The First Snowdrop

Chapter 13

Two hours after the start of the ball Anne was feeling flushed and happy. She had not dreamed that she would be in such demand as a partner. She had not sat down since entering the room, and she had not danced with the same partner twice. Alexander, before leaving her at the end of the first set, had written his name in her card for both the dance before supper and the one after. And her card had quickly filled completely. She had been complimented on her appearance, on her acting, and even on her dancing by one young man whose own dancing skills suggested that he was hardly an expert critic.

She was standing now with her arms on the stone balustrade of the terrace outside the ballroom, enjoying the cool air on her cheeks and arms. Freddie stood beside her, leaning against the barrier, looking back toward the ballroom.

"So it is all settled," he was saying. "I am the happiest man alive, Anne. She knows I don't have brains, but she'll have me anyway."

"Indeed, I am very happy for you," Anne said. "Miss Fitzgerald is a very sensible lady, and my opinion of her good sense has increased in the last minute. Any lady would be fortunate to have won your love, Freddie, and she must realize it."

Freddie giggled. "She told me at first that she can bring no dowry and I must consider very carefully," Freddie said. "As if that would make any difference to me. Can you imagine, Anne? Dear Ruby!"

"Are you to make the announcement tonight?" Anne asked.

"Can't," Freddie replied. "Wouldn't be able to get the words out in public, y' know. M' mind would go blank. Can't ever remember things. Don't have too many brains, y' know. Not like Alex. And couldn't get Ruby to make the announcement. Wouldn't be fitting."

"No, it would not be fitting," Anne said.

"Besides," Freddie said, brightening, "haven't talked to the reverend yet. Her father, y' know. Must talk to her father tomorrow. Ask for her hand. The proper thing to do."

"Yes, you are quite right, Freddie," Anne said. "I had not thought of that. How clever of you."

"Ruby says we will get married during the summer," Freddie said. "Splendid idea. Addie and Rose will be able to come to London for next Season. We can find them husbands. Or Ruby can. Not me. I ain't got the brains to do it, but Ruby will know who is suitable for them. Splendid girls, Addie and Rose." He beamed.

"What a very kind thought!" Anne said. "You will be a quite wonderful brother-in-law, Freddie. Those girls are very fortunate."

"Have to go dance with Grandmamma," he said as the music from within the ballroom drew to a close. "Grandpapa is in the card room. He was roaring for someone to bring him a cushion to put under his leg when I saw him. Grand person, Grandpapa. Brains, y' know."

Before Freddie could escort Anne back inside the ballroom, they were joined on the terrace by Jack.

"Ah, here you are," he said to her. "The next set is mine, I believe. You may run along, Freddie. Grandmamma is loudly predicting that you will probably have forgotten that you are her next partner and that she will end up being a wallflower. Go and convince her that she is as much in demand as she ever was as a girl."

When Freddie had left, Jack turned to Anne and grinned. "Did I arrive just in time to save you from death by boredom with that intellectual giant?" he asked.

"I perceive that you enjoy having a joke at the expense of Freddie," Anne said, "but I shall not allow it. It seems to me that all his life people have been telling him that he is some kind of half-wit, and he was come fully to believe it. He may not have a great deal of intelligence, but he has something infinitely more valuable. He was sweetness and kindness and humility and I would choose him before an intellectual or a wit any day."

Jack's grin did not falter. "Anne," he said, "you are quite adorable when you are angry, you know. I apologize most humbly. I should have known you would take that idiot's part. I have noticed how you will go out of your way to try to make him feel good about himself. Why will you not do the same for me?"

"I think you already feel quite good enough about yourself not to need my assistance," she said.

"I have not felt particularly good about most of this fortnight," he said. "I have finally met a girl for whom I could feel a serious affection, and it turns out that she is already married to my arch-rival and cousin."

"Nonsense, Jack," Anne said. "You do not at all fit the image of a tragic lover. You wished to flirt with me and had your nose pushed a little out of joint when I showed you that I would have none of it. I suspect that rejection does not often come your way. You are too handsome and too charming for your own good, you know. And at this moment the goose bumps on my arms are so large that I fear they may burst at any moment. Please take me inside to dance."

Jack sighed. "I could suggest a much more pleasurable way to warm you up, Anne," he said, "but I know when I am beaten. I did not realize at the start that you care a great deal for Alex, but you do, and I suppose he has a right to you. But I do think it a crying shame. Why could I not have been caught in that snowstorm?" He offered his arm and led her into the stuffy warmth of the ballroom.

The next dance was the supper dance. Anne found her spirits lifting as soon as Jack left her in search of his next partner. She would be with Alexander now for the whole of one set, for all of supper and again for a set. She must make it memorable. She must notice the touch of his body, the expressions on his face, the words he spoke. This would be almost her last contact with him. After this, there would be only his presence in her bed for the little that would remain of the night by the time the dancing was over and all the guests had left. One more chance to be with him and one more chance to make love with him. Then perhaps endless years at Redlands.

It was a waltz. Anne had danced one earlier with Stanley, who had shown great patience when he had realized that she was unfamiliar with the dance. For the first part of the set he had danced only the basic steps with her, until she had caught the rhythm of the music and felt more confident. Only then had he taken her through some wild turns and twirls. Now she felt confident that she would not make a fool of herself.

It was really quite blissful. They did not speak at all, but there was no awkwardness in the silence. Alexander held her very firmly and led her through the waltz so confidently that she felt she would have floated along with him quite faultlessly even without the earlier lesson with Stanley. She became less and less aware of the other people in the room and of her surroundings in general, and more and more aware of the man who held her, the man who had become everything in life to her. She had tried not to let it happen, had tried to convince herself that her need for him was merely physical and that his character was not one that could arouse true love in her. But unfortunately, she had found, one's heart will not always listen to one's head, and the heart is inevitably the stronger of the two.

She was in love with Alexander, hopelessly and utterly in love with him, and she was no longer going to try to deny it. She would have this hour and this night, openly and vulnerably in love with him. The hurt of being alone again from tomorrow on was not going to be any the less if she refused to admit the truth to herself. She might as well open herself fully to the pain.

There was a general movement toward the supper room as soon as the waltz was finished.

"Are you hungry?" Merrick asked.

Anne shook her head.

"Let us walk in the garden, then," he said. "May I fetch you a shawl?"

"I shall get it," said Anne, and ran lightly up to her room. How well this hour was turning out for her. Instead of having to share her husband with a roomful of other people during supper, she would have him all to herself. Not that he was likely to talk any more than he had during the dance, but at least they could walk together. She would be able to feel his presence, store away one more memory.

They did indeed walk in silence for a while, crossing the lawn at the side of the house until they came to the cobbled walk before the house and then angling off toward the rose arbor. Anne snuggled inside the warm wool shawl that she had fetched from her room, though one of her arms was drawn snugly beneath his and held to his side. She wished that they might never speak, that nothing might ever happen to break the spell, the illusion that they were a normal married couple, in harmony with each other.

"Bella has your boxes packed?" Merrick asked at last.

"Yes," she said. "It was lucky that this shawl was close to the top of one of them. I will not keep the coachman waiting tomorrow."

"Perhaps we will give the coachman an extra day off," he said.

Anne looked up at him, a query in her eyes. "You think I shall be too tired to travel," she said. "I think not. Grandpapa's carriage is so well-sprung that I shall probably sleep on the road. Anyway, I shall be able to sleep all I want when I get home to Redlands."

"And if I tell you that you will not be going to Redlands?"

"What do you mean?" Anne asked.

"You are not going back there," Merrick said. "You will be returning to London with me the day after tomorrow."

Anne stopped walking to turn and stare at him. "Why?" she asked.

"Why?" he said with a laugh. "I tell you you are going to London rather than to Redlands and you ask me why? Because I have decided that it shall be so. That is why."

Anne searched his eyes, a pain in her throat that made drawing breath almost a physical effort. "No," she said. "Please do not do this to me, Alexander."

The remains of his smile disappeared instantly.

"Always," Anne said, having difficulty with her breathing, "always you must play the tyrant with me. You have always hated me, have you not? Even when you married me. You treated me with quite calculated cruelty the day after our wedding and then you abandoned me for more than a year. I believe you would have been well contented never to see me again, Alexander. But I have been forced on your attention once more. And now you find that you have not yet wreaked enough revenge on me for taking you away from your chosen bride. I did not miss noticing tonight that you have danced with her twice already. And so you must take me to London with you. Why, pray? So that you can flaunt your flirts and your mistresses before me? So that you can continue to humiliate me by showing me constantly that you have only one use for me?"

Merrick stood very still looking back at her, his face shuttered. "It appears to me," he said finally, "that you have not objected overmuch to the use to which I have been putting you. Or has your acting ability this fortnight extended beyond the stage and into our bed?"

Anne could feel herself flushing and was thankful for the darkness that surrounded them. "No," she said, "there has been no acting involved. You are a very good lover, my lord. I would guess that I am receiving the benefit of the lessons you have learned from a countless number of light-skirts. This has been a very pleasurable two weeks, but I fear that tedium would set in if the period were extended. You see, Alexander, I have used you in the same way as you have used me." Anne smiled and turned to enter the arbor.

Merrick was after her in a moment, grabbing her arm and turning her roughly to face him. "It is not true," he said. "You merely speak this way because I have hurt you and you wish to salvage your pride. Admit it, Anne. I can force you to do so, you know."

She laughed in his face. "Poor Alexander," she said. "It is quite beyond your understanding, is it not, that any female could resist your charms. Have you ever crooked a beckoning finger before and been rejected? You are much like your cousin, Jack, you know. Earlier this evening he, too, was forced to admit that he had failed to add me to a string of conquests. It is ironic, is it not, Alexander? Poor ugly, mousy, fat Anne Parrish! Take me to London if you wish. I shall enjoy the experience enormously. But every time you come to my bed, my lord, know that I am merely using you for my pleasure. In my heart I shall hate you as I have since the morning after my wedding."

Merrick's grip on her arm relaxed. "I had thought to show you some kindness," he said. "Perhaps the best kindness I can show you is to send you back to Redlands?"

"Yes," she said, and her shoulders sagged suddenly. She could feel the fight draining out of her. "Let me go back home, Alexander. It is too late for kindness. Let us only not hate each other. If you force me to live with you, I shall truly grow to hate you, I fear."

He stared at her for so long that she was afraid she would lose control and hurl herself at him. But finally he nodded. "I see," he said. "I am sorry, Anne. I did not fully understand until now. You shall go home tomorrow. I shall not burden you with my presence again."

Silence stretched between them again, a silence during which they continued to stare at each other. And all the unexpressed feelings and the unspoken words were locked inside him and he had no way, no right to speak them. He had forfeited the right more than a year before when he had bedded her and so callously insulted her and left her the morning after. He had forfeited the right every day since, every day during which he had done nothing to show a husband's care for his wife. He had hoped that tonight he would be able to start making amends, but he had not had the chance to say any of the things he had planned. He had been stopped very effectively by her anger and bitterness, her utter rejection of him. And he could not fight back. He had no right. The only way he could show his love now was to leave her, to allow her freedom from his presence.

Anne. He stared at her, at his wife, whom he loved, whom he had thought to have with him for the rest of his life. But this was it, the end. Instead of a lifetime with her, he had only a few more seconds. Very soon he must turn and walk away, and he must never force his presence on her again. He might never see her again. He could never tell her how much he had grown to love her, how much he wished to spend the rest of his life making up to her part of what he had taken away from her since he had stumbled in on her during that winter storm.

"Good-bye, Anne," he said, holding out his hand to her, willing her to accept the handshake. Their final touch.

She looked steadily back at him. "Good-bye, Alexander," she said, and she inhaled with deliberate slowness as she placed her hand in his. Probably the last time she would ever touch him. She held the inhaled breath and let it out with steady control as he raised her hand to his lips. A moment later, it seemed, he was gone, without another word and without a backward glance.

The whole of the star-studded sky above Anne's head and the branches of the trees that ringed her wheeled with dizzying speed around her and she sank to her knees onto the gravel of the arbor path. Her face and hands were wet with her hot tears even before the first sob tore at her throat and chest.

Anne did not return to either the supper room or the ballroom. She did not even consider the discourtesy she was showing to the gentlemen who had signed her dance card for the sets after supper. She went straight to her room, rang for Bella to tell her that she would not be needed again that night, undressed, and climbed into the four-poster bed. She lay diagonally across it for the remainder of the night, facedown, knowing that he would not come, yet taut with expectation through the long and sleepless hours after the music ceased and the sound of voices and laughter died away. She did not sleep at all.

She was the first of the family to leave. The duke's best traveling carriage drew up outside the house just before noon, and everyone gathered either in the hall or on the cobbles outside to kiss her and wish her a safe journey. Even some of the guests who had stayed overnight after the ball were there. But Merrick was not.

Anne saw it all through a fog of exhaustion and distress. She hardly knew that she smiled as she kissed and hugged everyone and had a personal word for each. She hardly realized that she gave an especially big hug to the children and to Freddie, whose eyes were bright with unshed tears. She did not notice that the duchess was unusually tight-lipped and quiet or that the duke, leaning on his cane, looked more thunderous than usual. She knew only that the coach was the haven that she must reach, that once she was inside with the curtains drawn and once it was in motion, she would be safe again and could let go this tension that threatened to tear her apart.

She hardly realized, as she stood on the steps of the carriage, that she looked back at the people gathered in the courtyard and at the empty doorway and at all the windows along the front of the house. She did not look out again once she was inside. She did not wave to anyone.