Lyla closed her eyes and thought of birds and clouds and grass and leaves and wind and anything that was not him. She thought of a rabbit bouncing across a forest, leaping over a felled tree, and tumbling down a hole. She thought of a moth in a lantern, flowing winged shadows against a stone wall. All of this: to stop the memories, the blasted memories, from surfacing. How could he ask this of her? She felt like she was at the trial all over again.
“It is not what you think,” was all she was able to say.
“I think?” His Grace said. He leaned his forearms upon the desk and sighed. “I do not know what to think. The whole country knows of this escapade. The Sinnets are shamed just as much as the Wemmicks by the whole thing. Do you know what they say? They say my brother and you were having an affair! An affair! I hear your mother can barely eat. And my sister has fled to Wales, where she shuts herself up and won’t talk to anybody. My lady, I implore you, all we ask for is the truth.”
What happens when the truth is worse than your fiction? What happens when the truth will destroy you instead of heal you? What happens if the truth you desperately want to hear is the last thing you should be hearing?
“Did you love your brother, Your Grace?” Lyla said.
His Grace paused, and then shook his head. “No,” he said. His voice was without inflection. “He was a rascal. We never got on as brothers are meant to do. I know that is a dreadful thing to say, but it is the truth. There, I have told you my truth. Now you can tell me yours.”
“I cannot,” Lyla countered. “I – I am a good person, Your Grace.”
The declaration came as though from a great mist. She did not believe it; she did not believe that she was a good person. How could she be, after what had happened to her? Why would such a bad thing happen to a good person? And why would society shun a good person? No, the only way to explain this was that she was wicked, and so a wicked thing had happened to her. But for some reason she herself did not understand, she wanted His Grace to disagree with this opinion of her. She wanted him to think she was a good person. Perhaps then she could regain a piece of herself.
“Are you?” His Grace said. Again, his voice was without emotion. “How am I to know that, my lady, when you will not talk to me? How am I to know a single thing about you?”
It is too painful!
Lyla stayed silent.
How can I speak of demons which haunt me?
His Grace rose.
Just leave me to my fate!
He made for the door.
Yes, just let me suffer alone! Let me try to blot the memories which stab into me each night!
He was about to leave when he stopped and looked at her across the candlelight. “Join me for supper, on the morrow,” he said. “Perhaps it is time we spent a little time together. Perhaps then you will feel comfortable around me.”
I will never feel comfortable again.
*****
She donned a dinner dress and joined His Grace in the main dining hall for supper. It was the first time she had entered this room. Much of the castle was unknown to her. Her world had turned from one of wide open fields and infinite expectations to three or four rooms in a small piece of the castle. Her heart beat with anxiety as she followed Tammy through the hallways to the dining room. “Many thanks, Y’r Grace,” Tammy was saying, “for not objec’ing overly to the business with the supper last night. I am truly sorry,Y’r Grace, that something like that happened, and I promise it won’t be happenin’ again.”
“It is fine,” Lyla said. She was not really listening to the girl. She was young and fresh and full of life. Life poured from her eyes like streams, and her step was bouncy. She had brought Lyla’s supper ten minutes late. It was no disaster, and Lyla really wished the girl would be quiet. Thankfully, she said nothing more as she opened the dining room doors and stared at the ground. Lyla muttered a thank you and walked on unsteady feet toward the table.
His Grace was already seated at the far end. He did not stand when she entered. He simply gazed at her as one gazes at an exhibition with which one is unfamiliar. She was about to sit at the other end of the long table when the footman proffered her a seat beside His Grace. Clearly, His Grace had ordered that this be her seat. (The footman never would have acted alone.) Lyla walked to and collapsed into the seat. Cups of wine were poured, and in silence, they drank.
“I am glad you came,” His Grace said.
I did not have much of a choice.
Lyla inclined her head. Words seemed tiresome and exhausting things of late.
“I feared you would not come,” His Grace persisted.
Lyla inclined her head again.
“Is your throat sore? Are you ill?”
“Ill?” Lyla said.
A small smile touched His Grace’s lips. “I was jesting with you,” he said. “Ill, I said, because you were not … Ah, perhaps I am not as funny as my ballroom compatriots would have me believe with their raucous laughter.”
“So many lies are told in ballrooms,” Lyla muttered. “I fear you may be correct.”
As soon as the words had escaped her lips, she knew they were a mistake. But His Grace did not behave in a shocked or aghast way. He merely tipped his head forward, as though to say: Well said. She nodded, a tiny fragment of forgotten confidence and self-assurance sparking briefly to life within her—before being extinguished by the weight of inescapable memories. They drank some more wine, and Lyla’s head began to feel fuzzy, as though the room were trifold before her. She set the cup down and continued on water instead.
Soon the food was served. It was a simple meal of goose and potato. They ate for what seemed like an awfully long time, and then His Grace withdrew a pipe and began to pack it with tobacco. “Do you mind?” he said.
“Not terribly,” Lyla replied.
Everything was cold. Her words were cold, her gaze was cold, her skin was cold; coldness enveloped her. The memory of that warm June day was iced over. She felt her bones would crack with the coldness of what had happened. And this man was his brother … The thought trailed away into the recesses of a running mind.
His Grace blew puffs of smoke into the air, regarded her, looked away, and then regarded her again. Finally, he leaned forward slightly. “My lady,” he said. “I know you do not want to speak of what happened—”
“You are correct, Your Grace.”
“What I was going to say is that perhaps we could forget about that for a short time. I have a proposal. (Not that kind of proposal; that has been said and is solid and cannot be undone.) No, I have another proposal. Perhaps we should try and see more of one another. I know you have become quite used to your books. I studied much when I was younger. Perhaps I could join you in the library one day?”
“It is your library,” Lyla said.
“It is,” His Grace said. “But it is your sanctuary.”
“Why are you being kind to me, Your Grace? I am a killer, remember. I am a slattern, remember. I am a fallen one; I am the very antithesis of all that is proper and right. You should have distanced yourself from the Wemmicks; you should have burned us. Indeed, I do not know why you made this proposal. I would have been quite happy soaring away from a clifftop, toward rocks that would end it—”
“Enough!” His Grace roared, his voice obliterating her words. “That is quite enough!”
Lyla laughed. It was a reflexive response with absolutely no mirth behind it.
His Grace shook his head. “You must not fall into self-pity. Nothing was ever won or achieved that way. I am trying, here, my lady, to make some kind of relationship between us apart from cohabitants. I am trying to fix whatever this breach is that exists between us. My brother – he is the reason we are together. My lovely brother – he is the reason we are distant and do not talk. Well, blast it, I am saying that we should talk. If only fo
r the sake of our sanity. It is not healthy, being married to a stranger. It can destroy a man and drive a woman to madness.”
He fell back into his chair and took a long suck on his pipe. Lyla closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them. Of late, when she closed her eyes, it appeared in her mind. It appeared stark and brutal, and the feelings came rushing into her chest like parasites. She felt used, even as it was happening, like a pair of socks: a dirty pair of socks which nobody cares a fig for. She was a devilish woman. If she weren’t, why did the Devil come for her? She was a bad woman. She was a dishonest woman. That had to be true, or the fabric of the world was bent out of shape, and there was something disastrously wrong with the way things trotted along. Yes, for things to be sane, she had to be insane; she had to be the wrong parted, not the wronged party.
“Let me tell you something, my lady,” His Grace said. “It is a story, but it is true. When we were young, Haywood and I would go into the woods and hunt rabbits. Oh, we thought we were quite the heroes. Only, Haywood was always jealous of me. It is quite uncomely to admit it, but it is the truth, and it is only the two of us here. Yes, he was quite jealous. You see, I was always quicker and steadier than him, and so I would always return first with my catch, to show Father.
“That was what it came to: showing Father. He was a distant man, but when he saw his boys with rabbits they had caught themselves, he would smile and rub us on the head. But only the first one, you understand. The first one to return with a rabbit got a smile and a rub on the head. The second—nothing. Father was no longer interested.”
His Grace chewed on his pipe and looked meditatively at his cup of wine.
“The first one,” he went on, between puffs of smoke, “and not the second. I was quicker, steadier, and more effective. But Haywood was something else, something that eclipsed my qualities. He was morally oblique. There was a capacity in him to be brutal. One day, after I had slain my rabbit, he produced a rope – I do not know from where he acquired it – waited for me to approach the creature, and then lashed the rope around my body, pinning my arms. He quickly tied me to a nearby tree, and then whisked up the rabbit and sprinted home to show Father. My rabbit!”
His Grace shook his head.
“Why are you telling me this, Your Grace?” Lyla said. For some reason, her hands had started to shake.
“I wanted you to know,” His Grace said, “that I know who Haywood was. And when you are ready to talk about the day at the ball, I will listen. It will push aside doubts in my mind, and may confirm things I secretly think. That is why I have married you, my lady. I suspect that the blame does not lie upon you. But suspect is meaningless without confirmation.”
She knew this was her opportunity, but when she delved into her mind for those memories – for the harsh, stark words that would elucidate those memories – she crunched against an icy wall. Through this icy wall, his eyes gleamed, his tongue pressed against his teeth, his breath plumed. She shivered, though the dining room was warm.
“I cannot,” she stuttered. Her teeth were chattering. “I – cannot. Your Grace, may I be excused?”
“Of course,” His Grace said. “But on the morrow, I shall see you in the library. Do I have your permission?”
“Yes,” Lyla breathed. Suddenly the walls felt close, as though the castle was closing in around her. She needed the warped breathing space of her small bedroom, her dusty library. “Yes,” she repeated, and then stumbled out of the room, wine seeping and sweating out of her pores.
Tammy joined her in the hallway and supported her arm. “Your Grace,” she said. “You don’t look too well. Let’s get you back to y’r room.”
With the assistance of the girl, Lyla managed to return to her bedroom. She excused the maidservant and lay upon the bed, her head buried in the pillow, wishing the pillow would swallow her—wishing it would absolve her.
But there was a promise of minor reprieve: a promise that perhaps the gloominess of the past five months could be somewhat assuaged. His Grace would join her tomorrow. His Grace had cause to doubt popular opinion. His Grace was giving her honor a chance.
But the ice within her was tough, and cold, and would not crack easily.
*****
Her habit was to arrive at the library at ten o’clock in the morning, just after breakfast, and stay there until five o’clock when she would return to her bedroom and lie upon her bed and try her best to banish the thoughts that threatened to send her tumbling into full-blown insanity. She tried to tire herself out as much as possible when she was in the library, so that when she returned to her bedroom, she would be too exhausted to think of anything. Her Latin was improving steadily, and her Greek was not far behind. There was a certain timelessness in the library. Sometimes she would read over the same passage for what felt like a half-hour only to realize that the entire day had elapsed. She was as happy as she could be when this happened, for it meant less time with her thoughts.
The morning after her supper with His Grace, she went to the library as usual. But she couldn’t focus. The words were naught but hazy black lines upon her vision, and every sentence was read in His Grace’s voice. He had made a profound impression on her. The rabbit story, no matter how prosaic, was like poetry to her mind. It went a long way toward proving everything she thought about him. It went a long way toward vindicating her darkest feelings. The boy with the rope had grown up, physically, but mentally and emotionally and spiritually he had remained the same. But now he is dead, she thought, and he is nothing.
His Grace entered quietly. “My lady,” he said. He sat beside her at the desk. “What are you reading?”
She told him.
He nodded.
They stared at each other and then down at the table. Lyla found herself fidgeting, her hands fiddling with the fabric of her dress, constantly having to stop herself from touching her face. His Grace’s eyes burnt into her, and she found it difficult not to flinch under his gaze. He was not being aggressive, and yet violence was fresh in her mind. She almost jumped from the chair when he leaned over to turn a page. She almost slapped him when he shifted his chair to be more comfortable. She almost screamed when he rose to open the curtains.
Blue winter sunlight filtered in through the frosted windows, making the room look old and depressing: not at all like the haven it had become to Lyla. His Grace walked over to the shelves and perused them at leisure, and then returned with a large tome. “A translation of The Odyssey,” he said. “Perhaps it will make your job easier.”
“I don’t want it to be easy,” Lyla said. “If it was easy, it would be quick, and I want this study to last as long as possible. If possible, I want it to last forever. I would be quite happy to sit in here forever and – and not think.”
“My lady,” His Grace said. “Walk the grounds with me.”
“No!” Lyla cried.
She rose from her seat and walked to the other end of the room. Walk the grounds. The grounds – where it had all happened. Where the Wemmicks had lost their dignity. Where the Sinnets had lost their pride. Where the fresh life that had been promised since her birth was torn away. Where life had ended. They were not the same grounds – no! Her mind recoiled at the suggestion that she would walk the grounds – any grounds – with a man – any man – even if he was her husband. Her mind screamed at the suggestion, railed against it, cried out in agony. Grounds meant pain; of that she was sure.
His Grace tilted his head at her in bemusement. “My lady?” he said. “Have I said something to offend you?”
“I apologize, Your Grace,” Lyla said, slowly and carefully, lest her fear become evident in her words. “I merely do not wish to walk them just now. It is rather cold, and I fear a chill will make me ill.”
His Grace knew something was amiss. It was clear in the way he looked at her. But thankfully he did not press her, and Lyla resumed her se
at and together they looked over the translation. Once, when they both made to turn the same page, their hands brushed. Something between excitement and terror moved through Lyla. She did not pull her hand away. She left it there for a moment, feeling the warmth of his hand, and he did not pull his away, either. Then the moment was shattered as Tammy knocked on the door.
“Luncheon will be ready soon, Your Grace, if it please you, or I can have the cook wait a li’le longer.”
His Grace turned to Lyla expectantly.
“Lunch will be fine,” she said.
His Grace nodded, and the maidservant left.
They sat in silence, and then His Grace lifted the book and read a Latin phrase. Perhaps he pronounced it incorrectly on purpose, or perhaps he genuinely had forgotten his lessons. In any case, it allowed Lyla to correct him, and His Grace to thank her. The light in the room increased, and His Grace’s smile of gratitude was radiant.
Lyla wanted to believe that he was different – that he was not like other men – but it was difficult when she had been so ill-treated, when she had– Her mind stamped it down. Could His Grace be different? Could His Grace really be kind? Could His Grace really believe that she was an honest, good woman?
She realized she hadn’t said anything in a long while. His Grace was on his feet. “Shall we?” he said.
“Hmm, yes, of course—Your Grace.”
“You may call me Thornton,” His Grace said, “if I may call you Lyla.”
“Of course!” Lyla cried recklessly, almost jumping to her feet. Her mind was in disarray. Old and new feelings warred. This man was kind; all men were devils. This man was patient; all men pushed. This man was unique; copies proliferated in every sphere of life. “Thornton,” she said, as they left the library, trying the word on her tongue, tasting it. “Thornton, yes, Thornton.”
Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) Page 14