by Mary Balogh
"Then I shall prove it to you," she had told him.
That was why they were in the book room. Lily had challenged the marquess to withdraw any book from any shelf and she would read the first sentence aloud.
"Are there any books of sermons here, Elizabeth?" he asked, looking along the shelves.
"I say," Mr. Wylie told Lily, "I would take your word for it, Miss Doyle. I am sure you read very prettily indeed. And I cannot see that it matters if you don't. I was merely making conversation."
Lily smiled at him.
"Gallantry to ladies," Elizabeth said, "was never Joseph's strongest point, Mr. Wylie. There are no sermons, Joseph. I hear enough at church on Sundays."
"A shame," he muttered. "Ah, here, this will do—The Pilgrim's Progress." He made a great to-do about drawing the leather-bound volume from the shelf and opening it to the first page before handing the book to Lily.
She was laughing and feeling horribly flustered at the same time. She felt even more embarrassed when someone else appeared in the doorway and she saw that it was the Duke of Portfrey. He must have just arrived and had come to greet Elizabeth.
"Ah, Lyndon," she said, "Joseph has insulted Lily by claiming that she is illiterate. She is about to prove him wrong."
The duke smiled and stood where he was in the doorway, his hands clasped behind him. "We should have had a wager on it, Attingsborough," he said. "I would be about to relieve you of a fortune."
"Oh, dear," Lily said. "I do not read very well yet. I may not be able to decipher every word." She bent her head and saw with some relief that the first sentence was not very long; neither did it appear to contain many long words.
" 'As I walked through the wild-er-ness of this world,' " she read in a halting monotone, " 'I l-lighted on a cer-tain place where was a den, and I laid me down in that place to sleep; and, as I slept, I drrr-eamed a dream.' " She looked up with a triumphant smile and lowered the book.
The gentlemen applauded and the marquess whistled.
"Bravo, Lily," he said. "Perhaps you are bound for heaven after all. My humblest, most abject apologies." He took the book from her hands and closed it with a flourish.
Lily glanced toward the Duke of Portfrey, who had taken a couple of steps closer to her. But her smile died. He was staring at her, all color drained from his face. Everyone seemed to notice at the same time. An unnatural hush fell on the room.
"Lily," he said in a strange half whisper, "where did you get that locket?"
Her hand lifted to it and covered it protectively. "It is mine," she said. "My mother and father gave it to me."
"When?" he asked.
"I have always had it," she told him, "for as long as I can remember. It is mine." She was frightened again. She curled her fingers around the locket.
"Let me see it," he commanded her. He had come within arm's length of her.
She tightened her hold of the locket.
"Lyndon—" Elizabeth began.
"Let me see it!"
Lily took her hand away and he stared at the locket, his face paler if that were possible—he looked as if he might well faint.
"It has the entwined F and L," he said. "Open it for me. What is inside?"
"Lyndon, what is this?" Elizabeth sounded annoyed.
"Open it!" His grace had taken no notice of her.
Lily shook her head, sick with terror even though there were four other people in the room besides the two of them. The Duke of Portfrey seemed unaware of them—until he withdrew his eyes from the locket suddenly and passed one hand over his face. Then while they all watched silently he loosened his neckcloth sufficiently that he could reach inside his shirt to pull out a gold chain that bore a locket identical to the one Lily wore.
"There were only two of them," he said. "I had them specially made. Is there anything inside yours, Lily?"
She was shaking her head. "My papa gave it to me," she said. "He was not a thief."
"No, no," he said. "No, I am quite sure he was not. Is there anything inside?"
She shook her head again and took one step back from him. "It is empty," she said. "The locket is mine. You are not going to take it from me. I will not let you."
Elizabeth had come to stand beside her. "Lyndon," she said, "you are frightening Lily. But what is the meaning of this? You had two such identical lockets specially made?"
"The L stands for Lyndon," he said. "The F is for Frances. My wife. Your mother, Lily."
Lily stared at him blankly.
"You are Lily Montague," he said, gazing back at her. "My daughter."
Lily shook her head. There was a buzzing in her ears.
"Lyndon." It was Elizabeth's voice. "You cannot just assume that. Perhaps—"
"I have known it," he said, "since the moment I set eyes on her in the church at Newbury. Apart from the blue eyes, Lily bears a quite uncanny resemblance to Frances—to her mother."
"I say! Look to Miss Doyle," one of the gentlemen was saying, but his words were unnecessary. The Duke of Portfrey had lunged for her and caught her up in his arms.
Lily, only half conscious, was aware of her locket—no, his—swinging from his neck just before her eyes.
He set her down on a sofa and chafed her hands while Elizabeth placed a cushion behind her head.
"I had no proof, Lily," his grace said, "until now. I knew you must exist, though I had little evidence for that either. But I could not find you. I have never quite stopped searching for you. I have never been quite able to proceed with my life. And then you stepped into that church."
Lily was turning her head from side to side on the cushion. She was trying not to listen.
"Lyndon," Elizabeth said quietly, "go slowly. I am well-nigh fainting myself. Imagine how Lily must be feeling."
He looked up at Elizabeth then and about the room.
"Yes," she said, "the other gentlemen have tactfully withdrawn. Lily, my dear, do not fear. No one is going to take anything—or anyone—away from you."
"Mama and Papa are my mother and father," Lily whispered.
Elizabeth kissed her forehead.
"What is going on in here?" a new voice asked briskly from the doorway. "Joseph told me as I was walking through the door that I had better get in here fast. Lily?"
She gave a little cry and stumbled to her feet. She was in his arms before she could take even one step away from the sofa—tightly enfolded in them, her face against his neckcloth.
"I am the one who has upset her, Kilbourne," the Duke of Portfrey said. "I have just told her that she is my daughter."
Lily burrowed closer into warmth and safety.
"Ah, yes," Neville said quietly. "Yes, she is."
***
"The letter was addressed to Lady Frances Lilian Montague," Neville said. "But someone had written beneath it in a different hand—or so the vicar assured me—'Lily Doyle.' "
He was sitting on the sofa beside Lily, her hand in his, her shoulder leaning against his arm. She was gazing down at her other hand in her lap. She was showing no apparent interest in the conversation. The Duke of Portfrey had crossed the room and come back with a glass of brandy, which he had held out silently to her. She had shaken her head. He had set it down and pulled up a chair so that he could sit facing her. He was gazing at her now, his eyes devouring her. Elizabeth was pacing the room.
"If only we could know what was in the letter," his grace said wistfully.
"But we do." Neville drew the duke's eyes from Lily for a moment. "The letter was addressed to Lily Doyle. William Doyle was her next of kin though he had not known of her existence. The vicar opened the letter and read it to him."
"And the vicar remembers its contents?" his grace asked sharply.
"Better yet," Neville said. "He made a copy of the letter. After reading it, he advised William Doyle to take it over to Nuttall Grange, to Baron Onslow, Lily's grandfather. But he believed that William had a right to a copy of it too. He seemed to feel that the Doyles might wish to c
laim some sort of compensation for the years of care Thomas Doyle had given Lily."
Lily was pleating the expensive lace of her overdress between her fingers. She was like a child sitting quietly and listlessly while the adults talked.
"You have this copy?" the duke asked, his voice tight.
Neville drew it out of a pocket and handed it over without a word. His grace read silently.
"Lady Lyndon Montague informed her father that she was going to stay with an ailing school friend for a couple of months," Neville said after a few minutes. Elizabeth had come to sit close by. "In reality she went to stay with her former maid and the girl's new husband—Beatrice and Private Thomas Doyle—in order to give birth to a child."
Lily smoothed out the creases she had created and then proceeded to pleat the lace again.
"Her marriage to Lord Lyndon Montague had been a secret one," Neville said, "and both had pledged not to reveal it until his return from his posting to the Netherlands. But he was sent on to the West Indies with his regiment and she discovered she was with child. She was afraid of her own father's wrath as well as his. Worse, she was afraid of her cousin, who was pressing her to marry him so that he would inherit the fortune and the estate as well as the title after Onslow's death. She was afraid of what he would do to her—and the child—if he discovered the truth."
"Mr. Dorsey?" Elizabeth asked.
"None other." His grace had folded the letter and held it in his lap. His gaze had returned to Lily. "We were foolish enough to believe that our marriage would protect her from him. The opposite was, of course, true."
"She was afraid to go home and take the baby with her," Neville said. "She was waiting for her husband to return from the West Indies—she had written to him there to tell him of her condition. In the meantime she left the baby with the Doyles. She must have intended to write to her husband again after she returned home. But he was an officer and therefore always in danger of death. And she must have been very fearful for her own safety. And so she left her locket with the baby and a letter to be given to her husband on his return or to her daughter in the event that neither of them ever came for her."
"I always suspected," his grace said, "that her death was no accident. I suspected too that Dorsey had killed her. She had indeed written to tell me there was to be a child—but if she wrote another letter, I certainly did not receive it. When she died there was no child within her, and no one knew of any recently born to her. She might have been mistaken when she wrote that first letter, I realized, or she might have miscarried. But somehow I have always known that there was a child, that there was someone in this world who was my son or my daughter. I explored every possibility I could think of—but I did not know about Beatrice Doyle."
"Lyndon," Elizabeth asked, "is it Mr. Dorsey who has tried to kill Lily, then? But surely not. I cannot believe such a thing of him."
"Onslow is bedridden," Neville said. "Probably it was into Dorsey's hands that William Doyle placed the letter. He would have discovered the truth then, though it would not have appeared very awful to him because Lily was dead. I do wonder, though, if William Doyle's death was accidental. He might have made some awkward claims on Onslow for the years of support given his granddaughter. The vicar at Leavenscourt is perhaps fortunate to be still alive. But then, of course, came Lily's sudden appearance at Newbury. Dorsey was there in the church too. He saw what Portfrey saw and must have realized the truth immediately."
"Lily." The Duke of Portfrey leaned forward in his chair suddenly and possessed himself of her free hand with both his own. The letter slipped unheeded to the floor. "Beatrice and Thomas Doyle were your mama and papa. They gave you a family and security and a good upbringing and an unusually deep love, I believe. No one—least of all me—is ever going to try to take them away from you. They will always be your parents."
She nestled her head against Neville's arm, but he could see that she had raised her eyes to look at Portfrey.
"We loved each other, Lily," Portfrey said, "your m—Frances and I. You were conceived in love. We would have lavished all our affection on you if…" He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "She loved you enough to give you up temporarily for your safety. In twenty years I have never been quite able to lay her to rest or to let go of the possibility of you. We did not abandon you. If you can possibly think of her—of Frances, my wife—as your mother, Lily, if not your mama… If you could possibly think of me as your father… I do not set myself up as a rival to your papa. Never that. But allow me…" He lifted her hand to his lips and then released it and got abruptly to his feet.
"Where are you going?" Elizabeth asked.
"She is in shock," he said, "and I am pressing my own selfish claims on her. I have to leave, Elizabeth. Excuse me? I will call tomorrow if I may. But you must not try forcing Lily to receive me. Look after her."
"Your grace." Lily spoke for the first time since Neville had come into the room. Portfrey and Elizabeth spun around to look at her. "I will receive you—tomorrow."
"Thank you." He did not smile, but he looked at her again as if he would devour her. He made a formal bow and turned toward the door.
"Wait for me, Portfrey, will you?" Neville asked. "I will be with you in a minute."
His grace nodded and left the book room with Elizabeth.
Neville got to his feet and drew Lily to hers. He set his arms about her and drew her close. What must it feel like, he wondered, suddenly to discover that one's dearly loved parents were not one's real mother and father after all? He tried to imagine discovering it of his own parents. He would feel without roots, without anchor. He would feel… fear.
"I want you to forget about the party," he told her, "and go up to your room. Ring for Dolly and then go to bed. Try to sleep. Will you?"
"Yes," she said.
It hurt him to see her so listless, so willing to obey, just like an obedient child. So unlike Lily. But Portfrey was right. She was in deep shock. He was reminded of the way she had been in the hours following Doyle's death.
"Try not to think too much tonight," he said. "Tomorrow you will better be able to adjust to the new realities. I believe you will eventually realize that you have lost nothing. It is one thing, Lily, to care for the child of one's own seed or womb. It is another to love and cherish someone else's child for whom one really has no responsibility at all. That is what your mama and papa did for you. I did not know your mama, but I always marveled that a father could feel such devoted, tender love for his daughter as your papa felt for you. You have not lost them. You have merely gained people who will love and cherish you in the future and not be jealous of the past."
"I am so very tired," she said, and she lifted her face to him—her pale, large-eyed face. "I cannot think straight—or even in crooked lines."
"I know." He lowered his head and kissed her, and she sighed and pushed her lips back against his own and raised her arms to twine about his neck.
He had missed her dreadfully during his journey into Leicestershire. And he had been sick with worry for her safety—especially after reading the letter. Feeling her small, shapely body against his own again, feeling her arms about his neck and her lips cleaving to his awoke hungers that threatened to overwhelm him. But she was in no condition for passion. Besides, there was a matter of grave importance to be attended to tonight—and Portfrey would be waiting for him.
"Go to bed now, my love," he said, lifting his head and framing her face with both hands. "I will see you tomorrow."
"Yes," she said. "Tomorrow. Maybe my brain will work tomorrow."
Chapter 24
Lily awoke from a deep sleep when the early-morning sun was already shining in at her window. She threw back the covers and leaped out of bed as she often did, and stretched. What a strange dream she had been having! She could not even remember it yet, but she knew it had been bizarre.
She stopped midstretch.
And remembered. It had not been a dream.
Sh
e was not Lily Doyle. Papa had not been her father. She was not even Lily Wyatt, Countess of Kilbourne. She was Lady Frances Lilian Montague, a total stranger. She was the daughter of the Duke of Portfrey. Her grandfather was Baron Onslow.
For one moment her mind threatened to take refuge in last evening's daze again, but there was nothing to be served by doing that. She fought panic.
Who was she?
All through those seven months in Spain she had fought to retain her identity. It had not been easy. Everything had been taken from her—her own clothes, her locket, her freedom, her very body. And yet she had clung to the basic knowledge of who she was—she had refused to give up that.
Now, this morning, she no longer knew herself. Who was Frances Lilian Montague? How could that austere, handsome man—with blue eyes like hers—be her father? How could the woman whose initial was twined with his on her locket be her mother?
They had been separated, the duke who was her father and the woman who was her mother, very soon after their marriage. Lily knew what that felt like. She knew the ache of longing and loneliness the woman must have felt. And they had loved each other. Lily had been conceived in love, the duke had told her last evening. They had loved each other and been separated forever. Their child had been left for what had been intended to be a short spell with the people who had become Lily's parents.
Mama and Papa, who had loved her as dearly as any parents could possibly love their child.
The woman, her mother, must have loved her too. Lily pictured to herself how she would have felt if she had had a child of Neville's after their separation. Oh, yes, her mother had loved her. And for over twenty years the duke, her father, had been unable to let go of either his wife or his conviction that somewhere she, Lily, existed.
She did not want to be Lady Frances Lilian Montague. She did not want the Duke of Portfrey to be her father. She wanted her papa to be the man who had begotten her. But it was all true whether she wanted it to be or not. And she could not stop herself from thinking that while for eighteen years she had had the best papa in the world and for the three years since his death had had her memories of him, the Duke of Portfrey for all that time had been without his own child. All those years, so filled with love for her, had been empty for him.
