Lily (44 page)

She stole another glance; Lily was staring intently at the smoldering coals, and her face made Lowdy set the duster down and go to her. “ ’Ere, now! All’s well, Lily, naught’s amiss but what ee couldn’t cure wi’ a walk in the sun. My blessed parliament, ee did ought t’ get out o’ this place some. Tedn right, livin’ like a moolly ol’ ’ermit—”

Lily shrugged away from Lowdy’s patting hand and shot to her feet. “All right!” she cried, flinging her sewing onto the chair. “I’ll go. I can’t
wait
to go for a walk! Then I won’t have to listen to your infernal nagging tongue!” She crossed the room in four strides, snatched up her straw hat, yanked the door open, and slammed it behind her.

“Come on, Gabriel, we’re going for a damn walk,” she called to the dog, who was chasing a butterfly among the glassy-eyed forget-me-nots along the walk. The tiny garden in front of the cottage was bright with sea-pinks and lavender, she noticed, and wondered when they’d started to bloom. Cowslips nodded along the sides of the gravel drive, and the air was fragrant with heather and clover and willow herb. Violets fought with primroses for room between clumps of bracken and billowing fern. A bosomy robin called from the green-tipped branch of a willow, harsh-voiced over the twittering of invisible larks.

Gradually Lily’s angry pace slowed. She turned into the path that led to the lake—no one would be there, she was sure—just as a randy jackrabbit spotted her, turned a somersault, and bowled away. Big hairy caterpillars climbed in the gorse bushes along the path. A couple of red squirrels contended vigorously for the affections of a third, round and round in the top of a hazelnut tree.

Beside the lake, sunlight streamed across the soft sand, turning it crocus-yellow. Lily plowed through it toward her customary flat rock not far from the blinding blue water. “Don’t you dare bring me another dead fish today, do you hear?” Gabriel gave no sign one way or the other as he ambled away, disappearing among the black boulders along the shore.

She took off her shoes and shook sand out. The sun was warm on her toes. After a moment she stood up and took off her stockings. Then it was impossible not to walk down to the water and dip her feet in—and jump back in shock, for spring might have come to Cornwall, but Pirate’s Mere was still icy cold.

She resumed her seat, brushing wet sand from the soles of her feet, and thought about Lowdy. She hoped she hadn’t hurt her feelings. But lord, she could be so aggravating! But only because she cared, Lily knew—which only compounded her guilt feelings. Lowdy disapproved of the way she lived; she thought it “peculiar.” No doubt it was, but Lily had crafted her jejune, lusterless days this way on purpose. She’d been a guest at Darkstone for two months, albeit a reclusive, seldom-seen one, living in Mr. Cobb’s old house and keeping to herself. Unless absolutely necessary, she talked to no one but Gabriel and the baby. She reminded herself of Meraud, and joked to Gabriel sometimes that it seemed to be his lot in life to live in isolated cottages with strange, lonely women.

She closed her eyes and leaned back on her hands, chin pointed skyward, drawing in deep breaths of the fresh-smelling air. The sun felt wonderful; it seemed to penetrate to her bones—something the coal fire she kept burning day and night never managed to do. Perhaps Lowdy was right, perhaps she ought to get out more. And not just at night when she wouldn’t meet anyone. When she wouldn’t meet Devon.

That strategy had failed her last night. She’d been walking on the headland a little before midnight when she’d suddenly come upon his tall, broad figure after one of the sharp turns in the path. The night was dark; he’d had his back to her, gazing out over the water. Three days ago, for the first time in weeks, he’d knocked on her door. Would she take supper with him and Clay tonight? he’d inquired. She’d refused, and sent him away with harsh words. Last night she felt awkward seeing him again so soon. She had prepared to make a quiet retreat—when he turned around and saw her. Neither spoke for long seconds, and then they both spoke at once. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t see you”—“Tis a dark night to be out alone—” They broke off simultaneously and resumed peering at each other through the next tense silence. “Well,” said Lily, preparing to leave.

“Will you walk with me?” he’d asked hurriedly.

“Why?”

He’d stood straighter, stiffer, and his voice took on the sardonic edge he used with her nowadays and which she hated. “Because it’s spring, it’s a warm night, and we’re going in the same direction.”

“Good reasons, all,” she had said after a taut pause. “Nevertheless, I decline. Good night to you.”

He’d swept her a low, facetious bow. “Good night to
you,
” he countered, and all at once she caught the strong and unmistakable odor of alcohol on his breath.

“Be careful walking home,” she’d told him sharply. “You’re not yourself.”

“No? Who am I?” She made a sound of disgust and started to turn, but he reached for her wrist to hold her. “Would you give a damn if I fell over the bloody cliff?”

With great self-control, she had not tried to wrench her arm free. Ignoring the half-serious tone that lurked behind his fatuous question, she hesitated, as if thinking it over. Then she had said, “No,” very distinctly. His hand had loosened. She’d picked up her skirts and walked away fast.

Gabriel returned, mercifully empty-mouthed. He put his heavy head in her lap and let her scratch his ears. Charlie kicked—she had named the baby Charlie, after her father—and she rubbed her stomach absently with the other hand. Sighing, she acknowledged the foolish part of herself that mourned because she had done something last night to hurt Devon. She comforted herself with the certainty that all she had hurt, all she
could
have hurt, was his pride; nevertheless, being deliberately unkind to someone, even him, was nothing she could take pleasure in.

Harder to acknowledge was the covert excitement she felt at seeing him—twice now in four days. She never missed an opportunity to tell him to leave her alone; and yet when he did, she could hardly bear it. Even on the moor after Meraud’s death, she hadn’t suffered this intense loneliness, this alienation that was so deep it felt like dying. Seeing Devon made her feel alive again, if only with bitterness.

But her resolve hadn’t changed; she still felt nothing but contempt for him, would still leave him as soon as she could. How base of him to use Clay as an excuse to see her! The worst part of her self-imposed exile—nearly the worst—was that it kept her away from Clay. She heard news of the slow progress of his recovery from Lowdy and Mrs. Carmichael, the new housekeeper, but it shamed her that she herself had not gone to see him.

She made an effort to relax, to clear her mind. Distressing thoughts came too often; they upset her—they must upset the baby. She lay back against the sun-warm rock, one hand hanging over the edge to touch Gabriel’s nose. But tears welled in her eyes unexpectedly before she could defend herself, and she felt her desperate sadness returning. “I’m sorry, Charlie,” she whispered, not quite sure what she was sorry for, or why she felt so guilty and repentant. The rules she had made for this temporary time, this waiting period, weren’t working anymore; her defenses had started to crumble, and she was helpless to stop it. It had something to do with the unfolding of spring, and the increasing impossibility of living alone. Isolation was a slow torture for her, completely unnatural, but she’d thought it was the price she must pay for safety and tranquility. More than anything she craved peace, but her strategies for achieving it were failing her.

She swiped at her cheeks. “What do you think of this day, Gabe?” she sniffed, determined to cease her “mooling.” “Lowdy was right, we ought to get out more. Isn’t the sky beautiful? That cloud looks like a man—see it? Smoking a pipe, with his hat slouched over one eye.”

“Talkin’ to the dog again, by Jakes.”

Lily sat up jerkily. “Lowdy, for the love of—Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Weren’t sneakin’ up, were trampin’ loud as you please. I can tramp back, too, if ee don’t want your note.”

“What note?”

“This note. Footboy bringed it just now. ’E’s waitín’ for a ‘response.’ ”

Lily accepted the slip of paper warily, assuming it was from Devon. It wasn’t—it was from Clay. He wanted to see her. Would she join him for tea at four o’clock?

“Well? What’s your ‘response?’ ”

Lily refolded the note carefully. “Yes,” she said, before she could think about it too long. “Tell the boy yes, I’ll come.”

“You’ll come, eh? Well-a-fine, I’ll tell ’im so. Well now, edn that grand? You’ll come.”

“I
said
I’ll come. You can go now, Lowdy, go and tell the boy.”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’. One weasly invitation from young master an’ she’m all at onct a great lady an’ giver o’ orders,” Lowdy said wonderingly. But her eyes twinkled and she sent Lily a glad grin before she whirled and slogged off through the sand.

“I’ve come to see Mr. Darkwell—Clay—Mr. Clayton Darkwell.” How awkward she felt, speaking to Stringer as if she were a guest, a proper lady come to call. The staid, bland-eyed butler had always made her nervous, and never more so than now. “He asked me to come,” she blurted out, defensive.

“Yes, miss. Come this way.”

She followed him through the hall, surprised when he turned neither right nor left at the bottom of the great staircase but continued straight up without stopping. She had assumed Clay would see her in one of the drawing rooms downstairs. This was better—she hoped; she would be much less likely to meet Devon upstairs than down at this time of the day. The house was quiet. Time might have stopped, for everything looked exactly as it had a year ago when she’d first come here. She remembered polishing these stair balusters and dusting this wainscot, straightening the picture frames in the hall. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Stringer arrived at Clay’s door and knocked; a low voice bade them enter. The butler opened the door, stood back to let her pass, and closed it behind her.

“Lily!” Clay pushed himself up against the pillows stacked high at the head of his big canopied bed. He threw a paper and a quill pen aside, staining the coverlet with black ink in the process, and grinned a huge greeting. “Come in, come in!”

She’d been half-afraid he would reproach her. His gladness made her smile, and something hard seemed to dissolve inside her. “Clay, it’s so good to see you.” It felt natural to go to him and give him a soft hug. “But aren’t you well? I had heard you were up and about now. I wouldn’t have come if—”

“I had a c-couple of, um … bad days,” he said carefully. “Sat outside too long on Sunday, Dev says. Now I’m fine. M-M-Marsh, Dr. Marsh, said I can get up tomorrow. Sit down! There’s a chair, or you can sit… here beside me.”

She chose the chair and pulled it close to the bed. She hadn’t known what to expect, and at first Clay’s appearance shocked her. He was rake-thin and nearly as pale as his pillows. The bones in his face jutted out sharply, whitening the skin even more. His fine blue eyes looked huge; his Adam’s apple bobbed prominently in his gaunt throat when he spoke. He looked like an invalid adolescent. But her distress faded while they spoke, for his voice and gestures and expression were still unmistakably the old Clay’s; within minutes she felt comfortable with him, and remembered perfectly why she liked him and how much she’d once treasured his friendship.

“You look beautiful, Lily. No, truly. You’ve been here …” He frowned, trying to reckon it. “How long?”

She looked down, embarrassed. “Almost two months.”

“Yes, two months, and I’ve only see-seen you once. From a distance. You waved to me and then you rrr . .
“

“Ran away.” She colored. “I know. I’m sorry, I—”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said hastily, “don’t worry about it. Sorry to have to mee—meet you here, though. Must bring back memories.” She looked quizzical. “Of the day we met,” he explained, eyes dancing.

Lily laughed, and the unfamiliar sound amazed her. “Yes, that was a very
instructive
morning for me. Quite unforgettable.” She began to relax, and commiserated with Clay while he told her of his excruciatingly slow recovery. “What’s this?” she asked when he paused, fingering the paper he’d tossed aside when she entered. It looked like a drawing.

“It’s a ship.”

“May I see it? Oh, Clay, this is wonderful.” It was only lines to her, with numbers printed on the sides—dimensions, she assumed; but it was done with such sure-handed skill that she was impressed. “It’s really beautiful.”

“Thanks. It’s a sloop.”

“Is it?”

“I was thinking of s-s-sending it to the Revenue Service. It’s an—improvement over their cutters because the bow—bowsprit’s longer and it retracts. And there’s more room for canvas because I’ve extended the width amidships without increasing the size of the hull. See?”

She hmm’ed noncommittally. “Do you find it… a little ironic?” she had to ask.

“Me designing ships for the Customs? Bloody ironic. But it—it seems to be the only thing I can manage right now. And I like it, Lily, I really like it.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“It’s the only thing I’m really good at, even though my poor brain’s not—much up to snuff yet.”

They heard a knock at the door. Clay called, “Come in,” and Francis Morgan came into the room.

“Good afternoon to you,” he greeted them, smiling. If Lily’s presence in Clay’s bedroom surprised him, he was careful not to show it. Fashionable as always, he wore a pale blue coat over a silver waistcoat and bottle-green breeches; his immaculate yellow hair was lightly powdered.

“Hullo, Francis,” Clay called genially. “How are you? Pull up a chai—chair, join us.”

“No, no, I just popped up to say hello; been talking to Devon downstairs. How are you today, Clay?”

“Oh, tip-top. And you?”

“Couldn’t be better. How do you do, Miss—Lily?”

Of course, she thought, he wouldn’t know what to call her—or why she was here again, what her status could possibly be. And what must he think of her pregnancy? Her cheeks burned but she managed a smile, trying to ease his awkwardness. “I’m well, thank you, Mr. Morgan.