“Never mind,” she said. “We’re sheltered from the worst of it, and very likely it’ll pass through quickly.”
“Don’t think so,” he said, glancing about him. “Doesn’t look like that kind of storm. This one looks like it means to stay.”
He left her and began limping round the side of the house, testing windows.
“Ripley!”
At the back, he found one with a broken latch.
“Found a way in,” he called back. “Stay where you are.”
He wrestled the window open, then went back to get the chair.
“You’re going to stand on the chair while I hold it, and climb in through the window and unlock the door from the inside,” he said.
He could think of a score of other women who’d look at him as though he was mad.
Olympia nodded.
She helped push the chair into place, and he let her, though he didn’t need help. When he took hold of it, keeping it steady, she quickly climbed onto it then through the window in a flurry of skirts and petticoats and writhing limbs and a whirl of familiar scent. Though she wore his aunt’s clothes, the scent he caught was of Olympia’s skin and hair.
He remembered her climbing over the wall at the back of Newland House’s garden. He remembered her dress and petticoats swirling about his face . . .
He shook off the recollection and moved back to the door and waited. And waited. The great drops of rain fell faster. Wind gusted.
“Do you mean to open the door?” he called. “Or were you wanting me to beat back the lightning with the chair?”
“It’s dark,” she called back. “I can’t find the—oh, here it is.”
The door opened, and Ripley dashed in.
“The chair,” she said. “You left it—”
“Bother the chair.” He looked about him. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw the tinderbox on the mantel, alongside the simple utensils the family always kept here: cooking pots, a few plates and cups, a pitcher and bowl. The table held a small basket of table linens. Wood had been stacked near the fireplace.
He made a fire. It gave him something to do while he tried to decide what to do. Or, more important, what to say.
He was aware of a taut silence within, while the world without went black with flashes of light and deep booms that rattled the old windows.
“Someone’s been here,” he said, as he watched the flames take hold. “Everything else about the park looks . . . not neglected exactly, but not well attended to. The firewood’s been brought in recently, though. Must have been Alice’s doing. We used to play here as children.”
The three camp beds he and his two friends had used were still here. Two were bare. One held bedding. Alice, clearly, had spent time here recently. Why? He hoped she wasn’t having second thoughts about her marriage, because it was too bloody late. Not to mention he had enough complications in his life without adding Blackwood to the list.
The doors flew open to a blast of wet wind.
He and Olympia hurried to the doors and slammed them closed. He latched them, locking out the world. Holding reality at bay. For the moment.
She quickly stepped away, brushing the wet from her hands. “Look at you,” she said. “You’re soaked to the skin.”
“It’s summer,” he said.
“It’s not that warm,” she said.
“We have a fire.”
“The damp lingers in stone buildings,” she said. “This one’s practically on top of a river. You’re not only wet but bruised. Your ankle will never get better, the way you abuse it.”
“It’s getting better,” he said. “The way you fuss about it, a fellow might get the idea that you cared . . . about him.”
For a long moment she stared at him.
“He might,” he said.
“Might?” She marched to the fire, then to a window, then back to face him, hands on her hips. “Might? How thick can you be? I as good as proposed to you!”
“Yes, well, you shouldn’t spring that sort of thing on a fellow without warning.”
“I’ve all but ripped off my clothes and screamed, ‘Take me now.’ How much warning do you need?”
“That was rather too subtle for me,” he said, “since you didn’t actually take your clothes off. Then there’s the thinking part. A large, complicated thinking part.”
“It isn’t that complicated,” she said.
“Then let’s say it’s . . . fraught. That’s a good word.”
“It’s a stupid word.”
“You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?” he said.
“I’m not making anything difficult,” she said. “I understand everything. Perfectly. Too, too well. Which means we need not go over the ground of friendship, loyalty, and honor once again. It makes me want to scream—and mine is not a nervous sensibility. I am not an excessively emotional sort of person. I’m practical and sensible. I know you haven’t seen much of that side of me, but—”
“I’ve seen several sides of you,” he said.
How will you feel in a year . . . in five years?
He knew how he’d feel. He felt it now.
“I’ve seen so many sides of you,” he said. “Which means I understand, better than ever, why Ashmont won’t let you go.”
“Because he’s possessive and obstinate.”
“Is that what his letter sounded like to you? Because that wasn’t what I heard. Mind you, I only caught parts of it—and that was against my will, but my aunt and his evil uncle were blocking the damned door while they argued about it. Otherwise I would have caught up with you sooner.”
“You shouldn’t have come after me. Not this time. Not the other day.”
“No, it ought to have been Ashmont, but it wasn’t.”
“It wasn’t Ashmont because he was too drunk—on his wedding day—the day you claim he was so thrilled about.”
“Yes, well, he can be a bit of an ass at times.”
“A bit! At times!”
“I’m not in a position to throw stones,” he said. “The point is—the reason I came after you . . . this time—”
“He didn’t even write the letter himself!” she said. “That is, he did put pen to paper, but those weren’t his words. He doesn’t write that way, let alone speak that way. And there were hardly any inkblots. And it covered two sheets of paper, on both sides!”
“He makes the blots from stopping to think.”
“He didn’t have to think. Somebody else did that for him.”
“Not exactly. The thing is, I’d rather not be defending him at the moment, but one must present the case fairly.”
“I don’t need anything presented. I’m not stupid.”
“The letter shows how sincerely he wants you back,” he said. He was going to be fair. He was going to be sporting. Honor and friendship demanded it. “For Ashmont to submit to the indignity of letting his uncle dictate a love letter—well, that shows feeling, I think. And though the words weren’t Ashmont’s, the sentiments were. I know. I heard him, on the night before he was to be married.”
She folded her arms and her expression became stony. But her changeable eyes had turned grey, and he saw pain there.
About them, the storm threw fits. The world turned black, then bright white, then black again, while thunder underlined their words and their silences.