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At first, Hamish assumed w
ith a shock that he was referring to Lily, until the old man began a long and precise criticism of every editorial decision Hamish had made in the past month.
Well, Hamish’s tenure at the newspaper might just have reached its natural course. If he had to decide between the family business and the woman he loved, he knew which one would win.
When he despatched his father with soothing words, for he would fight the real fight another day, he was pleasantly surprised to receive a visit from his sister.
“Mr Myers wishes to take me to a piano recital tomorrow night,” she said, thrusting out her chin as if she were expecting opposition. But Hamish merely smiled. “I’m glad to hear he sounds a cultured young man. I’d hate to see you spend your future with a philistine, Lucy.”
She frowned. “Why, Hamish, that almost sounded like you’re ready to give your consent.”
Hamish couldn’t stop the grin that stretched his face. “If he remains faithful to you and hardworking, then it will be a relief not to have to worry about having you live with us when I cut my ties with the newspaper.”
“You and Mrs Eustace?” Lucy squealed, coming round to give him a hug. “Why, Hamish, I’m so happy for you.”
“I haven’t made any firm decisions, but my thoughts are taking me in directions I’d not expected, lately,” he said, still unable to stop smiling. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few calls to make.”
“An’ I ’ave a picture ter buy, sir,” said Archie, coming into the office at that moment, doffing his cap and putting down his satchel. “I met Sir Lionel in the street, an’ ’e said ’e wanted ter buy a copy o’ me picture I took o’ the blonde beauty yer like ter keep in yer desk. Reckoned it t’would solve some age-ol’ mystery that ’ad bin troublin’ ’im.”
Hamish opened the drawer and drew out the picture of Lily sitting on the bench next to Celeste. He gazed at it lovingly. “Sorry! You’ll have to make another copy,” he told Archie, tucking it into his breast pocket, before putting on his bowler hat and picking up his umbrella. “Now, good day to both of you. I have much more important business than labouring here all day.”
At the gate to the quiet house where Lily would live for just another week at most, Hamish paused to look up the path to the windows of the front parlour. They were half drawn, which was surprising. Sloppy housekeeping? The little maid was sweet but very young, and there was only her to attend to her lovely mistress.
He saw a flash of colour and a stirring of movement within, so he knew someone was at home.
Taking the steps two at a time, he knocked, and to his surprise, the door was flung open revealing the little maid looking wild-eyed.
“I ’oped yer’d be the doctor come back!” she cried, twisting her hands in her apron and staring at him. “I dunno wot ter do, Mr McTavish, but mayhaps yer can ’elp me, sir. Come this way, quickly!”
Struck dumb, Hamish followed her a few steps down the passage before she thrust open the doors of the parlour.
Lily was ill? He’d thought this with a lurch of his heart when the girl had greeted him, but what met his eye was infinitely worse than anything he could have conjured up on his grimmest of days.
“Lily?” He took a tentative step forwards. “Lily, what is it?” Then, when there was no indication she even recognised him, he crossed the room to take her elbow and help her up from the ground where she was curled up, he now realised, apparently in fear.
Of him? Of someone else?
“Lily, tell me what’s happened?”
To his horror, his touch occasioned a shrill cry of anguish, and she made a tremendous effort to remove herself from his orbit, hampered by her skirts though she did manage to put an overstuffed chair between herself and him, almost tipping it over in the process.
“I dunno wot’s got inter ’er, Mr McTavish,” Grace whimpered. “One minute she were right as rain, then she walks inter this room, an’ next ‘fing she’s…like this.” The confusion on Grace’s face must mirror his, he thought. He glanced back at Lily, whose hair was in disarray as she raked her fingers through it, disregarding the effort she must have made that morning to fashion it into the stylish ringlets that tumbled down her back.
“Lily, you need to lie down. Rest,” he tried to soothed. “Take my hand and let me help you up.” She seemed insensible to him, but he couldn’t leave her cowering on the floor like some wild creature. He was frightened, but clearly not as much as she was. Her eyes were glazed with fear, and she looked at him as if he were the devil himself.
“Make them go away!” she screamed, covering her face with her hands, and hunkering into herself, resisting his offer of help and swatting away his hand when he tried a second time.
“Make what go away? What is it, Lily? What are you frightened of?” he tried again, his desperation rising, unable to make sense of the situation.
“The flowers!” she shrieked. “They’re evil! They want to punish me! Kill me! If you don’t get rid of them this instant, they’re going to kill me; I know it!”
“Flowers? What flowers?” he asked, inching forwards so that he might be ready to seize her and draw her to her feet to comfort her, or at least help her to bed or somewhere she could lie down. There was nothing else to be done, except call the doctor. And he couldn’t do that until Lily was properly restrained.
“There!” With her eyes averted, she stabbed a finger at the walls. Hamish and Grace exchanged glances, for the floral-covered wallpaper seemed to present the only flowers he could see.
He put his head close to her ear and murmured, “Darling, there are no evil flowers that would do you harm. Only the flowers on the wallpaper.”
“They’re the ones!” she shrieked, becoming more agitated. “The flowers on the wallpaper.” She ventured a look at him before hunching back into herself, covering her eyes again as if unable to confront the horror of the spectacle before her and sobbing, “They’ve come to kill me! To punish me!”
