by Louisa Trent
"Do go on, dear," Victoria Hill said amicably. "My intent was not to interrupt, I assure you. I was merely recalling a fond memory of a female who eats more than a tweety-bird."
"I am sure she will be delighted to hear that you approve of her eating habits. Anyway, Meg attends the concerts regularly and would like me to meet her there."
"I know you will enjoy the music, dear. Bar Harbor's artist community sponsors the musical affairs. They are quite amusing. "
"Yes, so I hear. Meg relates that her artist friends are Bohemian, outrageous manners and all that. Afterwards, Meg suggested we go to a tavern for an ale or two," she breezily offered. It was childish, Lillian acknowledged, but just once she would like to be able to ruffle her grandmother's feathers!
"Which tavern, dear?"
"You probably wouldn't know the one. Meg says it is frequented primarily by artists and their models."
Victoria delicately patted her lips. "Kelley's?"
"Yes," Lillian glumly replied. "Kelley's."
"Oh, I lifted a pint or two there years ago, with Tony. James Kelley has made major improvements since then. The establishment is almost respectable now." Victoria chuckled. "Nice try, dear. These bones are not easily shocked. Now tell me, what else did Meg have to say?"
"Not much. She did mention in passing that Cindy Morris has left her husband and returned to live with her parents."
"Such a shame. She married too young, I suspect. She wasn't even eighteen..."
"Not all youthful marriages end badly!"
Victoria inclined her head. "Quite so. And some young people never get the opportunity to see if their romance will work. Is that what you are thinking?"
"Yes!" Lillian exclaimed with too much force for politeness. She covered her mouth. " I am sorry. So very sorry, I snapped at you like that. I don't know what has gotten into me! Please forgive me?"
"I would forgive you anything. And I imagine Doyle would as well. That is something you might wish to keep in mind, dear."
* * * *
That evening, Lillian hitched Mona Lisa--the mare was so named because of a certain enigmatic quality about her bite--up to her grandmother's pony cart and rode into the harbor, carefully bypassing the town center lest someone recognize her.
Caught up in some gardening chores, she had misjudged the hour and was now running late. Not wishing to keep Meg waiting, she hastily looped Mona's reins around the post on the dark green, and raced toward the lit, outdoor pavilion.
Halfway there, she sensed someone was following her.
If not for the warning hidden under some silk scarves in the top drawer of her bureau, she might have chalked up the feeling to simple nerves...
Not tonight.
How far would the author of those threats go to get her to leave Bar Harbor? Would written intimidation take a dangerous turn now that she was home?
She was most decidedly not a brave woman, and the urge to turn right around and return to the cottage very nearly got the better of her. Basic stubbornness prevented her from taking that cowardly course, for she reasoned, giving into fear would be tantamount to letting her intimidator win. Poisonous letters had already destroyed much of her life; she refused to hand over the rest, not without a fight.
Shoulders back, posture rigidly straight, Lillian marched herself toward the bandstand.
Despite her fear, it was difficult to remain stiff and correct ... and on guard ... in the face of so much good-natured merriment. Who in the rollicking, free-spirited crowd that surrounded her would possibly wish to hurt her? The late spring night was warm and flower scented, she had always loved music, and soon her foot tapped along with the beat of the brass band as she looked for Meg's face amongst the couples dancing on the pavilion's rough plank floor.
Oh, the ladies' gowns! The colorist in her ogled the palette of golds and magentas and midnight blues ... and glorious, unapologetic swirling scarlets. Lord, how she loved red! The wearers of those bright gowns were life models, brash and beautiful women who took off their clothing to make a living, oft times openly cohabiting with the very artists who painted them and thereby deemed unacceptable by the strict standards of polite society.
Societal censure didn't appear to be preventing the ladies from having a good time.
The laughing models openly kissed their partners; some couples very nearly made love out on the dance floor. If only she might shun respectability as easily!
As the ladies spun around the dance floor in the arms of their partners, unselfconsciously and unrepentantly revealing layers of rainbow-colored petticoats, yards of flounced ruffles, and more than a little leg, Lillian sighed at their freedom, at their unrestricted, seemingly boundless joy in life. It had been so long since she had forgotten herself in the simple and sensual pleasure of music, years since she had danced anything more than a sedate waltz at a chaperoned Boston house party.
Boston seemed very far away indeed tonight. As did Charles. Her fiancé would most certainly not approve of these 'fast' women who talked too loud and laughed too freely and danced with partners to whom they had not been formally introduced. Charles would paint these merrymakers with a broad brush; he would consider them riff-raff simply by virtue of their involvement in the arts.
But Charles wasn't here, and Lillian arched her heel out from under her dull gray skirts, stretched her toe and...
Drew her limb right back under her gown where it belonged.
Good heavens! What on earth was she thinking? Why, she was practically making a public spectacle of herself! What if someone recognized her?
Why was that gentleman over there, the one slouching in the corner, the thin one with the slicked-back, oiled hair, staring? Did he recognize her under her large brimmed, feature-hiding hat? And where was Meg?
She must find her old friend, make her apologies, and take an immediate leave of the bandstand. Coming out in public was a foolhardy idea. What had she been thinking?
Escape. She must make her escape. Unfortunately, Meg was nowhere to be found.
Speculating that her friend might have grown impatient with her late arrival and left for the tavern already, Lillian climbed back down the pavilion's steps and rushed across the street to Kelley's.
The air inside the tavern was thick with tobacco smoke. Lillian could hardly make out anyone's face...
Which meant the opposite also held true. Smoky anonymity suited Lillian fine.
Eyes tearing, she searched the smoke-filled room, finally spotting Meg way in back at a darkly lit table. Her friend, spotting her too, rushed over as Lillian made her way to join her.
The two women shared a warm embrace, gushing simultaneously, "It's been far too long!"
When the laughter and tears and hugs were finished, Meg hollered--a necessity considering the noise level in the tavern--"I thought you had changed your mind about tonight. So I came on ahead."
"So sorry I was detained. The gardens cast their spell over me." She shrugged.
"The gardens." Meg rolled her eyes. "Always the gardens! Well, come with me."
Hand in hand, they made their way to a dark corner table where they collapsed with a whoosh of petticoats and horsehair-lined bustles, side-by-side, on the bench seats.
"First rule," Meg said, raising her sculptor's bruised finger. "Always sit far in the back, otherwise one cannot hear a blessed thing for the croak of the tubas. Second rule," she continued, raising two fingers, "drink the wine, never the ale, and do not allow the grape to settle overly long upon the taste buds. Otherwise, the brew tastes remarkably like vinegar." Grinning, another finger joined the other two in the air. "Third and final rule, repeat rule number two for the course of the evening."
Lillian grinned back at her irrepressible friend. "Alas, these days, I rarely drink spirits..."
"Oh, pooh! Please don't tell me Boston has turned you into a teetotaler."
Meg twisted around in her seat, her lively brown eyes hopping back and forth between dancing couples and roaming single me
n. "Honest to fanny, I do love it here! The reek of tobacco, warm bodies, and stale cologne--is there a better way to spend a ladies' night out?"
Lillian sniffed at the level of her shoulder. "I do hope the ambience will wash out."
Meg hoisted her glass. "Here is to soap and water."
Lillian clunked Meg's glass, assiduously ignoring the less than pristine crystal, and took a ladylike sip.
Meg grin widened. "Imagine you, Lily Hill, soon a married woman!"
"Frightening, isn't it?"
"Is it?" Meg asked, her jovial face gone serious.
Lillian studiously avoided Meg's penetrating sculptor's eyes. "Oh, Meg! Charles expects perfection in a wife. A showpiece. Gracious. Poised. A social asset. A lady of impeccable reputation and lineage. He doesn't know I once hovered distraught over a corpse in a bloodstained nightgown."
Meg's wicked smile returned full force. "You know, speaking of Frank--he was ever so much more agreeable as a corpse than he ever was alive. Don't you agree?"
"How can you say such a thing?"
Her friend waved aside Lillian's scandalized expression. "That man was a wolf in sheep disguise. I never understood what you saw in him. Now Doyle--there is a man for you. He has integrity and guts. I say, if Doyle pushed Frank from the Widow's Walk, there was provocation."
"Everyone in town thinks I was that provocation."
Meg didn't blink. "Were you?"
"I very well might have been," she answered without elaboration.
"Lily, you are my dearest friend. I would do anything for you, including telling you the truth. Here it is: regardless of what really happened that night with you and Doyle and Frank, you took the easy way leaving town as you did."
"I was so young, only just turned eighteen, and horribly confused and frightened. And I..."
Lillian had never told anyone the truth about that night, not even her friend. She longed to confide in Meg, longed to defend herself against unfair accusation, longed to have just one person not think badly of her. But how could she make herself feel better at the expense of the woman who had loved her and raised her and done everything for her?
She owed her grandmother much, the very least of which was her silence! Only the worst sort of ingrate repays generosity with stealing. And stealing--her grandmother's good name, in this instance--is what telling her side of the story would amount to.
Lillian twisted the too-heavy ring on her finger and promptly changed the subject. "How is your work going, Meg?"
"Well. Very well." The sculptress drained her glass, and went right back to the former topic of conversation. "It is flagrantly unfair that society condemns a woman for having taken two lovers simultaneously while giving a wink and a nod to men who avail themselves of the same opportunity. So--you made love to two men the same evening, or even at the same time. What of it, I say. This duality of morality is hypocritical in the extreme. I should like to conduct an affair with even one man! Any man. Before I settle down to the prospect of marriage. Just as you did."
"Don't romanticize my past. A man died, Meg. Many construe my sexual license caused that death. Regardless, I shall always feel responsible for Frank Johnson's fall. Apart from that, and whether it was just or unjust, the end result is: I lost my reputation that night. Once a woman has lost her good name, there is no hope of going back into society afterwards. That is why I must clear myself before Charles discovers the truth. For all I know, his family is having me investigated even as we speak!"
* * * *
Meg had gone off somewhere, leaving Lillian alone with time on her hands to think ... and to look around the smoky environs. She now saw that many of the men who milled around the tavern appeared to be passed tipsy into intoxicated. This was by far a rougher group than the crowd at the outside pavilion. There were a few women, but they appeared to be lightskirts rather than artist models. Brawls were beginning to break out. An amusing evening had taken a decidedly dangerous turn. Time to find Meg and convince her to leave.
Rising from the bench, she went off in search of her friend.
While sidestepping a few drunken louts, one inebriated ruffian tore her hat from her head; in a shower of scattering hatpins, her hair fell from its chignon. Just as quickly as that, men surrounded her. Leering men. Taunting men. Men, whose breath stank of liquor and whose loose jowls hadn't felt the scrape of a razor in days.
The tavern was dark. Smoke-filled. Noisy. The male patrons were drunk and disreputable; the female patrons looked no better than they need be.
Lillian bit her lip in apprehension.
How could she have been so naïve? She should have known that a lone woman enters a public tavern at her own risk. If she stays longer than a few minutes, she is then considered of questionable virtue and relegated to the status of fair game.
She had arrived at Kelley's almost an hour ago.
As the circle enclosed her, Lillian's gaze fell on a customer, a man with oiled, slicked-back hair. He smiled at her, as loathsome as a snake, and made a grab at her, narrowly missing her breast.
"No. Do not!" Gasping, she backed up to a wall. "Do not think to touch me!"
Like a lion tamer in a cat cage without the benefit of a whip and a chair, Lillian turned her eyes to the wall and waited to get mauled.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"The entertainment is over for the evening. The lady is leaving."
Her fallen hair whipped about her shoulders as she spun about. "Doyle!"
"Let's go, Lily." Her rescuer's eyes never looked blacker.
One belligerent drunkard hollered: "The whore ain't leaving 'till she puts those ruby lips to good use in the backroom."
Doyle identified the heckler, and in one smooth motion, introduced him to his fist. Once. Twice. Three times.
The loudmouth tumbled to the sawdust-covered floor.
"Anyone else?" Doyle rolled up his shirtsleeves, the action revealing the enviable size of his outdoorsman biceps. "Line up, gents. I take all-comers. Place your bets with the barkeep."
Though a buzz went up in the crowd, not a taker stepped forward.
"No? Then, back off. The lady is with me tonight."
The crowd backed off, one by one.
Doyle shook out his knuckles. "Shit." He looked down at her. "Might I escort you to the cottage, Miss Hill, before you get yourself raped?" he asked, his tone dry, his grip firm under her elbow.
"My God!" Lillian cried, as Doyle forcibly dragged her along. "Meg! Where is Meg?"
"On her way home. I escorted her out the door on my way in to get you."
"But how--how did you know I was here?"
"Your grandmother was visiting with Tony when I stopped by the studio tonight. In passing conversation, she mentioned your plans. If not for that, I would be home in bed now."
"I imagine she will wait," Lillian snipped.
"Think so?" Doyle asked and brought her closer.
She knew so--no woman in her right mind would leave Doyle's bed, and Doyle's bed was never empty.
Even as the thought of Doyle's womanizing sickened her, the tips of her breasts hardened in response to his nearness. Desire and distrust. That was all they had left. Her flesh ached for him. Ten years hadn't dulled the desire. A decade hadn't dulled the sting of distrust, either.
She tried to shimmy away.
He wouldn't let her.
There wasn't a hair's width between them now, and Lillian trembled, her breath hitching in her throat. She was no longer that fearless young girl of long ago; she had become a terrified woman with ice water in her veins.
And yet ... and yet ... his closeness was unquestionably warming her ... thawing her ... his nearness forced her to remember what it was to have sexual feelings. Since their first meeting in the herb garden, carnal hunger had surged inside her like maple syrup flows on the first warm day in spring after a long, cold, cruel winter.
"You look frightened," he said on an undertone. "Is it them, or me?"
"Both!"
"
Good. Maybe fear will keep you the hell away from places like this, and the hell away from me too." He whispered against her earlobe. "When I saw you across the room, it was like watching fire burn. You burnt me once, Lily, and I won't be burnt again. You remember that before you strike the flint."
Fire? Burn?
Her?
For ten long years she had been cold. Frigid, her fiancé called her...
"Let me go," she said, struggling in earnest.
"I would if I could. Unfortunately, you wouldn't make it to the door without me. These men don't need privacy for what they have in mind. A prostitute--and that is what they think you are--isn't deserving of that sort of genteel consideration."
A prostitute...
She covered her mouth with a hand that shook. The room tilted. Righted itself. She held onto Doyle lest she fall, incapable of speech, her breathing ragged.
"Look around you," he advised. "Every idiot in here envies me because I solicited you first. Shows how misguided men can be, because sweetheart, you ain't worth the trouble."
"I agree with you," she choked. "I am not worth it. I deserve everything these men will do to me. So walk away. Let me go..."
He shook his head. "You have no idea the kind of violence men like these are capable of."
Oh, but she did know about men and their violent ways. Lillian also knew that Doyle was fully capable of violence, himself. She had always been aware of his dark side, as well as his protective, of the two warring factions that resided within him. Which side would win tonight?
She moaned. "What have I done?"
He shrugged. "Same thing you always did. You play men. You tease them. Then, when the going gets rough, you make your escape."
She winced at his reference to the past. "Is there a chance they might let us go?"
"No."
"Dear Lord."
Every tendon and sinew and muscle in his body tensed to strike. "What did you expect? This is some stir, and you caused it. I do have a certain ... reputation, though. Unless the whole pack decides to attack at once, I can handle the situation."