Lily

by Patricia Gaffney

  Up ahead he saw a light, from Cobb’s cottage. What time was it? He had no idea. He turned off the drive and plunged down the short walk to his steward’s front door. Without a thought, he pounded on it.

  Cobb opened up immediately. He was fully dressed, and behind him Devon could see nothing to indicate what he might have been doing—eating supper, reading, repairing something; the cottage was as neat and spare as Cobb’s office in the house, and just as unrevealing. “Come in,” he said after a half second’s startled pause.

  The sight of his steward’s familiar black-bearded face calmed Devon slightly. He said, “Arthur,” and ducked his head to clear the threshold. “I’ve come to ask you about Mrs. Howe. What do you know about her?”

  “Eh? Know about ‘er?”

  He pulled himself together. “She has beaten—one of the maids. Do you know Lily Troublefield?”

  “Ais, I know who she is. Beat ‘er, you say? What for?”

  “For nothing!” He realized he wanted to slam his fists against the stuccoed wall behind him. He grabbed hold of one lapel of his jacket and stroked it compulsively. “Howe and Trayer beat the girl for nothing, some trumped-up charge of disobedience. I’m informed that it may not have been for the first time—I mean there may have been others before her. What do you know of it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You must know something!”

  “No, I don’t,” he insisted stolidly. “Howe d’ run the house wi’ no advice from me or anyone else. Tedn my business, and I don’t interfere.”

  With a sick feeling, Devon heard the echo of his own ignorance and indifference in Cobb’s words, and wasn’t hypocrite enough to chastise him for it. “I’ve thrown her out, and Trayer too,” he said—defensively. Cobb blinked at him owlishly. Devon could think of nothing else to say. “Good night. I’m sorry for troubling you.”

  “Good night,” Cobb echoed, standing in the doorway and watching Devon walk away until the blackness blotted him out.

  Devon spent the rest of the night drinking in his library. He started with rum, but drunkenness stubbornly eluded him. With dawn bluing in the east, he switched to brandy, and at last his brain started to release him. His body felt weighted down, inert; he couldn’t remember ever being so tired. Morning came, and he stretched out on the long sofa in the library, unspeakably grateful because oblivion was finally imminent. He slept.

  When he awoke, he was sweating and tense, the vapory remnants of some dreadful dream nagging at the edges of his mind. His hands shook as he poured out a full glass of brandy. He brought it to his lips, but his stomach rebelled. He set the glass down carefully and stared into space.

  Clay found him that way. “You look awful,” he observed frankly.

  Devon cleared his throat to ask a question. “How is—” But then he changed it. “Where is Cobb?”

  “Cobb? In his office, I suppose.” Clay looked back into his brother’s bleak, austere face for a long moment. “Lily’s the same,” he said lightly. “Penroy came early this morning. He thinks her wrist is only sprained. He—bled her again and painted her throat with spirits of sea salt. She’s resting.”

  Devon turned his back on him.

  “One of the maids, the one named Lowdy, sat up with her last night, and another one is with her now. Penroy said he’d come again tomorrow.”

  Devon said, “That’s fine,” and nodded once.

  There was a pause.

  “Dinner’s ready. Are you going to eat?”

  “No. I have to go out.” He looked through the French doors and noticed for the first time that it was raining. A chill, clammy mist was blowing in from the sea. “I have to …” He couldn’t think what he had to do. “I’m going out.” And he walked out into the sodden afternoon, leaving Clay to stare after him.

  He spent what was left of the day riding to the farms of his most distant tenants, on unimportant errands Cobb usually ran for him. It was after dark when he returned. He came into the house through the servants’ entrance and headed straight for the kitchen. A maid—he had no idea what her name was—almost dropped the pot she was scouring when she saw him. Neither spoke. He went to the larder, located the remains of supper, and ate it standing up: cold soup, pigeon pie, and a currant tart, washed down with a cup of beer.

  It had rained most of the afternoon; his clothes were sticking to his damp, chilly skin. He ought to change his shirt, shave, clean himself up. He paused at the bottom of the staircase, one hand on the walnut banister, peering up into the darkness. If he went upstairs, he wouldn’t go to his room. He’d go to Lily’s. And he wasn’t allowed to do that, because his punishment wasn’t over yet.

  He went back to his library instead, and stripped off his shirt. He unfurled a soft plaid blanket that lay folded on the sofa and wrapped it around his shoulders. Brandy tasted good again, and went down easily. Sitting at his long table, he opened one of his account books and put on his steel spectacles. He sharpened a quill. Outside, the sea grumbled and hissed under the steady downpour. The clock on the mantelpiece struck nine. He put his head in his hands.

  “Mr. Darkwell, sir? Your lordsh—my—Mr. Darkwell?”

  He wasn’t asleep; the shy murmur was so softly spoken it had taken a minute to snag his attention. He lifted his head from the cradle of his bent forearms and peered at the girl hovering in the doorway. “Yes, what is it?”

  Lowdy came half a step nearer. “Tes Lily, sir. I’m that worried.”

  Devon came out of his chair. “What’s wrong?”

  “I telled young Mr. Darkwell, as ee said, but he didn’t know naught t’ do. He said t’ speak t’ you about ‘er.”

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  The sight of him moving toward her, big and bare-chested, a blanket draped over his wide shoulders, made Lowdy quail. “She won’t stop cryin’,” she said in a rush, her back pressed to the doorpost. “She didn’t cry at all before, and now she can’t leave off. I don’t know what t’ do for ‘er, for surgeon said take care wi’ the laud’num. I give it to ‘er in little bits, but it don’t help anyway. I’m that scairt, Mr. Dar—” She broke off when Devon plunged past her and loped down the hall for the stairs, blanket billowing behind him.

  Only one candle was burning beside the bed. In its feeble gleam he could hardly see her, huddled awkwardly on her side under a bulky weight of bedclothes. He didn’t hear anything at first, but as he crept closer a faint sound came to him, part sob, part whimper. He froze for a second, appalled by the hopelessness in it, the quiet, unrelieved anguish. He stepped to the side of the bed. Her dark hair clouded the pillow; her face was absolutely without color. Her knuckles were pressed to her lips to stifle her ragged breathing. He put his hand on her shoulder, through the bedclothes. “Lily,” he said indistinctly.

  She opened her eyes. When she saw who it was, she wiped her cheeks with her hand and the cuff of her cotton nightrail and tried to sit up. Before he could help her, she collapsed back on her side. Sweat broke out on her forehead; she gritted her teeth and clutched at the damp pillow until the spasm passed, and then she lay still, panting.

  A flare of panic scorched him. He dropped to his knees beside her. “What’s wrong?” he murmured, touching her. “Where do you hurt, sweetheart?” She didn’t answer. He pulled the covers back as gently as he could. Her left arm angled out from beneath her, the bandaged wrist limp on the mattress, palm up. “Is it your wrist?” She didn’t speak. Her nightclothes were damp with perspiration, the pillowcase wet from her tears. He thought of the swollen black bruise under her right breast. “Is it your side?” A broken rib, Penroy had said. Or two. Tears slid out from under her tightly closed eyelids. “Is it your ribs, love?” he whispered, his breath fanning her face. “Show me, Lily. Tell me where it hurts.”

  Her wet lashes untangled and she opened her eyes again, but she didn’t look at him. A moment passed, and then she let go of the pillow and slid her hand to her side. They both released their indrawn breath at the same time.
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  Devon stood up. There was a small booted of brownish liquid on the night table, half-empty, as well as a cup of cold tea and an uneaten half-slice of buttered bread. “Have you had any of your medicine in the last two hours or so?” he asked, bending near. She mourned the word “Yes.” He straightened; his lips formed a grim line.

  He crossed the room to the high bureau, on top of which rested a china basin full of water. He took the basin and the folded face cloth beside it back to the bed. She was curled up at the extreme edge of the mattress. Rather than move her so that he could sit, he kicked off his wet boots and got up on the bed behind her. She shuddered at first when he stroked the damp hair away from her cheek and bathed her face and her swollen throat with the cool cloth. Next he washed her hands and as much of her arms as he could reach under the full-sleeved gown, careful not to touch her injured wrist. Leaning over her, he unbuttoned the front of the gown and held the wet cloth to her chest, feeling the heat of her body penetrate the coolness in seconds. “Feel good?” he murmured. Her lips moved, he thought in assent. He rinsed the cloth in the basin on the pillow beside her and wrung it out. “Can you lie on your back? I’ll help you.”

  With his assistance, and using her good arm for leverage, she started to turn. Halfway around, she drew her knees up and squeezed her eyes closed in silent agony. Devon blanched. “All right, all right,” he whispered meaninglessly, holding her. Slowly, muscle by muscle, she relaxed, and after a minute she was able to finish the maneuver. Then she lay still, white and perspiring, on her back.

  When his hands stopped shaking, he pulled the hot covers away and began to bathe her legs. He felt a surge of relief when she made a weak, one-handed effort to push her tangled nightgown down across her thighs, reasoning that she must not be mortally hurt if she could still care, in this dire hour, about her modesty. He spent a long time on her feet, first washing and then massaging them, sitting cross-legged at the bottom of the bed. As he worked, he thought a little of the glazed look began to fade from her grayish-green eyes—the only two spots of color in her face. Her head was elevated slightly on the pillow. She watched him sometimes with a grave expression, and other times she closed her eyes and seemed to be resting. After a while she began to shiver. He put the basin aside, tugged her gown down below her knees, and covered her with the sheet and a blanket.

  He held the cup of cold tea to her lips. She tried to pull away, but he persisted. But when he saw what the effort to swallow cost her, he put the cup down and ran his hands through his hair.

  “What should I do, Lily?” he said, struggling to hide his desperation. “I can’t give you any more laudanum yet. What can I do to help you?” She only stared back, resigned, hopeless. Presently she grew restless; one hand went to her injured ribs and she twisted her head on the pillow, knees flexed. He didn’t know what to do. She reached across for the side of the mattress and tugged. “On your side again?” he guessed. She nodded gratefully. It was another slow and painful process, but eventually they accomplished it. He knelt on the floor beside her, stroking her cheek, straightening the covers. “Try to sleep now,” he told her. She closed her eyes obediently.

  But she didn’t sleep. There was no position in which she could be comfortable for long. He shifted and turned her when he could, and continued to bathe her limp, sweating body. The long night wore on, and pain and exhaustion ate away at what was left of her composure. Close to dawn, she gave up her silent suffering and went back to the frail, pitiful weeping he’d walked in on.

  He could not bear it. He grabbed up the vial of laudanum, splashed some into the tea, and made her drink it, all of it. Then he went to the other side of the bed and got under the covers beside her. She tried to see him, peering around her shoulder, but her hair was in her eyes. He smoothed it back and settled himself on his side behind her. He kept his hands light and, as much as possible, impersonal, one tucked under her waist and the other resting on her hip. He started to talk.

  He told her about the things they would do when she was well. Had she ever been to Penzance? No? They would go there first, then. The west winds were so warm that even in winter the fuchsias grew as big as trees. The gardens were lush with camellias and myrtle, tamarisk and hydrangeas, and the hedges were draped with Hottentot figs. Wild orchids grew on the moorlands, and rare clovers covered the cliff summits in a blaze of color. Had she seen Land’s End? They would go there next. Desertlike and desolate, it looked like Life’s End, looking out at the edge of the world. King Arthur had lived there, he told her, and maybe Tristan, too. He would show her the monoliths and stone circles and dolmens, and she’d understand why Cornishmen still believed in giants. After that they’d go to St. Austell and look at the great mounds of china clay, white as the Alps, strange moon-mountains shining in the sun. Would she like to go down in his copper mine? He’d take her if she liked. And he’d take her to Lizard Point and show her the serpentine rocks, deep green streaked with red and purple, the green as beautiful as her eyes.

  He kept talking until his throat was dry and his voice was hoarse. While he talked he touched her, a light stroking across her shoulder and down her arm to the curve of her hip, and lightly back up again. At sunrise the rain stopped, suddenly, and in the dripping quiet he heard her deep, regular breathing. She was asleep.

  He turned on his back carefully, quietly. Blood returning to his numbed left side made his body tingle. But he kept one hand pressed gently to the small of her back, fearful of losing contact. He closed his eyes. Beyond the exhaustion, a vast relief made him feel weak. She was going to recover. Gratitude flooded through him, humbled him. He hadn’t thanked God for anything in years.

  He did now.

  The worst was over.

  Once she was able to rest, Lily found she could bear the pain of her injuries, and soon the laudanum, still administered in small, careful doses, was sufficient to give her ease. On the third day she slept round the clock. Dr. Penroy congratulated himself for fending off a serious fever; still, to be on the safe side, he wanted to bleed her again. Devon forbade it, arguing that she was too weak already, she was as limp as a rag, and personally he didn’t hold with bloodletting anyway. The doctor had drawn himself up, demanding to know who was the physician here. Devon replied that apparently it was young Dr. Marsh, from Truro, and he was sending for him in the morning. Penroy went away in a huff.

  Appalled at his colleague’s prescription, Dr. Marsh called for spirits of camphor to relieve Lily’s raw throat, and almost overnight the inflammation decreased; soon she could swallow and even speak without too much discomfort. The worst was her ribs; that pain was lingering and acute, and endured long after her other aches and injuries faded. Nevertheless, after five days she could sit up; in a week she could walk around the room—slowly, and if someone helped her.

  Usually it was Lowdy, or Rose if Lowdy wasn’t available. Clay visited her almost every day, just for a few minutes. At first his solicitude astonished Lily. He didn’t know her at all, and the social barriers between them—the real one and the one he believed was there—should have insured that his interest never went beyond the barest courtesy. But she soon came to believe that Clay was kind to her because he was a kind man, and perhaps also because he liked her. Her reserve melted, and she began to look forward to his visits because he always cheered her up. His high spirits were contagious, his good humor irresistible. The only disadvantage to his company was that sometimes he made her laugh—and that was excruciating.

  Devon came every day too, morning and evening, with great faithfulness. But his company didn’t cheer her. Much of the aftermath of the Howes’ assault was a blur to her now, but the memory of his gentleness during the longest night of her life was crystal clear and indelible. So it was hard to reconcile this stiff, unsmiling, painfully polite visitor with the man whose patience and compassion had pulled her back at the last moment from the edge of despair. Now he was distant, stern-faced, uncomfortable, and he behaved as if he hardly knew her, or as if somethi
ng in their mutual past deeply embarrassed him.

  She could imagine what that might be easily enough. She began to dread his dutiful visits as much as she looked forward to his brother’s. After inquiring about her health, he would run out of conversation, and she felt equally constrained. After that, instead of taking his leave, he would sit and stare off into neutral space, and wait until the silence between them was so awful she wanted to scream. Then he would mutter some courteous civility and go away.

  One night he didn’t come. He’s late, she thought at half past eight, and wondered what he might be doing. She told herself she was glad, that she hoped he wouldn’t come. She plumped her pillows and went back to her book. At eight-forty-five she closed it, keeping her finger in her place. Was that a step in the hall? She heard the far-off, intermittent sound of waves charging and retreating, the unruly thud of a moth at the half-closed window. Nothing else. She stared at the long, smooth shadows in the corners of the room, the glimmering paleness of the ceiling. The scent of moonflowers drifted in from the garden below. The ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel sounded petty and mean-spirited. She returned to her book, but the words looked random now, like ants parading across white sand. He wasn’t coming.

  At ten o’clock she heard footsteps. Her heart leapt; her hand fluttered to the high collar of her nightgown. The door opened, and Lowdy bustled in.

  “Ee’re red as a rose, all flushed-like,” she observed, peering at her in the candlelight. “Are you sick?”

  “No.”

  “Galen just got done askin’, and I said, ‘She’m doing brave, don’t ee worry a speck about Lily,’ and ’ere I find you all pink-faced and faint.”

  “I’m not faint. You startled me a little when you came in, that’s all.”

  “Well, that’s all right, then. Speakin’ o’ Galen, ’e give me this t’ give to you.”