Page 10 of The Witching Hour
It had been a long time since she’d come here, but the weeping willow was just as she remembered it, its branches swaying in the moonlight.
CHAPTER4
There were those who claimed the full moon turned sanity into madness.
As Sylvie ran across the field in her bare feet, the skirt of her white nightdress billowing like a sail and a wild laugh on her lips, she could almost believe it was true. Why had she never run like this before? It was as if her soles were winged, her feet just skimming the ground, her hair streaming out behind her like golden ribbons.
Was this what awaited her, if she chose death? What could life possibly offer in comparison, that could tempt her to relinquish such riotous, joyous freedom?
The answer was already there, waiting for her.
Love. Of course, love. In its purest, brightest, most selfless form, love transcended all.
Even death.
The question was whether she and James could ever achieve that perfect love. They had, for a brief time, before they’d let it slip away. Could they ever get it back again?
Her dreams had sent her here to find out.
She made her way across the field to the willow tree in the distance, the wildflowers strewn throughout the meadow catching in the hems of her nightdress—the bright blue cornflowers, red poppies and purple larkspur like splashes of vibrant color against a white cotton canvas.
Returning to the willow tree was like coming home again, its long, graceful branches so familiar, stirring in the gentle breeze, but the footbridge was smaller than she remembered, the riverbed wider, somehow, and the creek deeper, the moonlight sparkling over the surface of the water beautiful but treacherous, disguising the jagged edges of the rocks underneath.
She hesitated on the far side of the bridge, an uneasy knot in her stomach, but she’d crossed this same bridge dozens of times before—hundreds, even—had skipped over it without a second thought.
Surely, there was no reason to fear it now?
She drew in a bracing breath, threw back her shoulders and stepped from the edge of the field onto the first of the wooden slats, grabbing for the rope railing as the bridge swayed under her bare foot. But how silly she was being! This had always been a peaceful place for her.
Nothing would harm her here.
She made her way across the footbridge, letting out a sigh of relief as she gained the other side and ducked under the branches of the willow tree, taking her usual place at the base of it, where she’d sat so many times before that she’d worn a flat place there perfectly suited to the shape of her backside.
She leaned back against her old friend, the bark prickling her skin through the thin cotton of her nightdress, closed her eyes, and let her thoughts drift, to make space for the answers she sought to come to her.
How pleasant it was here, with the soft rustle of the tall grass in the field and the moonlight filtering down on her through the branches above! Thoughts meandered through her head, fluttering about like butterflies before they were shooed away by new ones, but all of them were of one person only.
James.
But perhaps it wasn’t quite right to call them thoughts, as there was no orderliness to them, no consistency. They were merely images in her mind, fleeting pictures of the times they’d shared together.
James, so handsome in his evening dress that first night they’d met at Lady Godolphin’s holiday party, his gaze a warm weight upon her as she played the pianoforte for the company. She’d been so aware of him, his presence like a hand sliding down her spine, bringing a heated blush to her cheeks.
Then the following day, when he’d bowed to her in her father’s drawing room, his hat in his hands as befitted a proper young gentleman, but a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes as he’d taken her in from head to toe. He’d sat beside her on the settee that day, a respectable six inches between them, and chatted with her about the party the night before, and Schubert, and the weather, which had been cold that year—yes, quite unseasonably cold.
He’d come every day while he’d remained in Berry Pomeroy for his holiday break from Oxford, but he hadn’t made her an offer before he left, and she’d despaired of ever seeing him again.
But he’d returned several weeks later, having gained his father’s permission to court her. He’d pleaded his case to her father, who’d readily agreed—James was an earl, after all, if an impoverished one—and they’d been joined in marriage mere weeks later, the thing done as quickly as snapping your fingers.
It was a good match. Sylvie’s grand fortune in exchange for James’s grand title.
Such matches were made every day, of course, all throughout England. There was nothing remarkable in their being joined.
But for one thing. They’d happened to fall madly in love with each other.
She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the tree trunk, a smile toying with her lips. Her father had thrown an extravagant party once they’d become officially betrothed, and she’d danced with James for the first time that night.
A waltz, and how glorious it had been to be held in his arms, his gloved hand firm against the curve of her waist, his tantalizing scent teasing her nose, his blue eyes dark with emotion as he gazed down at her, the two of them twirling under the glimmering candlelight the chandeliers cast on the dancers below.
