Поэзия – мелодия души. Михаил Бомбусов

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       Chapter One

      Tansley Village, Derbyshire

      Spring 1811

      The letter from the penny post gave a nervous crackle as Rebecca Siddons, commonly known to family and villagers alike as Becky, withdrew it from the willow basket she used for her weekly marketing. Her heart thumped solidly against her rib cage as she glanced over the fine, meticulous handwriting on the envelope. Yes, it was from Lieutenant Walker. She hadn’t heard from him in ever so long. One would expect a letter sooner from a young man who was, hopefully, soon to be one’s fiancé.

      She’d lain awake night after night since the lieutenant’s regiment left the village, praying for his safety. And when no word came—well, it was difficult indeed not to imagine the worst. But at long last, he’d sent a painfully thin missive. Perhaps his duties at his new post kept him too busy to compose any letter of great length.

      Becky turned off the well-beaten path along the storefronts of the tiny village and struck out into the open. One couldn’t read a letter like this in the confines of the prim and proper millinery shop she kept with her younger sister, Nan. She certainly couldn’t bear to dawdle along, snatching glimpses of her letter while making polite conversation with passersby.

      No. For this letter, she craved the wild freedom of the moor.

      Becky dashed across the meadow, the long grass catching at her skirts as she ran, her bonnet wrenching free of its hold and dangling down her back like a useless sack. Her long mahogany curls tossed breezily in the wind. Yes. One could breathe up here. One could dream romantic, impossible dreams without being dragged down to earth by a practical little sister or a bossy older one.

      She flung her basket aside and with shaky fingers broke the seal of the letter. Would he ask her to join him in Liverpool? Had he finally kept the unspoken promise between them? At last she would be wed to a dashing military hero, have a home of her own, to be a mistress of that house...everything her elder sister Susannah had, and which Becky secretly envied.

      My dear Miss Siddons—

      Rather formal, but perhaps he had fears of their secret romance becoming too quickly public?

      I must tell you that I have met and married the sweetest girl here in Liverpool. I know you will rejoice in our happiness, as kind and generous as you are. Her name is Rachel—

      A faint buzzing sounded in her ears. Becky gave a quick, decisive shake of her head. Either her eyes were playing tricks on her, or this was some sort of cruel joke. Surely Lieutenant Walker felt about her as she felt about him. With an achy heart, she grasped one of her curls and wound it about her finger, a gesture that brought comfort to her since childhood. The smiles they’d shared, the lingering glances, the brief touch on her arm as he bade her goodbye...

      She opened her eyes wide and forced herself to read each word deliberately and slowly, until she reached the end of the letter. This Rachel was her lieutenant’s new bride. When she, Becky, had been so certain that she would, in a matter of months, bear that title.

      The weight of dawning realization pushed down her shoulders, forcing her to her knees in the grass. The letter fluttered away and caught on a twig. Hot tears pooled in Becky’s eyes and she pursed her trembling lips. No wedding was hers, with redolent orange blossoms. No home of her own waited patiently for its mistress. She must continue to toil away in her millinery shop with Nan and her blunt, practical ways, her constant criticisms and complaints draining the very artistry from Becky’s days. She was both a spinster and a fool.

      Becky dropped her head in her hands and allowed the tears to fall, deep, wrenching sobs that convulsed her as she knelt in the rough, scrubby stalks. Her heart thumped in her chest, the sound growing louder as she continued to weep.

      She must inhale. Otherwise, she might faint. She took a hitching, jolting breath. Her heart was pounding heavily.

      No. She raised her head, forcing her streaming eyes open.

      No—not her heart. Hoof beats.

      “Ho there!” the rider called in a deep bass voice, reining in sharply. His mount, a magnificent sorrel, made a jagged turn to the right, showering Becky with stinging little blades of grass as he skidded to a halt. Becky froze, her sobs quelled as she watched the precision and control with which the rider managed his horse. He dismounted in one easy, fluid movement and tossed the reins over the saddle.

      “Really, miss,” he scolded. “What on earth are you playing at, hiding out here in the moor? I could have run you over.” He strolled over, tucking his riding crop under one arm, and removed his hat.

      As he looked down, Becky gave an inward groan. How perfectly perfect, as her sister would say. Here she was sobbing out here on the moor over her lost dreams and hopes, and along came Paul Holmes, her brother-in-law’s teasing and jesting friend.

      “Becky—what on earth? Are you quite all right?” He held out his hand and she took it, allowing him to pull her up from her hovel in the grass. “Whatever has happened?”

      “I—uh.” She couldn’t brazen this one out. She must look a sight. Her nose must be swollen, her eyes must be the color of a tomato, and tear tracks must certainly have trailed down her cheeks. And yet, one couldn’t let Paul in on the most private, secret dashed hopes of her girlhood. Paul was so intimidating, really. He was handsome, with dark brown eyes and sandy, wavy hair that always looked rather tousled. And he was wealthy. But what made him most nerve-racking was his teasing manner, coupled with his high-handed attitude. If she spoke the truth, he’d laugh. Or lecture. And she didn’t particularly relish hearing either right now. “I received a letter with some distressing news.”

      “I am sorry to hear it.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket and withdrew a fine linen handkerchief. “Here, blow your nose. There’s a good gal.” He held the crisp linen square to her nose as if she were a mere five years old.

      “I can handle it by myself, thank you,” she responded in her haughtiest tone, and took the handkerchief with as much dignity as she could muster. After being jilted by one man, she was having a difficult time being civil to another, especially one who treated her as a child.

      She СКАЧАТЬ