Lily (36 page)

“Lily,” he intoned, bowing slightly.

“Lewis. Are you having a nice time?”

His heavy brows went up, as though he found the question faintly unsuitable, or at least irrelevant. “Are you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I’m glad. But you must be hungry. Come, my mother has put the food out.”

Lily excused herself from Cousin Soames and the Blayneys and went with Lewis toward the long wooden tables across the way, where Mrs. Soames and the servants had indeed laid out a feast. There were hot pasties, cold tongue and partridge, cakes and jellies, syllabubs and fruit, punch and wines. Lily could hardly bring herself to look at it, much less eat any of it. But Lewis prepared her a plate, and to please him she pushed the food around on it with her fork, even touched some to her lips. It was kind of him to take care of her this way, she thought with a twinge of guilt, since he himself had been fasting for the last two days in preparation for their marriage. With weak and weary chagrin, she contemplated this man she didn’t love and hardly knew, whom she would marry in the morning. He was truly devout, about which she had mixed feelings. At least he wasn’t a hypocrite like his father, but what kind of wife would she make for Lewis, and what sort of life could they have together?

Last night he had confided to her his dream, his “vision” as he’d called it, that God wanted him to go to Wales and preach His gospel to the poor coal miners. Lily’s first reaction had been a kind of subdued horror over the bleak prospect. But her dread had faded, and now any feeble unwillingness she might feel was buried under indifference and inertia. If Lewis had told her that God wanted him to hunt whales in the North Sea, she would have followed passively and tried her best to be a good whaler’s wife. She simply didn’t care. She’d stopped caring the night Devon had shoved her against a wall and told her that she’d shot his brother.

She’d stolen a horse and enough money to pay for coach fare back to Lyme Regis. During every minute of the nightmarish journey, she’d expected him to ride up and stop her—and then kill her, or beat her, or at least arrest her. In Lyme, Mrs. Troublefield had taken her in. She’d already forwarded a letter to Lily in Cornwall, she told her. From Exeter? Yes—so Lily knew it must be from Soames. She’d written to him immediately, saying she’d missed his letter, would he please write again? She told him she regretted what had happened and thanked God he was all right. If he could find it in his heart to forgive her, and if by some miracle Lewis still had any affection for her at all, she would be honored to become his wife.

Soames had written back by return mail. All was forgiven; come at once. He’d even enclosed money for her to hire a post chaise.

Three weeks had passed since then. The banns had been published, the wedding would take place tomorrow. Soames’s haste had appalled her at first, until she’d considered how perfectly it accorded with her own secret needs.
Need,
rather; she only had one now: to give the child she was carrying a father.

“Are you feeling better, dear?”

“Thank you, yes, Mrs. Soames, I’m perfectly all right now.” Soames’s wife, Ruth, was a silent, pathetic woman, small and self-effacing, who spoke in shy bursts of speech and then turned away or looked down to hide some inexplicable embarrassment. Lily had hardly gotten a hundred words out of her since she’d arrived. She was completely cowed by her husband, who ignored her except to give her gruff orders. But she’d been kind to Lily in her bashful way, and for that she would always be grateful. Lily began to tell Mrs. Soames what a lovely party it was and how delicious the food tasted, when Soames and a man she hadn’t noticed before bore down on them.

“Lily, Lewis, will you come inside for a moment?” Soames asked, smiling jovially. It wasn’t an invitation they could refuse, since he had a hand on their shoulders and was propelling them toward the house as he spoke. “This is Mr. Witt,” he added belatedly, indicating the gentleman with him. “He has some papers for you to sign—you know how lawyers are. The merest formality, and then you can go back to our guests.”

“What sort of papers. Father?” asked Lewis once they were in Soames’s study, a large, dark-paneled chamber lined with shelves of new-smelling books and decorated—rather incongruously for a clergyman, Lily thought—with hunting prints.

“Just a formality,” Soames repeated; “the signing over of the dowry.”

“Dowry?” Lily almost laughed. “But I have nothing.”

“Not
quite
nothing.” He smiled blandly. “It’s hardly worth the trouble, I know, but Mr. Witt advises us to keep everything neat and tidy.”

Lily glanced at the thin, gray-wigged, dry stick of a man who was unfurling a document and laying it out on Soames’s desk. She’d always thought a husband acquired everything a woman owned on the day they exchanged wedding vows. Mr. Witt must be quite a stickler. She took the pen from his hand and scrawled her name. Lewis signed underneath.

Soames proposed a toast.

To the happy couple, he uttered, handing everyone except Lewis a small glass of port; to his abstemious son he gave a glass of barley water. “May God grant you a long and blessed life together, and may your children spring up around you like olive branches.”

Lily paled, but got the wine down without choking.

It was time to rejoin the party. When Lewis stood aside to let her pass through the archway that led to the courtyard, though, she hung back. She was tired all the time these days, and exhaustion hit her now with the force of a blow—no doubt because of the wine. Continuing to play this grotesque charade of bridal happiness was suddenly more than she could bear.

“Lewis,” she murmured, touching his sleeve, “would you mind terribly if I went up early? It’s a wonderful party, and it was so kind of your parents to think of it, but—I’m a bit tired. All the excitement has taken a toll on me, I guess, and I want to be fresh for tomorrow.”

“Of course,” he answered without hesitation or regret, and began to walk with her back through the house. At the foot of the staircase he paused, and surprised her by taking her wrist when she murmured “Good night” and started to turn away. “Lily,” he said portentously.

“Yes?”

“A woman’s highest duty to her husband is obedience.”

She nodded slowly and began to try to frame some suitable reply.

“I’ve been watching you tonight,” he went on, not waiting for a response. “Your speech and manners are too free; they invite misunderstanding. In the future, you’ll have to curb your behavior around individuals of the opposite sex.”

Her mouth dropped open. “But—I never intended anything improper, Lewis, I promise—”

“I don’t doubt it; but I speak of the result, not the intent. My father has been vouchsafed a vision from God that you and I are to marry. The match may seem unsuitable, even strange to us, but that does not signify. A higher Power has decreed it, and our duty is to accept His will with humility and gratitude.” He tightened his grip on her arm and leveled her with a stern, gray-eyed stare. “You will be my wife, Lily. With discipline and patient instruction, you will become everything the Lord intends you to be.”

It almost sounded like a threat. Lily squared her shoulders, suppressing an inner shudder. At least the mystery was solved: Lewis liked her no better than she liked him. She sent him a brave, determined smile. “I will try hard to be a good wife,” she promised truthfully. “I will help you with the work you’ve chosen in every way I can. One day I hope you’ll be proud of me.”

His stern expression softened slightly. “I hope so too,” he said, and bent to drop a dry kiss—his first ever—on her forehead. “Sleep well. I’ll send the maid up to you.”

“Good night, Lewis.”

He walked away, tall and straight and bulky. She watched him go, wondering what he would do if he knew about the baby. A quick tingle of perspiration dampened her palms. It didn’t bear thinking about. Hanging onto the banister, she dragged herself up the stairs and turned down the long corridor that led to her room.

It was small but comfortable, and all the furnishings were brand new. Without lighting a candle, she crossed immediately to the doors that led out onto a tiny balcony—the room’s finest amenity, in her opinion. It was on the other side of the house from the courtyard, thank heaven, so the festivities going on there now were only a vague hum. Soames had built his house on the outskirts of the old cathedral city, away from most of the bustle. A bright September moon was rising above the plane trees across the road, and somewhere among them an owl hooted. Tonight, as it had every night since she’d run away from Darkstone, Lily’s unconscious mind registered, just for a second, that something was missing. Then, again as always, she realized what it was: the sound of the sea. She missed it as an infant might miss the sound of its mother’s heartbeat.

She drew a shaky breath. There were many things she missed, and much she had to regret. But she was getting through these dreadful days by living in the moment, suppressing thoughts of the past and looking no further into the grim future than tomorrow. It had gotten her to this day, this time, so it must be working; she had better not tamper with success. The owl called again, the sound hollow and haunted. Lily put her head in her hands and wept.

Behind her she heard a light knock and then the opening of the door. She dried her cheeks with her hands and the sleeve of her dress, then turned around to see the maid standing beside the bed, waiting to help her.

She undressed in silence, too weary for chatter, although she was aware that the maid, whose name was Abbey, must think it odd that she had so little conversation on the night before her wedding. They bade each other quiet good nights, and then Lily sat down at the dressing table to brush out her hair. Again the mirror was not her friend. The pale strangeness of her own face almost frightened her; it revealed too much of her desperate unhappiness. But she must not cry anymore; it was weak and foolish, and it brought no relief anyway. But she was weighted down with the twin burdens of regret and guilt, with nothing to comfort her but the certainty that at least she had not lied to Lewis about one thing: she
would
make him a good wife. Wherever he took her, and for the rest of her life, even if it killed her, she intended to be everything he wanted her to be. Personal happiness was ludicrously irrelevant now. What was happening was God’s punishment, because she had given in to sin with a man who had never loved her. As long as no harm came to the baby, she could count herself blessed that her punishment was no worse.

She dropped her tired arms and bowed her head, staring at the hairbrush lying limp in her hands. The emptiness rose up again without warning; she closed her eyes, weary of tears. But she was so lonely. It was fatigue, she told herself, fatigue and stress that made it so hard not to think of Devon. Not of that last night—that was unbearable, unspeakable—but of other times they’d shared. For some reason she thought of the night beside the lake, Pirate’s Mere, when he’d walked up behind her, he and his brother, and she had been wet and trembling and embarrassed. It had been an awful moment—and yet she’d never been able to remember it without a secret thrill of excitement. But why would she think of such a thing now? She couldn’t help it; she clearly recalled the low, provocative sound of his voice in her ear, and even more clearly the way his warm fingers had pulled her dripping hair aside and lightly touched the bare skin of her back. A deep longing welled up inside, so strong it hurt her, made her throat ache.

Her breath caught. A touch—so light—at the back of her neck made her throw her head up, wild-eyed. A big hand whipped around and muffled her scream of fright.

They stared at each other in the mirror while her chest heaved and she tried to catch her breath. He took his hand away slowly, but the other stayed tangled in her hair, holding her still.
She’s changed,
he thought, though he couldn’t define how. He’d thought it before, observing from the trees outside as she’d moved among the people at her party, and again from her balcony when he’d watched her undress. She was as beautiful as always, more so, but there was a new fragility, a tentativeness, as well as an odd, heavy quality. Sadness? His fingers tightened in her hair; he remembered that he didn’t give a damn what she felt, now or ever.

“Did all that Wesleyan merrymaking tire you out, love?” He watched her swallow, following the line of her throat into the neckline of her modest robe. He reached down and began to unbutton it, casually, down to her waist. She allowed it, seemed frozen in her seat, eyes wide and lips parted, still too shocked to speak. “What, no greeting for me, Lily?” His eyes locked on the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. “Haven’t you missed me? I’ve missed you.” He pushed the robe over her shoulders, listening to the flutter of her breathing. She didn’t move. “What a relief to see that you weren’t injured in the fall from your window, sweetheart. I’ve been so worried about you.” He gave a little tug on the ribbon holding the front of her nightdress together, and her beautiful eyes darkened. At last she reacted.

She jumped up and tried to twist away, but he still had her hair. He pulled her into an embrace, intimate but unkind, and her eyes turned luminous with sudden tears. Detached, careful, he wiped them away with his fingers, noticing the bruised-looking crescents under her eyes. “Such a tragic face,” he murmured, touching her cheeks, her lips, frowning intently.

“Why have you come?” It amazed her that she could speak any words at all, much less coherent ones.

“Why? To see you, of course. And to wish you well on the eve of your marriage. The wisdom of your choice eludes me, I confess, but I long ago gave up trying to understand women.”

“Let go of me.” Instead his arms tightened cruelly. But only for a moment; then, to her surprise, he released her. She backed away immediately, seeking distance, trying desperately to read his face. He was surveying the room, taking in its small ordinariness with a contemptuous glance. Shocked, she watched him walk to the bed and sit down at the foot, crossing his booted legs and smiling across at her coldly. She dreaded to ask, but she could not wait any longer. “Clay,” she faltered, hardly above a murmur; “how is he?”