Lily

by Patricia Gaffney

  Lily held out her hand and took the palm-sized object Lowdy offered her. “What is it?” From what she could see, it was two wooden cylinders one inside the other, with a handle protruding from the smaller one.

  “Somethin’ ’e whittled. Jerk that little top part.”

  Lily turned the handle, and the wooden cylinders emitted a loud, screeching chirp.

  Lowdy laughed and clapped her hands. “Tes a bird-caller! Ain’t it the cunningest thing? Do it again.”

  She did, and laughed too—then groaned and had to hold her side. “Oh, Lowdy, I love it. Tell Galen I thank him, and I’ll use it tomorrow to call the birds in right through that window. What a lovely present.”

  “’E likes you,” Lowdy said simply. “If ee didn’t ’ave a young man o’ your own, I expect I might be jealous o’ you, Lily Troublefield.” Lily smiled, a little wanly, and Lowdy shrugged back at her. “ ’Ere now, drink this up, and then off you go t’ sleep.”

  “But I don’t want it, Lowdy; I don’t need it anymore.”

  “This’m the last of it, and you’re done. Come on, one last dose. Open up, Miss Button-lips. There, that weren’t so terrible.”

  “Easy for you to say.” She screwed up her face to keep from gagging at the bitter aftertaste of the hated laudanum. At least it was finished; she hoped never to have to swallow another mouthful of the vile stuff for as long as she lived.

  “Guess what.”

  “What?”

  “There’m a new housekeeper.”

  “No!”

  “Mrs. Carmichael, if you please. Comes from Tedburn St. Mary, and talks regular English like you. Twur master’s sister that found ‘er and sent ‘er, I heard. Came today, and didn’t make us say prayers after supper. She’m youngerer’n ’Owe, and civil-like, not nasty. Galen d’think she’s fine.”

  “Then she must be.” Already her eyelids were getting heavy. A thought occurred to her. “I know you didn’t get to hear your Methodist preacher that Sunday, Lowdy, because of—what happened to me, but did Galen go?”

  “O’ course not. ’E were that worried about you, and master sendin’ ’im for surgeon and what-not, he didn’t care t’ go.”

  “Oh.” Lily glanced down at her hands, twitching at the coverlet. “I might get a letter one day soon. Would you look for it, and bring it to me if it comes?”

  “Ais, I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lowdy raised her black brows, waiting. But Lily said no more, and after a second the younger girl leaned down to put out the candle.

  “Oh, don’t blow it out.”

  “Ee’ll be fast asleep in ten minutes.”

  “I know, but… leave it, please. I’d rather have it burning tonight.”

  “Have it, then. G’night, Lily.”

  “Good night. Thank you for taking care of me, Lowdy.”

  “Phaw,” she exhaled, grinning, and scuffed out.

  Lily sank back against the pillows and pulled the sheet up to her chin. The house was absolutely still, as if she were its only inhabitant. Drowsiness crept over her, and with it a thick, listless pall of depression. Howe’s vicious beating and Trayer’s attack had almost destroyed her; recovering from them had taken all her strength. But even at the lowest point, she’d never felt like this. She’d been in pain and distress, but always there had been something to fight for—even to hope for. At first it was Devon’s sympathy, later his nerve-wracking formal appearances twice a day that had somehow made her forget how deep the rift was between them, and exactly what had caused it. And his company, odd and unsatisfying as it was, had planted a secret, unmentionable hope in her deepest heart. But tonight he hadn’t come, and she knew he would never come again, and it mortified her to admit even to herself what that secret hope had been. Now there really was nothing to do except to wait until she was well, and then leave Darkstone Manor.

  Something, the softest sound, made her open her eyes.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you. Were you sleeping?”

  “No. Almost, but—no.” Except for the white of his ruffled shirtfront, he was almost invisible in the dark doorway. In the comparative brightness of candlelight, she felt vulnerable and exposed, and wondered how long he had been standing there. “Come in,” she invited softly.

  He moved into the room. “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, thank you,” she answered in her rusty voice. They had said the same words to each other for the last ten nights, never varying the programme. She waited for her racing heart to slow, filled with a mixture of gladness and anger, the latter at herself because of the former. She saw that he wore a long, wine-colored waistcoat with his shirt and black breeches; he smelled faintly of leather and sweat, and she guessed he’d been riding.

  “Lowdy said you seemed tired.”

  “You spoke to her?”

  “Just now. Are you certain you’re all right?”

  “Quite certain.” The inanity of this conversation rivaled all their previous ones, she was thinking when, all of a sudden, an ear-piercing squeak split the silence. “Oh!” She stifled a giggle. Devon’s eyes widened. She’d forgotten all about Galen’s birdcalling device. It still lay in her hands, and she’d turned the handle out of nervousness. “It’s a present,” she explained, holding it up in the light. “From Mr. MacLeaf. He made it himself. It—calls the birds.”

  “Very nice.”

  “Lowdy says you’ve hired a new housekeeper,” she mentioned, determined to hold up her end of the conversation. A wave of drowsiness surged through her, then tapered off.

  “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat, coming closer than usual—actually standing at the side of the bed. “A Mrs. Carmichael. She seems … competent.”

  Lily though of many things she could have said to that, some of them bitter. But she fingered her birdcaller and said nothing.

  “But then, so did Mrs. Howe. I’ve learned that the appearance of competence isn’t the only quality one should look for when hiring a person to oversee one’s household. And that… it doesn’t excuse one from responsibility for the people in one’s employ.”

  She looked at him closely for the first time. He looked extraordinarily uncomfortable, hands clasped behind his back, scowling ferociously, eyes fastened on something in the general direction of her knees. It dawned on her that he was trying to make an apology. The realization dazzled her. Devon Darkwell—apologizing. Stranger still was the strong impulse she felt to help him.

  She said, “Would you like to sit down?” He looked behind him for the chair. “Here,” she specified, smoothing the space between her hip and the edge of the bed. She felt his startled eyes on her, but kept her gaze on her hand lightly patting the mattress. He sat.

  A minute passed, and she began to fear that another of their long, dreadful silences was coming. Half turned to her, he’d drawn one knee up on the bed; she could touch it if she wanted to just by reaching a hand out. She cast about for something to say, and seized on an observation about the unseasonably cool nights they’d been having. She was just about to utter it when he spoke.

  “Mrs. Howe was stealing from me, Lily. I found out yesterday when I went over the household accounts. She’d been paying tradesmen a fraction of the figure she got out of me and pocketing the difference. One of her most profitable ploys was to charge me an inflated amount of money for food for the domestic staff, and then feed them the cheapest stuff she could buy. Swill, from what I’ve been told. The same with supplies—soap, linens, clothing, the simplest necessities. I gave her money for them, she kept it, and charged the servants for them a second time, behind my back.”

  Lily blinked up at him, aware of a powerful sense of relief. She had made an assumption that he knew all about the meager lot of his servants, that Howe’s niggardly treatment of them was at his direction, or at least with his consent. To learn otherwise made her feel lighthearted—and strangely, like crying. She started to speak when she saw that his face had grown dark and grim.

&nbs
p; “I’m sorry they’re gone, Howe and her bastard son. If they were still here, I swear before God, I’d—” He halted, and clamped down on some powerful emotion. “What happened”—he took a deep breath—“what happened was my fault. If I could change—anything …” He stopped again.

  Lily felt tears burn again at the back of her throat. She searched his eyes, so somber. The taut parentheses on either side of his mouth were white with tension; she wanted to soothe them with her fingertips. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “You didn’t know.”

  “No. I didn’t know. But that was my crime, not my excuse.”

  “But it’s all right now.”

  Her understanding goaded him. “No, it’s far from all right. You could have been killed. Or raped, or hurt so badly—”

  “But I wasn’t. And you—”

  “But you could have been.”

  “Dev—” She stumbled over his name. She had no right to call him that now. They were both silent, hampered and uneasy, not looking at each other. But she couldn’t stop her hand from going out to him, hesitantly. She laid her fingers on his wrist, ever so lightly. Just to touch him. To soothe him, and to take comfort for herself. She closed her eyes and felt another surge of blackness rushing toward her.

  “Lily,” he said, bowing his head. “I can’t ask you to forgive me. I only want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He kept speaking, his voice low and intense; but in spite of her best efforts, her grip on the meaning of the words loosened and loosened until finally it seemed only fair to tell him.

  “Devon, please stop talking before I fall asleep.”

  “What?”

  She thought he sounded a little hurt. “Lowdy made me take the last of the laudanum just before you came. I can’t keep my eyes open.” It was literally true; she was speaking to him with them closed. “I don’t understand why, but I know you want me to be hard on you, not to forgive you. But I really can’t, it’s not”—she yawned widely, barely getting her hand up in time to cover it—“not in my nature. What happened was dreadful,” she went on sleepily, “but it’s over now. I’m going to get well. Thank you for being sorry—” she tried to open her eyes when she heard his impatient snort, but she just couldn’t manage it—“and thank you for telling me that you are. Now …” Now, what? She had no idea, and she was too tired to think about it. “Now I have to go to sleep.” Her hand relaxed and fell open on his thigh.

  He blinked down at it. He felt the beginning of a smile, his first in a long time. He enclosed her limp hand in both of his, examining the calloused palm, the long, slim fingers. He fought the impulse to laugh when she let out a delicate snore, just before pulling her hand out of his and settling gingerly onto her side.

  “Good night, Lily,” he said in a conversational tone. Nothing, not even a flicker of an eyelash. She was fast asleep. “Sweet Lily,” he said in a whisper. He watched her a moment longer, beguiled. Unable to resist, he bent and pressed a light, lingering kiss on her cheekbone. Then he blew out her nub of a candle and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Sixteen

  “AREN’T YOU READY YET?”

  Lily looked up, startled. “No, I’m—for what? Aren’t I supposed to—”

  “Meet Clay. I told him I’d come and get you.”

  “Oh.”

  Squinting, Devon moved farther into the room. Lily sat in a splash of sunlight before the open windows, dressed in her nightgown and cloth slippers and sewing on something mustard-colored and voluminous draped across her lap. Dusty sun bars touched color in her dark red hair and made the green specks in her eyes, usually subdued, look almost gaudy. But it was her smile that dazzled him. He returned it unguardedly, and for fully half a minute they were too absorbed in beaming at each other to speak.

  Lily recalled herself with a becoming blush and finished pulling the needle through the narrow seam she was sewing. “I’m not quite ready. Your brother said two o’clock, and I’m about three minutes shy of finishing this.”

  “What is it?”

  “A dressing gown. I haven’t got one, so I’m altering this to fit me.”

  “Ah.” He frowned down, observing the lengthening line of her delicate stitches. “How is it that you haven’t got any clothes, Lily?”

  Her fingers stilled. What was it she’d told Mrs. Howe? Something about being robbed at a hiring fair. “They were stolen, just before I came here.” The words almost stuck in her throat. Lying to Devon repelled her now, but she shrank from telling him the truth. It wasn’t time. Not yet. Working in haste, she finished her seam, looped a tidy knot, and snipped the thread with a pair of scissors. “There, it’s finished. What do you think?” She held up the robe for his inspection, praying he would ask no more questions.

  “Not your color,” he said mildly. She smiled—a bit mysteriously, it seemed to Devon. “Why is that amusing?”

  She grinned outright. “Whose color do you think it is?”

  He looked at the robe, then back at her. The light dawned. “Mrs. Howe’s?”

  “Yes! Clay said it would be all right if I had her clothes—she left them all, Devon, a whole wardrobe full—and tried to make a few things from them for myself. This is my first attempt.” She surveyed her handiwork critically; it wasn’t too bad, she decided, although he was right about the color. She glanced at him expectantly. “Oh,” she realized, seeing his face, “you don’t like it.”

  “No, it’s fine.” He took the coarse cotton out of her hands and pretended to examine it. “You sew very well.” What he was thinking was that he detested the thought of Lily working on Howe’s—or anyone else’s—ugly, cast-off garments in order to have something to wear. He was prepared to buy her all the clothes she wanted, and a great deal more. But first they had to come to an understanding. And it was too soon, she was still too ill, to broach the subject of the arrangement he had in mind.

  “It’s all right,” she assured him, misunderstanding his expression. “I don’t mind that they were hers, really I don’t. In fact”—she smiled and looked away, a little embarrassed—“if you want to know the truth, I enjoy cutting them up. The irony of it pleases me. These are even her slippers. They’re miles too big”—she stuck her feet out to show him—“but I can’t help liking it that I’m wearing them. Do you think that’s childish?”

  He chuckled, then laughed. “No, I think it’s delightfully human.”

  She blushed as if he’d paid her a rare compliment.

  He reached for her hand. “Well, stand up, let’s see how well you’ve done. If it falls off you, Howe will have had the last laugh after all.” It astonished him that he—that they—could joke about his housekeeper in any way, any context. And it pleased him, because he knew it was a measure of the extent to which Lily had healed, in mind as well as body.

  She stood, her borrowed nightrail billowing around her ankles. It was full, high-collared, and anything but sheer. Nevertheless, she felt self-conscious standing in front of him in it, he fully dressed. Silly; he’d seen her in significantly less. Still—

  “Come on, put your arms in. There.” She stood still while he settled the robe around her shoulders and joined all the frog fasteners down the front. The best he could say for it was that it fit. “It fits.”

  But Lily was thrilled. “Oh, it does, it really does. In fact, if I say so myself, it’s perfect.” She made a slow turn in front of him, ridiculously pleased with herself.

  You’re perfect, he thought as he took her hand and guided her out of the room at a sedate pace.

  “Clay said today was an occasion, and not just because it’s my first time outdoors. Do you know what he meant?”

  “Ha! He’s milking this for all it’s worth, I see.”

  “What?”

  “He’s telling everyone today is his last day of ‘freedom.’ Tomorrow he starts work at the mine.”

  They stopped at the top of the staircase. Lily picked up her skirts, hoping she wouldn’t trip in her roomy carpet slippers. B
ut before she could step down, Devon put an arm around her shoulders and one behind her knees and lifted her off her feet. “Oh, no, I can walk, really, I’m perfectly—”

  “Quiet. I’m not taking any chances with you,” he said gruffly. True, but an even stronger motivation was the need to hold her. She’d lost a lot of weight, but the solid feel of her in his arms, the living, companionable substance of her filled something inside he hadn’t realized was quite so empty.

  As he carried her down the stairs and through the corridors of the cool, dim house, neither spoke, and a silent, breathless awareness replaced the lighthearted banter they were growing used to. At the doors to the wide, shady terrace, he stopped again. Lily breathed softly, hands clasped over his far shoulder, watching the steady pulse that throbbed in his neck. If he turned his head just a little, their lips would touch. The odor of roses was faint and teasing on the capricious breeze, the sea a subtle, gossipy whisper. Their expressive silence went on. She should ask why they were standing here, it occurred to her vaguely; but she knew why, and to ask would break the spell. More than anything she wanted to lay her head on his shoulder and press her lips to the side of his throat. Or tug on his earlobe with her teeth. The seconds wandered past, lazy and unnoticed, until Lily finally murmured, “I must be heavy.”

  He could have held her all day, all night. Forever. “Light as a feather,” he answered. A banal analogy. “Or a lily,” he amended whimsically, watching her soft, sensitive mouth. “A long, graceful lily, as white as your skin.”

  A drawn-out sigh was the only response she was capable of making. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and felt his chest begin to rise and fall against her bosom in a different rhythm. The longing to kiss him was like wine in a tall glass, rising to the brim, ready to overflow. She said, “Dev,” in a husky whisper, and closed her eyes.

  “Well, are you coming out or not?” called Clay from behind the lacy trellis of greenbrier and clematis they’d thought had concealed them. “What’s keeping you? Is Lily all right?”

  Devon made a noise in his throat that summed up perfectly all the frustration Lily was feeling at that moment, and stepped down from the shallow portico to the flagstone path.