Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery

by Oakley, Beverley

  The doctor looked up again from administering a draught of medicine to his patient.

  “The kindest thing you can do, sir, is to leave the patient to sleep out her torments in a darkened room,” he replied. “If you think that the sight of you might be in the slightest bit agitating to her—even if you think she’ll be pleased to see you—I strongly urge that you keep away for the next forty-eight hours. Grace will keep you informed, won’t you, my girl?”

  Chapter 28

  Lily came out of the dark sludge, crawling on her hands and knees through the tunnel as she strove to reach the light. But at each turn, the light disappeared, and darkness descended once again.

  Until, with a gasp, she opened her eyes and…

  Found herself in her bed, staring up into the frightened face of Grace.

  “Oh, ma’am, yer…yer awake. Oh, ma’am…” She wrung her hands, stepping forwards, then back, as if she didn’t know what to do.

  Lily stared about her, trying to make sense of the feelings that she was struggling to discard: the heaviness and fear. Such conflicting emotions juxtaposed with the familiarity of her surroundings—the iron bed with its pink satin eiderdown, the walls covered in pictures of dancing nymphs.

  And the floral wallpaper. So ordinary. So benign.

  “What happened?” she whispered, steeling herself for the answer. Grace’s expression and the wave of sensation that had engulfed Lily—with its residue still lingering—were answer enough.

  She had sunk back into her old ways.

  The black fog had, once again, sucked her into its maw.

  And now Grace had witnessed her shame. She sat up, a terrifying thought assailing her. No, she could not think of it. Of anyone else having witnessed her in the grip of her attack of…

  Of insanity?

  With a moan, she put her hands over her face and sank back into the pillow.

  “Yer was afeared, somethin’ terrible,” Grace whispered, dipping a flannel into a bowl of warm water, and gently dabbing at Lily’s face.

  “I vaguely remember.” Lily did not move. Her limbs felt leaden, and her mind was making a slumberous journey towards understanding. Sucking in a breath, she added, “But I’m fine, now. It won’t happen again.”

  Until the next time.

  Yes, she knew how it would go. These attacks that enveloped her with no warning at all could happen day upon day, or she may remain unafflicted for weeks.

  But they were back.

  Tears of despair spilled from her eyes and dampened the pillow.

  For two years, incarcerated within the maison—the Lunatic Asylum, she must not forget what it really was—she had been unaffected. Perhaps the cruel medications they’d imposed upon her really had worked, though she’d railed against them at the time as being torturous, not restorative.

  She’d been strapped to the bed; the soles of her feet had been whipped to ‘beat out the devil’. She’d been forced to drink foul concoctions.

  Yes, she’d railed against all this at the time.

  But at least she’d been well. The terrifying waves of insanity that had plagued her in the year before she’d been incarcerated had been held at bay.

  In the two months since she’d been abducted from the maison, she’d remained in good physical and mental health.

  But now the disease had come back to haunt her.

  She truly was insane.

  Struggling up, she managed a wan smile for Grace. “Thank you for looking after me,” she said. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

  “Oh, yer did that, ma’am. Yer ‘fought the walls was breathin’ an’ the flowers was devils.”

  Wincing, Lily glanced down at her hand, wrinkling her brow to see the bandage on her left hand.

  In answer to her confusion, Grace explained, “Yer cut yerself on the broken decanter, ma’am, when yer threw the lamp at Mr McTavish’s ’ead…if yer recall.”

  “No!” It was too much. Sobbing, Lily sank back into the pillows. It took a while for her to gain sufficient strength to even open her eyes and ask Grace, “Is he injured?”

  “Not ’is person, no, ma’am.”

  It was little wonder that the poor maid looked as uncomfortable as she did, hovering in the doorway. Lily was a mad woman. Not only had her actions confirmed it, but perhaps the rumours of her past had caught up with her.

  “I…don’t know what came over me, Grace,” she whispered. “I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

  What else could she say to reassure the girl? Grace had lost her trust.

  And what would Hamish think? The woman he’d professed to love such a short time before had turned into a mad creature and tried to kill him.

  With another sob, she turned to look out of the window. What future was there for her? For Hamish who said he loved her? How could she ruin his life?

  Robert was coming back to claim her. She was his responsibility in the eyes of the law. He obviously found her an inconvenience, but he always did know what would benefit him. And ‘dealing’ with Lily would be his first priority once he reached London.

  Hearing the clock chime the hour, she threw back the bedclothes and slid to the floor.

  “Wot are yer doin’, ma’am! Yer need ter rest!” Grace exclaimed, hurrying forward to take Grace’s arm, then dropping her hand, as if she were afraid.

  How could Grace blame her?

  “I have a performance tonight.” Lily avoided her maid and began to rummage through her wardrobe.

  “Yer ain’t well ’nuff, ma’am,” Grace protested, but Lily ignored her.

  “Mrs Renquist is waiting for me. She believes there will be answers forthcoming tonight. Yes, my green dress will do. Help me with the buttons, Grace? Grrr, I’ll do them myself. Oh, Teddy!”

  There he was in the doorway, a buffer blocking her as she prepared to step out into the passage, for she couldn’t stay a moment longer in this torment. Robert might arrive at any moment.

  And, no, she was not going to simply succumb to his directives and his tyranny once more. She was stronger than she had been ten minutes ago.

  A pang of despair at the thought of Hamish assailed her, but she thrust it away. If anything proved her love, it would be this.

  She would not inflict herself and her torments upon him and blight his life.

  “My dear girl, you’re not crying, are you?” Leading her back to the bed, Teddy took her hand in one of his, stroking her cheek with his other. “Come, now, my sweet thing, everything is going to be all right. You’ll see. Come back to bed and rest some more, and I’ll stay and comfort you. You look like you need some bolstering.”

  Lily stared rather stupidly at the teardrop that had splashed onto the front of her dress, staining the green fabric. She really should put a stop to these useless tears. She’d made her decision and, after Hamish had witnessed her in the very grip of an episode, he’d be only too thankful to be spared a lifetime of it.

  She shouldn’t feel sorrow.

  But Teddy knew exactly the risks she posed. He’d come to London to claim her, despite that.

  And having someone…anyone…offer comfort was a rare treat. She rested her head against his hand and closed her eyes. If she could just let her body float into oblivion. Her mind, too. But know that sometime in the future, she could open her eyes knowing everything would be all right again.

  Perhaps she did drift off to sleep, for she was awoken by a tug and Teddy whispering, “Would you like that, Lily? Did you hear what I said?”

  Shaking herself, she realised she was tucked up in bed again, and Teddy was sitting at her side. Close up, the years had taken their toll. He’d had such a pale, unlined skin, and such blue, blue eyes, but now there were little red veins about his nose. From a distance, he was still the same young Teddy, but up close he had a slightly dissipated look about him.

  How must she appear to him? At twenty-six, she was nearly past her bloom.

  Two years in a lunatic asylum had done her no favours. She’d e
njoyed a brief resurgence of her former glory when she’d been renourished at Madame Chambon’s, but now she knew the lines about her mouth and eyes would only get deeper. And quickly.

  Madame Chambon.

  Yes, that’s where Mr Montpelier and Mrs Moore intended to despatch her unless someone else stepped in.

  Yesterday, Hamish was going to take on that role and champion her.

  She must have whimpered, for Teddy tightened his arm about her shoulders and said softly, “Yes, I will look after you, Lily. I can’t bear to see you like this. Frightened. Defenceless.” Tenderly, he traced the bridge of her nose before kissing its tip. “But I know how to keep you as well as you can be. It can be like the old days. Just you and me.” He touched his lips to her brow, still murmuring. “Tell me that you’ll let me help you. I’ll find you a lovely cottage in the country where you can be quiet and undisturbed. A cottage that only you and I will know about. It’ll be our secret, and I’ll protect you from the big bad world. And from Robert who wants to send you back to the maison. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? It would be so much better than here.”

  So much better than here.

  Oh, yes…

  “You’d really do that for me, Teddy?” She put her hand over his and tried to move closer. “Even though you know what will happen to me?” Convulsing just at the thought, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “Now that the madness has returned? But…you do remember how it was last time, don’t you?” Panicked, she went on, “It wasn’t immediate. It was slow and…only sometimes. You remember?”

  “I remember, my love,” he said softly. “We still have a long time to go before we need to worry. A long time. And there are new medicines to try. I’ll look after you. I promise.”

  Relief washed over her. Teddy was going to look after her. How she wished it was Hamish, but Hamish didn’t understand how thoroughly she would ruin his life.

  Despite everything, Teddy still loved her. He knew exactly what he was getting himself into, yet he still wanted to help her.

  She struggled up and pushed back the covers. “I’ll pack some things.”

  He looked surprised. “You want to go now?”

  “Yes. Now. And I don’t want anyone to know. I think that’s best.”

  If Robert came to the house looking for her, he’d think she was coming back and not pursue her.

  Nor would Mr Montpelier or the Russian pose such an immediate threat, either.

  For the first time, Lily felt safe. And without a conscience, for she was putting no one in harm’s way who didn’t know the risks.

  Yes, she was going to be with Teddy. He would protect her.

  Later, she would send a message to Grace.

  Chapter 29

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Feeling numb and disoriented, Hamish took a hackney to Oxford Circus. He had some shopping to do which he’d been putting off for some days. A pair of shoes for himself. He’d also long planned to buy Lily some gloves. It had been quite poignant to observe the transformation of her hands into those of a lady and he’d intended to surprise her with a pair of the finest lavender kid gloves.

  But he couldn’t shop. Couldn’t keep his mind on anything.

  Of course, he’d accepted that life with Lily was never going to be easy. She was not free to marry. Old McTavish senior would probably deny him the financial compensation he was due.

  But Hamish had fallen in love, and nothing was going to stand in the way of that.

  Seeing her today had been heartbreaking.

  He’d been so helpless.

  But what about the future?

  Really, he had no idea what course her illness would take.

  He just knew he wanted to be with her.

  Instead of treading the pavements of Oxford Street, he decided to go to his club.

  With a newspaper and a whisky to occupy himself, he settled himself in a corner of White’s, and went over everything that had happened during the past couple of hours.

  When he lowered the newspaper to take a sip of his drink, he was accosted by a friend who invited himself to join Hamish, ordering a whisky from the waiter.

  “Everyone is talking of the Ned Kelly Gang in the colonies,” remarked his companion, Freddy Styles, glancing at the headlines. “No doubt I shall read something about it in your own sermonising periodical that reminds us lesser mortals that only the righteous shall prosper.” The corners of his mouth turned up, but Hamish didn’t respond, and he went on, “I was speaking to Sir Lionel over there. Told me you’d interviewed him for an upcoming piece. Apparently, Sir Lionel was a bit of a brigand in his day—though not in the fashion of Mr Kelly. I look forward to reading it. When will it be published?”

  Hamish rose at his words, glad of the excuse and distraction. “Over there, you say? Then I must catch him as there are some finer details I need to clarify with him before it goes to print. Excuse me.”

  He’d intended this as a ruse to avoid Styles but, in fact, as Hamish crossed the room, Sir Lionel looked up and hailed him.

  Hamish had no choice but to go over to him.

  “Was talking about you not long ago, m’boy. About that woman your man photographed. Dash it, if she hasn’t plagued me these past few days?”

  “Mrs Eustace? The spiritualist?” Hamish prompted.

  “You see, I thought it was Lady Bradden. Such a likeness.”

  Hamish stilled. He had to nip this in the bud. “And then you realised it wasn’t,” he said, as if it was a fact,” he said as he sank into an overstuffed chair by the fire.

  “Couldn’t be, I realised. Poor woman died six months ago after being incarcerated in a lunatic asylum on the Continent.”

  Hamish’s scalp felt tight, and his chest constricted. “Really?”

  “Yes, read it in The Times.” Sir Lionel took a contemplative sip of his whisky, adding, “My daughter seemed uncommonly intrigued by the woman. Followed the story—what there was of it. Lady Bradden had an affair, guilt sent her mad, and then she died.”

  “She had an affair?” Hamish realised he’d spoken too loudly. A crackling of newspapers broke the silence of the hushed atmosphere at the club as various members sent disapproving glances in his direction. He was embarrassed to have brought attention upon them. Of course he knew she’d had an affair. But that was of no concern to him.

  “Ah well,” he said, “I daresay that’s of no account now, if the lady is no loger with us,” he said, smiling at his companion.

  In the midday light, there was a greyish pallor to the old man’s complexion. He didn’t look as robust as he had when he’d taken whisky with Hamish not so long ago.

  “Dash it if I didn’t do some investigating,” Sir Lionel leaned down and picked up a satchel at his feet. From it, he withdrew a photographic plate. He clearly wasn’t about to let the matter drop. “I found this taken of a house party I attended at Sir Bradden’s in Norfolk three years ago.”

  Hamish took the photograph and held it to the light.

  About ten people were clustered together by the portico of a gracious manor house. Hamish squinted, recognising Sir Lionel in the front row before his gaze ran the length of the visitors, and then found the host and hostess seated a little to the right.

  His breath hitched. The petite woman next to Sir Lionel was staring with fierce intensity at the camera, a jaunty bonnet upon her curled hair. On her striped skirts, she nursed a small dog. Beside her, a much older man scowled, a proprietorial hand upon her arm.

  Lily.

  Hamish cleared his throat. “This is Lady Bradden?” he clarified.

  Hamish could not draw his gaze from the photograph. There was a wildness to the woman’s eyes that reminded him of Lily as he’d seen her just now. She wore her beauty like a disguise. It was there if he looked closely enough, but the grimness of her expression and the wildness in her eyes was more arresting than anything else.

  Sir Lionel nodded. “She came to London once, perhaps twice, but she was very much under
her husband’s thumb being so very young and he, so much older and disinterested.”

  Hamish peered closer. “Yes, her husband looks a good deal older.” He tried to puzzle it out.

  “It was the unhappiest marriage I ever witnessed, but little wonder for her father allowed her no say in the matter, and was as anxious as any I ever knew to despatch his daughter to the first taker.”

  Was Sir Lionel touched in the head to speak in such a frank manner to Hamish? Were his faculties deserting him? Hamish had not thought so a week ago.

  Now, when he looked closer at the old man, he discerned a pent-up passion that also had been absent during their convivial conversation about Sir Lionel’s claims to the fame and notoriety he was so willing to boast about.

  Embarrassed, Hamish cleared his throat. “I’m sure many marriages are so,” he dissembled. He knew his parents’ union had fallen into that category.

  “This one was particularly…cruel.” Sir Lionel twisted his head to look at him with rheumy eyes. “There was talk at the time that her father, old Tavener, conducted matters with particular disregard for the feelings of his only child.” He cleared his throat. “As you know, I’d had my own dealings with the fellow and didn’t hold him in high regard.” He reached down and withdrew another photograph from his satchel. “Do you know this young woman?” he asked, passing it across.

  Uncertain what was expected of him, Hamish held the photograph to the light. It was of a couple he had never seen. An older, bewhiskered gentleman, and a girl of perhaps sixteen, for she was still in short skirts and her hair was braided.

  He squinted, for the shadow of the photograph made it difficult to discern her features properly; however, the strong resemblance made him ask, “Is this Lady Bradden as a girl? With her father, perhaps?” He could see the shape of her jaw was the same, as was the set of her eyes.

  “This is Lord Lambton’s late daughter, Miss Cassandra.”

  Hamish gave a start. “Lord Lambton’s daughter?” She was, of course, the woman whom Lily was supposedly speaking to, from ‘the other side’.