My Dearest Enemy

by Connie Brockway

  “Here,” Francesca said in exasperation, “let me finish it.” She plucked the letter from Lily’s hand, quickly scanning the sheet to find the place where Lily had left off. “ ‘Still, godhood has its drawbacks, one being that I’m promised to these fellows for the nonce. They want me to come on their annual pilgrimage to find their totem animal.

  “ ‘Unfortunately this means yet another year in which I will be unable to return to England. Perhaps next Christmas. In the meantime, you are in my thoughts and plans.

  “ ‘Give my regards to your mother, your aunt Francesca, and of course, She Who Must Be Obeyed.’ He closes, ‘Your cousin, Avery Thorne.’ ” Francesca folded the letter shut.

  “What do you suppose ‘Billy’ is?” Evelyn’s eyes riveted on the crate the two men were trying to open.

  “Who knows? I just wish Mr. Thorne would stop gifting Bernard with mementos of his ‘Fabulous Adventures,’ ” Lily said, aware she sounded petulant. “The place is getting full up with all his nonsense: Maori headdresses, fertility statues, animal corpses—”

  “Careful, Lily,” Francesca advised. “You sound jealous.”

  “I am,” Lily admitted calmly. “Who wouldn’t be jealous of someone who gets to muck about the world, writing stories, selling them to journals, and making pots of money for indulging his childish whims?”

  Francesca shrugged noncommittally. She’d just returned from three months in Paris indulging whims of her own.

  “I’m not jealous,” Evelyn said. “I’m happy just as I am. I thought you were, too, Lily.”

  “I am,” Lily said. “But I thought the purpose of Horatio Thorne’s will was to impose five years of frugal, staid living on his nephew. Well, we’ve only three more years to go and I have yet to see any evidence that Mr. Thorne has been rehabilitated.

  “If anything he seems to grow more irresponsible with each month. Why, he’s risked his life any number of times in the past year—if the accounts he writes are any indication, which, of course, they aren’t. How can anyone believe that an—an attenuated scarecrow is capable of all that feverish athleticism? Has the press ever run a picture of him? No. Of course not. It would rob Mr. Thorne’s boasts of their credibility, wouldn’t it, Evie?”

  The young widow nodded obligingly.

  “See, Francesca? Evelyn agrees with me.”

  “Evelyn always agrees with you,” Francesca said in a bored voice, her attention diverted by the sight of the lorry driver rolling his sleeves up over brawny forearms. “I think his stories are very exciting.”

  “Nuthin’ for it, Miss Lily,” Hob said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “She’s sealed tight as a clam. I’ll have to go see Drummond about getting some men to help us.”

  “Drat,” said Lily. She hated the thought of asking the farm manager for anything. Drummond was a confirmed woman-hater. Unfortunately, he was also the best farm manager in the county.

  “That would be a shame,” Francesca said.

  Upon hearing Francesca’s sigh of disappointment, the lorry driver’s head snapped up. His expression set into one of fierce, ruddy concentration and in a fit of masculine bravura he leapt atop the crate. Like a Neanderthal spearing a wooly mammoth, he began stabbing his crowbar into the crate, splintering the wood. Francesca laughed, the lorry driver heaved, and the front popped out, falling to the ground with a crash.

  Yes, thought Lily with a tinge of admiration, whatever else one said, one had to admit Francesca had a way with men. Waving her hand in front of her face to clear away the dust, Lily descended the stairs and squinted inside.

  “What is it?” Evelyn asked.

  Lily gave the monstrous creature eyeing her with baleful glass eyes a considering glance. “I should say crocodile. Twelve feet if it’s an inch.” She gave a deep sigh. “Best put it next to the Cape Buffalo, Hob.”

  Chapter Four

  Alexandria, Egypt

  April 1890

  “Dear Thorne.’ Do I detect a chill note in this salutation or am I being unduly sensitive?” Avery asked, removing the cigar from his mouth and looking at his audience: Karl, John, newly returned from eight months of convalescence, and a new companion they’d picked up in Turkey, Omar Salimann.

  Karl and John gestured impatiently for him to continue, their faces striped in light cast by the torches jutting from the hotel’s balcony walls. Below, a jumble of ghostly pale feluccas, dahabiyas, and zeheri crowded Alexandria’s harbor.

  “ ‘Dear Thorne, Here is your money.’ Definitely a chill. All right, all right. I’m reading. Though why this woman’s tart epistles should interest you remains a mystery.”

  A patent lie, Avery allowed silently, tapping the ash from the cigar. He knew why. Not only did Lily Bede always manage to find him no matter what corner of the globe he landed in but she’d turned their correspondence into a sort of literary boxing match, one in which she occasionally appeared to be ahead in points.

  Even Avery allowed that their comminuqués had become interesting and even—in a limited fashion, of course—important to him. Of course when a man went months without feminine contact, any trace of womanly interest, even one as questionable as Lily Bede’s, was bound to be welcome.

  “Stop staring at the letter, Thorne, unless Miss Bede has made some particularly salient sally?”

  “No,” Avery answered. “And you needn’t sound so hopeful, John.” He tilted the letter back into the glow of the torchlight and continued. “ ‘Once again Bernard insisted that I read your letter—and open your newest shipment—before sending it (the letter, Thorne, not the shipment) on to him. Please, Thorne, you needn’t continue populating Mill House with the pathetic remnants of your supposedly death-defying encounters.

  “ ‘Your latest offering now resides along with the Cape Buffalo and—what was your charming appellation for that poor mangy feline? Oh, yes.—The Death Ghost of Nepal.

  “ ‘Do attempt to restrain your literary enthusiasm, Thorne. Poor Bernard took your tale of being mauled by this animal quite seriously.’ Fancy”—Avery involuntarily rolled his arm in its socket—“so did my shoulder.”

  “She does not believe that the tiger mauled you?” Omar finally spoke up from where he’d been silently sitting. “How does a mere female doubt the great Avery Thorne?”

  Avery gave Omar a beatific smile. Omar had joined their group for the express purpose of traveling with “one of the world’s greatest explorers.”

  “How indeed?” Avery queried and read on before Karl could interject any comment. “ ‘In the unlikely case there is a shred of truth in the tiger story, I feel that on Bernard’s behalf I must advise you not to risk your life foolishly. As if there are sensible ways to risk one’s life. Only to a man could one make such a statement with a straight face.’ ”

  “Ouch,” said John. “That one smarted.”

  “Ha!” Avery declared. “That’s just a cuff. Listen to this next. ‘In case you have utterly lost track of time, being lost in that perennial state of adolescent wanderlust in which you function,’—Shut up, Karl. Your snorting is distracting—‘I believe you ought to begin considering your impending responsibilities. I am not speaking of Mill House which I anticipate shall soon be no concern of yours.’ ”

  “She can’t be serious,” Karl said.

  But she was, the irksome female. Avery clamped his cigar firmly between his teeth. Her obsession to obtain Mill House was getting out of hand and could only lead to her severe disappointment. He did not like to think of Lily Bede desolate—he owed her something for the years of entertainment she’d provided.

  He’d begun to suspect she wanted Mill House as badly as he did. Which was too damn bad. Mill House was his, promised to him since childhood. His.

  “You know,” Karl said, watching Avery with a troubled expression, “it wouldn’t be entirely disastrous if Miss Bede won Mill House. I can’t imagine you’d like having to assume responsibility for—what do you call her?—‘that acid-tongued, would-be female.’
”

  Avery groaned. “I hadn’t thought of that, but of course, you’re right. Well, there’s the devil.”

  “I do not understand,” Omar protested. “If Miss Bede loses this Mill House, why would Avery have to assume responsibility for her? From what you have told me, she will be provided for by Horatio Thorne’s will.”

  “Only,” Avery said, “if she makes a public statement recanting her stand on women’s emancipation and thereafter leads a quiet, unassuming life, never again fraternizing with her sister malcontents.”

  He nodded at Karl, idly flicking the lid to his watch open and shut. “Tell him, Karl. You’ve been listening to her for three years, can this woman keep her mouth shut?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “But how does this make you responsible for her?” Omar asked.

  Avery waved the hand holding the cigar in the air. The end glowed in the semi-darkness. “Omar, dear chap, I am an English Gentleman.”

  John groaned. Karl snickered. Avery ignored them.

  “For arcane reasons the English Gentleman has been bred to be nearly incapable of allowing pigheaded women to suffer the consequences of their actions. Do not bother to ask why. It is an enigma which has no answer.”

  “Please,” Omar said, his exasperation evident. “I still do not understand.”

  Avery tried again. “When this little farce is over Miss Bede will be destitute. I cannot, because I am a gentleman, throw her out of Mill House. Thus, I shall have to undertake the care and feeding of her, a task which I am understandably reluctant to do. Can you imagine the daily prospect of breakfasting with a woman who refers to one’s life as ‘a monotonous litany of masculine posturing?’ ”

  “I see,” Omar said dubiously.

  Avery took a deep puff off the cigar and let the flavorful smoke drift from his lips. For unknown reasons he wasn’t nearly as upset as he would have assumed he’d be at making such a nasty discovery.

  “Could you possibly finish the letter now?” John asked.

  “Where was I? Oh, yes. Miss Bede had, in her usual subtle way, made known her intention of winning Mill House. That done she continues, ‘I am speaking of Bernard. Though the lad is still plagued by sporadic bouts of the lung problems which worry his mother,’ ”—Avery’s brows dipped—“ ‘he continues to do well academically. Evelyn would withdraw him from school but the bank trustees tell us that they shall abide by Horatio’s wishes and keep Bernard in school unless we can prove his condition is life-threatening. It is abominable that in this country a dead man has more power than a live woman. You will doubtless disagree.’ ”

  But he did not disagree. It was abominable. He well remembered Horatio giving the same instructions regarding himself: “The boy is to endure unless he collapses.” “There will be no one to molly-coddle a sickling on my estates, so the boy stays in the school’s infirmary.” “Under no circumstances are the headmasters to indulge—”

  “Why are you scowling so, Avery?” John asked, motioning for one of the turbaned servants to refresh his drink.

  Avery stubbed his cigar out in a crystal ashtray. “No reason. ‘Perhaps you could offer Bernard a word of encouragement. He quite considers you a hero.’ ”

  Lily Bede must be seriously concerned in order to let pass an opportunity to give him a set-down.

  “ ‘He particularly liked your story about being elevated to god status. Indeed, so did I, since it bears out the theory I have long held that we Europeans underestimate the sense of humor of other peoples. Yours truly, Lillian Bede.’ ” Avery broke out laughing.

  “I adore her,” Karl declared, raising his tumbler in a toast.

  “You say that with every one of her letters,” Avery said, replacing the note in his jacket pocket.

  “It’s true. I have never heard a man put in his place with such élan. It is masterful.”

  “Yes,” Avery agreed smoothly, “and that’s the problem. She would be master when she should be mistress.”

  Mill House, Devon

  December 1891

  “Good morning.” Francesca took her seat at the breakfast table beside Evelyn. The newest member of the household, a curly-haired maid who was just now beginning to show the results of ‘a trip behind the stable,’ poured Francesca’s tea.

  “Good morning, Francesca,” Lily replied absently, thumbing through a stack of envelopes.

  The women fell into companionable silence, interrupted only by the genteel clink of fork tines against china and the crackle of logs blazing in the hearth. Lily looked around at her adopted family with a feeling of supreme contentment. Surely, these two women could be no dearer to her than the brother and sister she’d never seen. But then, she’d never get the opportunity to discover if that were true, would she?

  The thought cast a shadow on her easy, companionable mood.

  “Anything interesting?” Francesca asked.

  “Not really,” Lily said. “Mr. Camfield requests my opinion regarding his new sheep.”

  “I think our new neighbor is smitten with Lil,” Francesca said.

  “Nonsense,” Lily said. Martin Camfield, the new owner of the adjacent farm, was not only a fine-looking man but one of the few of his gender that had the good sense to treat women as equals. “He merely wants my considered opinion and that’s all.”

  “Mr. Camfield seems an enlightened sort of man,” Francesca said nonchalantly. “The sort of man one could expect to act in a progressive manner. He wouldn’t, say, be tied by convention.”

  “No, I dare say he wouldn’t,” Lily answered slowly, eyeing Francesca suspiciously.

  “One could see oneself enjoying a modern sort of association with such a man.”

  Lily felt herself blush. That Francesca was giving voice to thoughts she herself had entertained only made her abashment worse. Martin Camfield might seek her opinion on sheep dip, but he certainly had never asked her to tea. But then, what man would? She was a bastard, without name or money. Each passing season saw her small, closely-guarded hopes for romance growing more improbable.

  “Is there anything else in there?” Evelyn asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I asked what other news you had.”

  “Let’s see. Mr. Drummond writes that I shall have to dredge the mill pond this winter and build new berms which, of course, I cannot afford. Polly Makepeace asks if the Women’s Emancipation Coalition can hold its annual board meeting here come April.”

  “All those terrible women in their mannish outfits,” Evelyn said with distaste and then after a quick glance at Lily’s own bloomers added, “not that you look anything less than charming in your … those … that garment. Few women have your panache, dear.”

  “Thank you,” Lily said. She was quite aware of how Evelyn viewed her clothing.

  “It’s not their clothing alone I object to,” Evelyn went on. “I simply do not think they are the proper sorts of people for you to mingle with, Lil.”

  Lily stared. Evelyn occasionally surprised her with her unexpected impulses to mother her.

  “I agree,” Francesca declared, surprising Lily even more. “That Makepeace woman uses you shamelessly, Lily. She’s jealous of you. You have all the attributes of a leader and she has none.”

  Disconcerted by Francesca’s remarks, she nonetheless found them terribly sweet. And terribly unnecessary. Though Polly Makepeace did make use of her, Lily thought it was a small enough price to pay to salve her conscience. Managing the estate had consumed her attention for four years, years she could have been using to promote the equality of women. Lily considered her words carefully. She wouldn’t hurt either woman for the world.

  “Pshaw. I hardly threaten Polly Makepeace’s designs to become the Coalition chairwoman. I’m barely involved in the organization anymore, much to my shame. All my time is taken up with the demands of Mill House.”

  “But to have her in our home, Lily! What do we really know about her?” Evelyn asked. “Or these others. They might not be nice
people, dear. Who knows where they come from?”

  Lily sighed. “Darlings, if you don’t want them here, by all means say so. But if your only objection is their suspect antecedents, I’m afraid polite company would consider me far more likely to taint then to be tainted.”

  “Oh, don’t ever say that!” Evelyn exclaimed in horror. “We love you, Lily. I don’t know what we’d do without you. You’ve made this house so comfortable, a relaxed home.”

  “I think the word you want is ‘lax’ not ‘relaxed,’ ” Lily answered. Evelyn seemed to have experienced the last four years of Lily’s proprietorship as one unending girls’ slumber party. “And it is not me who makes Mill House a home, darling, it is you. Once the five years is up,” Lily went on, striving for a calm expression, “I’ll have to leave here.”

  “But why?” Evelyn cried. Francesca sipped her tea, her expression unusually grave.

  “If I lose, I doubt whether Mr. Thorne will ask me to stay on.” The very notion brought a wry smile to her lips. “And if I win, I cannot afford to maintain the farm. It needs an influx of cash which I do not have. I’ll have to sell it.”

  Lily carefully hid her anguish. She loved Evelyn and Francesca and she loved Mill House. She loved its bright, warm kitchen and its silent dust-shrouded bedchambers. She loved its unlikely ballroom and the incongruous stained-glass window hiding beneath the third floor eaves. She loved the ducks squabbling on the pond, the fat stupid-looking sheep that stared at her as she walked down the alley each morning, and her broken-down race horses.

  Evelyn sniffed. “There must be some way.”

  “We’ll worry about it when the time comes,” Lily reassured her. “Look. A letter from Bernard. Here, Evie.”