by Martha Keyes
Lydia held Thomas on her lap. He was blissfully unaware of what lay in store for him, content to focus on the tassels of the nearest pillow. His eyes bulged, though, at the sound of the loud chord played by Mary when Robinson first entered the room, signaling that he was nowhere near the object. Robinson hurried into the room, and the music grew a bit softer. He was quick to discover that the music was faintest as he neared the sofa Lydia sat upon, but it took some trial and error—including picking up the pillow Thomas was holding, resulting in angry squawking until the tassels were back in reach. Finally, Robinson tilted his head to the side and looked at Thomas himself.
Lydia, Miles, Diana, and Harry all laughed at the look of uncertainty on Robinson’s face. He put out his hands toward Thomas, and Mary tapped as gently as she could on the keys, stopping them completely when Robinson took Thomas in his arms.
“What task am I to do with a baby?” Robinson asked.
“That,” Diana said, “you are strictly prohibited from asking. I am sure you will solve it in no time at all.”
That he was meant to dance with Thomas, he did indeed discover in less than a minute. But precisely which dance was a matter that required more guesswork, and by the time he had tried the steps to a cotillion, a scotch reel, and the boulanger, the three people on the sofa were in stitches from laughing, and Mary’s piano playing had taken a serious turn for the worse due to her own difficulty in keeping her composure. Thomas, on the other hand, was torn between laughs and hilarious looks of uncertainty as Robinson tried to guide him through the arm movements required of him.
It was only when he finally gave Thomas back to Lydia that she realized that, in her mirth, she had set a steadying hand upon Miles’s leg, and he had a hand on her back. She slowly removed hers, though she felt reluctant to do so.
“I think I will have to cry off the second dance in our set, chap,” Robinson said in a slightly breathless voice as he tousled Thomas’s hair and turned toward Harry. “I nominate you to be the next victim.”
Harry looked to Diana, who gave a consenting nod.
He pushed himself to a stand, brushing off his coat sleeves with a wide grin at his friend. “It took you a full seven minutes to grasp what we were asking of you, Robinson. I wager I shall do so in half the time.”
Robinson snorted as he settled into the chair Harry had been in. “We shall see, Blakeburn!” he shouted as the door closed behind Harry.
This time, it was Robinson who guided the choice of object and task, and it was quite clear he meant to have his revenge upon Harry. He wore a satisfied smirk as he let Harry back into the room.
Lydia rocked Thomas gently in her arms while keeping an eye on Diana. Either she wasn’t nervous, or she was very good at masking it.
Robinson tapped the face on the pocketwatch in his hand. “Time is ticking.”
Music emanated in deafening chords as Harry made his way quickly around the outer rim of the drawing room. Seeing his choice was ineffective, he came to the center of the room, bringing about a quick softening of the music. He shot Robinson a victorious look then went to the candlestick which sat upon the small table beside the sofa. The music grew louder, so he went back the other way, passing Miles then Lydia as the volume eased only to crescendo once he passed by Diana. He stopped in his tracks and took two steps backward. The music went soft, and he turned toward Diana on the couch, a curious half-smile on his face.
Only someone as familiar with Diana as Lydia was would have noticed the slight pink in her cheeks—which only enhanced her natural beauty—or the way she held her hands a bit too primly in her lap. She was nervous.
Harry put out a hand in invitation for her to stand, and the music grew louder. He frowned then turned around to take the seat next to her, which required Lydia to scoot closer to Miles, who was at the far end of the sofa and couldn’t move. Her thigh bumped into Miles’s hand, and he pulled it from between them, hesitating for a moment before setting his arm on the back of the sofa behind her where it rested lightly on her shoulders. Thomas was nearly asleep, and Lydia’s right arm was beginning to tire, so she let it rest on Miles’s leg. Miles smiled at her and caressed Thomas’s head with a gentle thumb.
Before Harry could sit next to Lydia, though, the piano music grew louder again, and he was obliged to leave off the idea, instead coming to stand before her yet again. Lydia debated whether she should move into the space again available to her, but it was too comfortable with the warmth of Miles’s arm on her shoulders and his leg supporting her arm. Thomas’s head was heavy.
Robinson had his pocket watch out by now and was tapping the glass on it teasingly.
Harry screwed up his face in thought then, with a suspicious narrowing of the eyes, looked at his friend. Robinson grinned, as though to confirm whatever Harry had suspected.
Gaze still fixed on Robinson, Harry began bending his knees, and the volume of chords at the piano weakened slightly. Harry laughed and lowered all the way down to a knee. Diana was looking at him expectantly, as if she hadn’t the slightest idea why he was kneeling before her. Harry looked to the others for any sign of what he was meant to do, but the only response he received was laughs. Lydia tried her best to stifle hers so as not to disturb Thomas, who seemed to be settling in for a much-needed slumber.
Harry reached tentatively for Diana’s hand and was rewarded with a further softening of the music. He inclined his head as if he finally understood what was expected of him and twisted off the single ring he wore.
“It would do me the greatest honor, Miss Donnely,” said Harry as the music finally stopped, “if you would consent to be my wife.” He put the ring onto one of Diana’s fingers and set a kiss upon the back of her hand in a gesture so charming, Lydia thought it might be a miracle if Diana’s heart was untouched by it.
Diana feigned surprise and fluttered her lashes in faux coquetry. “I am terribly flattered, Mr. Blakeburn, except the ring you’ve given me was evidently fitted for another woman’s hand.”
Lydia laughed along with the rest of them, but she felt a little aching in her heart at the flirtation between Diana and Harry. She and Miles had used to be just so. It seemed an age, and Lydia missed it terribly all of a sudden, the sight bringing her heart into her throat. She glanced at Miles beside her, and she didn’t miss the look of wistfulness—or the hint of sadness—in the smile he wore.
Harry and Diana continued their bantering flirtation, and Lydia attempted to rise from the sofa. Miles gave her a questioning look and helped her to stand.
“I am just going to put Thomas down in the cradle,” she said softly. He nodded, but she saw concern in his eyes. He knew her too well.
She hurried up the stairs and into her bedchamber, slowing as she set Thomas down and covered him with a blanket. She stared at him, aware of how empty her arms felt—how lonely she was. She wanted the ease and laughter she had seen between Diana and Harry. But there had been nothing easy about the last couple years of marriage.
But was the loss she and Miles had experienced an inevitability? How many times had Miles tried to tease her, only to be met with polite responses that chilled any possibility of continuing the interaction? When had she begun to assume that his attempts to make her smile or be near her were simply masks for his desire to have an heir?
Quietly, she moved to the desk her mirror sat upon. A glass vial within rolled toward her. It lay atop the letter from the solicitor, but it had been there long before. She hadn’t opened it yet except to smell it after first receiving it. The apothecary had told her it would help to bring on her courses. It had been months since she’d had them. At first, she had been hopeful that their disappearance was because she was pregnant. She hadn’t told Miles—to do so would have felt like a repetition of what had happened at Christmas—and, in time, it became clear that she was not pregnant. There was none of the fatigue or sickness that had plagued her the first time, and there was no rounding of her belly as time went on.
Instead, she was
left with the terrifying thought that she was well and truly barren now.
But the thought of partaking of the pennyroyal was just as terrifying. If it brought on her courses, she would have no excuse anymore. She had told herself that there was little purpose in sharing a bed with Miles if she couldn’t conceive. It had been salve on her conscience and a bit of balm at the uncomfortable knowledge that she was not fulfilling her marital obligations.
But it was a feeble excuse, and she knew it well. If her courses returned, she would have to face the truth of things: she was afraid. She was afraid that she had lost Miles’s love, that in her he saw only failure and regret. She was afraid that she could never make him happy and that, for him, the only purpose in sharing a bed was for the child he hoped it would lead to.
Near the back of the drawer, in the shadows, sat a seashell. She reached for it and pulled it into the light, rubbing a finger along its soft grooves. She had kept it on the desk in her room in Brighton all summer, but it had been sitting in the back of this drawer for years now.
She and Miles had collected many seashells together during their time in Brighton five years ago, but Lydia had kept only this one—the first one he gave her. She turned it, finding the little opening and smiling sadly and setting it to her ear. It was almost as if she could hear the memories of that sweet summer.
Was that all the happy times would ever be now? Memories in a drawer? Would she keep longing for the past and avoiding the present?
She eyed the pennyroyal again and set down the shell beside it, pulling the vial from the drawer. She uncorked the lid and took a quick sip before she could think better of it. She couldn’t avoid things forever.
With a quick word to Jane to listen for Thomas, Lydia returned to the drawing room. The door was slightly ajar when she returned, the kissing bough twirling slowly from the top of the doorway. Within, Mary played a merry tune while Harry and Diana danced in a circle with arms linked, cheered on by the clapping of Robinson and Miles.
Lydia watched Miles, trying to remember what it had been like to see him five years ago, letting all of the hurt and disappointment and burdens of the more recent past fall like scales from her eyes. She could still see the way the Brighton wind swept the blond hair into his eyes as he’d led her and her sisters down the beach in search of more seashells.
She had been enamored of him, even knowing that he and Miss Kirkland were intended for each other. He had been so kind and attentive, not only to her, but to her sisters and parents, too. It had felt too good to be true—a dream from an idyllic world—when he had found reasons, day after day, to come to their townhouse and as she had seen suggestions of his regard for her in his eyes and behavior.
What had happened to change things so drastically from then to the way they were now?
Another twinge of longing settled deep within her, and, as if he had felt it, Miles turned toward her, followed by Robinson.
“She’s here!” Robinson cried as Lydia opened the door to the drawing room and shut the door on her nostalgia.
Suddenly, Mary was pounding away on the piano, and all eyes were on Lydia. She blinked, trying to take stock of what was happening.
“Since you had to leave the room,” Diana said loudly enough that she could be heard over the piano, “we thought you might as well be the next candidate for the game!”
“Oh!” Lydia laughed nervously and stepped fully into the room. She knew her sisters well enough to guess that they wouldn’t forgo the opportunity to embarrass her. “Very well. Let’s see….” She took a step nearer to Mary, and the volume increased. A step in the opposite direction brought the same result, so she stepped toward the sofa, and Mary played a bit softer.
Miles was looking at her with a strange expression on his face, and she looked a question at him. He almost seemed apologetic. No doubt he felt badly that she had been selected without any choice in the matter. The music grew louder, and Lydia realized she was standing in place.
She took another step toward the sofa and was rewarded with a less jarring string of chords. Was her object a person, yet again? She stood closer to Diana, and when the music amplified, her heart began to race. Of course her object was Miles. It was very much like Diana to scheme. Lydia may have been taking pains to put on a façade persuading her sisters that nothing was amiss in the marriage, but Diana was no fool.
The music softened to an almost imperceptible volume when Lydia stepped before her husband. And still, his eyes held apology in them, an apology that stung her conscience. Had she pushed him so very far from her that he felt he needed to apologize that she was obliged to come near him, even as part of a game?
She had found her object. Now what was the task required of her? They wouldn’t have her repeat what had been done already by Robinson and Harry, and that was well enough, for she didn’t think she could keep her composure if she were obliged to kneel before Miles and pretend it was all in good fun.
Was she to sit next to him? She tried, only to stop immediately at a crescendo in Mary’s playing. Perhaps on his lap? How embarrassing. She put a hand on his knee and turned slightly to signify her intent, but no. That was not it. She put her hand out, and Miles took it, his gaze never leaving her face, as if he was trying to gauge how she was responding to all of this. She kept her mouth drawn in a smile, hoping it would reassure him. The music softened, and Miles rose from the sofa.
She tried various things with him beside her: curtsying to him, setting out her hands in preparation for a dance, and finally taking up his hand to walk the edge of the room. Perhaps they were meant to read a book together or snuff a candle. But they passed those objects with no significant change in Mary’s playing.
She continued leading him, feeling almost as nervous as the first time he had taken her hand. What would their four spectators say to know that Lydia’s heart hammered in her chest and her hands clung to her gloves in this moment? Or that, as the music softened at their approach to the door and her eyes caught sight of the kissing bough, her heart stopped altogether?
Every one of the others was laughing, but there was no humor in Miles’s eyes. Lydia tried to ignore her own nerves, which pummeled her from the inside, and she smiled at him. This was no great matter. They would share a quick kiss under the bough. It would appease the people watching them, and perhaps it would give Miles just a sliver of reassurance.
He tried to return her smile, but it was weak. Now that they had found their task, the music began to get louder again, as if Mary was intent on making them understand that they were meant to do more than just stand beneath the kissing bough.
Lydia strengthened her smile, but she felt the heat creeping into her cheeks as she went up on her tiptoes. She and Miles had always had to meet halfway to kiss—to bridge the distance between their disparate heights—until Lydia had slowly begun to let Miles traverse the entire distance himself. And then, one day, he had stopped trying at all.
He hesitated a moment, and she wondered with another stab of guilt whether he was remembering all the times she had rejected his attempts or met them with tight-lipped kisses. But he leaned down toward her, and their lips touched for the briefest of moments before parting again. Had he even closed his eyes? She rather thought not.
The music crescendoed again, and they were met with jeers and hisses.
Lydia’s cheeks flamed, in part from how quickly Miles had pulled away, and in part from the reaction of their audience. “What?” she asked defensively.
“That was no kiss!” Harry said. “Come on, you two!”
“You can do better than that, surely,” Robinson cried, and still the music played. Mary’s hands must be exhausted by now.
Lydia looked at Miles, feeling entirely helpless. And yet there was a sense of thrill in the knowledge that a different kind of kiss was required of them. Robinson insisted they could do better. But she wasn’t certain anymore.
Chapter 11
Miles had wanted to strangle his brother Harry on mor
e than one occasion in his life, but never had he wished to so much as he did now. Harry had no idea what situation he had forced upon Miles, and Miles couldn’t even send him a glance promising revenge to convey it. When the group had come up with the suggested object and task, Miles had lightly resisted it at first. But all his tentative comments had been thrust aside by Harry, leaving Miles with no other option than to assent, knowing that more reluctance on his part would raise questions neither he nor Lydia wanted raised.
After all, why in the world would a man be so reluctant to kiss his own wife?
Undoubtedly, Lydia would think that it was Miles himself who had suggested it, setting it down to his desperation for any kind of intimacy with her and his willingness to obtain it no matter what it required.
And the truth was, he was desperate. But he was desperate to return to a time when Lydia had willingly received his kisses, when she had happily initiated them and pulled him closer with a smile on her lips.
That Lydia had been gone for a long time now, though. And the thought of having to force yet another kiss upon her to appease their siblings and Robinson? He could only hope she would understand.
“Go on, then,” Diana said. “It isn’t as though we hadn’t ever seen the two of you kiss before!”
Miles clenched his teeth tighter, while the blush on Lydia’s cheeks deepened. There was no way out of it that he could see, unless they wished to appear strange—and seem like sticks in the mud.
Lydia was looking up at him, searching his eyes, and what he saw in hers held him in place. It was not reluctance or the wariness he had come to recognize so easily. It was uncertainty. His eyes trailed down to her lips, and he forced them back up. She offered a feeble smile, and it was enough to give him hope that perhaps she wouldn’t hold this against him.