PortraitofPassion (28 page)

How she wished she had seen the choice and taken it. How she
wished she had gone to Simon and begged him for forgiveness. She remembered
kneeling before Henry, pleading for him to return Idyllwild to her. She should
have been on her knees before Simon pleading for him to return his love to her.
Instead she chose Idyllwild.

Finally, with a weary sigh, she rose and made her way back
downstairs. She thought she should walk down to Bertie’s carriage and invite
him to join her but she had one more memory from her past to lay to rest.

The garden was wilder, abundant and overrun with honeysuckle
and flowers of every imaginable color.

Slowly Bea approached the fountain. She stopped and sat upon
a dainty little wrought iron chair some ten feet from the fountain, the same
chair she had perched upon more than twenty years previously when her mother
first began to teach her to paint.

She took a deep breath of the air, Idyllwild air, so pure…so
fresh, almost minty as it slid into her lungs. She closed her eyes and listened
to the music of the garden, the birds warbling in the trees, the insects
buzzing from flower to flower. She would recognize Idyllwild’s music anywhere.

She opened her eyes and studied the crumbling fountain. It
had not changed at all in the years she had been away. For the first time in
months she wished she had a paintbrush in her hand. She wished she could
capture the way the sun shone upon the pale-gray stone, the way it listed ever
so slightly to the right, the way the ivy wrapped around the base and trailed
lovingly around and over the bowl. Fleetingly, she imagined the future, years
from now when she and everyone she loved were long gone, that crumbling old
fountain would still be standing, hidden by flowers and grass and snow.

Bea was so lost in her thoughts that it took her a moment to
sense the change in the air around her. Slowly she became aware that a strange
stillness, a humming vibration, had settled around her. It was as if the birds
had softened their music to a dim whisper, the buzz of insects held a strange
muted quality. She felt a shiver race up her spine, felt her skin tingle.

With a small cry Beatrice jumped from the chair and spun
around.

Simon stood not twenty paces from her as still as a statue, his
eyes locked upon her face. Beatrice took an involuntary step back at the
haunted look in his eyes. She could not look away. She was trapped, held
prisoner by his somber eyes, by the grim set of his beautiful mouth.

He stood so still, so tense, his face a mask of seething,
raw emotion. Confused by his sudden appearance, swamped by memories of the last
time they’d been alone together, when in his anger he’d punished and humiliated
her, she darted her eyes across the garden to the back door of the cottage. Out
of the corner of her eye she saw movement and her gaze flew back to him. Simon
raised one muscular arm toward her, turned his palm up and held his hand out to
her. It was shaking, his arm trembling. Slowly, he lowered it back to his side.

She watched as his gaze traveled over her face, saw him
wince as his eyes ran over the violet bruise high upon her cheekbone. His gaze
dropped to her pale-pink traveling dress before falling to her bare feet below
the hemline. Reflexively, she curled her toes into the warm grass. Simon
blinked, once, twice, and then his eyes closed and his chest rose. Across the
distance that separated them, Bea saw a tremor run through him as his breath
seemed to stutter in his chest.

Silently, she waited with the sun beating down upon her back
and the soft breeze rippling across her arms, raising goose bumps.

Finally, his eyes opened and Beatrice sucked in a quick,
trembling breath at the stark despair she saw in their depths. The momentary
flare of panicky fear flew away in the breeze as she realized it had not been
anger she had seen in his eyes, in his clenched jaw, in this stiff, trembling
limbs. It was sorrow, a terrible deep anguish. She recognized it as the same
look she saw in her own face when she looked in the mirror.

Beatrice wanted to run to him then, to throw herself into
his arms, to beg, to plead with Simon to forgive her. The urge was
overwhelming, so powerful that she shook with the force of it. But she was
frozen in place, confused and unsure, unable to believe that he stood here, in
the garden of Idyllwild before her, silently waiting.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

“No!” Bea cried.

“Beatrice, please,” Simon said.

And then finally, finally he began to move toward her,
talking all the while, his voice raspy, his words stopping and starting as if
he could not rein them in. “You must forgive me…I know that what I did to you…I
know I don’t deserve your forgiveness…but don’t you see…I cannot live without
it.”

Beatrice heard his words and frantically shook her head.
“No, Simon, you must not…” She wanted only to stop his tormented words. She
could not believe that Simon, her beloved Simon, her confident, careful, strong
Simon had become undone this way.

“I must,” he insisted as he stopped in front of her. He did
not touch her, only stood before her and stared into her eyes as he continued.
“I must. Don’t you see, Bea? Don’t you see…please…I won’t…I can’t…I will never
hurt you again…but you must forgive me…”

“Stop, Simon,” Bea pleaded as she raised one trembling hand
to cover his lips. As soon as her hand touched him, she felt the warmth radiate
through her hand and down her arm until it lodged in her chest. She swayed as
she felt his lips continue to move softly against her hand.

“Beatrice” he whispered and she felt her name upon his lips,
like a prayer, a benediction. “Please, Beatrice.”

Then she was crying. Great sobs tore from her throat and
trembled upon her lips as her eyes filled and her tears overflowed to run down
her cheeks.

“Simon,” she moaned. “Simon…please do not…do not…” Bea tried
to gather her wits, her words, to make him understand that his pain was too
much for her to bear, but she could not get the words out. She could only stand
with her hand upon his lips, his wonderful, soft lips, while her entire body
shook with the force of her sorrow, her shame, her heartbreak.

Simon fell to his knees before her, wrapped his strong arms
around her waist and buried his face against her stomach. Bea felt his
shoulders shaking, felt his hot breath on her flesh through the thin muslin of
her dress, heard his deep voice as he begged her, “Please, Beatrice, please
forgive me.”

Bea tore herself from his arms and his head came up and his
startled eyes met hers. Simon opened his mouth to speak but he got out no more
than a murmured, “Beatrice” before she fell to her knees in front of him and
grasped his face in her hands. She dragged his lips down to hers and silenced
him with her own.

Their lips met in a searing kiss, a kiss wet from their
mingled tears. Bea’s breath hitched in her lungs, a sob tumbled from her lips
to be caught by his as his arms wrapped around her once more. She opened her
mouth to invite him in, to give him her forgiveness, to beg for his. Their
tongues met and danced and shivered, over and over. Bea twisted her arms around
his neck and held him to her.

Simon dragged his lips from hers to shower her face with
kisses, all the while whispering to her, “Beatrice…God. Beatrice…I never
thought…to hold you again…never let you go…never…love you…Beatrice.”

“Simon…so sorry…please forgive me…I never meant…I didn’t
know…I love you…Simon…I love you,” Bea whispered brokenly before she turned her
face to recapture his mouth and finally, finally she was able to breathe again.

Simon gentled their kiss, gentled her with a kiss of such
softness, such reverence, Bea’s heart skipped a beat before settling into a
tender tattoo filled with wonder.

They stayed there, kneeling before one another, locked in
each other’s arms as their hearts began to believe.

Simon lifted his head slowly to look down at Bea and she saw
that his eyes were no longer filled with sorrow. They sparkled with joy and
relief. The corners of his mouth slowly tilted up into the soft smile she had
thought never to see again. She watched as he cocked his brow and could have wept
anew at the happiness that coursed through her to see the familiar expression.
She was suddenly struck with the enormity of what she had nearly lost, and the
shame of her deception, and the relief that Simon was here in her arms.

“Simon,” she said, her voice little more than a breath of
sound. “I’m so sorry. I should have told you the truth.”

“Beatrice, no,” he replied, his voice equally quiet. “I
understand what this place means to you, the sacrifices you have made to
reclaim your home. I am the one who is sorry. I’m so sorry I did not hold to my
faith in you, that I allowed my anger to take over, that I sought to punish
you.”

Bea pulled Simon’s head down to her once more, locked her
lips against his. They kissed as if they would never stop, as if their kisses
were as necessary as air.

Their fevered kisses gradually settled into soft caresses
and gentle nibbles until they were no longer kissing, but simply holding one
another close. Bea rested her cheek against Simon’s chest, listening to the
steady beat of his heart.

“How did you find me?” Beatrice whispered.

“Henry,” Simon replied in a soft, choppy voice.

Beatrice leaned back in his arms and tilted her head as she
waited for him to continue.

Simon laughed huskily and pressed a hard kiss upon her lips.

“Henry went to Moorehead’s town house and learned that you
and Bertie had left in a mad rush.” Simon’s voice was steady once more, deep
and husky.

“Oh.” She lowered her eyes and then tucked her head into the
crook of his neck, pressing her lips against his warm skin, drawing his scent
deep into her lungs.

“When he told me you were gone I knew you would come to
Idyllwild.” Simon tightened his arms around her.

She smiled against his neck.

“I know you, Beatrice,” he said. The words were so simple,
so true. He knew her, he knew her heart.

“Yes,” she whispered with her lips pressed against his neck.

“Love,” he whispered and Beatrice raised her head and turned
to follow his gaze.

“Oh,” she breathed. Henry and Olivia were standing just
outside the door, watching them.

Simon helped her to her feet and grasped her hand firmly in
his as they turned together and started toward her family. They had taken only
a few steps when Olivia laughed and flew toward her sister. Henry followed
slowly behind her.

“Beatrice!” Olivia cried as she threw her arms around her.

Simon released her hand and watched as the ladies hugged one
another tightly. Then Henry was there to wrap his arms around them both and the
three siblings stood holding one another amid much laughter and tears.

* * * * *

Dinner that night was a festive event reminiscent of bygone
days when Papa had brought William and Bertie and Anna and the Tobins home with
him. Bea and Mrs. Porter prepared a light repast of cold meats, cheeses, fruit
and lemon muffins. The sisters laughed together at Olivia’s hopelessly confused
attempts to help.

The household gathered together around the new dining room
table amid laughter and conversation, the siblings talking over one another in
abandon. Simon listened and watched with his warm eyes, a small smile lingering
like a kiss upon his lips.

“Idyllwild is everything you described and more,” Olivia
said as she and Bea cleared the table and Mrs. Porter washed the dishes in the
kitchen while Simon and Henry lingered in the dining room over their brandy.

“Was it you who sent word to open the house, to prepare it
for visitors?” Bea asked.

“I knew as soon as you told us that you had come to acquire
your home that I must see this place that lived in your heart.”

“You knew who I was even before that,” Bea stated. “You knew
from the very first time we met.”

“You look so like our father,” Olivia replied with a smile.
“I kept waiting for Henry to realize you were our sister.”

“So did I,” Beatrice responded with a soft laugh. “You can’t
imagine how many times I longed to tell him, to tell you both.”

“Bea, I understand why you did not tell us at the
beginning,” Olivia said, taking Bea’s hands in her own. “But why did you
hesitate after you had come to know us? Surely you knew we would not turn from
you.”

Bea had asked herself the very same question countless times
on the journey north.

“I did not want my time with you to end,” she replied. “I
was torn between Idyllwild and the love I had found with you and Henry…and
Simon.”

“If Mother had not told Henry, would you have finally
revealed all to him?” Olivia asked quietly.

“I’ve been wondering the very same thing.”

Bea turned to find Henry standing in the doorway, his blond
curls picking up the soft light of the fire in the hearth. Olivia walked toward
him and gently touched his cheek before sliding past him and out the door.

“I promised your mother I would disappear without revealing
my identity,” Bea replied, knowing her words were not an answer at all.

“If she returned Idyllwild to you,” Henry finished. “But
would you have truly done so?”

“Perhaps,” Bea replied with a frown. “But I think that I
would have realized on the journey just what I was giving up. I would have
regretted my decision when I arrived and realized that Idyllwild is just a
house, that it is no longer my home. My regrets would have been the same.”

“What?” Henry exclaimed. “Beatrice, you must know I will
give you Idyllwild. I am sorry I did not tell you so when you came to see me. I
was confused and angry. I would never keep you from your home.”

“Idyllwild can never be my home again.”

“Beatrice…”

“Idyllwild is yours, Henry.” Beatrice allowed the knowledge,
the certainty settle over her.

“After all that you endured to reclaim it…”

“I was wrong, Henry. So wrong about everything. I do not
want to spend my life alone on this estate, so far from you, so far from
Olivia, so far from Simon.”

Henry gazed down at her, looking so like their father, and
Bea was reminded of the first time she saw him standing tall and proud in
Anna’s parlor. He had looked at her then as if she were an angel, a fairy from
another world, as if she were special, as if he loved her. Just as her father,
their
father
had looked at her all those years ago.