The Lady of Lyon House (7 page)

“I—I don't really know. She thought a few weeks in the country would do me good.”

“So it will,” Edward Lyon replied. “So it will. Still, it seems a little strange.”

“Mattie had her reasons,” I said.

I had no intention of speaking about that other. I wanted to forget about it entirely, and I was not going to think about it if I could help it. It, too, was far away, already a thing of the past, a vague, shadowy nightmare that had no substance here.

“Tell me about Lyon House,” I said, changing the subject.

“It's a lovely place, not too large, but a grand estate just the same. Lyons have lived in it for two hundred years, ever since it was built during the reign of Elizabeth. Rumor has it that the great queen herself once stayed there, but I've never been able to find any verification of the story. It will belong to me one day, when Corinne dies. I'm not sure I want the responsibility.”

“Responsibility?”

“There is so much upkeep on a place like Lyon House, and there are the tenant farms, seven of them, surrounding the place. It takes all one's energies to run such an establishment—doesn't leave much time for fun.”

“Is fun so important?” I asked.

“For me it is. I want to enjoy myself. I want to travel and meet interesting people and ride and hunt and go to parties. I don't want to be tied down by a house, no matter how grand.”

“That's an absurd viewpoint,” I said. “Life isn't meant for that when you have—well, a tradition to uphold. You should be proud. You should consider yourself fortunate.”

“Nobly spoken,” he replied. He laughed, throwing his head back. I noticed again the rich copper highlights in his auburn hair. The wind ruffled the thick waves and it curled about the nape of his neck. He had long sideburns, beautifully trimmed. Everything about the man was neat and well groomed.

“I'd imagine I'm talking for my own benefit,” he said. “I love the place, actually. It's just that I have no deep-seated sense of tradition. Since my uncle had no sons, it has always been assumed that I would take over Lyon House, following the illustrious footsteps of my ancestors. There's a whole gallery of family portraits at the house. I used to be frightened of them when I was a little boy—such severe, serious old men with such sober eyes and tight mouths. I don't see myself hanging alongside them in an ornate gold frame.”

“Have you always lived at Lyon House?” I asked.

“Yes. My father was the second son; his misfortune. He went into the Army, and later my mother followed him there. I was born in Calcutta. My mother slowly expired under the climate, and she died three years after my birth. I was sent back to England to live here in Devonshire. When I was seven, my father died of the fever in Bengal. I never knew either of my parents.”

“How very sad,” I said.

“So you and I have something in common,” he said lightly, flicking the whip over the horse's back. “Both orphans, but we've turned out rather nicely, don't you think?”

I asked him about Oxford, wishing to divert the conversation from its rather maudlin course. Edward Lyon launched into a colorful account of his exploits among the halls of ivy. He had been shockingly poor in all his studies and had managed to leave the school only through the grace of a flock of tutors and the strength of the family name. He told me about his drinking and gambling and the mountain of debts, about the frolicksome escapades that had threatened to send him home in disgrace. He told me how he had wanted to throw everything to the winds and run away to Greece with a young companion and write poetry among the ruins.

“Byron's influence, you know. Never came to anything. I stayed to take my exams and, believe it or not, passed them all. Rather a lark, the whole thing.”

“And so now you are back at Lyon House, champing at the bit,” I remarked.

“Not champing exactly. Restless—or at least I was until now. Now Lyon House seems delightfully promising.”

“You're being gallant again,” I said.

“Dreadful of me. You'll have to learn to put up with it, Julia.”

The horse trotted down the curving gray road. We passed fields of grain, waving golden brown in the breeze, and tenant farms, all neat and clean, square white houses with thatched roofs, large red barns, pastures with cows grazing beneath the trees. The pale blue sky was momentarily blotted out as we turned into a long avenue of trees, their branches joining overhead to form a tunnel. Sunlight sifted through them and dappled the road with specks of gold. I looked up at the dark green leaves, seeing occasional patches of sky when they separated. The horse's hooves pounded on the firm packed road.

“Devonshire is lovely,” I said.

“Particularly at this time of year,” Edward Lyon replied. “There are flowers everywhere, if you care for that sort of thing.”

“You don't?”

“Not madly, no. Corinne does. Her gardens are famous in these parts. They're her great pride.”

We passed over a gray stone bridge that spanned a small river that bubbled over flat white pebbles. Willow trees dripped their jade green branches along the white sand bank and into the blue water. He told me that the stream wound through the Lyon estate, passed through the village and eventually went out into the sea, a few miles away. We passed another farm. A farmer was plowing in a field, turning over rich black soil with his primitive plow. There was a patch of woods, and then a clearing filled with scarlet-orange poppies growing in wild profusion. Their odor was heady. I closed my eyes to savor it.

“The country has a strange effect on people,” Edward Lyon remarked as we drove over another stone bridge. “Some people fall in love with it immediately and some immediately grow nervous and long for the pavements of the city. I fall somewhere in between the two categories. Is this your first time in the country?”

“Yes it is,” I replied, “and it is a revelation.”

Edward Lyon smiled. He flicked the whip again and the horse moved at a brisker trot.

We were passing along a lovely avenue of elm trees, growing tall and graceful behind a white wooden fence on either side of the road. I could see green slopes behind them and, farther off, the crest of a mountain that was merely a purple haze, like a cloud. Edward Lyon told me that we were almost at Lyon House now, and I felt my pulses quicken with nervous excitement.

“I am a little apprehensive about meeting Mrs. Lyon,” I confessed. “I feel like I am imposing on her, coming like this.”

“Nonsense. Corinne went into fits of excitement when her friend wrote her about you. Lyon House gets pretty lonely sometimes. There is no one but the servants and Agatha and me to keep the old lady occupied during the day. She'll welcome you with enthusiasm. You'll be a diversion for her.”

“What is she like?”

“Corinne? She's a dragon. Terrifying until you get to know her. She always has been. Bossy, temperamental, autocratic, but grand. She is gracious and generous and warm hearted, despite appearances, but she is determined to have her own way about everything. She usually does. There is no one in the county with guts enough to defy her. She loves to shock people and feels she must fly off the handle two or three times a day just to keep in shape.”

“Oh dear, you're making me nervous,” I said.

“Don't be. Stand up to her and snap back, and Corinne will love you. She has spirit, and she loves spirit in others. She's a bit larger than life, a grand old eccentric of the old school. I adore her. She tolerates me.”

“She's a widow, isn't she?”

“Yes, my uncle died five years ago. People of the county expected his death to tone her down some, but Corinne was out riding the morning after his death, charging over the hills and galloping down the roads on her fine white stallion. The people were scandalized, horrified at her lack of respect, but it was the kind of gesture they had grown to expect from Corinne. Anything less spectacular would have disappointed them.”

“Does she still ride?”

“Every morning at seven. She's in her middle fifties, but she's aglow with health. She wears a tan riding habit and a tan derby with a long moss green veil that flies behind her like a banner. It's one of the famous sights of the county.”

“She sounds formidable.”

“She isn't, not after the first shock has worn off. Everyone loves her, in spite of her shrewish temper and scalding tongue. The tenants of Lyon House worship her. There are no finer farms in this part of the country, and that's because the people are happy and work well.”

“Tell me about Agatha Crandall. She's a paid companion, isn't she? I think Mattie told me that.”

Edward Lyon frowned. I saw a dark line crease his brow; and his eyes grew dark. He scowled, and his face was suddenly unpleasant like that of a petulant schoolboy.

“Agatha was a girlhood friend of Corinne's. They went to school together. Agatha's husband died shortly after my uncle, and she came to Lyon House for a visit. She was penniless, had no place else to go, so she just stayed on. Corinne took her in like you would take in a stray cat. Mrs. Crandall isn't much companionship. She spends most of her time in her room, wearing Corinne's cast off clothes and drinking the cellar dry.”

“You don't like her?”

“Let's just say I don't approve of her. If Corinne wants to have her around, that's her business.”

“How many servants are there?” I asked.

“The cook, the housekeeper, two maids and the gardener. They are all new, haven't been at Lyon House a month. Corinne runs through servants rather quickly. A few of her tantrums and they ask for their pay and leave. I'm hoping this new batch will prove more durable.”

The carriage rolled through the avenue of elms and turned, passing through two gray stone portals. We came upon a large apple orchard, the fruit hanging heavily on the branches of the trees. The apples were still green, though some of them were slowly turning a soft rose shade. The ground below was dark with shade, covered with dead leaves and rotting apples, and I could smell their sharp odor. On the other side of the orchard there was a small cream brick house, tall and narrow with two stories and a dark brown roof. There were brown shutters around each window, and ivy grew up one side of the house, clinging to the brick in dark green strands, dusty. The porch was varnished golden oak, and there was a small portico of the same material. A gigantic oak tree in the front yard spread violet shade over the yard, and there were shabby gardens on either side of the house, a path of gray flagstones winding through them. It was a charming place, and I asked if it was part of Lyon House.

“You might call it the scion of Lyon House,” Edward Lyon remarked. “It was originally built for young married couples of the family to get away from the parental roof for a while and be alone. In an outburst of democratic feeling fifty years ago, my grandfather gave the house and the seven acres surrounding it to his bailiff, and it passed out of the family. It's owned now by an old woman who lives in London. She frequently rents it out to people who want a place in the country for a few months. It's vacant now.”

It was nearing sunset, and the blue sky had gradually faded to a gleaming silver with only a few soft strokes of blue. The trees along the drive were silhouetted against it, and they spread long violet shadows across the road. We made another turn, and I could see Lyon House for the first time. It was still far away. The horse trotted slowly, bringing the house closer and closer, it seemed, and I watched it with an intense concentration, unable to take my eyes away from the beauty of it.

Lyon House too, was made of cream colored brick, softly washed now by the dying rays of sunlight, and it, too, was two stories high, rising tall and graceful against the silver sky. Slender white columns across the front supported a portico with a weathered blue roof that had faded to a pale, almost colorless shade. The roof of the house was the same faded blue, and there were three chimneys of light orange brick. Dark blue shutters framed the windows with leaden glass that threw back the sunlight in silvery bursts of light. There was a small lion of black marble on either side of the front steps, and tall evergreen trees grew along the circular drive of crushed shell that led up to the steps. It was the most beautiful house I had ever seen, a thing of form and light and soft color that graced the place it stood.

Edward Lyon was aware of my awe. He said nothing, but there was a smile on his lips and he glanced at me with satisfaction. Words would have spoiled the magic of the moment. He drove the carriage around the drive and stopped in front of the steps. The shafts moved a little after we had stopped, and then we were still.

I could not move for a moment, and Edward Lyon respected my mood. He held the reins lightly in his lap, enjoying my appreciation of his home. After a while he got out and took my hand, helping me down. We stood on the steps, and I looked at the black marble lions that seemed to guard the place.

I stood under the portico that covered all the long front porch. I saw the immense white door with a brass knocker in its center shaped as the head of a lion, its mouth holding a brass ring. Soft shadows swept over the porch, and I waited there while Edward Lyon took my luggage out of the surrey. On either side of the house I could see the gardens that spread out in terraced wings under the rapidly thickening twilight. From somewhere I could hear fountains, a melodious, plinking sound that was like music. A bird warbled in a rose bush, and the insects had already begun their nocturnal serenade.

Edward Lyon piled my luggage in a neat stack on the porch and then he stood looking at me, his fists on his hips. A lock of auburn hair had fallen over his forehead, and he had the expression of a little boy who is showing a treasured possession to his friend.

“Like it?” he asked quietly.

“I couldn't possibly say how much.”