LONG
before he came, Alistair had been aware of the resort's various
natural phenomena. The famous waters from Matlock Bath's mineral
springs, for instance, offered other excitement besides baths.
The
water was known for depositing a calcareous encrustation upon objects
over which it flowed. At the petrifying wells, the results were
displayed for the edification of visitors.
Miss
Oldridge's glove had either long since been removed or had, over
time, resolved into an anonymous lump of calcified matter. Still,
other marvels remained. The keeper of the place was delighted to show
Lord Har-gate's famous son a petrified broom, a wig, and a bird's
nest. Miss Oldridge persuaded Alistair to sacrifice his gloves,
which, she whispered, would be of immense interest to tourists in the
months and years to come.
"Duke
Nicholas of Russia paid Matlock Bath a visit two years ago, in
February, no less," she told Alistair after they left the place
and started back toward Wilkerson's. "Being Russian, he probably
thought the weather balmy. The year before, we had Archdukes John and
Louis of Austria. They are mere foreigners, however. Your visit the
well keeper will boast of till his dying day, and your gloves will be
pointed out to visitors with hushed reverence. When word gets out
that a petrifying well in Matlock Bath is in possession of your
gloves—not merely one, but the pair—tourists will flock
to the place to view these holy relics."
Alistair
looked down at her. She was smiling, and mischief twinkled in her
far-too-blue eyes, and he longed to draw her into his arms and kiss
her witless.
"Those
were exquisitely made gloves," he said with feigned sorrow. "I
shall never be able to replace them, and Crewe will never forgive me.
But if the sacrifice improves trade, I must not repine."
"You
may be sure that any business you patronize will make the most of
it," she said. "Foreign noblemen are as common as flies
these days, but such a heroic personage as Lord Hargate's son—"
"I'm
not heroic," he said, careful to keep his voice light. "It's
utter nonsense."
She
stopped and turned to him. "It isn't nonsense. How can you think
it is?"
They
stood upon the South Parade, close by Wilker-son's and in full view
and hearing of a number of interested passersby. Alistair knew he
should return to the hotel and let her go on her way, but he wasn't
ready to let her go. Not yet. She of all people needed to understand.
He
remembered what she'd said about his wounded leg: that the odds had
been against him either way. She'd shown him that he'd had as good a
reason to say no to the surgeons as he had to say yes. He only wished
he'd said no because he'd weighed the odds, not because he was
terrified. He'd never forgive himself for that fear.
That,
at least, was his own secret.
His
alleged heroism was public, a difficulty he encountered almost daily.
It was a thorn in his side, digging deeper and deeper as time passed.
Perhaps if one person in the world—the one who meant the most
to him—knew the truth, he could bear it better. He wished he
could tell her all, but he couldn't. Still, he could tell her a part.
He
looked about, but there was no place in the picturesque resort where
they might be private without stirring gossip.
He
was not entirely surprised when she, evidently guessing what he
wanted, came to his rescue.
"Have
you seen the view of Matlock Bath from farther up the hill?" she
said. She nodded toward the road next to Wilkerson's, which led to
the Heights of Abraham. "There is an excellent outlook but a
short way up."
She
started that way, and he went with her.
When
they were out of the spa's earshot, she said, "I don't know why
you must fight the battle of Waterloo night after night. I wish I
knew of a posset or syrup to help you sleep peacefully. My father
thinks the remedy is laudanum. Perhaps you might consult an
apothecary about a small dose. Perhaps if the battle didn't haunt
your dreams, you would not be so tetchy about the subject."
The
battle wasn't all that haunted him, but he mustn't speak of the rest:
how he longed for her, how he missed the sound of her voice, her
scent, her touch.
"I
am tetchy about being made out to be hero," he said. "I've
borne it for a long time because I couldn't remember what happened
that day. I had to take others' word for it. Now that I do remember,
I can't bear your having the wrong idea of me. I value your good
opinion—oh, and your affection, thought should not speak of
that—I value these too much to have them under false
pretenses."
She
stared at him, blue eyes wide with disbelief. "What are you
saying? False pretenses? There were eyewitnesses to your many acts of
bravery."
"Others
did as much and more," he said. "My actions were nothing
extraordinary. There were men who'd been with Wellington for years,
who acted with surpassing courage and gallantry. If you knew their
stories, you would understand how demented it seems to me to be
singled out as the hero."
She
walked on, saying nothing. Alistair ached to tell her all. The full
truth. What had happened at the surgeon's tent. Perhaps in time he
would. Perhaps in time, if she would give him time, he would find the
courage.
One
step at a time down from the hero's pedestal.
He
limped on with her in silence, glancing from time to time at her
profile, wondering if she was reassessing him, and if her affection
would survive the process. She was frowning. Oh, why had he not held
his tongue?
"Last
week, I had a letter from my Aunt Clothilde," she said. "It
described in detail your tumultuous love affairs. Aunt never
expurgates on my account, you see. She wrote about the riot at
Kensington Gate, the pamphlets, the sponging house, the lawsuits, and
the rest. Then I better understood why the Earl of Hargate said you
were expensive and troublesome to keep."
Alistair
felt the old weight descending upon him, the sense of pointlessness
and weariness he hadn't felt in weeks. His past was like an albatross
round his neck. It would cost him her affection, canal or no canal.
"I
suppose this is the price one pays for having a forceful and exciting
character," she went on. "You attract the press. The
newspapers made you famous, not solely because of your deeds—though
you are entitled to be proud of them—but because you made a
grand story."
He
heard the lilt in her voice and dared another glance at her face. A
hint of a smile played at the corners of her soft lips, and humor
danced in her blue eyes.
He
remembered her bursting through the doors of the drawing room that
first day, eyes sparkling, face lit… and the sunny smile
wrapping about him and warming him… and all the shades and
variations of that smile he'd seen since.
He
remembered how the sight of her had lightened his heart, as the
smallest change in her expression did now.
"A
grand story?" he repeated.
"There
was the scandal in London, the broken engagement, and the courtesan,"
she said. "Then the outraged father, sending you abroad. As a
diplomatic aide. Lord Hargate never meant for you to be fighting, did
he?"
"Certainly
not. My sire deems me undisciplined and rebellious and altogether
unfit for military service."
"But
you were not the sort of man to sit tamely in Brussels while the
others went to war," she went on. "Few know how you managed
it. Those who do know won't say. Most of us know only that you
somehow wangled a place for yourself and ended up in the thick of the
fighting."
"At
such times, the commanders are glad to have every man they can get,"
Alistair said. "I had friends from school who put in a good word
for me, and I was persistent—attached myself like a barnacle.
It was easier to let me in than to get rid of me."
"However
it was done, you proved your mettle in battle," she said. "At
risk of your own life, time and again, you rescued injured men of
every rank. You fought bravely. You endured, even after you'd fallen.
Then there was the dramatic tale of Lord Gordmor hunting through the
darkness for you among the dead and dying, and the miracle of your
recovery from grievous injuries. You see? It is a grand story, Mr.
Carsington."
Alistair
did see the full picture at last. He stopped and, leaning on his
walking stick, stared at the ground while his mind played out the
scenes in his head, like the scenes of a play. At the finale, he saw
his family descend en masse and bear away the prodigal son to
England.
And
he laughed—from embarrassment or relief or perhaps simply
because of the ridiculousness of his life.
Then
he raised his head—a moment too late to discern the worried
glance she cast him—and gazed at her, and said, "It is as
you said that time when you came to Wilker-son's. You are the only
one who would say such things to my face. Even my best friend…"
He trailed off, grinning. "Poor Gordy. But why should he
enlighten me as to the true nature of my fame when even my
brothers—who are never in the least shy about setting me
down—held then-tongues?"
"They
should have told you," she said. "But perhaps they didn't
realize how deeply the matter distressed you."
Alistair
shrugged. "My family never talks about it, at least not in my
presence." After a moment, he added, "And I've done
everything possible to discourage them and everyone else from
discussing it."
He
straightened, and it was then, for the first time since they'd set
out, he noticed his surroundings.
What
he saw robbed him of speech.
Immense
rock formations thrust out from the hillside. Massive, stony obelisks
lay strewn about, like ninepins. Upon them grew the lichens and
mosses that so fascinated Mr. Oldridge. Trees and shrubs wedged in
the spaces between rocks, and a sampling of braver and hardier wild
plants hinted at the profusion that must appear in warmer seasons.
Alistair heard water dripping from somewhere in the mountain, the
same water that trickled through the petrifying wells.
The
trees and rocks shut out everything else. He and she might have been
on some fairy-tale island. He turned slowly round, gazing in wonder
like a child.
"This
site is called the Romantic Rocks," came her cool voice from a
distance. "In the height of the season, it is overrun with
tourists."
He
looked at her.
She
sat on one of the obelisk-like stones, her hands folded. Her dull
grey bonnet and cloak blended into her surroundings, drawing all the
attention to her glowing countenance and the fiery curls framing it.
"You
love this place," he said.
"Not
simply this spot," she said. "I am a part of the Peak, and
it is part of me. My mother told me she fell in love with this part
of Derbyshire when she fell in love with my father. Some of my
earliest memories are of walking with her up to the Heights of
Abraham. We often came to these rocks. We visited the caverns, too.
We went to the baths and the petrifying wells. We took a boat across
the river to the Lovers' Walks. We even made trips to Chatsworth and
the other great houses. We never grew tired of the sights." Her
voice softened with nostalgia. "Sometimes on our expeditions, we
would sketch and paint. Sometimes my father came along. In those
days, he was fascinated with botany, but in a more rational way. Mama
made him wonderfully detailed paintings of plants and flowers."
Alistair
walked to her and sat down beside her, thinking no more of his
expensively tailored coat and the effect of moss and lichen upon it
than she did of her unfashionable cloak.
"Your
father loved her very much," he said.
She
nodded. Her eyes glistened.
"If
she was at all like you, I can understand your father's shutting
himself off from the world for all these years," he said. "It
is only a few days since last I saw you, yet to me it has seemed a
dark and wearisome eternity."
She
stood abruptly. "You are not to make love to me," she said
in clipped tones. "I should not have taken you here. I should
have stopped at the first picturesque viewpoint, as I meant—or
thought I meant. I seem to persist in doing the exact opposite of
what I ought to do."
Alistair
rose as well, though more stiffly, for the rock was chilly and his
leg had not forgiven him for the visit to the cold, damp petrifying
well. "Love makes people behave strangely," he said.