Three Abductions and an Earl:

by Tessa Candle

  She supposed patricide was out of the question.

  “And that lace was lovely, I thought. Very expensive,” one of the débutantes observed.

  Lydia closed her eyes briefly to conceal their rolling back into the sockets. Why had her father insisted on this?

  “Oh, it must have been, terribly, I should think. I have heard that Miss Dervish's family is rather well established, and have estates all over the country.” Another chit made her contribution to the lively intellectual discourse.

  “Did any of you happen to speak with her?” Miss Delacroix's green eyes were animated, and the deep red undertones of her almost black hair lit up as she leaned forward into the ray of sunlight that passed through the great south window, betraying the tiny blue veins at her hairline—a sign of her noble birth, they were given to understand.

  “Why, no. We were not introduced,” the first débutante conceded.

  “No, I do not believe any of us were,” came the astonishing revelation from the second maiden, confirmed by a rustle of nodding agreement amongst all the ladies' ribbons.

  Except for Miss Ravelsham's ribbons. Her already highly arched eyebrows reached for her golden hairline, as she bit into a cream biscuit with a petite, smirking mouth. She leaned back into the grotesque pink settee with an air of indolence.

  Miss Ravelsham's blue eyes sparkled and her petite nose twitched slightly as she enquired, “But what of you, Miss Delacroix? Have you made her acquaintance?”

  “Well, I have, yes.” Miss Delacroix smoothed an imaginary out of place strand of her thick, glossy hair, like a cat preening a whisker.

  Of course she had. The other ladies leaned in with a chorus of “oh?”, and Miss Ravelsham actually paused in the otherwise relentless shovelling of cream biscuits into her mouth, in order to grin as though enjoying a particularly fine comedy.

  After a dramatic pause, Miss Delacroix continued, “And do you know that she came to town with two hundred bonnets?”

  A round of titillated gasps followed this comment, and Lydia sunk into deeper despair. Why did her father not call for her quickly, as he promised?

  As if responding to an invisible summons, shortly after the cream biscuits were no more, Miss Ravelsham's brother came to collect her and take her to her mother to pick out fabrics for her trousseau.

  This gave Lydia an escape plan. “Miss Ravelsham, might I ride with you to the shops? I just recalled that I must purchase a few items. I can send a note to my father to call for me there. It will save him having to accompany me to select ribbons and lace, and the like. He cannot abide such places. You know how fathers are.”

  “Indeed.” Miss Ravelsham's nose twitched again.

  “You would be doing us both a great favour.”

  “I should be delighted to have the company, Miss Norwood. My brother, I should warn you, will probably be in a foul mood, because he hates escorting me around. But that is the lot of brothers, is it not? He will be rid of me soon enough.” Miss Ravelsham smiled the complacent smile of the woman who has discharged the great feminine duty of betrothal.

  Lydia could smell the sweet scent of caramelized sugar on her breath as Miss Ravelsham leaned in and added, “And perhaps he will be more civil if you come along. So you see, you will be doing me a great favour, as well.”

  Miss Ravelsham was quite agreeable, Lydia decided. She would remember to send her a large box of sweets as thanks.

  “What, is Miss Norwood leaving us, too?” Miss Delacroix broke off from her illustrative discussion of all that could be gleaned about Miss Dervish’s clothing from the whisperings of servants and half an hour's acquaintance at a steamy pump room in Bath. “But you mustn't break up our little party.”

  Miss Delacroix only just managed to avoid stomping her impossibly small foot, but it moved involuntarily and rustled the lace trim of her muslin skirts. “If you go, I shall not have you at our dinner party next week. We shall be entertaining Miss Dervish, herself, you know.”

  “Oh, why must you torture me with the threat of such deprivations?” Lydia wrung her hands dramatically. “I am only being dutiful, for I must work out a suitable ensemble. My old frocks simply will not do now that Miss Dervish is in town. Two hundred bonnets, 'pon rep! I should not wish to shame you. No, I am afraid I must go, even if it costs me the invitation to your irresistible dinner party, though it would pain me deeply. Better not to attend at all, than to make a dowdy appearance. Go I must.”

  Miss Ravelsham stifled a cough.

  “Well, then... Yes, very well.” Miss Delacroix seemed to seriously contemplate the matter. “The right attire is ever so important. In that case, I suppose we might let you go.”

  Lydia wondered if there were one amongst the ladies they were leaving who was capable of fathoming sarcasm, irony, satire, or anything more indirect than what could be communicated with a fluttering fan or a heavily underlined letter. She knew it was bad of her, but could not help her disdain.

  With a sigh of relief, Lydia allowed herself to be handed up into an ebony black carriage, embellished with gold leaf and mother of pearl, by Miss Ravelsham's brother, Frederick.

  Lydia could not really understand what Miss Ravelsham meant about her brother being in a foul mood, because, though he was quiet, he seemed amiable, and smiled fondly at his sister. This sweet vignette of sibling affection made Lydia wish she had a brother or a sister with whom she could share such closeness.

  “What is that fragrance?” The air in the carriage was fresh and invigorating in Lydia's nose.

  “It is lemon and orange.” Miss Ravelsham patted a sachet hanging from a hook on the carriage wall. “I have scented sachets in all of my carriages, and I like to keep them well aired. I find it stimulates the mind.”

  “I think you must be right. How clever.”

  When they arrived at the shop in Sloane Street, Mrs. Ravelsham was already surrounded by seven different bolts of the finest silk. Lydia was not sure how long she could tolerate this degree of fluttering and clucking, so she excused herself to slip over to the shop across the way for “a better look at a pearl-trimmed lace collar.”

  She only felt a faint pang of guilt over her deception. She knew a good shortcut home, which was only to be taken in dry weather, and of which her mother would have thoroughly disapproved, were she aware of its existence. It also passed the private club at which she was fairly certain her father was whiling away his time at cards, unmindful of the acute torments to which he had subjected his daughter.

  As she lifted her skirt to step over a large crack in the dirty street, from which an evil odour of vomit and ale escaped into the humid air, she questioned what possible motivation her father could have for cajoling her into that horrid tea party.

  She was accustomed to her mother's inexhaustible enthusiasm for insipid gatherings and balls, but her father had never before insisted on her attending these sort of female tea engagements, as he called them. He had been her refuge, permitting her to spend at least her summers running a bit wild in the country.

  And he had always taken her side when she was deep in dispute with her mother over attending one or another congregation of clucking hens. There were a certain number of engagements that could not be avoided, of course. But she could not see how today's tea party was so terribly special.

  The smell of pipe smoke alerted her that she was passing the back entrance to her father's club. She stopped a servant, who was entering with a crate of vegetables. “You there! Would you get word to Mr. Norwood? I believe he is inside.”

  The servant was clearly a little confused to see a well-dressed young lady hanging about unescorted in an alleyway near the service entrance of a gentlemen's club. “I believe he is, Miss.”

  “I am his daughter. Would you please tell him that he needn't call for me at the Delacroix's. I shall be home before he is finished squandering my inheritance at cards.”

  “Ah, well...”

  “You may phrase it more delicately, if you like.” She smiled.
She could hardly expect him to repeat such a thing to a member.

  “Yes, Miss.”

  She was about to walk away, when a man called out through an open window on the second floor, “So what is your fare, then?”

  The servant turned ashen, and coughed slightly, rushing off to discharge his errand.

  “Well, how much?” repeated the mysterious cad.

  Irritated by the fact that she was blushing at this question, Lydia squared her shoulders, turned her back, and marched off as best she could on the uneven, muddy surface of the alleyway, without so much as a glance at the man in the window.

  This was exactly what her mother warned her would happen to girls who scampered about town unescorted. But why must the males of the species make such vile assumptions?

  The way home seemed filled with unkempt men who stared and appeared to think evil thoughts, or called out in some incomprehensibly corrupted street cant, as though uttering evil spells through the smoky air of the city.

  Shortcuts had always been magical paths through which she could travel undetected by the dragons of society. But the enchantment of her childhood was broken and scattered among the gravel and garbage at her feet. Being brave was one thing, but why had she never seen before how dangerous the alleyways were?

  She arrived home a little chilled and still a bit nervous, but entirely recovered from her humiliation. Lydia raised a finger to her lips and winked at Ole Maeb, who opened the servants' entrance for her and smiled conspiratorially. Lydia scrawled out a quick note to be delivered to Miss Ravelsham at the shop. It was sure to get there before they left, for the servants knew the shortcuts better than she did.

  Unfortunately Mrs. Norwood detected her sneaking daughter as she tried to creep up to the library.

  “Lydia.”

  She froze midway up the staircase.

  “You are home from tea rather early. Where is your father?”

  “I believe he is at the club. I got a lift with Miss Ravelsham.” It was not exactly a lie.

  “Miss Ravelsham? This is rather out of her way. Why did you not invite her in?”

  “She had to go to the shops for some fabric. With her mother. For her trousseau.”

  Her mother squinted at Lydia. “Well that is in the wrong direction entirely. I hope you did not put them out.”

  Lydia decided it was time to change the subject. “Did your new curtains arrive?”

  “No. And it is most vexing, for we are to have Lady Delacroix to tea on Wednesday, and I want everything to be perfect for her. Her younger son, Pascal, will be returning to town soon, you know. I understand he has become quite a delightful young man.”

  Having met his sister, Lydia thought it unlikely. “Oh, indeed? Well I do hope your curtains will arrive shortly.”

  “Come and sit with me, my dear. We can discuss what you will wear to their dinner party.”

  Lydia consciously stopped herself from gritting her teeth, and joined her mother in the south parlour.

  Perhaps she could coax Ole Maeb into finding her some roast beef later. Lydia had eaten as few of the loathsome tea sandwiches as was tolerably polite—the Delacroix's renowned French cook was apparently on leave—and so she was rather hungry.

  They were halfway through an enumeration of all the possible forms of attire Lydia might be oppressed into wearing to the Delacroix dinner, when the tedium was broken by the arrival of Mr. Norwood and an unexpected guest.

  It was a man only slightly younger than her father, with hair greying at the temples and somewhat portly of build, but with a pleasant smile that reached up to his dark brown eyes.

  “My dears, let me introduce you to Aldus Mortimer. He is the grandson of my father's good friend, Ainsley Truhold. Aldus, here are my wife Gertrude and my daughter Lydia.”

  Mrs. Norwood rang the bell.

  “Not tea, I think, Mrs. Norwood. Order some wine and some roast beef, if you will. The offerings at the club were hardly worth eating. You wouldn't object to a bit of sustenance, eh, Mortimer?

  “In consideration of how you have lightened my pocket book at the card table, I believe I shall be happy to eat and drink as much of your fine fare as I am able.”

  Mrs. Norwood turned her cheek slightly, as she did when she was pretending not to hear or notice something. She liked to imagine that her husband was more cultivated than he was, and that he discussed business, politics and other important matters at his club, and did not, in fact, spend his time there gambling and drinking perhaps a bit more than he ought.

  It was odd how different Lydia's parents were. Her father, though brilliant and a great reader, was not terribly refined—at times even a bit coarse. But her mother was the daughter of a country gentleman, and though almost too scrupulous, loved London, but avoided public assemblies and amusements.

  In her innocence, Lydia often wondered how they should ever have become interested enough in one another to marry. Now that she had attained the wise old age of nineteen, she understood that people married for much more practical reasons than personal interest, or even than the secret impulses hinted at in her novels.

  She was determined to avoid marriage as long as possible. What husband would ever let her be as free as she had been all her young life?

  The roast beef and claret arrived, as well as a bottle of brandy, and Lydia set about devouring two large, juicy slices with still warm bread, rich salted butter and a few pickled onions. Her mother turned her cheek.

  She dared not partake in any of the brandy, as it was apparently a very firm rule that young ladies did not drink strong liquors—even if they were not, in fact, ladies. And the wine was also off the menu, as it made her face go quite red.

  The servant brought Lydia a glass of milk. Mr. Mortimer and her father were partaking liberally, however, and discussing the goings on in Knottington Place, Mr. Mortimer's estate.

  It was not excessively interesting, and Lydia's mind wandered to the book she had recently purchased, Accursed Abbey, which showed great promise of being wonderfully lurid. If only she could find some way of sneaking off to her tree house, she could put a small dint in it before supper.

  Maybe she could get Cook to pack up some bread and beef tomorrow, and she could spend the whole day there, under some pretence or another. If only they could have stayed in the country. She had so much more time to herself, there.

  After they had eaten, her father asked, “Lydia, would you not like to show Mortimer the rose gardens, while I have a word with your mother?”

  In fact, she would not like to at all, but she knew that was entirely irrelevant. What could he have to discuss with her mother that could possibly be so urgent? She stood and smiled. “Certainly. This way, if you please, Mr. Mortimer.” She led him through to the east garden.

  “Well, these are very lush and healthy plants,” Mr Mortimer said cheerfully. “I think it should be quite lovely to sit out here on summer mornings.”

  “I suppose it might, but I confess I do not come to this garden often. Roses are my mother's great passion, not mine.”

  “A lady who dislikes roses. That I do not often encounter.” There was something in the way that he said it that made her a little nervous.

  “I think it is more indifference than dislike. But however I might feel about roses, we are never here for most of the summer. We generally summer in Nesterling Lodge after about May. My mother is quite in love with London, and my father with the country, you see. Although he always has enough business to keep him occupied here. If we return to town just after Michaelmas, my mother thinks it too late, and my father too early. From my perspective, I believe whoever wrote the story of Persephone and Hades must have been thinking of the London season.”

  He chuckled. “Be careful not to eat any pomegranate seeds. Are you at least looking forward to Lady Delacroix's dinner? Your mother is very enthusiastic about it.”

  Lydia hesitated. She disliked lying, but such situations called for a delicate rearrangement of the truth. “I am s
ure it will be quite the thing. Many of the young ladies among my acquaintance are all in a flutter about how to arrange their hair. I believe that is as good a ground as any to suppose it will be a grand success. Though their anticipation of upcoming balls has them in even greater throes of ecstasy.”

  He smiled and his brown eyes twinkled. “You do not much care for balls, do you?”

  She began thinking of a diplomatic reply, but he cut her off. “No, you needn't politely answer. Your father has already outed you as a consummate avoider of society. I should very much prefer to be hunting, myself.”

  Lydia agreed. She loved to dance, but she hated the stuffiness of London balls and the extreme control she had to exert over her tongue. It was horrid to always feel like you were about to make the social gaffe of the century.

  Hunting was much more to her taste. She rather missed her hunter, Ari, who was probably the largest in their county, but leaped like a ballerina and was most intelligent, even for a horse. Her mother advised her, however, that speaking candidly about her love of jumping over hedges was a bad idea.

  “So you are here on business, I suppose.” She could not think of much else to say.

  “You suppose wrongly. I am come to London principally to partake in the balls and assemblies. In fact, I shall attend Lady Goodram's ball, which I understand will be your first ball of the season.”

  Lydia paused. There could only be one reason why a single, independent man might engage in the season's amusements, if he disliked them so much. But she wished to avoid such a turn in the conversation.

  “Yes. I am very much looking forward to spending time with Lady Goodram. And I do enjoy dancing, but I admit, I should prefer it if the occasion were not a ball. Balls are not really designed to make the daughters of commoners feel at ease.”

  He smiled. “But surely it must be of some consequence being the sole heiress to a fortune larger than that of all the gentle folk in the room taken together.”

  “It is of enough consequence that I get invited. I nonetheless enjoy an unimpeded view up a rather lot of noses, which is most extraordinary for someone of my not inconsiderable height. But I suppose we needn't discuss the season, as neither of us is overly fond of it. How long has it been since you and my father have seen each other?”