Uncertain Magic by Laura Kinsale Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Kinsale
leaden sky, she was a fragile, golden fairy-creature: all hope and future promise, innocent and wise and utterly confounding. His joy and his burden. It was beyond him, the right answer, and he knew it.
I love you
, he thought, in helpless silence.
Let it be as you want
.
Roddy slowly let out the breath she'd been holding.
Mr. Delamore rose from behind the desk. He rested his hand on her mother's shoulder and looked down at her huddled form. "Come, my dear," he said softly. "We cannot keep our bird in the nest if she wants to be free." He stroked her hair, the shining blond that was paling to gray. "Let us give her this chance at happiness with good grace."
Her mother only wept harder, and hot tears pricked behind Roddy's eyes. "Papa—" she said brokenly, hardly knowing how to put it into words the warmth and misery in her heart.
Mrs. Delamore wiped inelegantly at her eyes. She crossed to Roddy and sank down beside her, pulling her close. Neither spoke—there was no need. Roddy knew clearly how much her, mother wished her happy, and how much Mrs. Delamore feared for her only daughter's future. There was no need to look deeper, to the tiny place that might wish Roddy well and gone. A long time it had been since that day in Mama's bedroom. Long enough to forget.
If a lifetime was long enough.
"Don't worry, Mama," Roddy whispered at last. "I know this is what I should do."
Her mother made a small sound, and stood up as quickly as she had sat down. She walked from the room without a word.
Roddy's father cleared his throat. He spread his hands self-consciously. "You've grown up too fast for us, you see."
Roddy stood up. Stifling a sniff, she reached on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Best of my friends. I love you, Papa. I shall love you both forever."
No more was said of shunning Lord Iveragh. If her parents were not enthusiastic, they were at least silent on the subject. That was guilt, that silence. It was fear. Beneath the rush of unhappy objections there was a tiny, tiny flame. A faint breath of relief. With Roddy gone, their lives would be different.
Easier.
She closed her mind to that hurt and threw herself into impossible dreams of the future.
For the dinner party, Roddy's maid helped her dress carefully in her newest gown, with its bodice of pink- and silver-shot India gauze and white mull skirt embroidered with bouquets of the same dreamlike colors. The dress fell softly from the ribbon tied beneath her small breasts, trailing behind her as she walked. She twirled in front of the glass, so that the pearls which rested on the pale skin below her throat shimmered with reflected candlelight. Her bright hair gleamed with its own luster, framing her wide gray eyes with wispy curls.
No stablehand tonight.
No beauty, either. She knew there was a way about her; an aura that caught and held attention. She knew what she was not. Not pretty. Not sweet. Not delicate. She was not a daisy on a summer day, but instead the wind that blew it. People looked at Roddy the way they would look at a blue rolling storm on the horizon. And when she looked back, they faltered and turned away.
Down the curved stairs she went alone, past the high walls lined with Delamore stallions in gilded frames, one above the other, a century and a half of breeding blood and bone and the will to run. The moment she entered the drawing room, she felt her mother's unhappy protest over the dress. But the vicar had already arrived, and Lady Elizabeth was just stalking ponderously through the front hall in the footman's wake, so no word was said about the low neckline and slender silhouette of the India-gauze gown. Just behind Lady Elizabeth, Lord Geoffrey's party disembarked from their carriage.
Roddy watched from the door, first Lady Mary and then tall Geoffrey, and then a blankness, the sweep of a black cloak behind them. Iveragh. Her heart did a curious little half-beat. He always seemed to have that effect: that when she saw him she was so
I love you
, he thought, in helpless silence.
Let it be as you want
.
Roddy slowly let out the breath she'd been holding.
Mr. Delamore rose from behind the desk. He rested his hand on her mother's shoulder and looked down at her huddled form. "Come, my dear," he said softly. "We cannot keep our bird in the nest if she wants to be free." He stroked her hair, the shining blond that was paling to gray. "Let us give her this chance at happiness with good grace."
Her mother only wept harder, and hot tears pricked behind Roddy's eyes. "Papa—" she said brokenly, hardly knowing how to put it into words the warmth and misery in her heart.
Mrs. Delamore wiped inelegantly at her eyes. She crossed to Roddy and sank down beside her, pulling her close. Neither spoke—there was no need. Roddy knew clearly how much her, mother wished her happy, and how much Mrs. Delamore feared for her only daughter's future. There was no need to look deeper, to the tiny place that might wish Roddy well and gone. A long time it had been since that day in Mama's bedroom. Long enough to forget.
If a lifetime was long enough.
"Don't worry, Mama," Roddy whispered at last. "I know this is what I should do."
Her mother made a small sound, and stood up as quickly as she had sat down. She walked from the room without a word.
Roddy's father cleared his throat. He spread his hands self-consciously. "You've grown up too fast for us, you see."
Roddy stood up. Stifling a sniff, she reached on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Best of my friends. I love you, Papa. I shall love you both forever."
No more was said of shunning Lord Iveragh. If her parents were not enthusiastic, they were at least silent on the subject. That was guilt, that silence. It was fear. Beneath the rush of unhappy objections there was a tiny, tiny flame. A faint breath of relief. With Roddy gone, their lives would be different.
Easier.
She closed her mind to that hurt and threw herself into impossible dreams of the future.
For the dinner party, Roddy's maid helped her dress carefully in her newest gown, with its bodice of pink- and silver-shot India gauze and white mull skirt embroidered with bouquets of the same dreamlike colors. The dress fell softly from the ribbon tied beneath her small breasts, trailing behind her as she walked. She twirled in front of the glass, so that the pearls which rested on the pale skin below her throat shimmered with reflected candlelight. Her bright hair gleamed with its own luster, framing her wide gray eyes with wispy curls.
No stablehand tonight.
No beauty, either. She knew there was a way about her; an aura that caught and held attention. She knew what she was not. Not pretty. Not sweet. Not delicate. She was not a daisy on a summer day, but instead the wind that blew it. People looked at Roddy the way they would look at a blue rolling storm on the horizon. And when she looked back, they faltered and turned away.
Down the curved stairs she went alone, past the high walls lined with Delamore stallions in gilded frames, one above the other, a century and a half of breeding blood and bone and the will to run. The moment she entered the drawing room, she felt her mother's unhappy protest over the dress. But the vicar had already arrived, and Lady Elizabeth was just stalking ponderously through the front hall in the footman's wake, so no word was said about the low neckline and slender silhouette of the India-gauze gown. Just behind Lady Elizabeth, Lord Geoffrey's party disembarked from their carriage.
Roddy watched from the door, first Lady Mary and then tall Geoffrey, and then a blankness, the sweep of a black cloak behind them. Iveragh. Her heart did a curious little half-beat. He always seemed to have that effect: that when she saw him she was so