The following morning dawned with a thick and heavy humidity, and a fine mist blotted out the horizon. After staying up all night to sketch a number of portraits of Chelsea, Blake felt both spirited and restless. He put the sketches into a box on the table, rose from the bed, dressed and ventured outside to the stables, looking for a horse to ride.
The groom informed him which one was his favorite—a black gelding by the name of Thatcher—and in short order he was trotting out of the stable courtyard on Thatcher’s able back and heading in the direction of the lake.
It would do him good, he decided, to explore the estate and see if he recognized anything. Perhaps an image from his childhood would materialize in his mind. Or something from more recent times.
He rode down the lane and crossed the stone bridge. Thatcher’s hooves clopped steadily as he cantered along the west side of the lake. Blake could not help but admire the lush green landscape and revel in the peaceful sounds of nature—the ducks quacking on the still lake waters, the birds chirping in the treetops.
It was nothing like the wild ruggedness of Jersey, with the constant thunder of the surf as it pounded against the steep cliffs, and the amazing force of the wind, blowing through the shrubs and trees and grasses. It was a very different world.
He came to the far end of the lake, where it narrowed to a river, and followed a gravel path into the woods. He soon reached a whitewater cascade, where the noise of the rushing river drowned out the tranquility of the forest. He stopped for a moment to listen to its impressive roar—which to his great annoyance reminded him again of Jersey—then urged his horse onward, only to pull Thatcher to a halt when he encountered another early morning explorer making her way gingerly along the path on foot.
Chelsea…
She, too, stopped in her tracks.
His horse skittered sideways at the unexpected presence of another person. “Whoa, now,” he said, to ease the animal’s agitation.
He had not wanted to see or talk to her this morning, or even think about her, so he simply tipped his hat.
She curtsied. “Good morning.”
He promptly turned Thatcher around to head back in the other direction.
“Wait, please!” Chelsea called after him with a hint of desperation, which made him stop again. Damn. He closed his eyes.
When he turned around, she was walking toward him. “Please don’t go. I’ve lost my way.”
He took in her appearance. She carried her notebook at her side, and her skirt was smeared with mud.
“Did you lose your footing somewhere?” he asked.
She glanced down at her dress. “Yes. I came from that direction.” She pointed behind her. “I had to cross over what turned out to be a steep mud slick. I’ve been following this river for an hour, you see, and I don’t know how to get back to the palace. It’s not the same when you can’t hear the sea.”
Thatcher anxiously sidestepped on the path, while Blake observed the clear note of distress in Chelsea’s voice. Tossing a leg over the saddle, he hopped down, took hold of the reins and led Thatcher toward her.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “It was clumsy of me, that’s all.”
He looked down at the dark mud ground into her skirt and knew that she could not possibly have come through such an accident unscathed.
Reaching carefully for her hand, he lifted it and turned it over to examine the chafed skin on the heels of her palms.
His eyes lifted. “This looks painful.”
She pulled her hand away and hugged the notebook to her chest. “It’s nothing.”
“The palace is this way.” He gestured in the opposite direction. “I’ll take you back.”
“That’s not necessary. I don’t want to interrupt your ride. Now that I know which direction is the right one, I’ll be on my way.” She started along the path, but he could see she was working hard to hide a limp.
“Don’t be stubborn,” he said.
She kept walking. “I’m perfectly fine, Blake.”
He followed with his horse in tow. “No, you are not. Let me take you back.”
He caught up with her. At last she stopped and faced him.
He glanced down at her notebook and made an effort to distract her from her impenetrable pride, which clearly was keeping her from accepting his assistance. “Were you writing?”
“I was trying to, but the words wouldn’t come. It’s so quiet here, and strange. Nothing feels right.”
“I know what you mean.” Then he realized for the first time that he might as well have been born on that bloody island a few weeks ago. It was all he knew.
“I’m accustomed to the sound of the sea,” she continued. “And the smell of it, the feel of it in the air. It’s difficult to explain, but I feel quite…displaced.”
He felt displaced himself. He had felt that way since he saw her mother dragging her up the stairs that final night.
“Let me take you back to the palace,” he said again, struggling with the weight of his concern for her welfare and the genuine grief he felt, seeing her lost like this, when he was still so angry with her for what she had done.
He had not forgotten. He would never forget. But he could not bear the idea of her falling and hurting herself.
She turned away from him again and looked off in the direction of the wooded glen behind them. “This is not what I expected,” she said. “I wanted to come here and be formidable, and try to make things right between us, but I’m not sure I have the stamina for this.”
“For what?” he asked irritably, worrying that she might want to leave, when she had agreed to stay until they knew her condition.
“For the waiting,” she replied, meeting his gaze. “I don’t know how long we will go on like this, and I feel very lost. There is no one I can talk to—no one who is close to me. Your sister-in-law, Rebecca, has been very kind, but I feel like such an interloper. I am ashamed of my reason for being here, and I know everyone is suspicious of me. I cannot even look your mother in the eye, because she is such a lovely woman and she knows what I did. It’s not easy.”
He had promised himself he would not feel sorry for her or sympathize with her situation—not after what she’d put him through—but try as he might, he could not help it.
“Please,” he said, still laboring to keep a hard edge to his heart. “Allow me to take you back.” He held out a gloved hand.
She stared at it and considered her options.
Or perhaps she was thinking of her choices in the past…
Finally, she placed her hand in his and let him assist her up into the saddle, the bridle in his other hand as he held the horse steady. When she was comfortably situated, he touched her ankle.
“May I?”
She nodded.
Standing below her, he lifted her skirts and discovered a mud-stained stocking. He followed it up to a chafed and bloody thigh.
“Chelsea…”
“Yes, it hurts,” she finally admitted. “But I will not have you fussing over me.”
He lowered her skirt and covered her leg, then led Thatcher down the wooded path. “When we reach the palace, I’ll send the housekeeper to see you. She’s very good with cuts and scrapes.”
“How do you know that?” Chelsea quickly asked. “Do you remember things about her?”
He felt his eyebrows pull together with surprise. “Yes. Somehow I do. I know this one thing.” A flicker of hope alighted in him. Perhaps in time he would remember more.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the watch. He looked at the gold hands and black Roman numerals, but still, it was unfamiliar. He slipped it back into his pocket.
“Have you seen the Italian Gardens yet?” she asked. “Because I believe that is what you pictured in your mind that day on the beach. You mentioned mud puddles and a fountain and statue. When I looked out my window this morning, that is exactly what I saw.”
He shook his head. “I have not seen it. The garden is below your window, you say?”
“Yes. Your sister mentioned it to me last night. She said your father moved all the flowers and shrubs to higher ground because he believes the palace is cursed and a flood is coming. It is a symptom of his illness. So that explains the mud puddles you saw in your mind, and why you thought it was depressing. It was a true memory, Blake, and that is good news.”
Indeed it was.
They made their way through the woods to where the river widened into the lake.
“Did you sleep well last night?” she asked.
“Not a wink. I woke up in a cold sweat again.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And you should be thankful you were not there, because if you had been, I probably would have thrown you to the floor in typical fashion and attempted to strangle you. It would have felt quite good, too, I suspect.”
The horse plodded along slowly. A blackbird fluttered out of a leafy tree as they passed.
“Was there no candlestick handy to bludgeon me with?” Chelsea asked. “Because that is, after all, your weapon of choice in such situations.”
“There’s only a rather cumbersome lamp next to my bed.”
“Well, that wouldn’t do at all.”
He found himself chuckling, and was quite certain it was the first time he’d smiled since he arrived at the palace.
“Did you have another dream that caused you to wake up in that state?” she asked.
He was glad he was walking ahead of her, and therefore did not have to look into her eyes.
“Yes.”
“What was it about?”
“I wish I knew. All I remember is waking up in a rage and wanting to brawl. And then I recalled that strange emblem I drew on the beach that day.” He glanced behind him. “Do you remember? You asked me about it.”
“Yes, I remember exactly. Do you still have the sketch?”
“I do.”
“You should show it to your brother. Maybe he will recognize the symbol.”
“I will do that when we get back.”
They walked around the lake and crossed over the bridge, then started up the lane toward the palace at the top of the hill.
“You have an extraordinary home, Blake,” Chelsea said. “I do believe there is nothing in England to compare.”
“I am a fortunate man.”
“Yes.” She was quiet for a long time. “But I must ask…Have you given any thought to what I said to you at the coaching inn?”
He felt his insides seize up, but fought not to let it show. “Which part?”
“The part where I told you I was sorry. I am, and I hope that one day you might be able to forgive me and believe that I do care for you. No matter what happens between us, whether I am with child or not, I want us both to at least have fond memories of each other.”
He kept walking, and wished she were not in the habit of speaking so openly.
“I’m not very good at memories,” he said.
“Not the old ones, but maybe the new ones will have a better chance of staying with you.”
He looked down at his boots while he walked. The horse ambled along behind him, his head bobbing as he clopped up the lane.
“I predict they will,” Blake finally said, for he could not imagine he would ever forget those early days of this new life.
They passed under the entrance archway that led to the cobbled courtyard, and reached the front steps at the main door. Blake reached up, put his gloved hands around Chelsea’s tiny waist, and assisted her off the horse. Her skirts billowed as she landed softly on the ground. He stood for a moment, not quite ready to let go.
“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was quiet and vulnerable.
“I’ll send the housekeeper to your room.”
Still, neither of them made a move to step apart.
“Blake,” Chelsea whispered. She wet her lips and gripped his forearms. “Please believe that I regret what happened. And I miss you. I want what we had before. I can’t bear this.”
An enormous part of him wanted to speak the same words to her in return—I miss you, too—but he could not do it. He could not bring himself to trust that what they’d had in Jersey was real, or that any of this was real. This world around him still felt like a fiction, because he did not feel it. The only past he had was with her, but that had been a sham.
He lowered his hands to his sides and backed away from her, and without another word took hold of Thatcher’s reins and headed back to the stables.