Page 43 of A Rogue's Downfall
It was full daylight. The sun was probably springing over the eastern horizon, though she could not see ithere among the trees. She must go back to the houseand prepare herself for the day. She was tempted tosit here until he awoke. Perhaps it would be hourslater. But she did not have hours to spare. Besides,she did not want to talk with him anymore. She didnot believe she would be able to keep up any of theirusual banter. She felt a little like crying.
She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to lean down and touch her lips to his forehead or one of his cheeks.Or perhaps even his own lips. But she might wakehim. She would die of humiliation if he awoke whileher lips were touched to his.
So she merely raised his hand slowly and dipped her head to meet it and set her cheek to the back ofit. And she turned her head and brushed her lipsagainst the back of his wrist. Then she set his handdown carefully on the grass, got quietly to her feet,gazed down at him for a few moments longer, andwalked softly away into the trees—far more softlythan he had approached a half hour or so earlier.
He was not sleeping. He merely did not want to continue his conversation with her. He did not wantto have to walk back to the house with her.
She had let him into her world, a very ordinary world, but one so alien to him that he did not knowhow to respond to her. Life had been cruel to her—viciously cruel. And her dreams, though humble ones,were quite, quite beyond her grasp, he knew. He didnot for one moment believe in the young and handsome and prosperous tenant farmer or in the ruddy,rotund, elderly one, either. She was too valuable toMrs. Peabody. Mrs. Peabody was the type of womanwho needed someone more than a personal maid tofetch and carry for her, and someone who was alwaysthere on whom to vent her spleen. Someone whocould not answer back.
Patricia Mangan would never hold any of those babies in her arms. It was such a humble ambition for a woman to have. She did not crave silks and jewels andfashionable beaux—only a kindly, constant husbandand a small and cozy home and some babies of herown.
It was not pity he felt. He did not believe it was pity. His little bird was too sensible and too courageous awoman to be pitied. It was rage he felt. A rage against Mrs. Peabody, perhaps. A rage against God, certainly. Though he was not sure that God could be blamedfor what people did to one another when they hadbeen given the infinitely precious gift of free will.
He wanted to draw her down into his arms, to hold her against him, to warm her soul against his body.But to what end? He knew of only one thing to dowith a woman’s body when it was against his own. Heknew nothing about giving comfort. And she did notneed comfort anyway. She did not seem to pity herself, or if she did, it was something she fought in thequiet of her own heart.
He felt humbled by her.
He could not talk to her. And so he conveniently fell asleep and waited for her to go away. It was hisanswer to anything troubling in his life—close his eyesand wait for it to go away.
She did go away eventually—after lifting his hand to her cheek and kissing the back of his wrist.
God! Oh, Lord God!
He did not know what she meant by it. A mere tender affection because he had listened to her—andfallen asleep while she spoke? Or—or something else?
Hell and a thousand million damnations!
* * *
The guests had been at Holly house for two weeks and were to stay for another week. Patricia did notlike their being there even though there was one distinct advantage to her in that Mrs. Peabody was frequently engaged in outings with them and left her withmore than usual freedom. But she did not like theirbeing there nevertheless.
She did not likehisbeing there. She wanted him to go away. She wanted to be free of him. Since themorning at the lily pond she had been alone with himonly once, for a mere few seconds and they had exchanged only seven words, four of his and three ofhers. But she wanted him gone anyway. His presencein the house and frequently in the same room as sheoccupied with her aunt weighed heavily on her spirits.
The only time they met face to face, or almost face to face, was one morning when she was hurrying alongthe upstairs hallway with Mrs. Peabody’s second cupof chocolate and he came out of his room just aheadof her. He closed the door and waited for her to drawlevel with him.
“Good morning, little bird,” he said quietly.
“Good morning, sir.” She did not raise her eyes and she hurried on past him. But she was upset for therest of the day.
Mrs. Delaney was annoyed with him. Patricia could tell that from the way the lady flirted so ferociouslywith all the other gentlemen who made up the party—including even Mr. Peabody. Lady Myron was Mr.Bancroft’s current favorite and probable bedfellow.The lascivious looks they had been exchanging morethan a week ago had become considerably hotter. Andwhen the lady was passing him one day in a doorway,Patricia saw that she leaned deliberately forward andslid her bosom across his chest—as if the doorway wasno more than six inches wide. His eyes had smokeddown at her.
It amazed Patricia that no one else noticed such things. Perhaps one observed more easily when onelived the life of a shadow. Everyone else was perhapstoo busy living. And everyone else seemed to assumethat a betrothal announcement would be made beforethe final week drew to an end.
They could not be blamed for thinking so, Patricia thought, and undoubtedly they were right. He wasmarkedly attentive to Nancy, leading her in to meals,standing behind her to turn the pages of her musicwhen she played the pianoforte, walking out with her,strolling on the terrace with her after dinner beforethe evening entertainment began, dancing with her ifthat was the order of the evening, partnering her incards or charades. He smiled at her and talked withher and devoured her with his eyes and made it appear that he was smitten to the very heart.
Most of them could not be blamed for not knowing that he had spent his nights with Mrs. Delaney at thestart and was now spending them with Lady Myronand was also exchanging interested and assessingglances with Mrs. Hunter and had tumbled Flossie onat least one occasion.
Why should they know or suspect when a very obvious courtship was developing before their eyes and when Mrs. Peabody and Nancy were so very openlyin expectation of an event to be celebrated before theysent their guests on their way?
Patricia was usually excluded from the social events that took place beyond the confines of the house. Butshe was informed that she was to accompany Mrs.Peabody on the picnic out to the hill one afternoon. She could make herself useful for a change, she wastold, instead of being idle and indolent. She was goingto have to revise her lazy ways after the guests hadgone home. There was going to be dear Nancy’s wedding to prepare for, after all. And perhaps she did notrealize that her keep was costing Mr. Peabody a prettypenny. It was time she did something to earn it.
And so Patricia found herself on a warm and only slightly breezy summer afternoon seated in the openbarouche beside Mrs. Peabody, Nancy and Nancy’syoung friend, Susan Ware, opposite them, Mr. Bancroft, riding like the other gentlemen, close to theother side of the conveyance, heaping gallantries onthe ladies—on the three ladies, that was. Patricia wasmerely the shadow of one of them.
That morning at the lily pond had had results. Talking about her past and putting into words her dreams—as she had done to no one before, or notsince Patrick’s departure for Spain, anyway—had sether to thinking. And realizing what an abject creatureshe had become. What a victim. Could she really bequite this helpless? Was it possible that her aunt reallyowned her for the rest of her life, just as if she werea slave? Was it so impossible to try to shape a life ofher own?
The new parson at home, the one who had taken over from Papa, had been a friend of his. Patricia hadmet him once or twice before her father’s death. Shehad heard since in the letters she sometimes receivedfrom the Misses Jones that he did not like teaching atthe village school, that he considered it to be outsidethe limits of his responsibilities. He did it only becausethere was no alternative.
What if she presented him with an alternative? Patricia had been thinking it over during the past week. What if she offered to teach at the school? She didnot know how she would be paid and she did notknow where she would live, unless it was in that rundown cottage that no one had wanted to live in forthe past ten years or so because the former owner hadhanged himself inside and his ghost was said to lingerthere. But what if something could be worked out?
