Love According To Lily (28 page)
It was quite surprising when Lily realized that contrary to how she had felt early on in her marriage—when she’d believed she could not live without Whitby’s full devotion—she was not unhappy in the months leading up to her delivery.
She had taught herself to focus on the bright side. Though her husband never spoke of things that comprised his own heart, he treated Lily with kindness, generosity and respect. He never uttered a cruel word to her, nor did he criticize her running of the household or anything else she did. He complimented her on the way she looked, laughed at her jokes, listened with interest to whatever she wanted to talk about, and he was a magnificent, tireless lover. He made love to her whenever she wanted it—he had an uncanny ability to recognize when she did—and he was sensitive to the times she did not.
They had, as a result, learned to take each day as it came, not spending a great deal of time together, for he had transformed into a very dedicated landlord and spent most of his days making improvements to the estate, both large and small. He had earned the respect of the tenants and the household staff, and for that, Lily was proud of him.
All in all, it was a comfortable life. They were compatible and polite to each other, and though it wasn’t perfect, it was a great deal better than what her mother had endured in her marriage. Lily endeavored to remember that.
Annabelle, too, seemed happier these days. She and Lily were still painting together, and though Lily knew she would never possess Annabelle’s natural evocative talent, she had become quite proficient, having completed some landscapes and a number of works with fruit or flowers.
Lily had also managed to convince Annabelle to consider the attentions of Mr. MacIntosh, a most agreeable gentleman who had rented a small manor house on the other side of the village. He was an older man with three grown children, and he’d lost his wife to an illness a few years earlier. He was financially well off and was considered by all who knew him to be a man of honor and integrity. Though he was not the most handsome man in England, he possessed an attractive, masculine appeal, and he had striking pale blue eyes.
Annabelle was flattered by his attentions and even seemed willing to believe that a happily-ever-after might be possible for her. She liked Mr. MacIntosh very much.
And so spring arrived, bringing with it rain and blossoms and colorful, fragrant life, as Lily neared the end of her confinement.
With only a few weeks before the baby was due to arrive, she had taken it upon herself to redecorate the nursery, for nothing in the room had been changed since Whitby was a baby, and for all she knew, the rugs and wall coverings had been there since the dark ages.
Thus she began the joyful undertaking with an almost obsessive determination she could not explain. When she had an idea, she wanted it put into action that very instant.
Whitby seemed amused by her single-mindedness, and informed her that the doctor had warned him she might display such behavior, but not to worry, as it was considered normal for women in the late stages of pregnancy. Some called it “feathering the nest.”
It was a sunny afternoon in late May when Lily felt positively desperate to escape the confines of her home, and went out to gather some proverbial feathers in the form of fabric samples for the new cradle she’d had built by one of the finest woodworkers in England.
She and her maid, Aline, traveled privately by closed coach into the village to meet with Madame Dubois, the local dressmaker, who had ordered a number of unusual bolts for Lily to peruse.
She was on her way out the back door of the shop afterward and about to step up into the coach when someone called out her name. “Lady Whitby!”
She stopped and turned. A man was leaning against the outside wall of the shop, and when their eyes met, he pushed himself away from the wall and took a few tentative steps toward her.
She paused uncertainly for a brief second before she replied or invited him to speak to her, for she was sure she did not know him, and for that reason, it was entirely improper for him to call out to her in such a familiar way, especially in her condition. She was not sure of his intentions, and she needed a moment to make a superficial judgment of his character.
She noted his face first—the dark hair and dark brown eyes—and found his expression largely nonthreatening. He looked more hopeful than confrontational. He wore a black coat and hat, which looked rather shabby after seeing all of Madame Dubois’ fine fabrics and ready-made garments. Lily surmised he was not a man of great means.
In the end, it was her instincts she listened to. They led her to believe he did not mean her any harm. So she nodded at her footman, who stood ready at her side, to express that she was willing to speak to the man.
“Good afternoon,” she said politely, yet with reserve, taking a step forward.
He approached and removed his hat. He stopped before her, looking carefully at her face as if he, too, needed to make a superficial judgment about
her
character. She allowed him the freedom to do so, but was unnerved when his gaze dropped briefly to her swollen belly.
She reacted by clutching her reticule tightly with both hands in front of her stomach, and feared she might have been wrong to assume he was harmless.
Lily raised her chin. “What is it, sir? I’m in a hurry.”
He looked her in the eye, then said matter-of-factly, “I am your husband’s cousin.”
Lily stared blankly at him. “Magnus?”
“Yes.”
Lily wet her lips and gathered her composure, making a conscious effort to stand up straight and hold her head high. She did not want him to think she was frightened or intimidated—though she most decidedly was.
Yet, she was angry, too, for she knew what he had done to Whitby’s family, and Annabelle in particular. Magnus had taken away her trust in men, and quite frankly ruined her life.
“You have audacity, sir, speaking to me like this. I know all about you, you see, and I know my husband asked you to stay away.”
A dark shadow of loathing passed over his eyes. He said nothing and glanced up the street as if contemplating something, and for a long moment, Lily wondered if he was just going to put his hat back on and walk away.
He did not do that, however. Rather, he lowered his head.
Surprised, Lily waited for him to look up and say what he wished to say.
Finally he spoke. “Your husband recently made an offer to me for compensation in return for my departure from England. I turned him down, but I’ve had time to reconsider, and I would be obliged if you could inform him of that.”
Lily squeezed her reticule in her hands. “Why are you asking me to tell him? Why not tell him yourself?”
“Because I wanted to get a look at
you
.”
Lily felt herself cowering under the disarming intensity of his assessing eyes. He was judging her.
“And now that you have,” she said bitterly, “I hope you have satisfied your
curiosity.”
He considered that. “I suppose I have. But now I feel only pity for you.”
Lily clenched her teeth together in umbrage. “Why, may I ask?”
“Because you married my cousin.” He backed away and gave a slight bow. “You can tell him I will be at the King’s Arms Tavern this afternoon. Thank you for your time, Lady Whitby.”
Lily stood dumbfounded by his effrontery and shaken by his almost tangible resentment.
She turned to climb into the waiting coach, but he called out to her again. “Lady Whitby.”
Lily froze. She thought about ignoring him, but something made her turn back. Curiosity perhaps.
“Say hello to Annabelle,” he said.
They were taunting words. Later, when she repeated them to her husband, he would blow a gasket.
But strangely, as Lily stood there and looked into Magnus’s eyes, she wondered if he was simply being sincere, and was not shooting a poisoned arrow.
She stared at him for a moment, not sure if she was being taken in, or if she was being too forgiving.
“I’ll tell her,” she said at last, realizing she was again being guided by her instincts. She took a moment to ponder that before she stepped back into her coach.
Later, when Lily was on her way home, replaying her conversation with Magnus over and over in her head and wondering how she was going to explain it to Whitby, the coach hit a bump in the road and she lifted clear off the seat. Aline, across from her, grabbed at the side to steady herself.
A second later, the vehicle swayed ominously and swerved on the road. Bouncing and rattling until it finally lurched, the back end dropped violently onto the road with a clamorous crash that Lily felt all the way up her spine.
Her heart dropped too, as blazing panic surged into her blood and she was tossed like a doll to the side. Her head smacked the window. Aline was screaming with terror.
The world shook and quaked in front of Lily’s eyes as the vehicle tilted and was pulled jostling along the road at a dangerous angle. The coachman’s deep voice hollered at the horses outside, then the world spun in circles as the vehicle flipped, and Lily was knocked unconscious.
As it turned out, they were not far from the house when the coach overturned. When Lily opened her eyes, she was staring up into the face of her husband, who was slapping gently at her cheek.
She blinked up at him a few times, struggling to gather her wits, for she wasn’t quite sure where she was or why he looked so concerned.
Then she remembered the coach swerving and tipping, and realized she was still in it, and it was on its side.
“The baby!” she cried, touching her belly. “Is he all right?”
Whitby knelt on one knee. “I need you to stay calm, Lily. The doctor’s on his way. Are
you
all right?”
She tried with difficulty to sit up, her belly heavy as she pushed up with one arm. Whitby helped support her, waiting for her reply.
“
I
think so,” she said. “I don’t feel any pain anywhere.” She put a hand on her forehead. “What happened?”
“The coach lost a wheel.”
Lily looked around the interior. The curtains were hanging at a bizarre angle. “Where’s Aline? Is she hurt?”