They were grateful to him, of course, but as Rose said, “Any gentleman would do the same if they came across a lady in distress.” Lily didn’t agree, but after several days she was forced to concede that his absence spoke for itself.
Her only outing had been to show Betty and her brother, Jimmy, some of the sights of London. She’d talked Emm into letting her go out, heavily veiled, accompanied by one of the maids and a footman, plainly dressed.
Rose and George had wanted to go too, arguing that fashionable people wouldn’t be likely to be at the kind of places that Betty yearned to see, but Emm had pointed out that unveiled, they’d be recognized, and that three heavily veiled women would draw more attention than otherwise.
She’d also, with a shudder, firmly vetoed George’s suggestion that she and Rose could go dressed as men.
Those surreptitious excursions with Betty had been the highlight of Lily’s week, and Betty’s gleeful enjoyment of her visit had enlivened Lily’s dampened spirits. But Betty and her brother had been put on the mail coach back to Yorkshire, laden with parcels—Rose and George had taken Betty shopping for new clothes to replace the ones she’d lent Lily—food for the journey and souvenirs of their visit to the capital. Now Lily was feeling a little bit low.
Aunt Agatha insisted the others go out and about on their usual pursuits, where they were to casually mention—but only if asked about Lily’s health—that it wasn’t the influenza at all, but a severe cold, that Lily was recuperating nicely and should emerge from the sickroom quite soon.
Callers came and were thanked for their concern but told that “Lady Lily is still indisposed.” Well-wishers sent her notes and flowers, fruit and small gifts—quite a few of which were books. Burton read her the notes and took back a verbal message from the invalid.
With all this kind attention, it was completely unreasonable for her to feel lonely and a bit lost, Lily told herself. She’d survived a nasty experience and should be grateful to be safe and well in the bosom of her family. She was thankful, of course she was, but she was also fed up with waiting for the horrid bruise to disappear and allow her out. All she did was sit around, knit or sew and those occupations were horridly conducive to thinking.
All Lily seemed to be able to think about these days was Edward Galbraith and what he might be doing. And thinking. And it was pointless wondering. His actions—or lack of them—showed what he was thinking: not about Lily.
He hadn’t called once or sent anything apart from those flowers. She’d pressed some of them between the pages of a book. The best use she had for a book.
But there was no use brooding about him. To him she was just a parcel he’d had to deliver—Rose and George had told her about the note he’d sent Cal.
As for the kisses that haunted her dreams? He was a rake, after all. He probably had that effect on all the women he kissed.
She needed to forget about Edward Galbraith. She needed activity, entertainment, distraction.
So when Sylvia Gorrie came calling, Lily hurried to the looking glass, decided a dusting of rice powder would sufficiently conceal the fading bruise and asked Burton to show Sylvia up.
Cal and Emm had assured her that Sylvia had known nothing about her cousin’s plans, but Lily wanted to talk to Sylvia herself, in private, just to be sure.
“Mrs. Arthur Gorrie,” Burton announced, and Sylvia hurried in, talking nineteen to the dozen.
“Oh, you’re out of bed already! I’ve brought you some candied licorice root. It’s supposed to be marvelous for colds—I had the impression—but no matter, you seem to be almost recovered. No red nose, I see—it’s the worst part of a cold, I think, that scabby redness from all the disgusting blowing and sneezing. But you are looking pale.” Lily waved her to a seat, and Sylvia sat, saying, “I’m so very relieved to see you, dear Lily. I was so worried.”
“It was just a cold,” Lily began.
“I don’t mean that—though I’m glad you’re recovering; no, I meant—I suppose you heard about your brother bursting into my house in the wee small hours, demanding I produce Cousin Victor. He planted such horrid suspicions in my mind about you and my cousin—he actually believed you two had eloped—well, how ridiculous, when you had barely exchanged more than half a dozen words. But such things weigh on one’s mind, you know. And Victor had disappeared—and so had you.”
“Yes, I—”
“Oh, I know, you took ill and ended up in the wrong bed—Rose’s, was it not?—and confused everyone. I was never more relieved when I ran into Miss Wes—Lady Ashendon in the park the next day and she told me you were ill—not that I was pleased you were ill, of course, but I was so relieved to find that you hadn’t run off with my cousin.”
“As a matter of fact—”
“You must think it strange of me to feel such doubts about my cousin—”
“Actually—”
“But I don’t really know him that well. He only came to England recently and when we became reacquainted—well, there was I with my stick-in-the-mud husband, and here was this charming and personable new cousin. I cannot tell you how delightful it was to have a handsome young relative to squire me around the parties that Arthur—that’s Mr. Gorrie, my husband—refuses to attend.”
“Yes, but—”
“My husband is furious with me, because Victor owed him money, but it seems he’s disappeared off the face of the earth, and I can’t say I’m sorry. Some embarrassing things have come to light since he left, and—oh, I forgot, I brought you some ice cream from Gunters—nothing is as soothing for a sore throat as a delicious creamy ice, don’t you think?—although your voice
