"I will go up to her now, then," Elizabeth said, "if you will all excuse me."
Forbes, Neville realized belatedly, was standing silently at the sideboard. But it did not matter. Such a truth as the fact that he and Lily were not married could not be kept from the servants anyway. They might as well learn the full story from the butler as be regaled piecemeal with a mixture of truth and rumor over the coming days.
"Perhaps," Neville said, getting to his feet too and pushing back his chair with the backs of his knees, "we should all adjourn to the drawing room. I have no wish to imbibe port for the next half hour or so."
Derek and his brother William, aged seventeen, looked almost comically disappointed. The wave of humor Neville felt in noticing it felt incongruous with his other feelings. But it served to remind him that somehow life went on through even the worst upheavals to which it was subjected.
He was going to find that pack of Doyle's for Lily, he thought suddenly, if it was humanly possible to do so. Whatever it had contained for Lily might well have disappeared, especially if it was money, but perhaps he could retrieve something. She must be quite without a memento of her father, he realized. He remembered some of the things she had said to him when he showed her the gallery. It must be dreadful to have lost all of one's family, to be unacquainted with any who remained, to have lost everything connected with one's parents.
That was what he would do for her. If the pack still existed somewhere in this world, he would find it—even if it took him the rest of his life. He would restore something of her father to her.
It felt soothing to know that there was something, however slight, that he could do.
"Nev." Joseph, Marquess of Attingsborough, set a hand on his shoulder as they were all leaving the dining room. "You don't need drawing room chatter this evening, old chap. You need to get thoroughly foxed. Would you care for sympathetic company while you do it?"
Chapter 16
Lily was still sitting on the chair she had dragged close to the window, her legs curled up beneath her. She had got up only once since she had come hurrying upstairs from the library, pulled off with frantic haste the pretty new clothes she had so recently donned, and threw on the old cotton dress again instead. She had got up to drag a blanket from the bed and wrap it about herself. The evening had turned chilly, though she would not close the window. She continued to stare out into the darkness.
The soft tap on the door of her bedchamber did not disturb her. She simply ignored it. It would be him, and she could not look at him or speak to him. Her resolve might slip and she might cling to him—for the rest of her life. She would not allow that to happen. Love was not enough. She loved him—she adored him—to the depths of her soul, but it simply was not enough. She did not belong in his life. He did not belong in hers—though that thought was potentially frightening. She did not have a life. But she refused to be daunted by the yawning emptiness that lay beyond this final night at Newbury Abbey.
"Lily?" It was Elizabeth's voice. "May I come in, my dear? May I sit here beside you?"
Lily looked up. As usual Elizabeth was the epitome of understated elegance in a dark-green high-waisted gown, her blond hair dressed in a smoothly shining coiffure. She was the quintessential aristocrat, daughter of an earl, educated, accomplished, a woman of immaculate but easy manners. And she was asking to sit beside a sergeant's daughter—Lily Doyle? Well. Lily had always been proud of her father; she cherished fond memories of her mother; she had grown up liking and respecting herself. Her self-respect had faltered during those seven months when she had chosen survival over defiance, but it had recovered. There was nothing in herself or in her life and background of which she was ashamed.
She nodded and returned her gaze to the darkness of the outdoors.
Elizabeth drew a chair close to Lily's and seated herself. She took one of Lily's hands in both her own. They were warm. For the first time Lily realized that she was still cold despite the blanket and the fact that the evening air was not so very cold after all.
"How I honor you, Lily," Elizabeth said.
Lily looked at her in surprise.
"You have done what is right for both Neville and yourself," Elizabeth said. "But it was not easy to do. You have given up a great deal."
"No." Lily shook her head. "It is not difficult to give up Newbury Abbey and all this." She gestured about her with her free arm. "You do not understand. This is the sort of life to which you were born. I grew up in the train of an army."
"What I meant," Elizabeth said gently, "was that you have given up Neville. You love him." It was not a question.
"It is not enough," Lily said.
"No, it is not, my dear." Elizabeth agreed. They sat together in silence for a while before she spoke again. "Neville says that you wish to find employment."
"Yes," Lily said. "I do not know what I am qualified to do, but I am willing to work hard. I think perhaps Mrs. Harris, with whom I came to England from Lisbon, will help me find something if I ask her."
"I can offer you employment," Elizabeth said.
"You?" Lily stared at her.
Elizabeth smiled. "I am six-and-thirty years old, Lily," she said, "and long past the age of needing chaperones wherever I go. But I am a woman living alone and there are conventions to be observed. I am expected to have a companion in residence and in tow whenever I venture out without male escort. I had Cousin Harriet with me for five years, but she was provoking enough to marry a rector just four months ago and leave me companionless. I was delighted for her, of course—she is older than I and has always believed that a woman is not a complete person until she gives up her personhood in order to marry. And, really, Lily, she was a trial to me. Two women so different in character and temperament it would be difficult to find. I need a replacement. I need a companion. Will you be she? It would be a salaried position, of course."
Lily despised herself for the rush of gladness she felt. But it would not do.
"You are kind," she said. "But I am in no way equipped to offer you companionship. Consider my deficiencies—I cannot read or write; I cannot paint or play the pianoforte; I know nothing about the theater or music or—or anything. I am not of your world. If you found your cousin tiresome, you would soon find me impossible."
"Oh, Lily." Elizabeth smiled and squeezed Lily's hand, which she still held. "If you knew how dull life can be for a woman of ton, you would not so readily reject my offer. One is cabin'd, cribb'd, and confin'd at every turn, to borrow a phrase. One is subjected to insipid company, insipid entertainments, and insipid conversation, largely because one is a woman. You cannot know, perhaps, what a delight you have been to me in the past week and a half. You think you have nothing to offer by way of companionship because you do not know the things that I know. Well, I know them, my dear. I do not need to be told them by someone else. But I do not know the things you know. We could share worlds, Lily. We could entertain each other. Life with you in my home would be great fun, I daresay. And you have a lively, intelligent mind, even if you do not realize it—intelligence is such an important attribute. Do say you will come—as my friend. For convenience's sake you would be my employee since you will need something on which to live. But to all intents and purposes you would simply be my friend. What do you say?"