Chapter 11
By the time they reached the bridge, Lily’s heart thundered as loudly as the hoofbeats beneath her.
Calpurnia had always been brilliant with slippery terrain, so she had no worries allowing the horse to open to a steady gallop, covering the snowy fields between Boar’s Hill and Oxford with little effort.
As the wind whipped loose strands of hair around her face and neck, Lily savored the bite of pain, the sting of the cold air on her bare skin.
It centered her, grounded her, when everything in her world seemed to be toppling and breaking apart, restructuring itself in a pattern she couldn’t make sense of.
She still loved Philip, despite her best efforts to deny the sentiment. But could she forgive what he’d done?
An image of baby Emily curled on Fern’s lap had been racing in circles in her mind since she left the nursery, chased by the family dinners and games she only ever experienced when visiting with her sisters or parents.
Their families, their homes. Her home was an empty, cold place, a sparkling estate staffed by remarkable people—the salary she paid them ensured it.
But it had never felt like home in the way Boar’s Hill did.
She’d always thought this was because Oxfordshire was where she’d grown, surrounded by a boisterous and loving family, so she’d filled the estate—her estate—in Lancashire with things that would make her happy.
A grand library, a prosperous stable where she kept and bred horses, the income allowing her to purchase anything she wanted, support any cause she desired.
But the difference wasn’t what she lacked, but whom.
Calpurnia’s hooves clattered onto the bridge, and she whirled her mare around to see Philip closing in, slowing his ride as he approached with a wide smile.
Lord, how she’d missed that smile, how it transformed his stern expression into one of boyish charm.
“You’re a better horsewoman than I remembered.” He was breathless, and she felt a jolt of pride that she’d done that to him.
“I could beat you back then, too.”
He chuckled, bringing his horse alongside hers as they wound along the trails leading them into the city. “Do you remember the Thompkins boys?”
A snort of laughter escaped before she could catch it. “Those ruffians.” Bullying boys who had turned into despicable young men, hellbent on making sure Lily remembered her place as a woman in a man’s world.
“They really thought they would beat you to the abbey ruins.” His dark eyes sparkled. “They’d forgotten you could jump creeks and hedgerows.”
Her lips curled up at the memory. “And when they finally arrived—”
“You were having a picnic, invited them to have some lemonade and everything!” He looked up at the sky and sighed. “You’ve always been glorious.”
Her chest was inexplicably warm, something glowing deep beneath her sternum.
He glanced at her with a fond smile. “From what I’ve heard from Simons, your stables are thriving.”
Her land agent told him about her stables? She knew they’d been in communication—Philip had to authorize payments and any changes to the property—but… “Did he offer that information or did you ask for it?”
He held her gaze for a moment before returning his attention to the trail and where it changed from packed earth and gravel to cobblestones. “I asked for it.”
She hated that response, but she suspected she would have hated the other answer even more. “But you never asked me. If you could write to Simons, why couldn’t you write to me?”
His jaw ticked as his lips flattened. “Would you have wanted to hear from me, knowing what you know now?”
Yes. She almost said it, then hesitated. Had she received a letter detailing what he’d been going through, what would she have done? She’d spent so many years hating him, she’d never considered that he might know of her anger and want to spare her further pain.
She wanted to press him; she wanted to flee. There seemed to be no good way to manage unpicking the knot of their past, no method for undoing everything that had gone wrong.
Perhaps it would be best not to try. “Yes, the stables are thriving. We had a rough go at the beginning, proving our mettle, but once we started winning at Haymarket, the gender of the breeder mattered less than the coin and prestige of victory.”
He nodded as they turned the corner onto Gloucestershire Street. “No one can argue with success.”
“Plenty tried.”
In her periphery, she noticed his spine straighten, and when she glanced in his direction, his jaw was set, his lips in a hard line. “Who? Give me names?”
She chuckled without mirth. “Do you plan to defend your wife’s honor five years too late?”
He exhaled in a rush, his chin dropping. “I should have been there, Lily.”
“Yes,” she whispered as the whitewashed facade of Fleming’s Confectioners came into view. “You should have.”
They dismounted in silence, Philip taking the reins from her and tying both of their horses off on the post in front of the massive window nearly as wide as she was tall.
Despite being well into her third decade, Lily’s heart still beat a little faster, excitement building in her chest at the sight.
Rows of glass jars filled to overflowing with toffees and caramels, bright taffies and crisp peppermint sticks.
Mr. Fleming had strung garland among the jars and hung paper snowflakes from thread dangling from the ceiling, transforming the already magical shop into the stuff of childhood fantasies.
When they stepped inside, sugar filled her nostrils, and she sucked in a deep breath, as though she could capture and keep it for later, less-magical moments.
Mr. Fleming looked up from his post behind the counter, and she was struck by how much older he was.
Admittedly, she’d thought him ancient when she was a girl, and now his bushy white beard, rosy cheeks, and sparkling eyes made him a doppelg?nger for St. Nicholas himself.
“Can I help you?” He tipped his head to the side as though trying to place her.
Philip stepped forward. “Do you have any raspberry drops?” When Mr. Fleming answered in the affirmative, Philip grinned and looked at Lily. “You still love those, don’t you?”
She rolled her lips between her teeth and nodded.
A hot summer day when he was courting her, lying on a blanket beside the Thames under the shade of a willow.
“Which do you prefer?” he whispered against her mouth.
“A raspberry drop…” He slid the candy between her lips, the burst of tart berry chasing the sweet sugar.
“Or a kiss?” Then his touch, the caress of his lips, so much sweeter—
“I’ll have two dozen,” Philip said, and Lily turned away, feigning intense interest in the offerings of Turkish delight. “Ooh, and the rock candy! Would Matthew and Reggie like these?”
“It’s sugar,” Mr. Fleming put in with a warm chuckle. “What’s not to like?”
Philip picked four stalks of crystalized sugar from the jar and handed them over the counter. “And your mother,” he said to Lily. “What is her favorite?”
Her words seemed caught in her chest. “I—the caramels, I guess.”
“Excellent. Two dozen of those, if you will.”
Mr. Fleming looked more than happy to oblige her husband’s whims, but she wasn’t about to let him pretend he was a loving uncle or devoted son-in-law.
He’d been trying to show his care, with the boys, with her mother.
With her.
She cleared her throat to attract the proprietor’s attention. “Where is the candied ginger?”
The man hummed—was that Away in a Manger?
—as he shuffled around the counter and retrieved a brilliant red tin from a low shelf.
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“These are delightful for settling stomach unease…” He gave her a long look and a wink.
“Particularly for our expectant mothers.”
Lily’s cheeks flamed as she waved her hands in front of her, as though she could brush away his insinuation. “Oh no, they’re not for me.”
They’re not for me. And they never will be.
She took the tin from him with a brisk nod, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat.
Mr. Fleming’s eyes suddenly brightened. “You’re one of the viscount’s daughters, aren’t you? The eldest? Forgive me, I can’t remember your name. Poppy?”
“Lily,” she replied.
“Ahh, yes.” He directed his attention to Philip. “You’re a lucky man, then.”
When he spoke, he was so close she felt the heat radiating from his body. He placed a hand on the small of her back. “Very lucky, sir.”
The shop was suddenly too hot, the air too thick and saccharine. “We should go,” she said, far too loudly. “Mama is expecting us for supper.”
“Please give the viscountess my best. And if you or anyone from your household needs anything, I live in the flat behind the shop. Simply knock and I’d be happy to oblige.”
“Lovely,” she said, her voice tight.
Philip handed over more than enough coins for their purchases—followed by a lively exchange where Mr. Fleming refused to accept such generosity and Philip insisted—and Lily made her way out the door as quickly as possible without breaking into a run.
By the time Philip exited the shop, she had tucked the ginger in the saddlebag and untied Calpurnia from the post.
“Lily…” Philip was there—Christ, how was he always so bloody close, wreaking havoc on her nerves? “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She swung into the saddle, studiously avoiding his gaze.
“You’re lying.”
“How would you know?” She spurred Calpurnia into motion. He should know what it felt like to be left behind.
“Lily!”
She ignored him as she brought her mare to a light canter, the cobblestones glistening with melted snow.
She’d forgotten how early nightfall came in winter, and by the time she thundered across the bridge and onto the road leading to Boar’s Hill, the black night sky had nearly devoured the periwinkle horizon.