by Sara Donati
Lily raised her head and blinked at him, confused now and so tired that she could have slept for hours. “I came home to hear him say what he said.”
He rubbed a thumb across the line of his jaw. “I suppose I can understand that. Will you go back now, to Montreal?”
There was something in her father's expression that she couldn't quite read, some fear, or, Lily corrected herself, hope. Then she heard what she had missed before: the sound of voices downstairs. Gabriel and Annie chattering like squirrels, and a deeper voice in answer.
She said, “Simon's come.”
“Aye. He brought word of your brother.” And before she could launch herself from the bed he held up a hand. “Daniel's on the mend.”
Lily pressed a fist to her throat. “Thank God. Blue-Jay?”
“In good health, or close to it.”
She was weeping again, this time in relief. Her father put a hand on the back of her head and rocked her toward him, to kiss her on the forehead.
“Tell me,” she said.
It took him a while to gather his thoughts, but Lily could wait, now.
He said, “Your sister took a bullet out of Daniel's side and there's some worry about his arm, but she thinks he'll survive. When he's well enough he'll come home, him and Blue-Jay both.”
She blinked hard to clear her eyes of tears. “Come home? How will they do that?”
“Runs-from-Bears and Luke have a plan,” her father said. “Simon will tell you the little he knows.”
She sat back against the wall. “Simon came back. He said he would.”
“Aye. He keeps his word.”
Praise indeed, from Nathaniel Bonner. And: “Before we go down, I want you to tell me how you feel about the man, daughter.”
Her first impulse was to lie, or to pretend that she didn't know what he was talking about. But Simon was downstairs waiting to give her news. In his calm way he would lay it all out, and it would make sense, and she would be able to sleep again at night. Because Simon was here, with good news.
Her father said, “Do you love the man, Lily?”
She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes and drew in a breath, and then another. Finally she said, “I don't know.”
“Ah,” said her father. There was a smile in his voice. “So it's that way, then.”
“What?” She took away her hands. “What way?”
“If you said no, I'd have some trouble believing you. I saw how you looked at him when he drove off. If you said yes, I'd have trouble believing that too, after the business with Wilde. But ‘maybe,' that's an answer I can live with.”
“I doubt that Simon can live with it,” Lily said.
“Oh, he'll manage.” Her father held out his hand and she took it, and let herself be drawn to her feet. “He's no fool, is your Simon Ballentyne.”
Elizabeth sat by the hearth with her stepdaughter's letter in her lap and a hundred questions unanswered in her head. Most of them had to do with her son, and the things that Hannah hadn't said. Because she had written in haste, or perhaps—Elizabeth couldn't free herself of the idea—because she didn't want to worry them any more than she needed to.
The worst possibilities had been faced, now, and put aside. There was still the matter of getting the boys home, but somehow Elizabeth couldn't find it in herself to worry about that or even think about it just yet.
It was time now to think of Lily, and the man who sat on a stool on the other side of the hearth.
Simon Ballentyne, once of Carryck. Ten years Lily's senior, a solemn man with a head for business, well established, respected. A man who loved Lily—that much he had already made clear—and wanted to take her away from here, for good. Forever. To live in another country. And not just any other country, but the one place Elizabeth did not want to go, and would not permit her husband to go.
She had extracted that promise from Nathaniel almost twenty years ago, when the pain of what they had suffered in Québec had been fresh. And here was Simon Ballentyne, of Montreal.
He was studying the cap he held in his hands. Strong, capable hands. Long of finger and broad of palm. Hands that had touched her daughter, Elizabeth was somehow sure, in the most intimate ways a man could touch a woman. Luke had written to them of the growing connection between his business partner and his sister, but Elizabeth had not understood the nature of it until she saw them together, on the morning he had left to take Hannah and Jennet north.
Simon had been a gentleman in every way; he hadn't touched Lily or said anything to her that he could not have said to a stranger, but the look they exchanged had been full of promises and a subdued longing.
Then Curiosity had come to call, thumping the truth down plain on the table for the two of them to look at together.
“In case you ain't took note, our Lily's been with that Simon.”
Elizabeth had been dozing with a book in her lap, but Curiosity showed no concern or pity, and her tone did its work. For the first time since the news came that Daniel and Blue-Jay had been taken prisoner, she was truly awake. At that moment she understood—as Curiosity meant her to understand—that she had let her worry for one child blind her to the needs of another.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “I think you are right.”
“And?”
She rocked for a moment. “I don't know,” Elizabeth said. “I don't know if I should speak to her about him, or wait for her to come to me.” And then, seeing the look on Curiosity's face, a new thought came to her. “Unless you think there's real cause to worry—”
“Now you waking up,” Curiosity said.
A new set of images presented themselves, images too disturbing to contemplate.
“Is she? Do you think—”
“No,” Curiosity said. “She ain't, I'm pretty sure. She'd come to you or me if she was in a family way.”
“Well, then.” Elizabeth settled back into her rocker.
“Is that all you got to say?” Curiosity began to ruffle like a hen.
“Of course not. Of course I must speak to her. But—”
“But you ain't even mentioned Nicholas Wilde to her, and now there's Simon Ballentyne to add to the mix.”
“You're right,” Elizabeth said. “I must speak to her, and soon. But it's such a delicate business. The wrong word might do more damage than no word at all. Perhaps . . . perhaps she needs time to think.”
The fire hissed at her, and Curiosity's expression was a study in disgust.
“I am a coward,” Elizabeth said finally. “I admit it freely.”
Curiosity grunted softly, but didn't disagree.
And still Elizabeth had not found a way to talk to Lily about this situation of hers. They spoke of other things: of her art teachers in Montreal, of Luke's household, and most often of Daniel and Blue-Jay. There was a new calm between them, one that Elizabeth had been loath to upset.
But today Nicholas Wilde had been here, and now Simon Ballentyne sat just a few feet away from her. The men who loved her daughter.
Elizabeth thought for the first time of the cousins she had grown up with, prettier girls with substantial fortunes of their own, who had played suitors one against the other. She had been contemptuous of the whole business, the formal language and stiff postures and tender expectations. Her aunt Merriweather's careful planning, the strategies laid out over tea: as a poor cousin more interested in books than suitors, Elizabeth had observed it all from afar.
Aunt Merriweather had been gone more than five years, but Elizabeth knew exactly what she would have had to say to this state of affairs: a daughter in love with a married man, and sleeping with someone else.
Of course she wouldn't have phrased it like that. Lady Crofton wouldn't have come within a hundred words of such a formulation, or anything that made such a picture in the mind.
About one thing, though, she would have been very clear: Elizabeth had failed in her duties as a mother. The proof was upstairs, her daughter weeping for the man she could not ha
ve, while another man waited for her. How it had all come to pass, Elizabeth could hardly explain to herself. Not when her head ached so.
Then Lily was at the bottom of the stair, with Nathaniel just behind her. Elizabeth was relieved to see him.
“Boots,” he said. “Let's you and me go have a little discussion and leave Simon and Lily to do the same.”
The look on his face was reassuring. There was no outrage there, no disappointment, nothing but calm and even some amusement.
More assuring still was the fact that Lily was looking at Simon straight on, without apology, or embarrassment, or unease. As Simon was looking at her. With friendship, certainly, and affection, and other things that were not for Elizabeth to see, or contemplate.
“Did you come by sleigh?” Lily asked politely, as distant and cool in tone as she might have spoken to a traveling preacher or a distant cousin.
“Aye. I left the horses with the blacksmith and walked up.”
“You took a chance,” Lily said. “This late in the winter. You may not be able to drive the sleigh back until next season.”
He gave her a small smile. “I'm in no hurry to be away.”
“I'm glad you're back,” Lily said suddenly, her color rising as the words spilled out.
At that Simon Ballentyne produced a smile that made Elizabeth look away, so clearly personal was the message it sent.
Gabriel and Annie were sent away against their wishes and protests, and then Lily read her sister's letter for herself and asked Simon all the questions she could think to ask about Nut Island. Finally they fell into an awkward silence that lasted a full minute.
“I've changed my mind,” Simon said finally. “I release you from your promise.”
There were many things Lily had imagined him saying, but never this. Simon was looking at her with an expression she couldn't read: composed, calm, a wall that she could not breach.
“You don't want to marry me,” Lily said.
“Of course I want to marry you.” A flush appeared high on his cheeks. “But I won't hold you to a promise you made under duress.”
“So you are proposing?” Lily asked, and blushed herself to hear those words come out of her own mouth.
“No.”
“You are not proposing. Forgive me for being dense—”
“I'm not proposing yet.”
“Aha. And if I might ask, when exactly do you plan to propose?”
“That depends.”
He was looking at her intently, his mouth pressed hard together, a fluttering muscle in his cheek the only indication of what this conversation was costing him.
“Well, then,” Lily said, standing suddenly and turning away. She was free of him, and of Nicholas, and could do as she pleased; and she was ridiculously close to tears. “I wish you a good journey back to Montreal. Please do write—”
She let out a very unladylike squeak at the feel of his hands on her waist.
“Lily,” he said, so close behind her that his breath was warm on her ear. “Have mercy.”
She tried to pull away, and found she could not. “What do you want from me?”
“Patience. It's no easy, what I have to say. Will you sit, please. And listen.”
Outside the wind picked up and just that suddenly all the afternoon light was gone, leaving them with the glow of the hearth in the fire, and nothing else. Another winter storm, so close on the heels of the last one at a time when the season should be lessening its grip. Lily could have screamed with frustration.
She said, “Go on, then. I'll stay, for a while at least.”
When he was sitting again, she went back to her stool. His face, cast in shadow, was solemn.
“All the way to Montreal and back again I did naught but think of you, and the things I made you do—”
At least this time, they blushed together.
“I made my own decisions.”
He said, “Aye. I said it wrong. What I'm trying to say is this. I want you to wife, but I won't push you. I'm prepared to stay in Paradise for six months. After that I must go back to Montreal, for Luke canna manage longer without me. But I hope you'll be ready to go with me then, as my wife.”
He pushed out an unsteady breath. Then he got up and began to put more wood on the fire.
“Is that all?” she asked, oddly unsteady in voice, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.
Kneeling in front of the hearth, he shook his head. “No quite.”
He went back to his stool and sat. Lily had never seen him so ill at ease; it made her uncomfortable, and she liked it too: Simon Ballentyne at a loss for words.
“Two more things. The first is, I've had one conversation with your father, but I must have another, and today, if you'll permit me. To tell him about my . . . connections.”
“Yes,” Lily said. “That you must. And the second thing?”
He cleared his throat. Then he leaned forward, his arms crossed on his knees, and looked her in the eye.
“If we go on the way we started, we'll make a child. I won't have the matter settled that way either.”
Lily was a little light-headed, but she forced herself to focus on his face. She said, “I see. Well, I have a solution. I'll marry you. Now. As soon as it can be arranged.”
His expression went blank and still and utterly devoid of pleasure or thankfulness or relief; none of the things she hoped to see.
“Such a spontaneous demonstration of joy,” she said. “I'm overwhelmed.”
At least he had the good grace to be annoyed at that, but she cut off his protest.
She said, “I thought you wanted to marry me.”
“I do want to marry you. But not yet.”
Lily was on her feet, vaguely aware that her temper had slipped away from her and was not to be called back, just now. “Not yet? Why not?”
He stood up to meet her. “I've been trying to tell ye, if ye'll hark—”
Lily made an impatient gesture. “My mother will be very pleased to learn how honorable and noble you mean to be, but what I want—in case you care to know—is to be married as soon as possible.”
“Well, I don't,” he said. “And I'll tell ye why, if ye care to listen.”
Lily's fingers and hands jerked with the need to throw something, something hard, at his head.
“I won't have ye marry me to spite your apple-tree man. I won't do it,” he said, his voice rising. “I won't have you like that.”
“You've already had me,” Lily said, poking him so hard with one finger that he took a step backward. “In case you need reminding. You've had me, and now you're refusing to marry me.”
“Damn it, woman, I'm not refusing.”
“You are. You promised to marry me and you bedded me and now you're making excuses, you, you cheat! We had a bargain!”
“Why, ye wee—” He broke off, so outraged that nothing came out of his mouth.
They were both breathing hard. For a moment Lily stood outside herself and saw how they must look, how absolutely nonsensical this must sound to anyone who might be listening.
And there it was, what she had noticed in the back of her mind: a creak on the stair.
“Gabriel! Annie!” she shouted. “I'll box your ears if you don't disappear!”
There was a scramble and then, a moment later, the slam of a door.
“Now,” she said to Simon. “We'll leave Nicholas out of this. I insist.”
“Oh, will we?” Simon said. “And why are ye here at all? Ye badgered me intae bringin ye hame so ye could see him, woman. And ye've seen him, have ye no? And talked to him? That's what aa this is about, admit it.”
Lily tried to turn away, but he caught her by the waist.
“You talked to Wilde, and whatever it was he said, he made you angry. That's why you're in a hurry to marry. To teach him a lesson. To teach everybody a lesson. You'll marry me to spite them all.”
She howled in frustration. “You ass,” she hissed. “If that's what you think of me—�
��
“Deny it,” Simon said. “Tell me it's no true.”
“I deny it!” she yelled in his face.
“You're lying,” he said dully, and let her go.
She stumbled a little, and then drew herself up, shaking so that she must wind her hands in her skirt to quiet them.
“Listen to me,” Simon said. “I love you now as I loved you when we struck that bargain. More, God help me. But until I can be sure of why you want me, we'll wait.”
“And what if I love you?” She forced her tone down and down, to a whisper. To a plea.
“Do you love me, Lily?”
Oh, the way he looked at her. Hope and love and wanting all wound together in the tilt of his mouth and the set of his jaw, and his mouth, his beautiful mouth. If he would only smile.
She said, “I want to love you. I mean to love you.”
It was the sharpest truth; she saw what it did to him and something inside her clenched. So she went to him and stood on tiptoe, for he wouldn't come down to meet her, and she kissed his mouth. “I will, I will love you.”
His arms came around her, trembling a little, unsure, and so warm and familiar and welcome. Lily kissed him again, and this time his head dipped and his arms brought her up and he kissed her back, a tentative kiss, a question. She sighed into his mouth and he slanted his head to kiss her openmouthed and deep and passionate, the kind of kisses she had dreamed of every night while he was away. His mouth, his smell, his hands on her body.
Then he pulled away and looked at her so fiercely that Lily trembled.
He said, “Three months, then. In three months' time, I'll ask you proper and you'll answer and then we'll be married. Am I worth three months' wait, lass?”
She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him. Counted to three and then to ten, tried to organize her thoughts.
Three months. Three months of Missy Parker's questions and Nicholas Wilde's forlorn looks and gossip and jokes about the wedding lace her brother had sent. Three months of waiting and . . . wanting.
She said, “All's fair in love and war, do you remember?”
He laughed gruffly against her hair. “Aye.”
“Well, then,” Lily said, her hands sliding up his chest to lock around his neck. “As long as we're clear on that.”