He had a pot of ointment, and he applied it where it was needed with great care. “All done.” He immediately drew her night dress down again.
She lay on her stomach for a moment, and then turned back on her side and met his steady gaze. “Thank you.”
He pulled the covers over her. “I tried to find another way of doing it, but Potter had to go back to the house and she can’t get away regularly enough to attend to you.”
“Potter?”
“Didn’t I say? She’s your mother’s head chambermaid. I gave her some money to look after your interests and to tell me if there was anything amiss. I was very worried about you, but I couldn’t find out for myself. I didn’t trust Sir Geoffrey, you see. As long as he treated you with respect, I was content. Edward - Lord Wenlock - was worried too, you know. He knows what Geoffrey Sanders is capable of.”
“Did you never think of telling my mother?” she asked.
He sighed and took her hand, which lay over the covers, holding it lightly in his. “I don’t think that would have made much difference, coming from the direction it did. It would have been put down to jealousy, or a desire to prevent your marriage.”
Lucy sighed. “Yes, it would.” She could see the justice of that remark, but she couldn’t believe her mother would have allowed her to be treated in that way. Surely her mother knew nothing of Sir Geoffrey’s vicious tendencies, she could not. “May I go home?”
He caught his breath. “Yes of course, if you wish it. But I would advise against it. If you go back now, I’m sure your mother will insist the marriage goes ahead.”
“Even if she sees the marks, and tell her what he’s done?” It was the first reference she made to the other thing he had done to her. That was the worst of it.
“Even then. But if you feel in the least uncertain, if you don’t trust me - and why should you? - you should go and find out for yourself.”
She struggled to sit up, and he put an arm around her and helped her. When she was settled against the pillows, he released her, only to take both her hands in his. “Lucy, this is your life. You are over twenty one now, and no one can tell you what to do. Your decisions are your own. Believe that I’ll support you, whatever you decide to do, but make the decisions yourself.”
She stared at him in silence for a moment, her hands resting in his. “Yes,” she said. “You’re right. I suppose I’ve become used to doing as I’m bid, and society expects a girl to obey her parents. But I don’t want to marry Geoffrey.”
“Then you shall not. Now all we have to do is devise a way to prevent it, and do it without scandal.”
Chapter Twelve
Dinner was brought upstairs to them and again the jovial landlady declared her pleasure in seeing Mrs. Stanley so much better. “I’ve seen these chills carry a person off, but I’m sure you’re in no danger of that now, madam.” The maids bustled around her setting up a table and laying a substantial repast upon it. “And now you should do your best to recover by having as good a meal as you may. Feed a cold and starve a fever, madam.” She smiled benevolently at Lucy, who did her best to smile back. “A pity your maid had to leave you like that.” she commented, evidently fishing.
“Yes, Potter was needed elsewhere. Her mother is very ill.” She glanced across at Philip and saw his infinitesimal nod, confirming she had her story right.
“I could find another maid for you, madam,” said Mrs. Tilson. “Thompsons is just around the corner. The best agency in London, they can get anything for you in very short order.”
Philip stepped forward. “I think we’ll go on as we are for now. It’s very kind of you to think of us, but my wife is used to my help and she prefers me to look after her. Isn’t that so my love?”
Lucy smiled at him. “Yes,” she agreed docilely.
When the mistress and maids had left the room, he showed her an apprehensive face. “Thompsons. Half my staff is drawn from there. If they should find out we’re here someone would be bound to recognise us.” He shook his head. “The sooner we can get out of this inn the better.” He picked up a robe from the chair. “Not as grand as the ones you usually wear, I’ll be bound, but it will serve.”
He turned his back while she put it on, which, considering how much he had seen of her already was very thoughtful of him. Lucy smiled as she fastened the buttons on the soft blue woollen garment. “Where did this come from?” She swung her feet out of bed and stood up. He heard her get out of bed and turned to see her put her hand down again to support herself. Quickly he came forward and put an arm about her waist, holding her until she regained her equilibrium. “The inestimable Potter went and bought you some garments such as a provincial lady might expect to have. We needed it for respectability, you see, otherwise the landlady here would have suspected us even more than she does now. The things they packed for you were too fine, and your brushes and so on all monogrammed. They’re at my house, as I can hardly send them back.”
“Do you think the landlady suspects us?” Lucy asked anxiously.
He released her and went to the table, drawing a chair back for her. “I think she suspects something, but not the truth. With your permission, I’ll tell her another lie.”
“What’s one more lie?” She noticed someone had put a soft cushion on the hard wooden chair and was very grateful for it.
He drew up the chair opposite her and sat down. “I’ll tell her we’re newly married. Then she’ll understand why we don’t want any attendants.”
“Oh.” Lucy surprised herself by blushing a little. Then she looked up at him and smiled. “I suppose that would help.” She looked at the dishes on the table. “Is that pigeon pie? May I have some?”
They helped themselves to the food; the first time in her life Lucy had ever done such a thing. The informality amused her, and the contrast with all the other meals she had ever had. It was usual to take what was wanted from the buffet at breakfast, and at informal suppers, but she had never before eaten dinner without a number of footmen to refill her glass or help her to a dish. “Do people often do this?”
The question made him laugh, a genuine delightful laugh. “Ordinary people, you mean?” She shook her head, joining in his gentle laughter. “Many people do, yes. Why, do you need help?”
“No, of course not. And it - it is pleasant to converse without knowing the servant behind you will be entertaining the servants’ hall with your remarks later.”
“Yes - we couldn’t possibly have that, could we?” he said and she laughed again.
She cut the laugh short, shocked that she could find anything amusing so soon after that dreadful thing had happened to her, and stared at him, wide eyed. “Philip?”
“Yes?”
“Oh - nothing.” She fell to eating, grateful her appetite, as well as her sense of humour had returned.
The pigeon pie was very good, as was the peppered steak, the apple tart and the orange cheese cakes. Conversation over the meal was light, and punctuated by “Pass the beetroot, please,” and, “Have you got the trifle?” It did a lot to lighten Lucy’s mood, help to release some of the tension coiled up inside her. Like being on holiday. Philip smiled more too, and seemed happy to see her in a better frame of mind. The ogre Lord Royston, the image her mother had built up for her in the last few years finally fell away, leaving the reality for her to study.
He was a handsome man. His hair and eyes were the same colour as hers, dark, almost black hair and brilliant blue eyes, but his face was fuller and his features more definite than hers. He was tall, not so tall as Geoffrey perhaps, but well filled out. In shirt sleeves, she saw his shoulders needed no extra buckram to fill his coat and he moved with a grace that spoke of the athlete. His face habitually had a look of good humour, one she found refreshing after her betrothed’s stern handsomeness. No, she would never think of Geoffrey like that again, she decided. Not her betrothed.
After supper Lucy and Philip sat and chatted over the remains of the wine. The maid came to clear the me
ss away and did her best not to disturb them. She took away the dishes and swung the trestles back under the table, taking it back to its former place by the window.
They talked about mutual acquaintances, places they knew and finally, their childhood, partly shared.
“I loved the Grange,” he told her, “As Bernard never did. He was always mad to be a soldier.”
“I remember. He even tried to make me one of his troops. Drilled me on the terrace for hours before Miss Hampson found me.”
“Your governess.” He paused, frowning in thought and then his brow cleared. “I remember her. Beetle faced woman, wasn’t she? What happened to her?”
She laughed at this description of her formidable governess, but remembered her as she hadn’t done for years. “She went to the Duchess of Bedford’s household when I made my come-out. Mama said she and Aunt Honoria would be my companions from then on. I was glad to see her go, but I think she did me good. I know far more than I would otherwise do about the globes, and French and suchlike. She put more emphasis on that than my being able to sew a fine seam.”
“Quite right too. From what I remember of your seams they were never that straight; and it is of far more use to know where St Petersburg is.”
“Why?” she demanded, quick on the uptake. “I might never visit St. Petersburg.” His look showed her she had fallen into error, and he was joking with her. She smiled back, and felt more at her ease than she had for a long time.
Recollecting where she was that was passing strange. Dressed as informally as it was possible to be dressed, sitting alone with a member of that sex which had used her so terribly a matter of days before, it was the last thing she should be feeling, but she felt comfortable and safe here. Perhaps it was because she knew him well, - or perhaps not. There was something new now, a new awareness, now she had been pushed into that world she should have learned about in a very different way. “Well at least you got the Grange. Did that make you happy?”
“In a way.”
She could have bitten her tongue out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean - Bernard - “
He shook his head. “Don’t worry. That wasn’t what I meant. Bernard and I were never very close you know.” He regarded her speculatively then went on, “To tell you the truth, we didn’t really like each other very much.”
She stared at him. “I never guessed - “
He shook his head. “There was never any breach, we just didn’t get on. But neither of us was inclined to argument, so we went our own ways, that’s all. Nothing dramatic, nothing to concern yourself with. I was sorry when he died, but not heartbroken.”
“Oh.” She paused as the maid brought in a tray with tea and a decanter on it. When she left he said, “I asked for some port to be sent up. Would you like some? There’s no one to see.”
She accepted, and he poured them both a measure. She sipped it, and immediately smiled. “I haven’t tasted this for years. My Papa used to give me little tastes of it, when there was no one else around. I would sit on his knee and have a taste of his port, after dinner when he went to the library. I couldn’t have been more than seven. My goodness.”
He let her alone with her memories, watching her face relax, pleased to see the tension slowly leaving. When her glass was empty he refilled it, only commenting, “It will help you to sleep. Tea next, though.”
“Yes indeed. Port is such a sweet drink it’s easy to forget how strong it is. I don’t think Mama would have approved of my tastes if she had found out.”
Philip laughed at that, and fell to remembering about his own childhood, not very different to Lucy’s, before they had met, before her father had despaired of producing an heir of his own. Brought up quietly in the country, taught at home before he was sent to Eton, and then up to Oxford. They continued for a while, sitting opposite each other, chatting and resting, until she stifled a yawn.
“Time for bed,” he said firmly. “I shouldn’t have kept you up so long.”
“Where do you sleep?”
He indicated the shabby upholstered chair next to the fire. “That and the footstool does me very well. But before we settle for the night - I should turn into your nurse again. I’m sorry, Lucy, I need to attend to your hurts.”
She didn’t protest. What would be the point? Instead, she took off her dressing gown and lay on her stomach, allowing him to draw up her night gown and bathe her wounds. Her trust almost unmanned him. “They’re getting much better now.” He used the same conversational tone he had used earlier. “Tomorrow we’ll work out what to do. I have a few ideas; we’ll talk it over then.” He worked in silence for a while. “You know what he did to you, don’t you? Everything, I mean?”
She paused, and then said, in a very quiet voice; “Yes. He raped me.”
There was a short pause and then he said, in a voice that shook very slightly, “Yes. When Porter was here I asked her to look and she assures me there was no lasting damage. You should know she dealt with all that, I left the room.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
With a surge that felt like being hit in the stomach by a clenched fist, she remembered it as though it was happening all over again. It didn’t help that she was lying on her stomach; the same position she was in when he’d violated her. The pain, the degradation, the despair, it all hit her again, and the wish that she could die now, suffer no more which had helped to block out the subsequent days in her memory.
She tried hard, very hard, but she felt the tears come, and then she couldn’t control them. She felt him pull her night gown back down, and then he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to him. He lifted her so she rested her head on his shoulder, and he let her cry.
She sobbed uncontrollably for a while, hearing her own breath come in struggling gasps, feeling the hot tears on her face, until she could take some breaths and try to control it a little better.
Lucy began to speak. “He hurt me. He said he loved me and then he hurt me so much. How could he do that?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, his lips against her hair. “I don’t know.”
“I knew what he was doing was wrong and I cried out but nobody came, nobody came. Philip, I cried for my mother, I haven’t done that - “ she stopped to catch her breath - “for years, and she must have heard something, but she never came. I felt so alone.”
“Never again. Never again my love, I’ll never leave you alone.”
Bitterly she sobbed, and he held her tightly against him and rocked her as he might a baby. “I didn’t know what to do, where to go.” Again, a racking breath.
“He said - he said I must learn to be an obedient wife, do whatever he required of me. Best I learn now, he said, than later. He talked about taming me, like a dog, he said. Oh God, God.”
She cried again for a long time, and then gradually, she felt it leave her. The tension, the horror, all receded to manageable proportions, and she knew for certain that she would never be in that situation again, never be so helpless. She would make sure of it, make sure for herself. The determination replaced the despair, the helplessness, and she knew herself to be in control again.
He still murmured soothing words to her, and she could listen now. “I’ll always be here. Always be your friend. I’ll be anything you want me to be, anything you need.”
She sniffed doughtily and lifted her head, looking at him. They gazed at each other and then Lucy laughed shakily. “I must look a sight.”
“Not at all.” Keeping one arm protectively about her he dipped the cloth in the warm water at his feet and carefully wiped her face for her. “You look beautiful.”
She wrinkled her nose, some of her old self coming back. “Pooh. I’ve never been beautiful.”
“It depends who you ask,” came the steady reply.
Gazing at him she saw something, remembered something. “You called me ‘my love’,” she said. “Is that like - a man would say to his sister?”
He gazed steadfastly back at her. �
�No.”
She laid her head on his shoulder. “Then - what? I’m too tired to think, Philip, tell me.”
He bit his lip. “I should have known I couldn’t keep it to myself in these circumstances.” He took a deep breath. Lucy felt it against her breasts, the sudden heave of his chest. “Since you will have it - I love you Lucy. I’ve loved you since we were children, and it’s just grown with me, become part of me. I’ve never loved you like a brother, because I loved you before I knew what it truly meant.” He held her in silence for a moment, and she let herself relax in his arms while he told her. “I’ve always known you weren’t for me. First Bernard wanted you, then your mother decided I wasn’t good enough for you, then you became betrothed to Sanders. If he’d loved you, treated you properly, I would have kept out of your way and got on with my life, but he didn’t. What else could I do, my love, except care for you?” He drew back, looked at her and smiled. “I’ve become so used to knowing I would have to do without you I almost persuaded myself I loved you like a brother. But I don’t. I never have.”
He looked at her calmly, but now she looked at him closer she could see the warmth in his eyes, the tenderness reflected on his face. And she didn’t know what to say.
“It’s all right,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to do anything, be anything. Just be happy. We’ll get out of this mess with as little fuss as we can contrive, and then you can get on with your life. I won’t repine, gaze at you with longing, I promise you that. Outside the works of certain imaginative authors that doesn’t happen. We’ll go our own ways, stay friends, I hope, and you will make me happy if you’re happy.”
“Oh Philip.”
“What is it, love?” He said the word caressingly, but not possessively.
“I’m so confused - I don’t know what I want, how I feel. I’m so sorry.”
Loving Lucy Page 10