Chapter Twenty-eight
G enova expected something more, some climax, even a violent one. Part of her wanted it as one longs for the storm that will break oppressive weather. Lord Rothgar left them, however, to chat to other guests, taking Miss Myddleton and Ormsby with him.
She frowned at Ash, wishing she could drag his thoughts out of him like rope out of a hold. All sense of knowing him had gone. He was an enigma.
It was Christmas, time of peace, but she’d lived among war and knew how it could run mad in the blood. She’d seen men attack others simply for their nationality, or uniform, or name, as if hatred for certain groups was burned into their soul.
“Aha,” Ash said.
Genova looked up and saw a lushly berried branch of mistletoe almost brushing her head. She couldn’t believe he was trying to play games now and stepped back.
He sighed. “I warned you not to get involved.”
“How can I help it?”
He cut the sprig and gave it to her. “Let me arm you, at least. I’m sure you know my vincibilities by now.”
She put it carefully in her basket, preserving the berries. “I will never hurt you if I can help it, Ash. Please believe that.”
“But as we’ve seen, the best intentions can be disastrous.”
He used a ladder propped against the tree to harvest it with brutal efficiency. “This stuff’s a parasite, you know. It lives off the tree. If allowed, it will suck all life out of it, and thus die itself. A very stupid plant.”
“Tell me a clever one.”
He looked down at her, startled, then laughed. “You will never let me get away with an idiocy, will you, Genova?”
She should make a light rejoinder, but she said, “I’ll try not to.”
He cut the last branch of mistletoe and climbed down. “A penny for your thoughts.”
“A guinea. No, ten.”
“Agreed.”
She glanced at him, then across the misty, darkening orchard, where laughter and chatter were clear, but where everyone but Ash beside her looked like a wraith.
“I was thinking that I feel on an edge. Scarce able to hold my balance. I don’t even know what the edge is, what lies to either side.” She pulled a wry face at him. “These wanderings are not worth even a penny.”
But he was looking at her seriously. “I know what you mean about an edge. Sometimes it feels that I live on the edge of a sharp sword.”
She shivered, but said, “Not for me. For me the danger comes from what’s on either side. Often everything is shrouded in mist, so it’s unclear which side is safe, which is dangerous.”
“But do we always want the safe side?”
“Ah.” She inhaled it, understanding at last why she’d felt such turmoil.
“No, not always. It feels wrong not to want safety, but the edge is where everything happens. The edge is where things change. It’s decision, and action, and creation.
It’s birth and death. It’s life. Doesn’t everyone live on the edge, anyway? ”
“Probably wise people try not to.”
“Then I don’t think I’m wise,” she whispered.
“Nor I. But it doesn’t need to be dramatic, I don’t think. A man can live on the edge in one room, studying the stars, like Galileo.”
She turned to him, surprised by this whole conversation, but especially that he’d understood her unformed problem. “So he can. I was worried for a moment that I’d have to go traveling again or die.”
“One room and an idea will suffice. Everyone’s leaving at last,” he said, taking her basket and touching her to guide her across to the other side of the orchard.
“For you?” she asked.
“I am compelled to walk the perilous edge through many rooms. It is my destiny. I have to admit that I often enjoy the thrill.”
This let her say, “So do I. I have enjoyed much of my life, despite hardship and war. I am finding my new life tedious.”
“Really?” he asked, and she laughed.
“Not the last few days, I must admit.”
“Good. Above all, I would hate to be boring.”
“I need to find the edge,” she said, as much to herself as to him. “To do useful things and see tangible results.”
“Relentlessly practical.” There was no sting in it now.
“And you’re not?”
“Genova, my sweet, I’m a creature of whimsy and artifice of no practical use at all.”
“Rosemary!” someone called ahead in the gloom. A hinge creaked.
“Ah, rosemary,” he said, as they quickened their steps. “Sacred to Venus and reputed to replenish male vigor. Useful at this point.”
He’d slid from their discussion, and Genova knew it was wise. The conversation was another pearl, however, that she would consider deeply when she had time.
“Christmas is taking on a most unholy aura when seen through your eyes,” she said.
“But of course. Christ’s birthday was pasted on top of the Roman feast of Saturnalia, a time for wild revels. Add the Norse Yule, festival of light, and what can we do but be wild? Rothgar must be demented to play these games.”
“He wasn’t expecting you,” she pointed out.
“How true. Do you think I should make peace?”
For a moment she didn’t understand him. When she did, she tried to read his expression in the vague, deceptive light. In the end she said, “Yes.”
“Without knowing the cause and details of the war?”
“Peace is always better than war.”
“A simplistic assessment.”
Sudden rage flamed in her and she stopped. “What do you know of war and peace, you creature of whimsy and artifice? Assist at an amputation, or try to hold a man’s body together as he cries for his mother before you speak lightly of war to me!”
His hand moved toward her, faltered.
Behind him, lights in the great house began to spring to life in random windows. They had reached the afternoon death of the light.
Genova whirled and almost ran after the group, into a walled herb garden, aromatic even in winter. Her shoes clipped on a stone path as she hurried to press in among the others.
She realized she had neither basket nor knife.
Ash appeared at her side and returned her basket. Then he cut sprigs. The pungent smell stung her nose.
“‘Here’s rosemary for remembrance,’” he said, passing a bundle over.
“And it means true love and weddings!” a woman cried.
“And fidelity,” said Damaris Myddleton, appearing at their side. “Here, Ashart, dare you wear a sprig of it?”
Genova thanked heaven she didn’t have a sharp knife in her hand. The great house glowed brighter and brighter, promising warmth, safety, and civilized restraint.
“It’s time to go,” Genova said, turning and leading the way out of the garden, even though it wasn’t her place to do so.
Damaris Myddleton would drive her to violence, but the deeper pain was because Miss Myddleton would probably end up in the cage with the wolf. Despite all logic, Genova envied her that.
Why had she said what she’d said? People far from war never wanted to know what it was really like. War was a part of the edge that most people avoided, a part red with blood.
She’d simply been infuriated that someone with the chance of peace should contemplate throwing it away, and she still was.