It Happened One Autumn (38 page)

The door to Butterfly Court was ajar when she reached it. Squaring her shoulders, Lillian composed her features into cool unconcern, and strode inside. The countess was alone in the hidden garden, with no servant nearby to attend her. She sat on the circular garden bench as if it were a throne, her jeweled walking stick resting beside her. As expected, her expression was stony, and for a brief moment Lillian was almost tempted to laugh at the reflection that the woman resembled a tiny warrior, prepared to accept nothing less than uncontested victory.

“Good morning,” Lillian said pleasantly, approaching her. “What a lovely place you’ve chosen for us to meet, my lady. I do hope the walk from the house was not too strenuous for you.”

“That is my own concern,” the countess replied, “and none of yours.”

Although there was no discernible expression in her fish-flat black eyes, Lillian was aware of a sudden slithery chill. It wasn’t quite fear, but an instinctive trepidation that she had never felt in their previous encounters. “I was merely expressing an interest in your comfort,” Lillian said, holding up her hands in a mocking gesture of self-defense. “I won’t provoke you with any further attempts at friendliness, my lady.

Go right ahead and speak your piece. I am here to listen.”

“For your own sake, and for my son’s, I hope that you do.” An icy brittleness layered the countess’s words, and yet at the same time she sounded vaguely perplexed, as if disbelieving that there was a necessity of saying these things at all. No doubt of all the controversies she had experienced in her lifetime, this was one she had never expected. “Had I imagined that a girl of your commonness would be capable of attracting the earl, I would have put a stop to this far earlier. The earl is not in full possession of his faculties, or it would never have come to this madness.”

As the silver-haired woman paused to draw breath, Lillian heard herself asking quietly, “Why do you call it madness? A few weeks ago you allowed that I might be able to catch a British peer. Why not the earl himself? Are you objecting mostly because of your personal dislike, or—”

“Stupid girl!” the countess exclaimed. “My objections stem from the fact that no one in the past fifteen generations of Marsden heirs has married outside the aristocracy. And my son willnot be the first earl to do so! You understand nothing about the importance of blood—you, who come from a country that has no traditions, no culture, and no vestige of nobility. If the earl marries you, it will be not only his failure, but mine, and the downfall of every man and woman related to the Marsden escutcheon.”

The pomposity of the statement nearly drew a jeering laugh from Lillian… except that she began to understand, for the first time, that Lady Westcliff’s belief in the inviolability of the Marsdens’ noble lineage was nearly religious in its fervor. As the countess worked to restore her tattered composure, Lillian wondered how, if at all, she might bring the issue down to a personal level, and appeal to the countess’s deeply buried feelings for her son.

Emotional candor was seldom easy for Lillian. She preferred to make clever comments, or cynical ones, as it had always seemed far too risky to speak from the heart. This was important, however. And perhaps she owed an attempt at sincerity to the woman whose son she would soon wed.

Lillian spoke with awkward slowness. “My lady, I know that deep down you must desire your son’s happiness. I wish you could understand how much I want the same thing for him. It is true that I am not noble, nor am I accomplished in the ways that you would prefer…” She paused with a self-derisive smile
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as she added, “Nor am I precisely certain of what an escutcheon is. But I think …I think I could make Westcliff happy. At least I could ease his cares a little…and I will not be a complete madcap, I swear it.

If you believe nothing else, please know that I would never want to embarrass him, or to offend you—”

“I will listen to no more of this puling rubbish!” the countess exploded. “Everything about you offends me. I would not have you as a servant on my estate, much less the mistress of it! My son cares nothing for you. You are merely a symptom of his past grievances against his father. You are a rebellion, a useless retaliation against a ghost. And when the novelty of his vulgar bride wears thin, the earl will come to despise you as I do. But by then it will be too late. The lineage will be ruined.”

Lillian remained expressionless, though she felt the color drain from her face. No one, she realized, had ever looked at her with real hatred until now. It was clear that the countess wished every ill upon her short of death—perhaps not even barring that. Rather than shrink, cry, or protest, however, Lillian found herself launching a counterattack. “Maybe he wants to marry me as a retaliation againstyou, my lady. In which case I am delighted to serve as the means of reprisal.”

The countess’s eyes bulged. “You dare!” she croaked.

Although Lillian was tempted to say more, she half feared it would send the countess into apoplexy.

And, she thought wryly, killing a man’s mother was not a good way to begin a marriage. Biting back more barbed words, she gave the countess a slitted glance. “We’ve made our positions clear, I suppose.

Though I had hoped for a different outcome to our conversation, I will allow that the news is still something of a shock. Perhaps in time we shall come to some kind of understanding.”

“Yes…we will.” There was a soft hiss in the woman’s voice, and Lillian had to resist an instinctive urge to step back as she saw the malevolence in her gaze. Suddenly feeling chilled and befouled by the ugliness of their exchange, Lillian wanted nothing more than to be as far away from her as possible. But the countess could do nothing to her, she reminded herself, as long as Marcus wanted her.

“I will marry him,” she insisted calmly, feeling the need to make that point clear.

“Not as long as I am living,” the countess whispered. Levering herself upward, she grasped her cane and used it to steady her balance. Mindful of the woman’s physical frailty, Lillian nearly went to help her.

However, the woman gave her such a venomous glare that Lillian held back, half suspecting the countess might lash out with the cane.

The gentle morning sun broke through the delicate veil of mist that hung over the butterfly garden, and a few painted ladies unfolded their wings to flutter over the half-open flower cups. It was such a beautiful garden, and such an incongruous setting for the poisonous words that had been exchanged. Lillian followed the older woman’s tedious progress out of Butterfly Court.

“Let me open the door for you,” Lillian offered. The countess waited regally, then crossed the threshold of Butterfly Court. “We might have met at a more convenient place,” Lillian couldn’t resist commenting.

“After all, we can fight just as easily inside the manor, where you wouldn’t have to walk nearly so far.”

Ignoring her, Lady Westcliff continued to walk away. And then she said something curious, not bothering to direct the comment over her shoulder, but to the side, as if she were speaking to someone else. “You may proceed.”

“My lady?” Lillian questioned, puzzled, and she made to follow her outside the hidden garden.

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With brutal quickness, she was smothered in a blur of movement, seized from behind in a crushing grip.

Before she could move or speak, something was clamped over her mouth and nose. Her eyes flew wide in bewildered fear, and she tried to flail, and her lungs moved in a painful attempt to draw in air. The thing over her face, clenched tightly by a large hand, was saturated with a sickly-sweet fluid, its fumes shooting into her nostrils, her throat, chest, head…a swift, noxious billow that caused her to collapse piece by piece, like a tower of painted wooden blocks. Losing control of her arms and legs, she sank into a fathomless darkness, her eyes closing as the sun turned black.

Returning from a late breakfast that had been held at the lakeside pavilion after the morning’s shooting, Marcus paused at the nadir of the great staircase at the back of the manor. One of the shooting party, an elderly man who had been a friend of the family for the past twenty-five years, had sought his attention, wishing to complain about another of the guests. “He shot out of turn,” the old man said heatedly, “not once, not twice, butthrice. And to make matters worse, he claimed to have downed one of the birds thatI shot. Never in all my years of hunting at Stony Cross Park have I encountered such unspeakable boorishness—”

Marcus interrupted with grave politeness, promising that not only would he speak to the offensive guest, but that the elderly man would certainly be invited to return next week to hunt or shoot at his leisure.

Somewhat mollified, the affronted old man left Marcus with a few last grumbles about ill-behaved guests with no conception of gentlemanly manners in the field. Smiling ruefully, Marcus ascended the steps to the back terrace. He saw Hunt, who had also just returned, standing with his head bent toward his wife.

Annabelle looked distinctly worried about something, whispering to Hunt and curling her fingers into the sleeve of his coat.

As he reached the top step, Marcus was approached by Daisy Bowman and her friend Evie Jenner, who, as usual, could not quite bring herself to meet his gaze. Making a shallow bow, Marcus smiled at Daisy, for whom he thought he could easily develop a brotherly affection. The slightness of her form and her sweetly exuberant spirit reminded him of Livia in her younger years. At the moment, however, the usual brightness of her expression had been dulled, and her cheeks were bereft of color.

“My lord,” Daisy murmured, “I am relieved that you have returned. There is a…a private matter that is causing us some concern…”

“How may I be of service?” Marcus asked immediately. A light breeze ruffled through his hair as he bent his head over hers.

Daisy hardly seemed to know how to explain. “It’s my sister,” she told him tensely. “She can’t be found anywhere. The last I saw her was about five hours ago. She left on some errand and wouldn’t explain what it was. When she did not return, I took it upon myself to look for her. And the other wallflowers—that is, Evie and Annabelle—they have been searching, too. Lillian is nowhere to be found in the manor, nor in the gardens. I even walked as far as the wishing well, to see if she’d gone there on some whim. It’s not like her to disappear like this. Not without me, at any rate. Perhaps it is too soon to worry, but…” She paused and frowned, as if she were trying to reason herself out of her concern but found herself unable. “Something is very wrong, my lord. I can feel it.”

Marcus kept his face expressionless, though inside he felt a violent stab of worry. His mind busily riffled through the possible explanations for her absence, from the frivolous to the extreme, and yet nothing seemed to make sense. Lillian was not a silly fool who might have wandered away from the house and become lost, nor, despite her love of pranks, would she play this kind of game. Neither did it seem likely
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that she had gone visiting somewhere, as she knew no one in the village, and she would not have left the estate on her own. Was she injured in some way? Had some illness overtaken her?

His heart thundering anxiously, he kept his voice calm as he glanced from Daisy’s small face to Evie Jenner’s. “Is it possible that she went to the stables and—”

“N-no, my lord,” Evie Jenner said. “I’ve already gone there to ask, and all of the horses are there, and none of the stable hands have s-seen Lillian today.”

Marcus nodded briefly. “I’ll organize a thorough search of the house and grounds,” he said. “She’ll be found within the hour.”

Seeming comforted by his brusque manner, Daisy let out an unsteady sigh. “What can I do?”

“Tell me more about the errand she went on.” Marcus stared intently into her round, gingerbread-colored eyes. “What was your conversation prior to her leaving?”

“One of the housemaids came to deliver a message to her this morning, and—”

“At what time?” Marcus interrupted tersely.

“Approximately eight o’clock.”

“Which housemaid?”

“I don’t know, my lord. I could hardly see a thing, as the door was scarcely opened as they spoke. And the maid wore a mobcap, so I can’t even tell you the color of her hair.”

During the conversation, they were joined by Hunt and Annabelle.

“I’ll question the housekeeper and the housemaids,” Hunt said.

“Good.” Filled with an explosive need for action, Marcus muttered, “I’ll start the grounds search.” He would gather a group of servants and a few male guests, including Lillian’s father, to help. Rapidly he calculated the length of time that Lillian had been absent, and the distance she could have traveled on foot across relatively rugged terrain. “We’ll begin with the gardens, and broaden it to a ten-mile radius around the manor.” Catching Hunt’s gaze, he jerked his head toward the doors, and they both made to depart.

“My lord,” came Daisy’s anxious voice, delaying him briefly. “You will find her, won’t you?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “And then I’m going to strangle her.”

That drew a tense smile from Daisy, and she watched him as he strode away.

Marcus’s mood progressed from biting frustration to unendurable worry during the lengthening afternoon. Thomas Bowman, grimly convinced that his daughter was up to some bit of mischief making, joined a party of riders who searched the nearby woodland and surrounding meadows, while another group of volunteers went down the bluff to the river. The bachelors’ house, the gatehouse, the caretaker’s house, the icehouse, the chapel, conservatory, wine cellar, stable and stable yard were all meticulously inspected. It seemed that every inch of Stony Cross Park had been covered, with nothing, not so much as a footprint or discarded glove, to indicate what might have happened to Lillian.