Page 43 of Second Chances
After three years, when he tried to approach the owner of Ty Mawr, he found that the man had gone traveling in Europe and no one seemed to know exactly where he was to he found. A year later the owner was back, but the marquess’s uncle had died unexpectedly and there was a great deal of business to be attended to, since he had inherited and there were numerous female relatives to be settled satisfactorily.
And so five years had passed.
She was still there. It seemed that she must have accepted her exile. It surprised him somewhat. She had been a headstrong girl. He would have expected that she would try to make some sort of escape. Of course, Lambton undoubtedly kept her without funds. To what would she escape?
The owner of Ty Mawr was only too eager to rent to him. Ashendon leased the house for six months and left for Wales without further delay.
His lodgekeepers had not exaggerated. He traveled close to the coastline of South Wales, passing through the towns of Newport, Cardiff, and Swansea, and coming eventually to the Gower Peninsula—all high plateau, fit for nothing but sheep, and stark cliffs and golden beaches and wooded valleys. And finally the steep descent to the one great sweep of beach that was headed not by cliffs but by sand dunes, and then a sandy road and smaller lanes lined with ferns and wild plants. And the village of Rhos, which hardly seemed to merit the label, so small was it.
It was a blustery day in late February when he arrived, the sky low and heavy with gray clouds, the sea menacing looking and flecked with foam, angry breakers spending themselves against the sand. There seemed nothing here except the elements.
And she had spent five years here? Poor Katherine.
It was a relief to find that the house was at least both warm and well aired. The housekeeper had done a good job of keeping damp and neglect at bay. He had brought his cook and his valet with him—and his most useless but beloved dog.
He awoke early the next morning. Indeed, he had not slept a great deal at all. He was feeling all the madness of having come. She had never liked him. She had ended up hating him. No doubt she blamed him for everything—for ruining her dream of bliss, for ruining her reputation, for having her whipped and exiled. Hatred, he realized suddenly, having spent five years convincing himself of the opposite, was more likely to grow and fester with time than to fade.
He must be the very last man on earth she would want to see.
And having arrived, he realized that his plans had never proceeded farther than this. He had pictured himself leasing Ty Mawr and traveling to it. He had pictured her sad and broken, willing now to accept him on any terms. He had pictured himself taking her back to civilization, wooing her love, living happily with her for the rest of a lifetime.
Had this five-year exile broken her spirit? he wondered. And was that what he really wanted? She had been a headstrong girl, very conscious of what she wanted, very determined to get it at all costs. She had been a girl so accustomed to being given her own way—her father and her brothers had all spoiled her—that she could not seem to conceive of the idea of not getting it.
He had often wondered why he had loved her so passionately and so enduringly. Perhaps it was merely the lure of what could not be had. During any of the five years since he had first met her he could have had almost any woman he had wanted—for years he had been one of the largest prizes on the marriage mart. But he had only ever wanted her.
He did not know how he was to approach her. Leave his card at her aunts’ house and then pay a call? Would she see him? Would she have a choice? Would she make a scene?
He went walking during the morning. He instinctively sought out the more secluded parts of the park instead of walking down the sloping lawn to the gates that would take him out onto the sand dunes and across them to the beach. He felt almost as if he were hiding, afraid of being seen by someone who would carry word to her and send her in her turn into hiding.
Patch was sniffing at his heels and running circles around him, daring him to break into a run or to play at catching her. And then the collie ran off, first this way and then that, exploring her new surroundings, sniffing noisily at every unfamiliar stone and bush.
He wandered into the woods, which were somehow sheltered from the sea gales and apparently flourishing, though the trees were still bare after winter. Spring was coming, though. The ground at his feet was covered with the fresh green shoots of daffodils, and it looked as though many of them were about to bloom.
He was glad it was almost spring. Somehow during spring everything seemed possible.
And then his dog started to bark hysterically and darted off through the trees.
There was a girl farther down the slope, apparently in the process of picking the buds, though he could see that she held none when she jumped back from the approaching dog then froze in terror.
He had once seen a cat that was being chased with great ferocity by Patch stop in its tracks and turn. And he had then proceeded to watch the indescribably hilarious scene of his fierce dog running in unholy terror with the cat in hot pursuit. If it had been possible for Patch to climb trees, he did not doubt that she would have dashed up one to the topmost branch and cowered there until he went up to rescue her. He found his dog’s cowardice utterly endearing.
“She will not touch you,” he called to the girl. “She is all bark and no bite.”
Patch was ingratiating herself with this new acquaintance in her usual undignified and unladylike manner. He hurried downward through the trees to reassure the girl.
She was dressed in a plain gray cloak, the dress visible beneath it equally plain. She wore no bonnet and had her fair hair dressed smoothly over her head and knotted simply at her neck.
He was quite close to her before he recognized her. She had always reminded him of a sparkling gem. She had always had more curls and more ringlets than any other young lady. She had always dressed more fashionably than anyone else, with more frills and flounces and bows and ribbons. And her face had always held the assurance that she knew herself beautiful and desirable and eligible. One had almost been able to read in her face that she was the daughter of an earl, though strangely there had seemed to be no conscious arrogance in her.
She had changed almost beyond recognition, he thought, feeling at the same time as if a powerful fist had slammed into his stomach and robbed him of breath. In five years she had left behind her girlhood without a trace and had become a woman.
An amazingly beautiful woman.
And so the meeting was being forced upon him before he was in any way prepared for it. He had no idea what had brought her into the park of Ty Mawr. But by some strange coincidence they had come to the same place at the same time.
He watched recognition widen her eyes and stain her cheeks with color. When the color faded, her face was unnaturally pale. She stood absolutely still and silent. As did he for several moments.
“Lady Katherine,” he said at last. He did not bow. He considered doing so, but it seemed somehow inappropriate.
