The Lady of Lyon House

by Jennifer Wilde

  I sat down in a corner, watching all the forced activity. I wanted to laugh and tell them that this was not real. The only thing real was the danger. It was there, upstairs, waiting for me. I did not know why. There was no reason I could explain for it, but it had been stalking me for over a week. Mattie was sending me away to Devonshire in the morning, away from danger. I wondered if it would follow me there.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I STOOD ON THE little station platform, my baggage piled in a neat stack behind me. The train had pulled out long ago, sending pale white plumes of smoke into the air. There had been no one here to meet me, and I felt like an orphan who has been deserted by the world. I tried to look pleasant, smiling at all the various people who passed me by, hoping one of them would come up to me and ask my name. No one did. Mattie had said Corinne Lyon’s nephew would be waiting at the station. He had not shown up. I was beginning to get a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I tried not to think it was all some horrible joke.

  The train ride had been pleasant. I had never been on a train before. At first I was a little frightened, but gradually the monotonous movement and the sound of the wheels screeching on the metal tracks had lulled me into a pleasant lethargy. As London faded away and I began to see the countryside through the window, my excitement grew. I forgot all that had happened: rolling green hills with tall trees growing on their crests, yellow buttercups scattered over a field, a ribbon of sparkling blue river that wound through a violet-gray valley. Sometimes there were ugly industrial towns with many smokestacks and soot-covered houses, but more often the villages were neat and clean, like pretty toys flung out on the landscape.

  Devonshire was lovely. Against a pale blue sky tall trees raised their stately limbs, throwing light purple shadows on the ground. Wildflowers grew in profusion in the meadows and valleys we passed, and in all the villages there were neat flowerbeds in front of all the houses. This village was no exception. From where I stood I could see the town square, a vivid patch of green, bordered on each side with beds of blue and orange and white crocuses. There was a tarnished old cannon on the square, and two little boys played on it. I could see the tall bronze steeple of the church reaching up to touch the sky and all the oak trees that spread shade over the sidewalks and streets. It was incredibly peaceful and serene. I had never known such beauty.

  There was a little tea shop behind me on the platform, pink brick with white door and windows and a white awning rolled out for shade. In the window I could see stacks of tiny glazed cakes and a silver pot. It was late, and I was beginning to grow hungry. Mattie had packed a basket for the train ride, but I had eaten the cold fried chicken and sandwiches long ago. I was almost ready to go into the tea shop when I saw a carriage turn into the street. It was sleek and shiny, with a beautiful dappled gray horse pulling it.

  The carriage stopped and a man got out. He looked around, and when he saw me he smiled. He came towards me, pulling off his yellow gloves. I knew it must be Edward Lyon, finally come to fetch me.

  He was a handsome young man with thick auburn hair that shone with deep copper highlights. His face was very tanned, and he had large brown eyes beneath darkly arched brows. His nose was Roman, and his lips were large, curled now in a friendly smile. He was very tall, and thin. His shoulders were enormous, and I remembered that Mattie had said he played soccer at Oxford. I could easily believe it. He had a strong, muscular body that rippled with power. He was beautifully groomed, wearing glossy knee-high brown boots and a rust colored suit with dark brown lapels. His vest was dark green, and he wore a black and white striped ascot. He took my hand and shook it warmly.

  “Miss Meredith? I am Edward Lyon. I’m so sorry about being late. I was out riding and completely forgot that I was to pick you up today. Corinne had a small fit when I got in. I hardly had time to change. Will you forgive me?”

  “Of course, Mr. Lyon.”

  “So formal. You could call me Edward, you know, or even Ed. That would be nice.”

  “In time perhaps,” I replied.

  I spoke rather stiffly, but it was not intentional. This man had an overwhelming presence that almost frightened me. He was virile and vital, charged with life, and he intimidated me. Power and energy and red corpuscles and muscle and strength were bounding, all brought together with a casual, natural charm that made itself felt immediately. He spoke in a smooth, husky voice, and what words did not convey his eyes did. He had what theatrical people called command, a certain magnetism that drew one’s attention immediately and riveted it on him. It was a rare quality, and Edward Lyon had it to excess.

  He was still holding my hand, and I pulled my fingers away gently. Edward Lyon smiled. He was staring at me in a frank, unabashed manner that made me highly uncomfortable.

  “Is there something wrong?” I asked.

  “No. Was I being rude?”

  “You were staring at me.”

  “I’m sorry. I just can’t get over my surprise.”

  “Surprise?”

  “Yes. You see, I had expected someone quite different. When Corinne told me I had to come to the station to pick up the young ward of one of her old friends, I imagined a plain, rather prissy old maid, someone much older.”

  “I see.”

  “I dreaded it, to be quite frank. I could see myself in weeks to come, playing cards with two women, escorting the old maid to bazaars and church socials and listening to dreary conversation about cats and crochet and tomato plants. I was planning to escape.”

  “Escape?”

  “Leave Lyon House for the duration.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I shall anticipate every moment of it.”

  “You’re being very gallant, Mr. Lyon.”

  “I hope I sound sincere as well as gallant.”

  I smiled, unable to resist his charm. He took my elbow and led me to the carriage, an elegant black surrey with heavy yellow upholstery. He handed me into it, and I spread my skirts out over the seat while he piled my luggage in the back seat. He swung into the seat beside me and took up the reins. He clicked them smartly and the dappled gray horse began to move down the street at a slow trot. We passed under the marvelous oak trees, through the main part of the village, and soon we were on a winding gray road that led out into the countryside.

  “Tell me about yourself,” Edward Lyon said.

  “There isn’t much to tell. I am eighteen years old. I live in London with Mattie and Bill Jameson. I have four puppets. I do an act with them at the music hall. My parents died when I was a little girl.”

  “You have no relatives?”

  “A sister, Maureen. I haven’t seen her for eight years.”

  I answered the questions rather briskly, not at all pleased that he was being so inquisitive. He seemed to sense this. He smiled, the corners of his lips turning up, and when he turned to me I could see his dark brown eyes dancing with merriment.

  “I’m a boorish creature,” he said lightly. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it seems I always am. I can’t help it. When I meet people I like, I want to know all about them. The best way to find out is to ask questions.”

  He grinned at me. He had the direct appeal of a little boy. While we drove I told him about my life in London. I told him about the music hall and the boarding house and all my friends there. I told him about meeting Charles Dickens and about each of the puppets. Already, as we rode along this lovely country road, it seemed far away, and there was a touch of sadness in my voice as I talked about it.

  “It sounds like an enchanting kind of life,” Edward Lyon remarked. “Why did your guardian want to send you away from it?”

  “I—I don’t really know. She thought a few weeks in the country would do me good.”

  “So it will,” Edward Lyon replied. “So it will. Still, it seems a little strange.”

  “Mattie had her reasons,” I said.

  I had no intention of speaking about that other. I wanted to forget about it entirely, and I was not
going to think about it if I could help it. It, too, was far away, already a thing of the past, a vague, shadowy nightmare that had no substance here.

  “Tell me about Lyon House,” I said, changing the subject.

  “It’s a lovely place, not too large, but a grand estate just the same. Lyons have lived in it for two hundred years, ever since it was built during the reign of Elizabeth. Rumor has it that the great queen herself once stayed there, but I’ve never been able to find any verification of the story. It will belong to me one day, when Corinne dies. I’m not sure I want the responsibility.”

  “Responsibility?”

  “There is so much upkeep on a place like Lyon House, and there are the tenant farms, seven of them, surrounding the place. It takes all one’s energies to run such an establishment—doesn’t leave much time for fun.”

  “Is fun so important?” I asked.

  “For me it is. I want to enjoy myself. I want to travel and meet interesting people and ride and hunt and go to parties. I don’t want to be tied down by a house, no matter how grand.”

  “That’s an absurd viewpoint,” I said. “Life isn’t meant for that when you have—well, a tradition to uphold. You should be proud. You should consider yourself fortunate.”

  “Nobly spoken,” he replied. He laughed, throwing his head back. I noticed again the rich copper highlights in his auburn hair. The wind ruffled the thick waves and it curled about the nape of his neck. He had long sideburns, beautifully trimmed. Everything about the man was neat and well groomed.

  “I’d imagine I’m talking for my own benefit,” he said. “I love the place, actually. It’s just that I have no deep-seated sense of tradition. Since my uncle had no sons, it has always been assumed that I would take over Lyon House, following the illustrious footsteps of my ancestors. There’s a whole gallery of family portraits at the house. I used to be frightened of them when I was a little boy—such severe, serious old men with such sober eyes and tight mouths. I don’t see myself hanging alongside them in an ornate gold frame.”

  “Have you always lived at Lyon House?” I asked.

  “Yes. My father was the second son; his misfortune. He went into the Army, and later my mother followed him there. I was born in Calcutta. My mother slowly expired under the climate, and she died three years after my birth. I was sent back to England to live here in Devonshire. When I was seven, my father died of the fever in Bengal. I never knew either of my parents.”

  “How very sad,” I said.

  “So you and I have something in common,” he said lightly, flicking the whip over the horse’s back. “Both orphans, but we’ve turned out rather nicely, don’t you think?”

  I asked him about Oxford, wishing to divert the conversation from its rather maudlin course. Edward Lyon launched into a colorful account of his exploits among the halls of ivy. He had been shockingly poor in all his studies and had managed to leave the school only through the grace of a flock of tutors and the strength of the family name. He told me about his drinking and gambling and the mountain of debts, about the frolicksome escapades that had threatened to send him home in disgrace. He told me how he had wanted to throw everything to the winds and run away to Greece with a young companion and write poetry among the ruins.

  “Byron’s influence, you know. Never came to anything. I stayed to take my exams and, believe it or not, passed them all. Rather a lark, the whole thing.”

  “And so now you are back at Lyon House, champing at the bit,” I remarked.

  “Not champing exactly. Restless—or at least I was until now. Now Lyon House seems delightfully promising.”

  “You’re being gallant again,” I said.

  “Dreadful of me. You’ll have to learn to put up with it, Julia.”

  The horse trotted down the curving gray road. We passed fields of grain, waving golden brown in the breeze, and tenant farms, all neat and clean, square white houses with thatched roofs, large red barns, pastures with cows grazing beneath the trees. The pale blue sky was momentarily blotted out as we turned into a long avenue of trees, their branches joining overhead to form a tunnel. Sunlight sifted through them and dappled the road with specks of gold. I looked up at the dark green leaves, seeing occasional patches of sky when they separated. The horse’s hooves pounded on the firm packed road.

  “Devonshire is lovely,” I said.

  “Particularly at this time of year,” Edward Lyon replied. “There are flowers everywhere, if you care for that sort of thing.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Not madly, no. Corinne does. Her gardens are famous in these parts. They’re her great pride.”

  We passed over a gray stone bridge that spanned a small river that bubbled over flat white pebbles. Willow trees dripped their jade green branches along the white sand bank and into the blue water. He told me that the stream wound through the Lyon estate, passed through the village and eventually went out into the sea, a few miles away. We passed another farm. A farmer was plowing in a field, turning over rich black soil with his primitive plow. There was a patch of woods, and then a clearing filled with scarlet-orange poppies growing in wild profusion. Their odor was heady. I closed my eyes to savor it.

  “The country has a strange effect on people,” Edward Lyon remarked as we drove over another stone bridge. “Some people fall in love with it immediately and some immediately grow nervous and long for the pavements of the city. I fall somewhere in between the two categories. Is this your first time in the country?”

  “Yes it is,” I replied, “and it is a revelation.”

  Edward Lyon smiled. He flicked the whip again and the horse moved at a brisker trot.

  We were passing along a lovely avenue of elm trees, growing tall and graceful behind a white wooden fence on either side of the road. I could see green slopes behind them and, farther off, the crest of a mountain that was merely a purple haze, like a cloud. Edward Lyon told me that we were almost at Lyon House now, and I felt my pulses quicken with nervous excitement.

  “I am a little apprehensive about meeting Mrs. Lyon,” I confessed. “I feel like I am imposing on her, coming like this.”

  “Nonsense. Corinne went into fits of excitement when her friend wrote her about you. Lyon House gets pretty lonely sometimes. There is no one but the servants and Agatha and me to keep the old lady occupied during the day. She’ll welcome you with enthusiasm. You’ll be a diversion for her.”

  “What is she like?”

  “Corinne? She’s a dragon. Terrifying until you get to know her. She always has been. Bossy, temperamental, autocratic, but grand. She is gracious and generous and warm hearted, despite appearances, but she is determined to have her own way about everything. She usually does. There is no one in the county with guts enough to defy her. She loves to shock people and feels she must fly off the handle two or three times a day just to keep in shape.”

  “Oh dear, you’re making me nervous,” I said.

  “Don’t be. Stand up to her and snap back, and Corinne will love you. She has spirit, and she loves spirit in others. She’s a bit larger than life, a grand old eccentric of the old school. I adore her. She tolerates me.”

  “She’s a widow, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, my uncle died five years ago. People of the county expected his death to tone her down some, but Corinne was out riding the morning after his death, charging over the hills and galloping down the roads on her fine white stallion. The people were scandalized, horrified at her lack of respect, but it was the kind of gesture they had grown to expect from Corinne. Anything less spectacular would have disappointed them.”

  “Does she still ride?”

  “Every morning at seven. She’s in her middle fifties, but she’s aglow with health. She wears a tan riding habit and a tan derby with a long moss green veil that flies behind her like a banner. It’s one of the famous sights of the county.”

  “She sounds formidable.”

  “She isn’t, not after the first shock has worn off. Ev
eryone loves her, in spite of her shrewish temper and scalding tongue. The tenants of Lyon House worship her. There are no finer farms in this part of the country, and that’s because the people are happy and work well.”

  “Tell me about Agatha Crandall. She’s a paid companion, isn’t she? I think Mattie told me that.”

  Edward Lyon frowned. I saw a dark line crease his brow; and his eyes grew dark. He scowled, and his face was suddenly unpleasant like that of a petulant schoolboy.

  “Agatha was a girlhood friend of Corinne’s. They went to school together. Agatha’s husband died shortly after my uncle, and she came to Lyon House for a visit. She was penniless, had no place else to go, so she just stayed on. Corinne took her in like you would take in a stray cat. Mrs. Crandall isn’t much companionship. She spends most of her time in her room, wearing Corinne’s cast off clothes and drinking the cellar dry.”

  “You don’t like her?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t approve of her. If Corinne wants to have her around, that’s her business.”

  “How many servants are there?” I asked.

  “The cook, the housekeeper, two maids and the gardener. They are all new, haven’t been at Lyon House a month. Corinne runs through servants rather quickly. A few of her tantrums and they ask for their pay and leave. I’m hoping this new batch will prove more durable.”

  The carriage rolled through the avenue of elms and turned, passing through two gray stone portals. We came upon a large apple orchard, the fruit hanging heavily on the branches of the trees. The apples were still green, though some of them were slowly turning a soft rose shade. The ground below was dark with shade, covered with dead leaves and rotting apples, and I could smell their sharp odor. On the other side of the orchard there was a small cream brick house, tall and narrow with two stories and a dark brown roof. There were brown shutters around each window, and ivy grew up one side of the house, clinging to the brick in dark green strands, dusty. The porch was varnished golden oak, and there was a small portico of the same material. A gigantic oak tree in the front yard spread violet shade over the yard, and there were shabby gardens on either side of the house, a path of gray flagstones winding through them. It was a charming place, and I asked if it was part of Lyon House.