14. Chapter 14-Lily
Lily still felt somewhat bewildered as to why Bradford was occupying her parlor so consistently, though she’d stopped fearing that he would reveal her secret in some spectacular fashion to the other visitors. After all, he’d promised not to.
However, it didn’t help that she couldn’t precisely remember the entirety of their conversation from the other day. Bits and pieces of it swirled in her mind and buzzed around her head like flighty mosquitos, then darted away before she could fully organize what exactly had been said.
The sum of it—or so she thought she remembered—was that Bradford wanted to get to know Lily well enough to know what she’d lied about when she’d been his governess. She supposed that was fair enough—odd, but fair. It was a small price to pay, considering what he could have demanded.
The part that concerned her was when he’d admitted he wanted restitution. If he wanted money, she had no doubt that her brother would pay him. However, if that were his goal, certainly he would have met with William instead of her. She doubted her pin money would be enough to cover such a thing.
Lily vacillated between thinking he was there solely for his own amusement—though that theory was easily discarded, as he’d never leave Rebecca behind on a whim—or that he meant to somehow use the knowledge he had against her for his own gain.
That was a frightening thought that nipped at her heels every night as she tried to fall asleep.
And every night she determined that she would not look for him to arrive, that if he smiled at her, she would not return the sentiment, and that she would cease to find him amusing, witty, or kind.
It was a promise she couldn’t seem to keep.
Over the next week, Lily did her best to ignore him, but it was impossible—impossible! What with him looking the way he did, and smelling the way he smelled—she’d never found the faint traces of a cedar-lined closet so fascinating, but she thought his must be a rare kind of closet.
She came very close to asking William for a new one of her own. Perhaps if her clothes smelled the same as Bradford’s, she’d soon get used to the scent, and she wouldn’t be nearly as affected when he sat next to her.
Lily also found herself inexplicably irritated at the other gentlemen who visited—even those who were kind and genteel.
Her parlor was so full of visitors, she and Bradford had barely managed to speak five sentences to one another.
She grew anxious to have Bradford alone so that he might ask his questions and be satisfied.
Besides, she wanted the opportunity to ask him about Rebecca.
So several mornings later, Lily gratefully accepted Bradford’s invitation to walk with him.
The park where they met was one of the most fashionable, but it was not the typical time for promenade.
They had come so early that hints of mist still lingered in the recesses of the lawn and hung above the far pond.
In the distance, a distinguished-looking elderly gentlemen strode through the greenery with purpose, disappearing into a stand of trees along the path.
Lily guessed that his physician had recommended the exercise.
Other than him, the only other occupant of the park was Mabel, who trailed at an appropriate yet discreet distance.
Bradford looked very fine today in a deep-brown coat and black pants. She found herself continually surprised at how well he appeared to have taken to city life—he looked every inch the elegant gentlemen.
Not that he had appeared less so in Northumberland, but there he’d loosened his cravat or rolled up his shirtsleeves later in the day. His boots had been of quality make but much more broken in than the perfectly shined ones he wore now.
She couldn’t decide which version of him she preferred. She batted the odd thought away—her opinion of him hardly mattered. Lily took a deep breath to settle herself; the loops of fine braided trim on her walking coat rose with the motion.
For many moments, the only sound was the crunching of their footsteps in the pea gravel on the path.
For all that she typically admired Bradford’s patience, this morning Lily wished he’d get on with it already.
Finally, she would have her answers, and he would have his.
This entire matter would be settled and he could?—
What? she asked herself. What will he do once he has satisfied his curiosity?
A deep pang of something close to regret opened within her. Lily shook her head, chastizing herself for the ridiculous emotion. This issue with Bradford was a distraction from her Season, nothing more.
Hadn’t the previous week proven as much?
He’d scared off several of her suitors—granted, those gentlemen hadn’t been particularly welcome in the first place, as far as Lily was concerned.
But even so, she was so distracted by Bradford’s very presence that she could barely pay more than passing attention to the suitors who’d come to visit. The real suitors, she reminded herself.
“What are you thinking of, Lily?” Bradford asked.
Lily startled and looked up into his deep brown eyes. “I was just wondering why you’re really here.”
He arched an eyebrow. “I’ve already told you—I came to London for you. I came to find out the truth for myself.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand. You know my true name now, my identity. Is that not enough?”
“It isn’t.” He paused abruptly in the pathway and turned toward her; she had no choice but to stop, lest she bump into him. “I want to know who you truly are—the truth of who lived in the adjoining room to my daughter all that time.”
“You cannot possibly think that I invented everything I told you.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he said evenly. “To find out precisely how much you lied.”
“I only lied about my name and my previous experience as a governess.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but once someone has lied to me about one thing, everything else they’ve told me comes into question. Certainly you understand that my trust in you has been damaged.”
Those words wounded her more deeply than she wanted to let on. She blinked rapidly and tried to control her expression. Still, those watchful brown eyes of his saw what she tried to hide.
His expression softened along with his voice. “I don’t mean to hurt you by saying so, but if our situations were reversed, wouldn’t you be curious? Wouldn’t you want to know what was real and what was false?”
“But how am I to prove anything, if you won’t believe me?” Lily held her hand to the side as if to show she wasn’t hiding anything.
“I would like your word that you won’t lie to me, moving forward. If you give me your solemn vow only to tell me the truth, then I’ll believe you.”
Lily hesitated. It was a dangerous request, but a fair one. Didn’t she owe him that much, when he’d already assured her he wasn’t going to expose her lies or harm her sisters’ chances?
Yet a promise to only speak the truth wasn’t a small request. Not when he could very well ask her anything.
She braced herself and said, “Very well. You have my word. What do you want to know?”
Bradford frowned down at her; she studied his expression.
He finally said, “Do you really think that Daniel Defoe is the superior author over Jonathan Swift?”
She couldn’t help it; she barked a laugh. “Of all the questions, that is your first?”
He arched an eyebrow in challenge.
She shook her head. “None of the opinions I told you were false, including that of revival-age authors. I never could have kept everything straight if I’d made it all up—I’m not that good of a liar.”
“Forgive me if I disagree; you certainly had me fooled,” he said, not unkindly. He turned and they continued their slow walk down the path. “Then My Dearest Matilda truly is your favorite play?”
“It is.”
He grimaced. “I confess I’d rather hoped your poor taste in theater was part of your disguise.”
Lily huffed an incredulous laugh. “Pardon?”
“It’s sad you were being honest about that opinion. It does little to help me trust you.” Perhaps his words might have injured her had they not been delivered in a teasing tone with a sparkle in his eye.
She shook her head and did her best not to reward his antics with a smile. “I’m not convinced you’ve actually ever seen the play with how you carry on.”
“I only wish that were the case. As it stands, I’ll have the memory of that poor sap crying ‘Matilda, my dearest dead Matilda!’ until the day I die.”
Lily laughed at his simpering rendition, even though he was mocking one of her favorite parts. “Or perhaps Northumberland theater is just far worse than that which we have in London.”
“Don’t blame it on Northumberland. I daresay the cast did the best possible job they could with the dreadful material they had to work with.”
“In any case, the play is so out of mode neither of us will ever have the chance to see it again. It’s best to let the subject lie—I shall keep my happy memories and you can keep your faulty remembrance of the event.”
“On the contrary. I find I must know if your poor taste was a folly of youth or a permanently embedded flaw in your character.”
Lily grinned at his purposefully pompous tone. If only Bradford had been this lively back when they shared a roof, all those dinners would have been far more enjoyable.
“It’s a matter of taste, which has nothing at all to do with character,” she said. “One cannot judge another too harshly for their preferences in such a trivial matter. It would be like judging someone’s morality based upon what kind of scones they prefer.”
“Lemon and poppyseed, as I well know. A virtuous choice, indeed.”
Lily started. That was her favorite kind of scone. “How on earth did you know that?”
“There were several times when I came up to check on you and Rebecca after tea time, only for you to smile up at me with speckled teeth.”
“Certainly not.” Lily jerked to a stop, eyes wide.
“It’s the truth.”
“Why on earth did you not tell me?” Lily’s cheeks flushed. Of all the mortifying things…