The Lily Brand (29 page)

A sudden, clear image sprung up in Troy’s mind: the light glinting on gold flying through the rain. His stomach clenched.

“…the only keepsakes from her parents…”

He remembered the miniatures inside, small, delicate portraits, exquisitely done.

“The most precious thing in all the world…” The old woman took a shuddering breath before she drifted off into unconsciousness.

Troy slumped down on the chair, bent forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Groaning, he buried his face in his hands. If he had wanted proof of his wife’s innocence, he now had it: a girl’s golden locket. A locket he had bartered for safety and the fare to England.

She had given him the thing she held dearest in the world so that he might purchase his freedom. Even when he had hated her most, she had tried to help him as best as she could. Yet, as caught in her stepmother’s web as himself, she had had only limited resources. He remembered her as she had been in the prison cell: a sad, gray shadow of the Black Widow, a girl more than a woman. How could he have ever expected a girl to fight a lifelong experience of malice and evil?

His lungs felt constricted. He drew a gasping breath.

And how could I have ever been so caught up in my own pain that I didn’t see her suffering?

How could he have seen only the bad:
his
humiliation,
his
fear, the degradation of the metal collar around his neck and, even worse, the abasement and the searing pain of the brand?

His hand splayed over his chest.

The searing pain—the sting of which she had later tried to take away with the oil and the salve. And even though she had indeed led him around the garden like a dog on a leash, in the end it had been
she
who had removed the collar. But he had been unable to see beyond his humiliation and the destruction of his pride.

Instead he had projected his own bitterness onto her, had used her as a scapegoat, as if by punishing her he could erase all the bitter memories, and regain the feeling of his worth as a man. She had seen him at his lowest, no longer a man, but reduced to an animal, and for this he had wanted to revenge himself upon her. To show her his strength. His
manliness
.

Leaning forward, he tunneled his hands through his hair, dug his fingers into his scalp. He could have laughed at the grotesqueness of it all.

For all he had achieved was to prove how weak he was. Not in physical strength, but in spirit. Only a weak-spirited man would have so clung to revenge that he had been blinded to another’s suffering.

He shook his head and jumped to his feet. He had to do
some
thing. He could not just sit here and…

He rubbed his neck. Without his volition, his fingers slid around to his throat and then eased under the material of his shirt until he could feel the unevenness of the scar against his fingertips.
A lily for Lillian.

He drew a deep breath.

His hand fell to his side.

He would get that doctor. Whatever the cost, he would ride to Keighlin and get the doctor.

~*~

Later, Troy would always remember this night with a shudder. Assured his friends would organize all the necessary things in the village, he rode back to the Hall and got himself a lantern and a fresh horse, a sturdy carriage horse that might manage the passing through a wild river. And on he rode, through the darkness and the rain, while the wind howled around him and dragged at his clothes. In the distance, the trees of the forest huddled together like a giant beast, ready to pounce. But he was not deterred, nor did he feel the cold biting his bones. Brighter than any flame, determination burned in him, urged him on, and on, and on.

This was the land of his birth, the land he had roamed since he was a little boy, the land that was in his blood. He knew this place inside out. He would not be delayed by whatever the elements threw at him.

He knew a ford further upstream, where the old road had been before his grandfather had the bridge and a new better road built. The rain had transformed the river into a raging, foaming monster that greedily lapped at the land beyond the riverbed. To attempt a crossing now was madness.

Troy shook the rain out of his eyes and calmed his nervous horse. He watched the river, observed the flood as he would an opponent on the battlefield. The water ran high, but not so high to hold him back. The current would be the greater threat. But his horse was strong, used to carrying heavy loads. Surely, it would be strong enough to withstand the river.

He urged the horse forward, into the foaming flood. Soon, the river reached greedily up, slurping and gurgling, slapped water against his boots—and still, he pressed the horse on. Inch by inch they defied the river; inch by inch they came nearer to the bank on the other side. And finally, with a sucking sound, the river released them, and the horse stepped free of the water.

“Good boy.” Troy bent forward to sling his arms around the animal’s neck. “Such a brave boy you are.” The horse might lack the blood, but it certainly had bottom and bone.

Without faltering, it carried him on to Keighlin, where Troy proceeded to ring the doctor out of bed. Still a young man, with a shiny, pink face that was creased with worry, the physician might have been game for an adventure in the first place. More likely, though, he was loath to argue with a man who looked as if he’d just been dragged through hell. So the man packed his bag, saddled his horse and rode back with Troy.

By the time they reached Ravenhurst lands, the rain had stopped and the wind had chased away the clouds to reveal the pale twinkle of the last stars against the gray sky. Fatigue and exhaustion made Troy lightheaded. Yet unerringly, he led the doctor through the winding lanes to the vicar's house.

The vicar himself opened the door, his eyes growing wide as he saw who was standing on the threshold. Troy swayed on his feet and clutched the door frame to steady himself. “Mr. Norris. I’ve brought the doctor for Mistress Nanette.”

The vicar took their coats and sodden jackets and brought them towels, so they could dry their hands and faces before he led them upstairs. In the little room, Mrs. Norris sat with the old woman—as did Troy’s wife.

His wife.

Troy leaned against the wall to let the doctor pass.
Alive and well.
His vision seemed to blur as he feasted his eyes on the girl whom he had married, the girl who had saved him from the Black Widow’s malice and cruelty. His hand reached up and clutched at his shirt, where underneath the material the lily bloomed on his chest.

A lily for Lillian.

She started when the doctor touched her shoulder, and when she half turned, her mouth formed a perfect circle of astonishment. She stumbled to her feet, awkward in her haste to make room. And Troy saw what toll the night had taken on her: mud and bloodstains soiled her erstwhile white dress. Her hair had come undone and hung in loose, matted strands around her face; her skin was gray with exhaustion. Still, to him she had never been more beautiful.

Then she spotted him and froze.

~*~

It took Lillian a moment to recognize him, damp and bedraggled as he was, so far removed from the immaculate gentleman. No, he looked more like a particularly large rat, drowned twice over. Strain and tiredness had etched deep lines into his face, lending him a haggard appearance and reminding her of how he had looked chained to Camille’s construction. His cornflower-blue eyes burned with the same intensity as then, yet with an entirely different emotion. He stared at her as if he had never seen her before, his gaze curiously hungry.

Behind her, Nanette made a sound, and Lillian’s head whipped around. The doctor had started to unbutton the old woman’s nightgown, baring the blood-soaked bandage underneath. The doctor… they had not been able to get die doctor because the bridge had been washed away.

Very slowly, Lillian looked back at Ravenhurst. Like the young doctor, he was wearing only a sodden shirt and trousers. She took a step toward him.

With a barely suppressed exclamation, he strode across the room to her side. He searched her face, and then his arms were around her, enveloping her in warmth. She did mot mind the dampness of his shirt, if only she could hold on to the warmth a little longer, a shield to protect her while her world came apart at the seams.

Just one little moment…

With a sigh she rested her face against his chest. Strong and steady, his heart thumped against her ear as if to welcome her. As if this were the place God had created for her of this man’s flesh and bone.

The flesh she had marked with her brand.

Lillian shuddered violently.

Immediately, his arms tightened around her. “Hush,” he murmured against her temple. “Hush. Everything will be all right, my dear. Just hush.” With a sob she let herself be pressed back against the strong wall of his chest, a haven in the midst of chaos.

She should have known, though, that in the end the coldness would return for her, that for her there would be no happily ever after.

When the doctor finally cleaned his instruments and put non back into his bag, Nanette had slipped deeper into unconsciousness. Ashen color tinged the doctor’s round, young face, while he explained that the old woman was beyond human help. “Her life rests in the hands of the Lord.”

Lillian stepped out of her husband’s arms, while she felt the coldness gather in the corners of the room like a wild beast, ready to pounce and devour her whole. “Can I hold her hand?” she whispered.

“Of course. I am sure it would bring her comfort, even where she is now.”

She took the chair that Mrs. Norris had abandoned earlier, and sat down beside the bed. With the ease of lifelong familiarity, Lillian slipped her hand into Nanette’s and held on tight. The old woman’s fingers felt so fragile within her own, the skin wrinkled and thin like parchment. Lillian’s heart constricted as she stared at her old nanny’s beloved face.

She hardly heard the door open and close as the doctor left the room. Yet when her husband put a gentle hand on her shoulder, she flinched.

Immediately, he removed his fingers. Deep grooves bracketed his mouth. “Can I bring you something?”

She shook her head.

She started when he brought himself a chair from the other end of the room and set it down beside her. “You do not need to stay,” she said. She almost did not recognize her own voice, flat and dead.

“I think I do.” He sank down on his chair. “Will you allow me this?”

She stared at him a moment longer. Why would he tempt her with illusions of warmth and security? They were just that: illusions. For her, there was only the cold. So she lifted her shoulders in a small shrug and turned her attention back to Nanette. “If you want to.” It was all the same to her, for the coldness would return one way or the other.

~*~

Troy had to swallow several times to dislodge the lump that formed in his throat as he watched his wife holding on to her old nanny’s hand, a small child holding on to her mother in the midst of a storm.

But the storm would swallow her up nonetheless.

He had failed her—bitterly, bitterly failed her. He had misjudged her, ruined her, forced her into a travesty of a marriage, and now he had even failed to protect her from this loss.

Tears burned in Troy’s eyes as he picked up his wife’s free hand, the hand of the girl who had saved him from the Black Widow’s malice and cruelty. He cradled her fingers between his own and warmed them with his flesh. She did not protest, but neither did she look at him. And thus, they sat in silence through the rest of the night, until the candles had burned down and Troy’s fingers had grown numb. Outside the birds broke into jubilant song. The blush of a new dawn colored the horizon, and together with the night, Mistress Nanette’s life ebbed away.

Chapter 16

Troy saw to it that the old woman’s body was brought back to the Hall. Then he ordered his coach so he could bring his wife home. She was very pale, exhaustion bleaching her skin of all color except for the shadows below her eyes, which resembled painful bruises. When she stood, she swayed on her feet, so Troy slipped his arm around her and pulled her against him to lend her the support of his body. Her eyes dim and flat, she let him guide her out of the house into the bright light of the new morning.

After the rain everything glinted and glistened, freshly washed, and it seemed to Troy that all things had taken on a new brilliance as if created anew. Beside him, his wife trembled like a leaf in the wind, a child lost in a world that no longer made any sense. He drew her tighter against him. “Everything will be all right,” he whispered.

She did not react any more than would a statue carved out of ice.

And so, while waiting for his coach on the vicar’s doorstep, Troy pressed his lips against his wife’s dark curls and wished they had the kind of relationship where he could bundle her off to bed, hold her in his arms and offer her the comfort of his body. But in this, he had failed her as well.

He closed his eyes. “How I wish things would have been different,” he murmured. But now all he could do was bring her home and make sure that a maid saw after her, that Nanette’s body was washed and laid out, that candles were lit. Like an old gray mouse, Hill padded through the Hall, from room to room, to close the shutters, veil the mirrors and stop all clocks. Silence settled on the house. Even the Weimaraners remained hushed, as if they too knew of the young mistress’s horrible loss.

Troy only washed, shaved and changed clothes before he went back to the village with Justin to oversee and help with the clearing work. Drake, meanwhile, remained at the Hall in case Troy’s countess needed the comfort of a friend. It pained Troy that he could not be that friend.

In the afternoon, when their clothes were smudged with dirt and mud, Troy caught up with the doctor, who had gone from house to house, looking after the wounded and the ill. Yet all he had done was change a dressing here or there, and clean a wound that had ripped open again.