by Anne Gracie
“That fellow I went to meet never showed. I’d received a note that if I wanted to know Nixon’s whereabouts I should come to the Excelsior at two fifteen precisely and bring twenty pounds.”
“Nixon?”
He gave her a rueful smile. “Another thing I’ve kept secret from you. I’ve been trying to track down Nixon. By all accounts the villain is still in England. I have several men on the job, but most of the investigating I’m doing myself.”
“But why on earth keep that a secret from me?”
He gave her a curious look and said slowly, “I thought it might upset you, having it all stirred up again. I thought you’d probably want to forget all about it, block it from your mind.”
“Not at all. I would love Nixon to be caught and punished.” She beamed up at him. “I think it’s wonderful that you’re trying to hunt him down. I think it’s utterly heroic.”
He stiffened and glanced away. “Don’t call me that.” He stood up. “I have to go. I’ll see you tonight.”
Puzzled and a little disturbed, she watched him leave. What had just happened?
* * *
• • •
Lily told Rose and George what Sylvia had done, the mischief she’d tried to make between Lily and her husband.
“More than mischief,” George commented. “It’s a vicious little plot. What did you ever do to her to make her hate you like that, Lily?”
“Nothing,” Lily and Rose said in chorus.
“Lily has been a perfect saint toward her,” Rose declared. “I’d understand if she was trying to get back at me—I never liked her and never tried to hide it. Nobody liked Sylvia at school, but Lily was always nice to her. And Sylvia took advantage.”
“No need to go into all that,” Lily said quickly. “That’s all in the past. The main thing is that I never want to speak to her again, and I wanted you both to know. And to help me if she tries anything again.”
“The woman sounds cracked in the head,” George said. “Now, what are we going to do this morning?”
“I’m going to see how the refurbishments are coming along,” Lily said. “Anyone want to come with me?”
They all three went, and enjoyed themselves hotly debating the merits of various kinds of wall coverings: painted papers, silk or brocade. But apart from the excitement of choosing designs and colors, Lily was a little downhearted. According to the man in charge, it would be at least another two weeks before they could even think of moving in.
* * *
• • •
Dammit! Ned had revealed more than he meant to. It was harder than he’d expected, being married and keeping himself to himself.
The trouble was, his wife had this way about her, a way of causing him to lower his barriers without realizing it—until it was too late.
Worse, it seemed that he needed to take his own advice about the effect of bedsport on one’s . . . emotions. Ironic, that. It was because there was only one bed in the damned hotel, of course. Never before had he had such continuous access to a warm and willing female. It played havoc with his . . . equilibrium.
Still—he glanced at the letter he was holding—the solution was in his hand. Nixon had been spotted—reliably spotted by one of his own men, not another wild-goose chase—in Southampton. And this time Ned was going after the wretch himself. He wanted the man dealt with once and for all.
Lily needed that peace of mind.
He broke the news to her that evening as they were dressing to go to the theater. “I have to go away for a week or so. Maybe longer.”
“Can you do this up for me, please? The catch is quite tricky.” He bent over the necklace fastening—a fiddly little thing—and almost dropped it, startled, when she said, “I’ll come with you.”
He was shocked. “You can’t. I’m sorry, but it’s not possible. Not—” He was going to say convenient but that wouldn’t go down too well. “It’s business. Very dull. I need to be able to concentrate and if you came . . .”
“I would distract you?”
“Yes.” It was true, but he didn’t mean it as the compliment she was taking it for, if the little smile on her face was any indication. He would have stressed the danger element, except he didn’t want her to worry.
Marriage was full of traps. The thing to do was to issue statements, not give anyone—meaning his wife—the opportunity to discuss things.
“So I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning,” he said in a brisk voice. End of conversation.
She eyed him thoughtfully in the looking glass, twirling a dusky curl around her fingers. “And what am I to do while you’re away?”
“Do? The usual things, I suppose. Ride in the park, go visiting with your Rutherford relatives, attend balls, harry builders—that sort of thing. Are you ready?”
She picked up a lacy shawl and handed it to him. “Living here, in the hotel?”
“Of course. You told me the house won’t be ready for a couple of weeks.” He arranged the shawl around her shoulders.
She considered that. “I don’t want to stay here on my own.”
“Stay with your family at Ashendon House, then. I’m sure they’ll be delighted to have you back.”
She didn’t look too delighted at the idea. She stood back for him to open the door for her. “I’ll think about it.”
Later that evening, as he was handing her down from the carriage, she said, “I’ve thought about it. I think I’ll go and visit Aunt Dottie, in Bath.”
“Fine. Excellent. If that’s what you want.”
* * *
• • •
“Lily, my dear girl, whatever are you doing here?” The carriage had pulled up outside Aunt Dottie’s house, and Lily had jumped down to ring the bell herself. To her surprise, instead of hugging her and dragging her inside, Aunt Dottie was peeking past Logan, her butler, regarding Lily with a look of horror.
“I’ve come to visit you, Aunt Dottie.”
“Oh, dear—I wish I’d known! Why didn’t you write to say you were com—oh, of course, I’m sorry, my dear, I wasn’t thinking.” Aunt Dottie’s hands fluttered with distress, waving Lily back into the street. “But you cannot stay here, my love! You simply cannot!”
“But why, Aunt Dottie? What’s the problem?”
“Chicken pox,” the old lady declared tragically. “Two of the housemaids and the youngest footman are stricken already, and the scullery maid started throwing out spots this morning. I suspect the butcher’s boy,” she added darkly. “But you cannot stay even for a minute—it can be horridly disfiguring, and you never had it that time Rose was so ill with it, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“So you mustn’t risk it. You must go away at once—oh, how dreadful to have to be so uncivil to a most beloved niece—I would have loved to have you stay. I’ve missed you girls so much—but I must shun you, my love, positively shun you, for your own good. Tell her, Logan dear.” She appealed to the tall, silver-haired butler standing by her elbow.
“Your aunt is right,” Logan said. “She’s been all about-end with it, but can I convince her to stay elsewhere and let me deal with it?” He gave the old lady a fond look. “Stubborn as a mule she is and always has been.”
“Quite right,” Aunt Dottie said. “And I have no intention of changing.”
Lily smiled. Her brother, Cal, strongly disapproved of Logan’s informal manner toward their aunt, but Aunt Dottie insisted that she and Logan had known each other since she was fifteen, and to pretend otherwise was ridiculous. Nothing would convince her that a groom turned butler should not be treated as an old friend.
“Now go, Lily dearest, go. The longer you are here, the more chance of you catching the horrid thing.” Her aunt made shooing motions at her, then clapped her hands to her cheeks in sudden realization. “Oh! But where will you go? And why isn’t y
our husband with you? You haven’t lost him, have you?”
Lily laughed. “No, Aunt Dottie, Edward’s away on business, and don’t worry, I’ll spend the night at York House.” It was the finest of Bath’s hotels. “I’m a married woman now, you know, and have a great deal more freedom.”
“That’s all right then, dear. I suppose you’ll have to go back to London tomorrow—such an inconvenience. I could wring the neck of that wretched butcher’s boy. Give my love to everyone when you see them again. Now go, go. Flee and be healthy!”
Lily climbed back into the traveling chaise. Walton, the coachman, opened the little communication hatch in the roof of the carriage. “Where to now, ma’am?”
Lily thought for a minute. She didn’t want to go back to London. She didn’t want to live at the Pulteney without Edward, and staying with her family was out of the question while they still disapproved of Edward. Then an idea came to her. “You know where Shields, Lord Galbraith’s estate, is, don’t you, Walton?”
“Aye, in Hereford,” he said cautiously.
“Good. We’ll go there tomorrow, then.” Edward’s grandfather had issued her an open invitation, after all.
Besides, how could she resist an opportunity to learn more about her husband’s childhood home, the estate he had not visited in more than ten years, and for which he refused to take responsibility?
Chapter Nineteen
Teach me to feel another’s woe,
To hide the fault I see,
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
—ALEXANDER POPE, “THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER”
Somehow Lily had expected Shields to be sinister-looking, or grim, run-down and depressing, but as the carriage bowled up the tree-lined driveway, she saw that, on the contrary, everything looked to be in apple-pie order.
Shields was an ancient house, built in gray stone in the Gothic manner, but far from being sinister, it looked beautiful, open and welcoming, with gleaming many-paned Gothic windows. Crimson roses rambled over the gray stone, and the garden around the house was a riot of colorful spring flowers.
The setting too was lovely. To one side rolling fields of crops stretched green and gold to the horizon, and away behind the house, she could see the forest Edward had mentioned so long ago, one of the few things she knew about his childhood and his home. It looked ancient, the trees huge and gnarled, their branches spread magnificently, a thousand shades of green, shady and mysterious. A wonderful playground for an imaginative boy.
As the carriage pulled up, grooms ran up to tend the horses, and an elderly butler came carefully down the steps.
“May I help you, madam?” he said politely.
For a moment Lily didn’t know what to say. She’d come all this way unannounced, if not uninvited. “I’m Mrs. Galbraith,” she said. “Mrs. Edward Galbraith.”
His face lit up. “Mr. Edward’s wife,” he breathed. “We didn’t know, I mean, welcome, Mrs. Galbraith, welcome. Is, er . . .” He peered behind her, and she knew who he was hoping to see.
“I’ve come alone,” she said gently. “My husband isn’t with me.”
“Oh.” He made a valiant effort to hide his disappointment, mustered a bright smile and led her into the house. “Lord Galbraith will be delighted to see you, Mrs. Galbraith. He’s in the library. I am Fenchurch, the butler. Would you care to refresh yourself before I take you to him?”
She didn’t need to use the necessary but decided it would be politic to wash and tidy herself, so the butler could warn Lord Galbraith of his unexpected visitor and give the old man a few minutes to recover from the surprise—and perhaps his disappointment that she’d come alone—before he had to receive her.
She washed in a guest room, then came downstairs.
“My dear, dear girl.” Edward’s grandfather came toward her, wreathed in smiles. She was about to curtsey—she hadn’t given thought to how she should greet him—but he said quickly, “None of that formal nonsense, young Lily, you’re my granddaughter now and I’ll have a hug and a kiss from you, thank you very much.” He gave her a warm hug and grinned delightedly when she stood on tiptoe to kiss his leathery old cheek.
His likeness to Edward was uncanny. Lily felt as though she knew him, even though they’d only met a couple of times.
“Now, come into the warm, my dear child. Fenchurch will bring you tea and cakes—or would you prefer a glass of wine?” He escorted her into the library, a large room lined from floor to ceiling with shelves, filled with leather-bound tomes of every imaginable size. She’d never seen so many books in her life. A fire burned brightly in the hearth, making it very cozy.
“Now, sit ye down, child, and tell me what that silly chub of a grandson of mine has done to drive you all the way down here. He’s not following, is he?” he added with ill-concealed hopefulness.
“No, I’m sorry, he’s not. He doesn’t even know I’m here.” She explained the circumstances that had brought her to Shields.
Over an early dinner they talked, and Lord Galbraith showed her over the house, telling her some of its history, and in particular the bits that related most to Edward, or Ned as his grandfather called him.
He showed her Ned’s old rooms, which had remained more or less unchanged since he ran off and joined the army. “The boy was mad for a pair of colors,” his grandfather explained, “but his father and I—his father was still alive then, but the two of them clashed like stags whenever they met. But Ned was the heir, you see, the only heir, so of course we could not let him go off and get himself shot to pieces in the war.”
He shook his head, remembering. “But he was ripe for adventure, and champing at the bit to get out into the world and prove himself a man. Lads of that age think they’re men when they’re just hey-go-mad boys, that’s the tragedy of it.” He heaved a sigh.
Lily sat quietly, listening, fascinated.
“So what must the wretched young tearaway do but run off and join up as a common soldier, along with half the lads in the village; one of those dashed recruiting sergeants—unscrupulous villains they are—came along banging his drum and got the lot of ’em all fired up, and off they went to take the king’s shilling.”
“How old was he then?”
“Not quite eighteen, the young fool. Of course we couldn’t have the Galbraith heir serving with the common riffraff, so we bought him a commission—should have been the cavalry, but the stiff-necked young idiot refused to leave the fellows who’d joined up with him, so he became a lieutenant in the infantry. The infantry!” He snorted. “When he could ride almost before he could walk! More wine, my dear?”
“No, thank you. Tell me the rest.”
“The rest? There is no rest. The boy never came home again. You probably know as much as I do about his military career—we read the newspapers, didn’t we? Gleaned what shreds of information we could find. Of course he wrote, but the wartime letters were the barrenest things you’ve ever read. No details, just ‘Dear Grandpapa, I am well and in need of socks,’ or ‘Wishing for some good red meat,’ or some nonsense like that. Nothing to tell a man what the lad was feeling or doing. The letters are better now, of course.”
Lily frowned. “He still writes to you?”
The old man nodded. “Always has, man and boy, a letter every week. Some as brief as a letter can be, barely deserving to be called a note, others long and well worth the reading.” He smiled at her. “Hasn’t he ever written to you?”
“No.”
“I don’t suppose he’s had any need to, with you right there at hand. Tomorrow I’ll show you some of the more interesting of his letters. I’ve kept them all, you know.” His eyes, green like Edward’s, only a little faded, twinkled. “There are a few I think you’ll find particularly interesting.”
Lily forced a smile. “I look forward to it.”
* * *
&nbs
p; • • •
The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and over breakfast Lord Galbraith declared his intention to take Lily on a tour of the estate while the weather held. “Horseback all right with you, young Lily? I seem to remember you’re a fine little horsewoman. Ned and I saw you riding in the park with your sisters on the morning of your wedding—oh, no, we can’t have seen you, can we?” He grinned roguishly. “Bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding. I recall it now—your sisters were kidnapping a complete stranger.”
She laughed, drizzling honey on her toast. “I suppose Edward told you. It’s silly, I know. Rose got it wrong—the groom isn’t supposed to see the bride in her wedding dress—but who was I to argue with superstition?” She crunched down on her toast.
He laughed. “Especially since you were being kidnapped at the time.” He wiped his mouth and set his table napkin aside. “So, my dear, how do you feel about riding around the estate with an old man this fine morning?”
“An old man? Oh, dear”—she feigned dismay—“I thought I’d be riding with you.”
“Minx.” He chuckled delightedly. “Eat up. We need to get going while the weather is smiling on us.
Lily finished her tea and stood up. “I’ll just run upstairs and put on my habit.” She would have ridden out in the rain, the wind and the cold. Anything was better than having to read letters.
The tour took all day. Lord Galbraith was clearly as proud as Punch of his estate, but it wasn’t long before Lily realized his true purpose was to show her off to the people of the estate, his tenants.
At every small cottage or hamlet, and for every person they came across, he would stop and introduce her. “Lily my dear, this is Mr. Tarrant”—or Norton or Bellamy or Weston or Toomer or Cole—“who’s one of my tenant farmers. Tarrant, this is my boy’s charming bride, the future Lady Galbraith.” His pride and open delight in her was visible. And very touching.