by Liz Tyner
‘I burned my copy. A page at a time.’
He ran his fingers through his thinning hair, his knuckles thick and his fingers permanently curled. His lips pressed up. ‘You should know, now that you and Abigail are older and things have settled, your mother asked if she might return.’
Her throat tightened, preventing words for a second. ‘No.’ Disbelief flooded her. In that heartbeat, she could have thrown a candlestick.
Her mother’s emotions had flashed inside her. She clutched the chair to keep upright.
‘I said yes.’ He straightened, the stoop of his shoulders leaving. ‘Years ago, I only agreed to let her go and provide for her because she was causing you and Abigail so much grief.’
Now, she wished the blacksmith had been her father. Everything would have made more sense to her.
Her question had been answered, but it wouldn’t make a difference if her mother returned. All the old stories would resurface and her mother would fan them hot again.
Lily would know the truth, not that it really mattered. All her life she’d been in the right household, but she’d lived a lie in her own heart. She’d thought herself making the best of a bad situation, but she’d not been. If she had, finding out the circumstances of her birth wouldn’t have been significant. But she’d felt differently about herself the moment the blacksmith said he could not be her father. The man who was her father had betrayed her more than the blacksmith.
Her father had not claimed her. He’d let the Agatha Crump vultures sit back on their perches and devour tales about Lily and her mother. Flesh had appeared to remain on the bones, but it hadn’t really. The years of tamping down anger and smiling and not caring and not letting anything bother her flowered into one lone thistle inside Lily’s heart with barbs that felt like they were sticking out of her skin from the inside and she really wanted to fling something somewhere.
But she couldn’t rage at her father—that was how her mother would have handled it. And a lifetime of clamping her lips together kept Lily’s mouth shut, but only barely.
Lily turned, taking a lamp as she left the room, and marched to the stairs. She grasped the side of her skirt and lifted enough so the cloth didn’t hamper her decisive steps.
She should be happy. She should. She could hear the sensible side of herself saying all was well. That now she didn’t have to feel any concern over not being the same as Abigail. She could tell Abigail what nonsense they had believed all these years. They could throw back their heads and chuckle at yet another time their mother had upended their lives. What a jest.
At the bottom of the stairs, Lily breathed as if she had moved up and down them a dozen times. The light still shone in the sky, but the heat of the house smothered her; heat she’d not noticed until the past few moments. She glanced at her hand and realised she carried a lamp. She stared at the closed door in front of her, noting the outline of the light on the wall. It quivered.
The movement took the heat from the room around her and from the object in her hand and pulled it into her body.
Thrusting the door open, she moved into the night air, letting the breeze push air into her lungs, unaware of anything but the feelings strangling her.
She flicked away the dampness on her lashes. Dropping the gripped fabric, she brushed a hand over her eyes.
She wanted to move to some foreign country where everyone talked differently than she did and she could walk by and hear their chatter and not be a part of what they were saying. They would go about their daily lives and do their routine and she would move about alone and do what she must to get through her world.
She had already lived in a world like that for twenty-five years—why not continue?
* * *
Lily sat on the bench, trying to pull relief from the night air. The light didn’t flicker from movement any more, but kept a steady glow, and she placed it beside her, trying to enjoy the moonlight.
She needed to let Edgeworth know that she wasn’t at all considering the role of duchess. Her father might be her father, but the stain on her name remained. She did not wish to court. And she would not see him alone again.
But she wasn’t going to tell him her mother might return, because it wasn’t going to matter. This time, her father could take care of her mother’s tempers and if one of them killed the other, she would not shed a tear.
Edge stepped from his house, silhouetted by the moon.
The light washed over him, adding shades which should have made him severe and sombre, but didn’t. He moved with a purposeful stride and fluidity.
The glow from the lamp encompassed them, bringing them together in the night. But the light glimmered in a way that showed his clothes silvery and she remembered the armour shapes she’d seen in houses—relics from the past.
‘He says I am his child.’ The words cracked across the air, moving through the stillness, bouncing back to reverberate in her head.
‘You should be pleased.’
‘Of course I should.’ Of course. Of course. But her parents—both of them hadn’t taken the time to even think how their squabbles and lies seared into Lily’s life. She’d been invisible to them for the most part. A convenient daughter to watch over the younger sister.
A door shut—the front door of Edge’s home—and she jumped, jostling the lamp.
‘That’s just Foxworthy,’ Edge said, reaching out, a reassuring tap on her arm, while he glanced towards his door. ‘He’s hiding from someone or up to something, or he’d be at his own home. He never shows up without reason.’
Lily leaned over, touching the knob on the lamp, lowering the wick and extinguishing the flame. She didn’t want Foxworthy to see her. Or anyone else. She’d not been thinking when she brought the lamp out with her.
A curl of smoke seeped from the top of the glass, a whiff of it touching her nose. When she released the knob, the lamp tilted, sitting too close to the edge.
Instinctively, she reached to keep the globe from falling and her palm slid on to the hot glass. Pain shot into her palm. She jerked her hand back and cried out from the pain. ‘I’ve—I just burned my hand.’
He lifted her from the waist, put her on her feet and bustled her to his house. ‘I’ve some burn medicines.’ He said the words over his shoulder, continuing forward.
She scrambled to keep up with him and he didn’t even seem to hurry, but kept her on her toes.
‘It isn’t proper for you to lead me into your home and into the family quarters,’ she said. ‘What if I’m seen?’
He stopped, and the momentum carried her against him, but he didn’t loosen his clasp, but caught her and held her steady.
‘If anyone in my household hasn’t figured out that we’re meeting by now, I would think it only because they are sleeping through their day.’
‘I don’t want to be my mother’s daughter.’
He moved close enough so she could see the quirk in his lips. ‘You’re stuck with that one. I’m pretty sure.’
Giving up the resistance, she followed him, moving up the stairway, into the private rooms of the house.
He led her through a doorway and with her free hand she grabbed the frame and put the brakes on her feet.
He turned, momentarily paused. He looked at her. ‘The only room with lamps lit. I can’t see the burn in darkness.’
* * *
He led her into a room scented with all the things which reminded her of comfort. Starched curtains. Lemony clean table tops and oaken furniture, and a chair even the largest man could fit comfortably, its leather aged from years of life. A wooden carved stand of the sort a lady might put a wig on sat on a table, but atop it was an older hat, tilted at a rakish angle, and she remembered his father and realised the hat was most likely his.
The bed almost appeared an afterthought, close to a wall,
a covering over it in forest hues. She held the wrist of the burned hand. ‘This is a masculine room.’
‘I would hope.’
She looked at her palm. ‘Oh. My mistake. I didn’t burn myself at all.’ She raised the hand she’d been using to hold her wrist and tucked the other hand at her side.
‘Wrong hand, Lily. Do you think I’ve gone senile?’
She moved inside ‘If anyone sees me, I will be branded just like my mother.’
‘No one will see you,’ he said. ‘I should call Cook. She’s an expert on caring for burns. Better than our physician.’
‘No. Don’t wake her. It’s only a small burn.’ This time she held out the correct palm.
He huffed out a breath. ‘Those are always painless.’
‘I can barely feel it,’ she said and it was true. His touch soothed her. He clasped her wrist, palm up, and they both looked at the blister forming just below her forefinger.
He snorted. ‘You don’t have to be brave. I know how much a burn hurts.’
‘It will be gone in a few days and not even leave a scar. This is nothing.’
‘Is something else bothering you?’
She couldn’t tell him her mother might return. The old stories would burst to life again.
Lily pulled her hand closer to her body, but he still clasped her wrist and moved with her, sliding his grasp to hold her fingertips.
Clenching the uninjured hand, she said. ‘My father. Right now I wish the blacksmith would take his place.’
‘Lily. Why aren’t you happy that your father is the man who gave you his name?’
‘I can forgive Mother easier, even with her theatrics. My father’s game was more far-reaching. He says he didn’t mean to deceive me. Didn’t mean to let me think I wasn’t his. And yet, when I think back, he accused her of so much without caring whether we heard or not. When they first lived separately, he would arrive unannounced. Quiet, with his eyes shouting condemnation.’
She exhaled. ‘They saw each other more when they both had separate houses in London than when they were together. Father would visit regularly. I dreaded when he’d walk in the door.’
He’d arrive wearing his long back coat and carrying the leather satchel, and the house would erupt.
‘I tried to keep things calm because I didn’t think I belonged—it was the way I made myself be a part of the family.’
She braced herself and searched for the words, but when she tensed Edge moved closer, one arm falling around her in a touch gentle enough to calm a baby bird fallen from the nest.
This lie had been a part of her. But most importantly, she’d believed it. She’d been careful not to cause any upsets—not that she wanted to. She’d taken care of Abigail, the true daughter, and done the best she could to watch over her sister. Her duty.
She couldn’t undo twenty-five years of believing something untrue about herself. And she’d so prided herself on looking at the situation the same way she would have if it had been someone else’s life.
‘Lily. The past is done,’ he said.
He took her to the leather chair and sat, pulling her softly against him, letting her relax, except he still held the burned hand away from their bodies.
The past wasn’t done. It was flaring into her heart, working its way through her over and over and back again. Not only could she not erase it. She couldn’t keep it from growing in her memory.
‘I hated being at my mother’s house when she first left Father. It wasn’t home. Finally, Mother fell into a new friendship and agreed to let us visit home. Once, when she had been crying and complaining for days and I couldn’t stand it any more, I decided I must find a way to get us to Father’s.’
‘Your governess should have taken you.’
The woman would have had to get permission and Lily wasn’t waiting. ‘I sent a maid to tell the coachman to get the coach ready. It wasn’t unusual for Mother to have me give the servants her instructions. Then I gave Abigail the task of capturing the coachman’s attention. She wasn’t to get in front of the horses, but to pretend. I told her to fall and act hurt. When he checked on her, I slammed the carriage door, called Abigail and told the coachman that the governess was already in the vehicle. Away we went to Father’s house. We hid in the attic for two days and Cook had to know we were raiding the larders and taking all the food we could carry and buckets of water. No one looked for us and we became tired of hiding, so we moved to our rooms. We still laugh about the adventure. The governess was at Father’s home by then and continued lessons as if we’d never been missing.’
‘The adults let you get away with it.’
‘The governess knew, and the other servants, but I never did know if my parents realised we’d taken it upon ourselves to relocate. My favourite childhood adventure. Abigail’s, too. We even sneaked out into the garden to play during the day. Being ignored at Father’s was a respite. But the escape didn’t last for ever.’
Her mother just could not be alone long. She would be despairing and missing her daughters. ‘Mother sent for us again. Back we went, unsure of what we’d find, knowing it wouldn’t be sunshine and roses, but weeping or anger. She never took her anger out on us. Ever. But to see and hear her raging upset Abigail. Abigail would be in tears and Mother in tears and the governess would take Abigail to another room. I would stay with Mother. The maids would give us a wide berth.’ She laughed. ‘Mother’s maids kept far, far away and wouldn’t have ever turned their backs because they knew a shoe might be flung.’ She laughed. ‘My mother could not have vases or breakables on the shelves in a room with a fireplace. They made a dramatic crash.’
Lily touched Edge’s arm. ‘Once she told me never to be afraid when she threw something. She’d never hit me or Abigail. Her rage wasn’t as out of control as I believed. The windows were never broken. The glassware was flung at the fireplace, unless there was a fire. Then she might pick up the poker with both hands and bat a whole tabletop of items on to the floor. Noise and drama. I’m pleased that was left out of the Sophia Swift Memoirs, although everyone who knows Mother knows how volatile she is.’
Only her mother did seem protective of Abigail. ‘No mention of Abigail was made in the book. Everyone believes I am not my father’s true child. My sister, though, no one doubts she’s Father’s. She has the dimple in her chin and the Hightower eyes.’ Lily let a smile soften her words. ‘My mother should have been an actress. She so enjoyed the performance and I so hated it.’
She looked at him. ‘I felt so bad for days after I threw the biscuit at you. I swore never to throw anything again and I haven’t.’
* * *
‘I didn’t mind.’ He remembered the biscuit hurled in his direction and the surprise. His brothers didn’t dare toss anything at him. Either a tutor was near, or he could use his size to easily put them to the ground and twist an arm behind their back.
He’d once made Steven say he loved Agatha Crump and wished to marry her.
Now, Edge held Lily’s hand, absently rubbing her fingers, careful not to touch the burn.
‘That moment I flung the biscuit, I saw myself becoming like my mother. I couldn’t be like her.’ She took in a breath. ‘She exhausted and worried everyone around her. I even think she did the same to herself and that brought about the sadness.’
‘You’re worrying yourself a little more than you should,’ he said. ‘You’re your own person, not anyone else.’
He put his face so close he could feel her breath on his cheek. ‘I like you as you are.’
He admired her serious nature. She hadn’t flitted around like a butterfly, waving a fan in his face, trying to catch his attention. But she’d not needed to after she threw the biscuit at him. He’d noticed her each time he saw her, but the instances were not often enough when they were young.
‘All marriag
e isn’t unhappy,’ he said. ‘If you look closely, the town is full of people who creak along at a sedate pace. The turtles, not the hares. They are much quieter than the unhappy people who complain of miseries. Overall, it’s not polite to talk about how wonderful your life is, unless it is to mention the number of years married.’ He paused. ‘And even that is a risk because my parents had been married for quite some time.’
She met his eyes. ‘I know.’
‘I can’t think of many good things you can safely mention without becoming a braggart. For instance, I cannot mention to anyone...’ he put a thumb at her cheek ‘...tiny flecks of springtime green nestled in brown eyes.’
Tiny flecks that flourished bursts of awareness into him. She looked so perfect in his room.
She reached out and pushed at his chest, not moving him. ‘Edge... Everyone has eyes.’
He heard her, but with her hand on his chest, forcing his heart into beating warmth throughout his body, he took a moment to find an answer. ‘Not like yours. I would imagine no other eyes in the universe look exactly like yours.’
She’d left her hand on his chest, holding him captive, and she wasn’t aware of it.
He was captive and captivated. Lips. Soft skin. Velvet eyes.
Edge pulled back so he could see her features. He would like to see them on the face of a child—his child.
Before, he’d just thought her perfect for a duchess and rare because she wasn’t awed by his title.
Now, he thought of her differently.
* * *
‘Edge.’ Lily pushed at his chest again and moved away. He didn’t speak. She stepped to his window and looked out. ‘Your house is so close to my father’s. So close. I’d never be away from my mother.’
He watched her standing at his window. Awe trapped him silent and still. Rays of warmth flared into his body.
‘Edge... Do you understand? I cannot bear to return to the misery my mother brings.’
‘That’s the past.’
He concentrated on her, wanting to understand and comfort her.
She shook her head. ‘Don’t diminish it. You can’t brush away what happened with your father any more easily. And you—’ She turned to him. ‘You’ve only seen her from the outside.’