PortraitofPassion (27 page)

She pictured him as he had been that first night, the moment
she had seen him standing before her, tall and dark and proud. She remembered
the joy that had wound around her when she had seen William’s somber eyes and
stern lips and the startling arrow of pain when she realized he was not William
at all. She remembered that morning in the park when she had seen the desire in
his eyes and had recklessly guided her horse forward as if he had held a silk
thread with which to pull her ever closer.

“I willed you to kiss me.”

How ridiculous, she thought with a soft sniffle. It had been
Simon’s will all along. No, it had been their two wills, their two hearts that
had recognized one another, that had pulled them together time and again. How
remarkable it was that they should have met, that they had seen into each
other’s hearts and recognized the missing piece of their own. Bea did not
believe, not for one moment, that she had been alone in her feelings, that she
had been the only one to feel her heart expand and fill the hole, the empty
place that had only been waiting for him.

She thought of the deed that he had left on her vanity table
amid bottles of perfume and jars of cream. She imagined it still lying there on
the now bare table. Winter Haven. He had purchased it for her before he knew of
her terrible deception. He had purchased a cottage in the country because he
had understood her need and hoped to gift her with a peaceful place to call her
own. He had hoped that Winter Haven would become her place in the world.

“You bartered your body for a house and a piece of land.
”

While his words were true they were also false. They were
shades of gray. In her arrogance, in her ignorance she had believed that she
would secure his assistance should she need it while satisfying both her curiosity
and her desire. She had yearned to know just what it was that had driven her
parents to defy convention and deeply ingrained principles. She had longed to
understand how passion could force one to risk all that they held dear for a
moment of bliss.

Why did a woman give up her name, her family, her friends,
her very life to lie in the arms of her lover, however briefly?

Why did a man risk the censure of his family and friends,
discard his honor and duty, forever forsake honesty to satisfy the cravings of
his body, however briefly?

Beatrice had longed to understand, to finally comprehend why
her father had hidden her away in the country. Why had Papa condemned his
daughter to a life of secrets and lies? Time after time Papa had ridden away
from Idyllwild to join his other family, his public family, leaving the family
of his heart behind. How? How had he put his beloved mistress and his daughter
from his mind, from his heart, over and over again? How had he lived with the
deception?

How had Mama endured it? She had sacrificed her reputation,
the love of her family, the admiration of her friends, her chances for a secure
future, to spend her days waiting for her lover to return. She had sent him off
on the long journey knowing that another lady awaited him, that he would share
that lady’s bed and body, sire children with her and watch them grow.

In her ignorance Bea had believed that love and passion and
lust were one and the same. She had not understood that lust alone was a weak
thing, that lust alone was easily satisfied and quickly forgotten. She had not
known that lust had little to do with passion or love. That lust was a selfish
hunger, based solely upon one’s own needs.

She had thought that passion was the weak thing, an easily
found and more easily forgotten craving. She had not realized that passion was
a terrifying and wondrous yearning to join with another human being, to belong,
to possess, to share one’s body and soul. Now she understood how passion could
drive a person to risk name and fortune and family.

Love was the biggest surprise of all, the greatest knowledge
she could ever hope to find. Beatrice had found love with Simon. Her love for
Simon was rooted in the joy that had bloomed within her heart, in the respect
that had formed in her mind, in the passion she had discovered in his arms, in
the recognition of her match that dwelled in her soul.

She knew now that she should have risked all, sacrificed
everything and dared anything to lie in her lover’s arms, however briefly.
Instead she had thrown it all away, bartered his love, his passion for a house
and a piece of land.

Regret washed over her, hard and fast. Regret for all she
had lost and all she had never had with Simon. Regret for the past she had been
too afraid to reveal to him. Regret for the present and the pain she had given
him, for the actions she had driven him to, for the guilt she knew he must
feel. Regret for the future they would not carve together, the happiness they
would not share, the children who would never be born to them, the family that
might have been.

Beatrice fell into a restless sleep with the tears still wet
upon her cheeks. She dreamed of Simon, furious and anguished, over and over, as
she twisted and tossed on the bed. Finally, near dawn she dreamed he held her
against his broad chest cocooned within his strong arms, listening to the
steady beat of his heart. With a soft sigh she fell into a deep, soothing
sleep.

Beatrice sat forward to crane her head out the window as the
carriage turned onto the long drive that led to Idyllwild. She breathed in the
smells of the woods, the fresh green leaves and wildflowers, the dark soil, the
hint of decay that underlined it all and was amazed by the instant surge of
recognition that flooded her. She would have known Idyllwild’s scent anywhere.
Memories of walking through this shady forest assaulted her. She half expected
to turn and see her father ambling through the woods.

The carriage followed a curve in the drive and sunlight
streamed out before them as if a curtain had suddenly been thrown open,
allowing the day’s first rays to wash away the dark forest. As the carriage
came into the light, she tipped her head back to feel the warmth on her face,
strained to keep her eyes open against its glare, to see the blue sky. She had
never seen a sky so blue, could not find a cloud anywhere in the endless
expanse.

She dragged her eyes from the sky to look out across rolling
hills of green and yellow grass. She saw splashes of color where flowers grew
in abundance. In the distance a handful of cows stood in the shade of a tall
tree. A man walked behind a mule over long rows of freshly turned earth. The
man turned and tipped the broad brim of his hat back to watch as the carriage
began to pick up speed as it approached a gentle incline.

The carriage lurched gently as the horses began to climb the
hill and Bea knew that when they reached the top she would see Idyllwild.
Finally.
Finally she was home.

She trained her eyes upon the top of the rise, waited with bated
breath as the horses lumbered to carry their heavy load. Sudden fear drew her
eyelids down. What if the house was no longer there? What if time and neglect
and the elements had combined to cause the gray stones to fall into ruins? What
if Lady Hastings had burned it to the ground as she had threatened?

“Bea,” Bertie whispered, laying his hand on her back.
“Bumble Bea, open your eyes.”

Slowly, carefully, she opened her eyes. Her breath hitched,
her heart stuttered, her limbs trembled and tears rushed to her eyes. Idyllwild
Cottage stood before her exactly as she remembered, exactly as she had been
that long ago day when her family had been forced to flee.

Idyllwild Cottage rose three stories above the ground, her
windows reflecting the sun’s beams like stars in the sky. Her gray stones were
nearly hidden by the ivy that seemed to have taken over the house as if to hide
her away from prying eyes until her family returned to claim her. The front
door was no longer red but a crisp white that matched the sturdy wood railings
that embraced the front porch. Pink and white roses grew in wild abundance,
weaving in and out of the dark-green ivy. Someone had cut them back enough to
create a narrow path from the drive where it curved around in a circle to the
porch. “Oh,” breathed Beatrice. “Gerald! Stop! I wish to walk the rest of the
way.”

The carriage came to a halt just as Beatrice grasped the
handle and turned. Without looking at her traveling companions she pushed the
heavy door open and jumped down. She landed hard on her injured foot and nearly
fell. She regained her balance and blinked to clear the tears from her eyes.
With a deep breath, she began to walk slowly toward her home. She felt a sense
of unreality, as if she walked through a dreamland, a fairy world she had
created in her mind. Savoring every delicious moment, she approached the house,
saw that portions of the roof had recently been replaced, and that while the
roses grew wild, the beds had been recently weeded. She smelled fresh manure on
the breeze and knew someone had planted the garden behind the house. Someone
had clearly been caring for the house and land. The man in the fields? She
turned her head, squinted to see him approaching.

She turned and walked across the gravel drive to wait for
him on the edge of the lawn.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted him with a smile. He was a
tall, stoop-shouldered man with gnarled hands that swung from his long arms.
His broad straw hat was low over his brow but she could see his old, weathered
face. Blue eyes watched her as he approached. He was dressed in a sturdy white
shirt, mended at both elbows and rolled back to show his thick forearms, and
old-fashioned knee breeches. On his feet he wore farmers’ boots of thick brown
leather.

“Something I can do for you?” he asked, returning her smile.

“Mr. Porter?” Bea asked in surprise

“Do I know you?” He stared into Bea’s face and she realized
that he could not recognize her with half of her face swollen and discolored.

“It’s Beatrice,” she cried out, reaching out to grasp his
rough hand. “Beatrice Morgan.”

“Miss Bea?” he exclaimed. Mr. Porter dragged her into his
arms to thump her heartily upon the back. Bea winced as he jarred her shoulder
in his exuberance. He immediately set her away from him and dropped his hands
to his sides. “But I can’t hardly believe it. Land sakes, girl, where you been?
And what happened to your pretty face?”

Beatrice giggled as she looked up at the man she had known
all her life. Mr. Porter and his wife had worked at Idyllwild during plowing
and harvesting each year. They lived in the village and would come to stay in
the attic room for weeks at a time. He had worked in the fields with Tom and
Harry while his wife had helped the ladies with the canning.

“Have you come back then?” he asked. “Are you home for
good?”

Beatrice waited for sorrow to descend upon her at his soft
inquiry. She waited to feel the familiar sharp thrust to her heart, to feel her
lips tremble, for tears to gather in her eyes. She felt nothing beyond a shadow
of regret, a whisper of sadness.

“No, Mr. Porter,” she replied evenly. “I have only come to
see Idyllwild one last time.”

“Oh well that’s a real shame,” he whispered. “A house
shouldn’t stand empty for so many years. Just an invitation for spirits to come
live within her walls.”

“Have you been caring for her?” Bea asked him.

“Me and the missus come over from the village near to a
month ago. We received word from London to make the place ready for guests.
When I seen you I thought you must be our guests.”

“No,” Beatrice answered in confusion. Who could be planning
to visit Idyllwild? She had thought to have some time to make her goodbye. Now
it seemed she would not.

“Would it be all right if I go inside?” Bea asked. “I won’t
disturb anything. I just want to walk around and remember.”

“’Course you can, girl, why, this was your home. I remember
the night you were born, never was a man prouder to show off his daughter to
folks.” He smiled in remembrance. “I never had the chance to tell you and your
ma how sorry I was when Mr. Morgan passed on. He was a fine man.”

“Thank you,” Beatrice replied.

“You go on inside now. Mind you there’s not much in the way
of furniture and we’ve covered what there is, but the house is clean, my missus
saw to that.”

Beatrice leaned forward to kiss his old, weathered cheek,
watched as he blushed before turning back to the house.

She approached the freshly painted door and stopped on the
porch. She looked back at the carriage still standing where Gerald had stopped
it. She sent a silent prayer of gratitude to the heavens for friends who knew
her so well, who appreciated her need to go on alone.

She opened the door and walked into Idyllwild Cottage. The
wide hall that ran down the center of the house was quiet and dim. The four
doors that opened onto the hall were open. A soft breeze drifted around her.
She breathed in the scents of lemon and wax and looked at the gleaming wood
floor beneath her feet and knew that Mrs. Porter was taking great care of the
old house.

Slowly Bea wandered into the parlor with its small grouping
of furniture hidden under snowy-white sheets. Sheer white curtains were open to
allow the sun to drift across the shiny floors. The walls were bare but for a
large painting over the empty fireplace. Bea recognized it as one her mother had
painted of the gardens years ago and wondered where it had come from. She
thought it must have been forgotten in the attic when they had left. Mrs.
Porter must have found it and brought it down.

She walked over to stand looking up at it. She remembered
the weeks her mother had spent working over it. Bea had been five or six years
old and was only beginning to learn to sketch. She had sat beside Mama in the
garden each morning watching in fascination as the garden, the trees, the
flowers, the old fountain, had come to life before her very eyes. That was when
she had first yearned to paint. She had watched the magic Mama created on that
blank canvas and wanted to do the very same thing.

Over the next hour Beatrice explored Idyllwild, noting the
differences as well as the familiarities. The dining room table was new, bigger
than the one she had shared with her parents and the Jenkins—and Papa when he
was home, and the Tobins and Bertie and Anna and William. The chairs looked
hard and uncomfortable.

The kitchen had changed very little. The walls were freshly
painted robin’s egg blue. The copper pots gleamed where they hung from the
ceiling. The old woodwork table and benches looked as if they had recently been
sanded down. It was odd to be in the kitchen without her mother and Molly there
for company. Without them it was just a room, a large airy room devoid of
warmth and movement. Bea shivered as she turned back into the hall.

Her father’s study was directly before her, across the
hallway. Through the open door she could see his desk, the desk her mother had
shared with her and Harry on long winter days. She was afraid to go forward
into that room, afraid of the ghosts she would find there.

She had thought her bedroom would be the most difficult room
to enter and realized how foolish she was. There would be no ghosts in her
bedroom apart from the ghost of her childhood, long gone and never to be
recaptured no matter how she wished otherwise.

Bea turned away from her father’s study and made her way
quietly up the stairs, trailing her fingers over the polished wood banister,
smiling as she reached the seventh step and heard the soft squeak as the wood
shifted beneath her foot. How many times had she and Harry snuck down those
stairs, carefully avoiding that step?

When she reached the second-floor landing, Bea stood and
absorbed the stillness, the absolute silence of the house. Again the doors to
the rooms were open, allowing sunlight to shift and dance across the gleaming
floors. She felt the breeze ruffle her skirt, drift over her feet. She stepped
into her bedroom and found that of all the rooms she had seen thus far, this
one was the only one that appeared unchanged. The bright, sunny room with its
pale-yellow walls and lacy curtains and bed canopy was exactly as she had left
it nine years before. She felt as if she had never left it at all, but had
merely gone down to wander the hills for an hour and arrived home again. She
walked to the tall, gleaming cedar armoire and opened the doors. The left door
stuck for a moment before giving way with a soft creak. Bea half expected to
find her dresses hanging inside. Instead only empty space greeted her.

She went to her desk, her impossibly small and dainty desk
where she had spent hours writing to Papa and William and later Harry after he
had joined the navy. She opened the drawer knowing it would be empty, and it
was.

She walked to the bed, gingerly sat on the mattress and
found the first real change. Instead of the soft, downy mattress of her youth
she sat on a firm new mattress, one she suspected had never been slept upon.
She fingered the lacy canopy that swung over her head and draped down to be
caught by yellow ribbons wrapped around the tall wooden spindles. The pattern
of the lace was different; the weave not nearly so tight, the material was
crisp, new.

Bea walked over to the large window seat, inspected the lace
curtains to find that they were also new. The yellow- and white-striped pillows
on the bench seat tucked into the alcove were new as well, the yellow bolder, the
stripes wider. She sat down and looked out the window, at the garden and the
green fields beyond. She kicked off her shoes and drew her legs up onto the
cushion, tucking them under her skirt to the side, and leaned her back against
the wall.

How many hours had she spent here at this window waiting for
Papa? How many hours had she sat here daydreaming? What had she dreamed of? Had
she dreamed of leaving Idyllwild, of going out into the world? Had she dreamed
of love and marriage and children?

Bea tried to remember, tried to pull forth even one dream
from her childhood and could not. She could only find the dream of Idyllwild,
the dream that had formed her every waking and sleeping thought for nine long
years.

How had she let this happen? How had she fooled herself into
believing she would ever get her home back? How had she allowed Idyllwild to
become her obsession, her only reason for living, more important than her
family, her friends, her honor? How had she permitted the dream to consume her,
to justify hurting everyone around her, to lead her to sacrifice her love, her
life for a pile of bricks and a pretty garden with an old fountain that had
never worked?

Bea thought of all that she had come to understand of
passion and love and realized she had invested all her passion, all her love in
Idyllwild. She had fallen in love with a dream, a house, rolling hills and a
forest.

Until Simon. It was so obvious now. So painfully obvious now
when it was too late. She wished she had recognized the choice she had been
given. Oh how she wished with all her heart she had recognized the moment when
she could have changed the course of her entire life. She had been blind. She
had been willfully blind, pretending he did not exist, refusing to look upon
his wonderful, beloved face.