by Anne Gracie
They sat in the gig, not moving. “Oh, God, Lily, oh, God.” He pulled her against him, buried his face against her neck and just held her, shuddering and wretched until eventually it passed.
“Luke died in agony, both his legs shot off. Seth was gut-shot, the slowest, most horrible death you can think of. And Peter, Peter took two days to die. I lied, I lied to them all.”
She stroked his cheek. “You gave them comfort.”
“And it was my fault.” And then he confessed, there in that ancient holy place, witnessed only by the birds and the wild things and his wife, his blessed, loving wife, he told her what he’d never told anyone, the guilt he’d carried for years.
He told her how in one of their first engagements, first their major, then the captain, then the lieutenant had been killed. “And so it was up to me, Lily—I was next in command. And it was—” He tried to describe it: the deafening boom of the cannons, the incessant rattle of gunfire, men and horses screaming, blood and sinew, smoke and confusion—they couldn’t even see the enemy, but they could hear them yelling, closing in.
“I froze, Lily. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there in that hell on earth and . . . I froze.”
“You were how old?”
“Eighteen, but what does that matter? I—”
“And how long did you freeze for?”
“I don’t know. It seemed like forever.”
“And then what happened?”
He stared at her. She was so calm. “We fought.”
“You gave orders?”
“Yes.”
“The men obeyed them?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And who won?”
“It was just a battle.”
“Did you win?”
“Our side did, yes. But the casualties were horrific.”
She smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “You can’t help that. You did your duty.”
He jerked his head away from her. “You don’t understand. I froze, Lily, and men died because of it! Because of me.”
“Nonsense. I have to agree with Mr. Bryant. It was war that got those men killed. You were an inexperienced eighteen-year-old boy, thrust into a command you weren’t ready for, and so what if you froze for a minute or two—anyone would. And do you honestly think that slight delay would have made any real difference?”
His jaw dropped.
She kissed him softly. “Mrs. Prewitt told me you’ve always expected more of yourself than is humanly possible, and I see now she was right. Think about it, my darling; imagine any other eighteen-year-old boy thrust into the situation you faced. I doubt one in a hundred would collect himself—”
“I froze!”
“—would collect himself after a few minutes and go on to give orders and win a battle.”
“I didn’t win—”
“Your side did. Don’t quibble.”
He stared at her and thought about what she’d said. It sounded so . . . reasonable when she said it. And yet for years he’d flayed himself with guilt, reliving those moments of sheer, frozen panic . . . Blaming himself for his friends’—and other men’s—deaths. The nightmares had gone on for years.
Looking back now, eighteen seemed so young.
“You thought everyone here would blame you, didn’t you? That’s why you never came home.”
He didn’t answer.
“You thought that because you couldn’t forgive yourself, nobody else could. Edward, my love, there is nothing to forgive. You did the best you could, and that’s all that anyone can do.” She let that sink in and added, “Those other boys made their own choices, and it’s arrogance to blame yourself. I expect it’s being the heir. Actually I think you did more than anyone could expect.”
She kissed him again. “And if you didn’t notice, my love, those people we met today, they were glad you survived, as if a part of their sons lives on in you, because of the childhood you shared with them. They love you, Edward, and so do I.”
He sat stunned by the picture she had painted. And the gift she had given him. Forgiveness, hope, love. He began to breathe again.
She picked up the basket. “Now, help me down, and let’s have this picnic. I want to explore the ruins and drink some of that water from the spring—and you’re going to drink some too. Never mind about heirs, it’s supposed to be very healing.”
He jumped down and lifted her and the basket to the ground. Removing the basket from her grasp, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
“Forgive me?” she said. “For making you stay?”
He kissed her again. “There is nothing to forgive.” He took her hand and led her across the green sward to a place on the edge of the ruins where spring water bubbled up beneath a grotto of rough piled-up stones. It was a shrine. Moss and ferns grew in the cracks, and there were offerings of various kinds—fresh flowers, small clay objects, fruit—placed on an ancient slab of stone worn smooth by centuries of water.
He drew her against him. “This place is said to be the heart of Shields, the source of all our prosperity and our very well-being. It was here long before the Romans, was a place of worship for pagans long before the Christians built a church over it and, as you see, has survived long after Henry the Eighth destroyed the abbey. It’s where the estate gets its name. Most people think it’s named after the kind of shield used in war, but it’s really this spring, which is supposed to shield its people from harm.”
“It’s a beautiful story, but I think there has been plenty of harm done to people here over the years.”
“Perhaps, but we eventually bounce back.”
“The spring is lovely, but, Edward, you are the heart of this estate. The people here and your grandfather need you.”
“I know, I see that now. This place may be the heart of Shields, Lily, but you are my heart. The day I found you, running for your life, stinking of excrement—”
“Not excrement!”
“I’m sorry, but it was definitely excrement,” he said firmly. “Don’t interrupt, I’m making a romantic declaration here.”
“Your idea of romantic declarations needs work.”
“Then you will have to teach me.” He gazed down into her eyes, shining and full of love and trust and compassion. How did he ever get so lucky as to find this woman, this beautiful loving, splendid woman? His voice was husky as he said, “I said it before, but I need to say it again. I love you, Lily Rutherford Galbraith, with all my heart and soul.”
“And your body?”
“Definitely my body.”
“Show me,” she said.
And he did.
Chapter Twenty-two
Forgiveness to the injured does belong,
For they ne’er pardon, who have done the wrong.
—JOHN DRYDEN
Lily and Edward spent another week at Shields before returning to London. They left, promising to return in a month when Lord Galbraith would give a grand ball to celebrate his grandson’s marriage and long-awaited return to Shields.
Lily traveled curled up against her husband while he read aloud to her from a book his grandfather had selected for them. It was probably a very interesting book, but Lily’s heart and mind were too full for her to concentrate. She let the deep rumble of his voice flow over her and thought about how her life had changed.
Her potential thimbleful of happiness was now a constantly flowing wellspring of joy. Edward loved her. He reminded her of it daily, in all kinds of delicious ways. He was incapable of doing anything halfheartedly, she was learning. He still expected more of himself than any man should, and she couldn’t see that changing.
He still hadn’t fully forgiven himself, nor could he quite believe that the parents of the friends who’d fallen in battle didn’t hold him personally responsible. But he did accept that t
hey cared for him and drew comfort from his visits, where they talked about their sons.
Such wounds as he’d carried, buried deep within him, didn’t heal overnight. But Lily had confidence that they would in time.
He’d gone to visit Merrick Hird one evening and ended up staying very late, drinking and talking. He crawled into bed with her in the wee small hours, reeking of beer and cigar smoke, and just held her. Not making love, just holding her as if she were something precious and necessary.
She’d slept in his arms all night.
He never told her what he and Merrick had talked about that night, and she didn’t ask. She could see that something had eased within him, and that was enough.
How glad she was that he’d come to Shields. And that she’d made him stay. If she’d realized what was to come, she might not have had the courage. Trust your own instincts, Aunt Dottie had told her. Listen only to your heart.
If Aunt Dottie’s maidservants hadn’t come down with the chickenpox, Lily might never have gone to Shields. And if Edward hadn’t . . .
“Edward, why did you go looking for me in Bath?”
He looked up from his book, half closing it with a finger in his place. “Because that’s where you said you were going.”
“Yes, but why go to Bath? You were going, I forget where, on business.”
“Southampton, but he wasn’t there, and then I got a message to say he’d been seen in Bath. So I went to Bath. Are you interested in this book or not?”
“Not. Who wasn’t there?”
“Nixon.”
She sat up and looked at him. “You were hunting Nixon? In Bath? What was he doing in Bath?”
Edward shrugged. “Sniffing around for an heiress, I presume, but by the time I got there, Nixon had already left. I gather he had no luck, for I didn’t hear of any girl going missing.” He set the book aside.
“No, keep reading it,” she said.
“I thought you weren’t interested in it.”
“I’m not, but I love listening to your voice. You have a beautiful voice.” And while he was reading she could watch him all she liked without either of them being self-conscious.
He snorted, but the tips of his ears turned red. He resumed reading to her.
Lily snuggled down again and pulled the rug around her. Life was good.
* * *
• • •
Lily called in at Ashendon House early the next morning. On learning that Lady Rose and Lady Georgiana were still abed, she’d hurried straight upstairs, eager to see them.
Rose sat up in bed, frowning. “You look different. What has that man done to you?”
“Everything possible,” Lily said with a giggle. “Oh, Rose, he loves me! You knew, of course, that I’ve been achingly in love with him for ages, and now—he loves me!” She twirled in a little pirouette and then plumped down on the bed.
“So you’re happy, then, little sister?” Rose asked.
“You need to ask?” George said scornfully. “Just look at her. She’s glowing. So come on, Lily, tell all. Marriage isn’t horrible, I take it.”
“It’s blisssssful.” Lily gave a big, happy sigh. “Now, hurry up, the builders say the house will be ready at two, and there’s something I want to do before that. And I want you two to come with me.”
“Galbraith too busy to escort you?”
“He doesn’t know I’m doing it.” Lily blushed. “You might think it’s silly too, but it’s important to me, and I want you with me. So hurry up and get dressed.”
* * *
• • •
“Why Westminster Cathedral?” Rose asked. It was a fine morning, so they’d decided to walk. “St. George’s is a lot closer.”
“I don’t think they do it there,” Lily said.
“Do what? You still haven’t explained what this is about.”
“I want to light candles—like the Catholics do—for the boys who joined the army with Edward and were killed. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t know why I want to do it; it just seems like a comforting sort of thing to do.”
“Comforting for whom?”
“For them, those poor dead boys—to show that they’re not forgotten—and for Edward, and perhaps, for me in a way too.”
“But Galbraith won’t know. Nor will the dead. The dead are dead.”
“I told you you’d think it was silly. But I don’t care, I want to do it. I don’t know why we don’t do it in our church—”
“Popish practice, can’t be doing with it!” George said in a gruff, disapproving voice exactly like the vicar’s, and they laughed.
“Here’s Westminster Bridge. Nearly there now.”
“Lily.” Rose stopped abruptly. “Over there, isn’t that Lavinia Fortescue-Brown?”
“Of the Surrey Fortescue-Browns?” Lily said laughingly. “In London? That girl! Has she run away from school again?”
“I think she might have.” Rose was serious. She pointed to where a young girl stood with an older man, arguing.
“That’s Nixon!” Lily hissed. “He’s trying to abduct her.” She ran toward them. George and Rose followed.
A traveling chaise rumbled over the cobbles and stopped next to Nixon and Lavinia. A door swung open, pushed from within. Nixon grabbed Lavinia and tried to shove her inside.
“Nixon! Don’t you dare!” Lily screamed. “Stop! Abductor! Stop!”
Lavinia fought and kicked, screaming at the top of her lungs. Lily screamed too as she raced toward them.
Nixon kept trying to shove Lavinia into the carriage. Lily got there and whacked him over the head with her reticule. It was too light to do him much damage, but it distracted him enough to make him turn. “You!” he snarled.
“Release that girl!” She grabbed Lavinia’s skirt.
“You interfering bitch!” Nixon swung her a backhander, but Lily saw it coming and ducked, still clinging to Lavinia’s skirt.
With a loud yell George came flying through the air like a wild monkey, landing on top of Nixon, sending him sprawling on the cobblestones. She jumped up and kicked him, hard. He curled up in a ball, howling with pain and fury.
Rose grabbed the other half of Lavinia’s skirt. “Pull, Lily!” They both pulled and suddenly Lavinia popped free, like a cork popping from a bottle. They fell back against the parapet of the bridge.
People, noticing the disturbance, were moving forward in curiosity and concern. The driver, seeing it, whipped the horses and the carriage rumbled away.
Lavinia, now safe, started weeping. Rose held her, murmuring reassurance. But where was Nixon? Lily spied him slinking into the crowd on Westminster Bridge. “Quick, he’s getting away! Help! Someone stop that man! He’s an evil child abductor!” she yelled. But nobody made a move.
A piercing whistle split the air, and in the sudden surprised silence, George yelled, at the top of her voice, “Ten quid for whoever brings me the man in the yellow waistcoat! That one there.” She pointed.
At the chance of ten pounds, men emerged from the crowd: burly men, tattooed men, the kind of men nobody would want to meet on a public thoroughfare, let alone a dark alley. They prowled toward Nixon.
The crowd around him melted away until there was just Nixon, pressed against the parapet of Westminster Bridge, and a small group of hefty ruffians forming a ragged semicircle around him.
He produced a knife and brandished it. “Stay back!”
One brute snorted. A scarred thug spat. A third produced a much more wicked-looking knife. They moved closer. “Ten quid is ten quid,” one of them said.
Nixon looked wildly around. There was no escape. He twisted around, and before anyone realized what he was about, he stood poised on the parapet. “There’s always another way,” he said. He turned and dived gracefully off the bridge.
They heard a thump and a spl
ash and some shouting. Lily and George rushed to look down, pressing against the stone barrier, but all they could see was a barge passing under the bridge and men on it shouting as they peered into the water.
“Can you see him?” Lily shook her head.
“He can’t have gotten away, not with all these people around, surely,” George said.
A couple of rivermen rowed their boats out. They circled the area, probing the water with their long hooks while barge men shouted directions.
Lily glanced back to where Rose was comforting Lavinia. The girl was only fourteen. Lily shuddered, imagining what might have happened. Nixon needed to be caught and brought to trial.
There was a shout from the river. They all rushed to look. One of the rivermen had caught something. He hauled it up. A dripping body in a dirty yellow waistcoat.
“Still breathin’?” one of George’s ragged gallants shouted.
The riverman gave him a thumbs-down and shook his head. “Hit the barge as it was comin’ under the bridge,” he yelled up. “Smashed his head in.” He lifted Nixon’s head by the hair and even from that distance they could see the bloody gash in his scalp.
George looked at Lily. “Brings new meaning to ‘look before you leap,’ doesn’t it?”
Lily stared down at the thing that had been Nixon. He couldn’t hurt anyone now. She felt shaky and a bit sick. Justice had been done, and by his own hand.
George fished about in her reticule, and, robbing Lily and Rose, managed to dig up seven half crowns. She gave a half crown to each man in her collection of thugs, and when one was inclined to argue, she said boldly, “You’re lucky to get this much. You were supposed to catch him, not let him disappear into the Thames. But if you don’t want my money—”
“I want it,” he growled, and held out a dirty paw.
The show over, the crowd slowly dissipated. Lily turned to Lavinia. “What happened? What were you doing with Mr. Nixon?”
Lavinia started sobbing again and between sobs blurted out an involved tale involving messages and secret assignations and declarations of love. Miss Mallard had learned of Nixon’s covert attentions, and because Lavinia’s parents lived abroad, she’d been sent to stay with her godmother in London. But she’d managed to get a message to Nixon. He’d followed her to London, but when he’d proposed a runaway match, she’d changed her mind.