The Beloved One (15 page)

"Certainly not!" she agreed, with a nervous little laugh.

He bent his head, allowing her to do what she would.  "Then go ahead, Amy.  Make the pain go away, if you can."  He shut his eyes, already anticipating the relief her touch would surely bring.

Amy, her throat suddenly dry, stretched her legs out in front of her, then smoothed her petticoats and apron over them.

"Is it, um, all right if you position yourself so that both of us are comfortable, Charles?"

"What would you like me to do?"

"Lie down, so that your head is — well, resting in my lap."

Again, he frowned; then, torn between a desperate need for relief and the worry that this seemingly innocent gesture might not be such a good idea after all, he lay down in the sand with his back toward her, gingerly resting his right cheek on her leg and settling his left hand on her knee.

"How is that?"

"Perfect," she said — and it was.

With caring, ever-so-gentle hands, Amy untied his queue and drew her fingers through the thick, shining waves of his hair.  He sighed, deeply.  His fingers curled briefly around her knee, and then he gradually began to relax as she started combing his hair with her fingers, knowing the gentle pulls against his scalp would be soothing in itself.

"I think I feel better already," he murmured.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"God, no."

She smiled and continued her ministrations, lightly drawing her fingers over his head and out through his hair, over and over again, carefully avoiding the still-tender scar and massaging his temple, his brow, his scalp, nape, and even his earlobe with a soft, caring touch.  And as she worked, she gazed longingly down at him, wishing she could look at him forever.  But he was not hers.  He could never be hers.  And soon now, he would be going back to those to whom he belonged.  His oh-so-lucky Juliet.  The family he so obviously loved.  And probably to England, never to return.

Oh, why did it hurt so much?

Her chest constricted.  Sudden tears made his image blurry, and she raised her head, blinking them away and desperately hoping that Mira wouldn't come back anytime soon and cut short this innocent intimacy that Charles had allowed them.

But Mira was nowhere to be seen, and now a breeze came up, ruffling the folds of his shirt and stirring his hair as Amy continued her gentle caresses.  Time passed.  His weight grew heavy across her legs.  She hoped she was bringing him the relief he so desperately needed.  She hoped he would let her do this again for him sometime soon.  And she hoped there really
wasn't
anything wrong in this well-meaning action with respect to his pledge to Juliet, because the feelings that made her skin warm despite the nippy breeze, the feelings that made her breasts feel tight and now brought a raw, tingling ache to her most private of areas, were not right at all, and she began to understand just how her mother might have felt all those years ago . . .

You'd better get up now, Amy.  Enough is enough.

She opened her mouth to rouse him — and realized that his fingers were loose and relaxed across her knee, and that he was taking the deep, rhythmics breaths of someone fast asleep.

Amy bit her lip.  She hadn't the heart to wake him.  Not now.  Her gaze tender, she looked down at his firm, slightly parted lips, the long, pale lashes lying against his cheeks, the shoulders that rose and fell so gently.  His breath warmed the top of her thigh through her petticoats.  Her heartache intensified, the back of her throat felt raw.  It was all she cold do not to lean down and kiss his temple, but she would not, she could not do such a thing, it just wasn't
right
.  Instead, she touched two fingers to her mouth, shut her eyes for a moment, and then, so softly that it might have been the whisper of breeze, transferred the kiss to his lips.  Her wistful gesture was enough to wake him.  He took a deep sigh, slowly lifted his lashes, and, without moving his head, looked off over the river's broad blue basin, a broad blue basin that he might never see.

His face was not just relaxed.  It was sad.

"Hmmm . . .  Your touch put me to sleep, I think."  He made no attempt to get up.  "Thank you, Amy.  You are very kind to me."

"You're not a hard person to be kind to, Charles.  Besides, I've been no kinder to you than you've been to me."

"And I would say the same," he murmured, and let his eyes shut once more, though she knew he was not sleeping.

"Charles?"

"Hmmmm?"

She gathered her courage.  "Earlier, you told me how people treat you a certain way because of who your father was . . ."

His eyes slowly opened.  "Yes."

"Well . . . people treat me the way they do because of who
my
father was, too."

He was quiet for a moment.  "And who was your father, Amy?"

She took a deep, bracing breath, and her hands stilled in his hair.

"A red Indian."

Charles, his cheek still resting on her knee, waited for her to continue.  She didn't.  He waited another moment.  She remained silent.  He heard the wash of the sea against the beach, the roar of distant breakers, the high-pitched cry of a gull, and finally spoke when it became obvious that no more was coming from her.  "Is that it, then?"

"Yes."

He pushed himself up.  "You mean to tell me the reason your family treats you like a slave is because your father was an Indian?"

"Well, yes.  I don't know what it's like in England, but here, Indians
are
treated like slaves."

"But —"

"I know, you're wondering how it happened, aren't you?"  She gave a pained little laugh, trying, without success, to sound cavalier.  "Everyone says it was rape, but it wasn't; Mama had been married to Sylvanus for three years when she met and fell in love with my real father, a Mohawk, and the only reason people say it was rape is out of respect for Sylvanus's feelings.  He let Mama keep me, but he always took care to remind me that I was the product of sin, just to make sure I tried twice as hard to do good, and not make the Lord any more unhappy with me than He already is."

"
What?!
"

"I'm the fruit of a terrible sin and that makes
me
unclean, don't you see?  My mother was an adulterer.  My father was a savage.  Wanton blood runs in my veins.  And that's why people treat me the way they do.  It's not their fault that I am what I am — its mine."

"I have never heard such complete and utter codswollop in all my life!"

"Don't you have a class system in England?"

"Well, yes, of course, but . . . for God's sake, this is different!"

"No it's not.  We have a class system here, too, and Indians and people from Africa are at the bottom of it."

"I cannot believe that a man who calls himself a
Christian
would raise you to believe you're responsible for something that has nothing to do with you!"

Her voice grew defensive.  "You mustn't blame Sylvanus.  He's a kind soul, and a forgiving one.  He could've thrown Mama out, but he didn't because he still loved her.  He could've thrown me out, as I must be a constant reminder of what Mama did, but he didn't.  Instead, he took me in, gave me his name, schooling, and plenty of food to eat.  No respectable man will ever marry me, but I have a home with Sylvanus for as long as he remains on this earth, and that's more than a lot of people in my position might have."  Her anger faded when he remained still, shocked, and silent.  "Honestly, Charles, my life isn't so bad.  I am blessed.  Really I am.  Please don't look so upset."

Upset?
  Charles felt sick to his stomach.  Felt sicker yet by her blithe acceptance of her lot.  And here he was, wealthy, privileged, blessed with every material gift that God could give a man, sulking because he'd lost his sight.  At least he had everything else.  What did this poor little mite ever have?

Nothing.  Just gratitude for any scrap of comfort.

He pushed his fist against his brow, his heart feeling as though someone had dragged a rake through it.

"Charles?"

He lifted his head, staring blankly into the nothingness.

"Charles, are you well?"

"No, Amy.  I am not well.  I am sickened by what you've just told me, that's all."

"You don't need to feel sick, it's not your fault that I'm a dirty half-breed —"

"Damn it, it's not your fault either, and you're not 'dirty,' so stop allowing Sylvanus and everyone else to convince you otherwise!"

"But Sylvanus is a man of God, he knows what he's talking about —"

"Sylvanus is a narrow-minded sod who's spent his life punishing
you
for something that isn't your fault!"

His words rang in the air, reverberating like the last clang of a bell.  "I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head.  "'Sdeath, I'm sorry."  He grasped her hand, holding it with a fierce strength.  "Amy, listen to me. 
Listen to me.
  Don't you ever let them tell you you're ugly!  Don't ever let them tell you you're dirty.  You're a beautiful person, inside and out, thoughtful, sensitive and kind.  I don't care what Sylvanus says, or what anyone else thinks.  You'll find yourself a nice man to marry someday, and if your family's trying to convince you otherwise, it's only because they have an unpaid servant in you and they don't want to lose you."

He heard what sounded like a gulp, then a sniffle.

"Amy?"

"I — I'm sorry, Ch-Charles.  No one's ever said anything like that to me before, and . . . and I j-just don't know what to make of it —"

"Oh, God, don't cry.  I don't know how to deal with tearful females, truly I don't."

"I c-can't help it, you're being so nice to me, saying that I'm beautiful when really, I'm not, and —

"You
are
beautiful, Amy, and don't you ever forget it."

"You can't say that, you've never even seen me!"

"Come here."

"I
am
here."

"Come closer, then, and let me judge the issue for myself."

She did.

"Now, place my hands on your face."

Sniffling, she took his hands within her own.  Or tried to, given that hers were half the size of his and dainty as a bird's foot.

And then she raised them to her face, placing one on each hot, tearstained cheek.

The minute he felt her flesh beneath his, Charles knew this was a mistake.  A big mistake.  But to stop now would crush her.

"Ah, Amy.  How can you think you're ugly?  Your skin is so soft that it feels like roses after a morning rain."

"It's too dark.  Bronzy.  Not at all the color of Ophelia's and Mildred's."

"And who says skin has to be milk-white to be beautiful?"

"Well . . . no one, I guess."

He gently pressed his thumbs against her cheeks, noting that they were hot with blush, soft as thistledown, and that the delicate bones beneath were high and prominent.  "And look at these cheekbones!  I know women — aristocratic women, mind you — who'd kill for cheekbones like these.  High cheekbones are a mark of great beauty, you know."

"High cheekbones are a mark of Indian blood."

"Amy."

"Yes?"

"Stop it."

"I'm sorry."

He continued on, now tracing the curve of her brow, and the bridge of her nose.  He had lost his eyesight, but it was amazing what his hands could see.

"You have a lovely nose," he said.

"It's too strong."

"No it isn't.  Close your eyes."

She did.  He could feel the fragile veneer of her eyelids, trembling faintly beneath his fingertips, and long, long lashes that brushed those cheekbones he had so admired.

"What color are your eyes, Amy?"

"Brown."

"What color brown?  Brown like conkers?  Brown like nutmeg?  Brown like black?"

"Brown like mud."

"Can you think of a more flattering word?"

"No."

His hands moved out over her face, learning its shape, before touching the plaited, pinned-up mass of her hair.  It was straight, he could tell that much.  Shiny like glass, as soft as a fern.  He wished it was down.

Good God, man, whatever are you thinking?!

"My hair's brown, too," Amy said, her voice now a tremulous, barely audible whisper.

"Brown like mud?" he cajoled.

"No.  Brown like black.  And when the sun comes out, it's got reddish undertones."

"It sounds very pretty."

"It's not, really.  It's just hair."

"Just hair.  Do you ever wear it down?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It gets in the way of things."

"Don't you think that someday, a man will wish to drag his fingers through all this hair?"

"No . . . no respectable man."

He shook his head, his heart aching for her.  "Oh, Amy."

He began to pull away, for this act was starting to feel anything but innocent, but as he did, his thumbs happened to brush the curve of her upper lip, the generous swell of her bottom one, and with a start, Charles realized he was only inches away from drawing her face close to his and kissing her.

Shaken, he pulled back.

"Are my lips all right, Charles?" she asked, innocently.

"Yes, yes, they're fine.  Quite fine indeed."

"I wish they were more like my sisters' . . . Ophelia's and Mildred's are soft pink the way lips are supposed to be, but mine, well, they're just sort of a dark red —"

God help me.
  At that moment, Mira's voice echoed over the dunes.

"Amy!  Lord Charles!  Get off your butts and get over here, quick!  Old man Lunt is coming in off the ocean and he's seen me waving!  We're rescued!"

Charles shut his eyes on a silent prayer of thanks.

Divine intervention.  And not a moment too soon.

Chapter 10

Charles's warning had not been wasted on Sylvanus.

That Saturday — after Ophelia had grudgingly made (and burned) supper — he hastily rewrote his sermon, mustered his courage, and at the pulpit the following morning, announced to his stunned flock that Adam Smith was no farmer at all, but a king's officer and the brother of a mighty English duke.