Lily (27 page)

But she didn’t sleep. There was no position in which she could be comfortable for long. He shifted and turned her when he could, and continued to bathe her limp, sweating body. The long night wore on, and pain and exhaustion ate away at what was left of her composure. Close to dawn, she gave up her silent suffering and went back to the frail, pitiful weeping he’d walked in on.

He could not bear it. He grabbed up the vial of laudanum, splashed some into the tea, and made her drink it, all of it. Then he went to the other side of the bed and got under the covers beside her. She tried to see him, peering around her shoulder, but her hair was in her eyes. He smoothed it back and settled himself on his side behind her. He kept his hands light and, as much as possible, impersonal, one tucked under her waist and the other resting on her hip. He started to talk.

He told her about the things they would do when she was well. Had she ever been to Penzance? No? They would go there first, then. The west winds were so warm that even in winter the fuchsias grew as big as trees. The gardens were lush with camellias and myrtle, tamarisk and hydrangeas, and the hedges were draped with Hottentot figs. Wild orchids grew on the moorlands, and rare clovers covered the cliff summits in a blaze of color. Had she seen Land’s End? They would go there next. Desertlike and desolate, it looked like Life’s End, looking out at the edge of the world. King Arthur had lived there, he told her, and maybe Tristan, too. He would show her the monoliths and stone circles and dolmens, and she’d understand why Cornishmen still believed in giants. After that they’d go to St. Austell and look at the great mounds of china clay, white as the Alps, strange moon-mountains shining in the sun. Would she like to go down in his copper mine? He’d take her if she liked. And he’d take her to Lizard Point and show her the serpentine rocks, deep green streaked with red and purple, the green as beautiful as her eyes.

He kept talking until his throat was dry and his voice was hoarse. While he talked he touched her, a light stroking across her shoulder and down her arm to the curve of her hip, and lightly back up again. At sunrise the rain stopped, suddenly, and in the dripping quiet he heard her deep, regular breathing. She was asleep.

He turned on his back carefully, quietly. Blood returning to his numbed left side made his body tingle. But he kept one hand pressed gently to the small of her back, fearful of losing contact. He closed his eyes. Beyond the exhaustion, a vast relief made him feel weak. She was going to recover. Gratitude flooded through him, humbled him. He hadn’t thanked God for anything in years.

He did now.

The worst was over.

Once she was able to rest, Lily found she could bear the pain of her injuries, and soon the laudanum, still administered in small, careful doses, was sufficient to give her ease. On the third day she slept round the clock. Dr. Penroy congratulated himself for fending off a serious fever; still, to be on the safe side, he wanted to bleed her again. Devon forbade it, arguing that she was too weak already, she was as limp as a rag, and personally he didn’t hold with bloodletting anyway. The doctor had drawn himself up, demanding to know who was the physician here. Devon replied that apparently it was young Dr. Marsh, from Truro, and he was sending for him in the morning. Penroy went away in a huff.

Appalled at his colleague’s prescription, Dr. Marsh called for spirits of camphor to relieve Lily’s raw throat, and almost overnight the inflammation decreased; soon she could swallow and even speak without too much discomfort. The worst was her ribs; that pain was lingering and acute, and endured long after her other aches and injuries faded. Nevertheless, after five days she could sit up; in a week she could walk around the room—slowly, and if someone helped her.

Usually it was Lowdy, or Rose if Lowdy wasn’t available. Clay visited her almost every day, just for a few minutes. At first his solicitude astonished Lily. He didn’t know her at all, and the social barriers between them—the real one and the one he believed was there—should have insured that his interest never went beyond the barest courtesy. But she soon came to believe that Clay was kind to her because he was a kind man, and perhaps also because he liked her. Her reserve melted, and she began to look forward to his visits because he always cheered her up. His high spirits were contagious, his good humor irresistible. The only disadvantage to his company was that sometimes he made her laugh—and that was excruciating.

Devon came every day too, morning and evening, with great faithfulness. But his company didn’t cheer her. Much of the aftermath of the Howes’ assault was a blur to her now, but the memory of his gentleness during the longest night of her life was crystal clear and indelible. So it was hard to reconcile this stiff, unsmiling, painfully polite visitor with the man whose patience and compassion had pulled her back at the last moment from the edge of despair. Now he was distant, stern-faced, uncomfortable, and he behaved as if he hardly knew her, or as if something in their mutual past deeply embarrassed him.

She could imagine what that might be easily enough. She began to dread his dutiful visits as much as she looked forward to his brother’s. After inquiring about her health, he would run out of conversation, and she felt equally constrained. After that, instead of taking his leave, he would sit and stare off into neutral space, and wait until the silence between them was so awful she wanted to scream. Then he would mutter some courteous civility and go away.

One night he didn’t come. He’s late, she thought at half past eight, and wondered what he might be doing. She told herself she was glad, that she hoped he wouldn’t come. She plumped her pillows and went back to her book. At eight-forty-five she closed it, keeping her finger in her place. Was that a step in the hall? She heard the far-off, intermittent sound of waves charging and retreating, the unruly thud of a moth at the half-closed window. Nothing else. She stared at the long, smooth shadows in the corners of the room, the glimmering paleness of the ceiling. The scent of moonflowers drifted in from the garden below. The ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel sounded petty and mean-spirited. She returned to her book, but the words looked random now, like ants parading across white sand. He wasn’t coming.

At ten o’clock she heard footsteps. Her heart leapt; her hand fluttered to the high collar of her nightgown. The door opened, and Lowdy bustled in.

“Ee’re red as a rose, all flushed-like,” she observed, peering at her in the candlelight. “Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Galen just got done askin’, and I said, ‘She’m doing brave, don’t ee worry a speck about Lily,’ and ’ere I find you all pink-faced and faint.”

“I’m not faint. You startled me a little when you came in, that’s all.”

“Well, that’s all right, then. Speakin’ o’ Galen, ’e give me this t’ give to you.”

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.”