The Lily Brand

by Sandra Schwab

  “And sen…” Mr. Foscolo paused and raised his finger, obviously to heighten the dramatic effect. “Signore Pratchett’s cat et bat.”

  Lady Holland clapped. “Brava, Mr. Foscolo! Brava! What a clever cat that was! It must have taken the bat for a flying mouse.” Her hearty laugh rolled around the room. “A very droll tale. Very droll indeed, don’t you think, Lady Ravenhurst?”

  The rattle of china made Troy look down. His wife’s hands were trembling so much that tea had spilled from the cup onto the saucer.

  “Lady Ravenhurst?” Lady Holland prompted.

  “Will you excuse us, my lady?” Troy cut in smoothly. “It has been a long day and… Surely you understand.” He gave the mistress of the house a winning smile before he bent and retrieved cup and saucer from his wife to deposit them on a side table. When he took hold of her hand, it felt like ice. Trembling, brittle ice, ready to break any moment.

  He said all the right things, made all the right excuses, declared himself enchanted by the evening and finally, finally, was able to whisk his wife out of the room, down the stairs. In the entrance hall they had to wait while the footmen brought his coat and her pelisse, and the butler sent tor their carriage.

  The night air was crisp and cool when they stepped outside, yet this did not seem to affect her. Only when they were seated in the coach, warm blankets over their legs, did her trembling increase until it gripped her whole body.

  The carriage rumbled down the drive of Holland House, and Troy’s wife shook like a leaf in a storm. And for the first time Troy fully realized that she was, in fact, very much afraid of her stepmother. Terrified.

  Unbidden, the knowledge roused his protective instincts. Before he had given himself time to think, he scooted over to her side of the carriage and put his arm around her shoulders. “Are you cold?” he inquired.

  “Cold?” To his surprise she laughed, a short, shrill sound that made his own throat ache in sympathy. “I can never be cold enough again!” She choked. The laugh turned into a sob and she covered her face with her trembling hands. “Dear God… dear God…” She bent over as if in great pain, her breath coming in laborious pants. Troy’s arm slid off her shoulder.

  Self-consciously, he cleared his throat. “I take it that was not a polite family visit.”

  When his wife raised her face, he was shocked to see the glittering traces of tears on her cheeks. Never before had he seen her cry.

  “A family visit?” she scorned him, her voice hoarse. “She brought Antoine!” She said it as if this would explain everything.

  Troy frowned. He remembered the man’s strange stare and his wife’s ensuing nervousness. The betraying jerk against his body. “Antoine,” he repeated. “And what is Antoine to you?”

  “Antoine?” This time, her laughter bordered on hysteria. “Mon dieu, of course, the first thing you would think…” She halted, shook her head. In her lap, her hands slowly tightened into fists. When she turned to him again, anger had replaced the hysteria. “Antoine. You want to know about Antoine? Let me tell you about Antoine, my lord husband,” she spat.

  Troy felt his eyes widen with surprise.

  “When you made your oh-so-gracious offer for my hand, I told you I was no longer a virgin, did I not? You made it quite clear that you think me no better than a common—how would you put it?—a common trollop.” She snorted, an unladylike sound. “My stepmother gave me this for my birthday. Another present of hers. An initiation.”

  Troy opened his mouth. “You—”

  “It takes so little to make a girl into a woman, doesn’t it?” she cut in, her voice as hard and cold as ice. “Just a few drops of blood on white linen… She gave me Antoine, her beloved Antoine, for one night.”

  “My lady,” Troy tried again.

  Unheeding, his wife went on, her words cruelly precise. “At first she stood by to instruct him. Where to put his hands, his mouth. Where to lick, to bite. Where to apply pressure or not. You cannot say he took me by force, can you, when she insisted that he make me come and come and—”

  “Stop it!” He took her by the shoulders and shook her. Beneath her clothes, her bones seemed fragile, like those of a small bird. “Stop it!” His voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears, and his skin crawled with revulsion at the images she had conjured.

  “You wanted to know!” she cried, her face deathly pale, her eyes black hollows in the near-darkness of the carriage. “You wanted to know. She stood by and let him have his way with me, the whole night, all those long, long hours, until my voice was no more than a croak, until my whole body ached and ached, just so that I would be a fitting heiress for her, that I would know what to do with the other present of hers, a toy all for myself, a—”

  “STOP IT!” Troy roared.

  For a moment she froze, while the blood pounded in his head, a wild, pagan rhythm that threatened to swallow him up. The wheezing breaths that filled the carriage might have been his or hers; Troy did not know.

  “And now she is back,” she whispered and went limp. Her shoulders slipped through his fingers as, in a rustle of muslin and silk, her body slid off the seat. Covering her face with her hands, she huddled on the floor of the carriage, rocking back and forth.

  Troy swallowed.

  At first her sobs were quiet, silent almost. But they increased in volume, a swelling sound that made his nerve endings quiver. Soon, loud, heart-wrenching sobs shook her whole body, filled the coach with her despair.

  For Troy, it seemed as if suddenly the bottom of his world had dropped away.

  Breathing became difficult.

  Within a few short moments his whole world had been turned upside down and, like in a kaleidoscope, the pieces had fallen to form a new picture. The woman whom he had thought to be evil incarnate, whom he had desperately wanted to prevent from marrying his cousin, that same woman had suddenly turned into a victim, had reverted back into a terrified girl, pushed beyond her endurance.

  A memory flashed into his mind, the first sight of her in prison. Her reluctance, her embarrassment. And her fear.

  He had forgotten her fear, later. His own feeling of helplessness, his own abject terror and pain had left no room for considering others, had obliterated every other feeling but intense hatred.

  But he remembered her fear now. Her fear in the prison, her fear on the stairs of Holland House. And yet… and yet…

  “I left him in the garden somewhere, chained to a tree.”

  And yet she had tried… what?

  “If you search the gardens, you might still find the bones.”

  Troy’s throat felt constricted. He swallowed, hard.

  She had tried to protect him. To protect him!

  “Dear God…” he murmured.

  He looked down at his wife, to where she huddled in a weeping, miserable bundle. Her carefully arranged coiffure had come undone, the bundle of curls hanging askew where Lady Holland had picked the flowers.

  Troy’s breath caught.

  In another flash of insight he realized that she had protected Lady Holland, too, when she had chosen to fence with fat Prestwood Smith.

  And all this time, he had thought her a copy of her stepmother, had felt his hatred justified and had finally ruined and nearly raped her. “Dear God…” He ran his hands through his hair. What a mess. What a horrible, horrible mess.

  The sounds of her weeping cut at his heart.

  Each sob a stab at his conscience.

  He bent and touched her back, felt her sobs reverberate in her bones. “Lillian.” When she did not react, he scooped her up and sat her on his lap. God, how slender she was. Why had he not seen she was still more a girl than a woman? “Lillian.”

  She was a weeping, quivering bundle in his arms. Awkwardly, he patted her back. “It will be all right.” His fingers were caught by a strand of her hair. The silky softness curled around his hand, while her flowery scent drifted up to tickle his nose. He tightened his arms. “Everything will be all right, Lillian.” />
  Sudden as it had begun, her outburst stopped. From one moment to the next, her body went stiff, her sobs halted. With fast, impatient movements, she wiped her hands across her eyes before she scrambled off his lap to sit on the opposite seat. When she spoke, her voice was once more controlled. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  Head held high, she sat on her seat, her back impossibly straight. Nothing betrayed the turmoil of moments before but the silvery traces of wetness on her cheek when she turned her head to look out the window.

  Troy rubbed his neck. She reminded him of a mechanical toy, one of Weeks’s marvels: Free the switch and she would spring to life, only to revert back to inanimation a few minutes later. Cool and impossibly controlled in all situations.

  “We will be home soon,” he said.

  Her nod was almost imperceptible.

  He shook his head, looked out the window, too. The rest of the drive they spent in silence.

  Never had Troy been happier to spot his narrow house on Hill Street than this night. The welcoming yellow light that shone through the skylight above the entrance turned the old house into a comforting haven in the sea of darkness. Heaving a sigh of relief, Troy rushed his wife up the stairs and, as soon as Finney threw open the door, began issuing commands. “Tell the maids to prepare a bath for Lady Ravenhurst.” He stripped off his gloves, gave them to a waiting footman and proceeded to shrug out of his coat. “I want a tray with tea and brandy brought to her room. Is Mistress Nanette already asleep? Send for her. I want her to take care of my wife, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Agitated color suffused Finney’s face. “Immediately, my lord.”

  Troy turned to his wife. Red blotches still marred her face, and her eyes appeared unnaturally large. “It will be best if you retire for the night, my lady.” He touched her arm. “Things will look much brighter tomorrow morning.”

  Even though she turned her head toward him, her glassy stare went right through him. “If you say so, my lord,” she said, her voice devoid of inflection.

  Hurried footsteps on the stairs and the rustling of skirts announced the arrival of Nanette. The old woman was clearly agitated, worrying about the welfare of her ward. With a quick look to Troy, she hurried toward the younger woman and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Is everything all right, chou-chou?”

  The quiet answer lacked any hint of emotion. “Oui. Bien sûr.”

  Troy cleared his throat. “Lady Ravenhurst’s stepmother has arrived in London,” he explained.

  The head of the old woman whipped around, horror written on her face. “Is this true?” she whispered.

  Clenching his teeth, he nodded. “Would you bring my wife upstairs? I…” He raised his hands. “Surely you understand.”

  Her old, clever eyes flickered over him, probed his glance before she nodded. He got the impression that she understood much more than he wanted.

  ~*~

  She let Nanette pluck the remaining flowers out of her hair, let herself be peeled out of her elegant evening gown, the stays loosened and the straps of her thin chemise drawn down her shoulders until it slithered down her body and pooled at her feet, crushed silk, like the broken petals of a large flower.

  Shivering, Lillian closed her eyes.

  Nanette clucked her tongue. “Here, here, chou-chou,” she murmured. “Sit down. Here.”

  Lillian sat stiffly on the stuffed chair, the material of the upholstery soft against her skin. She felt Nanette loosening the garters of her white stockings, her cheerful, rose-colored garters.

  Roses…

  Another tremor raced through Lillian’s body. She had not wanted the roses; no, she had not.

  “Hush, chou-chou. Hush now. You will feel much better after a nice warm bath.” Nanette fluttered around her, removing Lillian’s shoes and stockings. Finally, she ushered the girl to the waiting bathtub, from which scented steam rose up in lazy whirls. “Here now. The lavender will calm your nerves, chou-chou.”

  Shivering, Lillian sank down into the water. Yet even though it was warm enough to turn her skin all rosy, it could not melt the ice inside her.

  She remembered Camille’s blood-red lips curving into a smile, that malicious little smile so familiar to her. The way she had smiled when they had returned from the prison after Camille had chosen the man. The way she had smiled when Lillian had told her he was dead, that he had died of starvation while chained to a tree, to one of Camille’s trees…

  Lillian shuddered.

  Why had he chosen to walk down the stairs? What if her stepmother had recognized him? What if Antoine had recognized him? Antoine had acted as executor for Camille’s punishments often enough, had wielded the whip or the cane, a helper to break another man’s spirit.

  Only, this man’s had not been broken.

  And if her stepmother ever found out, she would want to finish what she had started at Château du Marais all those months ago.

  Vividly, Lillian recalled her first sight of him chained to Camille’s construction, his body spread-eagled, arms and legs stretched tight so that movement was impossible. Her stepmother knew how to render a man helpless, how to reduce him to something less than an animal.

  Lillian remembered the quivering of his flesh whenever the whips had seared his skin, remembered the look in his eyes before she had pressed the brand against his chest, the way his body had jerked at the touch of the hot iron, the smell of burnt flesh in her nose…

  “Oh, dear God,” she moaned.

  “Hush, chou-chou, hush,” Nanette was quick to soothe. “We are no longer in France, remember? That horrid woman cannot harm you now. Never again. Surely he would not let any harm come to you.”

  But what about him? Lillian wanted to scream. She will want to harm him! Want to tear his flesh apart, want to destroy the man. As she had destroyed all the other men.

  Lillian’s hand rose to cover her mouth, to choke back the sobs that were welling up in her throat.

  She could only imagine what those weeks at Château du Marais had cost him. Ultimately, they had estranged him from his family, had made him a recluse on his own estate, had made him haunt London like one of the tormented. She had seen him in the grip of his demons on her wedding night, had caught a glimpse of his inner suffering then. She was sure, should he ever fall into Camille’s hands again, he would not survive it a second time.

  Her fists tightened until her nails bit into the soft skin of her palms. I will not let this happen, she thought fiercely. I will not let her have him. Never!

  She recalled how she used to dream about the plants of the overgrown garden reaching out and enveloping Château du Marais, smothering her stepmother under a green carpet; how she’d dreamed about dripping poison into Camille’s drink, watching her die.

  If only…

  But no, she would not have been able to do that, kill her own stepmother, when Nanette had taught her to heal, never to wound. With one exception: she had burnt that lily into her husband’s smooth skin.

  Her responsibility.

  And I will not let Camille take him a second time!

  Lillian let Nanette wash her with the sponge and, afterward, when the water had cooled and she stepped out of the tub, huddle her in a big soft towel. Sighing, Lillian closed her eyes and gave herself over to the luxury of having someone pamper her, rubbing her skin dry in wide, soothing circles. For a moment, she could almost imagine to be five again, could imagine her mother waiting in the room next door, welcoming her baby girl with open arms. Cheerfully, Lillian would hurl herself into the scented embrace, to be cuddled close on her mother’s lap. She would snuggle her nose into her mother’s curls, so much like her own, and breathe in the perfume of orange blossoms that would linger there.

  A strand of her hair caught around Nanette’s fingers. The short, sharp pain tugging at her scalp snapped Lillian back to reality. She opened her eyes, blinked once, twice. The warm, fuzzy feeling of the daydream evaporated faster than the steam rising from the
bathtub.

  Her mother was dead.

  There was nobody to keep her safe.

  Never again.

  Only herself.

  ~*~

  Somewhere in the distance, a church clock struck three. Wearily, Troy leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face. His palms rasped over the stubble that covered his cheeks and chin. He should have got properly foxed hours ago. At least the alcohol would have stopped his thoughts from turning around and around in his brain until his head ached. Or perhaps it just ached from the numerous cheroots he had consumed, the smoke drifting crazily up to the ceiling. After four hours of steady smoking, the bluish clouds that wafted through the room blurred the soft light of the candles and made the air in the study oppressive.

  Troy sighed.

  “I have never heard that ghosts might be banished by cigar smoke,” a soft voice said.

  Troy’s head jerked around.

  Clad in a white nightgown, a tattered shawl around her shoulders, his wife stood in the doorway. Her hair was unbound; in flowing, curling strands it fell to her waist. “The Catholics use incense, I believe,” she said.

  Troy blinked. For a moment or two he could have sworn she was an apparition herself.

  She regarded him solemnly. “You were not in your room. I thought you might be here.” She lifted her shoulders as if in a shrug.

  “Yes.” His voice scratched in his throat, the price of hours of tobacco overindulgence.

  Her eyes seemed huge. “We have to talk.”

  Talk. They had never talked before, had they? Only that one time, when he had made the offer of marriage in her grandfather’s drawing room. He shook his head, tried to dear the haziness that fogged his brain.

  His wife obviously took it as a gesture of refusal. “We have to talk,” she insisted, her voice stronger this time. She raised her chin a notch, held it at a defiant angle.

  Surprised, Troy lifted his brows. What had happened to the meek, submissive girl? “Then, by all means, come in,” he drawled.

  She slipped into the room and quietly closed the door behind her. Yet she remained standing with her back against the wood and watched him warily, as if he were a particularly dangerous animal who might pounce on her at any moment. The thought sparked his anger. Though, whether at her or at himself, he did not know.