My Dearest Enemy

by Connie Brockway

  She went upstairs to his room and opened the door and memory and sensation rushed in on her. She stood at the threshold gasping slightly as though being caught in an unexpected gale. Here he’d picked her up. Here he’d kissed her, hundreds of sweet, tender, hungry kisses. There he’d carried her …

  She brushed her hair back and moved cautiously into the room. It smelled like him. A touch of rich tobacco, the scent of sandalwood soap, the clean linen scent, the subtle woodsy aroma of his travel battered clothes.

  She spied a book on the floor near the far wall and she started toward it but a sheet of paper lying on the carpet near an armchair caught her attention. Its edges were frayed to soft velvet by time and much handling. She picked it up and turned it over, unfolding the creases carefully lest it rip.

  It was from her.

  My Dearest Enemy,

  I am concerned.

  Your last letter did not contain your usual compliments and flattery, but was terse. What am I to think? Have I lost my most valued foe to his grief? No. You simply must not allow your loss to ripple across the oceans and continents to become mine. It would be most ungentlemanly.

  Allow me for a minute to take hold the flail which you have lain against your back. You mustn’t castigate yourself for your friend’s loss. Even for you, this is a bit overweening.

  Would you stand in Charon’s boat forever, wresting his oars from him to keep your comrades on these living shores? And who would do that service for you, Avery, and would you want it done? Or would you resent anyone who barred you from taking even one step on a path upon which you’d set your foot? I daresay we both know the answer.

  You say Karl Dhurmann died homeless, without country, and alone. I know this to be patently untrue. You were there, Avery. Karl Dhurmann sustained many losses: a house demolished, a family killed, a country destroyed.

  But in your company he’d found not replacements for those things, but alternatives. Did you not call him “brother”? Who knows better than you and I how closely that word resembles “home”?

  You tell me Karl bad chosen me for his wife; well then I refuse to lose both antagonist and suitor. I have too few relationships to relinquish any of them—most especially those which have demanded such an intellectual investment as ours.

  So, let me claim his widow’s role and say that which a loving wife would surely avow. Karl died as the result of an accident which no one could prevent. He died in the fullness of his years, in the course of pursuing his own life, not fleeing it, and leaves behind those who have wept for his loss. May we all have so satisfactory a eulogy.

  Now, my dearest enemy, I have done more than smile, I have shed my tears. It is past time that you shed yours, too.

  Your own,

  Lillian Bede

  The letter John Neigl had told her about. Those damned, wonderful, impossible letters. Why, oh dear Lord, why couldn’t they have continued that way? She put the letter on the table and cried.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  They returned last night.

  Lillian Bede

  Avery folded the note. “They” were undoubtedly Evelyn, Bernard, and Miss Makepeace. With that short sentence Lily had fulfilled her obligation. For a woman who’d penned voluminous letters on no weightier topic than “a footman’s livery” you’d think she would have something more to say. Some cautionary word, some indication … my God! he thought, crumpling the sheet into a tight ball, they’d shared their bodies; she could have shared more than four words!

  He dropped the letter onto the narrow cot that one borrowed for six shillings a night at the Hound and Hare. He missed Mill House. No, he missed what Lily had made of Mill House, the uncluttered, homely comforts and relaxed atmosphere.

  He missed Lily. The odd, stunningly beautiful woman who challenged his preconceptions and had wrested his wholehearted respect. He missed her sharp tongue, her crafty penuriousness, her ridiculous campaign to save race horses, and her honest bewilderment in dealing with Bernard’s adolescent crush.

  He did not know how he could live without her.

  He certainly couldn’t live at Mill House without her. It was hers. From the cheap reproduced Sevres vase to the comfortable sitting room, it bore her stamp. Even the bloody portraits in that embarrassingly pretentious gallery somehow belonged to her. It was a home only as long as Lily was its mistress.

  He bent down and extracted from beneath the slumped mattress a battered valise, withdrawing a tightly bound bundle. He could at least make something come right of this ungodly coil.

  He snagged his coat from a peg and headed out of the inn, nodding at the blushing girl scouring the whitewashed steps. He began walking the dusty road that led to Mill House.

  “Here. This will rebuild the stables and put you in the black once more.” Avery dumped the thick packet of bills on the desk.

  She looked composed and remote and cool. Her impeccably clean bloomers and stiff man’s shirt had more starch in them than a Chinese laundry. She glanced down at the money. “What is this?”

  “Your money.”

  Her gaze, flat and wary, slid up to meet his. “I don’t have any money.”

  “You have this. It’s the money you’ve been sending me for five years. It’s the allowance. I kept it.”

  For a second, surprise kindled a gleam in her dark, empty eyes. He’d only one thing now to offer her—one thing that she might be convinced to take, but he must do it carefully, lest even this small token, this tiny thing he could do for her, be thrown back.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  “I don’t really give a damn whether you believe me or not,” he lied. “Stop reacting like some self-proclaimed misused debutante and think.”

  His words had the desired effect. The pain and wariness disappeared from her expression. Her flesh smoothed tightly to the bone. If she’d been a horse her ears would have been lying flat.

  “I do not think I have been misused,” she said loudly, coming round from her side of the desk. “I am sure that you consider you have acted in a most noble manner by offering me your money—”

  “Listen, Lily,” he cut in, pulling his cigar case from his jacket pocket and taking his time in making his selection. “I made a bid for you,” he murmured. “I lost it. I may be selfish but I hope I am still a gentleman.”

  “Oh, yes,” he heard her say softly. “One cannot say you weren’t a gentleman.”

  He fumbled a cigar free of the holder, in doing so taking a short reprieve. He took his time nipping the end off it, jammed it between his teeth, and finally looked at her.

  She hadn’t moved. Her body was tense with caution.

  “Anyway,” he said around the cigar, “if you take a moment to consider, you’ll realize this is the money you sent. Think of my pride, Lily. You have always gone to lengths to point out my surfeit of the stuff. Can you imagine a more likely gesture for someone like myself to make? Someone with my tendency for—what is it you once said?—‘Dumas inspired histrionics’?”

  “I wrote that because I was angry,” she said, blushing. Too beautifully. He looked away. “I didn’t want you to get hurt and you were always rushing rashly into danger—”

  He didn’t want to hear. He couldn’t bear to hear that she’d been concerned for him, that she’d cared for him. “You know I would never accept the allowance you sent,” he said. “There was only one thing I could do with it; give it back to you.” He flicked the packet with his fingers, sending it skidding to the edge of the desk toward her, and smiled.

  She backed away to a position on the other side of the desk and picked up the packet of money by the corner, like a soiled thing.

  “And what am I to do with this?” she asked.

  “Rebuild the stables. Balance your books. Win the game, Lily,” he advised. “Take possession of Mill House.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s yours.” His voice was calm now. “You worked for it, you sacrificed for it, you struggled for it. You
deserve it.”

  “And don’t forget,” she said chin up, “I whored for it.”

  The blood drained from his face; his hand grew cold. He did not trust himself to speak, nor to move.

  “That’s what this is, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice unutterably wounded. “Payment for services … or is this conscience money?”

  She picked up the stack of bills and ruffled through them. “My. Your conscience must be hard-pricked.”

  She set the stack down. “This isn’t my money. It’s yours. I lost Mill House, but I’d like to leave knowing that I met my obligations here and one of those obligations was seeing you received an allowance. What you do with that allowance is in no way my concern. Build yourself a new stable, buy an automobile, burn the stuff for all I care, but I won’t take it.”

  “Don’t be an ass.” He snatched the cigar from his mouth.

  “Don’t sweet-talk me.”

  “You want Mill House. I’m offering you the means to secure it.”

  “I no longer want Mill House.”

  “That’s a lie.” The cigar broke between his fingers, the two halves dropping unnoticed to the floor.

  “How do the women resist that silver tongue of yours, Mr. Thorne?” she asked sarcastically before be coming suddenly mindful that she had not resisted. Heat swept up her chest and throat. Avery’s stance remained rigid. Her pulse pounded in her temples.

  “Where will you go? What will you do?” he demanded.

  “That need be no concern of yours—”

  “The hell it isn’t!” he shouted. “Everything about you is my concern.”

  She opened her mouth to deny this but the look of him stopped her. For a long tense moment he studied her and when he spoke his voice was low and furious and yearning.

  “I don’t give a bloody damn if I never share your bed, your name, or your house—you are still my concern. You can leave, take yourself from my ken, disappear for the rest of my life but you cannot untangle yourself from my—my concern. That I have of you, Miss Bede, for that, at least, I do not need your permission.”

  His words shocked her. She looked decades hence and she saw a specter of what might have been haunting her every moment, her every act, for the rest of her life.

  “Your concern is misplaced.”

  “It’s mine to misplace,” he said steadily.

  “I can’t … I can’t be a party to such nonsense,” she said faintly, damning the quiver in her voice. “I won’t tell you anything of my plans. They are mine. You need know only that I’m leaving here by week’s end.” She was breathing too hard. Her gaze skittered over him.

  He loomed where he stood, his broad shoulders capable of bearing any weight, his face set with determination. Who could stand against him? He’d always win what he sought. She backed away.

  “Don’t bother,” he sneered. “I’m leaving. Neigl is setting off for the African interior. He needs someone to see to his bags.”

  Once more Avery was imperiling himself, taking ungodly chances? Her heartbeat raced under the spur of fear.

  “No!” she shouted. “Didn’t you hear me? Are you incapable of understanding? You can’t have your way because you are stronger, because you are male, because you want it. I am leaving!”

  He leaned over the desk, both arms braced and stiff. “This isn’t about me being a domineering male and you being a helpless victim. This is about—”

  The door swung open and Bernard, his face awful, burst into the room. “I heard,” he said. “I was coming to meet Avery … I heard what he said, how you answered. You can’t go, Miss Bede. You can’t!” His skin was pale, his eyes feverishly bright.

  Lily caught back a sob. The choked sound shattered the last of Avery’s restraint. With a muffled oath, he snatched his jacket from the back of the chair and shouldered his way by the gasping boy.

  “Oh my dear, deluded lad,” he grated out as he strode from the room, “but she can.”

  * * *

  On the verge of betraying her for ten minutes, Lily’s legs finally gave out. Gracelessly, she sank into the desk chair. Bernard raked a big hand—so like Avery’s—through his hair, setting the dank brown strands on end.

  “You can’t leave. There’s nowhere for you to go!”

  “That’s not true, Bernard,” she said, trying to reassure him. “I’ve friends, my sister suffragists—”

  “So?” he said, stopping abruptly. She could hear him panting slightly, overwrought and miserable. “You’d be a houseguest. A visitor. This is your home!”

  “No,” she said. “It’s Avery’s home. He won the challenge. I lost. It’s all been fair and—”

  “He must have offered to let you stay!” Bernard exclaimed. “As a gentleman he couldn’t ask you to leave. He swore he wouldn’t.”

  “No one asked me to leave and yes, he asked me to stay,” Lily said. “I assure you I am leaving because I want to leave.”

  “You love Mill House.” Bernard’s tone was edged with desperation. He was gulping for air now. In concern, Lily rose and came round the desk.

  “Yes,” she said, calmly taking his arm and tugging him toward a chair. He shook her off, his eyes fierce.

  “Mill House may have been my home for five years,” she tried to explain. “But it’s not mine and I …” She could hardly tell the boy that the thought of living with Avery as neither lover nor wife, with the memory of one passionate night ever binning between them, seemed a far darker hell than any of the torments Dante envisioned. “I do not want to live here as a guest.”

  “Why not?” The boy wheeled about, this time both hands playing havoc with his hair. “You were supposed to welcome the idea,” he muttered. “It was the ideal solution.”

  “Solution?”

  He threw up his hands in a gesture begging her understanding. “Yes! If you lost grandfather’s challenge Avery would inherit Mill House. He has the wherewithal to see it restored. No one would have to sell Mill House or any part of it. You were both to live here. He promised he wouldn’t make you go.”

  “Oh my God, Bernard,” she whispered with dawning realization. “What have you done?”

  “I’m sorry!” he cried, stumbling toward her. He plucked at her hands. “I only wanted you to stay. I did it only to make certain of your future. To take care of you.”

  “You broke the vase,” she said tonelessly.

  He nodded, tears spilling from blue-green eyes, so like Avery’s. “Yes!” he gasped.

  “And the window. And set fire to the—”

  “I only meant the ruck to burn. I didn’t know it would set the stables ablaze. I wouldn’t have endangered the horses—”

  His sobbed confession ended in a thick, hoarse cough. The air whistled like a rusty squeeze box in his chest. He fell heavily into a chair and his head dropped forward. He buried his face in his lap.

  Dear God, Lily thought, he’d destroyed everything she’d worked toward. She’d never taken Francesca’s suggestion of a saboteur seriously and if she had she would have picked Drummond, who hated working for women. Even Polly Makepeace, with her animosity and fears, was a more likely candidate for saboteur. But this boy … to have worked clandestinely for her downfall … and, for her own good.

  How utterly masculine.

  She throttled the impulse to hysterical laughter. The lad was miserable. His head was still bowed, his narrow back shuddering. “Please, Bernard. It’s all right. Bernard?”

  He didn’t move. She touched his shoulder and he slumped bonelessly to the ground. His eyes rolled back in his head and a sound like a breaking violin string burrowed up from his chest.

  “Bernard!” He was unconscious. Panic sent her flying upright, instinct sent her dashing for the door and racing down the empty corridor toward the front door. She snatched it open, immediately spying his tall broad form cresting the dusty road.

  “Avery!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “Avery! Help me!”

  His reaction was instantaneous. He s
pun about and raced toward her. Within minutes his long, strides brought him to the stairs. He vaulted up them and she snagged his sleeve, dragging him in.

  “Bernard!” she said. “In the library. He’s passed out.”

  He pushed past her, speeding to the library. By the time she reached the door he was already on his knees, Bernard’s slack body doubled over his forearm. The boy’s fine hair swept the carpet, his hands lay limp, the nail beds tinged with blue. With his free hand, Avery thudded on either side of the boy’s spine.

  “Bernard?” He choked out his cousin’s name in low, fervent tones. “Bernard?” He lifted him closer, careful to keep his head down, his chest uncompressed.

  “What can I do?” Lily whispered.

  Avery turned toward her, his face stripped of hauteur and confidence, the amazing eyes stark with terror. “I don’t know,” he answered hoarsely. Tears streaked his bronzed face. “I do not know. Pray.”

  She knelt down beside the pair, her lips forming silent entreaties, as she watched helplessly as Avery continued thumping on Bernard’s back, jostling him every now and then, always calling him softly back to the world.

  Long moments passed and more followed. Finally, at long last, after what seemed like an eternity, Bernard gave a deep rattling gasp and moaned. Avery’s gaze flew to meet hers, hope returning some of the brilliance to his eyes. The boy coughed.

  “Water,” Avery rasped.

  Lily splashed a glass full of water and handed it to Avery. Gingerly, he eased Bernard up, bracing the lad against his chest and tilting his head.

  “Drink this, Bernard. Careful. Slowly now, breathe deep, from the stomach. Count five in, five out. Ah, there. Fine.” Avery’s self-possession had returned. His voice was assured, slightly cajoling, but Lily could see his eyes. They were still defenseless; the mask had not yet covered them.

  For the first time, Lily saw Avery not as a preternaturally competent man who wrung from life exactly what he wanted, but as a man beset by the same needs and doubts and fears as herself.