The Lady of Lyon House

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Occasionally,” I replied. “Mattie and Bill couldn’t always afford it.”

  “Bosh! Didn’t that sister of yours send you money?”

  “Sometimes. Not enough for schooling.”

  “Did you like school when you went?”

  “I adored it,” I admitted.

  “Well, I’m fond of you, child. When you go back to London, I shall see to it that you’re enrolled in the best school for young ladies. All that music hall business can’t be good for you. You’ve got breeding. It shows. We want to develop it!”

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said politely, “but—”

  “No buts! Why must everyone argue with me?”

  Her voice was crisp, almost irritable, but she looked up at me with an expression of real concern in her eyes. Why should Corinne Lyon care about me? I wondered. The raging dragon who had sent the servant girl off in haste wanted to pay my expenses at school. Why? I supposed the rich and eccentric had their whims, and this must be a sudden whim. She must have sensed what I was thinking, for she snapped hatefully and told me to go on about my business. Was the dreadful temper and disposition as much a prison as the house, I wondered? Did it imprison a Corinne who was really thoughtful and kind?

  There was no room for these thoughts as I raced outside. I was too happy at being out in the sunshine and roaming over the countryside to give much serious thought to anything. I wore a pink and white dress and my hair flew free behind me, catching in brambles. The dress was soon splattered with mud and torn, but I did not care. After being confined in the house for three days, it was glorious to be in the fresh air, to feel young and healthy and so alive to everything about me. I was amazed at the watery blue of the sky, the delicate veins in a green leaf, the lichen that clung to the bark of a tree. I ran through the woods like a young cat, heedless of decorum and propriety. It was as if I had just been released from a prison of my own and was savoring the new freedom I felt.

  I sat down on the bank of the river, out of breath. I was rather ashamed of my abandon, but I felt alive with every fiber. I could feel muscle pulling and blood coursing and life charging through me. It was a rare feeling, something I had seldom felt before. Perhaps it was relief after the tedious days inside. Perhaps it was merely youth. I took out my sketchbook and began to draw the fern that grew along the sandy white bank. I leaned back against an old log, my shoes off, my toes in the warm sand. The first drawing was not satisfactory, and I started a new one, peering carefully at the fern and then carefully copying it on the coarse paper. Birds fluttered through the branches of the trees and the water gurgled pleasantly as it flowed over pebbles. Insects buzzed, darting across the rays of sunlight that slanted through the trees.

  I looked through my notes, identified the fern and wrote its name beneath the completed drawing. The spot was idyllic and charming, and I was loathe to leave it, but I wanted to find another specimen to sketch. I would show them proudly to Corinne, and I knew they would please her. I smiled as I thought about what she had said this morning. It would be nice to go to school, to really learn about history and math and all the things I was so ignorant of, but it was, after all, probably just a whim of hers, one she would quickly forget. Still, it had been nice of her to even mention it.

  I strolled through the woods, calmer now, a little tired from my earlier enthusiasm. I saw a rock in a clearing, a ray of yellow sunlight beaming down directly on it. A tiny green grass snake curled at its base as though warming itself in the heat. I saw aspen trees with tremulous leaves that fluttered in the slight breeze, and elm and maple and oak. I collected leaves from each of them and pressed them in my book. I saw tall sunflowers growing directly behind a fence that enclosed one of the fields, their large brown centers surrounded by vividly gold petals. It was pleasant to see a flower and not know what it was, to look it up in my notes and identify it.

  I spent three hours in this manner, wandering around the woods and crossing the fields that were worked by the tenant farmers. I crossed a brook, stepping carefully from one stone to another, the water splashing over my bare feet, my shoes held high in my hand. I climbed over a weathered gray stile and found myself in the middle of the apple orchard that Edward had pointed out the day I arrived in Devonshire. The trees spread heavily laden branches, the fruit green but turning rose colored. The ground beneath was shady and moist, covered with dead leaves. There was the heady odor of rotting fruit. Bees buzzed around apples fallen the year before and not gathered, brown and sour now. I pulled a green apple from a branch and bit into it. It was tart and sour but I ate it just the same. My fingers were soon stained with the juice, and I ate two more, sitting on the stile with my sketchbook in my lap.

  I drew an apple tree, looking up now and then to get the right detail of branch and leaf, munching on the green apples as I drew. I was not pleased with the finished product, so I drew a single leaf, trying to make the veins identical to those in the leaf I held in my hand as an example. I was absorbed in my work and did not hear footsteps approaching. I was not aware of anyone near until a long shadow fell across the paper.

  I looked up, startled. I saw the man and recognized him immediately. I identified him from the thin pink scar that ran from cheekbone to chin. He was the man who had followed me in the fog, I was sure, the same man I had seen in the music hall, sitting at one of the front tables. He did not wear a checked cloak now. He wore a loose white shirt and a pair of doeskin breeches that were stuffed into the tops of tall black boots that had turned-back cuffs, the kind of boots I had always fancied pirates would wear. He looked something like a pirate with his sharp nose, the darkly tanned skin stretched tightly over the bony face, the line of pink scar making a severe contrast.

  My first impulse was to run. I stared at him, too frightened to even move. He stood with his hands on his hips, looking at me with dark brown eyes that were almost black. They were intense eyes, burning darkly. He was very tall, taller than Edward Lyon, with a thin, lanky body that was nevertheless muscular and strong. He would be lithe and rapid, steely in combat, I thought.

  “Who—who are you?” I asked, finally managing to speak. My voice trembled, and I had to hold my sketchbook tightly in my hands to keep them from shaking.

  “I am Philip Ashley,” he replied. His voice was coarse and guttural, a harsh voice that was strangely appealing. A buccaneer’s voice, I thought to myself. “What are you doing in my apple orchard?”

  “Your apple orchard?”

  “I’ve just rented the Dower House. The apple orchard goes with it. I suppose that makes it mine, as long as I pay my rent.”

  “You—you live here?”

  “For the time being,” he retorted sharply. “You haven’t answered my question, young woman. Who are you?”

  I knew very well that he knew who I was. I started to blurt that out, to accuse him of following me in London, of spying on me, but something held me back. A curious calm came over me. I was no longer afraid. I was merely fascinated, as one might be fascinated by a deadly snake. This man evidently wished to pretend he didn’t know me. I could pretend as well. I could be innocent and naive, and perhaps I could learn what this was all about. It might be a dangerous game, but I threw caution aside and looked up at him with large blue eyes.

  “I am Julia Meredith,” I replied. “I am staying at Lyon House. This used to be part of the estate. I didn’t know anyone was living here, or I wouldn’t have trespassed.”

  He scowled, looking at me with those fierce eyes. There was nothing soft or pleasant about Philip Ashley. He was not at all handsome—that was not the word one would use to describe him. Tall, rangy, with long legs and arms and thin shoulders that jutted out beneath the loose folds of linen, there was something fascinating about him. I could not visualize him in a parlor; he would not fit. He would look at home on the deck of a pirate ship, cutlass in hand, or in front of an army, leading his men on to slaughter. He looked as if he wanted to slaughter me now, and I drew back on the stile.
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br />   “Don’t look that way,” he growled.

  “What way?”

  “As though I were going to throttle you just because you stole some apples.”

  I looked down guiltily at the apple cores on the step beside me. He saw the look and laughed. The laughter had the same quality as his voice, harsh, guttural, ugly yet appealing. The man had great force of character; it emanated from him in overpowering waves. No one would ever be unaware of him. I regarded him now. He was no longer a shadowy figure in the fog. He was no longer the mysterious man who came to the music hall each night to see my performance. He was a man of flesh and blood, and as such he was less terrifying, although I felt a tremor as he fixed his eye on me and arched one dark brow.

  “What’s that you have?” he asked.

  “My sketchbook. I’ve been sketching plants.”

  “Hand it to me.” It was a command, and I held the sketchbook out to him. He flipped through the pages, examining my work. His thin lips curled up at one corner, wryly. He arched his brow again and handed the book back to me.

  “Abominable!” he said.

  “Thank you,” I replied crisply.

  “Have you ever drawn before?”

  “Not often.”

  “It shows. Here—” he took the book away from me again. “Let me show you how it’s done. It’s clear you don’t know the first thing about sketching. Give me the pencil.”

  He rested the pad on the top rail of the fence, flipped over to a new page and stared down at the blank expanse of white for a moment. Gripping the pencil with fingers that looked far too brown and strong for such a slender object, he made a few strokes. He glanced at me, dead serious now. There was a frown on his face, and he seemed to be concentrating on some inner image. He stared at me, not seeing me, and then he turned back to the sketchbook. He made a few more strokes, held the pad out to examine the finished result, then handed it to me. It was a sketch of my face. I was amazed at the likeness. He had achieved in a few moments what I could never have done.

  “That’s the way,” he said. “Get the picture focused in your mind and put it down on paper, quickly, before the image fades. Don’t fuss. Don’t bother with neatness and exactness. Above all, don’t study what you’re doing, just slap it down.”

  “Are you an artist?” I asked.

  “Hardly. I dabble a little. That’s why I’m here.”

  “To sketch?”

  “To paint.”

  “What do you do for a living?” I asked.

  “Nothing much,” he replied. “I dabble. I buy, I sell. I loaf most of the time, travel a lot.”

  “You’re from London?” I asked.

  “One of the best families,” he replied, making a mock bow.

  “It’s a wonderful city. I live there, too,” I said.

  He did not rise to the bait. He did not intend to discuss the city. He stood there with his hands on his hips, his legs spread wide apart, staring at me rudely while I gathered my things together. I got down from the stile, brushing my skirt. I was suddenly aware of how I must look, my dress dirty and torn, my hair tangled. There was probably dirt on my face as well. I drew myself up with as much dignity as I could muster under the circumstances.

  “I must be going now,” I said in a cool voice.

  He smiled that diabolical smile. I blushed.

  “You look like an urchin and try to speak like a duchess,” he said. “Don’t look so offended and above all, don’t blush. I abominate young ladies who blush. They think it coy and appealing, while actually it makes them quite unattractive.”

  “You’re incredibly rude,” I said.

  “I also abominate men who mince and flutter over young ladies because they happen to have a pretty face. Your face is pretty, by the way. I’d like to paint it some time.”

  “That’s quite out of the question,” I replied coldly.

  “Pity. It would make a good canvas.”

  “If you will get out of my way, I’ll leave now. I promise not to disturb you any more, Mr. Ashley.”

  He grinned, stepping aside with a flourish of one long arm. “Any time at all, lass. Disturb me all you like, as long as I’m not working. Then I would probably hurl a paint box at you.”

  He walked along beside me, taking great long strides. He was so very tall, casting a long shadow on the path. We walked through the orchard and passed Dower House. It showed signs of his occupancy. Smoke rose from the chimney and the front door was open, a beautiful rust-red dog curled in front of it. He lifted his head as we passed. He was an Irish setter and one of the most beautiful dogs I’d ever seen. He leaped off the porch and bounded up to us. Philip Ashley laid his hand on the dog’s head, stroking it.

  “What a lovely dog,” I remarked.

  “I wouldn’t go anywhere without Harrigan,” he replied. “One thing I want to say before you leave, Miss Meredith. You shouldn’t roam around like this alone. It isn’t safe.”

  “It’s perfectly safe,” I snapped. “Whatever could happen to me?”

  “Suppose I was a rake with a taste for young ladies with blonde hair? I could sweep you off your feet and carry you away to a fate worse than death. Fortunately, I don’t particularly care for blondes.”

  “You’re being absurd,” I said.

  “On the contray, I’m quite serious.”

  I looked up at him. His face was expressionless, the thin pink scar a disconcerting line against the tanned skin. He was serious. I wondered what his game was. It was perplexing, to say the least. He had followed me in the fog, night after night, and then he had come brazenly in to the music hall, sat at one of the front tables, making no effort to conceal himself. Now he had followed me to Devonshire, and he was warning me not to wander around alone. What was he planning? If he meant to do me harm, he had certainly had the opportunity. Instead, he was showing a serious concern for my welfare. I did not trust him. He was waiting for the right time, the right moment to carry out some scheme, and then he would be as ruthless as his demeanor suggested he could be.

  “I seem to be getting all kinds of warnings,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “Edward Lyon warned me not to go to the village alone.”

  “Then I wouldn’t go alone,” Philip Ashley replied.

  “This is Devonshire,” I said crisply. “It isn’t London. There are no white slavers lurking around every corner. There are no thieves or pick pockets or thugs waiting to ply their craft. The most dangerous thing I can think of is a bull getting loose, or perhaps catching poison ivy. I am eighteen years old. I am a full grown woman. I believe I can take care of myself, thank you.”

  “You look twelve,” he said, “with that dirt on your cheek.”

  I wiped my cheek angrily. He grinned.

  “Now tell me about Lyon House,” he said. “Is your family staying there?”

  “I have no family. I am visiting Mrs. Lyon.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about her. I must call on her. It’s the neighborly thing to do.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” I said crisply. “She doesn’t like strangers, Mr. Ashley.”

  “Unsociable?”

  “Extremely.”

  “So I’ve heard. I wonder why. Doesn’t sound like the Corinne Lyon I used to know.”

  “You know Corinne?”

  “I met her once when I was a boy. My father knew her well. He sold her several valuable items.”

  A woodpecker was pecking on the oak tree in the front yard, its scarlet head vivid on the gray body. The noise was loud and monotonous, and the dog barked at the bird and ran towards the tree. Philip Ashley paused to watch as the woodpecker flew away, scolding the intruder. The dog, sleek rust-red in the sunlight, ran around the yard in circles until the woodpecker had disappeared, then he came bounding up to his master, looking pleased with himself.

  “I saw Mrs. Lyon riding down the road this morning,” he said. “Perhaps flying is a better word. She had a long green veil that trailed behind her. Quite an energetic
old lady, isn’t she?”

  “Riding is her outlet,” I said. “You said that your father sold her several things. Is he a tradesman?”

  He ignored the question. He seemed to be thinking about something else. A fence surrounded the lawns of Dower House and we had arrived at the gate. A chain was fastened from the gate to the first slat of the fence, and a rusty lock hung on the chain. I looked around in despair, wondering what I should do. Philip Ashley smiled, touching his lip with the tip of his tongue. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “I have no key,” he said. “It seems to have been lost. I’ll have to saw the chain one of these days. Anyway, it keeps peddlers away. I come and go through the back yard. There’s a stone fence there, quite easy to leap over.”

  He seemed not at all concerned at my dilemma. I felt another blush coming on, and I turned my face away, not wishing to appear coy or naive.

  “Have you any suggestions?” I asked, my voice icy.

  “Tea, perhaps? I could brew some up in a few minutes.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You could come in and see my paintings,” he suggested casually.

  “You’re abominable!” I said.

  “So it would seem. All my friends tell me that.”

  I was furious with him, but I did not intend to let him foil me. I put my foot on the bottom rail of the fence and climbed up, tottering just a little. Philip Ashley made no effort to help me. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his head cocked a little to one side. I climbed over with as little awkwardness as possible, anxious to keep my petticoats hidden. I leaped to the ground on the other side of the fence, and as I did so I heard a loud rip. My skirt had caught on a nail and a great tear had parted the material, exposing great quantities of ruffled petticoat. I gasped, whirling around so that he could not see them. Philip Ashley laughed. He was still laughing as I ran down the road to Lyon House.