by Mary Balogh
He approached Elizabeth’s with a great deal of trepidation. He even found himself half hoping as he entered the house and asked if Miss Doyle would receive him that she would send down a refusal. But she did not. The butler showed him up to the drawing room. Both Lily and Elizabeth were there.
“Neville,” Elizabeth said, coming across the room toward him after he had made his bow and exchanged greetings with them. She kissed his cheek. “I will allow you a private word with Lily.” And she left the room without further ado.
Lily was not looking crushed—or dazed. Indeed, she looked remarkably vibrant in a fashionable sprigged muslin dress with her hair softly curling about her face.
“You killed Mr. Dorsey,” she said. “My father told me this morning. I am not sorry that he is dead though I have never before wished for anyone’s death. But I am sorry you were forced to do it. I know it is not easy to kill.”
Yes, Lily would know that, having grown up with an army whose business it was to kill.
But—my father?
“This one,” he said, “was almost easy.”
“We will say no more of it,” she said firmly. She had risen from her chair and came across the room toward him. “Neville, I am going to go to Rutland Park on Monday with my father and Elizabeth. There is to be a notice in the papers tomorrow. I am going to spend some time with him, learning to be his daughter, letting him learn to be my father. I am going to see my grandfather and my mother’s grave. I am going to … go.”
“Yes.” His heart felt as if it somersaulted and then sank all the way to the soles of his boots—even as he told himself that he was glad for her.
She half smiled at him. “I was Lily Doyle,” she said. “Then I was Lily Wyatt—and then not. Now I am Lily Montague. I have to discover who I really am. I thought I was discovering the answer after I came here to London, but today it feels as far away as ever.”
“You are Lily.” He tried to smile back at her.
She nodded and her eyes brightened with tears.
“How long?” he asked her.
She shook her head.
He could not press her on the point, he realized. She did not need one more burden to carry. And he knew the question to be unanswerable.
He had begun to believe that there was a future for them after all. He had been on the brink of putting the matter to the test at Vauxhall. He hated to remember that night, which had started with such magical promise. Now he would have to wait an indefinite length of time again with no certainties to make the wait easy.
He reached out both hands for hers, and she set her own in them.
“You will like him, Lily,” he said. “You will even love him, I daresay. He is a good man and he is your father. Go then and find yourself. And be happy. Promise me?”
She was biting on her upper lip, he could see.
He squeezed her hands and raised them one at a time to his lips. “I am not overfond of London,” he said. “I shall be glad to return to Newbury for the summer. I daresay I will go tomorrow or the next day. Perhaps, if you think it appropriate, you will write me a letter there?”
“I cannot … write well enough,” she said.
“But you will.” He smiled at her. “And you will be able to read my reply too.”
“Will I?” she asked him. “Sometimes I wish—oh, how I wish I were Lily Doyle again and you were Major Lord Newbury and Papa …”
“But we are not,” he said sadly. “I want you to know something, though, Lily. Not so that you will have one more burden to shoulder, but so that you will know that some things are unchanged and unchangeable. I loved you when I married you. I love you today. I will love you with my dying breath. I have loved you and will love you during every moment between those time spans.”
“Oh. But it is not the right moment,” she said, her eyes clouding with some emotion he was unable to enter into. Poor Lily. So much had happened to her recently and she had borne it all with dignity and integrity.
“I will not prolong this visit,” he told her. “I will take my leave, Lily. Make my excuses to Elizabeth?”
She nodded.
They clung to each other’s hands for a few moments longer. But she was correct. It was not the right time. If she came back to him—when she came back to him—there must be no other need in her except to be with him for the rest of their lives.
He withdrew his hands gently, keeping the smile in his eyes, and left her without another word.
He was halfway back to Kilbourne House, striding unseeing along the streets, before he remembered that he had driven his curricle to Elizabeth’s.
PART V
A Wedding
25
Lily gazed eagerly from the carriage window, not even trying to appear properly genteel. The village of Upper Newbury looked so very familiar. There was the inn, where she had descended from the stagecoach, and the steep lane leading down to the lower village. And there—
“Oh, may the carriage be stopped?” she asked.
The Duke of Portfrey, from his seat opposite, rapped on the front panel, and the carriage drew to an abrupt halt. Lily had the window down in a trice despite the coolness of the day and leaned her head through it.
“Mrs. Fundy,” she called. “How are you? And how are the children? Oh, the baby has grown.”
While the duke and Elizabeth exchanged glances of silent amusement, Mrs. Fundy, who had been gawking at the grand carriage with its ducal crest, smiled broadly, looked suddenly flustered, and bobbed a curtsy.
“We are all very well, thank you, my lady,” she said. “It is good to see you back again.”
“Oh, and it is good to be back again,” Lily said. “I shall call on you one day if I may.”
She beamed at Mrs. Fundy while the carriage lurched into motion again. She was not coming home, she reminded herself. Newbury Abbey was not home. Oh, but she felt as if it were. She had come to love Rutland Park, as her father had predicted she would. She had come to love him too, as she had been determined to do, though it had not proved difficult at all. She had even enjoyed their extended visit to Nuttall Grange, where she had won the affection of her bedridden grandpapa and of her two aunts who were not really aunts at all—Bessie Doyle and her mama’s sister. She had even come to feel happy and settled and at peace with herself and the world. She had not once, since leaving London, dreamed the nightmare.
But Newbury Abbey, though she had not seen either the park or the house yet, felt like home.
“Oh, look!” she exclaimed in awe after the carriage had turned through the gates and was proceeding along the driveway through the forest. The trees were all glorious shades of reds and yellows and browns. A few of the leaves had fallen already and lay in a colorful carpet along the drive. “Have you ever seen anything more splendid than England in autumn, Father? Have you, Elizabeth?”
“No,” her father said.
“Only England in the springtime,” Elizabeth said. “And that is not more splendid, I declare, only as splendid.”
It had been springtime when Lily had come here first. It was autumn now—October. How much had happened in the months between, Lily thought. She could remember trudging along this driveway at night, her bag clutched in her hand …
She had written to him at the beginning of September, as he had asked her to do. She had asked Elizabeth if it was unexceptionable to do so—for her to write to a single gentleman. Elizabeth had answered, with a twinkle in her eye, that it was really not the thing at all. But Father, who had also been present at the time, had reminded them all that she was Lily and was quite adept at stretching every rule almost to the breaking point without ever doing anything shockingly improper—that was her chief charm, he had added with the smiling indulgence that had surprised her about him at first. And so she had written—with laborious care and round, childish handwriting. She was working on her penmanship but it was going to take time.
She was happy with her father, she had written. She was happy with Eliz
abeth’s company. She had been to Nuttall Grange and met her grandfather. She had put flowers on her mother’s grave. She hoped Lady Kilbourne was well and Lauren and Gwendoline too. She hoped he was well. She was his obedient servant.
He had written back to invite her and her father to come as guests to Newbury Abbey for the celebration of his mother’s fiftieth birthday in October. Elizabeth had already made arrangements to attend.
And so here they were. They were merely guests. But it felt like a homecoming. And Lily, looking suddenly with shining eyes at her father as the house came into view, saw that he understood and was a little saddened, though he smiled at her.
“Father.” She leaned forward impulsively and took his hand. “Thank you for agreeing that we might come. I do love you so.”
He patted her hand with his free one. “Lily,” he said, “you are one-and-twenty, my dear. Shockingly old to be still at home with your father. I do not expect to have you all to myself for much longer.”
But that was far too explicit a thing to say. She sat back, her smile fading a little. She would take nothing for granted. Several months had passed. A great deal had changed in her life and might have changed in his also. He had invited them out of courtesy. Doubtless there were to be many other guests too. She would not set great store by the fact that he had invited her.
If she told herself those foolish things often enough, perhaps she would come to believe them in the end.
Their carriage had been spotted. The great double doors opened as it approached, and people spilled out of the house—Gwendoline, Joseph, the countess, and … him.
It was the marquess who opened the carriage door and set down the steps. The duke was out almost before they had been lowered and turned to hand Elizabeth down. The countess came forward to hug her. Everyone was trying to talk at once.
Then someone leaned inside the carriage and reached out a hand toward Lily—and they might as easily have been alone. Everything else faded from sight and sound. He was gazing at her with shining eyes and tightly compressed lips. She was beaming foolishly back at him.
“Lily,” he said.
“Yes.” And suddenly she knew that all her anxieties had been very foolish indeed. “Hello, Neville.”
She set her hand in his.
There were a number of guests already at the house even though the birthday party was still one day away. Dinner was a crowded and noisy affair. His mother, Neville was pleased to note, had seated Portfrey at her right hand, Lily at her left. They were far distant from his place at the head of the table. Apart from those moments on the terrace during the afternoon, there had been scarcely a chance to exchange a word with her.
He did not really mind. He was content for the moment to observe, to watch her, to note the changes a few months had wrought in her. He remembered Elizabeth telling him at one time that new knowledge and skills did not change a person but merely added to what was already there. It was true of Lily. She was fashionable and poised and animated. Gone was the terrible sense of inadequacy that had tongue-tied her in genteel company—in female company, at least—when she was last at Newbury Abbey. She talked as much as anyone and more than many. She smiled and laughed.
But she was still Lily. She was Lily as she had been created to be—but free now to find joy in any company and in any surroundings.
He caught snippets of her conversation for the simple reason that she seemed somehow to be the focus of attention with everyone and there was often near silence along the length of the table as everyone leaned forward to hear her—when Joseph asked her how her reading skills were coming along, for example.
“Oh, you would lose a very large wager if you were foolish enough to make one now, I do assure you,” she told him. “I read very well indeed. Do I not, Elizabeth? I can read a whole page in half an hour, I daresay, if there are no distractions and no very long words. And I do not have to say the words aloud or even mouth them silently. What do you think of that, Joseph?” She laughed merrily at her own expense, a sound that was echoed along the table.
“I think I would fall asleep long before you reached the end of the page, Lily,” Joseph said, yawning, the fingers of one hand delicately patting his mouth.
She was delightful, Neville thought, trying to take his eyes off her occasionally so that he could keep up a conversation with the relatives who sat closer to him. It was not easy to do.
Oh, yes, she was still Lily, he thought a few minutes later. One of the footmen leaned across the table beside her to remove a dish, and she looked up at him, her face brightening with recognition.
“Mr. Jones!” she exclaimed. “How do you do?”
Poor Jones almost dropped the dish. He blushed scarlet and mumbled something that Neville did not catch.
“Oh, I know,” Lily said, instantly contrite. “I do apologize for embarrassing you. I shall come down to the kitchen tomorrow morning if I may and chat with everyone. It seems an age since I saw you all.”
His mother, Neville noticed, was smiling at Lily with what looked to be genuine affection.
“If you do not mind, that is, ma’am,” Lily said, turning to her. “I forget that I am not at home. I often go down to the kitchen at home, do I not, Father? It is the coziest room in the house, and I can always be sure of finding something useful to do there. Father does not mind.”
“And neither do I, child,” the countess said, patting her hand on the table.
“One quickly learns, ma’am,” the Duke of Portfrey said with a sigh, “that daughters were created for the express purpose of wrapping their fathers about their little fingers.”
He looked like a different man, Neville had noticed almost from the moment of his arrival. There was a glow of happiness about him, and he did little if anything to disguise the enormous pride he felt in his daughter.
Later, in the drawing room, Lily made herself charming to everyone, sitting and talking with each of his aunts and with his mother. After the tea tray had been removed and some of the cousins had gone into the music room to entertain themselves with music, she sat for a while with Lauren and talked earnestly to her, holding her hand as she did so. And then Gwen was bending over her, saying something, and they smiled at each other before going into the music room arm in arm.
It must be a difficult evening for Lauren, Neville thought sadly. There had been a certain awkwardness between them since his return from London—she had not after all gone to Yorkshire—for though nothing had been said in their hearing, they both knew that speculation was rife in the neighborhood about his future plans. Did he intend to offer for Lady Lilian Montague, or did he intend to renew his plans to marry Lauren?
He and Lauren both knew the answer. But it had never been put into words between them. How could it be? How could he tell her that he had no intention of renewing his addresses to her without implying that she expected such a thing? And how could she tell him that she understood there could be nothing more between them than friendship without implying that she expected him to marry her?
But as always she behaved with outer poise and dignity. There was no knowing what went on in her mind.
He had loved Lily for a long time. He had not thought it possible back in the spring to love her more. But he did. He had tried to live his old life without brooding constantly about her. He had tried not to be too certain that she would in her own time come back to him.
But one sight of her had banished all pretense from his mind. Without Lily life would have very little meaning for him. She was sunshine and warmth and laughter. She was … Well, she was simply his love.
He kept his distance from her. He would not rush her even though there was an inevitability to the way this visit was developing. She had come with her father to celebrate a birthday party. He would allow her to enjoy it, then—tomorrow. But after tomorrow …
All his dreams rested upon what would surely happen after tomorrow. He refused to doubt, to fear.
Lauren and Gwendoline did not go imme
diately to bed when they returned to the dower house even though the hour was late. They sat together in the sitting room, in which a fire had been lit. It was a smaller, cozier room than the drawing room. They both gazed into the depths of the crackling flames for a while without talking.
“Do you know what she told me?” Lauren said at last.
“What?” Gwendoline asked. There was no need to clarify about whom they were talking.
“She told me that she knows I must resent her,” Lauren said. “She told me that she resented me too last spring because I was so perfect, the model of what all ladies should be, so much more suited to being Neville’s countess than she was. She told me that she admires my restraint, my dignity, my unfailing kindness to her despite what my real feelings must be. She asked me to forgive her for ever doubting my motives.”
“She is right to have spoken so openly of what is between you,” Gwendoline said. “She does speak her mind, does she not?”
“She is—” Lauren closed her eyes. “She is the woman Neville wants. Did you notice the way he looked at her all evening? Did you see his eyes?”
“She told me,” Gwendoline said quietly, “that she knew she had hurt me by stepping all unbidden into the midst of my family when I had not finished grieving for Vernon or adjusting to all the upheavals of my life. She asked me to forgive her. She was not being obsequious, Lauren. She meant it. I still wish it were possible to hate her, but it is not, is it? She is so very likable.”
Lauren smiled into the fire.
“When I said that,” Gwendoline added hastily, “I did not mean—”
“That you do not therefore like me?” Lauren said, looking at her. “No, of course not, Gwen. Why should it mean that? She is not my rival. Neville and I would have married if she had not come, but it is a good thing she did. Ours would not have been a love match.”