Simply Love

“What were your dreams?” he asked her.

“Marriage to someone for whom I could feel an affection,” she said. “Children. A modest home of my own in the country. I did achieve at least a part of my dream. I have David.”

“And did you have a potential husband picked out?” he asked her.

“Yes.”

He would not ask the next question. The answer was all too obvious. The man, whoever he was, had abandoned her after discovering that she was with child by someone else.

Was he someone from Cornwall?

“But you are right,” she told him. “We have to continue with the journey of life. The alternative is too terrible to contemplate.”

He was uncomfortable with the silence that ensued. He could tell that she had not moved. She must still be sitting sideways beside him, then. He could simply have got up, of course. He still had not taken her inside the house. But some stubborn part of himself kept him where he was. Let her look her fill. It was not as if she had not seen him before.

“It is not a pretty sight, is it?” he said abruptly at last-and then could have bitten his tongue out. What could she possibly say in response to such self-pitying words except to rush into uttering foolish lies to console him?

“No,” she said. “It is not.”

The words amused more than they hurt him. He turned his head about again and smiled at her.

“But it is part of who you are to those who know you now,” she said. “That cannot be avoided, can it, unless you become a hermit or wear a mask. I daresay that for you it is a terrible thing to be blind on the one side, to have no arm, to be unable to do many things you once did without thought. And it must be a terrible thing to look in a mirror and remember how you once looked and will never look again. You were extraordinarily handsome, were you not? You still are. But those who see you now-especially, I suppose, those who did not know you before-soon become accustomed to seeing you as you are. The right side of your face is not pretty, as you say. But it is not ugly either. Not really. It ought to be, perhaps, but it is not. It is part of you, and you are a man worth knowing.”

He laughed, his face still turned toward her. Truth to tell, though, he was deeply touched. She was not, he sensed, speaking just to console him.

“Thank you, Miss Jewell,” he said. “In all the years since this happened, I have never found anyone, even my family-especially my family-willing to speak so frankly about my looks.”

She got to her feet suddenly and went to stand by one of the trellises over which roses grew. She bent her head to smell one particularly perfect red bloom.

“I am sorry,” she said, “for what happened earlier.”

A number of things had happened earlier. He knew to what she referred, though.

“It was my fault,” he said. “I ought not even to have thought of kissing you.”

But he had not thought about it. That was the whole trouble. If he had, he would not have come so close to doing it. He would have released her hand as soon as she regained her balance and moved away from her.

She turned her head to look at him.

“But it was I,” she said, “who almost kissed you.”

Her cheeks suddenly flamed.

Ah. He had not realized that. But she had stopped herself-and now felt that she owed him an apology. He looked down and brushed a speck of dirt from his breeches.

Once, three weeks or so ago, she had set her fingertips against his cheek-and then removed them as if she had scalded her hand.

Today she had almost kissed him-and then moved jerkily away.

He was aware suddenly that she was standing in front of him. He looked up at her, prepared to smile and suggest that they go and look at the house. But her eyes were huge and deep, giving him the curious impression that he could see right through to her soul. And she set her fingertips again just where they had been that other time.

“You are not ugly, Mr. Butler,” she said. “You are not. Truly you are not.”

And she bent her head and set her lips against the left side of his mouth. They trembled quite noticeably, and he felt her breath being released in awkward little jerks against his cheek. But she did not give him just a token little peck of a kiss to prove that she had the courage to do it. She kept her lips where they were long enough for him to taste her, to want her with a yearning so intense that he gripped the arm of the seat almost hard enough to put a dent in the wood.

When she lifted her head, she looked down at him again in that peculiar way she had of focusing on both sides of his face. Her eyes were swimming with tears, he noticed.

“You are not ugly,” she said again almost fiercely, as if, perhaps, to convince herself.

“Thank you.” He forced himself to smile, even to chuckle. “Thank you, Miss Jewell. You are very kind.”

He understood fully what it must have cost her to touch him thus. But she was a woman of some compassion. It was not her fault that he felt bleaker than he had felt in a long, long while.

She had tasted of sunshine and woman and dreams.

“May I show you the house?” he asked her, getting to his feet.

“Yes, please,” she said. “I have been looking forward to it all day.”

And then he did something terribly distressing that he had not done for a long time. He offered her his right arm to take.

Except that nothing happened.

It was not there.

She fell into step beside him, not even knowing he had made the gesture.

For a fraction of a moment he had forgotten that he was only half a man.

She was terribly aware of him as they entered the cool, silent house and he showed her each of the rooms upstairs and down. She was aware of him as a man, as a sexual being for whom her own woman’s body ached.

She was half terrified by the feeling, half fascinated by it.

She had been very careful as she kissed him not to touch his right side. But she had been very conscious of that right side, afraid that she would reach out and touch him after all-rather as people who are afraid of heights are terrified that they will jump from a tower or cliff.

Yet it was not his right side she most feared.

She had also been very aware as she kissed him of his masculinity, of the intimacy that had lain just a heartbeat away, though his lips had not moved against hers, and his hand had not touched her.

It was his masculinity she most feared.

Or, rather, her own damaged femininity.

“It is a lovely house,” she said after a while. “I can understand why you are so attached to it. The rooms are square and high-ceilinged and almost stately, are they not? And the windows fill them with light.”

The back windows looked out on the vegetable garden and the wooded slope, while those in front faced onto the flower garden and the rest of the park. The house was enclosed by beauty. And yet all the splendor of the sea and the coast lay just a mile or so away.

“I fell in love with it the first time I came here to visit,” he said. “There are some places like that, though there is not always a rational explanation of why they grab the heart when other places, equally lovely or even more so, do not. I am very fond of Glandwr and of the cottage where I now live, but they do not cry out home to me.”

No place had ever done that to Anne, though she had grown up happily in her parents’ home in Gloucestershire and had felt as if her cottage at Lydmere was a blessed sanctuary. And she loved Claudia’s school, where she now lived. But it was not home. Again she envied Mr. Butler that he had Ty Gwyn and hoped the Duke of Bewcastle would agree to sell it to him. Ty Gwyn was a place where a person could set down roots that