A Child of Secrets

by Mary Mackie

  ‘Is the portrait going well?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t studied it.’ He probably knew more about the picture than did she; he seemed to be for ever appearing in the morning room while Bella was sitting for Mr Anstruther – Lily often glanced up from her sewing or reading to find the squire standing quietly in a corner. Watching her. Or so she felt. The thought made her feel hot.

  ‘Miss Clare…’ he was saying. ‘Excuse my asking, but are you unwell? You seem unlike yourself. You’ve grown thin and silent. I’m concerned for you.’

  Looking again at her hands, Lily said, ‘It’s kind of you to enquire, Sir Richard, but—’

  ‘It’s not kindness!’ he broke in. ‘It’s concern. I… I care for you, Miss Clare.’

  Care? The word made her lift startled eyes, vivid blue and velvet brown, the only real colour about her, enchanting in her pale face against her dark hair and the plain grey gown.

  ‘—as I try to care for everyone in my employ,’ he amplified, though his glance softened as it caressed her face. ‘I wish there was something I could do. May I ask… Has your unhappiness anything to do with Ashton Haverleigh?’

  Lily stared at him, the flush in her cheeks making her eyes ever more bright with dismay and the threat of tears.

  ‘Your attachment to him was no secret, I fear,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Your father and Miss Peartree were both aware that you harboured hopes of Mr Haverleigh. There’s no shame in that, Miss Clare. Many of us have loved unwisely, in our time.’

  Feeling the blood ebb and flow in her face, she stared at him, caught by the empathy in his eyes. Everyone knew he and his wife lived separate lives. Had he agreed to a loveless marriage after being disappointed by another lady? If so, then perhaps, in a way, he did understand. But, for her, losing Ash was only part of it. For her, along with the loss and the grief of betrayal, there was shame. She had thoughtlessly thrown away her virtue: what man would want her now? She had lost everything, including her dearest dreams. There was to be no happy ending. No fond lover. No kind father…

  A sob escaped her. She leapt up, knocking into the small table that held the tea tray, watching in helpless horror as it fell, throwing hot tea, and milk and sugar and pieces of porcelain, across the carpet.

  ‘Oh, no!’ she wailed.

  ‘It’s all right.’ He was on his feet, coming towards her. ‘It’s of no account. My dear Miss Clare, don’t give it another thought.’

  Lily turned her back on him, grief dredging up from the black depths of her despair. She tried to contain her tears with her hands but they kept falling, running through her fingers.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ Sir Richard murmured, drawing her gently into his arms to hold her against him.

  The storm of grief ran its course and left her exhausted, clinging to the tall, comforting presence which, as her sobs lessened, she realised was a living, feeling man. His arms still circled her, supporting and strengthening her, and beneath her cheek she felt the strong beat of a heart that was not insensible to her nearness. Her own pulse began to beat in answer, sending hot blood pounding through her veins, warming her face. Her body became aware of places where it was in contact with his, her breasts hardening against his ribs, her womb tingling in response to the light pressure of his thigh on hers. Her ready awareness horrified her. He was being kind, as he would to anyone in distress. If he knew that she was thinking of him in that way…

  Something in the way he held her told her that he, too, could feel those strong currents running. Yet he was making no attempt to let her go.

  Not daring to look at him, she flexed her hands against his chest and he instantly relaxed his hold. She turned away, murmuring, ‘I must go. Excuse me, Sir Richard. I must go to Bella.’

  Panicked and confused, she escaped to the nursery, where she hurried across the schoolroom ignoring Jess and Bella, and shut herself in her room.

  * * *

  After Bella was settled for the night, Lily asked Jess to bring in the hip bath. The filling took some time, entailing the hauling up, by Jess and the bootboy, of six large ewers, but eventually Lily declared it was enough. Mellow lamplight warmed her room as she luxuriated in warm water and scented soap applied with a big sponge to every inch of her pale skin.

  Wrapped in a big towel, she stood before the cheval glass. It had misted over, making her face a pale blur amid a cloud of dark hair, marked by two dark pools for eyes. She wiped the mirror and stared at herself, really seeing herself for the first time in months. Her face was almost gaunt, with violet shadows under her eyes, her cheekbones standing out over hollows, her throat strained with sinews. No wonder Sir Richard had been concerned.

  Sir Richard… The thought of him caused a painful upheaval inside her. ‘I care for you,’ he had said.

  She had always thought him a kind man and since coming to Hewinghall she had grown to admire him more, but lately, as if emerging from a fog, she had sensed a deeper feeling growing between them. Each time they met there had been some word, some look, some small sign of increasing attachment. She had feigned not to notice – she had been grieving for Ash – but she had been grateful that someone cared.

  Now, she wondered if what she felt was something more than gratitude. Down in the drawing room that afternoon, powerful new forces had stirred.

  Slowly, inch by inch, she let the towel slip. Her skin looked like ivory in the lamplight, with the bloom of condensation still on the glass to veil the details. Last time she had looked, she had seen a girl’s rounded contours; now her figure was a woman’s, high-breasted, full-hipped. Too thin, but that could be remedied.

  Tentatively, she began to touch her breasts, remembering Ash’s hands on her, remembering Sir Richard’s strong body pressed against her. Her own body leapt into instant response, every nerve alive, heat flowing in her loins. She had known the delights of love. Now the need consumed her.

  A tapping on the door made her freeze. ‘Miss Lily? You decent, Miss Lily?’

  ‘Yes!’ Lily drew the towel round her. ‘You can empty the bath now.’

  Jess came with her pail and dipper, taking half a bucket at a time to empty in the drains out on the roof. While she worked, Lily sat on her bed wearing the towel like a toga. She felt empty, like a hollow tree that looked strong from outside but was only waiting for the next storm to bring it down. Thank God for Jess! There was something steadying, calming, about the slight young woman who knew so much but said so little.

  Taking a long breath, Lily said, ‘Will you forgive me?’

  ‘For what, miss?’

  ‘For everything. Especially… especially for the wicked thing I tried to do at Eastertide. I’m grateful to you – and to Mr Rudd, and to your brother. I don’t deserve your loyalty.’

  Turning her great tawny-brown eyes on Lily’s face, Jess said, ‘That wan’t no hardship, not for any of us. We all love you.’

  ‘You make me feel very humble. I want you to know that… that I am happy for my cousin Clemency.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘I am!’ Lily avowed. ‘I no longer care for Ashton Haverleigh. He is my cousin’s husband and I wish them joy. Even if it’s true that they quarrel all the time, it’s no concern of mine. He made his choice. And I… I am not deceiving myself any more. I’m just a governess. That’s all.’

  Just a governess.

  But even as she said it she knew she didn’t believe it. She had always known she was born to be somebody. Not a rector’s adopted daughter. Not a grey governess. She had dreamed that her real father would weave the transformation, but perhaps it was fated to happen in some other way. She dared not try to imagine how, but her dreams that night were full of Sir Richard Fyncham…

  * * *

  Days of wind and rain prevented Lady Maud from insisting that her daughter should visit the new foal, though she continued to speak about it, trying to rouse Bella’s interest. Bella did try to respond; she asked questions – how big was the foal? what colour was it? might they nam
e it Gyp?

  ‘Gyp?!’ Lady Maud screeched. ‘That’s no name for a thoroughbred!’

  ‘It’s short for Gypsy, milady,’ Lily put in.

  Bella’s grey eyes opened wide as the thought came to her: ‘Gypsy Lady! Mama, you said it was a girl foal. Gypsy Lady would be—’

  ‘A filly!’ Lady Maud snapped, and threw an unpleasant glance at Lily. ‘I would have thought that you might have taught her that. I suppose you spend all your time talking about cats. Ugh! Horrible animals.’

  Opening her mouth to reply, Bella paused, reconsidered, but decided that the risk was worth it: ‘Ching’s not horrible, Mama. He’s very intelligent. Mr Anstruther says—’

  ‘I really don’t want to hear what that dauber has to say,’ Lady Maud said irritably, rising from her seat to ring the bell. ‘Come and give Mama a kiss before you go.’

  Mr Anstruther needed only one or two more sittings to perfect Bella’s face and hands and to finish his painting of Ching nestled in her lap. Then he proposed to fill in the background – the drapes against the window, with perhaps a clematis peeping outside to soften the severe lines of the window frame. His sense of artistic balance desired an extra touch – he wished to paint Lily in the corner, to hint that the child was well cared for. At least, that was what he said.

  The revised portrait meant extra sittings for her, sittings to which Sir Richard invited himself, to stand at the artist’s shoulder observing his method, or to sit on a corner of the desk by the far window, watching Lily. She tried to ignore him, but his presence made the air thrum.

  On a morning when the inclement spring weather made the day drear, she presented herself in the morning room and found Sir Richard alone there. As she paused in surprise, he eased himself away from the desk where he had been perching and came to close the door behind her, saying:

  ‘Anstruther sent word that he would not be coming today. He has business to attend elsewhere.’

  ‘I see.’ Her heart was beating fast, nearly suffocating her.

  In the singing silence she felt him move closer and when he spoke his voice was low. ‘I should have let you know.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps—’

  ‘You know why I did not.’

  She couldn’t speak for the net of apprehension and need that tangled about her vocal cords. How dearly she longed for him to hold her as he had before. He had made her feel safe, as Ash had never done. With Ash, it had been all taking, all wanting. With Richard Fyncham there was giving, and caring.

  His hands came on her shoulders, caressing her, fingers stroking her neck. She felt his breath stir her hair as he hoarsely muttered, ‘Lily…’

  ‘Please…’ she managed.

  ‘I know.’ He turned her to face him, watching her for signs of resistance as he slowly, tenderly, drew her into his arms. ‘I know I should be strong. I have tried. I cannot resist any longer. Let me hold you. That’s all I ask. Just to hold you, my lovely, lovely Lily…’

  ‘We must not!’ she breathed.

  ‘I know,’ he answered, drawing her closer, bending his cheek to her temple, surrounding her with a sensuous web of warmth and security.

  ‘Richard!’ With a sigh she gave in to the need and let her arms slip round him. Oh, such feeling could not be wrong! Never, never. This moment had been inevitable. Fated. For ever.

  After endless moments of sweet, sweet rapture, she lifted her head, looking up into his face, seeing his equal awareness, and his desire, too strong to be denied, a love and longing that matched her own. Something jolted inside her, a physical twisting that terrified her. She wanted to break free but could not. The sight of his mouth, a whisper away, mesmerised her.

  Which of them made the beginning? Did she lift her face, or did he bend over her? All she could remember was the sweetness of their lips’ blending, and the rush of madness that pulled them tightly together and made them cling. Her arms wound about him, holding him down to her, her body willingly bonding with his. Even through their clothes she felt his response to her, knew he wanted her as she wanted him.

  Frightened by the intensity of her feeling, she attempted to pull away, but he caught her hands, holding them together at his breast while he stared down at her with darkened eyes. ‘Don’t be afraid. I would never do anything to harm you. Lily… I love you. Only believe that. And then forgive me. Find it in your heart to understand…’ He let her go, stepped away, shaking his head at his own folly. ‘This will never happen again. I swear. Forgive me…’

  And he was gone, leaving her shaking so much she was obliged to move to the nearest chair and sit down until her nerves had steadied. But her body was on fire, her senses all aroused and screaming. Never again? Oh, he couldn’t mean it!

  * * *

  That afternoon the weather cleared and the promised visit to the foal took place. Lily was asked to go along, though she walked a discreet distance behind. Lady Maud strode ahead wearing her split riding skirt over a pair of tweed bloomers, saying, ‘Oh, do hurry up, Richard!’ as her husband loped behind. He was carrying Bella secure in his arms, so that she should feel safe – Lily tried not to envy the child.

  The mare and her foal had been let out to a paddock behind the walled garden, where the mare was grazing and the foal was kicking up its heels. Safe outside the fence, Bella admired the little animal, but when Lady Maud insisted they go into the field Bella fell silent, clinging round her father’s neck.

  Lily remained where she was, feeling for both the child and the squire as Lady Maud tried to force him to put Bella down and have her greet the foal. He did so, remaining crouched with his arm round Bella. Then the mare moved closer to protect her offspring, and the approach of that huge animal made Bella scream and leap for the safety of her father’s embrace.

  ‘Put her down, Richard!’ Lady Maud’s voice carried to Lily.

  ‘No, Papa!’ Bella clung more closely round her father’s neck, while her mother clucked her tongue irritably.

  ‘Don’t you want to meet her properly? She’s yours. Your Gypsy Lady. When she’s bigger, you shall learn to ride her.’

  ‘I don’t want to!’

  The outing ended in disarray, with Lady Maud stalking off towards the stables and Bella in tears against her father’s shoulder. Over her coppery head his eyes met Lily’s, full of concern.

  ‘Let us walk a while. There are primroses in the wood. Have you seen the primroses, Bella?’

  The woods were springing with fresh growth, alive with the song of birds, and in a sheltered glade the ground was thick with pale primroses. Bella ran among them in delight, picking posies to take back for Jess, while Lily stood watching her, aware of the squire only three feet away. Under the music of the birdsong unspoken agonies united them. Lily felt herself trembling and clenched her hands trying to control it. She slid a glance towards him – and met undisguised desire burning in a pair of desolate grey eyes.

  She felt as if she were being showered with rain, now cold, now hot, its drops raising every hair on her skin with unbearable awareness.

  ‘We must go in,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, and called Bella and kissed her, and told her to go back into the house with Miss Clare before she caught another chill.

  Just before the trees hid them from each other’s sight, Lily glanced back and saw him still standing there, reluctant to miss one second of the sight of her. Oh, Richard… For endless aeons they stared at each other, silently affirming their mutual affinity.

  For the rest of the day Lily thought of nothing but Richard Fyncham, reliving every moment of their acquaintance – the way he had kissed her, the way he had looked at her with longing written eloquently on his face… The memory drenched her in shivers, tormented her with hope and despair. It was wrong. It was wrong in so many ways. And yet, and yet…

  That night she couldn’t sleep for wondering how it would end. One moment she was deciding to leave Hewinghall; then she was sure she would die if she never saw him again; then she remembered his n
earness, longed for his kisses, knew that only the reality of him beside her could quench her need…

  Having tossed restlessly for an age, she got up and lit her lamp, taking her journal from its drawer to read over the passage she had written describing the visit to the foal and those moments of awful awareness in the primrose glade. Underneath, she now wrote, I am in love with him, and underlined it twice, and sat staring at the words in disbelief. Her emotions were so confused that she felt sick. How could feeling so strong burgeon so swiftly?

  Faintly, she heard the stableyard clock strike midnight. The wind was rising, blustering round the eaves, finding its way round her windowframe and making the old timbers of the attics stretch and shift. Was that a step? Lily stared at her door, picturing young Harry Fyncham teetering on the parapet. She could almost hear the ghostly echo of his scream. She jumped to her feet as a floorboard creaked, close at hand. Was someone in the schoolroom? Harry’s ghost, come to tempt her to leap with him?

  Summoning all her courage, she picked up her lamp, unlatched her door and snatched it open. Light washed out into the schoolroom, a wide circle beyond which she could see the windows outlined by faint starlight. There was nothing there. Only the wind, blustering round slated roofs and whistling down barley-sugar chimney stacks. Consciously defying her own fear, slender in her linen nightgown with her hair loosely knotted behind her, she walked barefoot across the darkened schoolroom, skirted the rocking horse, and looked out at the balcony. It was empty, of course. Harry Fyncham was not prancing there.

  ‘Prrrp?’ With a little interrogatory purr, Ching sprang from his basket and came running to leap up the steps to the window.

  ‘Do you want to go out?’ Lily asked him. ‘At this hour?’

  But the cat evidently misliked the look of the windy night. He jumped soundlessly down to the floor and, with tail high, made for the open door of Lily’s room.