was only the sound of hoofbeats and whirling wheels and creaking springs. Through the window I saw Barivna in the distance, in the moonlight, several fires burning bright orange, flames licking the sky.

“We—we made it—” I murmured.

“Not yet. There's still danger of pursuit. We have a long way to go before I'll feel safe.”

“You came back for me.”

“Yes, Mary Ellen, I came back.”

“You love me,” I said groggily.

“Yes, I love you.”

“I love you, too, Brence.”

I smiled and rested against the soft cushions. Glorious waves of happiness swept over me making the pain recede. I loved him and he loved me and the nightmare was over and we were going to be together and happy at last. He loved me. He really loved me. I had been dreadful to him. I had doubted him. I had sent him away, but he had come back, because he loved me, because he couldn't live without me just as I couldn't live without him. He had saved my life and for the rest of my life I would be his and he would be mine and nothing would come between us. The carriage rocked and bumped but I was drifting on a lovely smooth cloud, smiling through my exhaustion and sinking into a deep and beautiful slumber.

XXXIII

Silvery-white sunlight, spilled over gorgeous countryside. There were trees and rolling green hills with cattle grazing peacefully, the sky a pale, pure blue-white. We had crossed over the mountains. I could see them in the distance, a purple-blue haze. Sitting up, I pulled off the cloak Brence had put around me sometime during the night. The carriage was moving at a smooth, steady pace, no longer rushing furiously. I sighed and shaded my eyes against the sunlight, feeling stiff and sore. My jaw ached terribly but it no longer burned.

Brence sat across from me, looking remote, his dark eyes expressionless. There were four bags on the seat beside him, only two of them mine.

“Are you all right?” he asked coldly.

“I—I think so, a little stiff. I must look dreadful.”

He made no reply. He gazed out the window, his profile stony.

“What time is it?”

“Well after twelve, I should think. There's an inn a few miles up the road. We'll stop there.”

“Last night was—”

“It's over now, Mary Ellen. We're safe. You can forget about it.”

“I remember—we passed through town. There were soldiers. One of them—”

“It was touch-and-go for a while, but we made it. Fortunately they were too busy fighting to pay too much attention to a plain carriage. There was no pursuit.”

“It was a nightmare.”

“Forget about it,” he said tersely.

Why was he so cold, so remote, so untouchable? Last night he had said he loved me. I hadn't dreamed that.
Yes, I love you
, he had said just before I went to sleep, yet now he acted as though I were his sworn enemy. We were together again at last and the nightmare was over and he had never been so icy and detached.

“I see your bags,” I said. “You—you've given up your post?”

“I'm no longer with the diplomatic corps,” he said frigidly. “I was sacked. Two days ago the Ambassador called me in to give me the news. He had been waiting for official word to come down. I failed in my mission, you see, when I returned to Sturnburg leaving you in Barivna.”

“Brence—”

“My diplomatic career is over. Early yesterday morning, as I was packing, one of the junior aides happened to come in. He mentioned that the military takeover had begun. Another aide had left to warn Karl and try to help him escape. I threw the rest of my things in the bags and hired this carriage. When I explained to the driver what would be required of him, he insisted on a huge fee in advance.”

“You—”

“I knew what Schroder would do, that he would go looking for you himself. I got there in time, thank God. I had planned to blast my way in with my pistol, but the students arrived at the same time and I went in with them.”

“You—you were willing to take the risk.”

“It was something I had to do.”

“You do love me.”

“I told you so that night in the gardens. I said a lot of things that night. All of them were true.”

“I thought—”

“I don't care to discuss it, Mary Ellen.”

He turned once more to stare out the window. He was angry, rightfully so, and he was still tense after last night's ordeal. But I felt sure that everything would be all right. Brence loved me. He had been willing to risk his life to rescue me. I had caused him to lose his post, but I would make it up to him somehow. I would give up my career. I would remain at his side, helping him, encouraging him. He would forgive me in time, and we would make a new start, together.

We rode on in silence, and after a while the carriage stopped in front of a small, pale yellow inn with brown shutters at the windows. Tall shade trees grew on either side, their leafy boughs touching the roof. Geese honked noisily in front of the stables, and a plump black and white cow was grazing near the vegetable garden. Brence opened the carriage door and, climbing out, helped me to alight. Though he was gripping my hand firmly, I stumbled. He frowned and, when I had steadied myself, let go of my hand. He took my bags out of the carriage and silently led me inside the inn.

The proprietor was fat and jolly and wore a black leather apron to cover his considerable girth. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, and he held a sharp knife. He had obviously been chopping onions—he reeked of them. Brence told him we would need a room, and the proprietor nodded vigorously. When Brence asked him if he could provide lunch, he nodded again, his blue eyes twinkling, his double chin bobbing. Chattering on in German, he darted behind the counter to take down a key. I heard the carriage moving around to the stables as we started upstairs, following the proprietor who continued to talk enthusiastically, though neither of us answered him.

Leading us down a narrow hall, he opened a door and showed us the room. Brence nodded tersely and set the bags down. The proprietor handed him the key, beamed happily and hurried back down the hall. We heard his footsteps clomping noisily down the stairs. Brence glanced around at the small, cozy room. A brightly colored patchwork quilt was spread over the golden oak four-poster. A wide mirror hung over the dressing table, and fresh white curtains billowed at the opened window that looked over the cobbled yard in front of the stables. I heard the geese honking, heard our driver talking with one of the stable boys as they fed the horses.

“This seems to be satisfactory,” Brence said. “I'm going back downstairs. Lunch should be ready soon.”

“Something with onions, no doubt.”

Brench looked at me for a moment, hesitating. I had the impression there was something important he wanted to add, something he couldn't quite bring himself to say. He frowned, his eyes dark and moody, a spray of jet locks tumbling over his brow. I waited for him to speak, meeting his gaze with level eyes. His frown deepened and then, abruptly, he turned and left the room. I shrugged. There would be plenty of time to patch things up later on.

Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I was aghast. The skirt of my gown was torn and crumpled, the sleeves limp, and the bodice had slipped perilously low. My hair was in shambles, my face wan, a bruise on my jaw. I opened my bag, took out a brush and some theatrical make-up and set them on the dressing table beside the pitcher of water. I scrubbed my face, removed the diamond studded bar from the back of my hair and, sitting down, began to restore my appearance. Twenty minutes later my hair was gleaming, and I had managed to cover the bruise with make-up. I added a touch of pink lip rouge for good measure.

Adjusting the bodice of my gown, I puffed up the sleeves and was able to smooth out most of the creases in the skirt. As I did so, I thought about Karl and prayed that he had made it to safety. He had gotten a good head start, and there had been no immediate pursuit of his carriage. Hans, Eric and Wilhelm were undoubtedly already on their way out of the country, and Klaus would probably leave, too, taking Minne to the small farming community where his parents still dwelled. My German sojourn was almost over, but for Brence and me there was a new beginning.

As I left the room, I heard a carriage turning around in the cobbled yard. I moved slowly down the stairs, creamy pink satin rustling, eager to find Brence and charm him out of his dark mood. The proprietor stood behind the counter, wearing a confused expression, and looked at me as though he couldn't quite make out whether I was fish or fowl.

I asked him where Brence was. He muttered something I couldn't understand. I tried to explain that we were lunching together and asked if Brence was in the dining room. He began to speak German again, throwing his hands up, looking distressed. I was beginning to grow impatient when he finally turned and took down an envelope from the shelf behind him. He gave it to me, and I felt my heart stop beating. I opened it with trembling hands. There was a sheaf of German currency inside, no note. I dropped the envelope on the counter and rushed outside. The driver, reins in hand, was ready to depart. Brence had the carriage door open and one foot on the step.

“Brence!”

He turned, stepping back from the open door.

“Damn!” he exclaimed. “I hoped there wouldn't be a scene. I hoped I could get away before—”

“You—you're not leaving!”

“I left money for you at the desk. There's enough to pay your bill and get you back to Paris. The nearest train station is only three miles away, and you can hire a carriage from the innkeeper.”

“Brence—”

“I don't want a scene, Mary Ellen.”

He stood there beside the carriage with a grim expression on his face. Distraught, I stared at the full bell sleeves of his silky white shirt billowing in the breeze. My heart was bursting. I could actually feel it expanding, swelling, bursting. I caught my breath, shook my head, tears spilled down my cheeks. I took a step toward him. But he scowled and I stopped. I felt I was going to faint. I was dizzy, and my vision was beginning to blur.

“No,” I whispered.

“This is the only way.”

“I love you. You love me.”

“That's my misfortune. You've wrecked my career. You would surely ruin my life. I love you, Mary Ellen, yes, and someday, God willing, I'll be able to get over it. I don't know where I'll go or what I'll do, but I'll do it alone.”

“Don't. Please don't do this.”

“I have to,” he said tersely.

“Brence!”

“Goodbye, Mary Ellen.”

And he climbed into the carriage. As he closed the door, the driver clicked the reins and the carriage started down the road. My heart finally exploded. Pain swept over me and the tears spilled wetly down my cheeks. My life was over; it had no meaning for me anymore. I stood very still, whispering his name over and over again. The carriage disappeared around a curve in the road. Brence was gone.

INTERLUDE IN PARIS 1850

XXXIV

The house on the Champs-Élysées was small and elegant. Chestnut trees grew in front, behind the wrought iron fence, and a small garden flourished in back. I had leased it, furnished, for three months only, for I was uncertain about the future. I had only been back in Paris for two weeks, and Millie was one of my first visitors. She had just returned herself from a long trip with Dumas. He was an inexhaustible and incorrigible traveler, exuberantly exploring every cave, every cathedral, every museum, taking voluminous notes and, according to Millie, devouring every crumb of food available.

“And then, mind you,” she declared as I showed her into the sitting room, “when we finally got back to the hotel or wherever, he'd stay up half the night writing, writing, writing. Travel books! And a book on food! And working on another novel as well, and expecting me to entertain him in between chapters when all I wanted to do was soak my feet in a tub of hot water and get some sleep!”

“You've certainly traveled a great deal,” I observed.

“Climbing all over the Pyrenees,
me
, climbing mountains and getting rocks in my slippers and tearing my skirts on wild shrubs and staying in country inns with donkeys braying outside my window all night long! And then
Italy
—you can't believe how many churches they have, how many ruins, how many smelly restaurants! All those Italians eating garlic and chattering away a mile a minute, waving their hands and trying to bully you into buying garishly colored picture cards or hand woven baskets! I tell you, it's enough to drive one berserk!”

“It seems to have agreed with you.”