She washed her face and hands at the blue and white basin, pouring water that was close to freezing from the ewer and scrubbing her skin until it burned. Then she straightened her hair and went out into the hall and down the stairs.
The house was quiet and dim. Standing in the front hall Lily listened very hard and heard nothing but the wind in the shutters and the faraway voices of the women working in the basement kitchen. There was no sign of Bump, and for a moment she wondered if she had imagined the whole thing. Then she saw the smear of ash on her hand and she had one thought only: to get away.
Lily dressed carefully, slowly, and then she opened the door and went out into the near dark. She took one of the lanterns that hung in the entryway out of the wind and began her walk across the city.
It was a cold night but not especially windy, and the snow seemed to hover in the air, not quite ready to fall. She passed the bakery where she visited most mornings, a milliner who had a fur-lined cap she had long admired, the butcher, other shops, all closed up for the day with shutters firmly latched. Her boots were hobnailed and she moved quickly and surely, throwing little divots of hard-packed snow up with every step. A soldier passed her and touched the brim of his hat; Lily averted her eyes and dropped her chin, walked a little faster until she was sure that he had gone on.
It was full dark by the time she came to the rue St. Paul, but she found the door without trouble. Between a bookshop and a tailor, she had heard him say, and here it was. The two small windows were shuttered like all the others but light leaked out from around the edges, like the halos that the saints all wore in the stained-glass windows of the churches.
Lily had visited Ghislaine's family in a house just like this one, and she knew what she should find here: a ground floor that served as a stall, home to one or two cows and goats and perhaps a pig, while the family slept and lived overhead. Lily was frontier raised and it took a lot to affront her sensibilities, and still it surprised her to find Simon Ballentyne living here. The man she knew took great pains with his clothes and his speech and had ambitions, or so she had thought.
She contemplated the knocker for a long moment and then used it: once, twice, three times, firmly. There were voices, one female, and for the first time Lily felt a rush of doubt. She would have turned right then and run away but the door opened. The woman who stood there was old, but straight of back and unflinching, her red hands folded below a substantial bosom.
“Mademoiselle?” she asked, her expression a little surprised but not unkind.
Lily opened her mouth to ask, and found she had lost all her French, every word of it gone.
She said, “I'm looking for Mr. Ballentyne. Simon Ballentyne.”
Then he was there. It seemed he was twice the size of the servant woman, and his face was in shadow.
“Simon,” said Lily, trying to smile and not quite succeeding. But it was enough. For him, it seemed, her almost-smile was enough.
Simon Ballentyne kept no animals, after all. The cobbled floor was scrubbed to gleaming, covered here and there with thick rugs. A hearth and scullery took up the far end of the long room. Near the door there was an oven tiled in the Dutch fashion, a table, a settle, and some other furniture she could not make out in the shadows. A screen as tall as she was kept the draft from the door out of the rest of the room, and Lily saw, with some surprise, that it was finely carved and painted with an elaborate hunting scene. On the opposite wall three paintings hung in simple frames, all landscapes. One of them, Lily saw immediately and with some surprise, was her own work: a small oil she had done after one of the sleighing parties. She had made a gift of it to Monsieur Picot when he admired it.
Behind her Simon Ballentyne said, “I bought it from your teacher.”
“Ah,” she said, a little affronted at Monsieur for selling her gift and, at the same time, pleased that Simon Ballentyne should have bought it and said nothing to her. It was a true compliment, and she meant to repay it in kind but found she could not. She said, “I should have thought to give you one of my paintings. I didn't realize you were interested.”
And turned her face away, because it was a lie and they both knew it. Simon showed as much interest in her studies and work as Luke did. More, sometimes, and she had never had the feeling that his questions were simple courtesy.
The old woman served them soup and bread and they ate in silence at the table. The little house was spartan, but comfortable; well ordered and clean. Every once in a while Lily thought of the letters—one unopened, one tucked into her bodice, the last burned—and that image shook her out of her daze.
Simon Ballentyne didn't notice, or perhaps he chose not to. He spoke to her as if this visit were nothing out of the ordinary, an unmarried young woman of good family calling on a single man, alone. She answered him in the same way. They spoke of the weather, of her brother's trip and when he might be back, of the business he hoped to accomplish in Québec. Simon told her what he had read in the day's papers of the war, and to this she listened a little closer for names of places that were close to home, and hearing none, relaxed again.
When they had finished eating the old woman cleared the table and then put on her mantle and her clogs and went to the door. Simon followed her and said a few words, put something in her hand and waited for her nod.
He said, “Genevieve will send her grandson to Iona to say where you are, that she's not to worry and that I'll bring you home this evening.”
There didn't seem to be any words left inside her, and so Lily said nothing. She straightened the saltcellar on the table and brushed away some crumbs and studied the wood grain.
Finally when she understood that he would not make it any easier for her she said, “You have a very comfortable home.”
“And so do you,” he said with a hint of a smile. “But here you sit. I'm mindful of the honor, lass, but—” He spread out his hands.
Lily said, “Does one friend need a reason to visit another?” It sounded silly and false to her own ears, but Simon was kind—she must credit him with that—and he spared her the sharp words she had earned.
Instead he blinked at her and a knot of muscle flexed in his jaw; even under his beard she could see it. He said, “You asked me to stay away, Lily. I take it you've changed your mind?”
She stood abruptly and moved to the other side of the room. A desk and bookcase stood in a shadowy corner and she put her back to the wall between them, crossed her arms.
“I shouldn't have come,” she said.
“Perhaps not,” agreed Simon Ballentyne from his chair.
He seemed content to leave the work of it all to her. Irritated now and close to tears Lily said, “You might at least try to make me feel welcome.”
At that he gave a short, surprised laugh and got up. When he was so close that she must raise her head to look him in the eye, he put a hand on the wall next to her head and leaned in. She felt his breath on her forehead, warm and soft.
“What is it you want from me, Lily? What's happened that brought you to my door? Word from your lover? Has your brother been wounded?”
“No,” she said sharply. “My brother is well.”
Daniel's letter, she thought then. I never even read the copy of his letter that Gabriel made. And: What is the matter with me?
“But news, then. A letter from your mother?”
She raised her chin to glare at him and saw that he was not laughing at her, and in fact that he was angry. It was in his eyes, the way he narrowed them at her, and in the flush on his cheeks, and the lines that bracketed his mouth. He was angry and trying not to be.
“And if I had a letter from home, what of it?” she said, angry too, but at herself. “I was foolish to come here, and I'll go now.”
He stepped back suddenly, released her from the cage he had made with his body.
“I'll see you home.”
Then the tears did come, great hot tears streaming down her face that could not be denied or hidden and still she
turned away, pressed her face to the rough wall and shuddered.
Simon Ballentyne put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her to his chest and there was no hope for her then. The sobs came in great breaking waves, and through all of it he held her gently and stroked her head and spoke, slow kind words, words he might have used to comfort a grieving child, a beloved sister, a friend, and that made the tears come all the harder so that she shook with them.
When the worst had passed he led her to the bench against the tile oven and sat down with her there in the soothing warmth.
“Tell me,” he said.
She told him all of it, in words that first came slow and halting and then in a great rush. She told about the terrible things her sister had lived through, the story of the hollow lake and the nephew she had never even seen, and then she told him about Nicholas, winding her fingers in the fabric of her skirt as the story pushed its way out.
He interrupted her only once, to ask was this the same Jemima who had caused such trouble for her sister Hannah over the years? And when Lily told him yes, exactly, Nicholas Wilde who would have married her but for his invalid wife—dead now only two months—had instead married that Jemima Southern.
And I worried he might be dead. Lily said those words and stopped short, distraught but not distraught enough to say the terrible thing that came to mind next: Would that he were. Better to know him dead.
As he might be, of course. Perhaps they had hanged him already. Though she could not imagine him doing Cookie or anyone else real harm, a judge might see things differently. He could be hanging from the gallows at this very moment, and Jemima beside him.
The weeping began again, this time springing up from a different place: horror and shame at herself, that some part of her should like that idea.
Simon produced a handkerchief and she took it thankfully, pressed it to her face and bent forward to press her forehead to her knees, cursing herself and still unable to stop.
She felt his hand on her back, his touch light and without demand; nothing there but comfort. She straightened suddenly and spoke to him, her face turned away.
“I shouldn't have burdened you with my problems,” she said. “I'd like to go home now.”
“Would you?” he asked, and she heard something else in his voice now, surprise or even amusement.
A ripple of irritation moved up her spine. “Yes. I want to go home.”
“Look me in the eye and say that.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I won't. I can't.”
“And why not?” Simon Ballentyne asked.
“Because my face is swollen and red and—”
He laughed out loud then, and the anger came over her as suddenly and forcefully as the tears had come earlier. She stood, and he took her hand and pulled her down again.
“Ach, Lily,” he said, rubbing his forehead against her cheek. “You'll be the death of me, but I'll die with a smile on my face.”
She tried to pull away and found that she didn't really want to; in the back of her mind she heard not her mother but Curiosity: Don't rise to the man's bait, girl, unless you got a mind to play the game out. But it was such a relief, to have said it all out loud, to have somebody hear the words that rang like great bells in her head and now might be quiet long enough for her to sleep through the night.
“What have I done to you?” she asked, combative and liking the feel of that.
“You come to my door in the dead of night—”
“It's hardly six of the evening!”
“—and weep on my chest about a faithless lover—”
“And my sister!”
“And your sister,” he agreed, more seriously now. “And no one would begrudge you those tears, for it's the saddest tale I've heard in a very long time. But it seems to me that all these tears are less for your poor sister than that ignorant fool Wilde—”
She drew away in her outrage, or tried to, sputtering and fumbling for something to say that would make sense and put him in his place all at once. “I am so sorry to have inconvenienced you with my little problems—”
“—and now you want to run off before I've said my piece.”
“Oh.” She stopped struggling. “What is it you wanted to say?”
He straightened and sat away and looked at her, as though she were a horse he might buy, if the price were right. That thought made Lily want to stand up again and run away, but he pressed her hand with his own and she settled, uneasily.
“He's a fool, is your Nicholas Wilde—”
She started to pull away but his grip was firm on her, unrelenting, distinctly comforting.
“—for he might have come here to claim you and take you home and instead he let himself be seduced by this harridan Jemima Southern.”
“Jemima Kuick,” Lily said sullenly.
“Jemima Wilde,” he corrected her in turn.
Lily flared up at him. “You don't know him. You can't know him—”
And neither do I, for he married Jemima Kuick. The thought robbed her of the urge to defend Nicholas and, oddly enough, made her even angrier at Simon.
“I know a man by his actions, and so do you,” he said, undaunted. “You are your father's daughter, after all.”
She could not deny this truth, and so she ducked her head and swallowed the words that came to mind, the stories she might have told of Nicholas Wilde's kindness and generosity and tenderness. His intelligence, his dreams for the future, the love and skill that made his apple trees flourish and produce such wonderful fruit.
The man who married Jemima Kuick.
“So you were mistaken in him. And so what I have to say is this: it's a good thing he married another, for you deserve better, Lily Bonner.”
“Like you, you mean.”
“Aye,” said Simon Ballentyne, meeting her gaze without flinching. “I'd be a far better husband to you than Nicholas Wilde ever could be.”
Lily was suddenly very weary, her head aching with it. “You know that for a fact,” she said bitterly.
“And so do you, lass, if you'd only admit it to yourself. For where did you turn in your time of need, but to me?”
She could not meet his eyes, but he solved this problem by catching her chin in his fingers and raising her face to his.
“Where did you turn, Lily Bonner?”
Her mouth worked, but nothing came out.
“I can see ye need some reminding.”
He kissed her, his mouth trailing along her tear-swollen cheek to her mouth. And this was why she had come, of course. Because she wanted Simon Ballentyne to put his arms around her and comfort her and kiss her as he was kissing her now, with such purpose and warmth and sincerity.
When he broke the kiss he was breathing hard. Gooseflesh had run down her back and arms and all over her body, leaving little pools of warmth.
“Where did you come?” he whispered and then kissed her again, openmouthed and warm and deep, before she could even think of answering. He pulled her into his lap and cradled her there and kissed her until Lily thought her skin must surely be on fire, and then when he lifted his head she nodded, weakly.
“To you,” she said.
“Aye,” said Simon. “And why is that?”
The question took her by surprise, and this time she really didn't have an answer, at least not a clear one. “Because you're—” She hesitated.
“Aye?”
“My friend.”
He drew in a breath then and put his forehead against hers. “And that's all there is to it?”
“No,” said Lily. “I came because I thought you might—I hoped you might—” And her courage failed her after all.
“What? What do you want of me?” His arms were tense around her, and she realized with some part of her mind that he was frightened; Simon Ballentyne was frightened of what she might say.
“I want you to take me home.” And then, quickly: “To Paradise. Home to Lake in the Clouds.”
He held her away fr
om him. She could see the thoughts rushing behind his eyes as he calculated and came to some conclusion.
“You want me to take you home. Why not your friend Mr. Bump?”
Lily shifted uncomfortably on his lap. “I don't like to ask him—”
“Because he would say no.”
She shrugged. “He came to Canada to find someone, and he won't leave until he's done that.”
“And you won't wait for your brother to come back from Québec because he'd say no too. What makes you think I'll do what Luke will not?”
Now the whole thing sounded so very childish that she was embarrassed and ashamed, and more than that, she saw in Simon's face that she had offended him.
She said, “I hoped you might understand.”
He studied her for the length of a dozen heartbeats and then he tipped her off his lap and back onto the bench, stood abruptly, pushed his hands through his hair and walked away from her, across the room in a few strides, to turn and glare.
“Have you no idea how I feel about you, Lily? Are you so cruel?”
Lily felt herself flush, but she made herself hold his gaze. “I know how you feel about me.”
A look passed over his face, comprehension and disappointment. He rubbed it away with his palm. “You still love the idiot with the apple trees.” He said it matter-of-factly, as he might have told her that she had dropped a glove.
“And what does it matter if I do?” she said dully. “Most likely they hanged him already.”
Simon let out a surprised grunt. “Do you think him guilty of the murder, then?”
“No!” Lily's head came up sharply. “He wouldn't. He isn't capable of something like that.”
“Men are capable of anything,” Simon said. “But in this case I tend to think you may be right. He's a coward, is your Nicholas Wilde, love him as you may.”
Lily turned her face away, for what was there to say to that? Simon Ballentyne loved her and wanted her to love him back. It was there in his eyes and the set of his shoulders and the way his hands were fisted at his sides: he was jealous. And with cause.
“Alive or dead, Nicholas is lost to me,” she said. “I know that.”