Where Dreams Begin(68)

A thousand memories bound them together. How many lazy summer afternoons had the three of them spent together, how many parties and musical evenings had they attended at the same time? Holly remembered how she and George had laughingly offered advice to Vardon on what sort of girl he should marry…or George and Vardon attending boxing matches, then coming home as drunk as parrots…or the grim evening when she had broken the news to Vardon that George had contracted typhoid fever. Vardon had been a steady support for Holly all through his friend's illness and eventual death. The two men had been as close as brothers, and in that light Holly had regarded Vardon as a member of the family. Now seeing Vardon like this, after he had been absent from her life for so long, brought back a sweet, intoxicating sense of what it had been like when George was still alive. Holly half-expected to see George trailing after him with a ready joke and a merry smile. But George was not there, of course. Only she and Vardon were left.

“The only reason I came here tonight is because Lady Plymouth told me that you would be attending,” Ravenhill said quietly.

“It's been so long, I—” Holly broke off, her mind blank as she filled her gaze with him. She longed to talk to him about George, and about what had transpired for both of them during the past years.

Ravenhill smiled, his white teeth gleaming in his golden face. “Come with me.”

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.