Learning to Waltz (35 page)

He stopped abruptly and grabbed her reins below the bit. Both horses sidled nervously. “Oh no, Deborah. Don’t cast this back on me. If you don’t want to marry me, say so. But don’t tell me I don’t want you. I want
you
, Deborah. I want you in my bed at night. I want you to raise my children. I want you to stir my damned coffee. I want you to stir my blood when I get old. I want us to grow old together.” She could feel herself gaping at him. “I want you, by God!”

He slid from his saddle and pulled her from hers, willy-nilly. She fell against him and slid down onto her feet, her skirts catching on his clothing so that his leather breeches pressed against her bare legs. He tugged her hat from her head, scattering pins amongst the grass, and tossed the hat itself after them.

So much for her powers of persuasion.
His
were far more potent. She wrapped her arms around his neck and thrilled to feel herself crushed against him. Between the pressure on her lungs and the pressure on her mouth and the pain of her love for him, it was very difficult to breathe.

She was sorry when his mind reasserted control over his instincts. He loosened his grip fractionally, removed his hands from the quite improper parts of her anatomy where they had been, and rested his forehead against hers. He too was having trouble with his breathing—he sounded rather like Pelleas after a good rabbit chase. She pulled her head back and looked up into his face.

The first unsteady words out of his mouth—predictably, she supposed—were apologetic. “I got a bit carried away. I’m sorry, Deborah.”

“No,” was the only word she could get out of her mouth.

It hardly produced the expected reaction. Evan gripped her by the shoulders, hard. His voice was furious, but his expression was so hurt. “Don’t tell me ‘no’ any more, Deborah.” And then a pleading, “I can’t stand it.”

“No!—I mean—I just meant… don’t apologize.”

He pulled her close again, but it was some different emotion this time. After some minutes, he heaved a sigh and held her at arm’s length.

“So—
will
you marry me, Deborah?”

“I will.” She poked his chest with a finger. “But only because I need new boots. And probably a new riding habit as well.” She’d not been aware of it at first, but the ground where they stood was sodden from the rain.

Evan looked down at her in surprise. “Deborah? Am I mistaken or was that a joke?”

She blushed and peered up at him anxiously.

“I tell you what I’ll do, sweetheart. For every joke you tell me, I’ll give you a gown of any sort you wish…  No, make it two. And a kiss.” This one was tender. “Or maybe three.”

“Evan?”

“Mmm?”

“Are your feet not wet?”

“Hush. Don’t spoil it.”

She dried the last of the plates and set it on its shelf on the dresser. Then she crossed to the fireplace and swung the pothook out so she could stir the strawberries that simmered there, becoming jam. Julian and Pelleas played by the door, which stood open to let in the sunshine.

Julian threw a soiled towel repeatedly over the little dog, who battled his way out from underneath and barked with excitement. “Look, Mama, he’s wearing a judge’s wig!” Julian shouted. “Look, Mama, he’s wearing a shawl!” As he wrapped it around Pell’s neck:“Look, a cravat!” Piled on his head:“a turban!”

Deborah laughed too. It was a perfectly ordinary, perfectly perfect spring day.

“Come, children, let’s go for a walk.” Julian cackled with glee at her inclusion of Pell as one of the “children” and jumped up to put on his coat and grab the dog’s lead—though they never used it anymore—while Deborah pulled her shawl and bonnet off the hook.

They went to the door—now mysteriously closed—and she opened it to…

Nothing. No steps, no yard, no chestnut tree, no bright sunshine. Boy and dog were swept into a black void, soft and velvet, the sound of Julian’s laughter carried back to her where she stood in the doorway of the dark kitchen.

She looked over her shoulder. A single candle on the table shed its meager light on the familiar surroundings. From the hallway beyond came the sounds of a beast, snuffling and roaring as it searched out its prey, coming closer.

Deborah turned back to the darkness outside and stepped off the threshold.

She was riding the white mare, Evan mounted behind. His arms came around her; he kissed her, and then they were riding the moors in the sunshine while Julian and Pelleas gamboled around them. They took their time, allowing the horse to choose her path and nibble as she liked, while her riders gazed into the distance, or into each other’s eyes, or looked for the lark singing his heart out somewhere in the high blue sky, or watched the ground for the nests of ouzels.

It was a perfectly ordinary, perfectly perfect spring day.

She awoke to the smell of strawberries burning.

She was a bit later than usual; dark rainy mornings often began that way.

She hurried into her morning gown—
not
the pretty sprig muslin she had worn in her dream; no telling where her imagination had pulled that from, but certainly not from her wardrobe—and ran down the stairs to deal with Molly’s mess.

It would not be so easy, of course. There were no perfect days, and no perfect man, and certainly no happy-ever-afters, at least not for her. Even quite simple things sounded daunting.

While the idea of having new gowns to wear was intoxicating, Deborah found it very hard to picture herself visiting a modiste, pretending to be a lady of fashion, while seamstresses in the back room did the sewing for her. One thing about making her own clothes, it encouraged her to settle for fewer of them! If Elizabeth, say, had to stitch her own gowns…

Deborah Moore

Whately, April 15

Dear Elizabeth—

I know I am not the first to send you the news, as Evan pronounced that he would spend yesterday evening writing to all his relations. And I know he did so, for he stopped here before taking his letters to the post. And then he brought my post to me, which consisted of your letter! So the secret of your visit to Whately is out. To be sure, you never said that it should be secret, but clearly you had not informed him of it, and I did not feel it was my place to do so. It was bound to come out sooner or later, however; Julian has been distracted by other events, or I feel sure he would already have mentioned something about you or Alexander. Evan was taken aback, without a doubt; but then he laughed and made me tell him all about our doings and really seemed quite pleased.

For myself, I would have preferred that he wait to make his announcements for a day, or a week, or perhaps a year—but that is because I am craven.

What will they think? What do you think, Elizabeth? You have been so kind to me, that I almost dare to hope for your support. Even if it must be given from a distance, still it would ease my mind knowing that not all of Evan’s family will mourn the occasion as I fear your sister and your parents must.

I hardly even know how to brave modistes and milliners—as I must do quite urgently—without your assistance. If you do not renounce me entirely, please send me your best advice in this matter; and I hope that you will come to the wedding and stand my friend, if you feel you can. It will be held at Northridge, not later than the end of May.

With best wishes,

Deborah

After the wedding, there would be other horrors to face.

They had talked, riding slowly back across the meadow, about where they would live. And about other things, most too silly to mention, or even to remember, except when she hugged them to her heart at night while waiting for sleep to take her.

Wherever they settled, there would be a household far larger than Whately’s parsonage to be kept clean and organized, servants to hire and supervise, menus to plan, gardens and dairy and henhouse, possibly a brewery or bakehouse. She knew how to clean and cook better than she knew how to direct a staff whose job it was to do those things. Would her hands ever become soft? The hands of a lady?

Beyond their own household, there would be a whole community to meet, callers and dinner parties and other sorts of entertainments to attend—and to host, whatever Evan said. Thank heavens he had no desire to locate in London! He talked of visiting there in the fall and of introducing her to the
ton
the following spring—but that was very far away. There were many, many things to worry about first.

One of these, to which she had not yet given any thought at all, was the mystery of how to make him happy. She had failed conclusively with Hartley and was determined that Evan should never regret his decision.

Elizabeth Dusseau

London, April 17

My dear new sister,

Of course I will come to your wedding, Deborah; it is Evan’s too, after all! Philip will be there as well, and all of the children. And of course I will stand your friend, you silly goose! I wanted to talk with you about Evan, but he had disappeared, and I could hardly broach the subject with you until I could ascertain his feelings. I admit I’ve been anxious over how he would react to my “interference” as my husband termed it, and am relieved that he did not take umbrage. I did try very hard to do nothing that would influence the outcome—though if I had found the two of you mired in misunderstandings and silly qualms, I would have had to employ some aggressive tactics. I like you both so much!

I will write a letter to Mama as soon as I finish this one. Philip and I will leave for Northridge as soon as we can make all the arrangements and pack up the family, nursemaids, &c. We can be there within two weeks. If you do the same, we will have time to visit those dreaded modistes together; there is an excellent woman nearby whom we have used since I was a girl, who will be delighted to put forth her best efforts on your behalf. What fun I will have—and if you do not, you’re a very unnatural woman!

Leave Mama and Papa to me, and my sister as well. I’m sure you are worrying about all sorts of things. Don’t! It’s a time for excitement, not apprehension.

Yours, truly—

Elizabeth

Evan drove to Northridge, leaving Deborah and her mother to their sewing and packing. Would he have to persuade her all over again when he returned?

They were sewing dresses, not for Deborah but for her mother, whose need was desperate. Deborah had bought some fabric from a peddler that they were making up for the older woman. Evan would have been delighted to pay for Mrs. Carlington’s clothes as well as Deborah’s, but they united against him, insisting that they would have plenty of opportunity to test his generosity in the future. He gave in.

He had arranged for one of the viscount’s footmen to transfer his allegiance for a few days. Deborah had objected to that as well, but he overbore her. With Latimer off on his honeymoon, there was little enough for the servants to do at the Manor, and Evan did not want her run off her feet.