Indeed, all of the Earls of Ravenhurst had been fond of collecting trophies of one sort or another. For the first earl it had been hunting trophies. The second had brought home exotic plants from all over the world to fill his garden and conservatory. The third had liked paintings and had stuffed two galleries with them. And the fourth earl, who had died when his son had just been out of his leading strings, had had a fondness for ludicrous books and had filled his library with them.
Or so Hill said.
He had not told them, Lillian and Nanette, what the current earl liked to collect. His master, Hill had remarked, had spent most of his adult years fighting for his king and country. A most valiant man, Murgatroyd Sacheverell, fifth Earl of Ravenhurst.
And Lillian’s husband, whom she had not seen ever since they had arrived at the Hall all those weeks ago. But then, she did not spend much time in the house. Each morning, almost as soon as the sun rose and painted the eastern sky in shades of pink, Lillian went out into the gardens of Bair Hall.
There was nothing wild or unkempt about these gardens. Around the house, paths of gravel or of thick green grass led through luscious flower beds, under pergolas, which dropped Golden Rain, by banks of rhododendron and by ponds filled with white water lilies.
The rose garden Lillian did not like, even though the flowers filled the air with their sweet scent. On some days it was enough to coat her body in cold sweat.
So she preferred to walk on, to the landscaped garden, where groups of deciduous trees evoked a small forest. One of the softly rolling hills harbored the ice house, another displayed a set of artificial ruins: the fourth Earl of Ravenhurst had not just had a fondness for silly books, but also for any other oddities that touched his sense of humor.
Lillian liked wandering through the orchards filled with row after row of apple trees and cherry trees and peach trees, divided by hedgerows of blueberries and raspberries, all hinting at delights to come. Sometimes it seemed to her that she could already taste the sweet fruits on her tongue—round, sun-warmed treats. One bite would be enough to fill her mouth with sticky juice.
She loved to be out in the garden when the first dew still glittered on grass and petals, when the only sounds were the jubilant songs of the birds and the croaks of the frogs. She would take bread to the ducks on the lake by the small forest and would admire the swans’ loving displays of affection. Then she appeared to be the only human in that world where sunshine reigned over brimming life.
And when the sun stood high in the sky, she would walk on, all the way to the wall on which stone animals stood guard. She followed the wall past the lion, the unicorn and the eagle, until she reached the raven with its widespread wings and the little gate beside it. That led out into the fields and meadows that surrounded the family estate.
Here, the scents of high grass and young corn mingled with the dust that rose from the path. Sometimes Lillian would see the people who worked the fields, or she would pass by a meadow of brown cows, which regarded her with soft, long-lashed eyes. They smelled of warmth and hay. Sometimes they would let Lillian caress their heads or their soft flanks, and their warmth would seep deep into her skin. She also saw woolly sheep, which filled the air with their bleating. They would nibble on her fingers, and she would watch the lambs grow strong and sturdy, while the sun shone on her face and the soft breeze played with her hair and the memories slowly faded.
~*~
From the distance, Bair Hall with its turrets and the two towers of the side wings always reminded Troy of a proud castle, warding off all peril. He smiled fondly while he wiped the sweat off his brow. He had spent the day with his steward, riding up and down the Ravenhurst lands and taking stock of things that needed to be done. In the late afternoon he had sent the man home, so he himself could spend an hour or two enjoying a brisk gallop through the green meadows and woods of his home. In the wild joy of the ride, almost like flying, he had been able to forget, had been able to exist just for the moment, pains and worries all gone.
Troy sighed.
Now that the fine lawn shirt under his rumpled riding habit was plastered to his skin and a dull throbbing had started in his thigh, common sense had returned with the familiar weight of responsibility.
He patted the warm neck of his brown hunter. “Come on, old boy, time to go home.” Nudging Brueberry’s side with the heel of his boot, Troy guided the horse toward the high stone arch that marked the entrance to the family estate. When he rode through the open gate, a soft wind lifted the sweaty locks on his forehead and ruffled the white blossoms of the rowan tree that grew just behind the entrance.
“Afternoon, Master Troy.” The gatekeeper’s cheerful voice cut through his reverie, and with a smile, Troy turned to nod at the old man. His greeting for Nolan, however, died on his lips as he saw the woman who sat beside the gatekeeper on the bench in front of his house. He felt new sweat form on his upper lip and he resisted the urge to wipe it dry.
“Mistress Nanette here,” continued Nolan, “has just told me what a lucky choice a rowan is as a gate tree. Isn’t that so, Mistress Nanette?”
“Indeed it is.” The old woman nodded and smiled, and even more wrinkles appeared around her eyes and mouth.
Small and frail, with her white bonnet, she looked like one of the old women in fairy tales who, at the blink of an eye, would transform themselves into a mighty fairy godmothers or such.
Troy blinked.
Brueberry, his horse, snorted.
The old woman rose and ambled toward him. “A useful tree to guard one’s home, the rowan is.” She reached out and patted Brueberry’s nose.
Troy’s eyes widened. Brueberry, the Holy Terror of the stablehands; Brueberry the Horrible, who was known to have once bitten off a man’s finger—the Fearsome Brueberry now stood meek and soft like a lamb under the old woman’s touch.
And then Troy remembered.
A shaft of pain sliced his heart, for Brueberry, his companion of so many years, had been shot under him on the battlefield, had been hacked to pieces all those months ago. The hunter he sat on was just a nameless horse from his stables, brown like Brueberry, but no replacement at all for his old friend.
Troy shook his head and willed the pain to recede so he could concentrate on the old woman smiling up at him.
“For no evil shall come to a house that is guarded by a rowan tree,” she said. When she ceased patting its nose, the horse began nibbling on her shoulder, spreading spittle over her woollen shawl.
Troy blinked. “I see,” he murmured faintly. “Er… I… A good day to you, Mistress Nanette, Nolan.”
Nolan waved good-bye. “And a good day to you, Master Troy.”
Feeling more than slightly dazed, Troy nudged his horse on to a comfortable walk. After a moment, he looked back over his shoulder. “Mistress Nanette, shall I have somebody fetch you with a cart… or something?” After all, she was an old woman and might be too frail and too tired to walk all the way back to the main house.
Her face again crinkled into a smile. “That will not be necessary, my lord. Thank you. And a good day to you.”
“Ah yes, yes,” he murmured and turned around. The old oak trees on either side of the path formed a natural green roof, which held off the heat of the sun. A spring-scented breeze cooled his face, and after a while the dazed feeling faded. He shook his head. He now seemed to remember that his steward had told him about Mistress Nanette constantly ambling around the village, bringing old Widow Gobar a new blanket and Maggie Smith, whose son was ill with fever, herbs and chicken soup.
So Mistress Nanette obviously had a kind heart.
Troy allowed himself a cynical smile.
At least somebody had one.
As always these days, the decreasing distance to the Hall inevitably blackened his mood. It was back to home and hearth, back to a wife whom he did not want, whose existence he yearned to forget, whose gray eyes followed him even into his dreams and turned them into nightmares.
Warily, Troy rubbed his chest where the stain of scorched flesh would never fade.
~*~
“I have seen his lordship today,” Nanette said as Lillian entered the bedroom. “I must say he looked extremely dashing on top of his big brown horse.”
“Did he?” Lillian unfastened the ribbons of her straw hat and threw it on her bed. She and Nanette used the bedroom in the tower as morning room, drawing room, and dining room all in one, since it had not been indicated that they were allowed to make use of any other room in Bair Hall. Not that Lillian would complain. It was a lovely, sunny room with windows on three sides, a big, comfortable bed, a table, a few upholstered chairs and two old chests for her wardrobe. Not that she needed them. She had left all her fine dresses in the trunks just as they had come from London in the extra carriage. These days she only wore simple cotton dresses with floral prints, a pair of sturdy boots and her curry-colored spencer jacket. Oh, and how relieved she was that she no longer had to deal with tight, long gloves or bust-improvers, or with hairstyles that made her scalp hurt. Now only a single ribbon held her brown curls in place, and sometimes she would let them fall down her back in all their unruly abundance so that the wind could lift single strands and play with them. She liked to stand on one of the small hills, the sun warm on her face, and turn around and around and feel her hair swirling about her like a thick cloak.
Nanette looked up from the sock she was knitting. “Soon you will be brown as a nut and have freckles all over your face. This will not do for a fashionable lady.”
At that, Lillian could not help smiling. “But I am not a fashionable lady.”
“You are a countess.”
“Who lives on her absent husband’s estate like—what is the term—a wild hoyden?” Lillian’s smile deepened. “I have visited the lambs today. They bounced all over the grass and nudged my thigh as if they wanted me to bounce around with them.”
Nanette’s knitting needles once more took up their cheerful rattle. “I am worried about you, chou-chou. You should spend your time with people and not with lambs. Now that we are far from the château and that horrid woman.” She glanced at Lillian, and suddenly her expression became wistful. “I would wish a normal life for you,” she said softly. “A good life just like your mama had.”
Lillian sat down on the bed and twiddled the ribbons of her hat through her fingers. The joyful memory of the bouncing lambs slowly dimmed and faded, only to be replaced by other memories. Memories of cold and misty places. Of the song of the hunting pack when it cornered its prey. Memories of her father’s coffin slowly being lowered into the damp brown earth, leaving her all alone in the world.
“But then she married Papa. And after her death he went to Camille.” Lillian let go of the ribbons and folded her hands in her lap. “Sometimes I think that he was not a very good man.”
The old woman put her knitting on the table at her side. “Oh, chou-chou, your father was a good man. A weak man, perhaps, but a good man.”
Lillian arched her brows. “Can you truly be a good person when you are weak?” She turned her head to gaze out of the window to the gardens beyond. “I was weak, too.” Vividly she remembered the smell of scorched flesh and the sounds of a whip on naked skin, the dark lily underneath damp body hair. “I let things happen. That is why Ravenhurst cannot bear the sight of me.” She shook her head, then turned to cast a sad smile at Nanette.
Her old nanny stood and walked over to grasp Lillian’s cold hands in hers. “What really happened, chou-chou? You only said he was there at the château. Was he…?”
Lillian felt her hands grow even more chilled. Coldness seeped through her whole body, chasing off all remains of warmth and sunshine. She drew her hands from Nanette’s loose grip. “She got him out of the prison,” she said tightly and looked away. How would it help if Nanette knew the whole truth? That he was to be Lillian’s own toy, that she herself had marked him?
A lily for Lillian.
“It is not your fault, chou-chou.”
“Maybe.” Lillian forced her lips into a smile. “I am just out of sorts today. Forgive me.”
“Lillian?”
“It is quite all right.” She saw the worry in the old woman’s face and wished she could somehow wipe it away. Nanette deserved some rest. Abruptly, Lillian stood. “Do you mind if I take another stroll in the garden? It is so beautiful out there today.”
“Your aunt has written again,” Nanette said plaintively, and pointed to the small pile of unopened letters that grew steadily each week. “Isn’t it well past time that you write a reply? Surely she must worry.”
Moving backwards toward the door, Lillian lifted her shoulders. Aunt Louisa belonged to the bustle of London, all so very removed from her right now it seemed her aunt and grandfather belonged to a different life altogether. “You write to her every week,” she said, and wanted to flee from the room.
“It would reassure her to hear from you, chou-chou.”
One hand on the latch, Lillian shook her head. “What shall I tell her? About the lambs and the green grass or the crooked tower of the little church in the village? Don’t be cross, Nanette. You can tell her so much more than I.” With a last apologetic smile, she left the room.
Chapter 9
Troy blinked. The figures and columns in the account book danced before his eyes, blurred, only to form new shapes and lines. Wearily, he rubbed a hand over his face.
Tiredness lent weight to his bones until his whole body ached, until he walked like an old man, bent over by life. Around him, all was silent. These days the spacious study on the second floor felt like a tomb, with the walls pressing down on him, squeezing the breath from his lungs.
Troy dug the heels of his hands against his eye sockets. His fingers clenched on the flesh of his face. How he longed to mold these bones and blood into a new form. How he longed to wipe away all traces of the last few years.
Sometimes his throat was still raw from the acrid smoke of gunfire; his ears still rang from the roar of the cannons; sometimes his nose still quivered from the smell of sweat and fear, leather and horses, from the smell of death and of gunpowder, threatening to choke him. And then there were the other memories. Of the stench of that prison, the shuffling of bodies, the crack of a whip and the sting on his skin. Memories of humiliation and pain and utter helplessness. He did not dwell long on those memories, for they made his hands shake with anger. They made him want to roar and drive his fist against the wall.
And they made him fear to break down as he had on his wedding night.
He drew in a shuddering breath. He had buried himself in his work to forget. Yet it seemed that the memories would never leave, would never cease to torment him. They were there, night and day, each hour and each minute. There was no escape.
A shudder wracked his body. God, how tired he was. So tired.
In the distance a dog barked. Troy lifted his head.
He had not owned a dog since he was sixteen and buried Luned. At first, he had not wanted a new dog after Luned. And later, on the battlefields of Europe, he had not needed a dog. There had only been Brueberry the Horrible.
Troy sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Linking his fingers at his neck, he leaned his head back. On top of everything else, he was now suffering from hallucinations— ghosts of the past calling for him, a dog, a friend long dead. “What a mess,” he muttered. “What a bloody, bloody mess.”
Another bark sounded, closer this time, and now it seemed to him that he could also hear the distant pounding of hooves. He shook his head, then stood and leaned forward to open the window. His study overlooked the drive and the entrance to the Hall, yet the thick foliage of the old oak trees prevented him from discerning anything on the path beneath. However, the thunder of hooves carried clearly up to the house, and soon it was joined by the crunch of carriage wheels on gravel and joyful canine barks once more.
Obviously, he was about to have visitors.
Troy sighed.
/> You would expect that the north of England was far enough removed from London to prevent anybody from getting it into his head to come for an impromptu country house party.
He scratched his left eyebrow.
At least it was not his grandmother. She detested animals. And it could not be his aunt and uncle either, for even though the Marquis of Waldron kept a few pointers at his country estate, the marchioness was mortally afraid of dogs. She was mortally afraid of quite a lot of things. One time, when Troy had still been a boy, she had nearly screamed the house down upon finding a teeny-weeny spider in her chamberpot.
Troy grinned at the memory.
He had been twelve, and it had taken him hours to find and catch that particular spider. And his seven-year-old cousin, trying to outshine him, had fallen into the fishpond the next day in an effort to catch a frog.
Troy’s grin faded. Alex had been a featherbrain even at that young age.
Troy sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. Of course, he was doing Alex an injustice. His cousin was no worse than the other young bucks around town—irresponsible, vain, and generally scatterbrained.
He looked back out the window just as the first pair of dusty black horses came into view. Now he could also discern male laughter among the excited barks. Soon the black barouche, drawn by six horses and looking a bit the worse for wear, pulled up into the forecourt. The top of the barouche was folded back so that the three sleek, silver gray dogs with floppy ears could thrust their heads over the side of the carriage and herald their excitement to the world. The rims of dusty high hats screened the faces of the two men lounging on the seats of the carriage, yet Troy knew the timbre of their voices and the coat of arms painted on the side of the barouche, and his knees went weak with relief.
The Lily Brand Page 11
