Lydia Trent
A novel
by
Abigail Blanchart
About the Author
Born in Yorkshire, Abigail Blanchart is an English teacher, writer and designer, living in Japan with a spinning wheel, an enormous pile of yarn, and a collection of Victorian 'sensation' novels.
Acknowledgements
The author would like to thank those sadly long dead writers who inspired this work – Wilkie Collins, Mary Elizabeth Braddon, and Charles Reade.
Thanks to the NaNoWriMo crew and forum members, who kept me on track, and to my friends and colleagues who put up with my constant scribbling for a whole month.
Thanks also to my beloved sisters, the only thing I truly miss about England; the children I teach, who keep me young at heart; and most of all to Jesse, who inspires me every day.
Chapter the 1st
To the modern city dweller, eyes and ears accustomed to the everyday clangour of gas-lights and railway-stations, advertising-hoardings and omnibuses, there are few sights more pleasant than the English country house. The house with which we are concerned, a modest, airy, modern gentleman's residence set amongst rustic scenery and soft hills, was just such a one. Its honey-coloured stone blushing gently in the slanting rays of the sinking sun, which glanced its ruddy light from the casemented windows, conveys the very image of peace and prosperity.
The house is surrounded by a pretty sort of garden-ground, which though not extensive, is laid out with a pretty rusticity. The abundance of all the sweetest and simplest cottage flowers which lend charm to an English country garden, the taste with which they are arranged, seems to proclaim that the garden's planning was the work of at least one of the two young ladies we now see strolling on the wide gravel walk beside the house, their arms entwined around one anothers waists.
Some seventeen years previously, the widower William Trent, a prosperous merchant, now retired from business, had loved and married a penniless widow, Mrs Evelyn Wade, This lady's two-year old daughter Adeline had become sister and companion to Mr Trent's 6-year-old olive branch, Lydia.
Adeline and Lydia were now fine-grown young women, but there still remained between them the same sisterly feeling - the elder to comfort and advise, the younger to lean and confide - as there had been when little Lydia had shared her sweets and playthings, and kissed bruised knees when her Adele's toddling steps went astray, and when little Adeline had picked flowers and nestled up to 'my Widdy, for a 'tory, and a tiss'. Let us meet them now, as they round the corner of the house.
If we notice Miss Adeline first, we shall be no different to ninety-nine of a hundred other persons. Though none of her features was, in and of itself, worthy of exceptional comment, there was something in their symmetry and arrangement which seemed to tap into some primal aesthetic sense, the same which finds beauty in a landscape or a flower. It was of a flower that Lydia most reminded one, with a clear, almost transparent complexion of the same creamy white and blush pink as the old-fashioned rosed she loved. Her eyes were large, fringed with thick black lashes which drooped captivatingly upon her blush-rose cheek, the eyes themselves being of a peculiar hazel hue, which seemed to change colour with her mood, from dazzling green to cat-like yellow, to limpid and fascinating brown. Her hair was as changeable as her eyes and her cheeks, the chestnut locks which curled softly from low on her brow, and seemed always on the verge of escaping those feminine confinements, in the form of pin and comb, with which she daily tried to tame her tresses, glinted with golden lights by day, rich auburn by candlelight.
Now, at nineteen years of age, Adeline's figure was fully developed to a blooming womanliness, but was yet slender and girlishly graceful as she clung to her sister-in-law like a climbing rose.
Lydia, at twenty-three the elder of the two, was less arresting, though far from utterly unlovely. Her brownish complexion and mass of dead-gold hair (of a shade called sandy by the uncharitable) were relieved by a pair of sparkling grey eyes, expressive of much intelligence and good humour (except when she was angry, which was not often, when they hardened to chips of slate), and a wide, mobile mouth which, while unremarkable in repose, was as expressive as her eyes, and just now was rendered lovely by the tenderest of smiles as she bent her head lovingly over her sister's.
Lydia's stature was greater than Adeline's, her figure less formed and less graceful, but there was nevertheless an elasticity in her step, a spring in her movements, and a firmness in the set of her shoulders which suggested energy, spirit and resolution.
Forgive me if I have lingered too long on the image of these two girls, the younger leaning on the elder, the fading sun dyeing their simple white summer gowns the shades of a peace-rose. I saw them so once, and it is a sweet and tender picture that will remain forever in my memory.
On this particular soft June evening, the girls were taking a stroll before retiring to dress for dinner, to examine the progress of sundry tender seedlings that Adeline had recently had planted out, and to talk over the day's small events (oh, whenever are they large events, that young ladies - cabin'd, cribbed, confined – can ever find to talk about?).
“How kind it was of Alfred to bring me the new song from London,” murmured Adeline, then in a tone of more enthusiasm, “I shall learn it directly – he was obliging enough to express a wish to hear me play it.”
“Yes, Mr Denham is obliging indeed.” dryly observed Lydia, with a hint of amusement.
“Oh Lyddy, you are always so cold, with your 'Mr Denham this' and 'Mr Denham that'. Anyone would think you held dear Alfred in aversion!”
“I should be monstrous indeed to dislike one who is so pleasant to all, and so very kind to my dearest Adele – but still you are a grown woman now and there are proprieties to be thought of.”
“But to call him Mr Denham now, when he has been Alfred since I was 6 years old, and you went to school, and he took pity on me and made me a whistle and took me birds-nesting, after he found me crying for very loneliness in the lane one day, and he has been my friend ever since – why, how heartless he would think me, he would wonder what on Earth he had done to offend me!” exclaimed Adeline, spirited in the defence of her childish champion.
“When you left school last year was the time that the change in your relations should have taken place – however I accept it is probably now too late to change the habit now. I only beg that you try to curb yourself of speaking of him as 'Dear Alfred', which you know you are sadly wont to do. I do not wish to be stuffy, but it does sound very particular, almost as if he was your accepted lover.”
Though this matronly speech was made in a good-humoured tone, Adeline started imperceptibly, and was silent, as if a new and surprising thought had just arisen in her head, and she remained thoughtful until the girls went inside to dress for dinner.
Chapter the 2nd
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, and the girls retired to dream of... who knows. Whatever wild fancies whispered themselves in the fair sleepers' ears that night did not, however, disturb their rest, and they met at breakfast the next morning composed and refreshed.
After this meal, Adeline decamped to the instrument, to make what headway she could against the vagaries of the fashionable song, while Lydia busied herself writing letters for her father, before taking up a piece of knitting to sit with her stepmother.
Mr Trent was a fine and hearty gentleman of two and fifty summers. The one great sorrow of his life was the loss of his first wife shortly after Lydia was born, and the great consolation of his life was his two daughters – for Adeline also filled a daughter's place in his heart. He was a kind and indulgent father, who genuinely enjoyed the company of his girls. He was never too weary or too bowed down with care to talk to them, listen t
o their little concerns, share their joys and sorrows, advise, inform and guide them. And truth be told, amongst the treasures hid deep in the recesses of his desk, sharing a lavender-and-rose-leaf fragranced drawer with the precious packet of letters and lock of hair from his beloved Sylvia, lay a somewhat larger packet of letters, all more or less blotted and misspelled, in the large round hand of a couple of unruly schoolgirls. These letters had been his solace and refuge when weighed down with business cares - for prosperity had come and gone and come again for old William Trent, and he had supped at their contents as other men sup brandy-and-water – and he could no more bear to part with them now than he could bear to part with the writers. If he had been disappointed in his second wife, if she was not the all-in-all to him he had found in Lydia's mother, then he at least had the tact and gentlemanly feeling not to show the world, or his daughters, his disillusionment. Though loving words and tender gestures had long since been laid aside, he showed the second Mrs Trent every consideration. Though he could not love or respect her, he could still treat her with the gentle courtesy he felt was due to his wife. No harsh word was spoken, no request refused, no expressed wish unfulfilled if it was in his power.
What of Evelyn Trent? Perhaps the greatest cause of the fading of her husband's love was not a lack of affection for himself after their marriage – that he had hoped for but never expected in a second attachment. It was rather the lack of tenderness she displayed toward his beloved Lydia. To give the lady her due, she did not play favourites, nor attempt to advance her own daughter's claims at the expense of her stepdaughter's – she showed the same want of motherly regard to both girls. Although in their early years William had devoted what time he could spare to their education, Evelyn had argued strongly for their being sent to school, and though to be parted from his two bright comforters gave him many a pang, to Hastings House, a smart gynaeceum on the outskirts of London, some fifty miles distant, they went. Mr Trent would visit them often when he was in town, winning a reputation as a 'perfect love of a papa' amongst the Hastings House girls by the judicious distribution of ices and drives in the park. During vacation times, Mrs Trent on the other hand had been all in favour of them accepting this or that invitation, or else visiting friends herself. Now they had both returned, she seemed ro regard them in the same light, somewhat, as one would regard a paid companion. It was necessary to have them around, to dress and feed and guard them. It was not necessary to love them.
Mrs Trent and Lydia sat together now in the morning-room, Lydia ensconced in the window-seat, knitting industriously at a scarlet worsted comforter destined for the throat of one of the poor children of the village, Mrs Trent picking at an endless piece of fancy embroidery, and complaining of the poor light – though she habitually seated herself in the shadiest corner, conscious of the signs of age advancing across her visage despite cold veal and patent wrinkle removers. That is not to say that Evelyn Trent was not a handsome woman – at six-and-forty she still had a fine, imposing figure and a mass of dark auburn hair. Her complexion, though showing a trace of the crow's-foot about the eyes, was still relatively smooth and unblemished. Her eyes were of a steely blue which could either freeze or melt the object of her gaze, depending on which effect she wished to accomplish. She affected a simple style of dress, choosing to display her wealth and taste in the choice of luxurious fabrics and modish cut rather than abundance of trimming and gaudy baubles. By candle-light, she could have passed easily for eight-and-thirty.
The complexity of her embroidery was in truth more an excuse to retire into her own private thoughts than a way to occupy herself. By affecting to be deep in the mysteries of counting stitches or matching colours, she could avoid being obliged to make conversation. On this occasion, however, she felt disposed to talk, or at least to vent the ill-humour she seemed afflicted with this morning. At breakfast time, amongst the various letters and invitations the servant had laid on her plate, was one in a hand that was familiar to her, but which she had not seen in many a long year. She had turned a little pale as she noticed the direction, but had put it casually in her pocket with the rest to read in private after breakfast. The letter's contents had troubled her greatly, and now she sought to dispel some of her anxiety.
“Dear me, Lydia, what a ridiculous choice of colour for poor-box work. Scarlet, indeed! Why, before long you'll be tricking the pauper brats out in muslin and spangles. And I do wish you would find a more genteel occupation than knitting – poking away like an old farmer's wife. I'm sure it isn't quite ladylike.”
“Why, it was my particular friend at Hastings House, Lady Sarah Clarendon, who taught me how, Mamma.” returned Lydia mildly, for she had had long practice in the soft answer that turneth away wrath. “And scarlet does have the advantage of being such a warming colour.”
Before Evelyn could think of a suitable reply to this, a smart double rap was heard at the door.
“I expect that will be that infernal puppy of a Denham boy yet again. Really, it is quite provoking the way he hangs about this house. I beg that if you do plan to receive him you will take him into the garden or the parlour – I have a sad headache this morning and cannot bear company, least of all his.”
Lydia merely bowed her head in acknowledgement, and a moment later the maid appeared, close followed by Mr Alfred Denham himself, bringing a breath of the fine summer morning with him.
“Good morning ladies, begging your pardon for the intrusion, Mrs Trent, your devoted servant, Miss Trent. I came to see if anyone would care to join me in a drive up to the Abbey – it's such a glorious day for a drive.”
“I must beg to be excused, young man,” was Evelyn's ascerbic reply, “but I'm sure both the girls would be most happy to join you.”
“Thankyou Mamma.” returned Lydia. “Yes, Mr Denham, a drive on this fine morning sounds lovely. I'll just fetch my bonnet – and Adeline of course. Is there nothing I can fetch you for your headache, Mamma?”
“Nothing at all – rest and quiet is all I need” - with an emphasis on the second of those requirements and a pointed glare at Alfred.
At that, Lydia politely took her leave of her stepmother and went in search of Adeline. Alfred was to wait for them in the carriage, where, as it was an open carriage, he took the liberty of lighting a cigar, reasoning that young ladies who say they are just going to fetch their bonnets have a tendency to take an unreasonably long time in this simple operation, so he may as well be comfortable while he waited. He was surprised, then, by the reappearance of Lydia, close followed by Adeline, in something less than five minutes. Lydia had in fact found her sister just emerging from her bedroom, already dressed for walking.
“I heard the door, and surmised it would be Alfred asking us out on such a lovely day” she explained, with an uncharacteristic air of shyness.
Indeed, Adeline's whole bearing was subtly different that day, as Alfred soon discovered. She talked with less vivacity and more restraint than usual, yet often he would turn to find her looking at him with an unfathomable expression in her eyes. When surprised in these scrutinies, she would blush charmingly and turn away with a stilted remark on some feature of the landscape. Not being a vain man, however, Alfred put this change down to a bad dinner or a sleepless night on Adeline's part.
Chapter the 3rd
The Abbey - more properly Tenwood Abbey – was a picturesque ruin some six or seven miles from Allenham. Little remained of the ancient fabric of the monastery, it having been heavily looted for stone in the years succeeding the Dissolution, but a couple of walls still stood, their niches and window-ledges now home to birds rather than saints, and some fragments of the crumbling foundations could yet be traced. Moreover, the peaceful solitude of the Abbey's situation, and the charm of the road leading to it, winding through a pleasant green valley as yet unspoiled by rushing railway or noisome factory, made it a natural destination for the young people's summer drives.
The conversation in the carriage was carried on chiefly between Lyd
ia and Alfred, although when the talk touched on books, poetry, or music, subjects that were close to the sensitive, beauty-loving girl's heart, Adeline was moved to make an occasional, and unusually shy, contribution.
Seeing Adeline's discomfiture, Lydia became concerned, and took advantage of a pause in the conversation, whilst Alfred was distracted by the undertaking of the manouvres necessary to pass a bulky farm-cart, to make low-voiced enquiries about Adeline's health. Was anything amiss? Was she in any way indisposed? Ought they to turn back?
“Oh! No – how could I possibly feel indisposed on such a heavenly day? Pray put your mind at rest, Lyddy dear, I am quite well.” Then she continued in a different, musing tone of voice, “Only – your remarks yesterday afternoon did set me thinking so.”
It was, in truth, a lovely day. Though it was late in June, the sun was warm without being opressive, and a fresh breeze brought the soft scents of grass and flowers. Bees drowsed among the hedgerows, and cattle cropped lazily in verdant fields which resembled green skies spangled with innumerable white and yellow stars. High above, a skylark dropped in and out of sight, though it's song betrayed it's presence even when the height of it's ascent had made it invisible against the clear blue expanse.
“You ought not take my prosing so much to heart.” smiled Lydia, surmising that today's change in manner was a result of yesterday's warning against undue familiarity with the young man – and that Adeline was trying to prove a point by coldness to him who had been numbered amongst her dearest friends for so long.
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