The blue sky sprinkled with fluffy clouds was a soothing balm to her problems. Anastasia knew she should not have ventured from the room for fear of seeing Lord Huntingdon or his grandmother, but many of the guests still had not risen, including most of the men. After the entertainments from last night, Philippa had said that she would be surprised if the women were on time to the scavenger hunt that was to take place later that afternoon.
Anastasia lay back on the crisp grass and gazed up into the clear blue sky. White puffy clouds danced across the great expanse, their shape taking form in her imagination.
The outline of a horse galloping in the meadow pranced across the sky. Another cloud shifted, revealing a heart. The wind carried the heart, dissolving it into the breeze and reminding her of her own broken heart.
It just didn’t seem fair. Men were allowed all sorts of freedom. Men were forgiven for foolish youthful mistakes, where women were condemned for the rest of their lives for following their heart. Anastasia reflected on all that she had lost, how she had disgraced her family, lost the only man she ever had loved, and her only child.
She splayed her hand across her flat stomach, remembering the feel of her precious baby kicking inside. She had not known what the future would hold, but she had vowed to her unborn child that she would love her and care for her and never abandon her, the way her own family had abandoned Anastasia in her time of need.
Promises that she was not able to keep. She was not able to protect her child from death.
On a stormy, horrible night, her daughter had been born. She was so tiny and fragile. In her short life, she never complained or cried. It was the most precious gift Anastasia had ever been given and for a brief time her world was bright against the dark and gloomy unknown. But her joy had been short-lived. With the rising sun came her daughter’s last breath.
The hard lump that had lived in her chest resurfaced with full force. Anastasia remembered the grief and pain of losing her baby as if it were only yesterday. She had held her tiny daughter as she took her last breath. Had held her for hours afterward, hoping, praying that she would breathe again, that her precious little life would be restored. But it never happened.
Tears streamed down Anastasia’s cheeks, soaked up by the hair at her temples. She turned onto her side, burying her face into her arm, giving into the grief that still tormented her.
* * *
Over the past years, Dante had often imagined seeing her, wished that she had not died. It would appear that his wish had come true.
He kept glancing at the clock. Dante could have sworn that it was later than it actually was. It seemed as if time was standing still—or worse, moving backwards. He paced the length of the room, picked up a book to read, and then just as quickly putting it down before he made another pass about the room.
The clock on the mantel must be broken. It still wasn’t time. Patience was not something he currently possessed. He went to his desk and pulled a clean sheet of paper from the top drawer. He massaged the pencil in his hand and then began to sketch an oval. Almond-shaped eyes peered back through long eyelashes framed by delicate brows. He quickly added a dainty nose. As if by its own volition, his hand began to sketch the outline of full plump lips. Long waves of hair cascaded about her shoulders, disappearing into faded lines.
He leaned back in his chair and gazed at his creation. Remembrances of her waltzing with him the other night flooded his memory. She had not changed one bit.
At long last, the clock began to chime. It was time.
Careful not to be seen by any early risers, Dante slinked through the house like a common thief. Once outside, he skirted the perimeter of the manor, careful to stay clear of windows that could alert the occupants to his flight.
With his destination clear in his mind, he picked up his pace and followed the path that led to the meadow. He would not stop to enjoy the wild violet orchids, or gaze up into the branches wondering what bird he might spy. There were more important things to discover.
Slowing his pace to catch his breath, Dante walked down the slight slope. In the near distance he spotted her, lying on the grass, crying. The wound in his heart from losing her the first time cracked a little more. He did not like to see her upset. He never wanted to see her hurt.
The bright sunlight peeked out from behind a large cloud and blurred his vision. Doubt crept in and he wondered whether she was flesh and blood or an aberration, a figment of his imagination. Visions such as these had often haunted him through the years.
He approached with a mixture of caution and curiosity. He knew her to be real, but he worried that she would disappear just the same. As he neared, her sobs broke through the calm summer day. The green blades of grass swayed in the gentle breeze. A hawk let out a cry, matching Anna’s sorrowful weep. Abruptly, she sat up and smoothed the long auburn locks that had come loose and now blew against the wind. She took his breath away; she was even more beautiful than he remembered.
She stood, brushed off her skirt, and turned. The moment their eyes met, he knew she was not a vision, but flesh and blood. His first instinct was to pull her into his embrace, but common sense won out.
“Good Afternoon, Anastasia.” He would not use her nickname—not yet anyway. She stilled, apparently too shocked to say anything. “Care to tell me why you are here at Paradiso?”
“I accompanied Miss Albryght to the house party,” she whispered.
“You accompanied her?” He did not want to believe her. He wanted her to say that she came here to see him.
“Yes. I am her companion.” Last night, Mrs. Weston had revealed the same information, but he had yet to learn why she was Miss Albryght’s companion.
All these years she had been so close, and yet he believed her dead. Rage tore through his insides. Had Anna only pretended to be dead, to work as a lady’s companion because she had not cared for him in the same way he had for her?
His imagination was destroying common sense. Why would she engineer such an elaborate scheme? He stepped in closer, searching her jade-green eyes for some clue as to how she felt, but all he saw were eyes that were swollen and puffy from crying. The color had drained from her features. She looked exhausted, but she still had that same sweetness that he found so endearing.
“You don’t have to worry. As soon as this house party is over, I will be leaving.” He could hear the sorrow and heartache intertwined in her words.
A horse whinnied from beyond the meadow. Dante turned to see who might be approaching. When he turned back around, Anna had already started to run toward the copse. Wasting no time, he followed her.
* * *
“Stop running away from me.” Lord Huntingdon grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. Eau de Cologne brought memories from the past to the fore. His voice softened. “Talk to me.”
Anastasia stood still, feeling the warmth of his hand on her arm. She so desperately wanted to tell him—and yell at him, scream at him, and demand answers. Didn’t he comprehend what she had endured because of his refusal? He didn’t even refuse. He simply did not respond and left her all alone.
She pulled her arm free and took several steps back. She needed distance and begged her body not to react. She did not want to give into all the emotions colliding within her heart.
“No. You have no right to request anything of me.” She took another step backward. Her body craved his nearness, but her mind needed the distance. He would not fool her again. One broken heart in a lifetime was enough for her. He had shattered her fairy tale into a thousand pieces. He left her without so much as a simple goodbye.
“Why did you not write to me?” She tried to keep the hurt from her voice, but she could not help it. The painful lump rose with each word she choked out.
Confusion streaked across his face. What lies would he concoct to ease his own conscience? Squaring her shoulders, she prepared herself for battle.
“You left me. You said you would write to me and you didn’t.” He began to shake his head as he took a step forward. She put up her hand to halt his movements. “And when I needed you most, you deserted me.”
“I never received any of your letters. I don’t know why, but I didn’t.” This time when he took a step, she did not stop him. “I never deserted you,” his voice was deep, caring. Oh lord, how would she ever get through this?
Anastasia saw the sincerity in his eyes. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. “But why did you not come to me?”
“I did, at the beginning of summer, just as I said I would.” His features turned dark, lost in some painful memory. “Your father said you had died two weeks before in a carriage accident.”
Searching the recesses of her mind, Anastasia tried to recall the date when her father had sent her away. “Oh lord,” she whispered as the breath left her body. Her legs weakened beneath her.
Lord Huntingdon was at her side, holding her upright. “Anna?” he questioned, using the nickname he had given her.
He didn’t know. She pressed her fingers to her temple. She could not think straight. Her world was spinning out of control. Every truth that she had clung to over the past eight years had been wrong.
“Anna, please talk to me.”
“No,” she said as she back away from him. “I can’t… I need…” She could not bear the pain or the confusion. “I’m sorry.”
Anastasia hurried away with all due haste. She kept running as fast as she could, past inquisitive servants and startled guests. The world around her was a sea of confusion and she was a tiny boat caught in a squall. She did not stop running until she entered her room and slammed the door closed.
Her head fell against the wood door with a thud. “Why?” she cried, the tears streaming down her face in torrents. “What crime have I committed to be punished so?”
The door she had been leaning on lurched forward as if someone was trying to enter. A knock sounded on the other side, close to her ear followed by Isabel’s voice.
“Anastasia?”
Quickly she wiped the tears away but knew very well that her friends would see that she had been crying. At the least, she could possibly hide how much she had been crying. Pushing off the door, she took in a long shaky breath, and then reached for the knob.
The door opened and closed so fast that if Anastasia had not noticed Isabel and Philippa in the room, she would have thought she imagined the whole scene.
“What happened? Everyone is talking about how you stormed through the house knocking guests over and creating such a ruckus.”
“It was not as bad as all that, Isabel,” Philippa corrected Isabel and then turned her attention to Anastasia. “You saw Lord Huntingdon?”
Anastasia could not find the words, too afraid that the tears would start anew. She nodded her head, confirming Philippa’s assumptions.
“Oh you poor thing.” Philippa brought her into a snug embrace. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into Anastasia’s ear. “It is all my fault. I told him where you would be this morning.”
Anastasia backed away. “Is that why you both insisted I go for a long morning walk?” She didn’t need to look at their faces to know that Isabel and Philippa were both guilty. “Why?” That seemed to be a question that Anastasia was asking a lot as of late.
It was Philippa who spoke first, accepting most of the blame. “After dinner last night, Lord Huntingdon pleaded for our assistance.”
“What did he say to you?” Anastasia didn’t think he was lying to her earlier, but she was curious what he said to her friends just the same.
“He said that he never received any of the letters you sent.” Philippa seemed uncomfortable with the direction that the conversation was turning.
Isabel continued where Philippa left off. “He said that your father told everyone that you died.”
Tears started anew. Anastasia detested that after all these years her family could still generate such unwanted emotions from her.
“Why would they say such things?”
Anastasia could not answer Philippa’s question without the hot tears streaming down her face. “My mother died in childbirth and my father always blamed me. Even my brothers had shared that anger. Perhaps it was a way to end his grief.” Anastasia rubbed the back of her neck where the pain and stress had settled as her shoulders lurched with violent sobs.
“I don’t believe Lord Huntingdon is as guilty as you think him to be, if at all, Anastasia.” Isabel’s practical voice broke through her sobs.
Sniffling back the tears, Anastasia murmured, “As much as I cannot believe I am saying this, I agree, Isabel. I just don’t know what to do.”
Philippa rubbed Anastasia’s arm. “Join us for the scavenger hunt.”
Anastasia looked at Philippa as if she were mad.