Edenbrooke (12 page)

He smiled ruefully. “I have never needed an insult more than I did that night. Please don’t apologize for it.”

I watched Philip intently, drawn to his easy smile and the way his eyes softened when he spoke of his father. All I knew about him were the few little crumbs he had cast my way. I was hungry for more.

“What books did you bring back from your Tour?” I asked.

“Anything that caught my eye. I wasn’t as selective as my father. He read mostly philosophy and religion. I picked up histories and mythology and poetry.” He gestured to the book I had been looking at earlier. “I found that one in a tiny bookstore in Paris that my father had told me about. The owner knew my father from his numerous trips there. He had a shelf of philosophy books that he pointed me to, and I think he was quite surprised when I bought the poetry instead.”

I smiled at the picture he had painted. “What else did you do on your Tour?”

Philip spread his hands. “A year of traveling around Europe is difficult to sum up.”

“Then don’t sum it up. Tell me everything.” I blushed at how eager and demanding I sounded. “I didn’t mean to say it like that. It’s just . . .” I shook my head and didn’t know if I should even go on.

But Philip asked, “What is it?” and he looked so curious that I tried to finish my thought.

“It’s different in Bath. I have only my grandmother and aunt for companions. My grandmother talks only if she has a criticism to make, and my aunt has more hair than wit. We never go out much in society because my grandmother doesn’t like people. So I’ve been rather starved for good conversation.”

“I imagine it’s more than conversation you’ve been missing. Haven’t you also been starved for friendship?” He said it with a soft look around his eyes, and my pride flared suddenly.

“I didn’t say that to make you feel sorry for me. And I don’t want friendship if it’s based on pity.” My voice sounded sharper than I had intended.

Philip studied me for a minute. I held his gaze with defiance.

“I understand that better than you may believe,” he finally said. His words effectively disarmed me.

“Do you?” I asked, surprised.

He looked pensively out the window. “You don’t want to be loved for your misfortune; I don’t want to be loved for my possessions. Are we not similar in that way?”

When he turned his gaze to me, his expression reminded me of how he had looked when showing me the portrait of his elder brother, Charles. The look of loss in his eyes tugged at my heart, daring me to ask a question.

“Did somebody love you for your possessions?”

Philip should have looked offended by my personal question, but instead he smiled a little and asked, “Did somebody love you for your misfortunes?”

“No.”

“But you’re afraid someone might.”

I nodded, thinking of how I hated imposing on others simply because I depended on them.

“Then we’re similar in that way too.” His gaze held mine and understanding passed between us in a look.

“Well, then,” I said. I watched Philip’s lips curl into a smile at the same time that mine did.

He leaned toward me and said in a low voice, “I promise not to love you for your misfortunes.”

I blushed at the idea of saying the words “promise” and “love you” in the same sentence . . . to Philip. But I had to return the vow. Anything else would be rude.

“And I promise not to love you for your possessions.”

There. I had said it. I felt daring and bold. Maybe that was why I had the strange urge to grin. My cheeks ached with the effort of forcing my mouth into a moderate smile. I picked up the book as a distraction.

“I would still like to hear more about your Tour. Unless I’m keeping you from something?”

“I am wholly at your disposal, Marianne, but I wouldn’t want to bore you with stories of my travels.”

“Bore me?” I stared at him. “Philip. I have never been outside of England. I’ve never even been to London. Do you know what I would give for your experiences? How could you possibly think you would bore me?”

He didn’t answer, but there was such a look of delight in his eyes that I had to ask, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You called me Philip. For the first time.”

I blushed. It was true; I had called him by his Christian name. But surely it wasn’t my fault. He was the one who insisted on calling me Marianne and told me to stop calling him
sir.

“It’s only because your horrible manners are rubbing off on me,” I muttered.

He laughed. “I am glad to hear it.”

I didn’t know how to answer, but thankfully I didn’t have to because Philip asked, “Where shall I begin?”

“Paris.”

Philip told me more about the little bookstore where he had found the book of poetry, then about the palace at Versailles and the balls and assemblies he had attended. He told me about the Notre Dame Cathedral, and then he walked to the bookshelf, looking around vaguely for a minute.

I went to the spot where I had been browsing before and pulled out the book on gothic architecture. “Was this what you were looking for?”

He flashed a smile at me as he took the book and set it on the table in front of us. He pointed out the various features he had seen on the Cathedral, turning pages rapidly, his voice growing rich with interest.

From Paris, he moved to Italy—Venice and Rome and Florence. He stood again and this time searched for a few minutes before coming back with a book of sketches. He handed it to me and let me look through them at my leisure, pointing to statues he had seen, talking about the artists and the preservation of the work. He told me about Italian operas, and the time he had stayed in a villa on the coast where the water was so clear that he could see to the bottom of the ocean.

After Italy came Austria and Switzerland—the Alps, the songs, the beautiful countryside. And more books. He brought me a book on Bavaria and a book of traditional Austrian folksongs. I asked him to sing one for me. His voice was low and rich and easy to listen to, not forced or unnatural. It was a very pleasant sound.

As Philip talked, his eyes lit up. He gestured with his hands as he spoke, and when he smiled, his whole face was bright and captivating. After a while I didn’t have to ask questions. He just talked, and I could sit there with my chin on my hand, feasting on stories and images and ideas foreign to my own. Philip opened up worlds to me with his words. I had no sense of time, and the overcast sky hid the passage of the sun from view, entrapping us in one endless, enchanted moment.

I only noticed the outside world when Philip paused at the end of a story and I heard voices outside the library. They pierced the bubble I had been suspended in, and I felt the world and time rush back at me. I did not want it to come back. I wanted to pull myself back into the hours that had just passed. I wanted to shut the door and let the rain go on and keep myself right here for forever. But Philip paused, and his silence marked the end of our time together.

“I love this room,” I said with a sigh, reluctant to leave.

“You’re welcome here any time.”

“This is your sanctuary.” I knew as soon as I had seen Philip in here that this was his orchard. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Not even if I asked you to?” he asked with a smile.

“Oh. Well . . .” I didn’t know how to respond. I blushed at my own awkwardness. “You’re too kind.”

“I’m not too kind. The library is for everyone, and you should consider yourself free to come here whenever you like.”

“Thank you. And thank you for spending the day with me. I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a day more . . . not in a long time.”

He reached a hand across the small space between our chairs. I put mine in it naturally, instinctively. He leaned toward me, his blue eyes twinkling, his smile as warm as a patch of sunlight. “The pleasure was all mine, Marianne.”

I felt trapped in his gaze. I was suddenly overcome with the sensation that if I looked deeply enough into Philip’s eyes I would find a beautiful, important secret. I drew in a breath, and as I did, I leaned closer. The sensation grew stronger, convincing me that it was only the distance between us that was keeping me from uncovering the truth. If I leaned toward him, something would happen. I was sure of it. But if I leaned away, nothing would happen. So I stayed perfectly still, balanced between something and nothing, not knowing which way I wanted to fall.

Philip stayed perfectly still, too, as though waiting for me to decide. His eyes, though, were not standing by like impartial witnesses to my decision. His eyes were persuading me that I wanted that
something.
They were inviting me closer, drawing me closer, convincing me to lean, to fall, to dive into their blue depths and never resurface.

“Oh, pardon me.” Mr. Clumpett’s voice suddenly broke over me.

I startled, as if awakened from a dream, and pulled my hand out of Philip’s grip. The sensation I had experienced vanished like smoke from a snuffed candle, leaving behind wisps of nameless longing.

Of course Philip had left the door to the library open. He was such a gentleman that way. But I wondered what his uncle had seen. Had he seen me gazing into Philip’s eyes for that long moment? My cheeks burned at the thought.

Philip stood and turned toward Mr. Clumpett, who had halted a few steps inside the room.

Mr. Clumpett cleared his throat. “Didn’t realize you two were having a
tête-á-tête
in here. The door was open, you know.” His eyes flicked to the maid in the corner, who had been diligently dusting all afternoon.

“Yes, I know,” Philip said with a smile in his voice. “Did you need something?”

Mr. Clumpett held up a book. “This doesn’t mention anything about the Indian rhinoceros. I was looking for a companion to this volume.” He tilted his head back, letting his gaze traverse the high bookshelves with a hopeless expression. “You wouldn’t happen to know, would you, if such a thing can be found . . . in here?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Philip said, with a look that was part amusement and part pity.

Mr. Clumpett heaved a sigh and approached a bookshelf. He shook his head and muttered something that sounded like
disorganized.

Glancing at the clock on the mantel, I was shocked to see that it was nearly six o’clock and time to change for dinner. Had I really spent the entire day here?

“We never did play chess, you know,” I said to Philip. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Philip said. “Our conversation was much more enjoyable than a game of chess. And now I have a reason to claim your time another day. Do you have plans tomorrow afternoon?”

The only plans I had made were to immerse myself in the loveliness of the estate. I told him so, and he smiled and said, “Meet me here after lunch, then.”

I left the library feeling a decided urge to do something close to twirling. As I walked to my bedchamber to change for dinner, I wondered what had happened to me today. Something
had
happened—of that I was certain. Where before I had been partially empty, now I felt somehow full inside—complete. It was a feeling as buoyant as sunlight. Examining my heart, I found that there were pieces of me that had gone missing in Bath that I had found again, today, with Philip. And they were pieces of happiness.

I entered my room with a smile on my face, knowing who was responsible for the happiness I had found. Philip had become a friend today, and I had not known until that moment how much I had missed the company of a friend. Perhaps I had never known before today the value of such a friend—a person to whom one could talk for hours without noticing the passage of time. Although I had had many friends in my life, I had never known how it felt to be accepted and esteemed so completely, and so immediately.

A letter rested on my writing desk, catching my attention while Betsy brought out a gown for me to change into for dinner. My initial excitement at seeing the envelope changed to disappointment when I realized it was merely Mr. Whittles’s poem, which he had given to me before I left Bath. Betsy must have removed it before taking my gown to be laundered.

While I dressed, I thought of Mr. Whittles and how relieved I was to be done with him. I had been very fortunate to come here and find such a warm welcome among the Wyndhams.

But to simply enjoy my current state of happiness with no thought of others seemed very self-centered. Perhaps I could do something to help Aunt Amelia win her heart’s desire. Mr. Whittles needed only a nudge in the right direction, and I felt sure he would be very happy with my aunt. Her sincere admiration would stroke his ego quite nicely, and she was not an unattractive woman.

I slipped the poem into the drawer of my writing desk, determined to come up with a way to bring those two together.

Chapter 11

When I met Philip in the library the next afternoon for our game of chess, he said, “I know it’s not as exciting as fencing, but I wondered if you would be interested in archery.”

I was interested in almost anything that took me away from the quiet pastimes of the drawing room. We went outside to the southwest lawn, where a target had been set up for us. A couple of servants stood nearby, and Philip motioned for me to go first. We practiced until my arms were too tired to shoot one more arrow. As we walked back to the house, Philip said lightly, “I suppose the chess will have to wait until tomorrow.”

But the next afternoon, when I met him in the library, he asked if I had seen the gardens yet. I hadn’t, so he took me on a tour of the grounds and showed me the water garden and the Oriental garden and the rose garden. We talked and strolled around the grounds until a sudden rain shower drove us inside.

I was surprised once again to discover that hours had passed while I was in Philip’s company, though it had felt like mere minutes. And when I tried to account for the passage of time by recalling exactly what we had talked about, I could only remember bits and pieces—a story here, a memory there—and the fact that I had never had to search for something to say to him.

Days blended together, and between our morning rides, our afternoon activities, dinner, and time spent with the family in the evening, there was hardly a moment when I was out of Philip’s presence. I felt as if I were enjoying a guilty pleasure and that I should turn my mind to something more productive than enjoying my new friendship with Philip. But I felt as wild and free as a bird suddenly released from its cage. I grew unguarded, and blissfully happy, and content to the very core of my soul. And although only a handful of days passed in this matter, I felt as if I had known Philip all my life.