Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  In profile he displayed an even stronger visage than straight on. Lillian found herself asking, “How can you wait so patiently, not even looking my way?”

  It seemed that Reginald had been expecting such a query. “Some things must come at their own time. And I find such matters are easier to address when not gazing directly into another’s soul.”

  How could he affect her so with the simplest of words? “I am very afraid you will not care for me at all once you hear my confession.”

  “You must put that fear aside right now.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “I cannot answer you that. I am a simple man, Lillian. My sister will attest to that fact. But I know what I know. And sure as God reigns on high, my love for you will not be shaken by what you say.”

  His words echoed in her mind. She gathered her trembling hands into her lap and addressed her words to the river, to the fields, to the featureless sky overhead. “All the world thinks I am the daughter of a vicar. That is a lie. I was in fact raised in a vicarage. But I was born to a woman whose name I was never told. I met her once. At least I think I did. I believe she was sister to the woman who raised me. The vicar and his wife told me to call them aunt and uncle. Perhaps I was merely a waif left upon their doorstep—I know nothing with any certainty. But once I was taken by my aunt into a prison. There I met a woman who looked very much like my aunt. This strange woman wept over me. That is as close to my true heritage as I have ever come. My aunt refused to ever speak of that prison visit or that woman again.”

  A mockingbird took up residence in the neighboring maple. The song was piercing in its clarity. Lillian felt as though her body was turned to crystal by her recounting of these secrets, open even to the force of birdsong.

  “It was a joyless home, as dismal a place as ever I hope to see,” she continued, now aware of Reginald’s head turning and his eyes on her. “My uncle was a cheerless man. He was severe in manner and dry in tone. I cannot ever recall seeing him smile. I do not think he cared for me at all. When I was ten I ran away from home. He brought me back and thrashed me. I was locked in my room for three weeks. When he released me, he said if ever I ran away again, he would not come after me. He would disown me. He would claim to all the world I had died. Which, in his eyes, I would have done. As he spoke the words, I was filled with an absolute certainty that this was in fact what he hoped would happen.”

  Had she ever imagined such a moment, when the truth she had spent a lifetime hiding was revealed, Lillian would have supposed she would be weeping so hard she should fight for breath. Instead, she felt nothing save a most remarkable calm.

  “At fourteen I ran away again. I began singing with a wandering troupe. I had a good enough voice. My youth was enough of an attraction for them to see profit in my company. That and my features, of course. I had to be very careful about that. But the leader was a kindly old soul who treated me as a favorite relation. I stayed with them for almost two years. Then the old man grew ill and he knew his time was near. He knew also what would happen to a lass like me out on the road, with no one to protect her.”

  The surrounding countryside became painted with visions of times long gone. Lillian knew full well Reginald would soon be seeking a way to set her down and ride away, never again to appear. Still, she knew this was the right action. The only action. She had never expected to feel this way about anyone. She had lived a life of one lie piled upon the other. This one day, this one moment, she would honor her feelings with the truth.

  “At sixteen I was given work singing in a tavern in the city of Manchester,” she said, her tone somber in her ears. “One night the man who ran the city’s largest theatre came to hear me. He wanted to make me a star of the stage, he said. I accepted his offer and before I knew it I was singing in his theatre. My third night there, I met my husband. He was visiting a friend and they had come in to hear me, or so he always said. He claimed word of me had spread far and wide. What he wanted was me.”

  So much effort had gone into hiding the truth. So much energy, and for so very long. She could hear the toneless quality to her voice now, as though it had come to match the overcast day.

  “He was a most eccentric sort of British gentleman, the fifth in his line. He had held power and wealth since the moment of his birth. He was accustomed to having the entire world do his bidding. I was no different. He wanted me as his wife. That, as far as he was concerned, was all that mattered.

  “He obtained the services of a local solicitor and went to work. The man approached my uncle and offered what to him must have seemed an astonishing sum. He was asked to sign documents making me his rightful daughter. In return for his silence over my true heritage, he would receive an annual stipend for the rest of his life.

  “A series of tutors taught me proper etiquette. I went to Paris and met with more tutors who taught me what a proper lady would know about history and style. I was attended by the finest dressmakers in the world. In time, when the myth was complete, we were wed in St. Paul’s Cathedral. My new husband found this deception delightfully humorous. He was so accustomed to wealth and power, you see, pulling the wool over the eyes of the entire British society was just the sort of joke he would relish all his life. He never spoke of my past. He did not need to. But I could see it in his eyes, particularly when we were surrounded by the pompous and the vain. How these courtiers fawned over a woman who was in truth nothing but a tavern singer in silk and diamonds. I never went north again, of course. I never sang again. There was too much chance someone might recognize me. It seemed a small enough price to pay. I was now, after all, a lady of the realm.”

  The sun lanced through the clouds. She squinted against the unaccustomed brilliance and forged on. “We had a son, Byron. He is a wonderful and independent lad. Byron is now at Eton.”

  Reginald spoke for the first time. He quietly murmured, “A son.”

  Lillian waited for Reginald to say more. But when he returned his gaze to the horizon, she continued, “My husband died over a year ago. I discovered soon after that he had lost everything in a most preposterous venture in Portugal. I am here because of that. My poverty has driven me here. I am in possession of a banker’s draft from Abigail’s father. A loan, I wish to call it, though I have nothing to offer as collateral. But a loan nonetheless.”

  She could go no further. Though there was not a sense of hiding anymore, the truth of Simon Bartholomew would be revealed soon enough. But not now. “I have more I wish to say. But it is a different story entirely, and I suppose . . . Well, forgive me, but I wish to speak with someone else about this first, as it pertains specifically to her.”

  Reginald responded with a single nod. But his attention had returned to the river, whose waters now sparkled green and blue in the gathering light.

  Lillian sat beside him and waited. She felt both drained from the telling and tense over the coming response. She could examine him minutely now. Reginald sat with his arms crossed across his chest. His legs were extended out as far as the vehicle’s confines permitted. His chin had lowered to where it almost rested upon his foulard. His eyes stared unblinking at the water.

  Finally she could wait no longer. “Oh, please, do tell me what you are thinking.”

  “Very well.” He lifted his face to the sun. “I was wondering who owned this knoll and the surrounding pastures, and how much I must pay to buy these from him.”

  Her surprise was so great she could say nothing in response.

  “It would make a wonderful place for a house, don’t you think?”

  “A house? I have told you the worst of tales and you are thinking of a house?”

  “Indeed so.” He turned to her, and the golden flecks in his eyes reflected the light. “For it is at this place I have come to know of love once more.”

  She had to struggle to shape just the one word. “Love?”

  “Yes, indeed. I have no such experience with the world as you do, but I know what I know. And in lov
e, there is only now.”

  “Then . . . you do care for me?” And she was weeping.

  “Here, here, my darling Lillian.” Reginald gathered her up in arms as strong as she knew they would be. “Don’t cry so, else my own heart will soon be breaking as well.”

  She tried to stop, and gradually the sobs faded away. But she did not break from his embrace, and he did not release her. Lillian turned her face to the sky. She mouthed the word, tasting it anew, hearing it in her heart for the very first time.

  Love.

  Chapter 19

  The next morning, Lillian awoke determined to make this the day she unfolded her remaining secret.

  Of course the old arguments were allied against her. She sat at the dressing table and argued with her reflection. She brushed her hair with such firm strokes the tresses billowed around her head. There was no going back. She said this over and over. Yes, she was greatly afraid that Simon Bartholomew would do as he threatened. For him to reveal her secrets would mean as great a disgrace as calling in her debts. She would be ruined. Her titles would be stripped away. He would foreclose on all her properties. Her son would be left with nothing. Yes, all true. The silent menace was so great she fought down tears.

  She would not weep over this. She would not change her course. There was indeed no going back.

  She was pushed from her reverie by a knock on her door. “Yes?”

  “I hope I’m not disturbing. I thought I heard you moving about.”

  “Not at all. Please come in.”

  Abigail wore a dress of sky blue with matching cloth buttons. Her hair was pulled back in a silk ribbon of the same shade. She wore no jewelry. “I have been sent to ask if you were aware that today is Sunday.”

  “Do you know, I had forgotten it entirely.”

  “As had I.” Abigail waited.

  “The family is going to church?”

  “We leave in less than an hour.”

  “Do they wish for me to join them?”

  Abigail replied carefully, “You are an honored guest in this house. You are under no constraints.”

  “You are quoting someone, are you not?”

  Abigail gave an impish smile. “My grandmother made me repeat it twice before sending me upstairs.”

  “Very well. You have fulfilled your mission with great dispatch.” Lillian returned her smile. “Now tell me, would they like for me to come?”

  “Nothing would give them greater happiness.”

  At Lillian’s nod, Abigail added, “They attend the same church as Erica’s family. Reginald, no doubt, will be there.”

  The two women looked for a long moment into the other’s eyes, and they both knew the question and its answer. Lillian replied, “I should be honored to join you.”

  The moment passed, and Abigail studied Lillian’s form. “Do you intend—is that what you will wear to church?”

  Lillian glanced down at her dress, a striped affair of palest yellow and blue silk, the latest fashion from Paris. “Is this not appropriate?”

  “Ladies tend to dress rather modestly for church,” Abigail said, then hastened to add, “but I’m sure you will be fine.”

  “You must tell me the truth.”

  “If you wear that to church, those who think black is the only color for Sabbath dress will have something to discuss besides the sermon after the service.” Abigail’s hand flew to her mouth. “I can’t believe I said that.”

  “Nor I. And shame on you.”

  The two ladies shared a look, then began to chuckle. Lillian said, “Now you must help me select something appropriate.”

  “First let me bring you tea and toast. Otherwise you will be famished long before dinner.”

  Abigail was soon back bearing a tray. “Grandmother is thrilled that you are going.”

  “I do hope she won’t introduce me by my title.”

  “She won’t need to. Everyone knows.”

  Lillian drew in a sharp breath. “They what?”

  “Don’t ask me how. But they do.” Her hands were busy with the tea as she talked, with milk and one sugar as Lillian preferred. “Grandmother has been stopped on the street. She has received a pile of notes and invitations. This lady wishes to call. That one wants to invite Mrs. Cutter to an afternoon tea dance. And of course her houseguests must come along.”

  “Is this the normal way things happen here in America?”

  “Grandmother says she has received more invitations in the past three days than she has in the past two dozen years.” Abigail spread butter liberally over a piece of toast. “Will you take marmalade? Cook cooks it up fresh with figs from our own garden.”

  “To tell the truth, I am rather hungry.”

  Abigail settled herself in a straight-back chair. “Do you think I should ever fall in love?”

  “A lovely young maiden like yourself, I’m astonished it hasn’t already happened.”

  “Mother has long since despaired of me. She says I can turn away suitors faster than anyone she has ever met. One young man actually told her he would rather face a brace of pistols on a dueling ground at dawn than spend another hour in my company.”

  Lillian lifted a second piece of toast from the plate. “Umm, this marmalade is delicious. I’m sure the young man did not mean that.”

  “He did, I fear.”

  “But whatever for?”

  “I informed him that I failed to see how his money permitted him to harbor such a vast collection of miserable failings.”

  “Oh Abigail, I wish I could have heard it!” They both laughed.

  “My mother says I am both impetuous and incorrigible,” Abigail said. “Do you suppose she is right?”

  “Impetuous, certainly. And I find it one of your most endearing traits.”

  “Then you will forgive me for asking you again why you were so morose for the second half of our journey. I thought you were deathly ill.”

  “Ill, yes. But in spirit only.” Lillian was tempted to tell her the whole story then and there. But she quailed at the prospect.

  “I’m sorry . . . Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Yes. Please do not be concerned.” Lillian tried hard to reassure the anxious young woman. “It has to do with something I wish to speak with you about this afternoon, you see.”

  “I suppose if we start now we should be late for church,” remarked Abigail slowly.

  “Precisely.”

  “You may find this difficult to believe, but I positively detest having to wait for anything.” Again their laughter mingled in the morning sunlight.

  Lillian said briskly, “Now you really must show me what might be a proper gown for church.”

  The day was sunny but blustery, with a slight hint of bite to the wind. Lillian wore a spare cloak from Mrs. Cutter. Abigail had pulled a similar one from the recesses of her trunk. The charcoal gray cloaks made a suitably somber impression. For the journey to church Lillian sat alone on the carriage seat, facing a frail Mr. Cutter with his wife holding his arm on one side and Abigail on his other. With every jostle or turn, Mr. Cutter threatened to slip from his seat. But Abigail and her grandmother’s steadying hands kept him upright. He examined the world outside with alert eyes, and twice when their gazes met he gave Lillian an observant smile.

  When they arrived at church, Lillian remained in the coach with him while the other two saw to his chair. The old man said to his houseguest, “I fear I have made rough going of my duties as host, my lady.”

  “Nonsense, sir. I could not have been made more welcome to your wonderful home and family.”

  He attempted to dab a wet spot at the corner of his mouth, but his shaking hand could not seem to make proper contact. Lillian moved to the seat beside him. “Here, sir. Allow me.”

  He permitted her to take the handkerchief from his grasp and apply it to his mouth. “It is a sad day when I must rely on a grand lady such as yourself to dry my chin.”

  “Sir, I must tell you . . .” She had to stop there. Fo
r reasons she could not explain, the small gesture of assistance had left her throat closed with emotion. She swallowed. “I have never known a finer family, nor felt more indebted to new friends, than with your household. They do you great credit, sir. They are . . .”

  Mr. Cutter studied her anew. “Yes?”

  She forced herself to continue. “They somehow humble me at the same time they are showing such great care.”

  He sighed, a contented sound. “I do so appreciate my Sabbath meetings. So long as I can make the journey to church each week, my life is not in vain.”

  “No matter what happens to you, sir, no matter how cruel life’s hand may turn, I assure you with all my heart your days are far from futile.”

  “I see my wife was correct in her thinking.” Outside the open carriage door, the coach driver had unlashed the wicker chair with its wooden wheels. As the driver lowered it, Mr. Cutter went on, “You will take an old man’s advice?”

  “With deepest gratitude.”

  “My wife tells me you do not share our faith.”

  “I-I regret to say I do not.” She wanted to add yet but held back for reasons she could not have explained.

  “Might I ask why?”

  “I . . .” Lillian stopped when Mrs. Cutter reappeared in the carriage doorway.

  Her husband said, “May I have a moment longer with the countess?”

  “I can hear them beginning with the music,” Mrs. Cutter began, but stopped as she looked at her husband.

  “We won’t be long.” He turned back to Lillian. “You were saying?”

  “I would be so grateful if you would not let titles stand between us, sir.”

  A trembling hand waved the air between them. “We were addressing the issue of faith, madam.”

  “I was raised by a vicar and his wife. It was not a pleasant experience.”

  “Ah. A forlorn and loveless home, I take it.”