The Lily Brand

by Sandra Schwab

  “This is my sister,” said the tall, slim man. “Miss Hilda Collins.” The golden light of the house revealed him to be clothed all in black with the exception of his white collar. With a start, Lillian realized that he must be the priest of the village.

  How strange a land this is, she thought, where priests know smugglers' secrets. She was glad that she had kept to the shadowy place near the front door, where nobody would see her sudden shiver. Seeking the shadows even further, she glided backwards and observed how Nanette smiled and greeted the other woman.

  “How do you do?” As easy as that, Nanette switched to English, no trace left of the years spent in France. It was strange to hear her speak without the usual melodious singsong to her voice, strange and frightening, as if another person had appeared in Nanette’s place. So easily she chatted with the other woman, who clicked her tongue over the state of their clothes and finally ushered them to a room to wash and to change.

  Afterwards, they were given tea and food. Lillian ate as if in a hazy dream, English chatter filling her ears, hurting them with foreign sounds. She almost wished to be back over the sea. But then images of dark blood on white linen rose and hovered in front of her inner eye; images of blood trickling over smooth skin, a lily burnt into human flesh. Briefly she wondered whether he was already dead. Yet it was too soon, just hours, even though it seemed like a lifetime. He would live a little longer.

  Lillian imagined him curled up under a duvet of moldy leaves, running, tumbling through the undergrowth of the forest, the angry sounds of Camille’s big dogs never far away, dogs ready to sink their teeth into skin and muscle, to tear apart human flesh until the body resembled an overlarge doll, all smeared with blood …

  Lillian balled her hands to fists in her lap. It had been raining when they left France. The rain would have washed away all tracks and all lingering scents. Camille would not be able to indulge in one of her hunts; the dogs would be fed with beef and pork instead of human flesh. It would take another day and, hopefully, another man before they could again be used for their foul purpose.

  Lillian willed the memories to recede. For a little while longer, he would live.

  She was glad when a man came to take them away, Nanette and herself. The warmth of the house and of its people was unfamiliar and seemed to thaw her invisible armor. She preferred the coldness of the night, welcomed it even.

  She raised her face and let the chilly wind caress her skin, dribble coldness into her pores, until the familiar numbness settled over her once more. So much safer this than apple-like cheeks or the taste and smell of freshly baked bread covered with golden butter.

  They had to ride ponies, tough shaggy beasts, and had to bundle their skirts around their legs so they would sit on the ponies like men did on horses. The man who rode with them did not talk much, just led them out of the village, through the heath, which rolled around them in endless abandon.

  Dawn was not far away, and they traveled through a world of dim gray. Their lead’s lantern cast a lonely light, which flickered and dimmed as if it were a will-o’-the-wisp, luring the unwary wanderer away from the right path. Here and there, naked trees rose up through the veil of rain and strained their skeleton-like arms toward heaven.

  Again, it seemed to Lillian as if they had left the real world behind only to enter a nebulous in-between, a world of shadows and void of warmth. And once more, all feeling of time ceased to exist.

  So it might have been hours or days or even just minutes until the rain stopped. Overhead, the wind was chasing the clouds away until the last stars filled the sky like scattered diamonds, blinking and fading with the steady approach of dawn. The dimness lifted, their guide put out the light in the lantern. In the distance they could hear the sleepy bark of a dog, and slim whiffs of smoke bespoke a village.

  And still on they rode.

  The first birds rose to greet the new day, while the creatures of the night returned to their dens. A fox barked. The undergrowth rustled with scurrying feet.

  Around them, grass and heather gave way to orderly fields and hedges, empty meadows that might have held cows or sheep during the summer. And all of a sudden, a rosy hue settled on the land, tinted the sky and the air itself, so it seemed the world had disappeared behind rose-colored glass.

  The man dropped them off at a crossroads and, with a tip of his finger to his hat, rode off. Soon, the muffled squelches of the hooves of the ponies in the mud were no more than a distant memory.

  “So, my girl, give me your arm and then we will see the rest of our journey done.” Nanette slipped her hand into the crook of Lillian’s elbow and led them on. It was difficult walking, with the lane covered in mud that stuck to their boots like balls of lead and turned the hems of their dresses an ugly brown. Yet around them the air was clear and fresh, and the birds broke into jubilant song, while all shades of red and orange and yellow flamed across the eastern sky.

  In a gentle curve the road wound around a hill, and behind it, the sight of a stately manor greeted them. In the early light of the new day it seemed to be immersed in gold. An exhausted smile spread across Nanette’s face. “Abberley House,” she sighed. “Come on, chou-chou, we are nearly home.”

  Bemused, Lillian followed. Home was another strange word, foreign to her experience, except as a dim memory that did not bear thinking about, for there was no return to the times of her earliest childhood when her mother had still been alive. Now her parents were only pictures in a golden locket, which, flying through the rain, had sparkled with the waning light of day.

  Trees rose up on each side of the road, hiding the house from view, and gravel crunched under their feet. Finally, the trees opened into a semicircle forecourt. With the rising sun, the house seemed to glow from within, as if the stones themselves were consumed by fire. Nanette trudged up the wide steps to the front door, where she lifted the heavy-looking knocker and let it bang against the wooden door. She had to repeat this four times, until the door was opened by a disgruntled servant, hastily dressed, hair still awry.

  “What’s the racket?” he snapped, when he caught sight of their bedraggled appearance. “There’s no place for your likes.”

  “Kennett, what is it?” another voice inquired from within.

  Suddenly the man at the door stood stiff as a board. “’Tis nothing, your lordship. A few tramps, that’s all.”

  “Tramps?” The voice sounded nearer now, and then the door was opened wider to reveal an elderly man in a dark green dressing gown. He blinked, once, twice, before his gaze fastened on Nanette. Lillian saw his eyes widen in surprise, then they shifted on to her, and she thought they widened even further.

  “My lord.” Nanette curtsied. “May I present your granddaughter? Lady Lillian Marianne Abberley.”

  PART II

  She sleeps: her breathings are not heard

  In palace chambers far apart.

  The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d

  That He upon her charmed heart.

  She sleeps: on either hand upswells

  The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:

  She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells

  A perfect form in perfect rest.

  —Tennyson, The Day Dream

  Chapter 4

  London, Spring 1816

  Like beacons the three large chandeliers spread their light over the ballroom below, and the bright light of a hundred candles glittered on silver and diamonds, was caught by the shimmering material of swirling dresses and reflected a hundredfold by the many mirrors along the walls. Music mingled with the sounds of laughter and conversation, rising and falling like the waves of an unseen ocean. The perfume of the flower arrangements, lush bouquets of fragrant roses, of Canterbury bells and heliotropes, drifted up to blend with the scent of Imperial water, sandalwood and rose water, overlaid by the aroma of rich soup spiked with negus, which was served in the adjoining room. There, the refreshments were given out: sparkling wine that tickled the nose, sweet elderf
lower or sour lime lemonade, tiny tarts filled with strawberry marmalade, bitter coffee or soothing tea, old-fashioned ratafia ice cream and fragrant violet parfait. From the cardroom at the other side of the ballroom drifted hazy clouds of smoke, for not only the widows and dowagers enjoyed a game of whist or loo, but also some of the gentlemen who had grown bored with having to impress nubile maidens with fluttering eyelashes.

  If Lillian had stepped into fairyland, she could not have felt more out of place. Her back ramrod straight, she went through the steps of a dance whose name she had forgotten, the folds of her white dress whirling around her ankles. Her lips were lifted in a smile, even though her fingers itched under the material of her long gloves. When the figures of the dance demanded, she went and linked arms or hands with her partner, only to depart again and to continue to stand, watching and waiting for her next turn. And when asked, she commented upon the pleasant sound of the orchestra, the lovely weather, or the beautiful decoration, while trying to forget the alien pressure of the waxen bust-improver against her ribs.

  Throughout all of winter she had been trained for her entrance into London society. Teachers of all kind had come to her grandfather’s country estate, had passed through her life in a seemingly endless procession: one to teach her English etiquette, one for singing, one for dancing, one to reacquaint her with the piano, one with whom to practice polite conversation, one to prepare her for presentation at court. And then an unknown aunt had appeared to chaperone her through the bustle of the London season.

  Yes, she had been trained well, and for the sake of her aunt and grandfather she intended to perform well. Thus she smiled and smiled and smiled until her cheeks hurt and her face felt as if, like glass, it might shatter any moment. So far, she had never once misstepped during a dance, her complexion had been deemed perfect and her dresses the height of fashion. And yet…

  She, who had perfected silence at a very early age, did not know how to converse with people. Discussions of fashion or beaux or the latest scandal seemed strange to her, and the delicate dance of courtship, in which she saw others engaged, appeared as alien as a foreign language. She did not understand why on the cheeks of her dance partner, a pale young man with stylish blond curls, flaming blotches of excitement bloomed, and why he needed continual reassurance that she liked the music, the dance, and the ball in general. She did not understand why her aunt had ordered the best food to be served when he came to her grandfather’s town house for dinner, why it had been necessary for her to wear one of her best dresses, to have her hair done in such an uncomfortable style that her scalp hurt. And then he could not even look at her without blushing a fierce red. Throughout the whole meal she had sat in silence, listening as the conversation around her moved from topic to topic, lightly, as if these people’s tongues had wings to carry them through dinner talks.

  She did not understand why he would want to come back after that. She did not understand why all these men with whom she scarcely talked came back to ask for a dance or offered to guide her to the refreshment room. As if she could not find the way by herself.

  But then, perhaps, she wouldn’t be able to find the way by herself. Back at Château du Marais she had known where to walk, where to go to. Now, life had turned into a puzzle whose bits and pieces no longer fit together. And so, she came to yearn for the overgrown garden, for Pan hiding in the greenery and for the stone lovers bound together by creepers forevermore. In the garden, where no one had tread but her, it had not mattered that the world outside had whirled through the months and years without her. Yet here, even as she followed the motions of the dance, she was still not engaged in the greater dance of the world, and here she did not have the solitude of a green haven.

  She had… nothing.

  The dance ended. She was offered an arm so they could walk around the room in a long procession with the other couples. Another thing she did not understand.

  However, she understood how to smile even when the matrons at the sides of the room flipped their fans and whispered to each other, none too quietly.

  “What does that young Perrin want with her?”

  “…the Marquis of Larkmoor’s granddaughter…”

  “…appeared out of nowhere…”

  “…I wouldn’t have thought him to be so bird-witted as that…”

  Perhaps Alexander Markham, Viscount Perrin, did not hear these comments as he walked around the room with Lillian’s hand on his arm. Once again, he leaned his head toward her and inquired whether she had liked that dance.

  “Yes, my lord.” Lillian glanced at him from the corner of her eyes, glanced into his kind, round face, which had not yet lost the chubbiness of adolescence. She wondered how his naïveté could have survived for so long.

  Not that it mattered.

  A giggle from the sidelines diverted her attention. Her gaze flitted over a woman whose breasts seemed ready to spill over the low neckline of her dress, and was caught by the man at her side, well into his prime. With his ginger hair and whiskers, the Marquis of Hertford looked like a sly fox. Right now, he appeared to regard Lillian as his prey, for he eyed her with a leering grin on his lips, even as he playfully pinched the arm of the woman beside him.

  “Ice Maiden,” the woman repeated, and this time her giggle was even louder than before. She looked at Lillian, triumph clearly etched on her face just like the wrinkles that bracketed her mouth. The wife of some baron or duke, she might hope to become the marquis’s next mistress. And if a younger woman, silent and unapproachable, had been given such a name, Ice Maiden, it was well worth a gloat or two.

  Lillian understood that.

  She looked through the woman and the man, her face a careful blank. This, too, she had been taught and taught well—back in France. She knew all about games of power and how to gather the chill that hovered in the corners of the large room and let it numb her skin, soak into her body.

  And she knew how not to smirk when from the chandeliers above wax dropped onto the bosom of the woman, scorching white skin just like hot chocolate would. With a shriek, the woman jumped back. Yet the eyes of the man at her side remained fixed on Lillian.

  Still, Lillian looked through him, refusing to acknowledge the incident, refusing to acknowledge him and how his face twisted, sharpened.

  “Lady Medlycott,” the Viscount Perrin mumbled, irritated. When Lillian turned her eyes to him, the hectic red blotches appeared on his cheeks, and he made an impatient movement with his free hand. “She is a jade… a… a vulgar, that woman. Always creating scenes.”

  “I believe a drop of wax fell on her,” Lillian replied quietly.

  He stared at her with eyes like round blue marbles, as if he had never heard of such a thing as dripping candles before. Then they both turned and watched as the Marquis of Hertford flicked the offending drop of wax away and let his finger linger on the expanse of heaving white flesh, let it slip under the neckline of the Clarence blue dress.

  The Viscount Perrin blushed an even deeper shade of red, very much like the strawberries he had sent Lillian this afternoon before the ball.

  Her stepmother would have preferred cherries.

  The viscount put a gloved hand over Lillian’s fingers on his arm. “I am sorry you had to witness that.” His voice sounded both angry and embarrassed, and with a slight tug on her arm, he drew her on. Lillian wondered what he would have thought had he known what she had witnessed at Château du Marais.

  But then, nobody knew.

  Nobody even suspected.

  Not even Nanette.

  “The daughter of a commoner,” Perrin muttered. “Medlycott only married her for the money, and now she… she…” His voice was lost in a splutter.

  “She wants to climb,” Lillian said softly. “The Marquis of Hertford is a friend of the Prince Regent, is he not?”

  Again, the round blue eyes were turned on her, clearly showing surprise at her insight. Then they darkened ominously. “He is, but…he is not a man a respectable wom
an would want her name linked to. A gamester of the worst sort, a… a…” Apparently he had difficulties finding a fitting term that would not shock his fair partner’s sensibilities. “A scapegrace and… and a libertine.”

  Compared to her stepmother, the Marquis of Hertford sounded like a puppy dog. But, of course, Lillian could not tell Viscount Perrin that. Graciously, she bowed her head. “I see,” she murmured.

  The young nobleman frowned. “Medlycott should call him out, demand satisfaction. I would, if I were him. This… this is an affront to his honor.”

  Lillian looked straight ahead, focusing on the bright orange feather stuck in the turban of the lady in front of them. “So you would kill a man for this?” It seemed to her as if she could hear the song of the dogs in the distance, yearning to sink their teeth into flesh and bone. She could almost see ruby droplets blooming on white linen, and perhaps a pistol shot would sound like the crack of a whip searing skin.

  Lillian blinked.

  Beside her, she felt Perrin square his shoulders. “My honor would demand it. As would the honor of every respectable man.” Her question seemed to have affronted him. “You might think me inexperienced in battle. True, I have not been to the war as my cousin, but he has no father who would have prevented him from going.” All at once, he sounded wistful. “I would have liked to gain glories on the battlefield. How sublime it must have been to fight at Wellington’s side at Waterloo…” Here his voice trailed off, and his blue marble eyes turned to the distance, shimmering, as if he would burst into tears any moment, so moved was he by his glorious visions of heroic deeds for king and country.

  All Lillian could envision, however, were nightmarish sights of blood and gore, the smell of scorched flesh, the cries of men. She suppressed a shudder. To banish these images, she grabbed at the next best question she could think of. “So your cousin was at Waterloo?”