Page 58 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
A few minutes later she closed the book and hugged it to her chest.
Poetry was, perhaps, not the best choice of reading matter. Even now she couldn’t bear to read Tennyson or Burns. Soft words and romantic notions made her think about things she would be better off not remembering. Above all, she should not recall Macrath, the quirk of his smile, the way he stood as firm and unmovable as a pillar, his legs braced apart, his arms folded, like he dared someone to try to move him.
She should not think about the time when they’d been entwined with each other, still flush from loving, their hearts gradually slowing from the race to passion.
“I could get lost in your eyes,” he had said. “They’re so pale a blue they’re almost like clouds.”
“I never knew you had a penchant for poetry,” she said.
“I don’t, unless it’s around you. I love the color of your hair, for example,” he continued, twirling a lock around his finger. “I love how it’s so black it shines with its own kind of light. I love how your cheeks always turn pink when I compliment you.”
What had she said in return? She couldn’t remember. She’d probably kissed him and held him, eyes closed against the wonder of Macrath.
She skimmed the rest of the book, selecting another poem.
“Yes,” I answered you last night;
“No,” this morning, sir, I say.
Colors seen by candlelight,
Will not look the same by day.
Was everything going to remind her of Macrath?
No, poetry wasn’t wise. Poetry glorified the highs and lows of emotion. The authors were either rapturous with joy or immobile from grief.
She felt the same being with child. The fatigue and nausea had blessedly disappeared, to be replaced by emotions she couldn’t control. The sight of clouds overhead could summon tears. The sweet and warm scent of the honeysuckle caused her to weep. But she was just as easily annoyed, which was why she had found a quiet place in the conservatory rather than listening to the eternal chatter inside the parlor.
Perhaps she should read an adventure likeIvanhoe.Or something that would elevate her mind. She did not want to feel the pain of love lost or the joy of love found.
Would Macrath ever know of his son? For this ruse to work, he mustn’t. Yet she wanted to tell him, and the compulsion to do so was growing each day. He needed to know, even if in doing so she condemned herself to poverty.
But she didn’t wish that for her son.
For the sake of her child she had to remain silent.
“There you are.”
Virginia bit back a sigh, and wondered if there was anyplace she could truly escape. Was there anyplace Paul wasn’t?
He didn’t seem to do much during the day except walk around and watch everyone. When she’d suggested to Enid they might want to consider dismissing him, her mother-in-law said something vague in reply, avoiding an answer. Twice, she’d brought up the subject, and twice Enid deflected the question.
Evidently, keeping Lawrence’s attendant also kept Lawrence’s memory alive. Virginia had stopped commenting about Paul, but she also avoided him when she could.
She pointedly returned to her book, hoping he would get the hint and simply go away.
Instead, he took the chair opposite her.
Was he going to force her to be rude?
