Chapter Sixteen: Mourning

 

The sky had become a chilly white by the time Lily and Nathaniel reached the village. The air smelled of wood-burning fireplaces, and the willow’s long, leafy tendrils caressed Strathclyde’s garden shed with each of autumn’s faint, dying breaths. Strathclyde lay resting under his apple trees when the kissing gate’s familiar squeak awakened him from his slumber. He waited to hear it squeak closed before resuming his nap. But it didn’t squeak. The kissing gate didn’t close, and he knew something was awry. As unruly as the children could be, no one ever left the gate ajar. Strathclyde roused himself and ambled slowly around the north corner of the house, just in time to see a vole creep silently under the hedge.

He rounded the front of the house, and was shocked to find Lily, crumpled on the doorstep, her tears coming quickly and loudly. The old man’s heart ached at the sound of her grief, and he knelt before her. He curled his bony fingers around her shoulders and pulled her close, rocking her for a moment before picking her up and carrying her up the stairs toward her bedroom.

 “Oh, Lily, Lily. Hush now, my girl. All will be well. Old Strathclyde is here,” he whispered as he climbed the stairs slowly, his wrinkled, weather-beaten face etched with worry.

He carried her into the nursery where a cheerful fire was blazing and her familiar chair and table sat ready for her. Rather than putting her straight to bed, as that was a task best left to the women, Strathclyde carefully deposited Lily in her chair near the nursery fire. He smoothed her hair, tucking it gently behind her ear, whispering, “There, there,” and, “Hush now,” as he crouched beside the chair keeping her face close to his own. He glanced around the room to find a blanket, and as his eyes grazed her table, they fell on the picture of Arthur she had drawn the day before.

Lily looked up at Strathclyde through blurry eyes, and followed his curious gaze. “Oh,” she groaned.

Though Lily was shaken, Strathclyde knew the moment to uncover the truth had come. He had always thought his father’s stories about spades and talking rooks and fierce battles in the forest were only fairy tales. But now…now he wasn’t so sure. Could there have been some truth hidden in his father’s stories? Desperate to calm Lily, Strathclyde glanced quickly at the door to see whether or not they were still alone. Then he asked carefully, quietly, “Is this the friend I saw running from the door just now, Lulu?”

Lily hiccupped, and blinked hard. “How do you—“ she started. “No, that was Nathaniel,” she sighed. “He’s a vole. That picture is...is...” and her tears came hot and fresh again. “Oh, Strathclyde!” she cried.

“What happened, Lulu?” he whispered softly.

“How do you know? How do you know?” she sobbed.

“I was a child once too, love. I thought the animals were make-believe. My father tried to tell me, but I didn’t understand. Now…I think I do.”

“I had to leave, Strathclyde...the hawks…and…and…oh, Arthur!” she gasped. But those were the last words she spoke that day. She lunged at the old man, nearly knocking him over, and wrapped her arms around his grizzled neck. She buried her head in his chest and cried as if the world had come to an end.

Having heard her shout, Nan and the housekeeper burst into the nursery in the frantic way only women can. They took one look at Lily, sure that she had caught her death, and began rushing around the house, collecting blankets and hot towels and all manner of horrid medicines, and shouting all the while. By the time the women had gathered together everything they needed to nurse Lily back to health, she had fallen into a deep sleep on Strathclyde’s lap. Her face was red and swollen and she was still filthy from her mad dash away from Alistair, but for now, she was at rest, and Nan refused to wake her for something so trivial as a bath.

Together, Nan and the housekeeper lifted Lily from Strathclyde’s arms, and carefully removed her shoes, her ribbons, and her dress, gently wrapped her in a soft nightgown, and tucked her tightly into bed. Lily moaned softly as they closed the door behind them, whispering to each other that she must be “terrible ill,” but Strathclyde knew differently. He alone knew that Lily was not ill—she was suffering from a broken heart.