There were wildflowers and bluebells scattered in places, there were lilies and wisteria, and there were plants Lily had never seen, all possessing the same careful manicuring that the gardens outside the walls did but without the same exactness.
Mr. Allyn had clearly maintained this space after Mrs. Tremellion had left, in the absence of a mistress to do so, but he knew all too well that this garden was not his.
She would need to spend time with him one of these days to learn about each plant in this garden and how to best care for each. Then she could make decisions about what to keep and if anything should be added to the plot. All she would do for now was tend the plants in existence and rid the area of weeds.
And perhaps clip a few flowers to arrange inside. There were certainly excellent blooms that had been brought in from the main gardens, and they were in exquisite arrangements all over the house. But in her own chambers, she did not want something so perfect, so fine, so cultivated. She wanted the delicate, the wild, the underappreciated, and the natural. She wanted the fragrance that captured being out on the moors and hills, perhaps even standing on the beach with the waves rolling in. She wanted to capture Cornwall in flowers and have a portion of that in her chambers.
If nothing else, there would be a beautiful reminder of the bliss she knew here. And the love. Oh, there was so much love.
Her love for Thomas had grown in ways she’d never dreamed, deepened beyond reckoning, and solidified into a permanence within her. She’d never let go of it or be free of it. That love was now as much a part of her as the hair on her head or the prints on her fingertips. She had never felt that anything was missing in her as an individual, in her nature, or in her heart, but she suddenly felt more complete. More whole. More perfectly herself.
She had always been whole as herself, but now she was more. Thomas, and loving Thomas, had given her wings, and now she was learning to fly.
There was such freedom in the experience, such joy in its beauties. After her years of nothingness, the overwhelming onslaught of sensations, emotions, and change left her feeling bewildered. It was easy enough to succumb to her feelings when Thomas was about, when she was caught up in the spell that only he could cast over her, when he could run his fingers along her arm or smile in that particular way that made her toes curl. So very easy and growing easier the more it happened.
But separated from his influence, rare as that had been of late, Lily found herself wondering… thinking…
What was happening between them? Was this what love was supposed to feel like? Was this madness, this breathless existence, what she could have expected from the beginning had they married under usual circumstances? Was this genuine?
She believed that Thomas loved her. Believed that there was truth in how they were feeling and in the moments they were sharing. But could it be possible that the frantic rush of love and delight she was drowning in was only so splendid because it was new and foreign to her? Would this have happened if they had stayed in London or at Rainford? Would they have found this eventually?
Would the spell be broken soon?
Knowing her husband loved her, knowing how deeply she loved him, would it make a difference to her if the glow of present days faded into the normalcy that Julia had spoken of the other day? If, rather than staying with her every night, Thomas would begin to return to his own bed, and his visits become less frequent? If the truth of these feelings were still there, would the normalcy she had known before become more palatable, should they find themselves there again?
Could she bear it if they did? Or was she simply enthralled with this madness and not with love at all?
It was impossible to know, without more time to explore the emotions and ideas, to see how they would feel when days had passed and bled into years. When they were so familiar with the other they needed no reminders of any aspect or facet. When they could read the other’s countenance with exactness. When they could truly think of the other before they thought of themselves.
Would the rush of it all now even matter then? Would they get to that point?
She had seen so few marriages based on love and even fewer that had gone on for an extended length of time. Her closest friends had married shortly after herself, it was true, and had found love in excess after the fact, which had given her hope for her own marriage, but five years hardly seemed enough time for any of them to know for certain.
Kate, Lady Whitlock, might have a wiser approach than any of them in these matters, given the length of her marriage. It would be worth some thought and perhaps a letter to the marchioness if she truly wished for advice on the subject.
Lily wasn’t particularly keen on sharing the details from her days in heaven with anyone at the moment, even if she were curious about the longevity of it. She refused to let these thoughts that plagued her solitude interfere with her remaining time in this paradise of theirs. There would be no sacrificing whatever remained of this blissful existence to attempt a greater understanding of it all.
She refused to be a bluebell on the moors, blooming for only a short time and trampled into nothingness. She would not have her time stolen away now that she had found such delight in it. Her husband adored her for the present, and, hopefully, forevermore.
She could not risk that when it still seemed so fragile.
Lily wanted this—the madness, the uncertainty, the chaos, the soul-soaring ecstasy of it all. She wanted all of it, in hoards and in waves, until she was consumed by the flames almost constantly licking at her heels.
She’d had enough of the sedate, unremarkable, empty, listless pattern of existence that their life together had been and the disappointment that had come with it.
Flying was so much better than not moving at all.
“Just when I am quite certain you cannot be any more beautiful, you prove me wrong.”
Warm ripples ran down Lily’s back as the voice she treasured above all others floated to her, and she turned in her place by the flower bed smiling over at him, somehow not blushing despite his praise. “With dirt smudges on my apron and my hair a mess, you can say that?”
The truth of the matter was that her husband was the beautiful sight, and he was covered in more dirt than she. But the scruff at his jaw, the untidy mass of his hair, the open neck of his coarse and stained linen, and the scuffed boots neatly encasing his legs all combined to give him an air of temptation and tantalization, the sort that would have attracted the attention of any female with eyes, no matter her age or marital state. A somehow attainable version of masculine impossibility that one would be willing to do all manner of things for and would be a chief culprit in preventing sleep from truly settling.
And he was hers. Suddenly, she wished her fan was at hand.
“Yes,” Thomas said simply, slowly ambling toward her, his eyes on hers, his smile slight and crooked. “I can. I am vastly attracted to the streaks of dirt on your apron and find your hair fetching when it is barely contained. It makes the task of removing those pins simpler, and yet I could be quite content with not removing them when you appear like this.”
Lily wanted to lower her eyes. Desperately. Wanted to look anywhere but at him, yet she could not do so. From the moment he’d started in her direction, her heart began to dance a jig that somehow pounded in both of her wrists, which set the basket in her hands to trembling against her knees.
Something he saw made Thomas laugh softly. “A wild Cornish maid upon the cliffs and moors… perfectly situated among sister wildflowers and worth twice the admiration.”
A wild lock of her hair danced across her brow, but Thomas got to it before she could, brushing it back to its proper place, then slowly twisting the lock around his finger, drawing Lily closer to him as he did so, her breathing almost painful now.
“And you look like the sort of man no respectable woman of sense would meet out in the garden alone,” Lily murmured, her voice hitching as Thomas slid an arm around her waist.
He tilted his h
ead slightly, his smile deepening. “Will you call for a chaperone, then?”
“But any woman, respectable or no,” Lily went on, wishing she sounded more alluring and less affected, “would dearly wish for a moment alone in the garden with such a man. As long a moment as possible.”
“Would you?” He leaned down, brushing his mouth along her brow, her cheek, the tip of her nose, all without forming an actual kiss upon any of them.
“Theoretically,” Lily breathed, arching for what he was intentionally keeping from her. “Hypothetically. Potentially.”
Thomas chuckled low, his lips finding the corner of her own. “Is that all? Are you sure?”
Lily sighed, giving up the game and dropping her basket to the ground, clasping her hands behind her husband’s neck with a fierceness that startled her. “Unconditionally,” she ground out before surging to her toes and bringing her lips to his.
His other arm came around her fast and hard, pulling her against him and into him as though he’d been away for weeks rather than hours. The time apart had somehow stoked a hunger that rivaled that first night, found new depths of their longing, and a desperation to quench their ever-rising need.
“A letter for you, Mrs. Granger. Oh…”
Lily giggled against Thomas’s mouth before breaking off, burying her face into his shoulder as she shook with laughter. She felt Thomas laugh as well, pressing his lips to her hair and rubbing his hands up and down her back.
She exhaled slowly, the edges of laughter still lingering. “Yes, George?”
“I beg your pardon, madam. Sir. There’s just a letter here, and I…”
Peering around her husband, Lily smiled in as encouraging a manner as possible. “It’s quite all right. I’ll take it.”
Cheeks flaming red, George stepped forward and placed the letter in Lily’s open hand, not meeting her eyes. He nodded and left as quickly as he had arrived, disappearing into the house.
“Poor George,” Thomas said on a deep exhale. “How will he ever overcome seeing us in such an embrace?”
Lily looked up at him, squinting in speculation as she turned the letter over and slid her finger along the edges toward the wax seal. “I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer he grow accustomed to the sight rather than overcome it.”
Had she not been in the process of opening a letter, her husband might have kissed her senseless, but thankfully, he settled for an expression that painted the scene vibrantly in her mind. The breaking of the seal on the letter made Lily jump in surprise, somehow forgetting that she had been doing so.
Swallowing, she scanned the lines, belatedly recognizing the hand as that of her sister, Rosalind. The more she read, the more her heart sank, her perfect heaven already slipping through her fingers.
“Rosalind and Captain Riverton are returning to England,” she told Thomas, unable to glance up from the letter to do so. “They will be in London by the tenth, and we are invited to a belated celebration of their marriage upon their return.”
There was no immediate response, and Lily reluctantly dragged her attention to him.
His smile was sad but present. “Then we had better make the most of our time here. But I have no intention of anything changing between us in London or in Hampshire or if we should travel to Essex. This is our life now, sweetheart. I’m sure of it.”
Lily beamed at him, reaching out for his hand. “So am I.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Lily? Lily, love, it’s time to go!”
The walls of Pendrizzick did not answer, and neither did his wife. Wherever she was.
Thomas sighed, not finding any satisfaction in the situation. Neither were keen on leaving Cornwall or Pendrizzick, not least of all because they would be returning to London. They had spoken about it together the night before as they had lay in bed, the comfort of the darkness allowing them to express their true feelings about it.
Lily had admitted her reluctance as well as her fears that going back to London so soon after finding this connection between them would cause a strain as they tried to find their way again. Thomas wished he could have assuaged those fears, assured her that it would be fine and all would be well. But the truth of the matter was that he was afraid of the very same thing.
Here in Cornwall, they were away from their habits and from Society, had no expectations of each other or anyone else, and could be completely themselves. They were free from proprietary standards, from the standards preventing them from the relaxation they craved, and that forced them to conform to the image that Society demanded of them. Had they been returning to Rainford in Hampshire, they might have been less reluctant, as the countryside there would still be better suited for the life they’d begun to lead here.
But London…
Seeing Rosalind and her husband would, of course, be a pleasure, and he knew it would be good for Lily to see her sister again after so long apart. Rosalind was far more outspoken than Lily, but the two had always been close, and the separation had undoubtedly been difficult for his wife. He could not be certain, but he thought it entirely likely that Lily had confided in her sister about the state of their marriage and her personal feelings on the subject.
Losing such a friend, such a confidante, could not have been easy. Of course, she would have quite a different sort of thing to confide now. He hoped.
They had been silent over breakfast this morning, and silence had not accompanied their meals for weeks.
That terrified him.
But he had not contributed to the conversation, either. He’d felt choked by the prospect of departure, of an end to their grand adventures together, of removing themselves from a place of such beautiful beginnings without certainty of continuing in them. He’d had no words to give his wife, as he had no words for himself, and he felt lost at sea in a boat without oars; riding the tide until a solution presented itself, unable to do anything but wait.
Wait and see. Wait and hope. Wait…
He’d had enough of waiting in his life, but what could he do now?
If he felt so insecure about his position, his wife could feel no less. Surely they could stand together in this, take everything in stride and decide for themselves that nothing would change. Their love was strong and could see them through. They would not go back, only forward. Surely that was possible.
Footsteps drawing near brought him out of his thoughts, and he smiled in anticipation. That smile faded when Mrs. Penrose approached and not his wife.
He exhaled shortly. “Have you seen my wife, Mrs. Penrose? The carriage is ready, but she is not.”
Mrs. Penrose smiled a sad smile. “I believe she is in the music room, sir. Loathe to depart.”
“So am I,” he admitted without shame. “But we will return as soon as we can, I have no doubt of that.”
“Then we will anticipate your news and prepare the house for your arrival,” the housekeeper replied in her usual calm way, her eyes creasing with the same warmth in her smile. “Perhaps you’ll have time to find a butler while you are in London.”
Thomas grinned at that. “I see no need to bring a London butler to a Cornish house. I’ll give Mr. Morgan authority to hire one if he sees fit, provided you approve of the man. I trust your judgment in the matter.”
“You’re a peculiar sort of master, Mr. Granger.”
“If I never hear another compliment today, that will do just as well.” He nodded at her in acknowledgement and thanks. “I’ll go to Mrs. Granger now and see what I can manage.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thomas set off down the corridor, taking a moment to look around him just as he had when they had first arrived and explored the place. The high ceilings with their detailed plaster work, the dark wooden beams, the simple elegance that lent itself to immediate comfort… Pendrizzick had become an escape and a home, not simply a place they had lodged in during their stay in Cornwall.
He’d already sent a letter with an offer to Mr. Tremellion for the place, which he had no
t related to his wife yet. When he had confirmation of the closing on it, he would tell her. The fear of disappointing his wife, should the offer be refused, was too great to loosen his tongue.
The sounds of the pianoforte began to trickle down the corridor, and he recognized the song immediately. It was the song Julia Roskelley’s cousin had sung for the gathering that night when everything had changed for Lily and him, the song that had opened their hearts and given them courage to reach for each other.
“A Sprig of Thyme” it was called, and he would never again hear it without immediately finding himself in a garden in Cornwall with his wife in his arms.
He couldn’t take any time for granted now, no matter where they were or where they would go. The time they spent together would always be precious, given he knew all too well what it was like to have time without her. She had cried to him about not wishing to waste more of their time, and he had told her they wouldn’t. That they had time. That he was there.
But did they have time? Was he truly there? When they were in London, would he still be there? Would they have time there and then?
He slowed his step as he neared the music room, a wave of coldness washing over him. London, with all its diversions, could take them apart again. But could doing so bring further moments like the one they had shared in Lily’s garden a few days ago? Could separating during the day bring their evenings and nights to greater heights and more tender connections? Would he be able to remain the man he was becoming when the friends and associates he had known before once again had an influence on his time and attention?
The strains of the song began to sink deep within him, swirling about him as though on the brisk Cornwall breeze, drawing his attention back to the woman playing it, though he could not see her yet. The song was theirs, and so long as they had that, they would be reminded of this time together and the promises they had made.
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