events.
Lily was thankful to be out of doors again—away from that great daunting mansion and the bewildering crowds of people.
Elizabeth had suggested a stroll to the rock garden, which was strangely named as it had far more flowers and ornamental trees than rocks. Graveled walkways meandered through it and a few well-placed wrought-iron seats allowed the stroller to sit and appreciate the cultivated beauty. Lily was more accustomed to wild beauty, but a garden lovingly created and tended by gardeners had its charm, she decided.
Elizabeth walked with her arm drawn through the Duke of Portfrey’s. Lily had to be told his name again, but she had noticed him in the drawing room, partly because he was a very distinguished-looking gentleman. She guessed his age to be about forty, but he was still handsome. He was not very tall, but his slim, proud bearing made him appear taller than he was. He had prominent, aristocratic features and dark hair, which had turned silver at the temples. Mainly, though, she had noticed him because he had watched her more intently than anyone else had. He had scarcely taken his eyes off her, in fact. There had been a strange expression on his face—almost of puzzlementHe asked some pointed questions as they walked.
“Who was your father, Lily?” he asked.
“Sergeant Thomas Doyle of the Ninety-fifth, sir,” she told him.
“And where did he live before he took the king’s shilling?” he asked.
“I think Leicestershire, sir.”
“Ah,” he said. “And where exactly in Leicestershire?”
“I do not know, sir.” Papa had never talked a great deal about his past. Something he had once said, though, had led Lily to believe that he had left home and joined the army because he had been unhappy.
“And his family?” the duke asked. “What do you know of them?”
“Very little, sir,” she replied. “Papa had a father and a brother, I believe.”
“But you never visited them?”
“No, sir.” She shook her head.
“And your mother,” he asked her. “Who was she?”
“Her name was Beatrice, sir,” she said. “She died in India when I was seven years old. She had a fever.”
“And her maiden name, Lily?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Are you planning to write a biography, Lyndon?” she asked. “Pray do not feel obliged to answer, Lily. We are all curious about you because you have suddenly been presented to us as Neville’s wife and your life has been so fascinatingly different from our own. You must forgive us if we seem almost ill-bred in our inquisitiveness.”
The duke asked no more questions, Lily was relieved to discover. She found his blue eyes rather disconcerting. He gave the impression of being able to see right into another person’s mind.
“Do you know the names of all these flowers?” she asked Elizabeth. “They are very lovely. But they are different from flowers I know.”
They sat on one of the seats while Elizabeth named every flower and tree and Lily set herself to memorizing their names—lupins, hollyhocks, wallflowers, lilies, irises, sweet briar, lilacs, cherry trees, pear trees. Would she ever remember them all? The Duke of Portfrey strolled along the paths while they talked, though he did pause for a while at the lower end of the rock garden to gaze back at Lily.
Lady Elizabeth stood beside the fountain watching Lily return to the house. She looked small and rather lost, but she had declined Elizabeth’s offer to accompany her to her room. She thought she could remember the way, she had said.
“She has courage,” Elizabeth said more to herself than to the Duke of Portfrey, who was standing behind her.
“I must thank you, Elizabeth,” he said stiffly, “for pointing out how ill-bred and excessively inquisitive my questions were.”
She swung around to face him. “Oh, dear,” she said, smiling ruefully, “I have offended you.”
“Not at all.” He made her a slight bow. “I am sure you were quite right”
“Poor child,” she
Lily was thankful to be out of doors again—away from that great daunting mansion and the bewildering crowds of people.
Elizabeth had suggested a stroll to the rock garden, which was strangely named as it had far more flowers and ornamental trees than rocks. Graveled walkways meandered through it and a few well-placed wrought-iron seats allowed the stroller to sit and appreciate the cultivated beauty. Lily was more accustomed to wild beauty, but a garden lovingly created and tended by gardeners had its charm, she decided.
Elizabeth walked with her arm drawn through the Duke of Portfrey’s. Lily had to be told his name again, but she had noticed him in the drawing room, partly because he was a very distinguished-looking gentleman. She guessed his age to be about forty, but he was still handsome. He was not very tall, but his slim, proud bearing made him appear taller than he was. He had prominent, aristocratic features and dark hair, which had turned silver at the temples. Mainly, though, she had noticed him because he had watched her more intently than anyone else had. He had scarcely taken his eyes off her, in fact. There had been a strange expression on his face—almost of puzzlementHe asked some pointed questions as they walked.
“Who was your father, Lily?” he asked.
“Sergeant Thomas Doyle of the Ninety-fifth, sir,” she told him.
“And where did he live before he took the king’s shilling?” he asked.
“I think Leicestershire, sir.”
“Ah,” he said. “And where exactly in Leicestershire?”
“I do not know, sir.” Papa had never talked a great deal about his past. Something he had once said, though, had led Lily to believe that he had left home and joined the army because he had been unhappy.
“And his family?” the duke asked. “What do you know of them?”
“Very little, sir,” she replied. “Papa had a father and a brother, I believe.”
“But you never visited them?”
“No, sir.” She shook her head.
“And your mother,” he asked her. “Who was she?”
“Her name was Beatrice, sir,” she said. “She died in India when I was seven years old. She had a fever.”
“And her maiden name, Lily?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Are you planning to write a biography, Lyndon?” she asked. “Pray do not feel obliged to answer, Lily. We are all curious about you because you have suddenly been presented to us as Neville’s wife and your life has been so fascinatingly different from our own. You must forgive us if we seem almost ill-bred in our inquisitiveness.”
The duke asked no more questions, Lily was relieved to discover. She found his blue eyes rather disconcerting. He gave the impression of being able to see right into another person’s mind.
“Do you know the names of all these flowers?” she asked Elizabeth. “They are very lovely. But they are different from flowers I know.”
They sat on one of the seats while Elizabeth named every flower and tree and Lily set herself to memorizing their names—lupins, hollyhocks, wallflowers, lilies, irises, sweet briar, lilacs, cherry trees, pear trees. Would she ever remember them all? The Duke of Portfrey strolled along the paths while they talked, though he did pause for a while at the lower end of the rock garden to gaze back at Lily.
Lady Elizabeth stood beside the fountain watching Lily return to the house. She looked small and rather lost, but she had declined Elizabeth’s offer to accompany her to her room. She thought she could remember the way, she had said.
“She has courage,” Elizabeth said more to herself than to the Duke of Portfrey, who was standing behind her.
“I must thank you, Elizabeth,” he said stiffly, “for pointing out how ill-bred and excessively inquisitive my questions were.”
She swung around to face him. “Oh, dear,” she said, smiling ruefully, “I have offended you.”
“Not at all.” He made her a slight bow. “I am sure you were quite right”
“Poor child,” she
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