Her hand slipped naturally into his arm, and she went without thinking, feeling as if she had stepped into the middle of a dream. Wordlessly Ravenhill led her from the ballroom and through the entrance hall to a long row of French doors. He guided her through the doors and out into the house's central courtyard, where the air was heady with the scent of fruit and flowers. Outside lamps adorned with festoons of lacy wrought iron shed light over the abundant greenery, and illuminated the sky above until it resembled the exact color of black plums. Seeking a measure of privacy, they walked to the edge of the courtyard, which opened onto a great formal garden at the back of the house. They found a circle of small stone benches half-concealed by a row of hedges, and they sat together.
Holly stared into Ravenhill's shadowed face with a tremulous smile. She sensed that he felt the same way she did, awkward but eager, two old friends anxious to renew their acquaintance. He looked so dear, so familiar, that she experienced a strong urge to hug him, but something held her back. His expression contained some secret knowledge that seemed to cause him discomfort…uneasiness…shame. He started to reach for her gloved hand, then drew back, resting his palms on his spread knees instead.
“Holland,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping over her. “You're more beautiful than I've ever seen you.”
She studied Ravenhill as well, struck by how much older he seemed, his golden handsomeness tempered by a bitter awareness of the grief that life sometimes held in store for the unsuspecting. He seemed to have lost the supreme selfassurance that had come with his privileged upbringing, and strangely he was all the more attractive for it.
“How is Rose?” he asked softly.
“Happy, beautiful, bright…oh, Vardon, how I wish George could see her!”
Ravenhill seemed unable to reply, staring hard at some distant point of the garden. His throat must have pained him, for he swallowed several times.
“Vardon,” Holly asked after a long silence, “do you still think of George often?”
He nodded, his smile edged with self-mockery. “Time hasn't helped nearly as much as everyone assured me it would. Yes, I think about him too damn often. Until he died, I'd never lost anyone or anything that mattered to me.”
Holly understood that all too well. For her, as well, life had been almost magically perfect. As a young woman, she had been untouched by loss or pain, and she had been so certain that things would always be wonderful. In her immaturity, it had never occurred to her that someone she loved could be taken away from her.
“Since boyhood, everyone thought of George as a prankster, and I was the responsible one,” Ravenhill said. “But that was only the appearance of things. In truth, George was the anchor. He had the deepest sense of honor, the greatest integrity that I've ever known. My own father was a drunkard and a hypocrite, and you know that I don't think much better of my brothers. And the friends I made at school were nothing but dandies and wastrels. George was the only man I've ever truly admired.”
Filled with a wistful ache, Holly reached for his hand and squeezed it hard. “Yes,” she whispered with a smile of tender pride, “he was a fine man.”
“After he passed away,” Ravenhill said, “I nearly went to pieces. I would have done anything to dull the pain, but nothing worked.” His mouth twisted in self-disgust. “I started drinking. And drinking. I became an unholy mess, and I went away to the continent to spend some time alone and clear my head. Instead, I did even worse things. Things I'd never imagined myself doing before. If you had seen me at any time during the past three years, Holland, you wouldn't have recognized me. And the longer I stayed away, the more ashamed I was to face you. I abandoned you, after I had promised George—”
Suddenly Holly's gloved fingertips touched his lips lightly, stilling the flow of wretched words. “There was nothing you could have done for me. I needed time alone to mourn.” She stared at him compassionately, scarcely able to imagine him behaving in ways that were less than proper and honorable. Ravenhill had never been one to indulge in reckless behavior. He had never been a drunkard or a skirt-chaser, had never gambled or fought, or done anything to excess. She couldn't begin to understand what his activities had been during his long absence from England, but it didn't matter.
It occurred to her that there must be many different ways of mourning. While she had turned inward in her sorrow, perhaps Ravenhill's grief over George had turned him a bit mad for a while. The important thing was that he was back home now, and she took great pleasure in seeing him again.
“Why haven't you come to visit me?” she asked. “I had no idea you had returned from the continent.”
Ravenhill flashed her a self-deprecating smile. “So far I haven't kept any of the promises I made to my best friend on his deathbed. And if I don't start to make good on them, I won't be able to live with myself any longer. I thought the best way to begin was to ask your forgiveness.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” she said simply.
He smiled and shook his head at her answer. “Still every inch a lady, aren't you?”
“Perhaps not quite as much a lady as I once was,” she replied with a note of irony.
Ravenhill stared at her intently. “Holland, I've heard that you are employed by Zachary Bronson.”
“Yes. I am acting as a social instructor for Mr. Bronson and his delightful family.”
“That is my fault.” Ravenhill did not appear to receive the news with the same pleasure she took in imparting it. “You would never have been driven to such lengths had I been here to fulfill my promises.”
“No, Vardon,” Holly said hastily, “it has truly been a rewarding experience.” She fumbled for words, wondering how on earth she could explain her relationship with the Bronson family to him. “I am better for knowing the Bronsons. They have hepled me in ways I can't easily explain.”
“You were never meant to work,” Ravenhill pointed out quietly. “You know what George would have thought.”
“I am well aware of what George wanted for me,” she agreed. “But Vardon—”
“There are things we have to discuss, Holland. Now isn't the time and place, but there is one thing I must ask you. The promise we gave George that day—is it still something you would consider?”
At first Holly could find no breath to answer. She had a dizzying sense of fate rolling over her in an irresistible tide. And with it came the strangest mixture of relief and dullness, as if all she had to do was accept a circumstance that she had no control over. “Yes,” she said softly. “Of course I would still consider it. But if you have no desire to be bound by it—”
“I knew what I was doing then.” His purposeful gaze held hers. “I know what I want now.”
They sat together in a silence that required no words, while the ache of regret swirled around them. In their world, one did not seek happiness for its own sake, but received it—sometimes—as a reward for behaing honorably. Often doing one's duty brought pain and unhappiness, but one was ultimately sustained by the knowledge that he or she had lived with integrity.