Dare to Kiss (6 page)

He gestured, and the footman carried in a box. Lily saw a handle poking out, some balls, and a few smaller boxes. She smiled at her wide-eyed children. "You may explore. Carefully. After you've said your thank-yous."

They did, then fell on the box like starving animals, even Charlotte and Michael. They were still children.

"So much excitement over so little," Sir Benjamin said.

"It is not little to them. They had to leave their toys behind."

"Can they be retrieved?"

"I fear not. My husband left debts."

In truth, she'd been unable to face the world and in some fear of the mob, and they'd taken only what they could carry in their urgent flight. She was suddenly miserable about all the lies and wished she could tell Sir Benjamin the truth. He deserved the truth!

That, however, would be to sacrifice her children in order to ease her conscience. It would not do.

"Don't be sad," he said. He took her hand and squeezed it.

She stilled, frozen by guilt, but then she squeezed back and smiled up at him. That wasn't an effort. It had been a long time since someone had taken her hand like this, offering comfort, offering strength and support, and she truly appreciated his kind heart.

She'd not thought of those additional advantages to marriage because she'd not received strength and support from Tom for a long time. Perhaps never. It had taken her time to recognize that he was selfish to the bone, and that she was the one holding everything together.

"Is there anything else you need, ma'am?"

She separated her hand from his, hoping it didn't seem that she was uncomfortable with the touch.

"I will need to do some laundry, sir, but I'm not sure how to go about it. I hesitate to ask more of your servants."

"Laundry? I think we send it to the village on a Monday. It'll be no burden if you add some items."

Her smile was pure relief. "Thank you! I can pay--"

"No, no. And you must stop thanking me, Mistress Gifford. I've done little, and it's been no burden to me."

"As long as you're so kind, sir, I must continue to thank you, and delight in doing so."

Once he left the room, however, the fear trickled back.

She still had Sunday to face.

Why had she ever imagined that a recluse would stay away from Sunday service? No decent person would. And that was the problem. All the other decent people around here would be there, and one might recognize Lillias Dellaby.

***

Lily prepared her children for church almost sick with nerves. Even if no one recognized her, there would be introductions. She and her children would be presented as Sir Benjamin's guests, but people would know they'd arrived in a desperate condition.

The new tenants in Uncle Henry's cottage knew.

The servants, knew, and would have gossiped.

Perhaps the parson knew, for Sir Benjamin might have walked into the village to consult him.

There was no escape, however. She surveyed her scrubbed and tidy children and then led them out to the fray.

The day was a little warmer than the past few, and the sun came out to brighten the scenery, so the walk across the park and down a lane to the ancient church was pleasant. She frequently had to stop Tommy from running around in play, but she might permit it on the way back.

The church was full, and of course Sir Benjamin’s box pew was right at the front, so they had to walk the length of the aisle, eyes upon them. Lily was alert for any reaction as they passed, but she didn't sense any. She slid a glance around the front pews, where the important people of the area would sit, and saw no one she knew. Indeed, she saw no one with that distinctive Town look. She relaxed a little.

There were watchful expressions, however, so there would certainly be questions after the service, when people gathered outside to greet and talk.

She saw a tomb to one side of the altar, holding the figure of a knight in armor, his crossed legs showing he’d been on crusade. She was sure he was a Brook. On a nearby wall, she saw memorial plaques to more recent Brooks.

Sir Benjamin Brook was squire of a quiet country area, but his lineage was long. What would the people here think of the lowly invaders?

However, the vicar addressed the subject directly in his sermon, choosing the story of the Good Samaritan. He pointed out that Christians were obliged -- obliged -- to assist the afflicted on the roads. He mentioned Lily's aunt and uncle, who would be praying that their friends and neighbors look kindly on their widowed niece and her fatherless children.

Lily realized Sir Benjamin must have primed the vicar to this, and she wanted to take his hand and kiss it.

She was seeing a new problem, however. Had her uncle and aunt said much about her? She hadn't met them in years, and her own parents were dead. They'd never been close, so they might not have talked about her, but if they had, they would have mentioned a niece called Dellaby. Not Gifford, Dellaby. And someone here who read gossip would recognize that name.

There was no sign of it. When she and her family emerged from church, they were swarmed by well-wishers. She was welcomed to the area. Gentry children were encouraged to speak kindly to hers. Ladies spoke of tea -- but vaguely. She was not impeccably respectable. All was well, however, and Lily prayed that her little ones wouldn't let anything slip.

Then she saw another pit at her feet.

After weeks of hiding from people in Bloomsbury, then difficult travel, then the isolation of Brook Hall, she'd forgotten what normal life was like. If she lived here, she wouldn't be allowed to hide away. She couldn't want that for her children, but every new encounter would threaten exposure.

Damn Sir Benjamin for giving the impression of being a recluse! He wasn't completely comfortable among his neighbors -- he mostly had his lips as closed as possible -- but he mingled here.

Of course he did, and damn her for not realizing it. He was the local squire, with duties, some of them social. To prove it, the vicar and his wife were to return to the hall, as was their custom every Sunday.

Lily walked back toward Brook Hall, seeing it fully in daylight for the first time, and grieved its loss. She could not possibly marry its owner with the probability of exposure hanging over her. Even if she could bear it for herself, she wouldn't repay Sir Benjamin’s kindness that way.

She imagined it -- them married and happy, until the day when someone came by and recognized her. Sir Benjamin would be horrified and disgusted, but she'd be his wife. He would probably refuse to throw her out. He might even defend her, falling out with his neighbors and becoming a miserable recluse in truth.

Perhaps she could still become his housekeeper, for then no shame would attach to him.

No, that wouldn't work. She knew he was attracted to her and suspected that at some point he'd think of marriage, for he was a good man, so he’d not try to make her his mistress.

When they arrived back at the house, she tried to go with the children to dine in the schoolroom, but he'd have none of it. She saw that her effort pleased the vicar and his wife, who beamed on her.

They were to use the dining room, and even though the table had been reduced to its smallest size, it was too large. She suspected that in the past the vicar and his wife had sat on either side of their host, but now they were in the center of each side and her place was opposite Sir Benjamin's.

Only yesterday she would have been delighted by the impression that she was already mistress, but now it simply seemed awkward. Conversation faltered until Mistress Abbotsford began to chatter about local goings-on. Lily saw that this was the usual way of things, and perhaps how Sir Benjamin kept in touch with the area.

Lily listened for mention of aristocracy or Town people nearby and heard none.

Could she hope?

She hadn't thought herself a wild dreamer, but crushed hope unfurled again.

Hope and a will to fight.

If she married Sir Benjamin, she'd become Lady Brook, and that name would trigger no memories. If no one in the area recognized her, she would be safe. She'd never be tempted to go farther afield, and clearly Sir Benjamin rarely left this area. He'd told her that the quarterly meeting of botanists in Birmingham was his only travel.

If anyone from the grander world visited here, Lady Brook should still be safe from all except those who'd known her well in London. In London, she'd generally dressed finely, and for evening affairs she'd used paint, as was the fashion.

Would Lady Brook, sober of dress, neat of cap and apron, admired for her charity and virtue, stir any memories? If she did, would they be believed? People did sometimes resemble others, but no one leapt to conviction that the two were one.

When the guests had gone, Sir Benjamin said, "You look thoughtful, ma'am. And not happily so. If that was unpleasant for you, I apologize."

She smiled at him. "Not unpleasant, no, but a little difficult. We should talk about my future."

His chin rose. "I've sent letters. We shall have to wait and see."

He stalked off to his library.

She hurried after, entering his room without a knock. "Did I offend you? I would not like to think so."

He was facing the window. "No, ma'am."

Lily weighed her option and gambled. She went closer, so close as to be only a foot or so behind him. "You are being so kind, sir, especially to my children. The hobby horse for Tommy, playing chess with Michael. Their father was never so kind."

He turned, as she'd hoped he would. "He was cruel to them?"

"No, not that. But he didn't like children, not even his own. They learned to stay out of his way."

"He must have been a foolish man."

"In many ways he was." She decided to give him some of the truth. "I confess that I wasn't sorry when he died, only for the manner of it. I'd have been sorrier if I'd known how his money was tied up, that it would end with him. You must think me a cold, heartless woman."

He took her hands. "Never! He was clearly a brute."

"Others didn't think so. He put on a good front. In truth, he was your opposite, Sir Benjamin. To many you may seem harsh, but those who know you know a warm heart and a most noble soul."

"Ma'am!" he protested.

"Do I embarrass you? I won't apologize. My husband was surly and cold at home, but amiable and warm to the world. Thus no one understood..." Heaven help her, she'd almost slid into the snake pit of truth. "I will leave you now, sir, to your peace and quiet."

She hurried away. Truth was the most perilous thing.

And yet, she hated lies.

***

Ben watched Mistress Gifford leave, wishing she'd stayed. He'd always valued his privacy here, his solitary contentment, but now the room seemed lonely. He'd like to ask her to sit here with him whenever possible, but she had her children to care for.

They were remarkably fine children to come from such a home. She'd raised them well.

He wished he could give her something to lighten her load, but what? To offer trinkets would suggest immoral intent. He felt immoral urges, but he'd never subject her to insult. In a kinder season, he'd pick flowers for her room.

All he had was books. He went to a section he visited rarely and considered poetry. He thought women liked poetry, but he'd never had a taste for it. His tutor had made him learn Latin poetry, but that would hardly serve.

The Rape of the Lock
. That sounded improper. John Donne? Hadn't he been a clergyman? Ben had some memory of someone reading Donne's poem
Death
to him, perhaps after his father died. That certainly wouldn't be a pleasing gift.

Shakespeare? There were volumes of his sonnets. Sonnets were generally sweet, pleasant verses, weren't they? He opened it. The first was about Caesar, and the next seemed to be a reproach to a beauty. He thrust it back on the shelf and turned to more familiar books. He found a well illustrated herbal and rang the bell.

When John entered, Ben gave him the book. "Take this up to Mistress Gifford with my compliments."

John took it, but with that disapproving face.

"She's a decent woman, John, fallen on hard times. It is our Christian duty to be kind to her and her children."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but the world's full of such hard cases, and have you thought that the longer her children live here the harder will be their future?"

Ben hadn't. "That's why I have to find a good future for them, don't you see?"

"What I see, sir, is that she's angling to hook you for her supper!"

Ben stared at the footman in astonishment. "What do you mean by that?"

John was flushed with anger and embarrassment. "I shouldn't have said it, sir."

"Perhaps not, but what did you mean? Out with it! Are you still hinting that she's a thief?"

"Not that, sir, no, except of your tranquility. She aims to marry you, sir."

"
Marry
me?"

"You see how foolish it is, but women like that have a way with them. Sometimes a man ends up doing things he shouldn't have."

"I won't do that, John, don't you worry. Off on your errand now."

When the footman had left Ben, collapsed into his big leather chair, trying to think clearly about the astonishing possibility. He felt much as he would if told that poppies would bloom at Christmastide.

Christmastide. That season was approaching. How would it go if Mistress Gifford and her children were still here? He still kept up the traditions. The mummers came to perform and were rewarded with ale, pies, and pennies. He went out with some of the local men to bring in a Yule log, and it burned in the great hearth in the hall. Cook made a Twelfth Night cake.

There were no Twelfth Night ceremonies here, however, for he gave the servants leave to go to their families for them.

He'd been an only child and of a solitary disposition, so he couldn't remember the Christmases of his boyhood being any different.

Five lively children. That would make a difference. They would have had Christmases, even with their cold and surly father. Their mother would have ensured that. Gifts. Sugar plums. Games such as snapdragon?