There were shadows in the corners of the chamber and I felt, while we were talking, that the dead were somehow with us, settling in to listen, too. I felt the living ghosts as well, of what had been and might have been—the more so when the candle in the window guttered and went out on a slight, wispy puff of smoke that hung a moment in the air.
That startled Lily, who’d been sure she’d had three hours left yet of that candle. Then she realized we’d been talking for that long. “I am so sorry.”
“Why? I have enjoyed our talk. Besides, I’m not expected back at Caldow’s Land till morning. When I left with Captain Gordon, he implied our night would be…debauched.”
“I’m sorry to have spoilt it.”
Once again I turned her own words back upon her. “You could never spoil anything.”
The warmth I felt between us did owe nothing to the fire. Her instinct, unlike mine, was to escape it, and I could not blame her. Burns were dangerous.
I kept my seat while Lily rose and took the cups we’d used for wine while we were talking. As she passed me, I could see the weariness upon her face that came not from the lateness of the hour, but from the loneliness of how she lived.
Again I thought of Helen Turnbull, in the comfort of her rooms at Caldow’s Land, who in the absence of her husband—even with him—had the housekeeping assistance of MacDougall and the maid, while Lily kept these lodgings on her own. No matter this was but a single room, it still took effort, and with no one else to share the burden or to keep her company most days, the work must have seemed unrelenting.
I looked around. The coals within the fireplace needed to be banked up properly so that they’d not burn perilously through the night, but would still hold enough heat in the morning to come once again to life and let a new fire be rekindled. That, at least, was one small thing that I could do for Lily while she cleared our cups away. I was finishing the final task of covering the embers with thin layer of ashes when I felt the weight of silence at my back, and knew that I was being watched.
Still bending at the hearth, I glanced behind, over my shoulder.
In a quiet voice, she said, “You’re a good man.”
Having heard her tales, I understood the weight of those words now in a way few men could. “I’m not,” I told her, “actually. I’m truly not.” I stood, and closed the space between us, and she did not move but waited for me, her face tilting up as I came nearer. “You’ve had wine,” I said, reminding myself of that fact as much as her.
“Aye, half a cup. ’Tis not enough to meddle with my reason. Most men would attempt to give me more.”
“I’m not most men,” I said.
“I ken that.” As though she could feel the conflict in me and desired to calm it, she reached up and lightly touched my face and told me, “Stay.”
My life had left me hardened. I had seen and done things in it that were better left unsaid, and I had traveled far beyond the comforts most men knew, and learnt to live with none. I’d grown resilient. I had fought men, and I’d killed them. And yet standing now before this woman—and before her only—I felt vulnerable.
I said, “I’d like to hear you call me Adam. Could you do that?”
Lily nodded. “It’s a fine, strong name,” she told me. “Adam.”
“Say it over.” I was asking her, not ordering, my head already lowered so we breathed together.
“Adam.”
In my life I’d kissed more expertly, but never with more passion, nor more tenderness. Time stopped for me, and then I stopped as well, because my hand, which had been traveling its own path, had slipped underneath the neckline of her bodice, where the thin, smooth linen of her shift edged over her firm stays. And there my fingers touched a tiny object that dislodged itself into my palm.
I drew my head back and looked down. It was the little silver brooch, the heart-shaped brooch topped with a crown, that was itself made up of smaller hearts and roses.
Lily’s hand came briefly into mine as she took back the brooch from me and pinned it where it had been on her stays, above her own heart, saying, “It does hold the memory of a time when I was loved.”
With the fingertips of both my hands I gently brushed the darkly curling hair back from her face to either side of those blue eyes.
“Love,” I said, “should be more than a memory.”
Lily reached for me, and told me, “So then stay.”
And then I knew that I was right and she had been mistaken, for a good man would have told her no, and kissed her one last time, and made her lock her door against him as he left her there alone.