“And Lyla,” he said, smiling warmly at her. “My wife.”
“Your wife the murderess.”
“That sours the mood.”
“You must remember what I am.”
“I know what you are. You are a lady who can read Latin.”
With that, he led her to the dining room, where they ate a pleasant luncheon, and said nothing to one another.
*****
A solitary tree stood just shy of the wood at the rear of the Wallcopse grounds. It was this tree by which Lyla judged the time that had elapsed since Thornton and she had first made contact. It had been bare, ugly, misshapen. Branches had stuck out wildly, and it had had the overall appearance of a decrepit old man. And then, as the months passed, it began to sprout tiny leaves, careful leaves which seemed afraid to come fully into the light. Braver and braver these leaves grew until one day the tree was covered in them. The misshapenness became an advantage; it served as a wonderful canvas for these leave-artists. The decrepit old man, in the flowering of spring, and then the early hints at summer had become young again.
*****
It was mid-May when the Sinnets received a letter from Lyla’s father. He and Mother begged that they be allowed to visit the castle. They had not visited it yet, and had not seen fit to write for a score of different reasons, but now they wished to see their daughter again and meet her husband. Lyla was not overjoyed at the prospect, but it had been almost a year since she had last seen her parents: since they had shipped her off to be married to a man she did not know.
The morning was fine, and she and Thornton were walking in the garden. This feat had come about slowly, by days and then weeks and then months of coaxing. Thornton had shown an almost superhuman ability for patience with her. Not once had he pushed her to “just get on with it”, as many men would do. Not once had he snapped at her, or lost his temper. He had simply asked her, each day, if she would like to walk with him. When she declined, he didn’t mention it again that day. The next day he would ask, and the cycle would repeat. It became a joke between them; they would smile self-indulgently as they asked and answered.
“Are you nervous?” Thornton said.
“Yes,” Lyla admitted. “I am very nervous. Seeing them again will bring back—things I would rather stay buried.”
Thornton nodded as though he understood completely, but he didn’t. Lyla still hadn’t told him what had happened on that day. She had blocked it out so completely now that she often thought it was a dream. How could something like that happen on the periphery of a ball? How could high society coexist with monstrous acts? These were questions which perplexed her, and often made her think that it had been a dream. No other explanation was possible. But then she reminded herself that she had not received word of any kind from Monica or Marie, and the reality of it slapped her once again.
Mother and Father were to arrive two evenings hence. That meant two nights of broken sleep as old memories resurfaced. Lyla often wished she was a strong woman, that she had in her mind a steel will capable of tolerating these mental demons. But the truth was that she was not a strong woman; she was just a woman. She could only deal with it as thousands of women had. She could only shut it away, lock it, abandon the key. She could only ignore it, pretend it did not happen.
Which makes it all the more difficult when he insists on talking about it.
“Perhaps it is time,” Thornton had said, about two weeks ago. “It has been a long time, Lyla. A very long time. It has only been almost a year, this is true, but it feels longer. Things have changed drastically. Only my dukedom has stopped us from becoming complete pariahs. But society does suspect us. Some of it probably hates us. But I do not care for that. I only wish to know. What happened, Lyla? What happened that day? We have become friends, have we not? Will you not tell me?”
She had not told him. She could not tell him.
Part of it was that she did not wish to shock him. But there was another part, a deeper part, which was afraid that if she told him, he would not believe her. He had not gotten on especially well with his brother, but that didn’t mean he would believe it all. After all, they were blood. It was hard to break a bond like that, even if it was an uneasy bond. She had collected her book and retired to her bedroom, claiming she had a headache.
There were times, at night, when she was alone and scared and weeping, that she wished Thornton was there with her. She didn’t know when this desire had first cried out within her, but she knew it was a real, true desire. She wanted Thornton there with her to soothe everything, to make it go away.
But that can’t happen if you don’t tell him, and you won’t tell him.
“I am nervous, too,” Thornton said, pulling her from her web of reflection.
“You are nervous?”
“Of course,” Thornton said. “A man is always nervous when he meets his wife’s parents.”
“Yes, I suppose things like that can still bother us, can’t they? Normal things, I mean. Even if we are decidedly abnormal.”
Thornton did something he had not done in all these months then. He smiled, leaned over, and kissed her upon the forehead. He immediately retreated, as though aware that she might recoil. But the kiss was warm upon her forehead, and for a moment she was just a lady and he was just a man, and he had just kissed her upon the head.
Then the ever-present darkness returned. Still, she did not regret the shadow of his kiss upon her skin.
*****
The dinner with Mother and Father passed without incident. Indeed, it was so boring, mundane, and humdrum, that Lyla had difficulty recalling anything salient afterwards. It seemed as if the whole event had passed with formalities and nothing more. They conversed about the food, about the war, and about society in general, but not once did they even hint at the event that had brought the four of them into each other’s lives. The entire evening was tinged with a sense of the repressed, and Lyla could not help thinking that she was the source of this repression. After all, she was the focal point; these tumultuous times revolved around her, and her alone. The other party was dead.
They stayed the night, and the next day Mother and Lyla walked the grounds, alone. “Does he treat you well?” Mother whispered, as though her voice might carry on the summer wind.
“Quite well, Mother,” Lyla said. She would not mention the first five months of isolation. Mother would only misinterpret. For her, they would be horrid, a punishment; for Lyla they had been a welcome breathing space.
“Does he love you?”
“I do not know, Mother,” Lyla said.
“And do you love him?”
Lyla had never posed this question to herself. It had never entered her thoughts. Their relationship was one of circumstance. She had not considered that a relationship of that sort might have a place for love. She thought on it now. She didn’t know what love was. As an experiment, she tried to imagine her life without Thornton, without seeing him every day. Would her mood change? Her heart told her that it would, that she would once again sink into any abyss of self-blame. For Thornton did not see the killer who had gotten away free. He saw, as he had said, a lady who could read Latin. The words had been offhand, but they were incredibly important to Lyla. If she could define herself by that – and shun their definitions – perhaps she could wake up without a pit in her stomach.
“I love how he makes me feel about myself,” Lyla said. “Yes, I love that very much. And I love to spend time with him. And the idea of not seeing him makes me feel ghastly. I do not know, Mother. You have more experience than me.”
“That sounds like love,” Mother said thoughtfully. “Yes, that sounds like it could not be anything but love. Let me pose you a question, my sweet daughter. It was a question I posed to your brother before he eloped to the Colonies.” Her voice dropped even lower. Father had been furious when Rolland elo
ped with the actress.
Lyla’s interest piqued. She had not known that Rolland and Mother talked before he went away. “What did you say?” she urged.
“You mustn’t tell your father,” Mother said.
“I will not.”
“You must promise.”
“I promise.”
“It was just me and him. We were completely alone. I felt that I could speak freely. So I said to him, ‘Son, if this lady of yours were to suffer a catastrophic accident. If all her money, her looks, her everything were to be stripped away, would you stand by her?’ That, I told him, was the true measure of love. You can only count on somebody who, if everything was taken away from you, would not abandon you. That is why, I believe, it is difficult for most people to love. They do not know what it truly means. Their lives are easy.”
It was strange to hear Mother speak like this: Mother, who, for the longest time, had simply been an addition to Father, a thing upon his arm. “Are you asking me the question?” Lyla said.
“Yes, daughter, sweet daughter. If your husband were to lose his title, his castle, his income, his prestige – if he were to lose his handsomeness, and become crippled – would you stay with him? Would you still want to be with him?”
Lyla did not answer hastily. She delved into her mind and considered it seriously. She imagined Thornton without arms or legs, his face burnt, his position taken. She imagined him staying in some boarding house, alone, waiting for her. She was at a road. Left: home to Mother and Father. Right: to her ruined husband. She walked right. Of course, she walked right. She could not leave him alone.
“I would stay with him,” Lyla said. “Yes, I am quite sure of it.”
“That is love,” Mother said. “That is my definition of love, anyhow.”
They walked further in silence and were presently joined by Thornton and Father, who had been smoking in the drawing room. “By Jove!” Father exclaimed when he reached the women. “I’ve just been fleeced by a duke!”
“Clifford!” Mother cast an anxious look at Thornton.
Father nodded. “Apologies, Your Grace. I spoke out of turn.”
“Fleeced!” Thornton laughed, patting Father on the back. “You were bested.”
“Bested! Ha!”
Mother watched Thornton, saw that the two of them were jesting, and then relaxed.
Father and Mother made a couple, and Lyla and Thornton made another, walking behind them. “It is going well,” Thornton whispered.
“You and Father seem to be fast friends.”
“He is a sporting man,” Thornton agreed. “We played at cards. An awfully bad habit. I must make a small gift for him: a reimbursement of sorts.”
“Yes, but pray do not make it obvious. Father will be offended.”
Thornton nodded. At length, he said: “My lady, may I take your hand? Without the glove?”
Lyla looked down at her gloved hand and tried to push away the dread she was already beginning to feel at the prospect of holding a man’s hand. But the man was her husband, and he was kind, and he trusted her. And yes, yes, she trusted him. She removed the glove and offered her hand. He clasped it with his hands, sheltering them, and smiled deeply at her.
His sky-blue eyes sparked with life, and for the first time in a long time, Lyla felt completely safe.
*****
They were sitting in the library when Lyla finally told Thornton what had transpired that day. He listened attentively, never interrupted her, and only moved to touch her hand every so often. His face was impassive, and the only movement in the room was a single shard of light that illumed the books, and occasionally disappeared with the passage of a cloud.
*****
“You are so timid, like a tiny little stick. Yes, an utter stick. I wonder if you would snap. Would you?”
“That is a strange thing to say, my—”
He fell upon her like a wolf. Lyla had never been in the presence of such violence, much less the target of it. Pain assailed each part of her body, and she felt utterly trapped. The weight of his body pinned her to the floor. He was breathing heavily. Thick breath engulfed her, invaded her nose and mouth. She coughed, stifled, but the smell would not dissipate.
Then – it happened.
She left her body when it was happening. It was too painful to remain within. She floated up, up, above the gardens and looked down from above. The man was an animal. He took what he wanted, and when he was done, he didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. He rolled aside and laughed, and then began dressing himself slowly.
Lyla was shaking. She descended and once again inhabited her body, which felt weak and rickety, as though her bones might collapse. Pain stabbed all over. She looked down at herself. She was a mess. Her dress was torn. She patted it down, moved it around, to cover the area, and then looked across at the man, at him, at the Devil.
“Well,” he said, as he pulled his shirt over his head, “you are no stick after all. You didn’t snap.”
Lyla didn’t say a thing. This was the part all the stories about her got wrong. They thought that she and he were having an affair, and there had been an argument, and she had pushed him into the flowerbed where he cracked his head against the rock. But that was not what happened. The man had ingested some kind of toxin, something to alter his mood, but suddenly it began to alter his body, too.
He keeled over, vomited, and stumbled forward. He looked lost, with his arm extended, pointing at nothing, and then he fell to his side. His head cracked upon the rocks, and blood pooled, and Lyla was left standing there like a child stranded in a crowd of strangers. The cracking of his head must have been loud, for presently the main bulk of the guests were standing as spectators, peering at Lyla in her state of undress. Some were laughing, some were sneering, and then they spied the corpse. Some started screaming.
Monica and Marie were in the crowd. Marie was screaming; Monica was sneering.
Lyla remembered little after that. She must’ve fainted. She awoke at home, her home, with Mother sitting at the end of the bed. She receded into herself. She heard Mother’s words, but nothing else. The word trial was mentioned, over and over, and killer.
No, Mother, Lyla wanted to say. I am not the Devil. He is.
But the words wouldn’t come.
*****
Thornton sensed that she was tired after this. He helped her to her feet and escorted her to a bedroom. It took Lyla a moment to realize that it was not her bedroom. Her heart began to beat, but then Thornton laid her down and looked into her eyes. “Not that,” he said. “I will sleep on the chair. I only wanted you close. That – what happened – I – there are no – I am so, so sorry, Lyla. So very sorry. Not just that it happened, but for those first months of our marriage, where I shunned you. It was wrong of me. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I already have,” Lyla said sleepily. She felt as though a parasite had just been pulled from her being. Her chest felt lighter. She could breathe easier. And the dark eyes laughing behind the icy wall were no longer so intimidating. She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. Soon, she was sleeping.
She woke late when the room was pitch-dark. Thornton snored softly from the chair. His chin rested upon his chest. Lyla sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. It wasn’t there: the darkness. The darkness was leaving. It was almost supernatural. The pain was still there, and the regret, but the darkness was leaving her. The darkness that told her she was wicked, she was in the wrong, was departing. In its place was a conviction that she had been wronged, and she was a victim. He was right about one thing. I will not snap. I will not break.
Softly, she walked across the room to where Thornton slept. She leaned down and kissed him upon the forehead, where he had kissed her. She was about to turn back to bed when he touched her hand. “It is morning?” he said, his lips just barely
visible in the moonlit room.
“Not even close,” Lyla said.
“Are you okay?”
Okay?“I am better,” Lyla said. “Because of you, Thornton, I am better. I am not healed. But I think I can be healed.”
“Good,” Thornton said. “I love you.”
It was said matter-of-factly, as though he said it all the time.
Lyla kissed his forehead again. “I love you, too.”
The Duke of Hearts
I would like to dispel the myth that I, Sarah Archer, the daughter of what is usually referred to as a “minor family,” am in any way inferior to my peers. This is commonly muttered amongst the lords when they see how I interact with the “common folk.” That I do not spit in their direction is considered a slight against the most privileged of society. That I, in fact, do not flinch at the idea of sharing the same air space is positively scandalous. Perhaps this is why at the age of twenty-three I was not yet married.
I first saw Francis Seymour in London in 1676. To say I was immediately captivated and intrigued and astonished and beguiled by him would of course be unseemly and yet it is the truth. It was not a planned meeting, and, indeed, no words were exchanged between us, I being in town for a meeting with friends, and he being in town for reasons unknown to me.
We passed mere inches of each other on a thoroughfare not far from Westminster. He carried himself differently to the dukes I had seen before. His arms were by his sides, like a fighting man, and his steps were not ladylike in the slightest, but heavy and probably “uncouth.” He wore dress far beneath his economic powers, with only the slightest frill and flare adorning his jacket and breeches and boots.
As soon as we passed, I asked my maidservant who the man was, and, she being a surprisingly well-informed source of information of that kind, she told me that he was Francis Seymour, and had recently come into his dukedom in Somerset. I admit my heart was beating fearfully quickly; I thought it may break out of my bodice. There, I have said two unrespectable things in the space of a few words! This will cause quite a stir if it is even found, I am sure. Perhaps I will arrange for it to be published after my death, but that is morbid and a concern for another time.
Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) Page 15