She was twenty-six years old. Far too young to die.

It was strange, he thought, how a person could know something perfectly well in the far recesses of the mind, and yet not know it at all. Had he known or suspected that Sybil had consumption? All the symptoms had been there, glaring him in the face. But no one had said anything. He would have thought that the doctor, at the very least, would have informed him.

Thomas had mentioned that perhaps she was consumptive. But he had denied the possibility.

Perhaps his own denials had been similar to Sybilas. She had known the truth about Thomas all along, she had said the day before. And yet at the same time she had not known, or had denied the knowledge even to her own heart.

She was coughing blood already. That meant that the disease was in its final phase, did it not? That there was no hope of recovery?

But he would nurse her back to health.

If only, he thought, she were willing to accept his care, his companionship, the affection he was still willing to give her. But she was not.

Sybil had always been her own worst enemy, he thought. Undoubtedly her experience with Thomas, a pregnancy outside wedlock, and the compulsion on her to marry Adam though she did not love him had all been searing indeed. He would not belittle the pain she must have lived through. How could he when he was living through much the same pain himself? But she could have helped herself.

If she had really known deep down that Thomas had cruelly abandoned her, she could have made an effort to make at least something of her marriage. She could have lavished all her love on Pamela, even if not on himself. Since all happiness had been taken from her, she could have concentrated on giving happiness to other people.

But Sybilas character was not a strong one. Had she been given happiness, doubtless she would have remained sweet all her life. But she was a taker, not a giver, and once everything she held dear had been taken from her, there had been nothing left in her life except bitterness and hatred and a desperate reaching out for sensual gratification.

He could only feel deeply sorry for her. And obliged to help her through this new and worst crisis in her life. It would be too sad for her to die so young and without ever having discovered that there was a great deal to give to life.

It was not easy, of course, to turn oneas back on the pains of the past and give all oneas energies to the present and the future. Not easy at all.

He found himself after all turning his horseas head for the front of the house and cantering over the rolling lawns of the long park. And then galloping, urging Hannibal on to ever faster and faster speed, never quite able to outdistance his thoughts.

He turned almost by instinct to his left after a couple of miles and leapt the gate into the pasture. And he drew up on the reins and patted his horseas neck. And looked back and saw her in memory sailing over the gate after him with a foot to spare. He bent his head forward and closed his eyes.

No, it was not easy. He had had a sleepless night, his arms and his body aching for her. And he remembered again the softness and fragrance of her hair, the smooth silkiness of her skin, the fullness of her breasts, her small waist and flaring hips, her long, slim legs, her hot and eager mouth, her warm and wet and womanly depths.

And he remembered her quiet and sleepy and warm in his arms between lovings, smiling at him in the dim candlelight, words between them quite unnecessary. And holding his hand in the carriage, her shoulder resting just below the level of his.

Fleur. God. Fleur.

If Sybil died, the thought came unbidden, he would be able to marry Fleur.

He shook his head violently and turned his horse for the long walk up through the pasture. He was not going to let her die. She was his wife and ill and unhappy. He was not going to let her die.

He was not going to think of Fleur. He had no right to think of her. He was married to Sybil.

He followed the route he had taken on a previous occasion with Fleur. And yet, after passing through the gate back into the park, he took a different direction until his horse stepped out onto the path on the south side of the lake, opposite the pavilion on the island.

Where he had waltzed with Fleur during the outdoor ball.

Just there. On the path. She had been terrified of him, terrified of his touch. She had closed her eyes very tightly. And then the music and the atmosphere had caught her up in their magic as they had caught him up, and they had waltzed as if they had been made to dance together all their lives.

Beautiful, beautiful Fleur in her plain blue gown and with her glorious fire-gold hair.

He stared at the spot where they had danced. But there was no music, no lanternlight. No Fleur.

Just a sunlit path and the sounds of the breeze in the trees and of birds singing.

He swallowed twice and turned his horse for home.

Sybil had gone into Wollaston that morning. He must go to her to see that she was safely back and none the worse for her outing. It was such a beautiful warm day. Perhaps she would like to take a short walk, leaning on his arm.

And perhaps hell would freeze over too.

THEY WERE TO LEAVE at the end of September, more than three months after Fleur had left Willoughby Hall. The Duke of Ridgeway was thankful to have at least part of the autumn in England. He wandered about his land, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, sometimes alone, sometimes with his daughter and the collie if they were on foot glorying in the changing colors of the leaves and the many-colored carpet underfoot. Pamela liked to walk on the crisp leaves with him, crunching them underfoot.

He knew that he would miss it all during the winter. He was reminded of the long months and years of the campaigns against Bonaparte and his homesickness then as he traveled about with the armies.

But they must leave. Sybil did not want to go, and stubbornly declared that she would not do so. But this was one matter on which he would exert his authority and insist on obedience. If she had no will to live, then he would have the will for her. He would inject his own strength into her and make her well again.

She did not show many outer signs of her illness. With her guests gone, she was restless again and constantly out visiting, sometimes taking Pamela with her, though more often going alone. When she invited guests to the housea"he rarely did so for fear of overtiring hera"she sparkled and was gay. Duncan Chamberlain looked distinctly uncomfortable one evening when she chose to flirt with him.

But there were timesa"sometimes whole days togethera"when a high fever and the coughing kept her confined to her own rooms.

The duke visited her there daily, asking after her health, trying to draw her into conversation. She was not to be drawn.

And she would not go to Italy or see any of his doctors, she declared whenever he raised the subject.

She kept to her rooms the day before that set for their departure. Peter Houghton took her mail there to her late in the morning, including a letter from a friend in London with whom she often corresponded.

It was a cold and blustery day, one that constantly threatened rain. It was high time they were on their way to warmer climes, the duke thought as he left the nursery, where all was excitement and half-packed trunks, and made his way downstairs to pay his daily call on his wife. She had not come to luncheon.

She had gone out before luncheon, her maid told him. Armitage had thought that her grace had gone only for a short walk, but she must have misunderstood the matter. Her grace must have taken the carriage and gone into town.

The duke frowned. He had come from the stables little more than an hour before. No one had said anything about Sybilas taking out a carriage.

And yet it was not the sort of weather in which she would walk. And luncheon had been two hours before.

aThank you,a he said, nodding curtly to his wifeas maid.

No carriage had been taken, he discovered five minutes later at the stables. The duchess had not been there.

aBut I did see her this morning walking in that direction, your grace,a Ned Driscoll said, pointing toward the lake. aBut that was hours ago.a aThank you,a the duke said.

It was starting to rain, a cold, driving rain, which quickly chilled the body even through clothing and found a cheerless path down oneas neck. The duke walked briskly toward the lake.

One of the boats was out on the water, he saw instantlya"overturned and floating without direction. Something dark was caught among the reeds close to the island.

Some minutes later, from the other boat, he disentangled his wifeas body from the reeds and lifted her into the boat. He rowed back to shore, beached the boat, lifted her carefully into his arms, and began the walk back to the house.

Even soaking wet, with her clothes saturated, she weighed no more than a feather. One white and fragile hand was resting across her stomach.

His feet felt as if they were made of lead. There was a soreness in his throat and in his chest that impeded his breathing.

He had loved her oncea"her beauty and her light step and her sweet voice. With all of a young manas ardor he had loved her. And he had married her and vowed to love and cherish her until death. Yet he had been unable to protect her from the sort of despair that had driven her to take her own life.

There were a few grooms outside the stables, watching his approach as if they had sensed that something was wrong. And Jarvis and a footman were somehow out at the top of the horseshoe steps as he carried his burden up them.

aHer grace has met with an accident,a he said, surprised at the firmness of his own voice. aSend Armitage and Mrs. Laycock to her room, please, Jarvis.a aShe is hurt, your grace?a The butler for once had been surprised out of his stiffness.

aDead,a his grace said, walking past him and into the great hall and past Houghton and his brotheras valet standing there, the latter covered with the dust and mud of travel.

He carried his wife into her bedchamber and laid her carefully on her bed, straightening the sprawling limbs, arranging the wet clothing neatly, reaching out to close the dead eyes, touching the beautiful silver-blond hair, now wet and muddy. And he knelt beside the bed, took one of her hands in his, laid it against his cheek, and wept.

Wept for the death of an ardent and immature love that had been unable to bring any comfort or peace to the beloved. And wept for the woman he had taken to wife with such high idealsa"the woman who had just killed herself rather than face a final illness with only his arms to comfort her. Wept for his own frailty and infidelity. For his own humanness.

He got to his feet eventually, knowing that Armitage and Mrs. Laycock had been standing behind him for some time. He turned without a word and went through the dressing room into the oval sitting room.

His steps took him to the escritoire, on which was an open letter. He should not read it, some remote part of his mind told him. It was his wifeas. But his wife was dead.

And so he bent over it, quite without curiosity. And found out thus, before Houghton and his brotheras valet had the chance to speak with him, about Lord Thomas Kentas death in a gaming-hell brawl a few days before.

SHE KNEW, OF COURSE, THAT SHE WOULD EVENTUALLY open the letter. She had known it from the moment Daniel had set in in her hands. How could she not open it, reach out one more time to touch his life?

And yet she resented it. And hated him. For in four and a half months she had realized that she was not over the pain at all, that it would take many more months of determined living in the present before she would stop longing for him by day and aching for his arms at night.

She got up and made herself a cup of tea, drank it slowly and deliberately, looking at the letter propped against the vase the whole time.

And finally she admitted to herself that the reason for delay was not so much her resentment, her knowledge that to read his message would open all the wounds again, as something else entirely. The reason she delayed was that she knew that it would take only a few minutes to read the letter. And then there would be no more. Once again there would be the emptiness and the silence stretching out to infinity.

She set her cup and saucer aside, reached out for the letter, weighed it in her hands, lifted it to her lips, pressed it against her cheek.

Perhaps it was, after all, she thought, a letter from someone else in the house. From Mrs. Laycock, maybe. The thought set her stomach to churning and her fingers to tearing at the seal in a panic.

Her eyes went straight to the bottom of the page, to the signature. aAdam,a he had signed himself in heavy bold handwriting. She bit down on her lower lip and closed her eyes briefly. And sat down in her chair again.

aMy dearest Fleur,a he had written, aI write to tell you of two bereavements in my family. My brother was killed in a fight in London a little more than a month ago. My wife died of accidental drowning the very day the news of his death reached Willoughby. I have buried them both, side by side, in the family burial ground.a Fleur lowered the letter to her lap. She closed her eyes tightly and set one hand over her mouth. Adam. Oh, poor Adam.

aTomorrow I am taking Pamela traveling on the Continent,a the letter continued. aShe has been inconsolable. She adored Sybil. I shall stay away with her for the winter and perhaps for the full year of our mourning.

aWhen the year is over, I shall come into Wiltshire. I will say no more now. You will understand that the past month has been a distressing one. And I owe her a year of mourning, Fleur, and my brother, too, of course.

aI wanted you to know these things before I leave. And I will add that I meant every word of what I said to you when I was in Wiltshire.a Fleur lowered the letter to her lap again, folded it neatly, and noticed almost dispassionately that her hands were trembling.

She was dead. His wife was dead. He had written that she had died by accident, but she had died on the day word of Lord Thomasa death had come to them. And Lord Thomas was Lady Pamelaas father. She had taken her own life, then. She must have thrown herself into the lake.

Oh, poor Adam. Poor Adam. How he would blame himself!

But she was dead. He was free. After the year of his mourning was over, he was going to come into Wiltshire. In eleven monthsa time. At the end of September.

No, she must not think it. She must not expect it. For eleven months seemed an endless eternity. Anything could happen in that time. One of them could die. He could have a change of heart. He could meet someone else on his travels. He could enjoy traveling so much that he would stay away for years. Lady Pamela could be unwilling for him to come to her.

Anything could happen. Eleven months ago she had not even met him. And yet it seemed that she had known him forever. That meant that she had longer than forever to wait, and then he might not come at the end of it.

She would not think of it, she decided, getting to her feet and propping the letter carefully against the vase again. She would not think of it. If he came at the end of the year, then she would hear what he had to say. If he did not come, then she would not be disappointed because she would not expect him.

And yet that night and for many nights to come she dreamed of him, strange, disturbing dreams in which he reached out to her across an expanse of water just wide enough that she could not see him clearly and called to her in words she could not quite hear. And each time she awoke, her arms were empty and the bed beside her cold.

She redoubled her efforts to be a good teacher and gave up many of her spare hours to the instruction of music. And she visited her neighborsa"particularly the elderly ones, who depended upon visitors to relieve the tedium of the daya"and accepted every invitation she received. Even when Cousin Caroline came homea"Amelia was married and living in Lincolnshirea"and she knew that they would be at the same entertainment, she went too.

And she clung to her friendship with Miriam as if to a lifeline.

She was right about one thing, she thought whenever she permitted herself to think consciously about the matter. Eleven months was longer than an eternity.

aWILL WE BE GOING home soon, Papa?a Lady Pamela Kent was sitting on the carriage seat opposite her father, stroking one finger up over the nose and over the top of the head of her dog, whose eyes were closing in ecstasy.

aSoon,a he said. aWill you be glad? We have seen many wonders together in the past year, havenat we? Perhaps you will be dull at home.a aI can hardly wait,a she said. aWhy are we going to see Miss Hamilton, Papa? Is she going to be my governess again?a aWould you like her to be?a he asked.

aYes,a she said after thinking for a moment. aBut I would be afraid she would go away again.a She looked up at him with suddenly anxious eyes. aYou wonat go away, Papa, will you? When we are at home, you wonat go back to London and leave me alone?a The old anxiety. For weeks after her motheras death she had woken screaming almost nightly, terrified that she had been abandoned. The Duke of Ridgeway smiled comfortingly at her. Even before they had set off on their travels he had had to spend almost every moment of every day with her. For a long time he had had to bring her into his bed at night so that his voice and his arms would be there for her when she woke up.

aI will not be going anywhere,a he said. aFrom now on, Pamela, wherever I go, you will go too.a aI wonder if Timothy Chamberlain and the others have grown,a she said.

aI daresay they have,a he said. aOr maybe it was just the continental air that stretched you out.a She looked at him and giggled.

aWhat if we do not take Miss Hamilton back to Willoughby as your governess?a he said. aWhat if we take her back as your new mama?a She looked at him blankly. aBut I have a mama,a she said.

aYes.a He knew that he should have broached the subject with her long before. But he had never found the right words or the courage. He was not sure that he had found the words yet. aYou have a mama, Pamela, and she will always be more dear to you than anyone else in life until you grow up and have a family of your own. But since Mama cannot be with you any longer, wouldnat you like someone else who would do with you some of the things Mama would have done?a aMiss Hamilton?a she said doubtfully.

aYou like her, donat you?a he asked.

She hesitated. aYes,a she said. aBut she went away without saying good-bye, Papa.a aThat was not her fault,a he said. aShe would have done so if she could. But she had to run from a wicked man, Pamela, and had no chance to say good-bye to anyone. I believe she loved you.a aBut if she is to be my mama,a she said, athen she will have to be your wife, Papa. How would you like that?a He looked at her gravely. aI would like it very well,a he said.

aYou would not find it a trouble to do that for me?a she asked, turning her head aside and wrinkling her nose as the dog sat up and tried to lick her face.

aNo,a he said. aIt is something I want too, Pamela. You see, I love Miss Hamilton.a She pushed the dog away with uncharacteristic roughness. aBut you love me!a she said.

aOf course I do.a He moved across the carriage to sit beside her, and lifted her onto his lap. aYou are my daughter. My firstborn and my very own. Nothing will ever change that, Pamela. You will always be the first girl in my life. But we can all love more than one person. You loved Mama and you love me, donat you?a aYes,a she said doubtfully. aAnd I love Tiny.a aWell, then,a he said. aI love you and I love Miss Hamilton. And if she marries me and we have other children, I will love them too. And you will always be their eldest sistera"always someone special.a aIs she going to come with us right away?a she asked. aI am going to show her Tiny. She will be surprised to see how big she has grown, wonat she? And I am going to tell her that I was not sick on the boat. Donat you tell, Papa. Let me.a aAgreed,a he said, resting his cheek against the top of her head. aI havenat asked her yet, Pamela. Maybe she will say no. Maybe she is quite happy where she is, teaching in her school and living in her little cottage. But I shall ask her.a He chuckled. aDonat you ask. Let me.a aAgreed,a his daughter said, and wriggled from his lap to worry the dog, who had settled peacefully on the other seat.

The duke sat back against the cushions and watched them. It was very possible that she would say no. Indeed, perhaps she was married alreadya"to her Daniel or to some other gentleman of her neighborhood. He must not allow himself to hope too much.

A year beforea"or eleven months before, when he had finally pulled himself free of the worst of the nightmare surrounding the double death of his brother and his wifea"he had felt confident of her answer though he had felt obliged to stay away from her during the year of his mourning. He had allowed himself only that one brief letter.

But eleven months seemed like an eternity. He and Pamela had traveled for the whole of that time and had seen many places and met many people. It seemed like longer than a year since he had been in England.

He could remember the words she had said to hima"how could he ever forget? And he could remember the passionate abandon with which she had given herself to him on that one night before he left her. He had relived that night many times in his imagination. At the time he had believed that her love, like his own, would last for all eternity and even beyond. But now he was less sure.

Her love had not been of such long duration as his own. She had hated him and been repulsed by hima"with good reason. It was only in those last days, when they had traveled together in search of Hobsonas grave, that she had grown comfortable with him, that they had developed a friendship and become lovers.

It was understandable under the circumstances that they had ended up in each otheras arms.

Perhaps for her there was no more to it than that. Genuine as her feelings had been at the time, perhaps they had faded in the days and weeks that had followed his departure. He must be prepared to find her cool and embarrassed by his visit.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be lulled by the motion of the carriage. He must not expect that she had thought of him every moment of every daya"not consciously, perhaps, but deep down where feelings and meanings are. He must not expect that she had made him part of her dreams, both waking and sleeping. He must not expect that she was like him.

Fleur. He would see her the next day if she had not moved away.