Lily

by Patricia Gaffney

  Stiff-limbed, heart pounding, she got up from the bed and stood in the center of the small room, her back to the window. She heard a rattling at the knob and watched the door swing open. Mrs. Howe stood foursquare in a rectangle of yellow light; behind her, Trayer held a lantern. In the next second she made out what Mrs. Howe had in her hand. It was a leather strap.

  “You won’t beat me,” Lily got out defiantly, backing up, skin tingling with dread. Trayer set the lantern down on the bureau.

  “ ‘The wrath of God cometh upon the children of disobedience. Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth.’ ” She moved closer, black eyes gleaming, her mean buttonhole of a mourn pinched with purpose. “It’s time, Lily Troublefield. This is the day of salvation.”

  Lily kept shaking her head. “You won’t do this. You won’t.” She stared at them, and just for a second her absolute certainty stopped them. But then they started toward her again, and she felt the fine, icy prick of terror on her scalp. She backed away until one heel struck the wall behind her. She saw Trayer advancing on her right. He put a hand out to grab her and she feinted toward him, then dodged the other way. Horrifyingly agile, Mrs. Howe shifted her wide bulk to block the door, and in the next moment Lily felt Trayer’s hands gripping her arms.

  She kicked back at him, futilely. He spun her around, pulling her close against him in an obscene travesty of an embrace, arms tight around her waist. The first slash of the strap cut like a blunt knife. She howled in pain and fury, beating against Trayer’s hard biceps. Mrs. Howe struck again and again, vicious lashes across her buttocks and thighs, and at last Lily gave up trying to twist away. Slumped against Trayer, choking on tears of rage and shame, she endured the ruthless flogging—until the unmistakable evidence of her captor’s arousal made her flinch back in horror. At that moment Howe paused to rest. Trayer pulled away to grin lewdly in Lily’s face. Without a thought, she snapped her knee up into his groin.

  The air left his lungs in a rush as he gave a hoarse shout of agony, staggered backwards, and fell writhing on the bed.

  Lily whirled. Howe had dropped the strap. She was standing in front of the door, sweating, furious. “God’s word is quick and powerful,” she panted, “sharper than any sword—”

  Lily uttered a blasphemous curse and ran at her. It was like charging a stone wall. The wide, hard bosom gave no ground, and instead she found herself ensnared in Howe’s powerful arms and held in a grip of pure steel. She screamed her fury into Howe’s mad-eyed countenance and kicked at her shins. The housekeeper only grunted, then captured one of Lily’s arms and slapped her across the face, again and again, using all her strength. Lily tried to shield herself with her free hand, but Howe was as strong as a man. Panic snaked through her. This was real, it was happening now, and it wasn’t going to stop.

  All at once she was spun around from behind. Red-faced and snarling, Trayer struck her with his fist. Her vision clouded; silver streaks flared behind her eyes.

  “No, not her face!”

  The next blows were to her breasts and abdomen. When he struck her in the diaphragm, Lily lost her breath and dropped to the floor on her knees.

  Half-conscious, she tried to stand, but the muscles in her legs were impotent. She heard Howe say, “That’s enough!” just before a booted foot smacked into her ribs. She gasped from an explosion of pain and struck the floor hard. The last blow was to the small of her back.

  “Stop, I said!”

  Lily waited, braced for another kick. It didn’t come. Through a haze, she heard footsteps retreating. The slamming of the door. Nothing.

  “My fault—oh God! Can you raise up? But she made me, said she’d beat me unless I telled. Lily? Oh God, I’m scairt. Sit up now, you did ought to. I’ll help—”

  “Don’t. Don’t, Lowdy.”

  “Oh God! What should I do? Lily, what’s wrong with you?”

  Lowdy must have lit a candle; Lily could see tear streaks on her worried face in the flickering light. Lowdy was holding her hand. Lily tried to squeeze back, but the gray fog started to roll over her again. She whispered, “Get Devon,” and then it smothered her.

  There was dust in her nostrils, and the musty-sweet smell of raw wood. Lying on her side, cheek pressed to the floor, she watched a particle of lint flutter and float in time with her shallow breathing. A sound vibrated in her ear: a step on the stair. She closed her eyes and mouthed a prayer of thanks. “Dev,” she croaked, waiting for him. Lantern light streaked through the shadows where she lay. She couldn’t move; she could scarcely turn her head. She saw his shoes before he dropped to his knees beside her.

  “Hullo, your highness. How’re you feeling, Queen Lily? You don’t look so high and mighty anymore.” Trayer grabbed her shoulder and shoved her onto her back, ignoring her choked scream of pain. Her hands flailed uselessly while he unlaced her dress and tore her shift open, then massaged her bruised flesh with deliberate cruelty. “You don’t even look pretty anymore. But you know what? I’m gonna overlook that.” When he yanked her skirts up and lay on top of her, she felt the gray fog swirling closer, closer. Her body was limp; the fist she tried to beat against his side was loose and pitiful. Something was wrong with her throat; a moan of despair made her eyes fill with helpless tears. She turned her head away from Trayer’s black and avid gaze. But a sound made her look back—to see if he’d heard it too. Their eyes locked as the sound became running footsteps, loud and fast and furious. Trayer had time to jump up and move two steps away before the master burst through the open door.

  “I was trying to help ‘er—my mother did this!”

  Devon’s steps faltered; he moved toward Lily in slow motion, seeing her in sharp, unconnected streaks of perception. Blood, bruises, torn clothes, torn flesh—the picture coalesced with slow, terrible precision. He bellowed his outrage. Trayer was sliding past him; it felt like mercy, like a deliverance, to turn away from the dreadful sight of Lily and lunge at him.

  He caught him in the hall. His valet’s face was blank with panic until Devon struck him in the mouth with his fist. Blood spurted; Trayer squealed and backed up toward the steps, bulky legs churning. The second blow doubled him over; the next hauled him upright again. He lost his balance and flew backwards, striking the balustrade. It split under his weight, and his body hurtled across four steep steps before slamming against the wall, shoulder first. Devon heard a coarse groan, then the thud of bones hitting wood, violent and irregular, receding, as Trayer disappeared into the black pit of the stairwell.

  Devon backed up blindly and stumbled into Lily’s room. She was trying to raise herself up on her elbow. He caught her just as she collapsed. He laid her down gently, trying to smile into her anguished face, but the sight of the blue contusions on her chest and throat froze his blood. His fingertips grazed the dark swelling on the side of her jaw, and she winced even though his touch had been feather-light. She raised one hand feebly, defensively, and he saw that the knuckles were bloody—from trying to cover herself?

  “Sir?”

  He spun and saw Lowdy cowering in the doorway. “Get MacLeaf,” he bit out. “Tell him to ride to Trewyth and fetch Dr. Penroy. Go!”

  Lowdy scampered away.

  Lily held his sleeve, pulling on it weakly. Her mouth moved, but he couldn’t hear the words. He put his ear to her lips, and she whispered, “Something’s broken.”

  Beating back his fear, he slid an arm under her shoulders. “It’s all right, you’re safe now, you’re going to be all right.” But when he bent to lift her, she rasped out a terrible cry and her eyes slid back in her head. Sweat broke out all over him. “Lily.” She’d fainted; he couldn’t rouse her. His arms were shaking as he gathered her up again and lifted her. He glanced around the room, taking unwilling note of its meagerness, the ugly, cast-off furniture. He could not put her down on that thin straw mattress. Grabbing up the lantern with the hand that supported her knees, he headed for the stairs. On the second floor, he turned at the first room he came to—one of the guest bedch
ambers, a few doors down from his own—and laid Lily on the bed.

  She roused to half-consciousness as he undressed her. He saw the strap marks on her thighs when she tried to twist away because he was hurting her. Worse was a blackening blotch below her right breast; when he touched it she flinched away, white-faced. He covered her with the sheet when she started to shiver. With his handkerchief he wiped a trickle of blood from the side of her mouth. Her cheeks were flushed and puffy, as if she’d been slapped repeatedly.

  Lowdy came, but hung back in the doorway until he called to her. “Why did they do this?” he demanded.

  “Twur a punishment, sir. Lily runned t’ the village t’ post a letter and were late gettin’ back.”

  Devon stared at her in revulsion and disbelief. His face went dark with fury, and Lowdy shrank back.

  “Get her nightgown,” he snarled.

  “She ha’n’t un, s-sir.”

  “What does she sleep in?”

  “Sleeps in ‘er shift.”

  He whirled away, then back. “Get hot water and clean cloths,” he said through clenched teeth, and Lowdy ran off again.

  He sat beside her and took her hands—then dropped them when she bared her teeth and arched away from him in agony. “God, Lily!” he muttered, afraid to touch her. When Lowdy returned, they bathed her together as best they could, but everything they did seemed to hurt her. He held brandy to her lips, but she couldn’t swallow it. After that he pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. Finding it impossible not to touch her, he rested his arm lightly alongside hers. She was awake, but she couldn’t speak; instead she listened with huge, pain-glazed eyes while he told her over and over that everything would be all right.

  Clay appeared in the doorway. “My God, Dev, is it true?” He came forward slowly, appalled, staring at the still figure on the bed.

  Devon stood up. He was overcome with relief to see Clay—even though he smelled like a gin mill. “I didn’t think you’d be back until morning.” They’d gone whoring together in Truro, but Devon had come home early, sick of it.

  “I heard you’d gone home, and I was afraid something had happened. Stringer just told me about Lily.” He cursed softly, peering over Devon’s shoulder. “Is she badly hurt?”

  “Yes. Do something for me, Clay.”

  “Anything.”

  “Get Howe out of the house. If I do it myself, I’m afraid I’ll kill her.”

  Clay regarded him in surprise, taking in his taut face and haggard, haunted eyes. “I’ll take care of it,” he said evenly.

  “Thank you.” Immediately Devon turned back to the bed and resumed his chair. Clay waited another moment, then went out.

  Dr. Penroy arrived a quarter of an hour later. Devon would have preferred someone else, he’d never liked Penroy, but there wasn’t time to send to Truro. The elderly physician made him leave the room, and he went with deep unwillingness. He paced in the hall outside the closed door, listening intently for the smallest sound, the lightest cry. But there was nothing. Presently he heard Clay’s quick step on the stairs and turned toward him expectantly.

  “She’s gone,” he answered before Devon could ask. “I told her if she was still in the district this time tomorrow, you’d have her bound over and tried for assault.”

  “I will anyway.”

  Clay watched him curiously. “You and this girl, you …”

  “Yes?”

  Something warned Clay away. “Nothing. What in the world did you do to Trayer?” he demanded, to change the subject.

  “He fell down the stairs. I hope he broke his neck.”

  “Not quite, but he’s in bad shape. I couldn’t believe it, Dev—the son of a bitch cursed me. After what he did to Lily, he cursed me. And then he had the gall to make threats—said he’d pay us all back!” He shook his head wonderingly.

  “I should’ve killed him.”

  The unemphatic ruthlessness pulled Clay up short, silencing what he was going to say next. A second later the door opened and Penroy stepped into the hall. Both men crowded around the stoop-shouldered, irritable-looking physician in black wig, round spectacles, and old-fashioned pantaloons.

  “She’s been badly beaten,” he announced, and Devon went rigid with impatience. “I’ve bled her to ward off fever. A rib or two is broken, and there may be other internal injuries as well. Her larynx is inflamed from a blow; don’t let her speak. A soft diet, rest and sleep. Oh—she might have a fractured wrist too—left hand—but I can’t be certain yet. Try to keep her quiet. I’ve given her an infusion of Peruvian bark as a specific against fever, and I’ve left laudanum—but give that sparingly. She’ll heal in time, as long as nothing’s hurt too badly inside.” He looked back and forth between their shocked faces. “There’s nothing more I can do tonight; I’ll come again tomorrow if you want.”

  Clay roused himself to escort the doctor downstairs. Devon stood still, looking at nothing, listening to their low-voiced consultation fade with their footsteps. His skin felt tender, his muscles taut with apprehension. Penroy’s words distressed him physically, as if each injury were his.

  Lowdy appeared from the dark end of the hall near the servants’ stairs. She approached him tentatively, wringing her hands. “Want me t’ go in and sit wi’ Lily, sir?” she ventured shyly.

  He stared at her for a long time before her words made any sense. He saw that she looked ready to bolt, and realized he was frightening her. “Is your name Lowdy?”

  “Ais.” She dropped an awkward curtsey. When he didn’t speak again, she began to back away.

  “Wait. Yes, stay with her. Watch carefully and—take care of her. If anything happens, if she needs anything or she gets worse …” He trailed off, and his blind, burning eyes looked straight through her. “… tell my brother,” he finished harshly, and spun around. He almost ran down the hall and took the steps of the elegant, curving staircase two at a time. Lowdy heard the great front door creak open and slam against the stone wall with a crash. Trembling a little, she went into Lily’s new bedchamber and sat down beside her friend.

  Fifteen

  THE MOONLIGHT WAS TOO bright. He cursed the clarity of sea and shale, rocks and sky. Blackness was what he had escaped the house for, in some vain hope that it might swallow him up along with his thoughts. But he could see the lines on his own palms in the silver light reflected from thin clouds that swathed but never blinded the white eye of the moon. He quickened his pace, away from the house. If he couldn’t clear his mind with darkness, perhaps he could with movement. He closed his ears to everything but the sound of his own breathing, veering away at the bottom of the cliff steps to the stony track that sloped up to the woods and the mere.

  The inland lake’s waters were still tonight, black and bottomless, and the sea was a distant restless surge. He decided he would have a swim; that would distract him. He started to strip off his coat—and stopped with it hanging from his forearms behind him, remembering. There across the sand was the black rock he d trapped her against that night with Clay, weeks ago. She’d been embarrassed because she was naked, and he hadn’t hesitated for a second to take advantage of her distress. She’d been nothing to him then, nothing except a body, wet and sleek and exciting. Because she was a servant, a part of him had reasoned—unconsciously or not, it didn’t matter—that her body was his, and that he was entitled to at least a one-time use of it. He’d even mentioned, ostensibly as a joke, the droit du seigneur. That he’d wanted her, wanted any woman, had seemed such a miracle that he’d allowed the wanting to justify anything it took to have her. Later, when she resisted, he’d leapt to the conclusion that she wasn’t free but she could be bought. For as long as he lived, he would remember the look on her face the day he’d tried to give her money.

  Too bright here. He shrugged his coat back on and hurried away from the mere, his shoes clumsy in the thick sand. He walked quickly back up the stone track, drawn to the dark, anonymous silence of the park. Oak and larch and hazelnut trees envelope
d him here, shrouding him from the moon. He slowed his steps, feeling the pumping of his heart in his chest and his throat, and inhaled deep breaths of the black night air. Far off an owl called to its mate, or its prey. The smell of moss and damp earth was stronger than the salt tang of the sea wind. He lost the trail and plunged through an invisible copse of bramble and vine until he came out on the gravel drive. Too bright here too—but at least he wouldn’t break his neck. He set off for the highroad gates, head down, mind blank, hands shoved in his pockets.

  As he leaned against a stone post, another memory assaulted him, of the night he’d come home wounded and his horse had thrown him—here, practically at his feet. He resisted the recollection with all his strength, but his body betrayed him. He could feel her arms around him, the warm weight of her pressing him back against the post, the firm touch of her hands on his chest. Her wet hair had smelled as sweet and wild as the storm, and in the bright slashes of lightning her eyes had glowed dark and huge, and tense with worry for him. Later she’d stabled his horse and hidden his clothes, for no reason except that he’d asked her to. When the Revenue men came, she’d lied for him.

  And the morning after she’d given herself to him, betraying in the process some private principle he’d paid no attention to and hadn’t cared a damn about, he’d offered her twenty pounds.

  He shoved away from the gate post and began to walk back up the drive, striding swiftly, staring straight ahead. But the door was open now and the memories were jostling through. It wasn’t long before the worst one, the one he’d been trying to avoid at all costs, hit him like a blow to the back of the head. He saw Lily standing in his library, weary and disheveled, struggling against her nerves and her pride. “But she hit Lowdy. She hurt her. Do you condone that?”

  He’d told her he would speak to his housekeeper—but he hadn’t. In the excitement of Clay’s return, he’d forgotten. And by that act, he’d given Mrs. Howe carte blanche to brutalize her.