Lily

by Patricia Gaffney

  “Oh.” She stared at him, not thinking of anything. But suddenly she felt ashamed because she was naked. She wrestled the twisted sheet up and covered herself while a deep flush rose to her face. “You want me to—” She stopped and swallowed. “You’re sending me away?”

  He raised his straight black brows and smiled slightly. “What did you expect?”

  “Nothing. Nothing.” In the flash of an instant she knew the worst, understood it all. She scrambled off the bed, dragging the sheet with her. She spotted her clothes in a puddle by the door, and spoke quickly. “If you will leave me for just a minute, I’ll get dressed.”

  “Shy, Lily? What difference does it make now?”

  “Very little. But I would be grateful to you all the same.”

  He shrugged casually and walked out.

  As soon as the door closed, she collapsed on the edge of the bed. She felt strangled with tears; they were in her throat, her chest, everywhere but her eyes, which were quite dry. Stupid. Oh, stupid! The magnitude of her folly was awesome and unendurable. Oh God! But she mustn’t think about it now—if she did, she was afraid she would drown. Later, when she was alone, there would be plenty of time to think. She staggered up and dragged her clothes on with jerky, graceless movements, fingers bloodless and clumsy. She put her cap on last, shoving all her hair under it, trying not to remember what he’d said when he’d taken it off. For a split second she caught a glimpse of herself in the wardrobe mirror, chalk-white and pitiful in her dry-eyed grief. She whirled away, but the remembered image finally brought a flush of anger. She opened the door with her shoulders squared, her head held high.

  He was leaning against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets. He looked bored. And she knew he was not even going to bother to pretend, with sweet words or kisses or lying promises. The ashes in her heart fanned to life. In that moment, she hated him.

  “We didn’t speak of an amount beforehand,” he mentioned, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Will this be enough?”

  He couldn’t have said that; she didn’t believe her ears—or her eyes when she saw the wad of folded bills between his fingers. Her body felt thin and brittle, ready to break. “Devon! You—” Then it hit her. “You think I stole your fourteen pounds.” It was the only explanation she could think of. “But then—how could you touch me?”

  “That part was easy.” His smile didn’t reach his cold turquoise eyes.

  Lily recoiled. Two spots of color streaked her pale cheeks like slap marks. “Bastard,” came out in a dry hiss.

  “Take the money, love. It’s all you’ll get from me.”

  “No, not all,” she whispered, backing away. “There’s shame as well. You’ve given me that.” She spun away from the sight of his outstretched hand and ran.

  Thirteen

  “SOME HOT.” LOWDY PLANTED her fists on her hips and blew upward at the hank of hair stuck to her sweating forehead. “Whyn’t the ol’ cow make us club rugs in springtime, ‘stead o’ nigh August? Meanness,” she supplied, before Lily could answer. “Meanness pure an’ clean. You d’ know it, and so does all the world. She’m meaner’n a razor, I’d as lief nuzzle a snake as turn my back on ‘er.”

  Lily made a sound of agreement, listening with half an ear. The heat was intense; they’d lost their hour of morning shade when the sun had climbed beyond the manor house’s western chimneys, and now it beat down on them in dry waves, unrelieved by the lightest breeze. She sat back on her heels and wiped the perspiration from her face with the back of one hand, while a wave of dizziness made her cheeks pale. Her knees hurt and her arms ached from brushing dry tea leaves into a floral-patterned wool carpet spread out on the grass above the area steps. Nearby, Lowdy was resting from the task of beating a wire paddle against another rug strung up on a line.

  “An’ ee can think what you will, Miss Mullygrub Sad-Face, but there bain’t hardly a person in the whole house who thinks ee stole ‘er splatty ol’ housekeeping money. Ask ’em if ee don’t b’lieve me.”

  “No, I won’t ask them,” Lily said tiredly. “And you‘re wrong, Lowdy. They don’t know me—they have no reason to think I wouldn’t take the money.”

  “Ask ‘em, is what I say. Stringer don’t think ee did it, an’ cook said—”

  “It’s best to leave it. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  Lowdy shook her head and said, “Phaw,” in disgust.

  The smell of hot wool and tea leaves was overpowering, taking Lily to the brink of nausea. She sat back dully and watched a drop of sweat splatter on the hand that lay limp in her lap. Lowdy chattered on, about Mrs. Howe, about Dorcas’s elevation from scullery to kitchen maid, about Galen MacLeaf and the Methodist revival he’d invited her to attend. Lowdy’s words were punctuated by violent, irregular blows of her paddle against the hanging rug. Lily closed her eyes—then snapped them open a second later to stare at Lowdy, breath suspended, limbs frozen with dread and hope and astonishment.

  “I said, ‘Maybe I can and maybe I can’t, Mr. MacLeaf; I’ll ’ave t’ go an’ look at my calendar, like, t’ see if it’s my ’alf-day.’ ” Lowdy chortled merrily and gave the carpet a dusty wallop. “ ‘Look at my calendar t’ see if it’s my ’alf-day,’ ” she repeated, giggling in gales, relishing the joke. A thought occurred to her. “Maybe you d’ care t’ join us, an? Ee could use an airing, Lily, no mistake. Tes next Sunday in Truro at the Coinage Hall.”

  Lily’s voice sounded like a croak. “Who did you say the preacher was, Lowdy?”

  “Reverend Soames, from Exeter. Twur on a bill in Trewyth, Galen d’ say. ’Ave ee ever been to a Methody revival? No? Gawm, there’m naught like it. Onct—”

  “Are you sure it was Soames?”

  “Ais, Roger Soames. My chum Sara from orph’nage, her as lives in Launceton now, she seen ‘im in Redruth last year and said it fair give ‘er the shakes to ‘ear ‘im. Myself, I’m that fond o’ preachin’, for it puts me in the queerest mind. It’s like God and the divil are flailin’ over my soul, and I can’t decide which of ‘em to let have it. Well, Lily, do ee want to come wi’ us, an?”

  “What? No, Lowdy, I can’t.”

  “Phaw.” The younger girl grumbled for a minute, then threw her paddle on the ground. “By Jakes, I’m parched. I’m goin’ for water, and I don’t care what ’Owe said. I’ll fetch you a cup.” And off she sauntered, round hips swaying.

  He’s alive! Lily exulted, her mind awhirl. I didn’t kill him! A great burden lifted; for the first time in weeks, she felt at peace with herself, at least on one score. Reverend Soames was alive—and well, if he was preaching next Sunday in Truro. But what did he think of her? Had he told the authorities that she’d assaulted him and stolen his money? Dear God, could she come out of hiding if he had not?

  She had to find out. Not by meeting him in Truro, of course; that would be too dangerous. But now surely she could take the risk of writing to him. She would send a letter to his home in Exeter and ask him to write back in care of Mrs. Troublefield, her old neighbor in Lyme. To that kind lady she would send another letter, asking her to forward any mail for Lily to Darkstone—but on no account to reveal her whereabouts to anyone. She had wanted to keep Mrs. Troublefield out of her dangerous personal problems, but now it seemed she had no choice. And anyway, the possibility of arrest no longer terrified her as it once had. Darkstone Manor, she mused grimly, had become almost as much a prison to her as the Bodmin Gaol.

  “Where’s Lowdy?”

  Lily was jolted up on her knees, startled by Mrs. Howe’s stealthy, unnaturally silent approach. “Lowdy? She’s—she had to use the privy.” The housekeeper had told them that they mustn’t stop work, even for a drink, until dinnertime. Oh dear God—Lily’s heart leapt painfully and she dragged her eyes back to Mrs. Howe’s red, angry countenance, praying her own face hadn’t given away what she’d seen over the woman’s shoulder—Lowdy traipsing toward them, head down, a dripping dipper of water in one hand and a filched apple in the other.

  H
opeless. Howe spun around, almost as if Lily had pointed behind her and shouted “There she is!” Lowdy stopped dead in her tracks. A nearly comical look of chagrin lumbered across her wide, friendly face. Then Lily’s view of her was cut off by Howe’s bulky back, moving with uncanny swiftness. She heard Howe’s voice raised in interrogation, Lowdy’s low in impudent answer—and then the crack of Howe’s hand across the girl’s flushed cheek. Lily stumbled to her feet and ran toward them, her own voice stuttering “Stop!” in a frightened, breathless gasp. Howe struck again, and this time Lowdy screamed. The tin cup clattered; the apple rolled sideways. Lily reached them just as Howe brought her hand back again. “No, don’t!” Lily shrieked, and Howe whirled around, fist raised.

  “I’m all right!” shouted Lowdy, holding her cheeks, blood streaming from her nose. “I’m all right, I’m all right, Lily didn’t do nothing!”

  Howe turned from one to the other, breathing hard, black eyes venomous. Lily thought the white streaks blazing back from her temples made her look mad—rabid. “You, Lowdy, go up to your room! For your disobedience you’ll have no dinner nor supper, and tomorrow you’ll spend the day watering the kitchen gardens—with that cup. Out o’ my sight, now, unless it’s a beating you want, too. Go on, I said!”

  Lily stiffened in fearful anticipation, seeing rebellion in Lowdy’s bloody, tear-streaked face. But a second later Lowdy mumbled, “Yes, ma’am,” eyes downcast to hide the welling of new tears, and scuttled toward the house at a graceless, uneven trot.

  “Well? Go back to your work or you’ll get the same and worse. What’re you staring at?”

  Lily didn’t try to hide her disgust. Behind Howe’s flat black eyes she could see nothing except malevolence, but for once Lily’s anger was stronger than her fear. “Lowdy didn’t deserve that, Mrs. Howe, and you know it,” she accused, ignoring the quake in her voice. “You hit her because you wanted to—because you like frightening people if they’re weaker than you. You’re a bully and a tyrant—and a hypocrite.” She planted her feet, braced for whatever would come, but with no regret for what she’d said. Watching Howe’s huge right hand clench into a fist, she thought of one more thing to say. “I don’t believe Mr. Darkwell knows how you treat the servants, and I—I intend to tell him what you did to Lowdy!”

  To her amazement, the housekeeper’s grim slit of a mouth loosened in a repulsive smile. “So,” she said in a soft hiss. “You’d tell the master on me, would you? Good. Very good.” She slid back a silent step. “Excellent,” she sighed, and the sibilant syllables raised the hair on the back of Lily’s neck. “Do that. Do it soon. Be sure to let me know what he says. And remember, Lily: ‘God is not mocked; for whatsoever thou soweth, that shall you also reap.’ ” Her smile grew, revealing two white eyeteeth as sharp as fangs. A dreadful moment passed. Then she turned and walked away, black bulk sliding swiftly, feet slithering over the grass as silently as adders.

  Lily shivered in the blazing sun. A prickle of fear, or premonition, fluttered across her shoulders, leaving a sheen of ice-cold perspiration. She shook herself, but the terrifying sense of helplessness, of having inadvertently been captured, would not go away. She gazed up at the blunt stone walls of Darkstone, the flat, implacable bulwark of tower and chimneys and black balustrade against the bright, cloudless sky. For the first time since the night she’d come here, the house looked sinister to her. Malign, not indiffèrent—not insensate stone and mortar bur a force, a consciousness within the thick granite walls that bore her a personal ill will.

  Fancy, she scolded herself, turning her face away, blinking into the hot sky above the blinding sea. Childish imagining, and she could not afford to indulge in whimsy. In an impetuous moment she had issued a challenge. She regretted it now, deeply and profoundly, but that was too bad. Lowdy deserved better from her than craven acquiescence to the status quo. Speaking to Devon would be hellish, crushing, a far worse torment than anything Howe could devise. But she had no choice; she’d made a promise and now she had to keep it.

  She knew where he was: in his library. She knew too that he was alone, working at his big table. The accuracy of her knowledge of his whereabouts at almost all times dismayed and appalled her, but in spite of her best efforts she could not rid herself of this uncanny and destructive awareness. He was nothing to her—she was less than nothing to him!—so why couldn’t she forget him? She would. She would—as soon as she got away. Roger Soames was alive, and tonight she would write to him. Her captivity was ending—surely! Dry-mouthed, shoulders squared, Lily wiped her damp palms on her apron and moved with reluctant haste toward the house.

  Devon raked his fingers through his hair, loosening his neat queue in the process. He tore the thin velvet ribbon away and threw it on his desk, out of patience with everything. It was the heat that made it impossible to concentrate on his tenant registry, he told himself, staring grimly at the same column of figures he’d been trying to add for four minutes. The whole exercise was pointless anyway—Cobb handled his rental accounts, and he could count on one hand the times he’d caught his steward in an error. Still, better to sit here by himself, shuffling numbers about on a ledger sheet, than go out and recommence swearing at his employees. For a man who prided himself on his self-control, this new inability to curb his temper was disconcerting. And all he had to do to exacerbate his anger was to remember two facts: that he’d only felt this way during one other period of his life, and that he’d vowed five years ago that he never would again.

  He heard no sound over the restless murmur of the sea. Nevertheless, something made him fling his head up, tossing the curtain of straight brown hair back from his forehead. Lily was nothing but a dark outline against the blaze of the day, but he recognized her instantly, and felt a queer twist of pleasure. She was standing between the open French doors, poised in diffident silence. Forcing his hand to relax before he broke his quill pen in half, he said her name in a quiet, questioning voice. Tall, willow-slim, impossibly graceful, she took a hesitating step toward him.

  She could barely see him in the sudden darkness. He was sitting at his cluttered library table, exactly as she’d known he would be. Despite the heat, he still wore his black coat, somber-looking against the white of his frilled shirt front. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, she saw that his expression was patient and disinterested, a little stern. Although she’d never seen a judge, he made her think of one. Good. That was good, she told herself, for if she’d seen anything to hint that he remembered, if there had been the vaguest flicker of acknowledgment that once a thousand years ago they had been lovers, had sighed and touched and laughed together, naked in his bed—then she’d have lost her courage and run away without speaking to him. But then, why did his indifference make her heart ache so?

  She cleared her throat and made herself take another step closer. “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but I have to tell you something important. It’s about Mrs. Howe.”

  He didn’t know what he’d expected her to say, but it wasn’t that. He leaned back in his chair, conscious of a violent rush of disappointment, and stroked the feather of his pen with apparently idle fingers. “Mrs. Howe? What can you have to tell me about my housekeeper, I wonder?”

  She heard condescension in his voice and pulled herself up straighter. “You couldn’t know what she’s like—you couldn’t, or you would not keep her.” She swallowed hard; that wasn’t at all the way she’d meant to begin!

  “Indeed? What’s she done? From the look of you, Lily, I’d say she’s made you jump in the well to retrieve the bucket.” He stroked the quill across a tight smile, letting his gaze flick over her damp, disheveled gown and disreputable-looking apron. Her already pink cheeks flamed red with embarrassment, and she tossed a long tangle of escaped hair out of her face with the back of an angry hand.

  “She’s done nothing to me, it’s Lowdy. She struck her!”

  Devon scowled. “Why?” he snapped. “What did the girl do?”

  “Nothing!” />
  “Nothing? Come, now. Nothing at all?”

  “She stopped working in the hot sun to get a drink of water.” She desperately wanted to leave it at that, but couldn’t bring herself to lie. “And she st—she took an apple from the kitchen larder.”

  “She stole?”

  “An apple!”

  “I see. And what is it you expect from me now?”

  She spread her hands, staring at him in gathering hopelessness. “Something!”

  “What?” He shoved back in his chair impatiently and folded his arms over his chest. The impulse to explain himself to her annoyed him, turning his voice surly. “Mrs. Howe has been here for four years. She’s a capable woman; I leave everything about the running of my house in her hands and I don’t interfere. We leave each other al—”

  “I can’t believe this,” Lily broke in, anger and incredulity making her forget her awkwardness. “She hit Lowdy, I tell you. She hurt her. And Lowdy’s not the first. Do you condone that?”

  “It depends,” he answered coldly, his eyes a pale, arctic blue.

  “On what? What could it possibly ‘depend’ on?”

  “On whether you’re telling me the truth.”

  She gasped her outrage. “Why would I lie? Listen to me, this is important—”

  “Why would you lie? I can’t say. But I don’t believe my housekeeper would strike anyone for stealing an apple.”

  “She did, I tell you! And you won’t do anything about it!”

  “I’ll do what’s fair—I won’t tolerate abuse in my house.” He paled with anger when she laughed, a harsh, disbelieving sound that edged into derision at the end. “But if you are lying, we both know it wouldn’t be for the first time.”

  Lily closed her mouth, frightened by the accuracy of his thrust.

  He smiled unpleasantly. “You can’t answer that, I see.” A silent moment passed. “I’ll speak to Howe,” he conceded stiffly.

  “No,” she cried, rallying. “Speak to Lowdy. For God’s sake! She’ll tell you the tr—”