Lily

by Patricia Gaffney

  But the sound came again, and this time Lily stiffened and tore her mouth away. Her frightened eyes searched his, begging him to tell her she hadn’t heard what she knew she had—the sound of feet on the stone steps above them. The next thing she heard was Devon gritting out the foulest swear words she had ever heard.

  In one swift, jarring motion, he pulled her upright and stepped back. “Don’t,” he warned hoarsely when she made an instinctive move to turn around, bare-breasted.

  “My lord?”

  She recognized Trayer Howe’s voice, and a mad thought crossed her mind that the burning outrage in Devon’s eyes might set Trayer on fire where he stood.

  But Devon’s eyes were nothing compared to the raw, barely controlled fury in his voice. “What do you want?”

  “You, uh, you have visitors, my lord. Your mother and Lady Alice Fairfax. They’re waiting for you in the house.”

  It seemed to Lily the sound of the sea increased then to a violent roar. She saw Devon’s face darken and tense, the jaw muscles flex and relax in a dangerous, uneven rhythm. “I’ll come,” he said, but she wondered how Trayer could hear him over the deafening thunder of the tide. His eyes traveled upward slowly, and she knew Trayer was hurrying away; but she could hear nothing now except the sound of water.

  When Devon reached for her, she stepped nimbly away, turning her head so he couldn’t see her face. He let her go, let her walk down to the tide line, and gave her enough time to fasten her dress. Then he went to her.

  “Lily.” He put his hand on her shoulder. She flinched as if he’d stuck her with a pin, and he dropped his arm. To see her, he would have to walk into the surf in his shoes. That was what she was counting on, he knew.

  He did it. She was so surprised, she backed up; that gave him a piece of dry land to stand on. He said her name again.

  “Don’t make me talk. Please, I can’t talk to you.”

  “You know we haven’t finished. Come to me tonight. Meet me here.”

  “Please go away. Please.”

  He’d never heard this note in her voice, this desperate sound of defeat. “Nothing’s changed,” he insisted. “Meet me later, after—”

  “I will not meet you. Ever. Devon, for God’s sake—!”

  She was close to tears. He could make it a test, force her, keep at her until she agreed to what he wanted. He was good at that. She was blinking her eyes and swallowing repeatedly, but she wouldn’t look away. And suddenly he couldn’t stand the thought of making her cry. But he had to tell her, “It’s not over, Lily. We’re not through.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  He watched her for another minute. A gull screamed overhead; far out to sea, the sun cast horizontal bars of light and shadow on the glittery waves. Then, because it was the kindest thing, he left her alone.

  Finally she could cry.

  Eleven

  “WE CAN ONLY STAY two nights—we’re due in Penzance early on Friday for the Lynches’ house party. After that we’re with the Trelawneys at Mount’s Bay for the whole month of July. I don’t know why you’re looking so surprised, Devon; I wrote you all of this in my last letter.”

  “I remember perfectly, Mother, and I’m not in the least surprised.” He kissed Lady Elizabeth’s cool pink cheek, smiling fondly into skeptical eyes the same blue-green as his, then turned to his other guest. “Alice, how good to see you. And how brave of you to agree to such a long sojourn in the country with my mother. But I always knew you had courage.”

  “Hah,” was his mother’s answer to that.

  “Hello, Devon,” Lady Alice Fairfax greeted him, shaking hands warmly. “How are you? It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, it has. Thank you for your last letter. I had not gotten around to answering it yet because things have been rather hectic this summer—”

  “Never mind, I never write to you expecting a reply. I do it to keep in touch.”

  “I’ll do better in the future, I promise.”

  The ladies resumed their seats in the drawing room, then described a hot but uneventful journey from White Oaks, Lady Elizabeth’s estate near Witheridge in Devonshire. They said no, they wouldn’t take tea, because they’d just stopped for it in Lostwithiel not more than an hour ago and didn’t want to spoil their dinner. “Although that’s a useless precaution if Mrs. Belt is still your cook,” Elizabeth noted acerbically. “She spoils it quite adequately by herself.”

  “She’s not quite that bad, Mother.”

  “You say that because you don’t care what you eat. I suppose that Howe woman is still your housekeeper?”

  “I believe so. The last time I noticed.”

  “Odious woman. You ought to fire her.”

  “Why? She takes care of everything and leaves me alone. She’s perfect.”

  Lady Elizabeth clucked her tongue and glanced around, patting down stray tendrils of brown and silver hair. “How gloomy this room is, Devon. Why don’t you paint these apartments? The whole house is looking shabby these days, if you ask me. If you let it go, it’ll only cost more when you finally get round to fixing things.”

  “How is Clay?” Alice interjected, flashing Devon a sympathetic smile. “Stringer said he’s not at home.”

  “No, he’s gone up to London, I believe,” he answered smoothly. “Said it was too dull here. He’ll be sorry to have missed you.”

  “We hear the oddest rumors about him, you know. It’s hard to know what to believe.”

  “Believe them all,” he returned with a laugh. Seeing his mother’s face, he went on quickly, “He’s all right, though, in perfect health and all that. I shouldn’t be surprised if he decided to settle down one of these days. That should please you, Mother.”

  “It will please me when I see it. I don’t know which of my sons is a bigger disappointment to me.” Devon crossed his arms and sent her an amused smile, and after a few seconds she gave in and returned it. “You haven’t asked about Catherine,” she observed brusquely.

  “Yes, I was going—”

  “She’s having another child.”

  “Good God. That’s—”

  “Seven, now. Yes, I know. I’ve never known such a woman for having babies. She didn’t get it from me, and I hardly think she got it from your father. It must be some throwback to another generation. She says to tell you she’s not writing another letter until you answer at least one of hers. Really, Dev, she’s your only sister, you might at least try to stay in touch.”

  Before he could answer, a parlormaid appeared in the doorway. She bobbed a nervous curtsey, unused to such important guests, and announced her errand. “I’m sended t’ tell your ladyships your rooms are ready, and t’ take you up if you d’ care t’ rest afore your supper.”

  Lady Alice rose. She was a slight, small-boned young woman with pretty light-brown hair and hazel eyes. “I believe I’ll go up. You two have a nice chat. I’ll join you at dinner.”

  Elizabeth nodded approvingly; Devon stood up and walked Alice to the door.

  The maid had one more message. “I’m t’ say as well that Midge’s been walked and watered and’s having a nap in your room, m’lady,” she said to Elizabeth.

  “Good Lord, Mother, you didn’t really bring that snub-nosed wheezing machine, did you?”

  “Certainly; I go nowhere without my little dog. Thank you—what is your—?” But the maid had already disappeared, following Alice. “What’s that girl’s name? She’s new, isn’t she?”

  “Is she? I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “Honestly, Devon, you ought to pay more attention to the running of your own house. Your servants could be robbing you blind and you’d never know it. Alice is looking well, isn’t she?” she went on without a transition. “Some women bloom later in life, you know. I believe Alice is one of them.”

  “I’d say she has a few good years left. What is she, all of twenty-four?”

  “Oh, if that. She’s a handsome girl, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, Mother.�
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  “She has such a lovely, calm temperament. Why, I feel as comfortable with her as I do with my own daughter. She’ll come into quite a large fortune when the baron passes away, of course. There’ll be men swarming all around then, I expect. Not that there aren’t now, but she’s such a modest, unassuming—”

  “Mother.”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Alice is a bright, attractive, good-hearted woman, we’re agreed on that, and someone ought to marry her. It’s not, however, going to be me.”

  Lady Elizabeth raised innocent eyebrows. “Goodness, I never suggested that you should!”

  “Oh, come now.”

  “Very well,” she conceded easily, “I admit it’s crossed my mind that the two of you do suit rather well. The Fairfaxes are old friends; you and Alice have known each other all your lives, there would be no surprises. It’s not as if you aren’t fond of each other. And Alice needs someone to take care of. It might not be an exciting match, but it would be a strong one, based on liking and trust and respect. And,” she added deliberately, “I should think you’ve had enough excitement in that other sort of way to last a lifetime.” As she’d half expected, Devon’s face closed up at that. But she went on, leaning toward him, eyes intent. “My dear child, don’t you want to be happy?”

  “I don’t think of it,” he answered shortly. “You say you love Alice as a daughter, but obviously you haven’t thought of her happiness. If she’s so dear to you, how could you wish someone like me on her?”

  “What nonsense. You could be a good husband to any woman if you’d—”

  “You’re wrong. And this is a pointless conversation.” He turned his back on her and stood gazing out the open window across the shadow-dappled terrace. The sea was a quiet, insistent murmur far below. On the horizon he could see a trio of herring boats from Looe, bobbing on the water like peas on a glittering silver plate. To the east, a thin disk of a moon was creeping into the blue sky.

  He turned back. “I’m sorry, Mother. Let’s not quarrel.” He crossed to the sofa and took a seat beside her. The late-afternoon sun strayed across her delicately lined face, illuminating more silver hairs than he remembered from the last time he’d seen her. “Tell me about yourself. How have you been?” He didn’t really expect an honest answer; well or ill, Elizabeth’s routine response to that question was invariably, “Very well, thank you,” followed immediately by a diversionary question about the health of the inquirer. She was uncomfortable talking about herself, and believed that describing one’s physical or emotional state to others, unless it was perfect, was vulgar.

  So Devon was surprised when she said, after only a moment’s hesitation, “I’ve been sad. I’ve tried to shake it off, but I can’t.” He reached for her hand, and she eked out a stiff little smile for his benefit. “It’ll be four years in August, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “I miss him very much.”

  “So do I.”

  “It’s odd, isn’t it? Our marriage was stormy, to say the least; sometimes I was only happy when we were apart—he here, I at White Oaks. But I would give so much to have him back now. I think I would even consent to live here, just to be with him. It’s what he always wanted.”

  “I never thought I would hear you say that. You hate it here.”

  “Yes, it’s ironic. But you’re mistaken—I don’t hate it; I just couldn’t live here. Devonshire has always held me, in the same way Cornwall held him.” She squeezed his hand. “You’re like him in that way. We quarreled over naming you, you know.”

  Devon nodded; he knew this family story well.

  “I said I’d live here the year round if he’d let me call my firstborn son Devon.”

  “But you didn’t keep your promise.”

  “No.” She sighed and looked away. “He was a difficult man, your father. You’re so like him, much more than Clay. He was moody, like you, and intense. He loved and hated with equal passion, and he was as reckless as he was cautious. He could feel great sadness, but also tremendous joy. Like you, he loved Darkstone.”

  “Because of the sea.”

  “He said it saved him from going mad. I would laugh at that—thinking he was exaggerating, trying to get my attention.” She bent her head. “I wasn’t as good a wife as I should have been, Dev. I loved him very much, but I couldn’t live with him. Or so I thought. Now …”

  She looked up. To Devon’s relief, her voice lost its melancholy heaviness and grew strong again. “Regrets are foolish, of course. If Edward were to walk in that door right now, we would be happy together for a few hours. After that, the hard words would start again.” She put her head against the back of the high sofa. “Still, you know, one of the biggest regrets of my life is that I wasn’t with him when he died. I should have been here, with you.”

  “But you didn’t know he was dying.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I should have been here. He was my husband.”

  They fell silent. Each knew the other too well to offer false comfort. Tragedies happened; facile explanations for somber reality no longer consoled them. Both had lost their heart’s desire, and they had become experts in the elaborate art of compensation.

  “Well,” Elizabeth said at last, turning brisk. “I think I will go up and change now. We’ve both brought our maids, did you know? Quite an impressive entourage we make. I assume your Mrs. Howe will make arrangements for them—something else you needn’t think about. Are you still keeping country hours, with dinner at five?”

  “Five is late for us.” Devon smiled, helping her up. She was not as spry on her feet as she’d once been, he noticed. “We’ll be famished by then. But by God, we’ll be fashionable.” Elizabeth chuckled. “I’ll walk up with you, Mother,” he said, and took her gently by the arm.

  “You don’t really expect us to dine at that table, do you? With all the under-servants?”

  Lily paused, clutching a handful of silverware, and looked up. It was Miss Turner, Lady Alice’s personal maid, poised in the doorway in a crisp gown of puce silk. Miss Kinney—Lady Elizabeth’s’s maid—loomed up behind her in the next second, and together they regarded Lily with identical expressions of tolerant amusement. “We’re really in the country now, Mary,” Miss Turner said to her companion. “This girl was actually going to seat us at the servants’ table.” They chortled together.

  Lily straightened slowly. They were about her age, perhaps a year or two older. Before she’d come to Darkstone, she hadn’t known about this powerful, zealously guarded line of demarcation between upper and lower domestics in a great household. The highest female rank was lady’s maid, higher even than housekeeper, and a woman who attained that exalted post never let anyone under her forget it. Lily despised the whole business. She hated the petty nastiness of a system where a girl promoted from scullery to kitchen maid could finally be greeted by the parlormaid with “good morning.” But at least she had learned that it wasn’t only the rich who could be arrogant and condescending about rank; that was a human trait, unrelated to fortune. The truth was, rigid class distinctions brought out the worst in everybody.

  She laid down the last fork and put on her politest smile. “Where do you think you might like to ‘dine?’” she asked, giving the word the same artificial emphasis the regal Miss Turner had.

  The maid’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “In Mrs. Howe’s room, of course. But not on that gruel the cook calls fish stew, I trust.”

  “Oh, surely not,” agreed Lily. “If you’re ‘dining’ with our estimable housekeeper, I’m confident you’ll enjoy better. For country fare, of course.”

  Miss Turner sniffed. She felt insulted, but she wasn’t sure why. “Impudent girl. Where do you come from?”

  “From Cornwall, of course. The land of pilchards and barbarians. Excuse me, I’ll just go and lay two more places in Mrs. Howe’s room.” She sidled past the two ladies’ maids, and felt their astonished eyes follow her out of sight.

  When she returned they wer
e still there, seated languidly at the same table they’d recently spurned—evidently finding it more gratifying to be important before an audience than only with each other. The butler’s society was deemed worthy of their notice, so while pretending not to see the other servants who had come into the room, they told the taciturn Stringer all about the prodigious amounts of luggage their mistresses were traveling with. Miss Turner described the distress of Joshua, Lady Alice’s Negro footman, when he learned he would not be accompanying his mistress on the trip. Joshua was the pride of the Fairfax domestic household with his sumptuous emerald green livery, silk stockings, and powdered hair, and Miss Turner vowed he smelled sweeter than her ladyship sometimes. “What a peacock he is, truly, and so devoted to my lady. She takes him everywhere, of course, and positively dotes on him. ‘Twas Lady Elizabeth who said he mustn’t come, for she would bring her little dog along, and she said there wasn’t room for two mascots. When Joshua heard, he wept like a baby, and the tears made little black trails down his powdered cheeks.”

  Miss Turner surveyed her spellbound listeners with satisfaction. Tales of the high life were rare at Darkstone; the servants were drinking in her words like sponges. Encouraged, she went on to tell of a ball that Lady Alice’s family had given in the spring, providing lavish details about the lengthy preparations, the gown her ladyship wore, the hair style Miss Turner herself had helped create, the food served and wines drunk, the orchestra that had played. Lily busied herself with finishing the table, barely listening. It was the sudden coy note in Miss Turner’s voice that caught her attention, even before she understood the words.

  “I’ve heard a rumor that there’ll be another celebration at Fairfax House soon … or perhaps at Darkstone Manor. Maybe you’ve heard it too, Mr. Stringer.” She had everyone’s attention now. “It’s said,” she murmured, leaning close in a pretense of confidentiality, “that there’s going to be a wedding between my mistress and your master before the year’s out.”