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Your fame has spread. It was indeed a shock to learn of your escape from your house of care, and of your unusual profession in London, if sorcery and hocus-pocus deserves such a title.
The truth is, that while it would be more comfortable for both of us to pretend the reality is otherwise, the law is the law, and this precarious existence of yours, combined with your notoriety, puts me in a difficult situation.
I am still legally responsible for you, and I have a reputation to protect.
I do not know with whom you have been associating while you have adopted this false identity, but I trust you have been discreet, for the taint of scandal would be ruinous to all.
I shall call on you at my earliest convenience.
Yours,
Robert
“Yer look done in, ma’am,” Grace said with sympathy in her tone, looking up from shaking out an antimacassar. “Why don’t yer sit down, an’ I’ll fetch yer summat ter eat an’ mayhap a nice soothin’ drink ter calm yer nerves?”
Unable to speak as she tried to hide her shaking, Lily allowed herself to be fussed over.
“You are good to me, Grace,” she murmured, barely knowing what she said.
“Jest lookin’ afta yer, ma’am. Now, put yer feet up on the ottoman. Yer do look pale an’ wan. I ’ope yer not sickenin’ fer sumfink.”
Lily pushed from her mind the niggling fear that naturally would intrude at such an observation. She’d not conceived after five years of marriage, which included her shameful affair with Teddy.
The thought was one of mixed emotions: relief at the probability she was barren, and therefore that her wan looks weren’t symptomatic of pregnancy, and sadness that she could never enjoy a proper relationship with Hamish that included marriage and children.
Overriding all was this new horror.
Robert had returned to claim her. Not to look after her as a husband should.
But to punish her, as he always had.
She must have put her head in her hands to sob the anguish her thoughts caused her, for a few minutes later, Grace was at her side with a plate of steak and kidney pie and a mug of steaming warm milk.
“It’ll ’elp settle yer nerves, ma’am,” she said, when Lily wrinkled her nose at the faint aftertaste. “’Elp yer get a good sleep, which I fink is jest wot yer need, if I says so meself.”
Lily closed her eyes as she sipped her milk and thought of Hamish.
Should she tell him of Robert’s letter? Of his threats?
She hiccupped on another sob. Robert would never allow her to love Hamish. He might be married, but he’d find a way to destroy whatever happiness Lily had found. She knew it.
“Now, now, ma’am, it surely ain’t as bad as all that.” Grace stood awkwardly at her side.
“It is as bad as all that, Grace,” Lily wept. “I don’t know what to do. I really don’t.”
“Then that nice feller wot were ’ere will know wot ter do. ’E’ll know how ter make yer better.”
“Dr Swithins?” Lily sat up with a start, but Grace shook her head.
“No, a’course not, ma’am. Doctors are only good wiv prescribin’ medicines fer the body but yer need someone ter fix yer ’eart. I were referring’ ter Mr McTavish. Now, drink up yer milk an’ then I can ’elp put yer ter bed. An early night, mayhaps, ma’am.”
She felt the trickle of tears down her cheeks, and the warmth of her drink sliding down her throat, the precursor to the welcome dulling of her senses.
“Yer need a good night’s sleep, ma’am. That yer do.”
“I’ll stay here a little longer, Grace,” she said. “I need to think. I’ll call you when I’m going to bed.”
Lily rested her head on the side of the chair. She should rise before the effects took hold. She knew how sleeping draughts worked. She should be in a darkened room where she’d slip into oblivion as the medicine did its magic.
