The First Snowdrop

Chapter 2

The time had come when Bruce Parrish had been forced to admit defeat. For three years he had struggled to retain the land he still held and somehow to make it pay its way. He had worked and economized in order to keep the house and the gardens neat and in order. But it was a sad fact that sometimes the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children.

The Honorable Jonathon Parrish, younger son of a baron, had been left in comfortable circumstances on the death of his mother. There had been a sizable estate and an impressive, if not imposing, house. He should have been able to live comfortably on the income from his land and rents, especially since his wife had presented him with only two children. But the man never accepted the fact that it was his elder brother, less intelligent and with less charm and good looks than he, who had inherited the title and the paternal home. Jonathon Parrish had taken little interest in his property, using it only as a source of income to finance his hunting and his card-playing and his hard drinking.

When he died, his son, Bruce, far different in character from himself, discovered that his father's debts were enormous and that the land had been neglected for years. He already knew that the house furnishings had been allowed to grow shabby and the once-landscaped gardens overgrown. Bruce Parrish had tried, had puzzled over the problems for three years. But finally he had been forced to admit that he would never be able to both pay back his father's debts and spend the money necessary to recover the fortunes of the estate. He was a serious young man whose sense of duty was overdeveloped. If he must make a choice, he would have to choose repaying the debtors, who had already waited far too long. He decided that the house and the land must be leased. Not sold. He could not bear the thought of that-not yet, anyway. He would try what he could do with the lease money and what he could earn.

Bruce Parrish had a sister five years his junior. She had acted as their father's housekeeper and as his own for so long that he took her presence very much for granted. He never considered consulting her on any of the many problems that beset him. This occasion was no exception. He must be gainfully employed; she must come with him and keep his house, even though it was to be a far humbler abode than the one they had always known. She was informed only one week before they were to remove themselves from their childhood home that he was to be employed as a schoolmaster in a town thirty miles distant and that she was to go with him to live in the small brick schoolhouse that adjoined the school.

Anne Parrish did not put up any fight. She had always been a quiet girl, one who was inclined to be disregarded by those with whom she lived closely. But she observed with a keen intelligence all that happened around her. She had understood what ruin her father's way of life was bringing to his family. She had watched her brother's efforts to reverse the process of years and had seen that it was hopeless. She knew that his decision was the only one that could have been made.

And, truth to tell, Anne did not feel that she would be losing a great deal. She had not been happy for four years, since she had been eighteen. Home had never been a pleasant place for her since the death of her mother eight years before. Her father had been almost always in his cups, always involved in his own selfish activities. His cronies had frequently haunted the house, their presence a trial enough even before Anne had reached the age to attract their coarse gallantry. Afterward it had been almost unendurable. Her father, when he noticed her at all, treated her as if she were a servant, and greeted with loud amusement any sign he saw of one of his drinking companions pinching her or even stealing a kiss.

Bruce might have made her life more tolerable. He certainly had none of their father's vices and coldly drove from the premises one man whom he caught addressing her as "my lovely." But unfortunately, he went to the opposite extreme. He was harsh and humorless. He viewed as sinful anything that suggested enjoyment or the slightest frivolity. He disapproved vocally of the only two people of whom Anne had ever been truly fond since her mother's death.

Sonia Davies was the only daughter of a neighboring landowner, an extremely pretty and vivacious young lady. She and Anne were almost of an age. They had always been close friends. And, indeed, Bruce had always appeared to like the girl until she grew to a very attractive womanhood. From that time on, he had voiced nothing but criticism of her preoccupation with her looks and with fashion and of her obvious enjoyment of gaiety. Anne had never considered herself very pretty, especially in comparison with her friend, but she had been satisfied with herself, had enjoyed poring over fashion plates with Sonia, had loved the afternoons they often spent together experimenting with each other's hair, planning their futures, the type of men they would marry, the number of children they would have. Sonia had left more than four years before for a London Season and had married a man with a comfortable income and a home sixty miles distant. Anne had seen her only twice since, though they corresponded regularly.

Then there had been Dennis Poole. He also had been a neighbor, a cousin of Sonia's, in fact. Anne had loved him for as long back as she could remember. Red-haired, brown-eyed, and extremely tall as he grew to manhood, he was a great contrast to any of the other men in Anne's life. He had loved her, too. There had never been a moment of great revelation. They had both known that they loved and that one day they would marry. Bruce had disapproved. Dennis was a younger son with few prospects, and Bruce had felt that his sunny, happy-go-lucky nature would not help him to make his way in a harsh world. But Anne would have defied Bruce and her father if he had offered any resistance when the time came. But the time never came. Dennis had ridden off to war as the greatest adventure of his life, and had died a hero's death in Spain in the Peninsular War.

Anne had no other friends. Acquaintances, yes, but no one in whom she could confide her innermost thoughts. Her natural shyness had grown on her, so that for several years she had appeared almost contented with the harsh and humorless Bruce, keeping house for him, satisfying him by avoiding any social function that he considered frivolous, and by wearing clothes so plain that she often considered that she could be mistaken for a servant. She had lost interest in almost everything that happened around her, living in a state of almost suspended animation, waiting for she knew not what. She realized occasionally, looking at herself almost without recognition in a looking glass and grimacing, that she had allowed herself to become shockingly overweight, and that it was a long, long time since she had even tried to do something with her hair, which was a rather uninteresting shade of brown anyway.

Sometimes she resolved to take herself in hand and to make the most of the few assets that she possessed. But when it came to the point, she always found herself making excuses. What was the point of spending hours creating a fashionable or attractive hairstyle when she had nowhere to display it? Anyway, Bruce would frown and accuse her of frivolity. And he liked to see her wearing caps at home. It really was not worth the effort of fighting with him. It was difficult to look attractive when one was so definitely fat. And how could she do anything about that when doing so would involve giving up food, her only indulgence?

Anne, at two-and-twenty, seemed to have given up on life. It made little difference to her whether she continued to live at the house where she had always lived, or whether she removed to the little brick school-house with Bruce. It was unlikely that he would ever marry. He had never shown any particular interest in any of the young ladies with whom they had come in contact in the previous few years, though Anne had wondered about his real feelings for her friend Sonia. She must be content, then, to spend her life looking after his needs while he provided her with the necessities of life.

The move was to be made in December, before the weather could be expected to turn harsh with winter. The belongings they were to take with them had been packed into a few trunks, the servants had been dismissed, and their own journey was to be made the day after the servants left. Both had been invited to spend their last evening with Bruce's particular friends, the Reverend Honeywell and his wife. Bruce had gone, but Anne had pleaded a whole list of last-minute tasks to be done before she could leave the following morning. To her relief, Bruce had not pressed her on the matter. She really could not have endured a whole evening of the vicar's moralizing.

The snow had taken her somewhat by surprise. Bruce had mentioned before he left that the sky was darkening and that he was likely to have to ride home through rain. But neither of them had considered snow. It seemed just a little too early in the year. But after darkness fell, when she peered through the library window to see if there was any sign of the threatened rain, she was amazed to see that the ground was completely blanketed in white already and that snow was hanging heavy from the trees that lined the driveway. During the next hour she abandoned all thought of expecting Bruce home that night. He surely would not be so foolish as to try to reach home when he had all of three miles of open country to cross. He was much more likely to stay at the vicarage and come home the next morning when he would have daylight by which to see his way.

Next she abandoned all hope of being able to travel to their new home the following day. The snow was becoming thicker by the minute and it did not look wet and ready to melt at the first ray of sunshine. This snow might stay for a while. Anne was not vastly upset by the delay. It would be inconvenient to be alone in such a large house without any servants, but she would contrive to keep herself- and Bruce when he returned-warm and fed. One consolation was that the same storm that kept them at home would also keep their new tenants from arriving. After an hour or so, Anne stopped wandering to the window and peering out. It was not a comfortable thought to be entirely alone in a large house at night, but there was an element of adventure involved. At least she would not have to worry about thieves or vagrants on such a night.

It was while she was consoling herself with this thought that the knock came on the door. It frightened Anne not a little, so loudly was the knocker banged against the door and so unexpected was the sound. She even found herself standing uncertainly in the middle of the library floor for a few moments until the loud banging sent her scurrying into the hallway. Bruce would not appreciate being kept waiting. But what could have possessed him to make the journey on a night like this? He might be somewhat worried about her being alone, but Bruce was nothing if not a prudent man. He was not in the habit of risking his own safety for the sake of gallantry.

Anne struggled with the bolts on the heavy door as her brother hammered on the other side for the third time. Finally all the bolts were drawn back and she was able to struggle with the door itself.

"Bruce," she said, "you should not have…" Then she saw that it was not her brother standing there but a perfect stranger, who was muffled to the eyes and whose clothes were almost completely matted with snow.

As she stood there foolishly, not knowing what to say, he brushed past her into the hallway and it was too late to think of her own safety. Not that she could have turned him away anyway. It was a wild night outside, and anyone caught out there without shelter would be in a dangerous situation indeed. If only Bruce were there, or if only she could reasonably expect him to come…

Her eyes quickly took in the man's fashionable and expensive clothes, his air of complete self-assurance, almost insolence, and his frightening good looks. Frightening to Anne, that was. He was tall and straight. She suspected that the many capes of that greatcoat, which was even now shedding wet snow onto the floor, hid a pair of broad and capable shoulders. His hair, she saw when he removed his beaver hat, was flattened and untidy, but the most glorious shade of near black. His face was long, his nose aquiline, his cheeks creased by laugh lines. His eyes were a decided shade of blue and did strange things to her breathing when she told him that there were no servants to stable his horse for him. He looked so directly at her.

When he went outside again to tend his horse, Anne tried desperately to gather her wits about her. She had become uncommonly shy in the past few years, especially in male company. Yet now she was very much alone with a man who could only be described as very male indeed. She was agonizingly aware suddenly of her own appearance and her total lack of charms. Why, he had looked upon her and spoken to her more as if she were a thing than a person. She supposed that the unusual circumstances and his recent escape from an extremely uncomfortable situation gave him some excuse for his imperious manner. He had almost ordered her to build up the fire and to provide him with food and drink, just as if she were a servant. But still, she thought, hurt despite her common sense, he would not have spoken to Sonia so-or even to her, had she looked more the fashionable lady.

Anne did not know what to do when the man returned to the house. His exquisite physique and perfectly tailored clothes, revealed when he removed his greatcoat, confirmed her suspicions that she was dealing with a nonpareil and destroyed any small vestige of self-assurance that remained to her. And if it had not happened then, it most certainly would have happened a moment later when he told her his name. A viscount! She had never before met a titled member of the nobility despite the fact that her grandfather had been a baron. And this man called her Anne, without so much as a by-your-leave. Perhaps the aristocracy was permitted such familiarities, she thought dubiously.

Taking his supper into the library a few minutes later was an ordeal that Anne avoided for as long as she could. Twice she picked up the tray from the kitchen table and put it down again, her heart thumping uncomfortably against her ribs. What was she to do when she got there? She would have to stay and give the viscount her company. She would have to play the hostess and converse with him. But of what would she talk? She knew nothing about London or any topic that could be of the remotest interest to him. He would see how dull and unattractive she was, and she would have the humiliation of seeing boredom and disdain on his handsome face. Finally, she picked up the tray once more and walked determinedly to the library.

Viscount Merrick had made himself comfortable in her brother's favorite chair and looked far less formidable than he had in the hallway earlier. He smiled at her with an unforced charm and invited her to be seated. It was ridiculous, of course, that he invited her to sit in her own home, but in truth she had felt awkward and had not had the presence of mind to take a seat as soon as she had set down the tray.

But Anne could think of nothing to say. She sat staring at him, aware of how foolish she must appear. She found what she had found all her life: that the more she racked her brain for an interesting topic of conversation, the blanker her mind became. She was grateful to the stranger for the way he smiled at her and seemed genuinely to appreciate the hospitality she had shown. If only he had not been quite so handsome and quite so fashionable, and if only his smile did not indicate a quite irresistible charm, perhaps she could have been more at her ease. As it was, she was so flustered that she hardly knew what she did. It was with a feeling of the utmost relief that she jumped to her feet when he suggested that she show him to his room. His experience in the storm, of course, had made him very ready to retire early. She would give him Bruce's room.

When she had put down the candlestick on the dresser, Anne was shocked to discover her guest leaning indolently in the doorway, that smile still on his face but somewhat lazier and more narrow-eyed. The strangeness of the situation was borne in on her with more force than before. She was alone in a bedchamber with a strange and very masculine guest, and they were alone in the house and likely to be for the rest of the night. She stared at him. The impropriety of the request that she turn down his bedclothes for him at first paralyzed her, but he was an important man from a world that was strange to her. It was easier to comply than to take issue with the request. Anyway, she did not feel herself at all equipped to cross this man's will. She moved to the bed without a murmur and folded down the blankets and sheets.

Anne felt, more than heard, that he had come up behind her. She was frightened. Terrified, in fact. She found it difficult to draw breath. And then his arm came beneath her own and his fingers feathered across her breasts. His touch was light. She hardly felt it, but every nerve ending in her body shuddered to life. She should have whirled around and smacked his face hard. Some remote part of her mind even suggested that she do just that. She should have been very frightened; there was no possible way she could have avoided ravishment if such had been the stranger's intention. But she was no longer afraid. She turned to the man who had just reminded her in a flash, as she had not been reminded in years, that she was a woman with the need to be loved and wanted for herself.

She read curiosity and desire in his eyes before his mouth lowered to hers. And the woman in her came fully awake again after four years. She had not been kissed like this since Dennis had ridden off to war. In fact, she had not been kissed at all since that time. And Dennis had never kissed her like this, she thought with wonder as the viscount's mouth opened over hers and his tongue created wonderfully erotic sensations across her lips. Anne began to lose all touch with reality. This man wanted her, and he was making her feel desirable again. And she wanted him. She wanted more of his kisses, more of his touch. Her body tensed with a nervous excitement as he pressed it against his own. She was going to surrender to him, she realized with a kind of lassitude over which she had no control. The thought of resistance did not really enter her consciousness at all.

But suddenly his face was above hers and he was talking to her. She stared up at him, dazed.

"Have you not been touched before, Anne?" he had said.

"My lord?"

And then he spoke words that brought her jolting back to the full and horrible reality of her situation, to the degradation of what she was doing and about to do.

"Have you had no man inside you, girl?" he said.

The words shocked her so deeply that she completely lost all control over her reactions. His words meant the same as if he had asked her if she were a virgin. But they so graphically described what she had been about to do-with a complete stranger.

She hardly heard the gentle words of reassurance, hardly comprehended that she was not going to be taken by force. The only fact that she did realize finally was that he had stood aside and was indicating that he expected her to leave. Anne fled. And it was many hours before she fell into a Fitful sleep. Her mind wrestled with her emotions. She had behaved with shocking impropriety, her mind said. She had almost given herself to a man she had met only a few hours before, without even a struggle. Indeed, she would have done so had he not held back. She had been found desirable, her emotions said, and by a man who could surely have his pick of any of the most eligible ladies of the ton. She had been held and kissed and caressed until she had felt alive and feminine again. She almost wished that he had not stopped.

She did not know what the morning would bring. In all likelihood Viscount Merrick would leave as soon as the snow had melted enough to make the roads passable. She would never see him again. But surely he had given her the incentive she needed to come out of the sleep that had lasted far too long. She was a woman and still young. She could never be a beauty, but she could make herself at least passable if she lost weight and if she made an effort to dress and to style her hair more fashionably. Anne fell asleep, somewhat comforted by her resolve.