by Anne Gracie
What invariably followed was an eager inquiry—some delicate, others blunt—about Edward’s whereabouts and, when it was clear he was not expected, their disappointment was palpable.
Lord Galbraith would then ask about every member of the family, and at the end of each conversation Lily was usually given an invitation to drop in on “the wife” whenever she was passing, and exhorted to “send our regards to the young master.”
Several times they were invited into a farmhouse or cottage to meet a wife where they would be urged to drink a glass of milk, or have some tea and a bit of cake or take some other refreshment.
Lily loved every moment of it. She loved learning about people, getting to know them, hearing their tales of this and that. The warmth of their welcome almost overwhelmed her, even though she was under no illusions as to why. She left each place with messages for “the young master” ringing in her ear, and her saddlebags crammed with small gifts—preserves, homemade cheese, biscuits, and several mysterious bunches of herbs she suspected were intended to help her to conceive.
As the day passed, her mystification grew. It was clear her husband was loved and greatly missed here; she could see it in the face of every person she met, in the warm inquiries after his health and well-being, in their clear delight at the news of his marriage and their occasionally embarrassingly specific hopes for children to follow.
So many people had said words to the effect of Time the young master came home, where he belongs.
She didn’t understand it. When Edward had told her he was never going back to Shields, that he wouldn’t take any income from the estate and that when his grandfather passed on he would hire a manager to run the place, she’d imagined that something dreadful had happened here, that his childhood had been ghastly, that he’d been brutally treated, or that he was resented or hated for some reason. Even that he’d fallen in love with some village maiden and had his heart broken.
Instead he was loved, and not only by his grandfather.
“Why is Edward so reluctant to come here?” she asked Lord Galbraith as they rode slowly home. The sun was setting over the western hills, a glorious display of red and gold and pink, gilding the rooftops of the gracious old house and giving the ancient gray stonework a rosy glow. How could Edward reject such a beautiful home?
“Oh, my dear, if only I knew,” he said sorrowfully. “I’ve asked myself that question a hundred—a thousand—times over the years. I’ve tried and tried to get him to talk about it.” He darted her a hopeful glance. “I don’t suppose he’s said anything to you?”
She shook her head. “No, only that he doesn’t come here. Never why, though of course I’ve asked.”
The old man sighed heavily.
“Did anything happen—anything bad, I mean—before he went away to join the army?”
“Nothing that I can discover. As far as I know he was—the whole pack of them—were excited as boys—well, they were boys. Silly, heedless, careless, joyful boys, off to follow the drum.”
“He didn’t have a broken heart perhaps? Some girl who decided she preferred someone else?” Though she couldn’t imagine any girl rejecting Edward.
“No, he wasn’t much interested in girls at that age. That all came later.”
“He didn’t leave any enemies behind?”
The old man snorted. “You saw them today, girl—did it look as though any one of them had a bad word to say about my lad?”
“I thought they all loved him.” There was a lump in her throat as she said it.
“They did. They do. We all do.” There was a world of pain in the choked old voice.
The horses walked slowly on. In the sky, gold and scarlet faded to pink and gray. The trees filled with birds, all chattering madly as they prepared for the night. Lily pretended not to notice the tears in the old man’s eyes.
* * *
• • •
Over dinner she prompted the old man to tell her more tales of Edward’s boyhood, and he happily regaled her with tales of his wild, merry, loving boy. It was not the Edward she knew.
“But you must have heard that story before,” he said after finishing one tale.
She shook her head. “He never mentions the past at all. And if I bring it up—”
“You mean about the war?”
“No, not just the war. If I ask him anything about his past, he just gets this look in his eyes . . .”
“Like ice over a window, so you can’t see in or out. And then he changes the subject and starts talking about some wholly inconsequential thing,” Lord Galbraith finished for her.
“Exactly.” At least she wasn’t the only one that Edward shut out. “Every time he does it, I feel . . .” She swallowed, unable to go on.
“Like a little piece of your heart has been cut away?” he suggested gently.
Unable to speak for the surge of emotion that had swamped her at his words, Lily nodded.
There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of the wind outside and the coals of the fire settling gently in the grate.
“You love that boy of mine, don’t you?”
Her face crumpled as she whispered, “With all my heart.”
“Does he know how you feel?”
She shook her head. “He doesn’t want my love. He made it very clear before we were married.”
“And since then?”
“He made it even clearer.”
“Young idiot.” After a moment the old man tapped his fingers decisively on the table. “I’m not so sure. I think he’s fonder of you than you realize. Let me show you some of those letters I mentioned before.”
It was the last thing she wanted. Lily thought briefly about claiming to be tired after the long day, but it would only put off the moment. The old man was determined to show them to her. She might as well get it over with.
Again they retreated to the library; it was clearly Lord Galbraith’s favorite room in the house. Something of an irony in that, Lily thought. A room filled from floor to ceiling with books.
He seated her close to the fire, poured her a glass of some pinky-gold liquid and set it on a table at her elbow. Then he brought out a large wooden inlaid box. “Now”—he shuffled through the stack of letters inside—“ah, here it is. The first letter he wrote from your honeymoon—or would you rather read some of his wartime ones first? I promise you, they’re very sparse and uninformative.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” And that was the truth. Feeling in need of a little liquid courage, she took a large sip from the glass he’d given her and choked. “Wh—what is that?”
“Eh? Oh, peach brandy. Gift from a tenant. Don’t you like it? I can get you something else.”
“No, it’s just—I didn’t expect it to be so . . .”
“Sweet? Yes, horrible, but ladies usually like sweet drinks. Can I get you something else?” He hovered.
The word Lily had been thinking of was strong, but she didn’t say so. “No, it’s fine, thank you. I was just surprised.” Now that it was down, it left a lovely warm feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Good. Now, here’s the first letter.” He handed it to her and sat back, watching her eagerly. “See what he says about you?”
Lily unfolded the letter and pretended to read it.
“What do you think about that, eh?” he asked when, after what she judged would be a suitable interval, she handed it back.
“Very nice.”
He blinked and the eager look faded. “Try this one.” He passed her another, and sat there watching her as again she pretended to read it.
The fire crackled and hissed gently in the hearth. The silence of the great walls of books pressed heavily on her. Her throat burned from the drink she’d just swallowed; it threatened to come back up.
It was always unbearable when she tried to
read, especially with someone watching, but this was somehow worse. Deceiving this dear old man after the lovely day they’d just had.
Just tell him. Confess. Get it over with. But she couldn’t.
“Very interesting.” She refolded the letter and handed it back, hating herself for being such a coward.
He didn’t comment, just handed her another, saying, “You’ll like this one.”
She wanted to throw it in the fire. Smiling, she unfolded it and stared blindly at the unintelligible writing for as long as she could bear it.
She passed it back to him and said, “Lord Galbraith, I think I’d like to retire now. I have a headache starting, and—”
“You didn’t read a single one of those letters, did you?”
The silence in the room stretched. Lily said nothing. She simply hung her head, drowning in waves of shame.
“You can’t read, can you?”
She forced herself to admit it. “No,” she whispered.
“There, there, girlie, no need to cry.”
Was she crying? She hadn’t noticed. She took the handkerchief he pressed into her hand and scrubbed at her face, wanting to run, to hide, to just disappear.
“Does Ned know?”
She shook her head.
“Don’t look like that, my dear—there are worse things in life than not being able to read. I take it it’s not a problem with your eyes—” He broke off disgusted. “Well, of course it’s not your eyes—been out with you all day, haven’t I? Eyes like a hawk. Pretty too.”
Lily forced herself to speak. “I suppose you think I’m lazy, or stupid—”
“I think nothing of the kind!” The old man harrumphed. “Clever little thing you are—observant, and with intelligent things to say. And not a lazy bone in your body—saw that when I dragged you all over the estate today, making you talk to dashed near every person on it. And did you for one minute let on how tired or bored you were—?”
“Oh, but I wasn’t, I—”
“No, you straightened your spine and sat through it all smiling, didn’t you? Every slow-top on the estate jawing your ear off with trivial rubbish, but did you show it?” He snorted. “You’re no shirker, my girl. Proud to have you in the family. Ned couldn’t have made a better choice.”
At that, Lily’s tears flowed afresh.
“Now, now, don’t take on. It’s nothing to cry over. Perfectly sure you’ve done your damnedest—forgive my language, my dear—done your best to learn, and if you can’t, well it’s some dashed fault in the Creator, that’s all it is. One of God’s mysteries and not for us to question it. Look at me.”
Surprised, she did, dabbing at her eyes.
“Can’t for the life of me tell the difference between red socks and green ones—between red and green anything. Both colors look the same to me. But”—he flung up his hands in a gesture of cheery hopelessness—“does it matter? No, it does not.”
“There’s a big difference between not being able to read and not being able to distinguish red socks from green,” she objected.
“Pooh! Ask me—ask anyone!—if they’d rather have a scholarly girl in the family or one with a warm and loving heart, and you know what they’ll all choose. I know what matters to me, and it’s not a piffling thing like reading.”
She choked on a half laugh. “Says the man who owns the biggest library I’ve ever seen.”
“Don’t suppose you’ve seen many. Why would you want to? Yes, I like books; other people like cats. Who’s to say who’s right? The important thing to me right now is that you’re going to make me very happy.”
Lily looked up at him through tear-blurred eyes. “How?” It came out on a wobble.
“Two reasons.” He ticked them off on his fingers as he spoke. “First, you’re going to make my grandson very happy. Second, you’re going to make me a great-grandfather.”
“How do you know?” All these expectations. Lily was fed up with them, fed up with living with the likelihood of failure always looming. “I was forced on your grandson and he’s still getting used to it. I don’t think he’s very happy. I can’t really tell.”
“If he’s not, he’s a fool, and my grandson is no fool.”
Lily left that one untouched. “As for making you a great-grandfather, what if I don’t have babies? My only two aunts are barren—well, one of them never married so I suppose she doesn’t count—and anyway, people die in childbirth all the time.”
He chuckled. “Cheery little creature, aren’t you? Shall I order my blacks now?”
She gave a half laugh, half sob.
“That’s better.” He refilled her glass. “Now, sit back, drink up, and I’ll read some of my grandson’s letters to you. I think you’ll find them enlightening.” He pulled out a letter and read, “‘Lily made me laugh today. Such a clever observer of people, but she hasn’t a nasty bone in her body. Some of the fine ladies of the ton could take lessons from her.’”
Did Edward really think that of her? She couldn’t help but smile.
“And here, where he says this: ‘Every day in some small way, my wife surprises and delights me.’”
Lily felt herself blushing with pleasure. Or perhaps it was the peach brandy.
He pulled out another letter and read, “‘We ride out together most mornings. Lily is a first-rate horsewoman, as you observed—’ Ah yes, this is the one about when you fell off your horse.”
“When it refused a jump,” Lily corrected him.
He chuckled. “Indeed, and that’s just what he said. But this is the bit that’ll interest you—he wrote it later that evening, after you were asleep. ‘I thought I’d lost her, Grandfather, she was so still and pale. My heart simply stopped. Then when she finally moved—words cannot express what I felt then. In such a short time, my wife has become so dear to me.’”
Lord Galbraith refolded the letter and put it aside saying, “There you are, my dear. If that boy isn’t in l— Oh, good grief, you’re not crying again, are you? If ever I’ve seen such a girl for waterworks.”
But the old man was smiling as he passed her his handkerchief again. “Take no notice of me, dear girl, you just have a good cry, let it all out and you’ll feel better for it.” He cleared his throat. “Learned that from my dear wife. Cried for all kinds of incomprehensible reasons. Wonderful woman.” After a long pause he added softly, “You’d have loved her, Lily. More to the point, she’d have loved you. As do I.”
Lily managed a misty smile.
Chapter Twenty
Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
—ALEXANDER POPE, “ODE ON SOLITUDE”
Over the next week, Lord Galbraith took Lily all over the estate and the surrounding area. She met everyone, from tenants to the leading members of local society. She was entertained by stories of the Galbraith family, the tales of Ralf de Corbeau who built the original manor in the thirteenth century and how Nicholas Galbraith came south from Scotland in the sixteenth century to marry a de Corbeau lass, the last of her line.
The portrait gallery was full of their pictures, these men and women whose blood had slowly distilled down the ages to the old man beside her and the young one whom her heart craved.
Lord Galbraith, who turned out to have something of a mischievous nature—or perhaps it was just kindness—took pleasure in pointing out the many ancestors who couldn’t, in fact refused to learn to read, deeming it a rubbishy skill needed only by clerks and clergy, unimportant people like that.
His scurrilous tales made her laugh and laugh, but entertaining and charming as the old man was, Lily was missing her husband. She wanted to hear these old family stories from him—she was sure he would know them. She wanted to learn about the estate from him, to have him introduce her to former playmates and show her his secret boyhood p
laces.
Everywhere she went there were reminders of the boy he had been, and people were eager to tell her about the boy they remembered—and missed.
The more she learned about him, the harder it was to reconcile the mischievous, merry, adventurous boy everyone talked about with the reserved man who was kind and careful and kept himself to himself. Except in bed.
How could a man who wrote so regularly to his grandfather—warm and entertaining letters too—how could he stay away for so long, when he must know, surely, that his grandfather desperately missed him? How could he refuse to come home? It would break his grandfather’s heart if he ever learned of Edward’s plan to hire a manager. In the short time she’d known him, Lily had grown to love the old gentleman. And she ached for the loneliness he so gallantly tried to hide. She understood it only too well.
* * *
• • •
“It’s a letter from Ned.” Lord Galbraith came to breakfast, waving it. “Eat while I read it to you.” He broke open the seal and glanced at the letter, then frowned. “It’s very short.” He scanned quickly. “He’s very worried about you, Lily. Frantic, in fact.”
“Me? Why?”
“He says he’s lost you—suspects you might have been kidnapped again.”
“But I told him—” She broke off, her hand going to her mouth. “I told him I was going to Aunt Dottie’s.”
Lord Galbraith nodded. “He said he’d been to Bath—”
“Bath? But he was going to Southampton.”
“Well, I don’t know why he changed his plans, but he went to Bath. He says your aunt told him she’d sent you back to London. But when he returned to London, you weren’t there, and nobody knew where you were.”
Lily pushed her eggs away, her appetite gone. “Oh, dear, I hadn’t planned to stay so long. I thought I’d come for just a few days and be back in London before him.” She put her napkin aside and rose. “I’ll go and pack at once. Can you send a message to my coachman that we leave for London immediately?”