all turn out well,’ Lily soothed. ‘You know the countess—she will have it no other way.’ She smiled. ‘And the crickets were singing away when we arrived, Mother. That’s a definite sign of good fortune.’
Her mother’s needlework went down, but her brow lowered even further. ‘Lilith Beecham—you know how it upsets me to hear you spouting such nonsense!’ She took a fortifying breath, but Lily was saved from further harangue by a shrill cry.
‘Mrs Beecham!’
They turned to look.
‘Mrs Beecham—you must come!’
‘It’s Lady Ashford,’ Lily said in surprise. And indeed it was the countess, although clad as she was in various shades of blue and flapping a large white handkerchief as she sailed towards the gate, she resembled nothing so much as a heavily laden frigate storming a blockade.
‘My dear Mrs Beecham…’ the countess braced her hand on the table for support while she caught her breath ‘…it is Mr Wilberforce himself!’ she panted. ‘He has come to thank us and has brought Mr Cooperage along with him.’ She picked up one of the Repository Tracts and began to fan herself with it.
Lily looked askance at her mother’s stunned expression. William Wilberforce, the famous abolitionist and one of the leading members of the Evangelical movement, was Margaret Beecham’s particular idol.
Mrs Beecham found her tongue. ‘Oh, but, Lady Ashford—Wilberforce himself! What a coup!’ She stood and pressed the countess’s hand. ‘How wonderful for you, to be sure.’
‘And for you, too, Mrs Beecham,’ Lady Ashford said warmly, recovering her breath. ‘For I have told Mr Wilberforce how easily the charity school in Weymouth went up, and how thoroughly the community has embraced it. It was largely your doing, and so I told him. I informed him also of your tremendous success in recruiting volunteers. He wishes to meet you and thank you in person! His carriage is swamped right now with well wishers and so I have come to fetch you. He means to take us both up for a drive and he’ll drop you right here when we’ve been round the park.’
‘A drive?’ Lily saw all the colour drain from her mother’s face. ‘With Mr Wilberforce?’
‘Come now!’ Lady Ashford said in imperious tones. ‘We must not keep him waiting!’
‘Oh, but I—’ Mrs Beecham sat abruptly down again.
‘Come, Mother,’ Lily urged, pulling her back to her feet. ‘You’ve worked long and hard. You deserve a bit of accolade.’ She smiled at the odd mix of fear and longing on her mother’s face. ‘It is fine,’ she soothed. ‘He only wishes to acknowledge your efforts.’
‘We must go now, Mrs Beecham!’ Lady Ashford had done with the delay. She reached out and began to drag Lily’s mother along with her.
‘Oh, but Lilith—’ came the last weak protest from Mrs Beecham.
‘The girl will be fine. The ladies from the other tables are here and she’s not some chit barely out of the schoolroom. She’ll know how to handle herself.’
‘Goodbye, Mother!’ Lily called. ‘Do try to enjoy yourself!’ She watched until the ladies disappeared into the crowd, and then took her seat, knowing the futility of that last admonition.
Traffic in the street ahead of her began to pick up. Shining high-perch phaetons wheeled through the Grosvenor Gate into the park. Gorgeously groomed thoroughbreds and their equally handsome riders followed. Ladies dressed in rich, fluttering fabrics paused at the tables, or giggled as they passed them by. Lily watched them all a bit wistfully. Surely they were not all so empty-headed and frivolous as her mother believed? Lady Ashford certainly thrived with one foot firmly in the thick of the ton and the other in the Evangelical camp.
She fought back a shudder as she glanced down at her plain, brown, serviceable gown. What did those men and women of society think when they looked at her? They could not see inside, where her true self lay. Did they see the girl who loved a bruising ride, and a thrilling novel? Could they conceive of her secret dreams, the longings that she’d buried so deep, she’d forgotten them herself? No. They could not. Why would they?
Lily straightened, shocked by a sudden idea. She’d been so excited to come to town, sure this was the chance she’d awaited: the long-anticipated sign of change and good fortune. But what if the sign had been meant for her mother instead? This disturbing thought kept her occupied for several agonisingly conflicted minutes. Of course she wished her mother happy. Hadn’t she thrown herself into an attempt to please her for the last seven years? She’d done all she could to ease the blow of her father’s loss. She’d settled down, acted the lady, given up all the roughand-ready activities of her youth, all because she was eager to please a mother who had always seemed uncomfortable with and somewhat perplexed by her spirited daughter.
Only now did Lily realise how significant the prospect of change had become in her mind—now when the possibility appeared to be fading fast away.
‘My dear Miss Beecham, here you are at last!’
‘Mr Cooperage.’ Lily shook off her disturbing train of thought and tried to rally a smile for the missionary approaching from the park. ‘How nice to see you. I’m sure your presence is a boost to all of our volunteers.’
‘Naturally,’ he agreed. Lily tried not to wince. Everything about the missionary, from dress to manner, spoke of neatness and correctness. Yet Lily did not find him a comfortable man. His tendency to speak in pronouncements unnerved her.
‘Will you step away a little with me?’ he asked in his forceful tone. ‘I gave up my seat in my friend Wilberforce’s barouche for your mother. What better recompense, I asked myself, than to seek out her lovely daughter?’
‘I should not leave my table,’ she hedged. ‘I should not wish to miss a sale.’
He glanced significantly about. Not a soul appeared to rescue her.
‘We shall not stray far,’ he insisted. ‘We shall stay right here near the gates.’
Lily sighed, laid a hand on the gentleman’s arm and allowed him to lead her a few steps down the street.
‘You, my dear Miss Beecham, are a fortunate young lady,’ Mr Cooperage told her in the same tones he might use from the pulpit. ‘I confess myself to be a great admirer of your mother’s.’ He took care to steer her away from the busy traffic in the street. ‘Your mother, much like Wilberforce himself, has lived in the world. They each knew years full of frivolities and trivial pursuits. How much more we must honour them for having turned from superficiality to a life of worthiness.’
Lily stared. ‘I must thank you for the compliment to my mother, Mr Cooperage, but surely you state your case in terms too strong?’
‘Impossible!’ he scoffed. His voice rang so loud that several passers-by turned to look. ‘I could not rate my respect for the woman your mother is now any higher, nor my contempt for those who cling to a life of vanity and mindless amusement—’ he flicked a condemnatory wave towards the park and the stream of people now entering ‘—any lower.’
Had Lily been having this conversation yesterday, or last week, or at any given time in the last seven years, she would have swallowed her irritation and tactfully steered the missionary to a less volatile topic. But today—there
