by Beverley, Jo
The church was full, and of course Sir Benjamin’s box pew was right at the front, so they had to walk the length of the aisle, eyes upon them. Lily was alert for any reaction as they passed, but she didn't sense any. She slid a glance around the front pews, where the important people of the area would sit, and saw no one she knew. Indeed, she saw no one with that distinctive Town look. She relaxed a little.
There were watchful expressions, however, so there would certainly be questions after the service, when people gathered outside to greet and talk.
She saw a tomb to one side of the altar, holding the figure of a knight in armor, his crossed legs showing he’d been on crusade. She was sure he was a Brook. On a nearby wall, she saw memorial plaques to more recent Brooks.
Sir Benjamin Brook was squire of a quiet country area, but his lineage was long. What would the people here think of the lowly invaders?
However, the vicar addressed the subject directly in his sermon, choosing the story of the Good Samaritan. He pointed out that Christians were obliged -- obliged -- to assist the afflicted on the roads. He mentioned Lily's aunt and uncle, who would be praying that their friends and neighbors look kindly on their widowed niece and her fatherless children.
Lily realized Sir Benjamin must have primed the vicar to this, and she wanted to take his hand and kiss it.
She was seeing a new problem, however. Had her uncle and aunt said much about her? She hadn't met them in years, and her own parents were dead. They'd never been close, so they might not have talked about her, but if they had, they would have mentioned a niece called Dellaby. Not Gifford, Dellaby. And someone here who read gossip would recognize that name.
There was no sign of it. When she and her family emerged from church, they were swarmed by well-wishers. She was welcomed to the area. Gentry children were encouraged to speak kindly to hers. Ladies spoke of tea -- but vaguely. She was not impeccably respectable. All was well, however, and Lily prayed that her little ones wouldn't let anything slip.
Then she saw another pit at her feet.
After weeks of hiding from people in Bloomsbury, then difficult travel, then the isolation of Brook Hall, she'd forgotten what normal life was like. If she lived here, she wouldn't be allowed to hide away. She couldn't want that for her children, but every new encounter would threaten exposure.
Damn Sir Benjamin for giving the impression of being a recluse! He wasn't completely comfortable among his neighbors -- he mostly had his lips as closed as possible -- but he mingled here.
Of course he did, and damn her for not realizing it. He was the local squire, with duties, some of them social. To prove it, the vicar and his wife were to return to the hall, as was their custom every Sunday.
Lily walked back toward Brook Hall, seeing it fully in daylight for the first time, and grieved its loss. She could not possibly marry its owner with the probability of exposure hanging over her. Even if she could bear it for herself, she wouldn't repay Sir Benjamin’s kindness that way.
She imagined it -- them married and happy, until the day when someone came by and recognized her. Sir Benjamin would be horrified and disgusted, but she'd be his wife. He would probably refuse to throw her out. He might even defend her, falling out with his neighbors and becoming a miserable recluse in truth.
Perhaps she could still become his housekeeper, for then no shame would attach to him.
No, that wouldn't work. She knew he was attracted to her and suspected that at some point he'd think of marriage, for he was a good man, so he’d not try to make her his mistress.
When they arrived back at the house, she tried to go with the children to dine in the schoolroom, but he'd have none of it. She saw that her effort pleased the vicar and his wife, who beamed on her.
They were to use the dining room, and even though the table had been reduced to its smallest size, it was too large. She suspected that in the past the vicar and his wife had sat on either side of their host, but now they were in the center of each side and her place was opposite Sir Benjamin's.
Only yesterday she would have been delighted by the impression that she was already mistress, but now it simply seemed awkward. Conversation faltered until Mistress Abbotsford began to chatter about local goings-on. Lily saw that this was the usual way of things, and perhaps how Sir Benjamin kept in touch with the area.
Lily listened for mention of aristocracy or Town people nearby and heard none.
Could she hope?
She hadn't thought herself a wild dreamer, but crushed hope unfurled again.
Hope and a will to fight.
If she married Sir Benjamin, she'd become Lady Brook, and that name would trigger no memories. If no one in the area recognized her, she would be safe. She'd never be tempted to go farther afield, and clearly Sir Benjamin rarely left this area. He'd told her that the quarterly meeting of botanists in Birmingham was his only travel.
If anyone from the grander world visited here, Lady Brook should still be safe from all except those who'd known her well in London. In London, she'd generally dressed finely, and for evening affairs she'd used paint, as was the fashion.
Would Lady Brook, sober of dress, neat of cap and apron, admired for her charity and virtue, stir any memories? If she did, would they be believed? People did sometimes resemble others, but no one leapt to conviction that the two were one.
When the guests had gone, Sir Benjamin said, "You look thoughtful, ma'am. And not happily so. If that was unpleasant for you, I apologize."
She smiled at him. "Not unpleasant, no, but a little difficult. We should talk about my future."
His chin rose. "I've sent letters. We shall have to wait and see."
He stalked off to his library.
She hurried after, entering his room without a knock. "Did I offend you? I would not like to think so."
He was facing the window. "No, ma'am."
Lily weighed her option and gambled. She went closer, so close as to be only a foot or so behind him. "You are being so kind, sir, especially to my children. The hobby horse for Tommy, playing chess with Michael. Their father was never so kind."
He turned, as she'd hoped he would. "He was cruel to them?"
"No, not that. But he didn't like children, not even his own. They learned to stay out of his way."
"He must have been a foolish man."
"In many ways he was." She decided to give him some of the truth. "I confess that I wasn't sorry when he died, only for the manner of it. I'd have been sorrier if I'd known how his money was tied up, that it would end with him. You must think me a cold, heartless woman."
He took her hands. "Never! He was clearly a brute."
"Others didn't think so. He put on a good front. In truth, he was your opposite, Sir Benjamin. To many you may seem harsh, but those who know you know a warm heart and a most noble soul."
"Ma'am!" he protested.
"Do I embarrass you? I won't apologize. My husband was surly and cold at home, but amiable and warm to the world. Thus no one understood..." Heaven help her, she'd almost slid into the snake pit of truth. "I will leave you now, sir, to your peace and quiet."
She hurried away. Truth was the most perilous thing.
And yet, she hated lies.
***
Ben watched Mistress Gifford leave, wishing she'd stayed. He'd always valued his privacy here, his solitary contentment, but now the room seemed lonely. He'd like to ask her to sit here with him whenever possible, but she had her children to care for.
They were remarkably fine children to come from such a home. She'd raised them well.
He wished he could give her something to lighten her load, but what? To offer trinkets would suggest immoral intent. He felt immoral urges, but he'd never subject her to insult. In a kinder season, he'd pick flowers for her room.
All he had was books. He went to a section he visited rarely and considered poetry. He thought women liked poetry, but he'd never had a taste for it. His tutor had made him learn Latin poetry, but
that would hardly serve.
The Rape of the Lock. That sounded improper. John Donne? Hadn't he been a clergyman? Ben had some memory of someone reading Donne's poem Death to him, perhaps after his father died. That certainly wouldn't be a pleasing gift.
Shakespeare? There were volumes of his sonnets. Sonnets were generally sweet, pleasant verses, weren't they? He opened it. The first was about Caesar, and the next seemed to be a reproach to a beauty. He thrust it back on the shelf and turned to more familiar books. He found a well illustrated herbal and rang the bell.
When John entered, Ben gave him the book. "Take this up to Mistress Gifford with my compliments."
John took it, but with that disapproving face.
"She's a decent woman, John, fallen on hard times. It is our Christian duty to be kind to her and her children."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but the world's full of such hard cases, and have you thought that the longer her children live here the harder will be their future?"
Ben hadn't. "That's why I have to find a good future for them, don't you see?"
"What I see, sir, is that she's angling to hook you for her supper!"
Ben stared at the footman in astonishment. "What do you mean by that?"
John was flushed with anger and embarrassment. "I shouldn't have said it, sir."
"Perhaps not, but what did you mean? Out with it! Are you still hinting that she's a thief?"
"Not that, sir, no, except of your tranquility. She aims to marry you, sir."
"Marry me?"
"You see how foolish it is, but women like that have a way with them. Sometimes a man ends up doing things he shouldn't have."
"I won't do that, John, don't you worry. Off on your errand now."
When the footman had left Ben, collapsed into his big leather chair, trying to think clearly about the astonishing possibility. He felt much as he would if told that poppies would bloom at Christmastide.
Christmastide. That season was approaching. How would it go if Mistress Gifford and her children were still here? He still kept up the traditions. The mummers came to perform and were rewarded with ale, pies, and pennies. He went out with some of the local men to bring in a Yule log, and it burned in the great hearth in the hall. Cook made a Twelfth Night cake.
There were no Twelfth Night ceremonies here, however, for he gave the servants leave to go to their families for them.
He'd been an only child and of a solitary disposition, so he couldn't remember the Christmases of his boyhood being any different.
Five lively children. That would make a difference. They would have had Christmases, even with their cold and surly father. Their mother would have ensured that. Gifts. Sugar plums. Games such as snapdragon?
He hunched with uncertainty, but a tingle came from desire. He wanted to give them a joyous Christmas, but he wanted it for himself as well.
A mistletoe bough.
They hung one in the kitchen, he knew, but since his father's death, there'd not been one in the hall. It would suggest playful kisses, and what woman would want to kiss him, even a maid?
To be kissing maids would be improper in any case.
To be kissing a guest...?
No. She'd never want to do that.
Could people marry without kisses?
He shook his head.
No marriage for him.
And yet, John's words tantalized. Mistress Gifford was desperate, so it wouldn't be surprising if she'd thought of the advantages of marrying him. In such a marriage, they could arrange terms to suit. Surely kisses weren't essential, not even in the marriage bed.
He could have her company and her children to brighten his home. She'd probably be a good manager. He could have the marriage bed.
He'd visited brothels a few times in Birmingham, but though it was a whore's job to pretend that all their customers were Adonises, he'd known how they truly viewed him.
There'd be no need of pretense in his marriage bed, and he thought he was as well able as any man to satisfy a wife in the ways that mattered.
In fact, marrying Mistress Gifford could be seen as a benevolent act, and he had truly come to care about her children. He didn't want to see them reduced to poverty, or even worse, in a workhouse.
It bore thinking about.
Slowly, carefully, but worth thinking about.
Chapter Five
The days settled into a routine, and Lily let it be so. Her mind was too tangled to make plans or act on them.
She could never allow her children to sink into poverty.
She shouldn't trap Sir Benjamin in her scandal.
Wouldn't it be cruel to abandon him to his lonely life?
She shouldn't put her family's welfare above his.
In the mornings, she and her family ate breakfast in the schoolroom, with Charlotte and Michael fetching and carrying. After that, she taught them all according to their age, though Michael was already beyond her.
After a few days, he began to go down to Sir Benjamin for lessons. Lily suspected he'd asked and wasn't sure that was right, but Sir Benjamin could tutor him in Latin, Greek, and mathematics, which she could not.
In the afternoons, if the weather was at all clement, they all went out for long walks. They had balls and hoops found somewhere, which helped amuse. One day Sir Benjamin had come out with his two dogs, and that became part of the routine.
The dogs were amiable and delighted to chase after balls and sticks and so added to the play. Sir Benjamin often pointed out aspects of nature to the children -- the shape of a tree, the texture of bark, and the secret signs of shy animals. They were town-bred children, and much of it was wondrous to them.
One day he directed their attention to a tree. "Mistletoe. We should remember that for Christmas."
Lily saw Michael and Charlotte share a glance. Tommy asked the question. "Will we still be here at Christmas, sir?"
None of the children had addressed the question to her, but they must worry about it all the time.
"Yes," Sir Benjamin said. "Winter's no time to be wandering. Shall I show you the Yule log?"
They all agreed, delighted, and Lily followed swallowing tears.
He took them into some woodland to show them the large log. "Cut earlier to let it dry a bit. We'll bring it in on Christmas Eve to burn in the hall hearth."
"Will there be chestnuts, sir?" Charlotte asked.
"Of course."
"And sugar plums?" That was Susie, who loved sweet things.
"Definitely. And mince pies and wassail. Well, perhaps not for you children. But the mummers will come."
"And we'll hang mistletoe," Charlotte said, eyes bright. "Papa always kissed mama beneath the mistletoe."
"We'd best head back to the house," Lily said quickly, "and the dogs are looking bored. Tommy, throw the ball for them. Susie, see how far you can roll the hoop."
The dogs liked to chase that, too.
They liked to chase anything.
"Such simple creatures, dogs," she said as they headed back.
"Thus excellent companions," Sir Benjamin said, strolling beside her. "Don't worry that I might try to demand a kiss beneath the mistletoe."
She looked at him. "Why should I worry?"
He stared ahead. "My mouth, ma'am."
Oh, the poor man. Impulsively, Lily put a hand to his cheek, stretched up, and kissed him. He'd closed his lips as if in resistance, but that made it work reasonably well.
"There, see?" she said, looking into his eyes. "No worry at all."
He put his hand to her cheek and slowly, awkwardly, lowered his head to touch his lips to hers. Then he exhaled. "Thank you, ma'am."
All doubts fled. He needed this as much as she did. "Don't you think that after two kisses we should progress to first names, sir?"
"I make you free of Ben."
"And I you of Lily." She linked arms with him, and they went after the children. "This is much more comfortable, isn't it?"
"This is delightful,
" he said and halted. He turned to face her. "Mistress Gifford, Lily, will you marry me?"
Lily was frozen. She'd not expected this. Not yet. Not now.
She almost made a conventional demur, but knew from the look in his eyes that he was braced for rejection.
She smiled. "Yes, Ben, I will. And thank you."
His awkward smile was so broad no one could have misinterpreted it. "You honor me beyond reason, ma'am. Lily! Such a lovely name."
"Ben's a fine name, too. And if there's unreason, it's all on your side. I must remind you that I bring nothing to the marriage."
"I have no need of a dowry, and you bring riches. Yourself and your children. I love them already."
"Then I'm glad. But I must also remind you that there will be talk. Some will count you foolish."
"Let them. I'm not dependent on my neighbors' good opinion. In any case, they already like you and will soon admire you as much as I do."
"I hope you're right, " Lily said, and made it a prayer. All the reasons why not were clamoring, but it felt so right. "Shall we tell the children?"
"Of course, and the servants. Which will mean it will be around the neighborhood in a trice. When shall we marry?"
A part of Lily wanted to delay, to give him time to rethink, and for the effect in the locality to become clear. Another part wanted it done as soon as possible, so that no matter what happened, it could not be undone.
"Make it soon, my dear," he said softly, and she let that be her guide.
"Then as soon as the banns are read."
"Three weeks. That takes us to Christmas Day."
"What better day to wed?"
***
The children were ecstatic. Even Charlotte became completely carefree for the first time since the disaster. Lily had been concerned about the servants, but apart from the footman, they all seemed to accept the situation graciously.
The cook even went so far as to say, "It'll be a blessing to me, ma'am. I've enough to do in the kitchens without having to worry about the whole house, the accounts and such. And," she added, "I can see the difference in Sir Benjamin since you and your children came here. He's a new man."
