Where Dreams Begin(88)

However, her longing for Zachary did not fade. It became even more intense, if that was possible, until she found it difficult to eat or sleep. She had not been this acutely miserable since George's death. It seemed that her vision was covered in a dull gray film, and aside from reading and playing with Rose, there was little purpose to her days. One week passed, and another, until a full month had gone by since she had left the Bronsons.

Holly awakened early after yet another sleepless night and went to the window. She pushed aside the heavy velvet drapes and stared at the street below, illuminated by the lavender light of dawn. Coal smoke drifted over the city in a gentle fog, softening the jagged horizon of buildings and homes. Inside the house, early morning noises began: maids opening shutters, lighting fires, laying the hearths and preparing breakfast trays. Another day, she thought, and felt unaccountably weary at the prospect of bathing, dressing and arranging her hair, and picking listlessly at a breakfast she had no desire to eat. She wanted to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head.

“I should be happy,” she said aloud, puzzled by her own inner emptiness. The kind of well-ordered life she had always expected and planned for and enjoyed was easily within her reach…but she didn't want it any longer.

A brief memory flashed through her mind, of the occasion when she and Rose had gone to the shoemaker's for a fitting, and Holly had tried on a pair of exquisite new custom-made walking shoes. Although the shoemaker had used the same pattern as always, something about the stitching or the stiff new leather had made the shoes pinch unbearably. “They're too tight,” Holly had commented ruefully, and Rose had exclaimed with delighted pride, “That means you're growing, Mama!”

Returning to this life with the Taylors, and contemplating marriage with Vardon, was exactly like trying on those tight shoes. For better or worse, she had grown out of this particular life. All those months with the Bronsons had made her, if perhaps not a better woman, at least a different one.

What to do now?

By force of habit, Holly went to the night table and picked up her miniature of George. The sight of his face would give her the comfort and strength, and perhaps a bit of guidance.

However, as she stared at her husband's serene young features, a startling realization came over her. The sight of George did not bring her peace. She no longer yearned for his arms, his voice, his smile. Incredible as it seemed, she had fallen in love with another man. She loved Zachary Bronson as deeply as she had ever loved her husband. Only with Zachary did she feel alive and whole. She missed his provocative, earthy conversations, and the darkeyed glances that contained sardonic amusement or anger or knee-weakening lust. She missed the way he had seemed to fill a room with his charismatic presence, the torrent of plans and ideas that flowed from him, the boundless energy that had swept her along in a fast-moving current. Life without him was slow and dark and unbearably dull.

Realizing that she was breathing in strange little gasps, Holly put her hand over her mouth. She loved him, and it terrified her. For months her heart had resisted the inexorable pull of her growing feelings. She had been desperately afraid to have her soul torn apart by loss once again, and so it had been easier and safer not to let herself fall in love. That had been the real obstacle between herself and Zachary…not her promise to George, not the differences in their backgrounds, not any of the inconsequential issues she had thrown between them.

Setting down the miniature, Holly unbraided her hair and dragged a silver-backed brush over the rumpled locks in frantic, ruthless strokes. The urge to run to Zachary was overwhelming. She wanted to dress and have a carriage readied and go to him this very minute, and try to explain why she had made such a mess of things.

But was it really the best choice for them to join their lives together? Their pasts, their expectations, their very natures were so radically different. Would any rational person advise them to marry? The notion that love would make everything all right was a ridiculous cliché an overly simplified answer to a complicated problem. And yet…sometimes the simple answers were the best ones. Perhaps the small issues could be sorted out later. Perhaps all that really mattered was the truth that existed in her heart.

She would go to him, she decided resolutely. She only feared that she had burned her bridges where Zachary was concerned. He had made it clear that she should not try to come back to him. He would not welcome her.

Replacing the brush on the dressing table with great care, Holly stared into the looking glass. She was pale and tired-looking, with smudges beneath the eyes. Hardly a face to compare with the alluring beauties that Zachary was undoubtedly surrounded with. However, if there was a chance that he still wanted her, it was worth the risk of rejection.

Her heart pounded violently, and she felt weak all over. She went to the armoire and searched for one of the gowns he had bought her, one of the vibrant creations she had never worn. If he took her back, she vowed silently, she would never wear a gray dress again. Finding the jadegreen Italian silk, with its stylish pointed cuffs, she shook out the gleaming skirts and laid the gown carefully on the bed. Just as she began to rummage for fresh linen undergarments, there came a quiet tap on the door and it clicked open.

“Milady?” Maude called softly, entering the room. She seemed surprised yet relieved to see that Holly was awake. “Oh, milady, I'm glad to see ye're already up and about. The housekeeper came to fetch me not five minutes ago. It seems there's someone here to see ye, an's she insists on staying till ye come down.”