Silent Melody by Mary Balogh

in color, but now it was a nondescript gray-blue. It must have shrunk from repeated launderings; it ended at least two inches above her ankles. Her feet were bare. Her blond hair, unconfined and unpowdered, fell in wild and unruly curls to below her waist.
    God, he thought, memory stabbing at him. His little fawn. Except that she was no longer a child. Yet she did not seem quite a woman. She was more sprite than either child or woman. More a graceful and beautiful creature of the wild.
    How many times had he seen Emmy standing or sitting on that rock? And yet he had forgotten every single one of them. Just as he had forgotten the falls. Just as he had forgotten her. Yet he could not have forgotten what had been so important in his life. Why had he suppressed the memories?
    It was a lovers’ tryst, he thought. He felt a moment’s resentment over the fact that his first visit to the falls had been spoiled thus. But perhaps it was as well. This was a mere place, after all. There was no magic here. And they had the right, the two of them, to meet where they would. They were to be married. And Emmy was of age. Seven years had passed since those days of his memory. Yes, of course she was of age. She had been fifteen when he left, had she not?
    A child then. A woman now.
    But instead of turning immediately away, as he knew he ought to have, he watched as Powell removed a handkerchief from a pocket, touched it to his brow, and turned to stride the few steps to the bottom of the pile of rocks.
    â€œLady Emily?” Lord Powell called.
    She could not hear him, of course, but she must have seen him with her peripheral vision and realized that he was speaking. She did not turn her head to see what he said.
    There was silence for a few moments. Ashley turned away. He had no wish to eavesdrop on lovers’ words. He had even less desire to watch a lovers’ embrace.
    â€œLady Emily,” Lord Powell said again, loudly and distinctly, as if he thought she was only partially deaf. “I shall return to the house now. I shall see you at breakfast? I shall— Perhaps we may talk further?”
    Despite himself, Ashley paused and looked back. She had not turned. Powell stood where he was for a few moments, and then turned to stride away through the trees. He was still frowning, and watched the ground at his feet. He did not see Ashley.
    A lovers’ spat? But how could one quarrel with Emmy? Ashley mused. What could she say to make one angry? She could, of course, ignore one when one was talking to her. Emmy could more effectively ignore someone than most other women. All she had to do was refuse to look at one. It would be a trifle annoying, to say the least.
    Ashley grinned and set one shoulder against the trunk of a tree. He crossed one booted foot over the other. Good old Emmy. She was not after all allowing them to walk all over her just because she was deaf. He watched her.
    She did not move except to clench her hands at her sides and tip back her head and close her eyes. Her hair cascaded all the way down to her bottom. She looked, Ashley thought, a hundred times more lovely than she had looked last night with her elaborately powdered curls and her silks and lace and her stays and hoops. And yet even last night she had been the loveliest lady at the ball.
    His little fawn really had grown up, he thought regretfully. It was strange how one could come back after seven years, totally and dreadfully changed oneself, and yet imagine that everything and everyone one had left behind had somehow been happily frozen in time. If he had pictured Emmy at all during those years, it was as a slender, coltish child.
    He had made no sound. Even if he had, she would not have heard it. And he was well behind her line of vision. But after a minute of stillness she opened her eyes and raised her head and looked over her shoulder directly at him. Being Emmy, of course, she had sensed his presence. She had known he was there. She had