"God forgives you, Sergeant." Where the devil is the chaplain? "And no one could ever have doubted your devotion to Lily."
Parker-Rowe and Lily arrive at the same moment, the latter hurtling down the hill at reckless speed. Neville gets to his feet and stands to one side as Lily takes his place beside her father, gathering his hand into both her own, bending low over him, her hair a curtain about his face and her own.
"Papa," she says. She whispers his name over and over again and remains as she is for several minutes while the chaplain murmurs prayers and the company stands about, helpless in the presence of death and grief.
***
After they have buried Sergeant Doyle on the hillside where he died, Neville orders the camp moved two or three miles farther on. He walks on one side of a silent, frozen-faced Lily while Parker-Rowe walks on the other side. He has already spoken with the chaplain.
Lily has not wept. She has not spoken a word since Neville took her by the shoulders and raised her to her feet and told her gently what she already knew—that her father was gone. She is accustomed to death, of course. But one is never prepared for the death of a loved one.
"Lily," Neville says in the same gentle voice he used earlier, "I want you to know that your father's last thoughts were of you and your safety and your future."
She does not answer him.
"I made him a promise," he tells her. "A gentleman's promise. Because he was my friend, Lily, and because it was something that I wanted to do anyway. I promised him that I would marry you today so that you will have the protection of my name and rank for the rest of this journey and for the rest of your life."
There is still no response. Has he really made such a promise? A gentleman's promise? Because it was what he wanted? Has he wanted to be forced into doing something impossible so that it can be made possible after all? It is impossible for him, an officer, an aristocrat, a future earl, to marry an enlisted man's humble and illiterate daughter. But doing so has now become an obligation, a gentleman's obligation. He feels a strange welling of exultation.
"Lily," he asks her, bending his head to look into her pale, expressionless face—so unlike her usual self, "do you understand what I am saying to you?"
"Yes, sir." Her voice is flat, toneless.
"You will marry me, then? You will be my wife?" The moment seems unreal, as do all the events of the past two hours. But there is a sense of breathless panic. Because she might refuse? Because she might accept?
"Yes," she says.
"We will do it as soon as we have made camp again then," he says.
It is unlike Lily to be so passive, so meek. Is it fair to her…
But what is the alternative? A return to England, to relatives he knows she has never met? Marriage to an enlisted soldier of her own social rank? No, that is an unbearable thought. But it is Lily's life.
"Look at me, Lily," he commands, no longer gently, using the voice that she, as well as all the men under his command, obeys instinctively. She looks. "You will be my wife within the hour. Is it what you want?"
"Yes, sir." Her eyes stare dully back into his before he looks over her head and locks eyes with the chaplain.
It will be so, then. Within the hour. The great impossibility. The obligation.
Again the panic.
Again the exultation.
***
The marriage service is conducted before the whole company and is officially witnessed by Lieutenant Harris and the newly promoted Sergeant Rieder. The gathered men seem not to know whether to cheer or to maintain the subdued solemnity they have carried from Sergeant Doyle's funeral three hours ago. Led by the lieutenant, they applaud politely and give three cheers for their newly married major and for the new Viscountess Newbury.
The new viscountess herself appears totally detached from the proceedings. She goes quietly off to help Mrs. Geary prepare the evening meal. Neville does not stop her or mention the fact that a viscountess must expect to be waited upon. He has duties of his own to attend to.
***
It is dark. Neville has checked on the pickets and the schedule for the night watch.
He will remain in the army, he has decided. He will make a permanent career of it. In the army he and Lily can be equals. They can share a world with which they are both familiar and comfortable. He will no longer feel pulled in two directions as he has since he left Newbury.
They would not want him back there now anyway. Not with Lily. She is beautiful. She is everything that is grace and light and joy. He is in love with her. More than that, he loves her. But she can never be the Countess of Kilbourne, except perhaps in name. Cinderellas are fine in the pages of a fairy tale and might expect to live happily ever after with their princes. In real life things do not work that way.
He is glad he has married Lily. He feels as if a load has been lifted from his soul. She will be his world, his future, his happiness. His all.
His tent, he notices, has been set up a tactful distance away from the rest of the camp. She is standing alone outside it, looking off into the moonlit valley.
"Lily," he says softly as he approaches.
She turns her head to look at him. She says nothing, but even in the dim moonlight he can see that the glazed look of shock has gone from her eyes. She looks at him with awareness and understanding.
"Lily." Everything they say now is in whispers so that they will not be overheard. "I am so sorry. About your father."
He lifts one hand and touches the tips of his fingers lightly to one of her cheeks. He has thought about this. He will not force himself on her tonight. She must be allowed time to grieve for her father, to adjust to the new conditions of her life. She still says nothing, but she raises one hand and sets it against the back of his, drawing his palm fully against her cheek.
"I ought to have said no," she says. "I did know what you were asking of me. I pretended even to myself that I did not so that I would not have to refuse you and face an empty future. I am sorry."
"Lily," he says, "I did it because I wanted to."
She turns her head and sets her lips against his palm. She closes her eyes and says nothing.
Lily. Ah, Lily, is it possible…
"You take the tent," he tells her. "I will sleep on the ground here. You must not worry. I will keep you quite safe."
But she opens her eyes and gazes at him in the moonlight. "Did you really want to?" she asks him. "Did you really want to marry me?"
"Yes." He wishes he could retrieve his hand. He is not made of stone.
"You asked me what my dream was," she tells him. "How could I tell you then? But I can tell you now. It was this. Just this. My dream."
He touches his mouth to hers and wonders while he still can if they have an audience.
"Lily," he says against her mouth. "Lily."
"Yes, sir."
"Neville," he tells her. "Say it. Say my name. I want to hear you saying it."
"Neville," she says, and it sounds like the most tender, the most erotic of endearments. "Neville. Neville."
"Will I share the tent with you, then?" he asks her.
"Yes." There can be no mistaking that she means it, that she wants him. "Neville. My beloved."
Surely only Lily could utter such a word without sounding theatrical.
It seems strange to him that they are about to consummate a marriage when they buried his comrade, her father, a mere few hours ago. But he has had enough experience with death to know that life must reaffirm itself immediately after in the survivors, that living on is an integral part of the grieving process.
"Come then," he says, stooping to open the flap of the small tent. "Come, Lily. Come, my love."