Once a Fallen Lady

by Pendle, Eve

  Today, instead of sitting down with Annie, he stood at the door on the landing, coat still on. After a few light exchanges with her daughter, he turned to her.

  “How long is it since you went out?” he asked.

  “Err.” The question took her aback. She had no idea.

  “When did you walk and look at the sky all around you?”

  “I don’t have time for that. I have a poorly child.” That wasn’t an excuse, it was true. “Besides, yesterday we went outside.”

  “I had to persuade you to leave the house, and we only got as far as the back garden,” he stated. “What about into the village, or across the fields? You have to take care of yourself, too.” He tilted his head to the side. “It won’t help Annie if her mother is weak from lack of air and light.”

  “I don’t want to leave Annie.” Her daughter was the only priority

  “I know,” Alfred said gently. “But she’s safe with Elizabeth.”

  “I’ll look after her,” Elizabeth interjected. “And I’ll call you back if necessary.”

  “We’ll stay within calling distance of the cottage,” he assured Lydia.

  “You want to come outside with me?” What did he mean, we? The thought of the two of them in public together shook her. What if someone saw them? The sinner and the saint.

  “Yes. I’d like to walk with you. Please.”

  “I.” She ought to stay strong, but the movement of his throat, almost a gulp, before he said ‘please’ and the steady gaze of his brown eyes melted her resistance. “I’ll get my mantle and gloves.”

  The navy wool of her mantle was threadbare beneath her fingers as she picked it from the drawer in her bedroom then tugged on her gloves. At the top of the stairs she paused to wrap the mantle around her. Mr. Lowe waited for her by the front door. Their gazes caught together as she took the first step down toward him. He was staring up at her with reverent intensity. A flush heated her whole body. He made no attempt to disguise his esteem as she descended, raking his gaze over her.

  It was as if she were a seventeen-year-old debutant again. The obvious hunger in his look made her aware of every curve of her form. She wasn’t lithe as she’d been when she was young, she was softened by motherhood and scraped by hardship. The steps she descended weren’t an elegant staircase, they were a steep flight of cheap pine steps with a carpet runner of indeterminate color worn flat and stringy. There should have been no redeeming features to her situation. But for the four full seconds it took to descend the stairs, she felt they were a young courting couple with no more cares than whether the other found them attractive. The simplicity of burgeoning new love.

  As he held out his arm for her to take at the doorway, she felt it was simple. One man, one woman, a love that would conquer all.

  But then, she saw that the blue wallpaper with images of wildflowers in the hall behind Mr. Lowe was shabby and peeling at the edges. A second before she’d seen only the beauty of him. She pretended she hadn’t seen his proffered arm, gave him a bright smile and went to the door.

  Outside, he didn’t stop watching her. “Shall we go to the green?”

  She hesitated. Everyone would see them there. There were several village children playing in the road, but on the green would be mothers chatting along with the children. Gossip. She nodded in the other direction. “What about out towards the river?” It was more secluded. There would be fewer prying eyes, judging her as loose.

  They walked down the road until they reached a path out across the fields and at the stile he offered his arm again. It was an extravagance to put her hand on his sleeve, as if she were a lady and he a gentleman courting her. The temptation was excessive, and the thrill of touching him, even through layers of fabric, too wicked. The step up elevated her view and opened the sky. It was a feeling of lightness. When she was back on the ground, she forced herself to remove her hand. Delusions would hurt her and everyone she loved. She’d learned that from Lord Markshall long ago.

  She paused and waited for Alfred. That was when she saw it.

  THOU SHALT NOT COMMIT ADULTERY.

  It was painted in large red letters on stile crossbar, so anyone walking into the village would see it. A stark accusation and edict, neat but not stylized. She’d heard about such actions taken by religious zealots, but not seen it around Elmswell.

  She was going to be sick. It was as if someone had written this about her, so close to her house…

  “What’s the matter?” Alfred appeared at her side, his hand hovering over the small of her back.

  She’d leaned forward, she realized, and her hand was over her mouth, her face drained. She heard his sharp intake of breath.

  “I’ll wash it off.” His voice was iron. “Now.” A grunt of frustration escaped him. “As soon as I can.”

  “Don’t.” She dragged her gaze from the words to his thunderous expression. “It’s not bad advice.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw and his eyes were hard. He angled his body closer to her, a protective gesture. “We’ll return.”

  “A little more nuance would be helpful, though,” she continued lightly. “Some details about why it is a poor idea, what happens afterwards, and how you might pay for any fleeting hedonism.”

  His expression crumpled, even as his hand still hovered at the small of her back. “What happened?”

  She turned and started across the field. A line of ash and elm trees demarked the river, their bare limbs just coming into leaf. He’d come back after she’d told him she wasn’t a widow. He’d returned and asked. She could tell him and have done. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Not if you don’t want to tell me.” He’d hurried and caught up, and when she glanced across at him, she still saw his banked frustration at the message on the stile.

  “I…” She did want to tell him. She wanted him to reject her now so he wouldn’t do so later when she was even more attached. When her heart was not her own.

  Who was she kidding? “This isn’t pretty.”

  He nodded. The light caught on his hair and he looked angelic.

  They proceeded toward the line of trees, walking a respectable distance apart, but every now and again her sleeve brushed his.

  “Matilda and I were typical sisters,” she began the story with the family she’d left behind, and perhaps the source of all the trouble. “She’s two years older than me. We played together and squabbled together. She was always a bit ahead, a little more advanced. I was always envious. If she had a doll, I wanted the same. If she sewed a new dress, I would demand the same style. She aspired to be unique, always re-trimming her hats and finding unconventional phrases. I copied her. She read a book, I read it too.” She smiled at the memory, but it was under-sweetened lemonade. Too sour to be truly enjoyable.

  “I came out only a few months after Matilda because I threw such a fit. My parents became bored of my complaints and allowed me to debut at the same time, at seventeen. My sister was not impressed. She tried to stop me from going to balls or riding with her. I was too immature, she claimed. I wanted to show I was just as much a lady as her.” But that wasn’t possible. Lydia had never attracted men to the extent Matilda had. “Matilda is prettier than me.”

  Alfred made a sound of protest.

  “No, it’s true. She’s quite lovely.” Matilda’s features combined perfectly, whereas Lydia was aware of her over-wide mouth and her too curly hair.

  “She couldn’t be more beautiful than you.”

  Lydia’s breath caught in her throat. The moment drew out. Then she coughed in embarrassment and they continued walking.

  “She met men more easily than I did. We were both quite sanguine characters–”

  “You’re so quiet now. So melancholic.” He shook his head in confusion.

  “Yes.” The acknowledgement chafed. “Things have changed. But even then, she was dazzling in a way I was not. Matilda drew people to her. She was a graceful horse woman too. One day we were all out riding, and Matild
a’s horse, a feisty mare, got into an argument with a man’s stallion. He was nipping Bluebell and–it doesn’t matter. They met. He was Lord Markshall: handsome, young, a bachelor, and as we heard later, a notorious rake. And, as I said, I wanted anything she had.” The inference was clear.

  “Did you love him?” His voice quivered as he asked the question.

  “I thought so then. But now.” She shrugged. “I didn’t love him as much as I love Annie. I didn’t love him like–” She caught herself just in time before she said fateful, silly words. I didn’t love him like I love you. “I can see it now for what it was. Just an infatuation and competition with my sister.”

  There was a silence while they simply walked next to one another. The grass underfoot was damp, and the hem of her skirt was dark with moisture. The sun caught the buttercups amongst the grass and the pink and white hawthorn in the hedge they were approaching. By tacit agreement they followed the path next to the hedge-line to where an opening led to the riverbank and the path alongside it flanked by trees and brambles. The water burbled past, lazy and wide and suddenly Lydia felt intensely how much she’d been in the dark. Not just over the last weeks, but throughout winter. Summer was on its way.

  She glanced across at Alfred as they walked either side of the narrow path, neither wanting to take the easiest part. He nodded encouragingly, and Lydia remembered. She was telling the story of the winter of her life. The time without light. And she wasn’t going to make it palatable. He’d judge her and discard her all the sooner, then she could resume her life.

  “Lord Markshall had told me if I had any problem with my monthlies I should procure something to ensure it continued regularly,” she said. “I did.”

  She took a deep breath of the cool air and continued. “I devised some excuse about going to the milliner alone. Using the address from a newspaper advertisement I found an apothecary. The advert had said their tea promoted regular womanly function.” It had been a respectable sort of place, with gleaming countertops and polished brass.

  “The woman was understanding.” As she’d asked about something to regulate her time of the month Lydia had flushed scarlet, but the woman had pretended not to notice. “I drank the tonic she gave me. Well, I say gave.” She gave an ironic laugh and looked up at the pale blue sky. “The tonic she charged me an exorbitant price for. She had hands cleaned so hard they were raw and dry. I remember it vividly.”

  Trees overhung the water, just coming into leaf, the bright green shoots dotted across the canopy. The path wasn’t wide, and a long tendril of a bramble caught at her skirt. She tugged it impatiently and her skirt snagged. Her throat closed. Another thing broken because of her impulsiveness.

  “It was bitter and a little minty.” Maybe it had already been too late. “It made me sick. All day dry retching that felt like I was turning inside out. I didn’t know if it was the tonic, or the baby, or something else. I continued and the nausea subsided. But my courses didn’t come. Weeks and weeks, and they still didn’t come, until I was shaking with it. I couldn’t think of anything but the baby and what I’d done.” Her voice wobbled. It had been a time of unending tension of worry and pain. It hurt to remember.

  “I wish I could tell your past-self that everything would turn out well. The road is long, but I will take care of you.” He was so natural in this leafy place, his brown hair and eyes making him appear part of the forest, a living, elegant god of the woods.

  She smiled sadly. He wouldn’t want to care for her. Not once he heard more.

  “I wrote to Lord Markshall. I didn’t know what else to do, or who else to ask.” Markshall had blamed her. In his return letter he’d accused her of taking his money and attempting to entrap him in marriage by deliberately not obtaining anything to prevent pregnancy. With ten years between then and now, she could think of his letter without tension shooting across her forehead. She’d cried herself hoarse at the time. She’d written again, begging him for help. Alfred didn’t need to know that, though, just the end result.

  “He didn’t reply.” A sensation like a wet wool blanket fell over her at the memory. The familiar, suffocating cold of knowing her life was ending and there was nothing she could do. “I didn’t know who to turn to. I was sick. I was alone. I was ashamed.”

  The path narrowed, forcing Lydia into the undergrowth or closer to Alfred. She thought of the bramble snag on her dress and allowed herself to drift closer to Alfred, her skirts brushing against his trousers.

  “Matilda noticed first. She joked I was getting fat, that I ought not to indulge in so many ices.” She’d broken down. At some point in all the tears, Matilda had fetched their mother. It was all blurry from then on. Her father had appeared, shouting. So many words. Disgrace. Whore. Slut. Fool.

  “There were many recriminations. I didn’t engage with conversations about what was to be done. I was beyond caring.” That sounded melodramatic, but it was how it had felt.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. He took her hand in his.

  For a moment she jerked with shock. She’d been so deep in her own recollection, so isolated, back where she’d been ten years ago, she forgotten he was close enough to touch her. His hand clasped around hers, warm and unrestrictive. His touch fortified her enough to keep talking.

  “I was whisked away. Two days journey. Three. I don’t even know. They told everyone I was indisposed. Matilda insisted on coming with me and told me later it was Norfolk. She was by my side constantly. Her jaw never seemed to unclench. Sometimes I’d see her mouthing to herself. And the words were a pledge to kill Lord Markshall.” Lydia had been numb, but the depth of her sister’s anger had reassured her. “I’d never seen her so furious. I’d gone through anger at him too, but not like Matilda’s. It was a furnace.” It had been a sort of madness.

  “I can well understand her mindset,” Alfred said grimly. The dappled light caught Alfred’s hair, a contrast to his dark expression.

  “But she was never angry at me. I think she felt guilty it was her who’d introduced him to me, to any of us. She never blamed me. Unlike Father.”

  “No.” He stopped.

  She turned to him. His handsome face was shadowed, the light behind silhouetting him. The brightness surrounded his tall form, a protective, vengeful angel. Her heart thudded.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he growled. “From the second this man decided to take advantage of you, there was no right way. A woman who doesn’t fornicate is a prick tease, but if she does, she’s fallen. A woman who marries a man of influence is scheming. An unmarried woman is immoral. If a potion to bring on monthlies had worked, some would say it was unnatural. Giving away a baby to be cared for by another would be thought heartless, but staying with the child, foolish.”

  “There was no way to win,” she whispered. His assessment was hard and fierce, and yet it was freeing. The figurative closed doors Alfred described opened up the possibility that it wasn’t within her control.

  “None.” His voice softened. “Perhaps if the potion had worked, you might have continued with your old life. But your father was wrong to blame you.”

  She smiled. “That was what I decided too.”

  “Yes.” He looked down at their joined hands and his eyebrow twitched together as though he’d only just noticed.

  His grip on her hand softened and her chest wrenched as she realized he was going to pull away. He would turn away from her when he knew what she’d done. How she’d come to be here in Elmswell and the people she’d hurt to save herself and her daughter.

  He laced their fingers together and squeezed. Her heart throbbed in response.

  “That was why I didn’t feel remorse for what I did next.” She knew he would back away after this. It was immoral. “Toward the end of my pregnancy, I began to think of the baby and me as a team. When she was born, I knew. I’d do anything for her. I’d die for her.”

  “What?” Alfred sounded nonplussed.

  “I wanted to keep Annie. I couldn’t give h
er away to fate. My breasts were sore and swollen with milk. The thought of her being apart from her was knives through every inch of me. I had to be with her, but our plan was to raise her in a family where she’d never know me, or me her. Matilda didn’t agree easily. We argued. At length and breadth, with tears and threats and pain far beyond childbirth.”

  “She didn’t want you to stay with your baby?”

  “No. At first she refused. She sobbed, she protested that she wouldn’t see me again. She said I’d relinquish this feeling, have more children, that Annie would always be a reminder of the man who’d... let me down.”

  “What convinced her?” Alfred asked.

  She hesitated. This was where he’d hate her. She looked into his eyes so she’d see the moment he despised her.

  “I threatened to kill myself.” It sounded bad when she said it aloud. It had sounded horrific when she’d said it to Matilda.

  His brown eyes, compassionate and serious, remained steady on her face. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

  “Don’t judge me.” But there was no need for the retort. It spoke of her own guilt, not his expression.

  “I don’t.”

  The space between their fingers warmed, even through their gloves.

  “Would you have really done it?”

  She thought back to those days, when everything was black and white, and she’d hated everyone but the two people with her. Sister and daughter.

  “It was better she didn’t test the theory. I’d have done anything for Annie. I’d wanted her gone for nearly nine months. After the blood and pain and mess of her birth, I held her and I knew I’d never allow her to be without me, unprotected. My parents, especially my father, had been so ashamed of me, I thought they wouldn’t care much.”

  “And you came here.”