Lily (Flower Trilogy) (19 page)

Chrystabel rose from the bed. “Then you should go tell him that. Both of you.”

Although Lily was surprised by the idea, she still felt a prick of hurt when Rand said, “Both of us? I think not.”

“Both of you.” Mum sounded determined. “Since you’ve pledged yourself to Lily, and she to you, the two of you should face life’s difficulties together. And in any case, Lily should meet her future father-in-law.”

“Why? If I have my way, she’ll never meet him at all.”

“Rand . . .” Much as Lily loved and admired him, his relationship with his family was one area she thought could see improvement. Especially now that his “family”

was only his father.

Looking around at her own family, her heart ached for him. Now, more than ever, he needed a reconciliation.

Whether he knew it or not.

“Of course I want to meet your father,” she said softly.

“He’s part of what made you the man I love.”

His gray eyes turned hard as steel. “Whatever I’ve made of myself, ’twas despite him, not because of him.”

She set her jaw, feeling like she was becoming less nice by the minute. “I’m coming with you.”

Silence reigned for a long moment, an unspoken battle of wills. When Rand finally sighed, Lily took that as agreement. “Shall we leave immediately?”

Tempered by her loyalty, the steel in his eyes softened.

“No, we’ll leave tomorrow. Today we’ll tour Oxford and you’ll all stay the night at the inn as planned. The letter was written early last week; my father can wait another day.” He folded the paper as he addressed Kit. “This turn of events will give you a few more days to finish.”

A gasp came from Rose. “A few more days? You two are going to stay at Hawkridge overnight? Together?”

Rand’s lips curved in a wry smile. “Together with a staff of a hundred, the meanest dogs in England, and my very formidable father. He’s a marquess, if you’ll remember.”

And Rose, Lily reflected, was unlikely to forget that.

“’Tis entirely proper,” Mum said. “Lily and Rand are betrothed, and I’m certain there will be chaperones aplenty.”

Father frowned and reached for his pouch. “Who needs a loan of twenty?”

“No one needs any money, darling.” Chrystabel patted his cheek. “Our Lily is going to visit Rand’s family, that is all.” She, for one, didn’t look at all displeased with the developments. She turned back to Lily and Rand. “I’m glad you’ll be staying until tomorrow, though. Rowan would hate to miss his tour, would you not, Rowan?” She glanced around. “Rowan?”

Lily quickly scanned the chamber, although given the lack of furniture there was certainly nowhere to hide.

“He’s not here, Mum. Did he even come up with us?”

A moment later, they were all fanning out through the house. Knowing her brother well, Lily headed straight downstairs. Her heart lurched when sounds of a crash came through the front windows.

She hurried outdoors to find Rowan sprawled on the ground, splattered with white paint from a bucket lying nearby, its contents splashed all over the bare dirt yard.

Above him, the scaffolding tilted at a crazy angle.

He swiped at his face, only smearing the paint more.

“Zounds, that thing is rickety.”

She paused long enough to yell back through the door.

“I’ve found him! He’s outside!” Then she turned to him, a hand to her still-racing heart. “Rand told you it was dangerous. Where is the painter? You shouldn’t be out here alone. You shouldn’t be out here at all.”

Rowan shrugged. “I’m all right.” He pushed to his feet—or rather, he tried to. “Ouch!” he hollered as he collapsed back to the dirt.

She rushed to kneel beside him. “Is it your ankle?” She tugged off his boot.

“Ouch!” Unmanly tears sprang to his eyes. “It hurts.

This is God’s reckoning for my stupid mistake; I just know it.”

Gently she probed his ankle, relieved to find no indication of a break, although it was swelling rapidly. Her pulse calmed. “Yes, I suppose you should have listened to Rand,” she said sympathetically, still exploring the injury.

“Rand? What does Rand have to do with this?”

“Rowan, what are you talking about?”

“Ouch!” he wailed. “The barn!”

“The barn?” She released his foot and glanced up at his paint-stained face. “What about the barn?”

His cheeks flushed red under the splatters. “I told you about the barn.”

“Told me what?”

“About the practical joke, and how it went wrong, but I didn’t have any of Mr. Boyle’s fire-making things . . . it was a mistake,” he finished weakly, obviously realizing that although they’d talked about mistakes, he’d never admitted to starting the fire.

Or not in so many words. She should have realized,

though—she liked to think she was smart enough to put two and two together. But she’d been focused on her own problems, her own mistakes, her love for Rand and her promise to her sister.

Shock and anger made her voice shrill. “You set it?

You set the fire?”

“No, I didn’t set it.” He looked half guilty, half petrified, his face gone white as the paint. “It just happened. I was trying to—”

“Rowan!” Chrystabel called as she raced outside.

“Dear heavens, you’re covered in paint!”

Rowan just stared at his sister, silently willing her to stay quiet.

When he didn’t say anything, Chrystabel shifted her attention to Lily. “Is he hurt? Is something wrong?”

Lily watched Rowan swallow hard. Inside her, a sense of duty battled with sisterly loyalty. By not telling Mum, was she as good as a party to the crime? The fire was a serious thing, not some minor offense like straying too far from home on a fishing outing with a friend. Rand could have died in that fire. And her animals.

But in the end she held her tongue. The Ashcroft siblings had never been tattlers.

“No. Rowan is fine.” She pushed to her feet, the anger draining away. Everything
was
fine, after all. “His ankle is hurt, but he’s otherwise unharmed.”

Rowan shot her a grateful glance, but he needn’t have worried. He was her brother, and his secret was safe with her.

After much fussing by all concerned, it was determined that Rowan had only sprained his ankle. Rand shook his head at Lily. “I thought you said he was a monkey.”

“I should have said he’s an accident-prone monkey. At least this time no one will have to stitch him up.”

“Would you like to see my scars?” Rowan asked, over his fright and cheerful as ever.

Rand declined, and Rowan was not quite so cheerful when he realized he wouldn’t be able to walk around Oxford, let alone climb any towers. Since Lily’s father had been to Oxford before, he volunteered to stay behind with his son. The rest of them left the two playing draughts in the common room of the Spotted Cow, the inn behind Rand’s house where they would return to stay the night.

“King me!” Lily heard Rowan yell as they walked out the door, much later than they’d originally planned.

Knowing that her family’s raised voices would ring through the inn from now until they left the next day, she imagined the proprietor would be happy to see the backs of them tomorrow.

Their walking tour started at Wadham College, where Rand had begun his years here at Oxford. The college was on Parks Road, around the corner and down one street from his house. “You really live in the center of things,” Lily remarked.

“We will, yes.” Obviously trying hard to set his troubles aside, he took her hand as they all crossed the smooth green lawn toward Wadham’s elegant facade. “I hope you’ll like it here.”

“I love it already. This town feels so peaceful and alive, all at once.”

“Wait until it’s teeming with students.” He nodded to the porter at the stone-vaulted gateway. “Good afternoon, Dickerson.”

“Afternoon, Professor Nesbitt.”

Rand led Kit and Lily’s family into a graveled quadrangle. “Do you not go by
Lord
?” Rose asked.

“Too pretentious. Besides, I
earned
the title Professor.”

“But now you’re an earl.”

Lily saw Rand’s jaw tighten. “Here, I am a professor.”

It seemed he was determined to keep it that way. Not that Lily minded, but she wondered what sort of a struggle he’d be up against tomorrow. And she could tell, from the tenseness in his body, that in spite of his valiant effort to ignore the letter, he was worried about it, too.

She looked around the quadrangle at the stately stone buildings, built in Oxford’s traditional Gothic style. All was quiet now, but she smiled as she imagined students hurrying to meet with their tutors, young Rand and Ford among them. “The architecture matches the old colleges, but somehow it looks new.”

“Only Pembroke is newer,” Kit said. “Dorothy Wadham built this college in 1610.”

Rose’s eyes widened. “A woman built Wadham? I thought Oxford was strictly for men.”

Rand nodded. “It is—even the servants in the colleges are required to be male. But as Nicholas Wadham’s seventy-five-year-old widow, Dorothy carried out his wishes. There are portraits of them both in the hall and statues outside it. Come, I’ll show you.”

Crunching gravel sounded loud beneath their feet as he led them across the quiet quadrangle. The statues made a striking composition framing the door, King James on one side and the founders on the other.

Nicholas Wadham was holding a model of the college.

“He never actually saw it,” Rand said. “ ’Twas begun after his death.” He tugged open the heavy door. “Go in.

The hall is beautiful.”

The others went inside, but he held Lily back, leaning close. “With the exception of your parents,” he murmured, “I’ve reserved each of you separate rooms.”

“Hmm?” His breath felt warm by her ear. She turned her head to steal a quick kiss.

Clearly liking that, he gave a low laugh and kissed her again. “I have no intention of staying home alone all the long night.”

A frisson of warmth shimmered through her. “Do you not?”

“If I happen to wander through the alley and end up outside your window, I trust you will let me in?”

The mere idea sounded wicked and wonderful. “I can hardly wait,” she whispered, her body thrumming already.

“Lily? Rand?” Her mother’s voice drifted from the hall.

Lily sighed. “We should go inside.”

With an arm around her waist, he pulled her close and gave her one more kiss for good measure—a kiss that left her lightheaded. “Until tonight,” he said softly, turning her toward the door.

Feeling boneless, she let him walk her into the hall past an entrance screen of exquisite Jacobean woodwork. She gawked at the great hammer beam roof before her gaze dropped to the portraits of the founders. Nicholas Wadham wore a tall black hat, Dorothy a flattish cap and an uncomfortable-looking neck ruff. “They look formidable,” she said.

Chrystabel smiled. “I’ve heard tales enough of the pranks here to suspect they are disapproving.”

Rose spun in a circle, taking in the solemn stained-glass windows, the long rows of tables with candelabras spaced down their middles. “I cannot picture Ford here.”

“He came three times a day,” Rand assured her, “wearing the required robe, no less. Ford Chase was never one to miss a meal.”

Rose laughed, looking more carefree than she had in weeks. As they exited the hall, Lily noticed Kit slanting her sister a sharp, appreciative look. Well, she always had been a beauty, so long as she wasn’t scowling.

Rand took them to the chapel so they could see its magnificent east window depicting Jonah’s whale, then started to lead them out of the college.

“What is this?” Rose asked, stopping by a door to stare at four lines of lettering crudely carved into the wood.

Rand smiled. “When King Charles slept in there, the Earl of Rochester wrote that.”

“He didn’t.” Sounding wickedly intrigued, Rose read aloud.

Here lies a great and mighty King, Whose promise none relied on.

He never said a foolish thing,

Nor ever did a wise one.

Their collective laughter rang through the empty quadrangle.

“Charles must have been livid,” Chrystabel remarked.

“To the contrary,” Rand said, “he found it quite amusing. He claimed his words were his own, while his deeds were those of his ministers.”

In high spirits, they left Wadham and walked the unpaved streets. Lily already loved this city, a city so steeped in tradition that new buildings were built in old styles. She almost burst out laughing when she noticed Lady flitting along from tree to tree, then glanced around and found Beatrix stalking them in the shadows.

She decided to say naught, since Rand was uneasy enough about her constant companions. But her heart sang to see that her animal friends would be comfortable here in Oxford, too.

Of course, that was assuming she and Rand ended up living here.

“The Sheldonian Theatre,” Kit announced. They all stopped to gaze up at the cupola atop its domed roof. “A friend built it,” he added, sidling closer to Rose. “Christopher Wren. His first large public building.”

Rose failed to look impressed, either with the building or with Kit’s friendship with the celebrated architect.

“I’ve met Mr. Wren,” she said. “He came to my sister’s wedding.”

Seemingly undiscouraged, Kit tried the doors and looked disappointed to find them locked. “The ceiling inside is amazing.”

Rand nodded. “ ’Tis painted to look like the sky.”

“But that’s just adornment.” Kit leaned against the double doors. “The ceiling itself is a wonder of advanced construction, designed with no columns to spoil the view.

An apparent defiance of gravity, because Wren contrived all the weight to be supported from above.”

“’Tis a beautiful building.” Lily paced its columned front, enjoying the tour but wishing she were alone with Rand. “What is it used for?”

Rand caught up to her and took her hand, that small meeting of flesh making a shudder run through her. Sensing it perhaps, he slipped his thumb inside to tease her palm. “Ceremonies, mostly. Matriculation, graduation, and the like. And the university’s printing presses are housed in the basement.”

“Can you see,” Kit put in, “the streetlevel windows that let in light? Wren greatly values natural light. He based this building on the Theatre of Marcellus in Rome.”