But her father owed her some obligation, if not to house and protect her, then to provide some means of succour.
Not surprisingly, Edgeworth, the butler, didn’t recognise her though she greeted him warmly as he tried to send her to the servants’ entrance.
His mouth dropped open, and he could only gape at her like a flounder when she identified herself.
Still shocked and unable to speak, he left her standing in the lobby while the stately retainer turned on his heel and disappeared into the nether regions of the house.
After a while, he came back and bade her follow him to the drawing room where she was left to wait for what seemed an interminable length of time.
Time to stew. Wonder what her reception would be. Question her sanity in choosing to petition her father of all people, to come to her aid.
Unable to stay still, Lily got up and began to pace the large expanse of expensively carpeted floor, draw aside the heavily tasselled curtains and gaze at the expanse of sweeping parkland.
Who would inherit all this when her father died? she wondered. His nephew, Lawrence, she supposed. A lad she had met only once. It barely mattered.
Or maybe he lived here now. She hadn’t thought to enquire if her father had, in fact, passed away while she was in Brussels, though surely Edgeworth would have mentioned it.
Maybe she’d receive a kinder reception from Lawrence who had been quiet and withdrawn, and nothing like the cold, hard man her father was.
A heavy footstep in the passage outside made her heart clench with fear, and she had no reserves left to pretend the bravado she’d summoned up when, as a younger person, she’d been the frequent recipient of his cold contempt.
“Lily.”
She inclined her head when he addressed her, saying softly, “Hello Father.” There really was little else to say.
“This is a surprise.”
And, clearly, not a pleasant one.
For a long time, he stared at her as if unsure what to say. “Forgive me,” he said, finally. “I had thought you dead.”
She shrugged. “As you can see, I am not.”
“Sit down, then.” He waved her towards the drawing room, sighing as he added, “I’ll order tea. You don’t look well. But then, you haven’t been well for a long time, I hear.”
So, he was going to go with the insanity card and have her committed. It didn’t take more than a brief look at his face to know that he had not mellowed with age. That he was no more disposed towards treating her with kindness than he had been in all the twenty-five years she’d known him.
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Father. Just tired.”
“Your husband will not think you perfectly fine, I suspect. Though what the actual status between you is a matter of conjecture?” His nostrils twitched, and he looked pained, as well he might, she supposed. Lily was about to create a scandal of immense proportions just for being alive.
But it wasn’t her fault that Robert had thought her dead. Or that he’d married someone else.
“So, you ran away, did you?” Sir John looked at her as if all this were her fault. But then, it always had been her fault. It had been her fault she’d killed his wife by being born. Everything stemmed from that, Lily supposed.
“I didn’t run away. I was taken,” she said. “I had no say in the matter.”
“Indeed.” The familiar scepticism was there. “Now there’s just the question of what to do with you.”
The iron in his expression and the lack of compassion were enough to make her want to crumple at his feet. Instead, she said softly, as she took a seat, “I don’t need to tell anyone where I am.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “Don’t think you’re going to live here with me.”
Of course, she should have known he’d not take her in. Of course, she should have known that coming here was a terrible idea.
“I didn’t know where else to go, Father.”
A loud knock upon the front door made her jump. Sir John’s eyebrows rose, and he turned on her and said quietly, “What have you unleashed upon this house, Lily? I never receive visitors.”
She raised her shoulders. What could she say? She had as little idea as he.
In dread, she listened to the tread of several pairs of feet upon the floorboards, and her mind explored the myriad possibilities.
It was the police come to lock her up.
It was a doctor and several assistants from the insane asylum come to lock her up.
It was the Russian diplomat come to end what he had begun.
Whoever it was, it was not going to end well for her.
She stood up abruptly, glancing at the window as if it offered her a means of escape.
Then the door opened, and Edgeworth said in a strained voice, “Sir, Lord Lambton and Mr McTavish are here to see you.”
Lily dropped back onto the sofa with a thud, holding the cushion in her lap as if it might protect her.
She expected the two men would see her sitting there and immediately direct their… what…Questions? Entreaties? Incriminations? towards her. But she was many yards away on the other side of the enormous, stately drawing room with a cluster of heavyset, overstuffed furniture and potted plants obscuring her.
Besides, they were too caught up in whatever drama had propelled them to confront Sir John Taverner to think to look for Lily in his drawing room.
Huddled in her corner, she stared at Lord Lambton, looking far less frail than she remembered him, his voice firm and, she realised, recriminatory as he spoke of some crime committed. Some terrible injustice—she caught the word murder—which had prompted them to make this visit without prior warning.
Of course, before Lord Lambton had even finished speaking, her father had assumed his own daughter was the perpetrator of the crime, cutting into their explanation with, “What can you expect of a madwoman?”
In another environment, Lily might have bristled. But this was her father. Her entire experience in this household was as a victim, enduring a continual barrage of belittlement. Not that she had spent much time here, it was true. He’d always made clear how little he relished her presence.
Her father’s words were like a lash.
No doubt there would be endorsement from the others. Sympathy for Sir John Taverner for being saddled with such a creature as Lily.
Instead, after a short pause, she heard Hamish ask with real curiosity in his tone, “Do you really believe that? Did she show symptoms of lunacy in the past? As a child?”
Warmth flooded her. For whatever reason Hamish was here—and it truly was extraordinary—he was championing her. From the moment he’d declared his love in so many words, Hamish had thrown his full support behind her.
What was even more extraordinary than the fact he obviously still thought well of her, was that he was in her father’s house. She would have leapt up to greet him, except that their conversation was so intense, and having heard of some crime, she was terrified that she may in fact be responsible for having perpetrated it while out of her mind.
It was this which tempered her joy at seeing Hamish.
Darling man! He really was putting his support behind Lily. As if he believed she could be redeemed; that she was worth championing. Perhaps her crime—of which she was still waiting to hear the details—was not so terrible. At least it couldn’t be murder otherwise Hamish wouldn’t be defending her.
Lily didn’t hear what her father said; however, Lord Lambton’s response was quite distinct. And adamant.
“I’ve made enquiries, Tavener. Lunacy, madness, whatever you choose to call it. Not one of the servants in this household, or acquaintances with any connection to Lily, can recall any incident that would corroborate a suggestion that lunacy is the affliction which this poor young woman suffers.”
With fascination, Lily watched the colour flood his cheeks, and his agitation as he stroked his side-whiskers. Had he really come all this way, with Hamish, to champion her sanity?
; The idea of having anyone champion her was heartwarming, but any accompanying glow was short-lived. Lily knew the truth. She lived the experience, and had done too many times, to question the fact that she was every bit the madwoman her husband painted her.
Lord Lambton was not content to leave it at that, for he went on fiercely, “No, indeed, Sir John. I do not believe this fabrication of lunacy when the likelier story is that Sir Robert saw it in his best interests to broadcast to all and sundry the assertion that his wife suffered from insanity.”
Her father, as stately as ever, stared with beetling brows at Lord Lambton, and then spoke in a low hiss. “You’ve said enough, Lambton. Indeed, you show prodigious effrontery in showing your face in my house after what you have done. Get out!”
Lily was as taken aback as Hamish appeared to be. She saw the colour drain from her beloved’s face before he opened his mouth to perhaps try and calm the situation.
It would be like Hamish. He appeared so self-contained but the truth was that he was a peacemaker. He’d have made a good husband, she thought sadly.
However, before Hamish could speak, Lord Lambton interjected, his voice clear and passionate. “What I have done?” he repeated. “I fought a duel with you over the love of the most beautiful woman in all of England. And then, even though you no longer wanted her, you stole her away from me. Took her to the Continent and severed all contact between us. Then proceeded to let everyone believe the lie that the daughter she bore eight months later was yours. That’s the truth of it. Answer me! That’s what happened, isn’t it? Susan gave birth to my daughter, yet you said nothing! I had no idea of the truth until this man, Hamish McTavish, laid out the pieces. Lily Bradden is, in fact, my daughter. That’s the truth of it, is that not so?”
Lily was Lord Lambton’s daughter? What could Lord Lambton mean?
Heat burned her skin, and her heart skittered about in her chest as she waited for her father’s response. But Lord Lambton was continuing with accusations so uncharacteristic from the tender tone Lily was used to hearing at their Wednesday séances, “Why did you say nothing, Taverner? If you hated her so much, why give her no reason for you clearly wishing to have nothing to do with her?”
Her father drew himself up. “What was the point? She was a girl. She’d not inherit. I had no proof of my wife’s duplicity. From a legal standpoint, I was saddled with the child she bore.”
“You fought a duel on account of your wife’s duplicity,” said Lambton. “And then you dragged her out of the country. She was not allowed to communicate with me, was she? Why did you then visit such cruelty on her daughter?” Lord Lambton’s voice cracked.
“Do you think I’d let her sully what good name was left?” Lily watched her father’s mouth twist into the familiar, cruel hard line that characterised his expression when he addressed her. “Of course, I gave Susan no chance to communicate with you.”
“Did she try?”
There was a querulous note in Lord Lambton’s tone. By now, an understanding of what Lord Lambton was saying was beginning to breach her shock. Still confused, but with her faculties finally clearing, she stared between the harsh, grey-haired man she’d grown up believing was her father, and the white-haired, gentler man she’d come to know as the bereaved Lord Lambton who’d lost his only child.
“Did Sarah ever try to leave?”
“What would have been the point, Lambton?” Her father sighed as if he were suddenly weary. “She was married to me and, if you recall, you were married to someone else. Well, she paid for her sins, didn’t she? The bastard you and she created killed her when she was brought screaming into this world. And I’ve had to feed and clothe her ever since.”
Lily’s mouth dropped open. She might have then said something but Hamish was speaking, his words ringing out with crisp clarity, “But with due respect, you discharged that expense as quickly as you could, for you arranged her marriage to Sir Robert Bradden as soon as she was out of the schoolroom.”
Lily focused her eyes on her father—well, the man she’d believed was her father—as she waited for his response. When it came, it was quite in character. “Sir Robert? And didn’t he wash his hands of her as quickly as he could, then derided me into the bargain for foisting a tainted changeling upon him.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Like mother, like daughter, he told me, when she did as her mother did and began an affair with her doctor. The man he’d trusted to look after his delicate wife.”
Lily bristled with indignation. That was not how it was, at all.
“Sir Robert already had a mistress when he married me!” she cried, leaping to her feet and tossing the cushion back onto the sofa to put her hands on her hips. “In all our married years together, he spoke not one kind word to me. It was clear he wanted nothing to do with me—except a child, and when that did not happen, he was forever pushing Teddy—Dr Swithins—to attend me! Do not blame me for everything, Father!” She glared at the man who had cowed her for her entire life. Yet with the clear support of Hamish and Lord Lambton, she felt sufficiently emboldened to make her case.
The three men turned, astonishment written on all their faces.
“You!” her father all but spat. “Just like you to be hiding away, eavesdropping. Well, young woman, you got only what you deserved. Madness? Yes, you became deranged. I admit I was both horrified but morbidly delighted that such a just punishment should be visited upon you.”
“Except that Lady Bradden was never mad.” It was darling Hamish who said this with such misguided conviction.
“Good lord, and what would you know about that?” Sir John said derisively. “What would you know about anything? Why are you even here?”
Lily wondered the same thing. Yes, he obviously cared for her, and it was truly astonishing that he’d made this long journey to be here and confront her father with what, so far, had been unfounded support for her mental state. But why was he here with Lord Lambton? Her father? Could Lord Lambton really believe such a thing? That Lily was his daughter?
Could it really be true?
And how could Hamish contradict the undeniable fact that she was prone to debilitating bouts of madness? Madness so acute that she believed the walls were breathing, closing in on her, and that she was about to burst out of herself?
“I came here,” Hamish announced crisply, “because I needed to find your daughter to tell her—and everyone else who believes the lie—that she is not mad. And that I have proof.”
Darling Hamish. If only it were true. Lord, if anyone knew she was mad, then Lily knew it, herself. She wanted to run to him and throw his arms about him.
“Proof, eh?
“Yes, conclusive proof in the form of the powders that that charlatan Dr Swithins has been administering to her.”
He swung round and looked at Lily, his expression softening, but his words clear and businesslike as he asked, “Did you suffer any spells of madness before you met Dr Swithins?”
Lily tried to think. The past seemed to roll past her eyes like a slow-moving river. Her unhappy childhood, a few tears, mostly silence, boredom, a sense of abandonment. But no episodes like she’d had after…
She had met Teddy.
“No.” She shook her head.
Hamish went on, “So, after you met Dr Swithins, he started prescribing treatments for your mood; I have no doubt. And these moods then became quite extreme? To the point it was decided you must go to a sanitorium for your health. Only, Dr Swithins took you to the maison in Brussels, am I correct?”
Lily didn’t even have to think about that. It was all just as he said.
She nodded, her mind running on, past the point which Hamish described. “They cured me when I was there,” she said softly, bowing her head. “At the maison, they were cruel, but…at least I suffered no madness there.”
“That’s because you were not being fed the Amanita muscaria that Dr Swithins was in the habit of putting into your warm milk.” Hamish’s lip curled.
He swung
back to the two men. Sir John was blinking rapidly as if finding this hard to digest, and didn’t know whether to deride Hamish’s words out of hand, or seek somewhere to sit down for they were all still standing near the doorway. Clearly, Sir John wanted to be rid of them as soon as he could.
On Lord Lambton’s face was an expression of satisfaction. He must have heard all this during his journey here with Hamish.
How Lily wished his belief in all this was founded. But Lily had lived with her spiralling bouts of mania for too long to disbelieve the truth of them.
She ventured a few steps forward as Hamish went on, “Several nights ago, my sister, Lucy, went to visit Lady Bradden at her home.”
Lily raised her eyebrows. She had not known this. Lucy McTavish must have arrived shortly after Lily had left with Teddy. She hesitated. Something in Hamish’s tone suggested something of great import was to come.
“When she arrived, Lady Bradden had left, but some of the warm milk remained, and this was offered by the maid to my sister.”
Lily stilled. She felt as if she were on the cusp of something. On the ledge of a very steep cliff and that, if she were not careful, she would plunge into the deep dark depths. Only by taking short, careful breaths, could she hold herself back from this death spiral.
Sir John made a noise, but Lord Lambton turned on him, his tone sharp. “Listen to what Mr McTavish has to say, and then I think you’ll change your tune.” He cleared his throat and again, his voice sounded suddenly on the verge of breaking as he went on, “The greatest travesty of justice has been dealt your daughter—ha! My daughter! You need to hear it!”
Hamish, who had been looking at Sir John, shifted position, his gaze seeking Lily’s. He smiled, and the tenderness in his look struck at the very core of her. She reached for the back of a sofa to steady herself as he turned back to Sir John.
“The maid said she’d made the milk using the powder Dr Swithins prescribed as a calming tonic. When I arrived at Lady Bradden’s house, it was to find my sister suffering hallucinations of a kind terrifyingly similar to those suffered by Lady Bradden. I will not go into the violence of this episode. Suffice to say I had a chemist analyse the powder while I journeyed here. It was as only when we reached the station, and I was able to telegraph from the village, that I received the results.” He swung round to look at Lily. “Lady Bradden isn’t mad,” he declared in a tone that brooked no argument. “For whatever reason, Dr Swithins, perhaps with the collusion of her husband, made the world believe that Lady Bradden was insane.”
Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery Page 22