by Mary Balogh
Yet there had been last night …
But there was an evening to be lived through. At first he intended to live out to the end of it the charade he had begun with the announcement of Lily’s illness. Everyone else appeared to be in a cheerful mood, perhaps because of the presence of several young people. Even young Derek Wollston, who was only fifteen years old, had been allowed to dine with the adults. But Neville changed his mind. There were going to be enough letters of explanation to write as it was. This evening offered the perfect opportunity to break the news to at least a number of those most nearly concerned.
And so when his mother gave the signal after the last cover had been removed from the table for the ladies to adjourn to the drawing room and leave the gentlemen to their port, he spoke up.
“I beg that you will stay for a while, Mama,” he said, raising his voice so that it could be heard the length of the table. “And all the ladies, please. I have something to say.”
His mother sat down again with a smile and all eyes turned his way. He toyed for a moment with the one spoon left on the table before him. He had not planned what he would say. He had always considered rehearsed speeches an abomination. He raised his eyes and looked about at the various members of his family. Most were looking at him with polite interest—perhaps they expected a speech of farewell to those who were leaving. A few smiled. Joseph winked. Elizabeth looked at him alertly, as if she read something in his countenance that the others had not yet seen there.
“Lily does not have a headache,” he said.
The silence took on a note of decided discomfort. Uncle Samuel cleared his throat. Aunt Sadie fingered her pearls.
“She discovered this afternoon,” he said, “that she is not my wife. Not legally, at least.”
The silence first became tense and then was lost as everyone, it appeared, tried to question him at once. Neville held up a hand and they all stopped as abruptly as they had started.
“I suspected that it might be so on the day she arrived here,” he said, and he proceeded to give them the same explanation he had given Lily earlier. It was not enough that the marriage ceremony really had occurred and that a properly ordained minister had conducted it. It was not enough that he and Lily had made vows to each other and that one of the witnesses was still alive to attest to the fact. There were formalities to be observed before a marriage was valid in the eyes of church and state. And those formalities had not been completed in their case because the Reverend Parker-Rowe had died and the papers had been lost. One of the witnesses had died at Ciudad Rodrigo a month later.
“So Lily is not your wife,” the Duke of Anburey said redundantly when Neville had finished speaking. “You never were married to her.”
“I say!” Hal exclaimed, sounding dismayed.
“Lily is not the Countess of Kilbourne after all,” Aunt Mary said, shaking her head and looking somewhat dazed. “I do not wonder that she has the migraines, the poor dear. You still have the title, Clara.”
Most of those gathered about the table had something to add—except the countess, who stared at him in silence, and Joseph, who looked at him with knitted brows, and Lauren, who gazed expressionlessly down at the table.
“But, Neville.” Elizabeth had leaned forward, and as often happened when she spoke, everyone stopped to listen. “You are surely intending to satisfy the proprieties by marrying Lily again, are you not?”
All eyes turned Neville’s way. He tried to smile and failed miserably. “She will not have me,” he said. “She has refused me and will not be moved.”
“What?” The countess spoke for the first time.
“I planned to leave for London with her tomorrow morning, Mama,” he told her. “We would have married quietly there by special license and no one but the two of us would have been any the wiser. But she will not do it. She will not marry me.”
Unexpectedly Elizabeth smiled as she sat back in her chair. “No, she would not,” she said more to herself than to anyone else.
It was Gwendoline who vocalized one of the implications of what they had all heard. She clasped her hands to her bosom and her eyes lit up.
“Oh, but this is wonderful!” she exclaimed, smiling warmly at her brother. “You and Lauren can marry after all, Nev. You can set a new wedding date and we can begin new plans. A summer wedding will be lovelier than a spring wedding. You can carry roses, Lauren.”
Neville’s hand closed tightly about the spoon. He drew breath to reply, but Lauren spoke first, her voice breathless.
“No,” she said. “No, Gwen. The past nine days cannot simply be erased as if they never were. Nothing can be the same as it was before.” She raised her eyes and looked into his. “Can it, Neville?”
He did not know if she wished him to corroborate her words or if she was begging him to disagree with her. He could only give her honesty. He shook his head.
“The truth is,” he said, “that I made vows to Lily in all good faith. I fully intended to honor them for a lifetime. Does it make any difference that they are not legally binding? Are they not morally binding? And would I wish them not to be? I consider Lily to be my wife. I believe I always will.”
Lauren lowered her eyes again. It was impossible to know if she was satisfied or disappointed. One rarely did know with Lauren what her deepest feelings were. Dignity always came first with her. She was dignified now—and pale and beautiful. He felt an ache of deep affection for her. And a yearning to release her from the pain she surely must be feeling. But he was helpless to do anything.
“That is absurd, Neville,” his mother said crisply. “Are you above the state? Above the church? If the church says you are not married, then of course you are not. And it is your duty to marry a lady suited to your station and able to give you heirs.”
Lily was not a lady; she was not suited to his station; by her own admission, she was incapable of giving him heirs. But Lily was his wife.
“The whole thing will be a nine days’ wonder, I daresay,” the duke said. “The ton will be delighted by the story and will forget it as soon as some other sensation or scandal rears its head. Your mother is right, Neville—you must resume your former way of life as soon as possible. Marry someone of your own kind. I do not wish to be unkind to Lily, but—”
“Then do not be, Uncle Webster,” Neville said quietly but so firmly that his uncle stopped midsentence and flushed. “If anyone has slurs to cast upon Lily, I beg to inform that person that I will defend her honor in any way I deem necessary—just as surely as if the whole world acknowledged her as my wife.”
“Oh, I say,” Richard Wollston said. “Bravo, Nev.”
“Hold your tongue,” his father instructed him sharply.
“Tempers are becoming frayed,” Elizabeth said, and proceeded to bring up another pertinent point that no one else seemed to have considered—though it had tormented Neville ever since Lily had left him in the library earlier in the afternoon. “What is to become of Lily, Neville? What will she do? As I understand it, she has no family that she knows of in England.”
“She wants to go to London to look for employment,” he said. “I dread the thought. I hope she will agree to allow me to make a settlement on her and find her a decent home somewhere. But I am afraid she will not agree. She is a proud woman and a stubborn one, I believe.”
Gwendoline’s eyes were swimming in tears. “I am so ashamed,” she said. “My first thought was for what this could mean for our happiness—Lauren’s and Nev’s and mine. I did not even wonder what would happen to Lily. I wish—oh yes, I do wish—that she had not come into our lives at all. But she has come and I have liked her despite myself. Now I feel dreadfully sorry for her. She will not simply run away, Nev?”
“She has promised not to,” he assured her.
“Neville,” Elizabeth said, “perhaps I can do something for Lily. I have connections in London and a great liking for her even if she did come along to dash the happiness of my poor Lauren. Will you allow me
to talk with her?”
“I wish you would, Elizabeth,” he said. “Perhaps you could persuade her to change her mind? To marry me after all?”
“Do nothing in haste, Neville,” the duke advised. “You have been given a second chance to choose your countess wisely. You would be well advised to take time to make the decision with your considered judgment rather than with your raw emotions.”
Elizabeth got to her feet. “Where is she?” she asked. “In her room?”
“I believe so,” he said. One could never be sure with Lily, but that was where she had been when he came down for dinner. She had been curled up on a chair close to the window, gazing out. She had not turned her head to look at him or responded to any of his questions except to shrug her shoulders in a defensive rather than a careless gesture. She had changed, he had noticed, into her old cotton dress.
“I will go up to her now, then,” Elizabeth said, “if you will all excuse me.”
Forbes, Neville realized belatedly, was standing silently at the sideboard. But it did not matter. Such a truth as the fact that he and Lily were not married could not be kept from the servants anyway. They might as well learn the full story from the butler as be regaled piecemeal with a mixture of truth and rumor over the coming days.
“Perhaps,” Neville said, getting to his feet too and pushing back his chair with the backs of his knees, “we should all adjourn to the drawing room. I have no wish to imbibe port for the next half hour or so.”
Derek and his brother William, aged seventeen, looked almost comically disappointed. The wave of humor Neville felt in noticing it felt incongruous with his other feelings. But it served to remind him that somehow life went on through even the worst upheavals to which it was subjected.
He was going to find that pack of Doyle’s for Lily, he thought suddenly, if it was humanly possible to do so. Whatever it had contained for Lily might well have disappeared, especially if it was money, but perhaps he could retrieve something. She must be quite without a memento of her father, he realized. He remembered some of the things she had said to him when he showed her the gallery. It must be dreadful to have lost all of one’s family, to be unacquainted with any who remained, to have lost everything connected with one’s parents.
That was what he would do for her. If the pack still existed somewhere in this world, he would find it—even if it took him the rest of his life. He would restore something of her father to her.
It felt soothing to know that there was something, however slight, that he could do.
“Nev.” Joseph, Marquess of Attingsborough, set a hand on his shoulder as they were all leaving the dining room. “You don’t need drawing room chatter this evening, old chap. You need to get thoroughly foxed. Would you care for sympathetic company while you do it?”
16
Lily was still sitting on the chair she had dragged close to the window, her legs curled up beneath her. She had got up only once since she had come hurrying upstairs from the library, pulled off with frantic haste the pretty new clothes she had so recently donned, and threw on the old cotton dress again instead. She had got up to drag a blanket from the bed and wrap it about herself. The evening had turned chilly, though she would not close the window. She continued to stare out into the darkness.
The soft tap on the door of her bedchamber did not disturb her. She simply ignored it. It would be him, and she could not look at him or speak to him. Her resolve might slip and she might cling to him—for the rest of her life. She would not allow that to happen. Love was not enough. She loved him—she adored him—to the depths of her soul, but it simply was not enough. She did not belong in his life. He did not belong in hers—though that thought was potentially frightening. She did not have a life. But she refused to be daunted by the yawning emptiness that lay beyond this final night at Newbury Abbey.
“Lily?” It was Elizabeth’s voice. “May I come in, my dear? May I sit here beside you?”
Lily looked up. As usual Elizabeth was the epitome of understated elegance in a dark-green high-waisted gown, her blond hair dressed in a smoothly shining coiffure. She was the quintessential aristocrat, daughter of an earl, educated, accomplished, a woman of immaculate but easy manners. And she was asking to sit beside a sergeant’s daughter—Lily Doyle? Well. Lily had always been proud of her father; she cherished fond memories of her mother; she had grown up liking and respecting herself. Her self-respect had faltered during those seven months when she had chosen survival over defiance, but it had recovered. There was nothing in herself or in her life and background of which she was ashamed.
She nodded and returned her gaze to the darkness of the outdoors.
Elizabeth drew a chair close to Lily’s and seated herself. She took one of Lily’s hands in both her own. They were warm. For the first time Lily realized that she was still cold despite the blanket and the fact that the evening air was not so very cold after all.
“How I honor you, Lily,” Elizabeth said.
Lily looked at her in surprise.
“You have done what is right for both Neville and yourself,” Elizabeth said. “But it was not easy to do. You have given up a great deal.”
“No.” Lily shook her head. “It is not difficult to give up Newbury Abbey and all this.” She gestured about her with her free arm. “You do not understand. This is the sort of life to which you were born. I grew up in the train of an army.”
“What I meant,” Elizabeth said gently, “was that you have given up Neville. You love him.” It was not a question.
“It is not enough,” Lily said.
“No, it is not, my dear.” Elizabeth agreed. They sat together in silence for a while before she spoke again. “Neville says that you wish to find employment.”
“Yes,” Lily said. “I do not know what I am qualified to do, but I am willing to work hard. I think perhaps Mrs. Harris, with whom I came to England from Lisbon, will help me find something if I ask her.”
“I can offer you employment,” Elizabeth said.
“You?” Lily stared at her.
Elizabeth smiled. “I am six-and-thirty years old, Lily,” she said, “and long past the age of needing chaperones wherever I go. But I am a woman living alone and there are conventions to be observed. I am expected to have a companion in residence and in tow whenever I venture out without male escort. I had Cousin Harriet with me for five years, but she was provoking enough to marry a rector just four months ago and leave me companionless. I was delighted for her, of course—she is older than I and has always believed that a woman is not a complete person until she gives up her personhood in order to marry. And, really, Lily, she was a trial to me. Two women so different in character and temperament it would be difficult to find. I need a replacement. I need a companion. Will you be she? It would be a salaried position, of course.”
Lily despised herself for the rush of gladness she felt. But it would not do.
“You are kind,” she said. “But I am in no way equipped to offer you companionship. Consider my deficiencies—I cannot read or write; I cannot paint or play the pianoforte; I know nothing about the theater or music or—or anything. I am not of your world. If you found your cousin tiresome, you would soon find me impossible.”
“Oh, Lily.” Elizabeth smiled and squeezed Lily’s hand, which she still held. “If you knew how dull life can be for a woman of ton, you would not so readily reject my offer. One is cabin’d, cribb’d, and confin’d at every turn, to borrow a phrase. One is subjected to insipid company, insipid entertainments, and insipid conversation, largely because one is a woman. You cannot know, perhaps, what a delight you have been to me in the past week and a half. You think you have nothing to offer by way of companionship because you do not know the things that I know. Well, I know them, my dear. I do not need to be told them by someone else. But I do not know the things you know. We could share worlds, Lily. We could entertain each other. Life with you in my home would be great fun, I daresay. And you have a lively, intelligen
t mind, even if you do not realize it—intelligence is such an important attribute. Do say you will come—as my friend. For convenience’s sake you would be my employee since you will need something on which to live. But to all intents and purposes you would simply be my friend. What do you say?”
She would be an employee, Lily thought. But within the confines of her employment she would also be a sort of equal. Elizabeth did not believe they were of unequal mind or intelligence. She believed that Lily would have as much to offer a friendship as she did. Lily was not quite convinced, but the temptation to say yes was strong. Overwhelming, in fact, when the alternatives were so few.
“Perhaps for a short while, then,” she said. “But if you find that I am not what you expect, then you must tell me so and I will leave. I will not be anyone’s charity case.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “I would not bring anyone into my own home out of charity, Lily,” she said. “I have far too great a regard for my own comfort. But I agree to your terms. And they will work both ways. If you find after a while that I am impossible to work for, then you must tell me so and I will help you find something else. Can you be ready to leave in the morning?”
“Sooner,” Lily said fervently. “But I promised that I would stay tonight.”
“And quite right too,” Elizabeth said. “Neville is not happy with the turn of events, Lily. Not happy at all. You are not intending to leave behind all your new clothes by any chance, are you?”
“I must,” Lily said. “They were bought for his wife. I am not his wife.”
“But he would be dreadfully hurt if you did not take them with you.” Elizabeth told her. “Sometimes pride can be selfish. Will you take them as a gift from him? It is not wrong, my dear. It is not greedy. It is the right thing to do. It would be cruel not to.”
“Lily bit her lip. But she nodded.
“Splendid!” Elizabeth got to her feet. “We will leave early. Try to sleep?” She bent and kissed Lily’s cheek.
Lily nodded. “Thank you,” she said. But she stopped Elizabeth before she reached the door. One troubling possibility had occurred to her. “Will the Duke of Portfrey travel with us?”