Lie With Me

by Patricia Spencer

  Lady Maryam picked up the pitcher of sumac tea and filled a glass. “Would this be around the time Lord D’Avenant discovered that Edgemere was in ruins?”

  “Oui. After we got to London, he came ahead, thinking eventually we could all make the trip and take shelter at the family estate. But it was in terrible condition.” Maman took the glass that Lady Maryam held out to her. “Those women who became the core of Edgemere, you know them.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. Sophie, Sarena, Brigid, they are three of that group. Minnie and Mo were orphans, five-year-olds we found starving by the road. Others live on the grounds, like Estelle, from the stables, and Romelle the medicine woman—” Maman caught herself before naming Normand the coach driver, Leonard the gatekeeper, Sophie’s daughter Annie who now ran the London townhouse, or Reddeka Nash, who with the help of some of D’Avenant’s winnings, had escaped poverty to find her own way.

  “Edgemere is not just an estate. It is a refuge.” Pray God Lady Maryam remembered that in days to come.

  Maryam poured herself a glass of tea. Holding the filled glass in her hand, she gazed out, her eyes resting successively on the manor, the gardens, the lawns, and her children playing without a care. “Lord D’Avenant is a generous man.”

  “D’Avenant is a complicated human being with a difficult history, My Lady.”

  8. Closing In

  D’Avenant looked up and saw the clear blue sky. He pointed to it. “That,” he said, “is not supposed to be like that.”

  Lady Maryam, at his side, also looked up. They were standing inside Skylark, peering through the rotten roof to the sky beyond it. “You think we should fix it?”

  “Put it on the list.”

  She smiled and pulled a new piece of paper out of the leather folio she was carrying, took a pencil, and wrote down. New roof.

  “Top of the list.”

  She wrote the digit ‘1’ beside it and circled it.

  The walls rose around them, two stories high. All that remained of the upstairs floors were jagged ledges of planks jutting out from the walls. “Upstairs will need new floors everywhere—the rain and snow just lay upon them and rotted through,” D’Avenant said. “Let’s go room by room and get a count on the windows, and exterior doors—those must be delivered and installed first, before any interior doors,” he said. “I’d like to get the structure closed in before first snow. Then work can be done inside over winter.”

  “Fortunately we have solid stone down here.” He tapped the floor with his boot. “Fireplaces, put them on the list, let’s not forget them. The chimneys need to be inspected and cleaned to be sure they get good enough a draught to heat up the interior for winter workers.”

  “Should I start a master list, then?”

  “Yes, eventually we will need one so we can budget, schedule, hire, and track the entire restoration. For now let’s concentrate on making a list for closing-in: Roof, windows, doors, fireplaces—with a target date of first snow. Eight to twelve weeks. It will be tight, assuming the workers are available. In February, I spoke to Gavin Tate, the master carpenter, to let him know I might be buying Skylark.

  “Even before we had the agreement?”

  He nodded. “It helps to create momentum. Also lets the craftsmen know work is coming.”

  “So they don’t head north.”

  He nodded again. “My thought is that if I can teach you how to manage one discrete portion of work—closing-in—then you’ll be able to apply those skills to other segments of work, and thus to the over-arching project. Restoring Skylark will be a series of smaller projects linked like a chain. This is just the first one. We will go from most general to most specific, always remembering what needs to be done first so dependent tasks can come next. Also we want to focus on work that starts to generate income, like the agricultural plan and the timber sales. Those are my responsibility. They need to be integrated with Edgemere’s overall scheme.

  Maryam began the walk-around, counting the window openings on each wall and writing down whether those windows were generally large, small, or in-between. She accompanied her lists with sketches so that later she would be able to identify the window or door to which she was referring. First she catalogued the openings on the ground floor. Then she retraced her steps and did the same for the floor above her, scanning the exterior walls on that level. When she finished she tallied up total windows and doors, and went outdoors to check her counts. It turned out there were three additional tiny windows, not visible from the interior, that corresponded to a servants staircase built along the north wall.

  D’Avenant accompanied her, smiling when she caught the discrepancy between interior and exterior walls. “Well done, My Lady!”

  “A secret test, My Lord?”

  “Set in place by your husband’s ancestors just for this day.”

  She took a final stroll around the grounds, and then declared the inventory complete. “And now?”

  He glanced at the sun, gauging the time. “How about we drive into the village to meet Gavin Tate?”

  “The carpenter?”

  “Yes,” he said, heading for the phaeton.

  D’Avenant handed Lady Maryam into the carriage then got up himself and took up the reins. He let the horses pick their way slowly down the overgrown drive until they turned onto the village road. “Get up,” he said, and the horses picked up the pace, getting them into the village some minutes later. In the settlement they tied up at a tidy red brick cottage, one of several owned by Edgemere.

  They alit from the carriage and walked around to the back. A woman with wavy red hair and heavy with child, was hanging up wash.

  “Martha,” D’Avenant said.

  “Your Lordship!” Martha dropped a twist of fabric back into her basket and dried her hands on her apron. She looked at Maryam and her jaw fell open.

  “Is Gavin at home?” D’Avenant asked.

  “—’e’s in the shop, Milord. Milady. Shall I—”

  “No, no,” D’Avenant said, pointing Maryam toward a large shed across the paddock. “We can find our way.”

  A large flock of geese scattered as they approached, honking loudly. The door to the shed opened at the sound of the ruckus and a muscular man with a shock of sun-bleached hair peeking out beneath a cap came out. “What the—Oh! Your Lordship! I didn’t …”

  Tate took one look at Lady Maryam and his jaw, like his wife’s had done earlier, dropped.

  “Lady Wyndham, may I present Gavin Tate to you? Tate, this is Lady Wyndham.”

  He removed his cap. “Milady.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said.

  “Lady Wyndham is the owner of Skylark, Tate, and has entered into an enterprise with me for its restoration. She will be joining us for our conversations as I like to refer to her thoughts on its development,” D’Avenant told him. “She will live there when the restoration is complete. I wish to be sure it suits her.”

  “Yes, Milord. Shall we go up t’house for tea—”

  D’Avenant cut him off. “Let’s go into your shop, Tate. Lady Wyndham has been telling me how much she would love to see a carpenter’s shop.”

  Maryam, who had said no such thing, lifted her skirts, and clutched the leather folio, lest it slide out of her hands into the slippery layer of goose droppings they were stepping through. Following Tate’s gesture, she ducked into the shop ahead of the men. It smelled divine, of fresh wood and the out of doors. Curls of wood peelings littered the floor, and steel saws, chisels, and other tools she could not name hung from the wall on nails. A long bench under the window, piled with fresh lumber of assorted dimensions, ran the length of the shed.

  Tate turned apologetically to her. “I beg your pardon, Milady, but I’ve no seat to offer you but this little three-legged stool I sometimes sit on when I’m drawing.”

  “We won’t be very long,” D’Avenant said. “You and I have already had our first conversation
s about closing in Skylark pending the approval to go forward. I’d—we’d—like to proceed, with the aim of closing it up before first snow. Lady Wyndham and I were there today, making some lists and sketches.”

  Maryam lifted the folio, intending to show Tate her work. Before she could, D’Avenant momentarily rested his fingers on her wrist to stay her offer. “Tate has his own drawings, My Lady. With dimensions and other technical considerations like points of attachment and so on.”

  Ah, yes, she thought. Momentum.

  “Have you prepared the estimate we spoke of? And the work schedule?”

  Tate nodded. “Yes, Milord.” He walked over to a shelf on the far wall, pulled out some folded papers, and shook sawdust off them. He handed them to D’Avenant.

  “Lady Wyndham and I will study them and let you know if we have concerns about any of it.”

  “Thank you, Milord.” Tate fingered his cap. “Shall I tell the lads, Milord, that we have work?”

  “Yes,” D’Avenant said. “Let us get this started. First snow will be here before we know it and there is much to do.”

  Tate cleared his throat. “Milord, Martha’s cousin is wonderin’ if the fields around Skylark will need plowing.”

  “Likely,” D’Avenant said. “I’m not quite finished with that part of my plan, but I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you, Milord. Thank you.” A grin split Tate’s face. His eyes brightened and he looked about to rip his cap apart with delight.

  D’Avenant and Maryam took their leave shortly after. He turned the phaeton and headed back up the road so they could enter Edgemere by the main gate.

  “There’s…” D’Avenant hesitated.

  Maryam ducked her head, inviting him to continue.

  “Tate and the others have to be brought around to this idea gradually.”

  “Idea?”

  “Yes, of having a woman involved in the restoration process. They’re not accustomed to— What I’m trying to say is, that’s why I didn’t say you will be managing them. This will be a big change for them and I’d rather ease them into it. At the same time, I don’t want you to think I’m pushing you aside.”

  Maryam thought back to how D’Avenant, the first time she met him at the Abercrombies, had made sure she wasn’t pushed aside. “I’ll follow your lead. You know them. I do not.” She looked off to the horizon. “Did I do the wrong thing, offering to show him my notes?”

  “The important thing is to keep your own documentation for a project. Tate is honest and has worked for me in the past. Others may not be. When you prepare and keep your own notes you have a record of what you require, right, so no tradesman can come in and say, ‘No there are 18 windows, not 12,’ and charge you to excess. Yes, you can go count windows, but other elements may not be so easy to verify. And—why repeat effort?”

  “Grenville’s chicanery has made a deep impression upon us both, hasn’t it?”

  D’Avenant nodded. “Keep meticulous records and always verify everything.”

  “That’s why you spend so much time at your desk? Double-checking?”

  “That, and planning. Forecasting expenses and revenues. Anticipating supply and demand of materials. All that plodding, really quite dull.”

  “On the contrary, I think it’s interesting. It’s like taking the pieces of a puzzle and turning them into a finished picture.” She rode along a little further before speaking again. “When Tate offered us tea, you seemed determined not to go up to the house. Is there a reason for that?”

  D’Avenant winced. “Nine children. Nice enough, but I can’t keep my thoughts in order with so much distraction.”

  “Well. I’ve always wanted to see a carpenter’s shop.”

  He chuckled.

  The stable lanterns were lit by the time Maryam and D’Avenant came into the yard. Estelle took the phaeton from them and they walked across the lawn to the house, entering from the terrace.

  “You must be famished,” Sophie declared when she saw them. “Dinner can be served as soon as you can clean up and dress for it.”

  “Twenty minutes?” D’Avenant suggested.

  Sophie nodded.

  “Are the children in the nursery?” Maryam asked.

  “Brigid took them up to get them ready.”

  D’Avenant stuck his head in the library to tell Maman he’d see her at dinner. “Bonsoir, Maman. Je vous verrai au dîner. Dans vingt minutes.”

  “Lord D’Avenant,” Elizabeth said, waving her fork over her plate, “Mama said you pointed at a hole in the roof at Skylark today and said it wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

  “I did.”

  “Are you sure?” she giggled.

  He smiled. Elizabeth was bright and imaginative. He loved how she invited him to be silly with her. “I am,” he replied. “Would you like to know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because the stars fall in at night and can’t get out. Then someone has to go every morning to release them.”

  “So there’s more work.”

  “That, and the stars, in the daytime, don’t know how to get back home because they can’t see the pattern in the sky. So now the stars are getting clumped up near Skylark. Which means that even more are falling in. That’s why we need the roof.”

  “Lord D’Avenant?” Edward cheerfully interrupted. “Mama brought our playing cards from London. We could teach you how to play Laugh and Lie Down.”

  D’Avenant lifted his eyebrows, then exchanged a glance with Maman. “Maman, do you want to Laugh and Lie Down? Edward, can an old woman laugh and lie down?”

  “Old?? Edward!” Maman said. “I can do both! I will be on your team!”

  Edward launched into a convoluted description that involved pairs, prials, mournivals, and how you need to throw your cards on the pile and have everybody laugh at you. The laughter, he said, was the best part of the game, and you had to laugh as loud as you could. Then he demonstrated laughter. And Elizabeth demonstrated laughter. And Maman started, and D’Avenant, from the sheer contagion of it.

  He looked over at Lady Maryam. Maryam looked tired but a smile spread like daybreak over her face as she watched everyone’s delight. Megan had straddled her lap, exhausted from a big day chasing her older siblings, leaned forward onto her mother’s bosom and fallen soundly asleep. Maryam, with her usual grace, had simply held her with one hand and eaten around her with the other.

  Maryam had done well today. She was intelligent and attentive to detail. He himself, when doing that walk-through with Tate in the Spring, had nearly missed the exterior staircase windows. She applied herself to the work, listened attentively when he was teaching her, and did not complain. He did not know any Countess who would have tiptoed through goose droppings with such grace as she had.

  He loved watching her when she spoke. Her eyes were bright, her expression engaged, her white teeth flashed when she smiled. She often gestured when she spoke, her sculpted hands describing her thoughts like designs in the air. She had an extraordinary way of putting people at ease. She simply showed genuine interest in them. That was it. In her hands, social rank was never a weapon.

  There were a hundred reasons why a man could love Maryam. A man. And only one reason why a woman could not.

  He glanced at the sideboard and his untouched bottle of cognac. He rubbed his hand across his mouth, the laughter dying from his lips. How did a person get from deceit to honesty, when it was deceit that kept them all safe? What was left of Julianne? The last time D’Avenant had been Julianne, it had been disastrous. Was she even worth resurrecting?

  And how much of her could he be and not rain destruction upon Edgemere?

  9. Exile

  D’Avenant was seated at the big table in the library with Lady Maryam, unable to focus.

  “Is this the same as—”

  It took him a moment to realize she had paused, mid-question, and was watching him. It was late. He had
heard her in the hall on her way upstairs for the night and called her in. There was a line item that he hadn’t noticed when they’d been working together earlier that day, and he wanted her to see where that total was transferred to the summary pages. But his mind had drifted again. His concentration was off.

  “You stare at that cognac bottle a dozen times an hour,” she said.

  Her comment startled him out of his reverie. She was right. It wasn’t until you tried to stop drinking that you noticed how much you had been relying on it. He lifted a shoulder casually. “It’s in my line of sight.”

  She sat back, considering him. “No. You do it in the dining room too.”

  “Do I?”

  She templed her fingers over her lips. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen you drink since the wedding ball.”

  He took a breath, searching for a glib reply, then closed his mouth. Honesty, Maman had said. Maryam deserved to be honoured with it. “I’m trying not to drink.” He lifted the corner of his mouth. “Even though I am an exemplary drunk.”

  She looked down at her hands. “I regret having said that. I am sorry. It is not my place to judge you.”

  He gave a dismissive shrug.

  “It grieved me to see you so lost.”

  He cut his eyes to hers. They were earnest, not mocking.

  “D’Avenant,” she said gently, “how do you know the Huntingdons?”

  I got their daughter killed. He stood up abruptly, ambushed by the question.

  She stood, too, rapidly blocking him, a scant breath of space between them, and looked up into his face, her eyes searching it.

  Honesty, he thought, looking down at her. Honesty. “I…” He glanced at the bottle, wishing to snatch it and flee the room.

  Maryam caught his wrist. “Say it,” she said. “Say what just crossed your mind.”

  “It is dismal.”