Someone to Cherish

by Mary Balogh

  “I did.” Lady Hill laughed. “And it worked like a charm. I hope you do not mind there being no gentlemen present, Lydia and Theresa, but sometimes it is very relaxing to enjoy exclusively female company. We can gossip to our hearts’ content and talk about bonnets and fans and beaux all evening without stopping to draw breath if we choose. Who is to accuse us of being frivolous and empty-headed?”

  They all laughed. It was something they continued to do through much of the evening. And how lovely it was, Lydia thought as she was taken home in the Hill carriage at well past ten o’clock, to have been included in the gathering. She had enjoyed herself enormously even though the conversation had indeed been trivial—quite deliberately so on all their parts. Lady Hill had made only the briefest of inquiries after the health of Lydia’s family. She had been more interested in knowing whether Lydia intended on going to the assembly.

  “For it is always good to know once Easter is behind us that we can look forward to kicking up our heels at a village dance and blow away all the cobwebs of winter,” she said.

  “I will be going,” Lydia said, laughing. “But I do not dance, you know.”

  “Oh, we will see about that.” Lady Hill tapped her hand sharply. “It was one point on which, if you will forgive me for saying so, I disagreed with the Reverend Tavernor.”

  The following morning, Lydia went to call upon Mrs. Hack and Timmy. She had had a few hours to spare in Eastleigh the day she went to visit her father. She had made two purchases to add to the bags she was already taking with her. One of them had been wool for a scarf. She had dithered over four different colors but had finally settled on what she could describe only as a brownish sort of burnt orange—an autumnal hue that was neither dazzlingly bright nor dowdy. Mrs. Bailey had approved when she knew the scarf was to be for a man. She had assumed it was for Lydia’s father, and Lydia had not corrected her. The other purchase had been the book for Timmy she had seen on a previous occasion. The stories in it were not labeled moral tales, she had been happy to note, and the pictures were a delight in themselves. It had been expensive and a bit of a strain upon Lydia’s purse when she had the additional expense of hiring a chaise. But she had compensated for the purchase by not buying the silk stockings she needed but could do without until next month.

  Lydia took the book now with the finished yellow blanket. It was a bright, sunny morning and really quite warm. She was surprised to see as she approached the house, one of a row of identical thatched cottages with freshly whitewashed walls just beyond the village at the edge of Hinsford land, that the bundle of linen outside and to one side of the door, in full sunshine, was in fact a chair with Timmy sitting on it. He was so wrapped up in blankets and shawls that only his face was showing. But that face was beaming with pleasure even before he caught sight of Lydia. His mother was hovering beside him, adjusting his coverings, looking anxious.

  “Timmy,” Lydia cried. “Your wish has come true, and here you are in the sunshine.”

  Mrs. Hack was not at all sure it was a good thing and told Lydia so. She was terribly afraid Timmy was going to take his death of cold. But the major had called on the physician from Eastleigh again, and the physician had come and declared that fresh air and sunshine would do Timmy a world of good. He had prescribed half an hour a day whenever it was not raining, and one hour after the first week, two hours after the second. And the major was going to come and take Timmy for drives in the gig and for rides on his horse after a month or so and—

  “And I am to go to school, Mrs. Tavernor,” Timmy cried from within his cocoon of blankets, “as soon as I am able to be up and about. I am to learn all about the world from Mr. Corning’s big globe that spins and how to do long multiplication. And I am to play with the other boys at playtime. And—”

  “And if you get yourself overexcited, my boy,” his mother warned, “it will be back into your bed with you, and your pa will not be pleased with any of us.”

  Timmy loved his yellow blanket and laughed with glee when he saw that his name had been embroidered across the top of it. It had to be added to the pile that covered him. His eyes lit up and his jaw dropped when he saw the book and learned that it was all his, to keep and read as often as he chose.

  “I have three books now,” he said in awe. “Three, Ma. And this one has pictures.”

  “You are the luckiest boy alive,” his mother said. “But what is the first question your pa will ask when you tell him?”

  “Did I thank Mrs. Tavernor,” Timmy said sheepishly before proceeding to do just that.

  Lydia walked back home a short while later with a light heart. It was so lovely to see the child animated and happy and bathed in sunshine, shawls and blankets notwithstanding. It was even lovelier to know that after listening to her story, Harry had intervened on Timmy’s behalf, not by ordering the parents to take the child outside but by summoning the physician again—no doubt at considerable expense to himself—to give his professional opinion.

  She had not seen Harry since the morning after her return home. She would see him tonight. He had said he was going to the assembly. He had always attended them—after he had recovered his health, anyway. For the first two years she had spent here she had scarcely seen him except at church on Sundays. It was only after seeing him at one of the dances that she had begun to dream about him. He had been even leaner in those days—thin might have been a better word then. But he had been vital and smiling and obviously enjoying himself. He had talked with everyone—even her and Isaiah on occasion, though of course he had never really seen her except to nod politely and smile. He had danced with all the women, regardless of age or social class or appearance. He had been . . .

  Oh, he had been golden.

  Lydia sighed as she opened her door and Snowball came bounding outside and greeted her with woofs and tail waves and hand licks before dashing off on more important business.

  She would see him again tonight.

  * * *

  * * *

  Lydia was wearing her pink dress.

  It was of very simple design—high-waisted, short-sleeved, low-necked, though not very low. Well, really not low at all. It was just not tight to the neck. And though the skirt fell in soft, narrow folds from beneath her bosom, it was quite unadorned. There was no sash and no embroidery or scalloping at the hem. But it fit her, she felt, perfectly and made her look slimmer than she usually did, unless that was merely wishful thinking on her part. The color seemed more vivid now that she was wearing the dress. It was, she thought, quite the most gorgeous garment she had ever possessed. It was so gorgeous, in fact, that she almost took fright and peeled it off to replace it with something gray or lavender, something inconspicuous and more suitable for the wife of a vicar. She had to remind herself quite firmly that she was not the vicar’s wife. Not any longer. That was Mrs. Bailey. She, Lydia Tavernor, was the widow of the former vicar. She was answerable to no one but herself.

  She was going to wear the pink.

  And she was going to wear it without a cap. She had pondered the matter, having resumed wearing one after that lone evening with Harry, but really it was high time she stepped away from the old life and into the new, no matter how frightening the prospect was. And she would do it boldly and all at once tonight. She had made the decision this afternoon while icing cakes to take with her.

  The spring assembly was the perfect occasion upon which to unveil the new Lydia. And the pink gown was the perfect garment. It was a shame she had no maid to style her hair a little more elaborately than she could herself, but she was quite pleased nevertheless with the result of her efforts. And she was very glad the vicar and his wife had insisted upon fetching her in their carriage, though the inn was not far away—nothing was in this village. It had turned suddenly windy and cloudy during the afternoon and was actually raining in squalls now. Her poor apology for an elegant hairstyle would be ruined if she had to walk.
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br />   At least, she thought, Harry would not feel obliged to offer to walk her home tonight.

  The carriage came early. Mrs. Bailey moved over on the seat facing the horses to make room for Lydia as the coachman handed her in. The vicar smiled from the seat opposite and wished her a good evening.

  “And an ugly evening it is to have to go out in,” Mrs. Bailey said. “But I do love the village assemblies, Lydia. They are so much jollier than the more formal dances to which we have been invited occasionally at Sir Maynard Hill’s, with only the gentry folk in attendance. I love to dance. Much to the dear vicar’s dismay, I might add.”

  “Isaiah disapproved of dancing too,” Lydia said.

  “Oh, I do not disapprove, Mrs. Tavernor,” the Reverend Bailey assured her. “I like to see my parishioners trip the light fantastic, so to speak, and enjoy themselves. It is just that when the good Lord was handing out body parts around the time I was lining up to be born, he discovered that somehow he had more left feet than right and gave me two of them. Or perhaps he had an even number but was not paying careful enough attention at the time and someone about my age has been shuffling about for the past fifty years or so on two right feet.”

  He laughed heartily at his own joke while Mrs. Bailey clucked her tongue, told him that Lydia would think he was a heathen, and laughed too.

  “Though I daresay your dear husband enjoyed a good joke every bit as much as mine does, Lydia,” she said.

  Lydia smiled but did not offer an answer.

  They were among the first to set foot in the assembly rooms.

  “You may be sure, Lydia,” Mrs. Bailey explained to her, as she had done on numerous occasions before, “that if we are supposed to be somewhere at a certain time, we will actually arrive at least a quarter of an hour before that time. It would be half an hour if I had not learned to ignore the vicar standing at the door, hand on the knob to open it, shifting his weight restlessly from foot to foot, and gazing reproachfully at me while I deliberately go about my business and wait until I can stand his silent impatience no longer.”

  Lydia laughed, thankful for the distraction of Mrs. Bailey’s chatter. She felt very self-conscious indeed as she removed her cloak and hung it in the cloakroom and then entered the assembly rooms to take her plate of iced cakes over to the refreshment table. She glanced longingly at one grouping of chairs in the corner farthest from the door but would not go and sit quietly there, as she would normally have done. She had become an expert at going virtually unnoticed in company. But her decision tonight to wear her new pink dress and to leave off her cap was only a part of the larger plan she had decided upon this afternoon.

  She was going to hide no longer.

  She had been a dutiful wife. She had observed a quiet and decorous period of mourning. She had eased herself quietly out of that period. She was free now, with the means to remain free and independent. She had a home here and neighbors who respected her for Isaiah’s sake and probably her own too. She had a few newly made friends. She was invited everywhere. There was no need to hide any longer. No one was about to come along to snatch everything away from her.

  She was strong. It was a novel idea, but she had thought it through this afternoon and decided that it was true. She had always been controlled by men and conditioned to think of herself as a fragile, timid creature who could not possibly exist without their support and protection and direction. Well, she could exist alone. She was doing it. She had been doing it for more than a year.

  She did not need to hide and hope no one noticed that she had escaped. Let them notice if they wished. There was nothing anyone could do about it.

  She was free. And she was strong.

  It was one thing to think it. It was quite another, of course, to live it.

  She felt horribly nervous and exposed to view. For as she walked about the room, forcing herself to stop and talk with each group of new arrivals before moving on to the next, she would not allow herself even the limited protection of lowering her eyes and her chin. And the reaction of her neighbors to the sight of her was not reassuring. Most of them seemed to look at her twice in quick succession, first with only a passing glance and then with a more pointed awareness—taking in her pink dress, she supposed, and her bare head and smiling face. They looked surprised. And scandalized? She saw no evidence of the latter. Appreciative? Yes, in several cases. And it was not her imagination. A number of people of both genders commented upon how lovely she looked. That was surely an exaggeration, but at least it assured her that she was not looking as inappropriately clad as she had feared she might be.

  Yet when no fewer than three men, including Mr. Roger Ardreigh, Lady Hill’s nephew, who had just been introduced to her, asked her for the opening set of dances, she refused them all on the grounds that she did not dance. Old habits died hard. But though she was determined to fight those habits, there were limits upon what she was willing to do. She would not make an utter spectacle of herself by trying to dance in full sight of her neighbors and friends. It had been a long time . . .

  But from the moment she arrived, while she mingled and talked and listened and looked about at her fellow villagers, at the food tables, at the orchestra tuning their instruments, she was really waiting for his arrival and trying to convince herself that she hoped he would not come. And telling herself that it would really make no difference to her if he did or did not. For no matter what, they were in all probability going to be neighbors for the rest of their lives and must grow accustomed to seeing each other and even to being in company together. And she had seen him once since her return and even spoken with him and somehow survived the ordeal.

  Then suddenly he was here.

  He was standing inside the door, talking with Hannah and Tom Corning, laughing over something that had been said, looking handsome and elegant despite—or perhaps because of—the simplicity of his evening clothes. They were, of course, expertly tailored. His clothes always were. He wore silver knee breeches with a black evening coat and silver waistcoat. Knee breeches for evening wear were old-fashioned in town, Lydia had been told, except at Almack’s and at court, but they were what the other men here in the country always wore for evening. His stockings and linen were very white. His neckcloth, though neatly tied, was not an elaborate creation.

  Lydia’s heart turned over. Or her stomach. Or perhaps nothing turned at all but she was just reacting as any other woman would to the sight of a handsome man. Who also happened to have been naked in her bed with her not so long ago. Yes, it was definitely her stomach.

  He looked about the room as he talked and laughed. Lydia could have stepped sideways and been hidden beyond Denise Franks and her husband and Lawrence Hill and Vivian Ardreigh, with whom she was conversing at the moment. She did not do so. She did not even pretend not to have seen him.

  He reacted as a number of others had done. His eyes alit upon her, moved onward, and then came back to rest on her. He paused in his conversation and smiled and said something. Both Hannah and her husband turned to glance her way, Hannah smiling too as she answered him. And he moved away from them and came in her direction.

  She needed a fan, Lydia thought. And it struck her that she no longer possessed one. Why until this moment had she been unaware of her hands and what she ought to do with them? Let them hang at her sides? Clasp them at her waist? Saw the air with them as she talked? But she was not talking at present.

  “Mrs. Tavernor?” He made his bow and smiled at her, but with no suggestion that they had ever been more to each other than neighbors. “Mrs. Franks? Franks? Lawrence? And—?” He smiled at Vivian and looked at his friend with raised eyebrows.

  “My cousin Vivian Ardreigh,” Mr. Hill said. “Major Westcott, Viv.”

  “I feared I was going to be late and would miss the opening set,” Harry said after making his bow. “It seems I have arrived just in time, however.”

  The or
chestra had fallen silent. All their instruments had been tuned and they were ready for the dancing to begin.

  “Some lady is going to be glad you did arrive in time,” Mr. Franks said, grinning. “And some ladies are going to be sorry they have already promised the dance to someone else.” He half glanced at Vivian.

  “Lydia has not promised it to anyone,” Denise said. “She still insists that she will not dance at all. I have never heard such nonsense in my life.” Her smile, directed at Lydia, could be described only as mischievous.

  “But true,” Lydia assured her.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Tavernor,” Harry said, “is it that you will not dance or that you cannot? Like the Reverend Bailey with the two left feet he likes to boast of?”

  “Will not, certainly,” she said. “And cannot, probably. I have not danced since I was a girl.”

  “And how many decades ago was that?” he asked.

  Mr. Franks chuckled.

  “It was enough years ago,” Lydia told him, “that I have forgotten everything I ever learned and practiced.”

  “One does not forget how to dance,” Denise said. “And it is not as though you have not watched any dancing in the intervening years, Lydia. You used to watch avidly before the Reverend Tavernor died. You may think I did not notice, but I did. You used to look positively wistful.”

  “Oh, I did not. You have a vivid imagination, Denise,” Lydia told her.

  Mr. Raymore, who was doing duty as the master of ceremonies tonight, was calling upon the gentlemen to lead their partners onto the floor to form lines for the opening set of country dances. Lawrence Hill extended a hand for his cousin’s.

  “Mrs. Tavernor,” Harry said, “let me persuade you to put the matter to the test. Come and dance with me.”

  “I have already refused three partners,” she told him. “It would be very bad-mannered to accept a fourth.”

  But just at that moment, one of those rejected partners, on his way out with Dr. Powis’s eldest daughter to join the lines, decided to intervene.