Lie With Me

by Patricia Spencer

  “Please—do not stand on my account.”

  Madame Delacroix nodded gratefully and let herself down, pulling her lap robe across her knees again even though the room was not in the least chilly. Her fingers were knobby with arthritis. “Was your journey difficile?”

  “It was long,” she replied. “And you can imagine, the… adventure… of travelling with three small children. But to my great fortune, Lord D’Avenant sent an angel of mercy, Brigid, for which I am most grateful.” She nodded to D’Avenant, shifting Megan’s growing weight in her arms.

  He returned the nod, then pulled a bell cord. “Will you relate the details of your journey for us at dinner, My Lady, and let us offer you the comforts of Edgemere in the meantime?”

  A slender woman with grey eyes and wild raven hair entered the library.

  “This is Sarena. She will take you to your rooms and see that you have everything you need. We have set up a nursery adjacent to your dressing room for the little ones. Dinner is served at seven; we keep country hours. Bring the children to dine with us.”

  Maryam stepped toward the door behind Sarena. “Your home is lovely. Thank you for inviting me. Madame. My Lord.”

  “My Lady?” the old woman called.

  “Oui, Madame?”

  “Sarena does not speak, but understands everything.”

  Maryam glanced at Sarena and nodded. “Merci, Madame.” Stepping out of the library, she followed her silent guide.

  When Lady Maryam left, D’Avenant turned to the old woman. “I forgot to tell her about Sarena.”

  Maman reverted to French. “Sometimes we become so accustomed to a pattern we do not see it as others do, ehn?”

  “Non.”

  “This woman may ruin everything you have worked for, my child.”

  “She will be gone in a fortnight.”

  “Now that I have seen her I am even more worried. She is intelligent, petit, and little escapes her attention. You should have let me pass as one of the servants.”

  “I will not disavow you, Maman. It is hard enough that you insist I call you Madame.”

  “I am a peasant, chère. She already wonders why I sit here like a grande dame.”

  Lady Maryam, with Megan settled on her shoulder, followed Sarena up the polished maple staircase. At the top, she turned onto a wide, window-lined hallway that traversed the breadth of the house. The interior wall served as a portrait gallery, featuring a series of near-life-size portraits of the D’Avenants.

  She slowed. Sarena matched her pace. The engraved brass plate on the first painting listed the names of the first Marquess of D’Avenant, his wife, and six children. It also gave the year, 1539. The first D’Avenant was kind-looking, blue-eyed, and as great-beaked as the current Lord. Sarena at her side, Maryam moved slowly to the next painting and read the nameplate. The second Marquess. Stepping back so she could see both paintings at once, she compared the eldest son in the first portrait to the grown man in the second. Same boy, now a father himself. Maryam moved down the great hall from painting to painting, tracing the D’Avenant line, sire to son, sire to son. No matter the mothers, the D’Avenant traits persisted. Long bones. Blue eyes. Promontories for noses.

  The D’Avenants had ably chronicled their antecedents—not only by having each generation sit for its portrait but by commissioning artists talented enough to capture their personalities.

  In 1737, the pattern broke. The eldest son in the family unit did not become the patriarch in the next portrait. She stopped, looking from one to the other. “That’s odd,” she murmured.

  Sarena stepped forward, pointing at the younger boy in the previous painting, then at the Marquess again.

  “Ah,” Maryam said, “the eldest son died?”

  Sarena nodded, pointing down the gallery.

  Maryam shook her head, unsure what Sarena meant.

  Sarena motioned Maryam to follow her. She stopped before an enormous gilt-framed painting. The subject merited the expanse devoted to it. It was Edgemere. Perhaps a hundred years earlier, and viewed from a different vantage than Maryam had seen from the coach when she arrived. In this perspective, a swiftly rolling river dominated the foreground while the mansion kept its wary distance.

  Sarena’s open palms undulated over the canvas.

  “The river?” Maryam replied.

  Sarena nodded. Pointing down the passageway in the direction from which they had come, she arced her hands as if they were slipping beneath the turbulent waters.

  “Into the river? The older son drowned?”

  Sarena nodded. Touching Maryam’s sleeve, she took her from painting to painting, pointing at boys or girls from different groupings.

  “My heavens,” Maryam whispered, finally comprehending. “Every generation, one child lost.”

  Sarena nodded.

  Maryam cupped the back of Megan’s head, buried her face in her daughter’s neck, and planted a kiss in the warm fold. Holding her baby close, she moved down the gallery, thinking of the mothers and fathers who must have wept in this hall.

  As the current Marquess, D’Avenant should have been pictured in the final portrait of the series. Instead, the last canvas featured a father, mother, two boys, and one girl. The father—who would be this D’Avenant’s father—was rangy and mischievous-looking, pure D’Avenant, and unmistakably besotted with the woman at his side. She was stunning. Blue-eyed, and dark-haired—French, judging by the fashion of her gown—she was one of those sparkling, tempestuous, beauties who turned every head in her direction. Her allure was palpable, even on canvas. Here was a woman powerful enough to hold her own among the D’Avenants.

  The sons in the portrait were both tall, aristocratic, and intelligent-looking. But it was the youngest child, the little girl, that drew Maryam’s attention. That child was the vessel into which the powerful traits of both parents had been poured and compounded. That child had fire.

  Maryam leaned forward, again inspecting the boys. It was difficult to imagine how either one could have grown into the remarkable lord of the manor she had just left downstairs.

  Lady Maryam’s ‘rooms,’ as Lord D’Avenant so modestly called them, occupied half the length of the southern face of the mansion. In London, a similar amount of space constituted an entire apartment. Her private drawing room boasted two fireplaces and enough sunshine streaming through the windows to grow crops. Deep-cushioned sofas, armchairs upholstered in lively fabric, and a full wall of books invited Maryam to linger, but Sarena whisked her on through her bedroom, dressing room, and into the nursery.

  There, two small beds and a crib were festively made up in colourful hand-stitched quilts, each with a child-sized chest of drawers beside it.

  Brigid was there, unpacking, tucking away the last of Megan’s tiny frocks. Sarena waved and left Maryam to the nanny’s care.

  “It’s in the kitchen the older children are, having cookies and milk with Sophie,” Brigid said, answering Maryam’s unspoken question. “Shall I watch the wee one so as you can sleep a while?”

  “Thank you, Brigid.” Maryam gently lowered Megan’s sleepy little body into the crib.

  “After she wakes, I’ll take her outside. It’s on the grounds we’ll be scamperin’ if ye need us.”

  “Brigid? Keep the children away from the river.”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  In Maryam’s bedroom, the muslin curtains floated on the soft breeze coming in the windows. They seemed to be inhaling the delicate scent of sun-warmed springtime earth. The bed was positioned by the window–a lush nest of freshly-ironed linens and down-filled pillows beckoning her road-weary body. Absently fingering the buttons on her cuffs, she contemplated how luxurious it would be to slip, nude, between those sheets. She had not slept naked for years. Her late husband considered it unchaste.

  But these linens were sumptuous, and there was no man here to judge her for what gave her pleasure.

  Just past dusk, Lady Maryam and
the children were called to dinner. Minnie, one of the twin maids, led them to an intimate dining room where candlelight danced on cut crystal and silver service dishes. The table was small—it might seat eight—waxed to a high gloss, and set with bone china. Trepidation corkscrewed through her. She was not convinced that including her brood at dinner was a good idea. Even the best-behaved children could be disruptive, and hers were spirited.

  And yet, Edgemere seemed starved for the company of little ones. The children seemed genuinely welcome. She muttered a prayer under her breath, and ushered her nestlings into the room.

  Lord D’Avenant, settling Madame in her seat beside his at the head of the table, greeted Maryam first. “Evening.”

  “Bonsoir,” Madame added.

  “Good evening.” Maryam’s eyes rested on D’Avenant’s embroidered waistcoat. The garment was a work of art, multi-coloured unlike most Englishmen’s, and more intricate than anything available in London. Pray the children don’t splash anything on it.

  After settling Madame, D’Avenant approached her children and introduced himself. Edward made a neat bow. Elizabeth curtsied without wobble. He turned to Megan, with whom he had been so smitten earlier. She lifted her moss-green eyes to his scarred face—and burst into tears.

  He drew back.

  “Oh, dear,” Maryam said, lifting her wailing daughter and rubbing her back. “She’s a bit shy,” she said, hoping D’Avenant hadn’t noticed that Megan had done perfectly well with Sophie and Madame.

  D’Avenant shrugged, splayed the fingers of his hand and made a small circle in front of his face. “This can be rather a lot,” he said.

  Maryam’s heart went out to him. He’d been so taken with Megan earlier, the child’s reaction must have stung.

  “Edward. Elizabeth. Ask Sophie where your seats are and take your places please.”

  D’Avenant pulled out his chair and gestured Maryam to the empty place to his right. She took the seat, with Megan still clinging to her. She sat the tot on her lap, facing D’Avenant, hoping she would become accustomed to him while she felt secure on her lap. Megan turned and faced away.

  D’Avenant blinked. Then he cleared his throat, snapped his napkin open, and addressed the older children. “I hope you two are hungry enough to eat an elephant.”

  Edward cast an apprehensive glance at the covered serving dishes crowding the sideboard. “Elephant?”

  D’Avenant’s shoulders dropped. “Don’t tell me you prefer giraffe.”

  “Actually,” Elizabeth said, catching onto D’Avenant’s teasing, “We don’t eat anything but wildebeeste.”

  D’Avenant chuckled, delighted by the girl’s quick wit. “Sophie—” he ordered, “Wildebeeste all around.”

  Sophie bustled forward, assuring the stricken Edward that dinner did not include any exotic animals as Alas! she had no recipes for their preparation.

  “Lord D’Avenant,” Elizabeth said. “Do you think that’s pronounced wild-ee-beast, or will-dee-beast? I’ve only ever seen it in books.”

  “Well, that’s a good question, Elizabeth. Because I’ve only ever read it in books, too.”

  Sophie, Minnie, and Mo served rack of lamb, fresh asparagus, baby peas, crisp baked potatoes, and steaming pudding. Edward and Elizabeth ate well, their appetites sharpened by their afternoon of running around the grounds of Edgemere.

  Megan clung to her mother, accepting small bites of meat, potatoes, and peas off her spoon. Maryam stole bites of her own dinner in between.

  “You live in London?” Madame shyly ventured.

  “Oui, Madame. Ever since my husband died, the children and I have lived with my friend the Duchess Hollingsworth in her town house. It has worked well for us. She is a childhood friend and was lonely, too, after the death of her second husband.”

  “Two husbands, ehn? She is of a certain age?”

  Maryam shook her head. “Not that much more than I. Some years past thirty but still quite beautiful.” She chased peas around her plate and lifted the spoon to Megan’s rosy mouth. “The pundits say there is just so much beauty one man can behold and suggest that her first two husbands had merely reached their limit. My cousin stands on the brink of becoming her third. He took me aside, Madame, and said” —Maryam mimicked his bass voice— “‘Your friend seems unable to hold onto a man.’”

  Madame smiled. The laugh lines at the corners of her eyes pleated like fabric.

  “I remind him that he is marrying for love.” She dropped her voice again. “‘A lamentable family tradition,’ he calls it.”

  Madame laughed, her shoulders relaxed.

  “So tell me,” D’Avenant asked in the pause following Maryam’s story. “What did Her Grace tell you about me before you came to Edgemere?”

  Maryam faltered.

  “She said you have a big nose!” Edward spouted.

  “Oh, good Lord,” Maryam said.

  “You boob,” Elizabeth countered defensively. “All D’Avenants have big noses. It’s just Lord D’Avenant’s is mashed, too.”

  “Children!” Maryam hissed.

  “It’s quite allright,” D’Avenant said. “I’m well aware of how I look. I’m merely hurt Her Grace didn’t mention what a lovely shade of blue my eyes are.”

  “Well, who’d notice that?” Edward piped in.

  “Mama did,” Elizabeth retorted. “Remember? Before we came down to dinner and she told us not to stare at Lord D’Avenant’s scars. ‘Look at his eyes instead,’ she said. ‘They’re quite beautiful.’”

  Maryam quietly set down her spoon, her face burning, mortified.

  “Aha! Informants!” D’Avenant laughed. “Madame! Sophie! I have sources in the Wyndham camp! Negotiations for Skylark will go splendidly!”

  3. Appraisals

  Lady Maryam woke at dawn, filled with anticipation. She loved the early hours when the Earth was setting the stage–gradually adding the light, the sounds, and the scents which would become the spectacle of the day. Outside her open window the eastern sky lightened. Birds added their voices to the dawn one species at a time, warming up like sections of an orchestra practicing their own bars of the musical score. The caws, the trills, the chirps. The smell of earth and fresh new day–it all delighted her.

  She stretched luxuriously, nude between the sheets. On impulse, she tossed back the bedcovers, hung her feet over the edge of the bed, and wrapped herself in silk. She was going to get dressed, peep in on the children, and go watch the day rise. She could never be out alone in London at this hour of the day.

  A short while later, she left the house through the French doors that gave onto the flagstone terrace at the back of the house. Below her a doe and her fawn lifted their heads and stared at her, their jaws frozen in mid-chew, aware but not concerned about her presence. From her vantage point Maryam saw the formal gardens to her right, and a maze beyond it. Geometric. Precise. Impeccable. She didn’t want that. Too predictable. She wanted something wilder, less domesticated. There. A faint game trail–a path of flattened grass, really—crossing the landscaped parkland toward the forest. A trace of a path hidden in plain view. Much more intriguing.

  She descended the steps, and followed it. The path ended at the gate of a walled garden, hidden behind a stand of trees. She lifted the latch and entered, carefully closing the gate after herself. When she turned to the garden, she lost her breath.

  A magnificent wilderness lay before her—a riotous profusion of plants that would produce colour all season long—cosmos, lavender, wisteria, hollyhocks, rhododendrons, phlox—lawlessly combined, breaking every rule of formal gardening. “Mercy,” she whispered. Horticultural heresy, and the effect was superb—or it would be in full bloom.

  “I take it you like it.”

  The voice startled her. Turning in its direction, she saw Lord D’Avenant sitting on a forged iron bench, outstretched legs crossed at the ankles, elbows hooked over the back of the bench. Face turned to the warming sun,
he looked at her from beneath a single raised eyebrow.

  “It’s… They’re… Yes. Yes, I do.”

  Her discomfiture tumbled through D’Avenant like loose chuckles.

  “How are you this morning, My Lord?”

  “I am well, My Lady. Very well.”

  “About last night—”

  He held up a hand. “Not a word,” he said. “Children are loose cannons. I survived the cannonade.” He stood up and offered his elbow. “Come,” he chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Let me brag about my herbaceous borders.”

  Maryam fell into step beside him. Her interest in his gardens—and especially the medicinal plants that the gypsy Romelle was growing—turned out to be genuine. She asked good questions, listened avidly, and from time to time bent at the knee to examine some tender shoot. Bent forward like that, and when she crouched to crumble the earth, he noticed that her thin muslin dress hugged her hips. She had curves. Very pleasant curves.

  Strolling back toward the gate again, he asked the question that had been on his mind since the night before. “What else did the Duchess Hollingsworth tell you about me?”

  Maryam picked a sprig of lavender and crushed the leaves, releasing their spicy fragrance. “She said there are few details about the events that brought you back from France as presumably the last surviving member of your family.”

  Presumably?

  Maryam continued. “When you are in London, you keep to yourself. No one in the ton has seen you with anyone who could be characterized as your friend. You regularly sit at the gaming tables but never drink while you are there. You win more often than you lose. It is rumoured that—” She faltered.

  That I cheat. He knew what they said of him. The newly-rich came down from the North, their pockets lined with crowns earned on the backs of the factory workers, and he cleaned them out. It was true. He won more often than the odds dictated. He counted cards and was adept at probabilities. He never wagered more than he was willing to lose. To him gambling was not a fever, but maths, memory, concentration.