Authors: Lisa Andersen
“I don’t want it to be easy,” Lyla said. “If it was easy, it would be quick, and I want this study to last as long as possible. If possible, I want it to last forever. I would be quite happy to sit in here forever and – and not think.”
“My lady,” His Grace said. “Walk the grounds with me.”
“No!” Lyla cried.
She rose from her seat and walked to the other end of the room.
Walk the grounds. The grounds – where it had all happened. Where the Wemmicks had lost their dignity. Where the Sinnets had lost their pride. Where the fresh life that had been promised since her birth was torn away. Where life had ended.
They were not the same grounds –
no!
Her mind recoiled at the suggestion that she would walk the grounds – any grounds – with a man – any man – even if he was her husband. Her mind screamed at the suggestion, railed against it, cried out in agony. Grounds meant pain; of that she was sure.
His Grace tilted his head at her in bemusement. “My lady?” he said. “Have I said something to offend you?”
“I apologize, Your Grace,” Lyla said, slowly and carefully, lest
her
fear become evident in her words. “I merely do not wish to walk them just now. It is rather cold, and I fear a chill will make me ill.”
His Grace knew something was amiss. It was clear in the way he looked at her. But thankfully he did not press her, and Lyla resumed her seat and together they looked over the translation. Once, when they both made to turn the same page, their hands brushed. Something between excitement and terror moved through Lyla. She did not pull her hand away. She left it there for a moment, feeling the warmth of his hand, and he did not pull
his
away, either. Then the moment was shattered as Tammy knocked on the door.
“Luncheon will be ready soon, Your Grace, if it please you, or I can have the cook
wait
a
li’le
longer.”
His Grace turned to Lyla expectantly.
“Lunch will be
fine
,” she said.
His Grace nodded, and the maidservant left.
They sat in silence, and then His Grace lifted the book and read a Latin phrase. Perhaps he pronounced it incorrectly on purpose, or perhaps he genuinely had forgotten his lessons. In any case, it allowed Lyla to correct him, and His Grace to thank her. The light in the
room
increased, and His Grace’s smile of gratitude was radiant.
Lyla wanted to believe that he was different – that he was not like other men – but it was difficult when she had been so ill-treated, when she had– Her mind stamped it down. Could His Grace be different? Could His Grace really be kind? Could His Grace really believe that she was an honest, good woman?
She realized she hadn’t said anything in a long while. His Grace was on his feet. “Shall we?” he said.
“Hmm, yes, of course—Your Grace.”
“You may call me Thornton,” His Grace said, “if I may call you Lyla.”
“Of course!” Lyla cried recklessly, almost jumping to her feet. Her mind was in disarray. Old and new feelings warred. This man was kind; all men were devils. This man was patient; all men pushed. This man was unique; copies proliferated in every sphere of life. “Thornton,” she said, as they left the library, trying the word on her tongue, tasting it. “Thornton, yes, Thornton.”
“And Lyla,” he said, smiling warmly at her. “My wife.”
“Your wife the murderess.”
“That sours the mood.”
“You must remember what I am.”
“I know what you are. You are a lady who can read Latin.”
With that, he led her to the dining room, where they ate a pleasant luncheon, and said nothing to one another.
*****
A solitary tree stood just shy of the wood at the rear of the
Wallcopse
grounds. It was this tree by which Lyla judged the time that had elapsed since Thornton and she had first made contact. It had been bare, ugly, misshapen. Branches had stuck out wildly, and it had had the overall appearance of a decrepit old man. And then, as the months passed, it began to sprout tiny leaves, careful leaves which seemed afraid to come fully into the light. Braver and braver these leaves grew until one day the tree was covered
in
them. The misshapenness became an advantage; it served as
a wonderful
canvas for these leave-artists. The decrepit old man, in the flowering of spring, and then the early hints at
summer
had become young again.
*****
It was mid-May when the Sinnets received a letter from Lyla’s father. He and Mother begged that they
be
allowed to visit the castle. They had not visited it yet, and had not seen fit to write for a score of different reasons, but now they wished to see their daughter again and meet her husband. Lyla was not overjoyed at the prospect, but it had been almost a year since she had last seen her parents: since they had shipped her off to be married to a man she did not know.
The morning was fine, and she and Thornton were walking in the garden. This feat had come about slowly,
by
days and then weeks and then months of coaxing. Thornton had shown an almost superhuman ability for patience with her. Not once had he pushed her to “just get on with it”, as many men would do. Not once had
he
snapped at her, or lost his temper. He had
simply
asked her, each day, if she would like to walk with him. When she declined, he didn’t mention it again that day. The next day he would ask, and the cycle would repeat. It became a joke between them; they would smile self-indulgently as they asked and answered.
“Are you nervous?” Thornton said.
“Yes,” Lyla admitted. “I am very nervous. Seeing them again will bring back—things I would rather stay buried.”
Thornton nodded as though he understood completely, but he didn’t. Lyla still hadn’t told him what had happened on that day. She had blocked it out so completely now that she often thought it was a dream. How could something like that happen on the periphery of a ball? How could high society coexist with monstrous acts? These were questions which perplexed her, and often made her think that it
had
been a dream. No other explanation was possible. But then she reminded herself that she had not received word of any kind from Monica or Marie, and the reality of it slapped her once again.
Mother and Father were to arrive two evenings hence. That meant two nights of broken sleep as old memories resurfaced. Lyla often wished she was a strong woman, that she had in her mind a steel
will
capable of tolerating these mental demons. But the truth was that she was not a strong woman; she was just a woman. She could only deal with it as thousands of women had. She could only shut it away, lock it, abandon the
key
. She could only ignore it, pretend it did not happen.
Which makes it all the more difficult when he insists on talking about it.
“Perhaps it is time,” Thornton had said, about two weeks ago. “It has been a long time, Lyla. A very long time. It has only been almost a year, this is true, but it feels longer. Things have changed drastically. Only my dukedom has stopped us from becoming complete pariahs. But society does suspect us. Some of it probably
hates
us. But I do not care for that. I only wish to know. What happened, Lyla? What happened that day? We have become friends, have we not? Will you not tell me?”
She had not told him. She could not tell him.
Part of it was that she did not wish to shock him. But there was another part, a deeper part, which was afraid that if she told him, he would not believe her. He had not gotten on especially well with his brother, but that didn’t mean he would
believe
it all. After all, they were blood. It was hard to break a bond like that, even if it was an uneasy
bond
. She had collected her book and retired to her bedroom, claiming she had a headache.
There were times, at night, when she was alone and scared and weeping, that she wished Thornton was there with her. She didn’t know when this desire had first cried out
within
her, but she knew it was a real, true desire. She wanted Thornton there with her to soothe everything, to make it go away.
But that can’t happen if you don’t tell him, and you won’t tell him.
“I am nervous, too,” Thornton said, pulling her from her web of reflection.
“
You
are nervous?”
“Of course,” Thornton said. “A man is always nervous when he meets his wife’s parents.”
“Yes, I suppose things like that can still bother us, can’t they?
Normal
things, I mean. Even if we are decidedly
ab
normal.”
Thornton did something he had not done in all these months then. He smiled, leaned over, and kissed her
upon
the forehead.
He
immediately retreated, as though aware that she might recoil. But the kiss was warm upon her forehead, and for a moment she was just a lady and he was just a man, and he had just kissed her upon the head.
Then the
ever-present
darkness returned. Still, she did not regret the shadow of his kiss upon her skin.
*****
The dinner with Mother and Father passed without incident. Indeed, it was so boring, mundane, and humdrum, that Lyla had difficulty recalling anything salient afterwards. It seemed as if the whole event had passed with formalities and nothing more. They conversed about the food, about the war, and about society in general, but not once did they even hint at the event that had brought the four of them into each other’s lives. The entire evening was tinged with a sense of the repressed, and Lyla could not help thinking that she was the source of this repression. After all, she was the focal point; these tumultuous times revolved around her, and her alone. The other party was dead.
They stayed the night, and the next day Mother and Lyla walked the grounds, alone. “Does he treat you well?” Mother whispered, as though her voice might carry on the summer wind.
“Quite well, Mother,” Lyla said. She would not mention the first five months of isolation. Mother would only misinterpret. For her, they would be horrid,
a punishment;
for Lyla they had been a welcome breathing space.
“Does he love you?”
“I do not know, Mother,” Lyla said.
“And do you love him?”
Lyla had never posed this question to herself. It had never entered her thoughts. Their relationship was one of circumstance. She had not considered that a relationship of that sort might have a place for love. She thought
on
it now. She didn’t know what love was. As an experiment, she tried to imagine her life without Thornton, without seeing him every day. Would her mood change? Her heart told her that it would, that she would once again sink into any abyss of self-blame. For Thornton did not see the killer who had gotten away free. He
saw,
as he had said, a lady who could read Latin. The words had been offhand, but they were incredibly important to Lyla. If she could define herself by that – and shun
their
definitions – perhaps she could wake up without a pit in her stomach.
“I love how he makes me feel about myself,” Lyla said. “Yes, I love that very much. And I love to spend time with him. And the idea of not seeing him makes me feel ghastly. I do not know, Mother. You have more experience than me.”
“That sounds like love,” Mother said thoughtfully. “Yes, that sounds like it could not be anything but love. Let me pose you a question, my sweet daughter. It was a question I
posed
to your brother before he eloped to the Colonies.” Her voice dropped even lower. Father had been furious when Rolland eloped with the actress.
Lyla’s
interest
piqued. She had not known that Rolland and Mother talked before he went away. “What did you say?” she urged.
“You mustn’t tell your father,” Mother said.
“I will not.”
“You must promise.”
“I promise.”
“It was just
me and him
. We were
completely
alone. I felt that I could speak freely. So I said to him, ‘Son, if this lady of yours were to suffer a catastrophic accident. If all her money, her looks, her everything were to be stripped away, would you stand by her?
’
That, I told him, was the true measure of love. You can only count on somebody who, if everything
was
taken away from you, would not abandon you. That is why, I believe, it is difficult for most people to love. They do not know what it truly means. Their lives are
easy
.”
It was strange to hear Mother speak like this: Mother, who, for the longest time, had simply been an addition to Father, a
thing
upon his arm. “Are you asking me the question?” Lyla said.