Page 51 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“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 pondwith 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. RobinGoodfellow could easily become last week’s sensation, if she did not stir up some new controversy with her pen.
A breeze scudded across the surface of the pond, rippling the waters, and raising gooseflesh upon her bare skin. Phaedra shivered, then kicked her feet beneath her and dog-paddled for the bank.
Hauling herself out, Phaedra flopped into the cool grass, waiting for the moisture on her skin to dry before dressing again. She plucked a blade of grass and stroked it across her cheek, peering at her reflection in the water. With her hair sprayed across her bare shoulders in fiery rivelets, her wide green eyes haunting her pale face, she looked like some lonely sprite trapped beneath the surface of the water.
She stirred the blade through the reflection, dispelling her image into a myriad of shimmering ripples.
Very well, then. Maybe she would admit it. She was lonely. Why else would she have responded so eagerly to Armande’s caresses, gone so willingly to his bed? At times she felt starved for affection-and there was so much about Armande that was perfect.
Too perfect, she thought uneasily. Beyond his skill as a lover, and the enticement of his lean, dangerous profile, he knew how to be kind and gentle. Her longing for that was as keen as her longing to be loved. Armande seemed to understand so much of what she felt. Add to that the fact that he didn’t want her to be a simpering fool, that he respected the power of her mind and admired her for it-as long as she didn’t ask too many questions. Phaedra was glad she remembered that. It might save her from regret.
She rolled over on her side, peering upward to where the sun peeked through the leaves. It must be past noon, she thought dully. By now he must be gone. She suddenly hated the whispery shadows of the leaves, stealing away the sunshine.
Sitting up, she hugged her bare knees. She wondered if it were really so important to her what Armande called himself. Did it truly matter what his real name or what secrets he kept? She was struck by an unexpected memory of Eliza Wilkins, the woman’s willingness to risk her life, her security, all to follow her husband Tom wherever he went. “Because I love him,” Eliza had said in her quiet way. Phaedra had not understood then, but maybe now, she did, just a little.
