Something Old

by Rebecca Connolly

  The table laughed good-naturedly, though Thomas did note that Miss Moyle did not participate in the laughter. Oh, she smiled nicely enough, but there was a hint of strain in her smile that spoke of the distance between herself and her brother’s friends.

  Lily saw him watching, and his eyes drifted to her. She tilted her head very slightly, almost as a question. He very carefully kept his hands away from his cravat pin, smiled a little and did his best to shake his head without obviously completing the action. She, to her credit, did not fidget with her necklace, though her lower lip did suddenly pucker as though she bit the inside of it.

  Distracting, he thought, raising a brow. Instantly the pucker vanished, replaced by a shy smile and a faint flush that made his throat tighten.

  Lily turned slightly to say something to Miss Moyle, but her eyes traced back to Thomas rather soon after, and he, having never looked anywhere else, allowed himself to fully smile at her now.

  Why shouldn’t he indulge in admiring his wife openly? He’d had plenty of experience doing so reservedly, sneaking glimpses as though they were forbidden.

  No more.

  His wife deserved to know how her husband adored her, even if finding the words seemed almost impossible. He would find a way to show her he loved her, to tell her if he were able, and to give her the same delight in looking upon her husband from across a table or room as Mrs. Roskelley found in hers.

  That was what he wanted for himself. The ability to know he could make his wife smile from across the room. To bring her joy and pleasure without doing anything at all. To laugh at something only they two would understand. To be filled with longing for each other that had nothing to do with agony and everything to do with passion.

  Would such a thing be possible for them? Could it be?

  “For shame, Mr. Granger,” Mrs. Roskelley said beside him, not entirely keeping her voice discreet. “Your meal shall grow quite cold if you continue to stare at your wife rather than eat.”

  Thomas inhaled, then exhaled slowly, smiling at his wife without reserve in company for one of the few times in his life. “I feel certain I will survive the deprivation. I find I am more pleasantly engaged at the moment.”

  The widening of Lily’s eyes told him she heard him, and his first instinct was to avert his gaze, fall back on habits he had spent five years forming. But he resisted, smiling just a little so as not to embarrass her and held her gaze, determined to do so for as long as she could bear.

  He watched her breathing grow the slightest bit unsteady, caught the slightest flick of her tongue as she wet her lips, took in the appearance of an adorable little dip in her cheek as her lips quirked, and waited.

  Waited.

  Lily’s dark eyes remained on his, and then, to his utter delight, she very pointedly bit down on her lower lip.

  Something hot exploded in the pit of his stomach yet sent icy shards soaring to various places within him, puncturing some and illuminating others, until he was nothing but a cacophony of sensations.

  He had half a mind to yank his cravat pin out and signal to his wife that they both needed to absent themselves from this place.

  Lily’s lip was released as she giggled, shaking her head slowly in warning.

  She knew.

  Had he ever known such a jolt of searing pleasure in his entire life?

  This game, this playful interaction with his wife that was so new, so foreign, yet so very enticing, was a beacon of hope for him, even as they returned to the company and meal at hand.

  He could only pray it would have some similar impact for her.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I had no idea Cornwall contained so much beauty in her borders!”

  “She’s a gem, ain’t she? Tidden said so in ’igh places, but she’d make ee smile jus’ to ’ave a look.”

  Lily had to smile at Emblyn Moyle’s charming and easy words, quaint in many respects, and certainly common in others, but ultimately refreshing.

  Seeing Cornwall through her eyes was more enlightening than the conversations in drawing rooms and dining rooms that Lily had been enduring of late. Emblyn was from the true Cornwall, she had decided, and her nature that of the county.

  And her company was an improvement from much of the company therein as well.

  Not all, naturally, but there were a number of ladies in the finer circles of the local Society for whose conversation Lily had no interest.

  She would much rather walk the moors and the fields, or go into town to the shops or market, or sit in a parlor and laugh without fear of being impolite or judged, all of which she had been free to do with Emblyn. And with the opinions of others surrounding Emblyn, there was very little chance that she would have to be on display for others while she enjoyed time with her new friend. Julia Roskelley was available at times, and she was as delighted to be in Emblyn’s company as Lily was. The three of them made a marvelous trio, and it was as comfortable a time as one could hope to have among friends.

  What freedom there was away from London!

  Lily sighed in delight, looking around her as she and Emblyn walked, wildflowers scattered everywhere, particularly in patches near the cliffs. “The wild is more beautiful than the refined, is it not?”

  “Knaw now, do ee?” Emblyn asked, glancing over her shoulder and grinning as her long, dark hair danced in the near-constant breeze Cornwall possessed. “London folk think we be taering round for ’er, but there’s no stramming ’ere. No’ when ee can see for yerself.”

  It took a moment or two for Lily to take her friend’s meaning, given the local dialect had more creative words than Lily was accustomed to, but she nodded once she comprehended. “It’s breathtaking. I cannot thank you enough for showing me the area, Emblyn. You see the land in a way that I fear others I know would not, and I wish to appreciate it as your eyes see it.”

  “No need to thank me, Miz Granger,” Emblyn assured her brightly. “’Tis no bother to me to go about the beauties with you. I ’ave no need o’ finery with ee, nor to pretend I’m anything other than a come-by-chance. My brother would ’ave me raised up, but I know ’tis not for me.”

  “Why shouldn’t it be?” Lily asked as they walked, hurrying to her side. “If he is willing to claim you as family, take you into his household, why shouldn’t you do so?”

  Emblyn gave her a look, her fierce blue eyes steady and stubborn. “I’m naw fool be’ind the door, Miz Granger. All the actin’ in the world won’t make me as fine as ‘e is. We may share blood, but I cannot be ’is family. No’ in tha’ way.”

  Lily’s heart ached at the words, though she wondered at the lack of emotion behind it. “Does he know this?” she pressed, sensing there was more to the situation than simple difference in station. “That you feel this way?”

  “Yes,” Emblyn sighed, shaking her head. “But ‘e’s stubborn as an arse and more impossible. ‘E refuses to ‘ear anything but that I am his sister, and he will take care of me.” She rolled her eyes, her tone having taken on the more proper way of speaking in company, as though imitating him in a way. “I have a ’oome and a ’usband.”

  “What?” Lily cried. She took Emblyn’s arm and pulled her to a stop. “You’re married?”

  Emblyn nodded, her eyes lowering. “My Joshua. ’E’s away at sea. My brother doesn’t know, and until Joshua is back, he won’t.”

  Lily gaped openly, her mind spinning on the information. She had only known Emblyn for a matter of days, and yet she was supposed to be a young, unmarried woman in a relatively poor state and of low birth. There wouldn’t be the same arrangements made by Lord Basset in a different situation, and yet…

  “How long has he been gone?” Lily inquired slowly, trying to piece together what she could. “Joshua, I mean.”

  “Years now,” Emblyn murmured, raising her eyes to Lily’s. “At least three. But ’e is mine still. ’Twas a quiet wedding, and naught knew about it. But ’twas so. If I be my brother’s sister, ’e will want me married off. And I
already a wife? ’Twouldn’t be fittin’, and I’ll not risk my soul.” Her jaw tightened, and she blinked hard before brightening. “‘Ave ee ever truly studied bluebells?”

  Lily frowned, not enjoying the change in topic. “Did you love Joshua? I mean, do you?” She could have winced at the plaintive note in her question, as though she were some child needing a happier resolution to the story.

  “Of course I do,” Emblyn said, smiling in a way that lit her entire face. “’E were the only man who ever spoke to my heart. ’E’ll come back to me when ’e’s able, and laugh at the whole world being messy-y-mazy o’er us!”

  There was no mistaking the sheer joy in her face, in her entire being, as she spoke about him. She was so full of adoration, so sweet in her love for him, that Lily felt her heart long for the same. Once she might have talked about Thomas in such a way, before they’d been married. When she’d dreamed and hoped and had fancies…

  She felt so much for him, so much that was not easily explained, and yet she said nothing. They danced around the subject of feelings, of their happiness, of all of it. But they never addressed it. Not really.

  “Bluebells, did you say?” Lily ventured, now quite pleased to have the subject of love changed to something less discomforting.

  She stooped to inspect the nearest bunch of lovely blooms, each a rich, deep violet color. They hung from stems as though they were weighed down by their size, the curve of the petals forming the telltale shape of the bell they were known for. Each was so very delicate, so perfect in form and hue.

  They were exquisite, each and every one. And the cliffside was showered in them.

  “’Ansum things, ain’t they?” Emblyn came to stoop beside her, smiling at the flowers fondly. “They grow on the moors, against all odds. Last only a week or two, mebbe less. An’ if ee trample ’em, they’ll not bloom again for years.”

  Lily froze in the act of touching the petals, Emblyn’s words sinking like the weight of an anchor in her chest. The immediate application of them would be unclear for Emblyn, but they were bright as the sun in Lily’s mind.

  These diminutive flowers, growing against all odds in rock-laden ground, were as fragile as glass. A brief window of their full bloom, and then it could be missed. Further than that, trodding them could do such irreparable damage that they would not return. Could not return. Not without patience and time and a determined root indeed.

  Had she been just as trampled? Had the years of absence in her marriage with Thomas trod her down until her bloom had disappeared? Or was their marriage like the bluebells, being trampled down without thought or care, little knowing what it would take for any semblance of them to return?

  Sickened at the thought, Lily resisted her initial impulse to pick a sample and instead brushed the petals nearest her with one finger in a faint caress.

  It needed to remain here with its companions while its luster was in full splendor.

  “And these?” Lily asked, moving to the other side of the path, closer to the cliffside. “What are these little pink ones?”

  “Thrift, Miz Granger,” came the simple reply. “Sometimes known as sea pink. Perfectly common.”

  So was marriage.

  Lily smiled just a little. “But so lovely, nevertheless.”

  It was that simple and that profound. She needed to find out if they were trampled or not. If they could ever bloom. If she could.

  “Rid round the gills wi’out any tears, Miz Granger. Have ee pain?”

  “Emblyn, please call me Lily. I don’t care for polite distance, and I wish to be your friend.” Lily tried for a smile, despite the fact that she didn’t feel like doing so in the least. “I don’t have to stand on ceremony with you, nor mind my words. I’m not on display with you.”

  Emblyn gave her a warm smile, far more believable than anything Lily could have put up at the moment. “I’d be pleased to ’ave ee as a pard, though ee clearly half saved.” She chuckled, some joke to herself amusing her perfectly. “As such, it be on’y fitty to call ee by yer name. Lily ee shall be to me, though they that are big above tha’ shoulders might object.”

  Lily shook her head very firmly. “I don’t care about that. Nor does Julia, as you know. I could use a good friend, particularly one who won’t always be perfectly genteel.”

  “Well, I can certainly promise ee that, Lily,” Emblyn told her without hesitation. “I dance a jig on ceremony and pay my words no mind at all. If that’s what ee seek, I believe I am bettermost.” She hesitated, tilting her head just a little. “And if ee’d rather not talk about what’s ’creening ee, I’ll be a friend in tha’ too.”

  “Thank you, Emblyn.” Lily’s smile became less forced, and she looked around her with a sigh for the beauties of the nature surrounding her. “Tell me more about the flowers.”

  The Roskelley home was one that could easily be envied, and Thomas had no trouble in envying it. Both grand and comfortable, it encapsulated everything he was hoping for his own home and life. A fine establishment for the country, there was no question, but it would not have been unsuitable for one of the finer towns in England, either. Maybe not London, as Society there tended to prefer refinement over comfort and extravagance over utility. So the house as it stood, richly furnished with family heritage and style, might have met with distaste.

  But for Thomas, nothing could have been more perfect.

  An evening gathering in such a home would always be a pleasure, but when they were also among new friends, it was an even greater pleasure.

  The fact that his wife looked like an angel plucked from heaven itself only made the evening more perfect. All he needed her to do was smile, and then he would wish for nothing else.

  She had yet to smile this evening, as far as he could tell. She might have pretended at it, forced something that could have been a smile to the untutored observer, but his well-trained eyes knew better. She was enduring the evening, and that was all.

  Which was surprising, given that she was becoming great friends with Mrs. Roskelley and Miss Moyle, both of whom were here, as well as a few others they were getting to know the more they interacted in local Society.

  But Lily was not smiling, not in the way she ought to or should have done. Not in the way she truly did. Not in the way that reached her eyes and made them glow from within.

  She wasn’t smiling.

  It pained him more than he could say, and he was not even sure as to the reason why. She’d returned from her afternoon with Miss Moyle somber, despite being rosy cheeked and windswept, and, by all accounts, having had a wonderful time of it. Yet she was weighed down in a way that almost frightened him.

  Almost, because he could not be sure. Almost, because he hadn’t managed to ask her anything of significance. Almost, because he was afraid of probing anything that weighed on his wife’s mind and heart.

  He never knew when he might be the cause of the weight or the pain. It was his greatest fear, and he already bore the shame of it. Had already been guilty of it. He could not bear more sins to his name where she was concerned.

  “Scowling at your wife, Granger? That doesn’t seem particularly gallant.”

  Thomas slid a sidelong look at Trembath as he stood far too casually beside him, surveying the gathering with minimal interest. “No man would be fool enough to scowl even remotely in her direction. I scowl out of a concern for her, not because of her.”

  Trembath only shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what the reason is. That’s all anyone will see—you scowling at her.”

  “But that’s not…” He cleared his throat, forcing his expression to also clear and become the perfect mask of a gentleman he had worn for years. “So even here, I must pretend.”

  “You must make your feelings clear and always look upon her with warmth,” Trembath told him firmly, though his expression was as calm as before. “Else people will think the worst.”

  Thomas avoided scowling again in irritation. “How the devil do you know, man? You’re as unattache
d as the day you were born.”

  “It is remarkable what people will say within earshot of others when they are not the subject of the gossip at hand.” Trembath exhaled a growl that surprised Thomas. “And I have become very adept at keeping a perfectly respectable expression when I feel anything but respectable.”

  There was nothing to do but swear under his breath. “So even here, I must pretend,” Thomas said again, grumbling this time. “And even here, there is the incessant wagging of busybody tongues.”

  Trembath laughed once. “That is not a trait only London possesses, my friend. Believe me, Cornwall has its share.” He lifted his chin in a faint gesture toward the other guests. “Julia must have asked for music. The pianoforte is being brought in, and they are arranging chairs… Has your wife been asked to play? She was a pleasant surprise at Trevadden.”

  At once, Thomas found Lily among the guests, taking a seat beside Miss Moyle rather than moving to the front to perform. “If she has, it appears she will not be first,” he murmured, smiling for effect as he watched his wife pretend to smile for her friend and for those around her.

  What was affecting her so? He needed to find out, needed to soothe whatever wounds she bore, needed to bring the smile back to her lips. The instinct to do so, the clawing within him to mend whatever had been broken, circled and swirled with an incessant edge that made his head pound.

  He was so out of practice in doing such a thing, however, that he felt frozen in his place. He could only stare. Helplessly.

  “Friends,” Mrs. Roskelley announced from the newly designated front of the room, “I am so pleased to be able to offer you some music this evening. My cousin, Miss Honora Berkeley, is visiting us from Bath, and she has graciously agreed to sing for us.”

  She nodded in encouragement, at which point two ladies came forward, neither of whom were particularly familiar to Thomas. The elder of the two, if he could call her that, sat at the instrument, while the younger stood before it, hands clasped.