by Pendle, Eve
“Here.” Lydia touched Alfred’s shoulder and offered him the second sandwich. “I’ll persuade Annie to finish.”
With a mother’s authority, Lydia made Annie finish her broth in the same time it took Alfred to consume his sandwich. It was so calm and domestic, a tranquil pool unless you looked into the turbulent water beneath the surface.
“Could you help me take these down?” Lydia asked Alfred when Annie had finished eating and the superiority of the chutney had been praised more than it probably deserved. She indicated the plates and cup he’d brought up on his own.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Elizabeth hide a smirk.
“Of course.” He’d take any pretense for conversation.
The cottage was familiar now. He knew his way around it even though it was dark enough to need a candle, the sun long since having set. There was just the soft rustle of Lydia’s skirts as they descended to the kitchen.
A kiss. Maybe she would instigate another kiss. His incorrigible heartbeat with a steadfast rhythm. Perhaps she’d decided, over a cheese and pickle sandwich, that she would marry him after all.
Instead, she sat down at the kitchen table and bit her lip. He sat opposite her and waited. She’d engineered this, he’d allow her the space she needed.
“Do you want me to tell you about Oscar?” she asked, eventually. The words were reluctant, as if preempting a scolding.
He shrugged. “Only if you want to tell me.”
She regarded him and her eyes seemed to penetrate, reading through his layers. “You know.”
He rubbed the stubble on his jawline as he considered what to say. He could pretend to misunderstand, but that would be disingenuous.
“I know.” He knew Lydia had been in love with this man. And it was as obvious as the sun on a fine day that Oscar Clawson was the lord who’d fathered Annie.
“Was it you who told him? About Annie’s illness,” she added impatiently when his expression must have revealed confusion.
“Me? I’d never seen the man before today.” Why was she accusing him thus?
She looked doubtful. “Then who? You were the only one who knew Annie was ill. I had no visitors all day. He confessed that he sent Elizabeth.”
“Oh.” Bile filled his throat. It had been this sort-of love-rival who had sent the nurse who had eased Lydia’s toil through Annie’s illness. “The day I brought the Doctor and the doll?”
She nodded.
He cast his mind back, but it wasn’t needed. The answer popped into place with the neatness of a ball and cup toy. “Sir Thomas. It would explain why he seems to have excessive money for the Children’s Society, given its funds. He asked me to send a telegram for him that day, just after I told him about Annie. And when I saw him a few days ago he went straight afterward to send a telegram…” This was uncomfortable. “I may have exaggerated Annie’s situation a little.”
Lydia pulled her brows together quizzically.
“He may have got the impression that Annie was at death’s door. Because we were not supposed to be courting publicly. I didn’t want him to speculate about my visits.”
She groaned. “This is my fault. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind.” They were ensconced together now, just the two of them. Nothing else mattered.
“You’re not...” She seemed to search around for the correct word.
“Jealous?” That this well-dressed man had come to the house of his love, had initiated her into love making, neglected her, and left her. “No. Not unless you still love him.” He held his breath.
She gave a bark of cynical laughter. “No.”
He let out the breath. She didn’t love her former beau. But that didn’t mean he didn’t still stand between them, as she’d said herself. “He’s still alive. Still your lawful husband. Or rather, Captain Taylor is.” Without a death certificate, he would always stand between them. And the trust her former love had destroyed was a broken bridge across a gorge, hanging with the severed ends unsalvageable. “I can’t see him again.”
“You’re cross. I understand that.” She peeked at him from under lowered eyelashes.
“With you? Never. With him?” He couldn’t say he wasn’t angry with that man. “Yes. I am furious with him for stealing your hope, your belief in yourself, and your trust in men who love you.”
She appeared unconvinced.
Convincing her would take more than words. He stood.
Her expression fell. “Oh, yes, you’d better go,” she mumbled. “Thank you for staying as long as you did.”
“Lydia.”
“It’s getting late. Don’t feel you need to come back–”
“Lydia,” he said again.
She stopped talking but didn’t raise her gaze from the stained tabletop.
“I want to hold you.”
She went still.
He extended his hand to her. “Just to hold you. In ease. Please.”
Tentatively her chin rose. “Are you sure?” There was guarded optimism in her eyes, like she was fearful he would withdraw at any moment.
“Yes.”
Her cheeks pinked. She put her hand in his and he grasped his fingers tight around hers.
Leading her from the kitchen into the front room he sat onto the only padded chair, he pulled her slowly to sit across his lap. She yielded, seating herself with her shoulder against his chest. Her weight rested on his left thigh. Via her buttocks. And although he’d promised this was just for an embrace, his manhood stirred. He willed it down. He focused on the heaviness of her skirts over his legs, and the smell of her hair, like chamomile and woman. Her breathing was slow and even and he allowed himself a smile of pride. He’d relaxed her. He was holding the woman he loved on his lap, her warm body curved to him.
Bumps and footsteps came from upstairs. Lydia tensed. He ran a reassuring hand over her hip.
“Stay. We’ll hear her on the stairs if she’s coming down.”
On her next outtake of breath she melted back towards him.
He’d have liked to run his hands through her hair, or tilt her face up to his to kiss her lips. But he didn’t. The yearning to imagine her legs parting, her skirts rucking up and her response to his touch was equally quashed.
Her trust in him was a vulnerable little wild field orchid. He dared not allow his lust to subsume them again. She hadn’t said she would trust him and marry him, but this was a step forward. This embrace between them was neither impassioned nor stilted, just pure affection. The need to kiss her was nigh-on insurmountable, but he had to allow her to begin any further intimacy at her own pace.
Outside, the daylight grew dim and the activity of the street slowed.
They remained as they were, breath matched, for a long time. He reveled in her closeness, the simplicity of holding her after a day that had been more than anyone ought to have to deal with. He yearned to help shoulder her burdens and help her forget them in bed with him every night.
“He gave me fifty thousand pounds,” Lydia said suddenly. “I think you should have it to open a school.”
He choked on his own breath. Surprise turned into an inelegant cough.
Lydia sat up to allow him to move, and shifted to the edge of his lap.
“No,” he spluttered out. “Absolutely not.”
“But if we married, you’d have the money, anyway.”
“No.” Did that mean she did want to marry him? Would she allow him to call the banns? “That’s not the point.” He’d wanted a rich wife, but this was all wrong. He needed to be Lydia’s protector. Cherishing was hardly the same thing when it was funded by a man who’d left Lydia practically for dead. This lord had only slunk back because of a whim to meet his daughter.
“I thought you wanted to marry me?” She was still on his lap but had shrunk away.
“I do.” This was all upside down. The concept of accepting money from her ex-lover, even indirectly, repulsed him.
“Well, now I have fifty thousand pounds of
dowry,” she said, sounding a little affronted.
There was silence. Not a comfortable silence like earlier, when they’d been in tune. A self-conscious silence. He was speechless. After a pause, Lydia rose, leaving an absence of warmth where they’d touched. Moments later he could hear her rattling pans as she put the kettle on.
He followed her in and regarded her back. She’d done the whole interview with her past lover and his beautiful bride in a simple day dress of serviceable red-brown cotton. It would hurt a woman’s pride, surely. But Lydia’s beauty needed no adornment to draw his eye.
“Shall I leave you for now?” He’d clearly outstayed his welcome for tonight.
“If you like,” she said blandly.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He wouldn’t stop visiting or give up. He couldn’t do that anymore than he could reject his soul.
“If you like.” Her nonchalant tone didn’t fool him, but it still hurt.
He left the cottage and walked slowly back to his lodgings alone.
Chapter Fifteen
Lydia woke to a drop of water and a feeling that something had changed. She was in a bed, not on a chair. Another drop of water came from the ceiling. The roof was still leaking then, and it was raining. A coating of guilt slid across her skin. She rose and went to Annie’s room. The previous night Elizabeth had insisted that Lydia should sleep all night in her own bed. The nurse was convinced Annie was getting better, but Lydia wasn’t so sure.
Annie was sitting up in bed. “Please can I have an angelica fish?”
Lydia stared. Her daughter looked a little tired, but only that. And she was asking for sweets for breakfast. Yesterday she’d asked for sweets in the afternoon when Markshall had visited.
All the events of the previous day rushed over her. Lydia swayed. With an effort, she focused on the present issue.
“What about poached eggs on toast?” That was a sensible, motherly thing to say and would keep her focused on immediate goals. She mustn’t think of the money from Markshall. She mustn’t dwell on Alfred rejecting her now she had wealth. Although of course, Annie only wanted the treats Alfred brought for her. The irony.
“I’m unwell.” Annie frowned and fidgeted, looking quite well. “If I have eggs can I have a boiled sweet afterwards?”
Lydia laughed. “Yes. Very well.” She and Elizabeth shared a wry look. It seemed the unflappable nurse had been correct.
* * *
A week after the call from Oscar, Alfred decided it was the day. He’d arrived a little earlier than usual, and the sunshine felt auspicious. Annie improved each time he visited. At the front door Alfred surreptitiously passed Lydia the little chocolate bar he’d brought, and their hands brushed. His heart throbbed as their gazes met. “How is Annie today?”
“You can ask her yourself,” Lydia declared, nodding toward the front room. Her indication was careless, but her translucent blue eyes were full of hope. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Annie was sitting on the little sofa with a woolen blanket over her regardless of the warm spring day. Elizabeth was sitting with Annie, reading as ever. Alfred felt his mouth stretch into a grin.
“Mr. Lowe!” She reached for him as he entered the room.
“Hello, little one.” He gave her the little bag of toffees with a wink.
Her face lit up when she opened the bag. “Thank you, Papa,” she said shyly and offered one to Elizabeth and they started a conversation about which were the best sweets.
Annie’s improved complexion was set off by a blanket he’d not seen before. Could it be new? Before he could dwell on this point, Lydia returned. He moved to be near her and her loveliness in profile snagged him anew. Her nose was aquiline, forehead high, and mouth wide. Kissable. Oh-so kissable. His fingers burned to pick the object from his pocket and beg her to be his to kiss.
“She wants to go for a walk tomorrow,” Lydia confided, watching Annie.
“Why not? Fresh air is healthy for children.” And women, he didn’t add. “I need your help,” he said instead. “I’m going to see Sir Thomas about something, and I need to you come with me.”
“What do you need me for?”
“Nothing that will hurt you.” He winked. “We’re going on a truth hunt.”
“Hmm.” Lydia paused. “Elizabeth, can you manage for a couple of hours?”
Elizabeth looked up, finished chewing her toffee, and nodded reassuringly. “We’ll be fine.”
“What about you, Annie? Do you want me to stay with you?”
Annie rolled her eyes. “You’ll be back, won’t you mother? I’ll be quite alright. There’s no need to fuss.”
“She must be feeling better,” Lydia muttered. “I’ll fetch my shawl and reticule.”
They walked to Sir Thomas’ house in companionable hush for the most part. They’d settled into an easy, if more distant than he’d like, routine since the visit that had upended everything.
Sir Thomas received them with the distracted cordiality of the rich and influential when the liveried footman showed them into the parlor.
“Ah, thank you, Simon, that’ll be all.” Sir Thomas arose from his chair to greet them. “Mr. Lowe.” He shook his hand. “And Mrs. Taylor.” He seemed to surprise her by shaking her hand too. No unsolicited kiss or affected bow. “You know my daughter, Caroline, of course. Or Miss Streeting as I’m sure you’ll insist on calling her.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Mr. Lowe said, smiling warmly.
“Indeed.” Miss Streeting bobbed a polite curtsey. “I’ve been away at school in Paris and in London for the season and haven’t met many of the newer community.” Turning to Lydia she clasped her hand in a warm gesture. “Lovely to see you, Mrs. Taylor.”
Miss Streeting was probably in her early twenties, her hair pulled back into a tight knot on the back of her head. Her dress, with its sleek silhouette and small bustle, was different to what Alfred saw routinely. High fashion from Paris, he assumed. The color, a dusky pink, set off her black-brown skin perfectly. A brooch in the shape of a spider gleamed where it held her fitchu.
“We’d like to talk to you about the rents,” Alfred began.
Sir Thomas looked benignly confused. “I see. I’m afraid to tell you that I rather let the land manager, Mr. Johnson, deal with those. I have far too much work managing business day-to-day. The estate barely breaks-even most years, so doesn’t justify my time.”
“We understand it makes no sense to concentrate on less profitable endeavors,” Alfred replied. Not break even, indeed. It was a farce. “But there seems to be a discrepancy.”
“Indeed? I don’t like the idea that my affairs are being mismanaged.” He rang a bell and a moment later a maid entered.
“Please call Mr. Johnson and ask him to come in, and to bring the accounts with him,” Sir Thomas instructed her. Turning back to Lydia and Alfred, he motioned for them to sit. “What’s this about then?”
“I believe you must not be aware of how high the rents are on your properties, and what inconvenience, and sometimes poverty, this causes.”
Sir Thomas’ brow lowered into a scowl. “Poverty? In Elmswell?”
“Yes. I believe so.” An understatement, but Alfred thought it would serve his purpose. “Caused by excessively high rents.”
Mr. Johnson walked in, making muttered apologies and greetings and then flopping into a seat without being asked. He was a middle-aged man with the saggy jowl of easy living, artfully disheveled blond hair, and twinkling blue eyes. A sheaf of foolscap folio size papers loosely secured in a leather file dangled precariously from his hand.
“Mr. Lowe is concerned about the rental rates,” Sir Thomas said. “What do you have to say, Mr. Johnson?”
“Well, I think they’re absolutely appropriate,” Mr. Johnson protested. “They are aspirational and desirable places of residence at a charitable cost. So many agricultural workers are rolling in money now, since wages have risen because of these militant unions wanting 18 shillings a week
. You can’t expect wages to rise and the landowner not to get his share.”
“What about Mrs. Cubert?” Alfred interjected. “She lives in Briar cottage and pays fifteen shillings.” That was well above the going rate, and they all knew it.
“And a bargain it is too.” Mr. Johnson replied.
“It’s two rooms downstairs, two upstairs, and she and her family survive on just eighteen shillings per week.” Alfred stated, managing to keep his voice calm.
Behind her father and away from the conversation, he saw Miss Streeting recoil.
“Sir Thomas believes, as do I, in ensuring people are incentivized to work hard and earn more money.” Mr. Johnson turned to Sir Thomas. “I know you don’t want lay-about tenants.” He emphasized his point with his hands, thrusting them out in front of him.
Mr. Johnson was a big man but took up disproportionate amounts of space even to his height, with his crude way of sitting and his bulky gestures. In contrast, Lydia was timid, though not a tiny woman. He suspected everyone had forgotten her presence. But her soundlessness concerned him. She might be uncomfortable, worried, wishing to leave and get back to Annie. It was time to move the conversation to where it needed to be.
“He’s stealing from you,” Alfred said clearly, but not loudly. The words were like smashing a glass on the floor; they splintered and everyone turned to him. “You don’t receive all those fifteen shillings Mrs. Cubert pays.”
“That’s a preposterous falsehood and I’ll have you whipped.” Mr. Johnson’s face went pink and blotchy with annoyance.
Alfred sat back in his chair. The accusation was all that was required. The demise of Mr. Johnson was inevitable. Sir Thomas would realize.
“What’s the rate Mrs. Cubert pays?” Sir Thomas asked again.
Mr. Johnson waved his hand in the air in evident irritation. “It’s fifteen shillings,” he said without looking.
“What about Mrs. Taylor?” Alfred asked.
“I can’t believe you’re interrogating me about trivialities. How should I know?” The blotches on Mr. Johnson’s face had become more red than pink.