Again the little vessel changed its course, sailing parallel to the coast, before the men let the wind fill the sails to the full for the last time. With a crunch they came to a halt, and the sails were hurriedly brought in. “We’re there,” said the big man unnecessarily. The light of his lantern flickered over his face, gleamed on his wet skin. Lillian no longer smelled the fish.
He jumped into the water and reached for Nanette to carry her the last steps to the shore. Another man, large and wet as well, held out his arms for Lillian. She could not tell whether it was the same who had carried her before. But then, it did not matter. She reached the land high in his arms, the land she had left over a decade before, the land of her father and mother, who would never see it again.
She heard the water gurgling around the man’s feet, the rhythmic song of the sea, of the waves lapping at the land. The wet sand sparkled in the dim light of the lanterns, which now joined them on the beach. Shadows shifted and became men or horses and sometimes a cart to be filled with barrels from the boat.
When Lillian’s feet touched the ground, the land shifted as if she were still on the boat, rocked by the waves. She wondered what Nanette had done with her purse, whether she had already given it to the smugglers or whether it would be divided between the men who had brought them over the sea and the men who would receive them. She saw the big man talking to one of the latter; tall and slim, as if his daily labor was neither hard nor of his hands.
Lillian felt exhaustion creeping upwards from her feet, trickling through veins and muscles, leaving numbness behind. She felt the cold wind biting her salt-crusted cheeks, cracking her lips until the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She remembered the sight of blood on smooth skin, muscles rippling underneath but unable to escape the sting of the whip.
“Are you all right,
chou-chou
?” Lillian almost did not notice the touch of Nanette’s hand on her arm, her flesh unfeeling. She let the coldness of the rain and the night seep into her body until all lingering feelings were dead, all memories forgotten.
“Yes,” she said. “Where will they take us?”
“Through the heath up north.” In the big oilskins, the old woman looked frail and lost, and Lillian’s heart gave a strange lurch. “They are friends of Jean’s. They have promised to help.”
“But are they trustworthy? Is he trustworthy?” Lillian swayed a little in the soft wind as she thought about being at these men’s mercy.
“I saved his wife from the fever,” Nanette answered softly. “We will come to no harm.”
Everything needs balance. One to do the healing in a place where another does all the wounding
. And sometimes the healing could be used as coin, could be used to win people’s trust.
An alien word, this
trust
.
Lillian drew her oilskin coat tighter around herself as if to wrap her body in its cool wetness, numbing her limbs.
Then the two men came forward, and the one whom Nanette had called Jean said, “You’ll go with Mr. Collins here and warm yourselves up for a bit. Later, they’ll bring you away.” He reached out, and his large fingers closed around one of Nanette’s withered hands. “I thank you for what you did for us. May the Lord keep you safe.”
Lillian thought she saw Nanette smile, but with the steady rain and the dim light of the lanterns she could not be sure. The old woman bowed her head. “Good-bye, Jean. And God bless you.”
The man, Mr. Collins, led them up the beach while the sand crunched under their feet, and before long they saw the twinkling lights of a village just awakening to a new morn. They followed him past small cottages that hovered near the ground like great, black beasts; past the disgruntled bark of a dog, the early cry of a newborn babe, until they walked in the shadow of the village church, whose bell tower rose crookedly above them. The man beckoned them to another small house that nestled close to the crumbling wall of the churchyard. Beside the well-trodden front steps stood a pot with flowers whose scent, despite the night and the rain, wafted up to tickle Lillian’s nose and summon the memory of summers long bygone, when small girls and fat puppies had played in flower gardens kissed by the sun.
Lillian shook her head to chase away these unbidden thoughts. One last time, she gathered the cold night around herself before entering the warmth and the light of the house, where the smell of newly baked bread lingered in the hallway, underlaid by the fragrance of fresh tea.
At the other end of the corridor, a door opened and emitted a middle-aged woman with cheeks like red apples. She wore a gray, woolly scarf over a high-collared nightgown, and from underneath her white nightcap a few tendrils of faded blond hair tumbled onto her forehead, whirled around her earlobes. “There you are, there you are,” she said. The fragrances of bread and tea were stronger now, seemed to surround the woman like a cloud.
“This is my sister,” said the tall, slim man. “Miss Hilda Collins.” The golden light of the house revealed him to be clothed all in black with the exception of his white collar. With a start, Lillian realized that he must be the priest of the village.
How strange a land this is,
she thought,
where priests know smugglers' secrets
. She was glad that she had kept to the shadowy place near the front door, where nobody would see her sudden shiver. Seeking the shadows even further, she glided backwards and observed how Nanette smiled and greeted the other woman.
“How do you do?” As easy as that, Nanette switched to English, no trace left of the years spent in France. It was strange to hear her speak without the usual melodious singsong to her voice, strange and frightening, as if another person had appeared in Nanette’s place. So easily she chatted with the other woman, who clicked her tongue over the state of their clothes and finally ushered them to a room to wash and to change.
Afterwards, they were given tea and food. Lillian ate as if in a hazy dream, English chatter filling her ears, hurting them with foreign sounds. She almost wished to be back over the sea. But then images of dark blood on white linen rose and hovered in front of her inner eye; images of blood trickling over smooth skin, a lily burnt into human flesh. Briefly she wondered whether he was already dead. Yet it was too soon, just hours, even though it seemed like a lifetime. He would live a little longer.
Lillian imagined him curled up under a duvet of moldy leaves, running, tumbling through the undergrowth of the forest, the angry sounds of Camille’s big dogs never far away, dogs ready to sink their teeth into skin and muscle, to tear apart human flesh until the body resembled an overlarge doll, all smeared with blood …
Lillian balled her hands to fists in her lap. It had been raining when they left France. The rain would have washed away all tracks and all lingering scents. Camille would not be able to indulge in one of her hunts; the dogs would be fed with beef and pork instead of human flesh. It would take another day and, hopefully, another man before they could again be used for their foul purpose.
Lillian willed the memories to recede. For a little while longer, he would live.
She was glad when a man came to take them away, Nanette and herself. The warmth of the house and of its people was unfamiliar and seemed to thaw her invisible armor. She preferred the coldness of the night, welcomed it even.
She raised her face and let the chilly wind caress her skin, dribble coldness into her pores, until the familiar numbness settled over her once more. So much safer this than apple-like cheeks or the taste and smell of freshly baked bread covered with golden butter.
They had to ride ponies, tough shaggy beasts, and had to bundle their skirts around their legs so they would sit on the ponies like men did on horses. The man who rode with them did not talk much, just led them out of the village, through the heath, which rolled around them in endless abandon.
Dawn was not far away, and they traveled through a world of dim gray. Their lead’s lantern cast a lonely light, which flickered and dimmed as if it were a will-o’-the-wisp, luring the unwary wanderer away from the right path. Here and there, naked trees rose up through the veil of rain and strained their skeleton-like arms toward heaven.
Again, it seemed to Lillian as if they had left the real world behind only to enter a nebulous in-between, a world of shadows and void of warmth. And once more, all feeling of time ceased to exist.
So it might have been hours or days or even just minutes until the rain stopped. Overhead, the wind was chasing the clouds away until the last stars filled the sky like scattered diamonds, blinking and fading with the steady approach of dawn. The dimness lifted, their guide put out the light in the lantern. In the distance they could hear the sleepy bark of a dog, and slim whiffs of smoke bespoke a village.
And still on they rode.
The first birds rose to greet the new day, while the creatures of the night returned to their dens. A fox barked. The undergrowth rustled with scurrying feet.
Around them, grass and heather gave way to orderly fields and hedges, empty meadows that might have held cows or sheep during the summer. And all of a sudden, a rosy hue settled on the land, tinted the sky and the air itself, so it seemed the world had disappeared behind rose-colored glass.
The man dropped them off at a crossroads and, with a tip of his finger to his hat, rode off. Soon, the muffled squelches of the hooves of the ponies in the mud were no more than a distant memory.
“So, my girl, give me your arm and then we will see the rest of our journey done.” Nanette slipped her hand into the crook of Lillian’s elbow and led them on. It was difficult walking, with the lane covered in mud that stuck to their boots like balls of lead and turned the hems of their dresses an ugly brown. Yet around them the air was clear and fresh, and the birds broke into jubilant song, while all shades of red and orange and yellow flamed across the eastern sky.
In a gentle curve the road wound around a hill, and behind it, the sight of a stately manor greeted them. In the early light of the new day it seemed to be immersed in gold. An exhausted smile spread across Nanette’s face. “Abberley House,” she sighed. “Come on,
chou-chou
, we are nearly home.”
Bemused, Lillian followed.
Home
was another strange word, foreign to her experience, except as a dim memory that did not bear thinking about, for there was no return to the times of her earliest childhood when her mother had still been alive. Now her parents were only pictures in a golden locket, which, flying through the rain, had sparkled with the waning light of day.
Trees rose up on each side of the road, hiding the house from view, and gravel crunched under their feet. Finally, the trees opened into a semicircle forecourt. With the rising sun, the house seemed to glow from within, as if the stones themselves were consumed by fire. Nanette trudged up the wide steps to the front door, where she lifted the heavy-looking knocker and let it bang against the wooden door. She had to repeat this four times, until the door was opened by a disgruntled servant, hastily dressed, hair still awry.
“What’s the racket?” he snapped, when he caught sight of their bedraggled appearance. “There’s no place for your likes.”
“Kennett, what is it?” another voice inquired from within.
Suddenly the man at the door stood stiff as a board. “’Tis nothing, your lordship. A few tramps, that’s all.”
“Tramps?” The voice sounded nearer now, and then the door was opened wider to reveal an elderly man in a dark green dressing gown. He blinked, once, twice, before his gaze fastened on Nanette. Lillian saw his eyes widen in surprise, then they shifted on to her, and she thought they widened even further.
“My lord.” Nanette curtsied. “May I present your granddaughter? Lady Lillian Marianne Abberley.”
PART II
She sleeps: her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart.
The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d
That He upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps: on either hand upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.
—Tennyson,
The Day Dream
Chapter 4
London, Spring 1816
Like beacons the three large chandeliers spread their light over the ballroom below, and the bright light of a hundred candles glittered on silver and diamonds, was caught by the shimmering material of swirling dresses and reflected a hundredfold by the many mirrors along the walls. Music mingled with the sounds of laughter and conversation, rising and falling like the waves of an unseen ocean. The perfume of the flower arrangements, lush bouquets of fragrant roses, of Canterbury bells and heliotropes, drifted up to blend with the scent of Imperial water, sandalwood and rose water, overlaid by the aroma of rich soup spiked with negus, which was served in the adjoining room. There, the refreshments were given out: sparkling wine that tickled the nose, sweet elderflower or sour lime lemonade, tiny tarts filled with strawberry marmalade, bitter coffee or soothing tea, old-fashioned ratafia ice cream and fragrant violet parfait. From the cardroom at the other side of the ballroom drifted hazy clouds of smoke, for not only the widows and dowagers enjoyed a game of whist or loo, but also some of the gentlemen who had grown bored with having to impress nubile maidens with fluttering eyelashes.
If Lillian had stepped into fairyland, she could not have felt more out of place. Her back ramrod straight, she went through the steps of a dance whose name she had forgotten, the folds of her white dress whirling around her ankles. Her lips were lifted in a smile, even though her fingers itched under the material of her long gloves. When the figures of the dance demanded, she went and linked arms or hands with her partner, only to depart again and to continue to stand, watching and waiting for her next turn. And when asked, she commented upon the pleasant sound of the orchestra, the lovely weather, or the beautiful decoration, while trying to forget the alien pressure of the waxen bust-improver against her ribs.