It had not happened again, but she had understood after she’d finally coaxed herself out of the water and lay shivering and frightened on the bank that perhaps she would never feel clean again. It was a secret fear she had learned to live with. But if he should ever come to share the feeling, she would no longer be able to do so.
She should have spoken her fears in the cottage, she thought. She should have told him exactly how she felt. She should have told him about Manuel, about her long trek to Lisbon, about her dreams, her fears, her nightmares—no, there was only one of those. She should have told him. But she had been unable to.
That, perhaps, had been the worst thing of all. How could they ever grow close again if they did not share everything that was themselves?
Lily, opening her eyes to gaze sightlessly out over the roof of the abbey to the sea in the distance, became aware suddenly of a slight movement to her left. Someone was coming up the path from the direction of the rock garden. Or rather someone was standing off there in the distance close to a tree trunk, scanning the path ahead with one hand shading his eyes. Or hers. It was impossible to tell who it was, but it was someone tallish, wearing a dark cloak. Perhaps it was Neville, come looking for her. Her heart leapt with gladness. Perhaps they could talk after all in a secluded place like this. And he would not care that she had climbed a tree. She waved an arm even as she realized that it was not he. There was something about the way the figure stood that was unfamiliar.
The man—or woman—disappeared. Or ducked out of sight. Embarrassed, perhaps, to see her perched in a tree branch? Or perhaps whoever it was had not seen her at all.
Lily was disappointed. Being alone was obviously not the best idea this afternoon. She would go back home, she decided as she climbed carefully back to the ground and made her way down the path toward the rock garden. Perhaps Elizabeth would care to take a stroll with her.
As she rounded a bend halfway down she walked almost headlong into the Duke of Portfrey, who was coming in the opposite direction—wearing a dark cloak.
“Oh,” Lily said, “it was you.”
“I was in the stables when you passed awhile ago,” he told her, “and guessed you were on the rhododendron walk. I just now decided to come to meet you.” He offered her his arm.
“That was kind of you,” she said, taking it. But why had he stood there so furtively, searching for her, or for someone, and then doubled back only to come onward again and pretend that he was just now coming to meet her?
“Not at all,” he said. “You were telling me about your mother some time ago, Lily, when we were interrupted.”
They had been interrupted by Elizabeth, who had told him he was being too inquisitive.
“Yes, sir,” Lily said.
“Tell me,” he asked her. “Was she from Leicestershire too?”
“I believe so, sir,” she said.
“And her maiden name?”
Lily had no idea and told him so. But the probing nature of his questions was making her uneasy.
“What did she look like?” he asked. “Like you?”
No. Her mother had been plump and round-faced and rosy-cheeked and dark-eyed. She had been tall—or so she had appeared to a child who was only seven when she died. She had had an ample and comfortable bosom on which to pillow one’s head—though Lily did not add that detail to the description she gave the duke.
“How old are you exactly, Lily?” he asked.
“Twenty, sir.”
“Ah.” He was silent for a few moments. “Twenty. You do not look so old. What is your date of birth?”
“I am twenty years old, sir,” she replied firmly, beginning to feel annoyed by the duke’s persistent questions.
They had already passed through the rock garden and were approaching the fountain. He looked down at her. “I beg your pardon, Lily,” he said. “I have been impertinent. Forgive me, please. It is just that you have reminded me of an old—oh, obsession, I suppose one might call it, from which I thought I had long recovered until you stepped into the nave of the village church.”
She was puzzled by him. She was annoyed with him. And she was not sure whether she ought to be a little frightened of him.
“Forgive me.” He stopped at the fountain, smiled at her, and raised her hand to his lips.
“Of course, sir,” she said graciously, drawing her hand away and turning to run lightly up the steps to the terrace. She forgot that looking the way she did, she ought to have run around to the servants’ entrance. But she was fortunate enough not to see anyone except the footman, Mr. Jones, who blushed and responded to her bright greeting with an embarrassed smirk.
The Duke of Portfrey had a handsome, elegant appearance and a pleasant smile, she thought. But it would be foolish indeed to stop being wary of the man.
The following day Neville went out early in the morning on estate business with his steward. It was not quite noon when he returned alone through the village. He decided to stop at the dower house to see how Lauren and Gwen did, though they called most days at the abbey. Lauren insisted on behaving just as if nothing untoward had happened. It might even be said that she had taken Lily under her wing. She sometimes even read and played the pianoforte for her. While it might seem to be a happy turn of events, it had Neville worried.
Gwendoline was alone in the morning room. She set down a book when Neville was shown in and raised her face for his kiss on the cheek. She did not smile at him. Gwen had not done much smiling lately.
