My Dearest Enemy

by Connie Brockway

  He moved. She took another step and another, choking and coughing, her eyes streaming tears, her parched lungs gasping for air. Foot by foot she dragged him down the aisle and finally out into the night. She collapsed beside him, wringing wet, her dress in ruins.

  She had no time to fall apart. On shaking limbs she crawled to his side and laid her ear against his naked chest. Deep within she could hear his heartbeat, rapid but timely. A whistling like wind in a plugged chimney flue filled her ears.

  Still gasping, she crept behind him and hoisted him up into her lap. His head rolled limply against her shoulder.

  “Come on, Avery.” Fresh tears stained her cheeks. Her voice shook. “Wake up, damn it!” She sobbed, rocking forward and back, her arms wrapping tightly around his big body. “Don’t you want to shout at me for disobeying you, you overbearing, domineering male?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and bit hard on her lip. He couldn’t die. He was too stubborn, too alive, too vigorous. And she couldn’t lose him. She loved him too much.

  “I … am a … gentleman,” she heard him gasp. “I never shout at women.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Two days after the fire the acrid taint of wet charcoal still lingered in the air. Lily, wandering along the hushed second floor gallery, looked out at the charred stable, smoldering in the last of the afternoon light.

  Thank God, Avery was going to be all right. The thought of looking for his body amongst that ruin of timber and ash set her trembling. She forced the image from her thoughts.

  Avery would be fine. He was already well on the mend. His breathing was easier and the awful grayish cast had disappeared from his skin. The only visible scars he bore were long angry abrasions on his back and shoulders from where she’d dragged him across the ground.

  Somehow they’d managed to keep him abed all yesterday. True, he’d shouted invectives at anyone who braved his room, but he’d stayed abed, nonetheless.

  But this morning, long before her, he’d risen, appropriated the carriage, and driven off. She didn’t know where he went or when he’d return.

  Ah, well, she thought, he’d much to do, much to see to, not least of which was finding someone to rebuild his stables.

  His stables.

  Lily’s gaze drifted to the south meadow. In the failing light, the hay rucks gleamed like piles of gold on a green baize gaming table. Thankfully, two nights ago the wind had been light. The fire had never made it to the barn or spread to the other hay rucks. It could have been worse. The new owner of Mill House might have inherited a ruin.

  But for the former owner of Mill House that fire had proved disastrous. There was no possible way she could afford to rebuild the stable or recover the money represented by the loss of that one hay ruck. Under her direction, the estate had gone into debt.

  She’d lost Mill House.

  She felt disconnected from the knowledge as if she’d read about an unhappy episode in a stranger’s life. Why had it happened? The question recurred with dulling regularity. How, so soon after a soaking rain-storm, had a fire begun in the hay?

  It hadn’t been warm enough and the hay hadn’t stood long enough to spontaneously combust as tightly compacted roughage occasionally did. There hadn’t been any lightning that night. There was no reason fire should have been anywhere near that hay ruck, lest someone had purposely set it ablaze. And that notion she simply would not entertain.

  A lover’s tryst by lantern light perhaps? Or maybe one of the seasonal worker’s children sneaking a cigarette where his parents wouldn’t find him. An ember falls, catches fire, the frightened child runs, and Lily’s dreams—her life—go up in smoke. She’d lost Mill House.

  And she’d lost Avery Thorne.

  She thought nothing could hurt more acutely than the loss of Mill House, but she’d been wrong. When she left here she would leave behind not only her home, but every reason she had for seeing Avery Thorne. There’d be no pretext for them ever to meet again, no excuse to trade words, either written or spoken. The tenuous bond that had held them together for five years was gone, broken—no, burnt.

  A shivering began in the very core of her, spreading, gaining force until she stood shuddering before the window, staring blindly out, tears spilling helplessly down her face as she recognized the desolation enveloping her.

  She’d never see him again. Not unless she stood like a beggar on the drive, staring down the shell drive at midnight, watching for his silhouette against the brightly lit window. She would never do that because then she might see her, the woman he would have married, who’d bear his children, be his lover and companion, and that was an anguish she could not even imagine.

  She’d lost Avery Thorne. Not that she ever had anything of him except his wit, his eager opposition—and those all too brief moments when she’d held him. And, of course, she had the knowledge that she loved him, a knowledge come by as she’d willed him to breathe.

  She’d probably begun loving him soon after their correspondence had begun, she thought. He’d taken up every gauntlet she’d thrown, discussed wholeheartedly any subject she raised. And though he’d often irritated and purposefully provoked her, once engaged in a debate he never treated her opinions with condescension.

  Indeed, his respect for her had been evident with every written word. He’d never ignored her observations or discounted her opinions because of her gender. Yes, he sometimes discounted them because of what he perceived to be faulty reasoning or misjudgment or what he termed her “pigheaded obstinacy.” But he’d never dismissed her.

  She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, her shivering having subsided, leaving only emptiness. All lost. All gone.

  “Lily?” She heard Francesca.

  “Yes?” She didn’t bother turning.

  “Lily.” An elegant hand clasped her wrist and gently turned her about. “Lily, you must listen to me now,” Francesca said. “I’m going away this evening. In fact, I’m going in a few minutes.”

  “Yes?” Lily said disinterestedly. Francesca often left on the spur of the moment and stayed away for weeks, sometimes months, only to return just as spontaneously.

  “I can’t help you rebuild the stables,” Francesca said. “I won’t lie and say I couldn’t if I—”

  “I would never ask you to!” Lily exclaimed, drawn out of her torpor.

  “That’s not the point, Lily,” Francesca said. “I know you would not ask and I also know that should I offer you would likely not accept.”

  But I would, thought Lily dismally, I have so little left, what do a few shreds of pride matter?

  Francesca placed both her hands on Lily’s shoulders, gazing steadily into her face. “If I were to scrape together most of my wealth I would be able to make you a loan to rebuild. But I won’t. I need it”—her fingers tightened on Lily’s shoulders—“for me. I need to live the way I do.”

  “Yes,” Lily agreed.

  “Lily.” Strain marked the corners of Francesca’s mouth. “All I have are my certain pleasures. Do you understand?”

  She didn’t, but Lily nodded anyway, answering the older woman’s plea rather than her words.

  “You have so much, Lily.”

  Lily shrugged out of the other woman’s grip. “Why yes,” she said trying to laugh, hearing only bitterness. “Yes. I’m a regular tycoon.”

  Francesca shook her head, searching for words. “You still have dreams. You still have a future. I’ve spent both humiliating my father and I’ll end a fool wasting my life trying to embarrass a corpse.”

  “I have nothing, Francesca—”

  “The boy is in love with you, Lily.”

  “Bernard?” Lily asked wearily. “Puppy love. He’ll get over it. I’ll be careful of him.”

  “Not Bernard. Avery.”

  She couldn’t speak.

  “No. That’s wrong.” Francesca’s voice sounded sad and musing. “Not in love,” she whispered. “He loves you. Simply. Deeply. Unhappily.”

 
“You must be mistaken.”

  “Sometimes you’re allowed only one chance, only a second, to decide the course of your life. Don’t be distracted by your pride, Lily. Or your common sense. Or your past. Or anything that keeps you from …” She let out a little laugh that turned into a sob. “Eden. I’d go find the lad, Lily. I swear to you, I would.”

  She turned away, moving down the hall murmuring, “And she says she has nothing….”

  “I don’t know what we can do now,” Polly whispered to Evelyn. They were ensconced on the divan in the sitting room ostensibly tatting lace together while Bernard, on the other side of the room, was engrossed in a book.

  “Mill House isn’t a good setting for romance these days,” Polly agreed. “Stables burning tend to dispel a cuddlesome mood. Those two have been treading round each other like two tomcats in one barn. I think we can forget any notion that Miss Bede and Mr. Thorne will”—she glanced at Bernard, who was concentrating fiercely on a huge leather bound tome—“get friendly.”

  Evelyn shook her head. “I had such hopes but perhaps for Lily’s sake, this is for the best.”

  “Nonsense,” Polly said so emphatically that Evelyn glanced at Bernard, giving the little woman a warning shake of her head.

  Polly colored but the tilt of her chin told Evelyn she was about to commit herself to some action or opinion.

  “If Miss Bede loves this chap,” she said, “and he seems a decent chap, but she does nothing about it, it will be … wrong.” She paused and cleared her throat. “Love is not a reward, it is a chance. A chance to be something more. When that chance is offered to a man or a woman, it has to be accepted, no matter what the risks. Love is important, Evelyn.”

  She lifted her gaze, embarrassed and caught for a minute exposed by her words. “Do you understand?”

  Slowly, Evelyn nodded. “Yes.”

  “Do you agree?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was stronger now.

  “Good.” Polly released her breath and her momentary vulnerability disappeared behind an expression of consternation. “Miss Thorne was the most obvious person to goad Miss Bede into realizing this, but she’s decamped and no one in this room is equipped by nature or experience to play Cupid.”

  “Too true,” Evelyn sighed. “Whatever shall we do?”

  Polly clapped her palms against her thighs. Bernard looked up.

  “Oh, don’t worry about dropping the occasional knot, Miss Makepeace,” Evelyn said loudly. “You’re doing splendidly well.” She lowered her voice. “Quiet. Bernard would so disapprove if he knew what we were up to.”

  Polly nodded her understanding. “Right-o,” she whispered. “Back to Miss Bede. The first order of business is to figure out what her plans are for the immediate future. Would you ask her to come in here, Evelyn?”

  “Of course,” Evelyn agreed, rising and casting a quick furtive glance in her son’s direction. Bernard turned the page of his book.

  She went directly to Lily’s room and tapped discreetly on the door but no one answered. Thinking Lily might be in the library, she started up the stairs when she heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor overhead. She paused, considering who it might be.

  Avery had taken a room up there, but the sound was too light to be his. It was far too late for Merry or Kathy to be working and besides, Teresa and her twins held nightly court and would not look kindly on any absentees. That left only Lily.

  Lily? Evelyn had to know if she was right. Slowly, carefully, Evelyn climbed to the third floor. Cautiously she peeked around the corner and peered down the dimly lit hall.

  Lily paced nervously to and fro in front of the door to Avery Thorne’s bedchamber, twisting her hands anxiously and muttering to herself. Every now and then she’d suddenly stop, square her shoulders, and stare resolutely at the closed door. Then, just as abruptly, her shoulders slumped, and she commenced pacing again.

  Whyever would Lily—?

  But of course!

  The smile spreading rapidly across Evelyn’s face abruptly froze. The girl would never do … anything … what with the lot of them cluttering the house. Well then, Evelyn thought with a decisiveness quite foreign to her, they would simply have to vacate the house—noisily and with equally noisy assurances of not returning soon.

  Lifting her skirts, Evelyn tiptoed quickly down the stairs and, upon reaching the main floor, for first time since girlhood ran. Snatching her bonnet and cape from the hall tree she flew to the sitting room and burst in.

  “What is it? Evelyn?” Startled, Polly began to rise oblivious of the cast she wore.

  “We—we need to go to—to town,” Evelyn panted.

  At this Bernard looked up. “Little Henty?” he asked naming the crossroads that boasted a pub-cum-inn, a greengrocer’s, and a dry goods shop. “Whyever for?”

  “Not Little Henty. Cleave Cross,” Evelyn said.

  “But Cleave Cross is twenty miles away,” Bernard said in astonishment. “It’s eight o’clock at night. Can’t we go in the morning?”

  “No. I want to be there first light to see the dawn on the harbor. It’s a sort of holiday for—for Miss Makepeace.”

  Polly’s eyes widened incredulously.

  “She’s dreary sitting about here and what with that nauseous smell of wet ash she’s bound to feel dismal. Aren’t you, dear?”

  “Ah,” Polly uttered, her mouth gaping. “Yes.”

  “See, Bernard? Now go and pack a valise, just an overnight bag will do and then find Hob.”

  “Oh, all right,” Bernard said unfolding his long lanky form from the chair and tossing down his book. “I’ll tell Miss Bede to get ready, too.”

  “No!” Evelyn shouted and then smiled nervously at Bernard’s astonished expression. “I mean, no that won’t be necessary. Miss Bede will not be going.”

  “Oh?”

  “She is having the carpenters in to see about rebuilding the stable tomorrow.”

  “And Cousin Avery?” Bernard asked, a hint of suspicion coloring his tone.

  “He’s staying, too,” Evelyn said smoothly. Once having lied, she discovered additional lies tripped out of one’s mouth rather winningly. “Surely you realize that he will be incurring the cost of rebuilding, Bernard. Of course he will want to stay and help make whatever decisions need be made.”

  She spoke with far more authority than usual and she could see her manner perplexed Bernard. Silently she prayed he didn’t push her too much. There were only so many hurdles she could leap in one day and she felt that for this particular day she’d leapt more than her share.

  For a minute he studied her before finally, with what looked like a shrug, making a polite bow in Polly’s direction. “I’ll get my bag.”

  Twenty minutes later Bernard, Polly, and Evelyn stood in the center hall making blaringly clear their intentions of spending the night away from Mill House.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  It sounded as if the furies were departing their lair. Doors slammed, voices called out instructions, and boot heels clattered across floor boards. Venturing out to the top of the stairs, Avery found Merry hastening down the steps, her belly swaying from side to side, a pair of women’s boots in one hand and a traveling medicine chest in the other.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “They’ve gone mad is what’s going on!” she said, looking up. “Takin’ into their silly heads to go off to Cleave Cross.”

  “Tonight?” Avery asked incredulously.

  “Not only tonight, but right now. Hob’s waiting out front with the carriage this minute. Ah, well. Least ways maybe we’ll all gets some sleep tonight. Teresa’s babes do have right healthy lungs,” she said morosely and left him standing alone.

  Avery returned to his room, unhappily aware that he couldn’t see the drive from here, but determined not to go downstairs and press his nose to the front window and watch them drive away. Still the sense that they’d abandoned him—no, that she’d abandoned him—gnawed at him.
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br />   He resented her going away without saying a word, even if it were only for the night. Then he realized that soon she’d go away not just for a night but forever and he wondered if she would take her leave like this, silently, without a word of good-bye. Emotion stirred and boiled within him, exasperation and grief dogging his footsteps as he paced the length of the room over and over again. He heard the door slam shut a final time, the gong of the hall clock mark the ninth hour, homely sounds coming from the back stairs and then silence.

  It enveloped him, stretched about him, pure and wholly hateful. He settled into a chair and picked up a book lying on the table next to it. With Lily’s departure Mill House had become a mausoleum, no longer the home of his imagination but simply a receptacle of funerary items, the mementos of a life already lived.

  Ridiculous. He opened the book and began leafing through the pages, his unseeing eyes fixed on the flow of senseless words.

  He was simply romanticizing, as any man who has perhaps come a little too close to having taken his last breath might do. Soon Mill House would be his, as it should have been from the first. He would see Lily taken care of, with or without her approval, and he would live here and he would marry some worthy woman who would not have black hair and dark eyes or a mouth fashioned from a dream, but one who would bear him anemic blond children—

  A letter fluttered off the table onto his lap. He stared at it, the ragged fold lines, stained with the grit of three continents. Tenderly, he picked it up. It was her letter, of course. He’d kept it with him since the first time he read it. With an oath, he surged to his feet. The letter fell from his numb fingertips. He hurled the book across the room.

  He couldn’t stay in this room. Even though she’d never been here, he felt her, she was with him, in the words of that letter, in the air that they shared, in spirit and body.