by Tessa Candle
“Should I seem more typical of my sex if I owned that I am rather good at riding horses, and have a reasonable command of a couple of foreign languages? Not that I mean to boast, but my penmanship is also not entirely horrid. However, lest you think me of an artistic bent, I should just warn you that drawing and painting are entirely out of the question.”
“Indeed, I feel I am in no risk of inflating your accomplishments. But the ones you possess seem charming enough.”
“You are very kind, sir.” The dance finished and he smiled as he walked her through the couples leaving the dance floor.
“Thank you for the dance, Miss Norwood. I hope we shall meet again.” He left her in the company of her mother.
“You are doing well, Lydia. Your dancing is very pretty, and I see you are making an effort to converse with your partners. Your father will be pleased.”
“Thank you, Mama. Do you think I have earned some refreshments? I have not any partner for this lancers.”
The refreshments, the polite talk, and the intervening dances all blurred into a single tedium that imposed itself between her and her next dance with Lord Aldley.
She felt a certain sympathy for Mr. Mortimer, who, she was increasingly persuaded, was only playing at being interested as a favour to her father. She certainly detected affection in him, but she could not see in it the passion of a lover. This was a relief to her, though she still needed to sort out what was wrong with her father. She resolved to speak with him about it.
“Do I interrupt your thoughts?” At last Lord Aldley had arrived.
Goosebumps formed on her spine at the warm tones of his voice. “Not at all—or, perhaps, but I greatly welcome the interruption of this dance, my lord.” Lydia felt foolish for the way her heart beat madly as they walked to the floor, but could not suppress a little smile.
“I saw you dancing with that Frobisher fellow.” Aldley's hand was suddenly at Lydia's waist. He guided her masterfully with a delicate but firm pressure at the small of her back.
“Did you?” His touch sent thrills through her. She had to focus her thoughts to speak and perform the requisite hand movements for the waltz. “I should have thought your lordship would be more attentive to a partner, at least when dancing with the daughter of a duke.”
She was feeling bold. Lady Goodram had not exaggerated about the brandy.
“I do not believe I neglected my partner.” Aldley's lip curved playfully. “But I most certainly noticed you. Frobisher and I are acquainted, in fact, and I have rarely seen him laugh while dancing. You must have a most diverting wit.”
“I was not being witty at all. He was laughing at my enumeration of the many things I do badly.”
“Indeed?”
“He advised me that young ladies are wont to overstate their accomplishments, not disavow them.” Lydia tilted her head. “So apparently I have been going about things the wrong way entirely.”
“Or you may just be exceedingly clever in devising new ways to distinguish yourself.” Lord Aldley stared in admiration.
“I should never have thought that distinguishing myself by publishing my inabilities could really be called clever. However, if you think it an apt stratagem, my lord, I shall not contradict you. Your lordship possesses greater expertise than I in these matters.”
“And what makes you say that, pray?” He looked as though he might have taken her comment seriously.
“Why, because I am a commoner from the countryside, woefully inexperienced with society. But you are an earl, my lord. That must imply a superior sophistication, I should think. I suppose I would do better not to point this out, but as I have made a start at highlighting my defects, I find I cannot stop.”
“Well.” He chuckled and then frowned slightly. “But you know, I am not so enamoured of the rules of this social fencing—partly because I am an earl. In fact I think many of what might be called social stratagems are entirely at odds with both decency and the proper conduct of society.”
“Ah, that is what I mean. You really do have more experience, my lord. Other than a vague discomfort I have that everyone is drafting a complex diagram of accounts and genealogies in their head whenever I am invited to a social gathering, I do not think I even know what your lordship means.”
“I suppose some such calculation is inevitable, but in the extreme it becomes thoroughly vulgar. What I meant to refer to, however, is the extent to which the business of making matches has been taken as leave for every type of grasping and overstepping imaginable.”
Lydia nodded thoughtfully. She had her Delacroix and he had his Miss Worth—and probably many others besides. She began to wonder if he could be thinking of the day they met in the pleasure garden. But he had made no mention of it.
“The crush at most venues is only a physical symbol of the horrid social spectacle that underlies it. And I do not think it prudent that the winds of fashion may turn precedence on its ear. It goes against the grain, for instance, to allow a handful of women of inferior rank the presumption of permitting me entrance to their substandard club.”
Lydia was silent. This line of talk burned her cheeks. Could he be referring to her? Was her own interest in the earl not something of a presumption? He had seemed liberal enough at first, but this sudden concern with precedence suggested otherwise. Had he only been toying with her for his own amusement?
Perhaps she had been too unguarded with her feelings and read too much into his. But her heart would not listen to her head. It still fluttered at the beautiful blue of his eyes glinting in the light of candles, still revelled in how close he was to her, how the touch of his hand and the timbre of his voice warmed her insides.
Lydia swallowed and tried to calm herself. “Your lordship refers, I suppose, to Almack's. And on this topic I must defer entirely to the knowledge of my betters, for I shall never see a voucher for that institution.”
“Perhaps, but you needn't be envious. The balls are stinking crushes with unspeakably bad fare—I cannot call them refreshments. The ball you are currently attending is filled with people of immaculate character, and is of ten times the consequence in real society.”
“Real society?”
“Yes. There is an imaginary society, a thronging mass of the ton who think very highly of themselves, for they have some minor pedigree which permits them to exclude the nouveau riche. And in lieu of taste they have enough borrowed money to pay others to dress them and decorate their parlours according to the latest whim of fashion.”
He continued, apparently unaware of the inner turmoil that his words, juxtaposed with his touch and the allure of his voice, threw Lydia into. “But they only think highly of themselves because they do not understand what real substance and real character are. Real society does understand this. Lady Goodram is real society. Almack's is a self-important gambling den that has reduced the institution of marriage to a Wednesday night horse market.”
“So, in spite of rank, we have this much in common, my lord: we shall neither of us frequent that place. You, because it is beneath your lordship's touch, and I, because it is beyond my reach.” Lydia had never found Almack's even slightly tempting, but thought there must be some personal reason for the earl's strong feelings.
“You speak lightly of it, and I know I speak with too much heat on the topic. But I should hope that you would avoid that place, even if a voucher were within your grasp.” He looked earnestly at her.
“I am honoured that your lordship should take an interest in my social exposure. Though, whatever the evils of Almack's may be, I believe I am safe from them. Even if I should meet the standard, my mother detests large public assemblies and balls.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Aldley suddenly shook his head slightly, as if to dispel a fugue. “But I am a great fool. I have spent my time haranguing on about inconsequential things, when I should have been trying my best to amuse you. Forgive me, Miss Norwood, please.”
“There is nothing to forgive, my lord.” She felt
relieved at this slight retrenchment on his part. “I honestly have so little experience conversing at these gatherings, much less with an earl, that I have no expectations.”
She could feel his hand increasing the pressure on her back, drawing her closer to him. She continued, a little breathlessly, “But I must confess that, if left to my own preferences, I should rather hear your lordship's honest thoughts on any topic, than words politely crafted solely for my amusement. So I thank you, my lord. And I have never heard another speak this way about Almack's.”
“You should ask Lady Goodram about it sometime.”
“I think I shall.” Lydia smiled suddenly. “There is a lady of whose society I could never tire, and, though she is very thoughtful, she always makes me laugh.”
“I could not agree more.” Lord Aldley's face was very close to hers, so she could feel his breath on her cheek, smell him. He continued, “Indeed, I believe she and my friend Rutherford were the people I most missed, while I was away. Though perhaps, had I then the pleasure of such a delightful dance partner, I might never have left.”
“I could form a wish, then, that you had, my lord.” She knew she was blushing furiously. The fragrance of leather and orange about him, and the manly scent of his skin as he drew her a little closer were turning her interior to hot liquid.
As much as she wished him to continue such sweet utterances, she thought she would say something foolish or faint if he did. She was both relieved and bitterly disappointed at the end of the dance.
The earl took her arm as they walked off the gleaming surface of the magic mirror dance floor. “I fear I must leave you soon, Miss Norwood. And I do not stay to dine, though I must beg Lady Goodram's pardon for it.”
“I am sure you will be greatly missed, my lord. But Lady Goodram is of a forgiving nature.”
“It has been a great pleasure.” He bowed over her hand.
She found herself wishing that he would kiss it as forwardly as Delacroix had done. But they were as opposite as night and day, and she sensed it was not in the earl's character. If only the one were a little more restrained and the other a little less. His eyes locked with hers as he stood straight again. Then he took his leave.
“Well, Lydia? How did you enjoy your second dance?” Mrs. Norwood's face was so animated and joyful, that, had Lydia not been all too familiar with her mother' feelings on strong drink, she might have suspected her of indulging in the brandy.
“I enjoyed it very well, Mama. It was most enlightening.” Lydia felt as giddy as her mother looked. For the rest of her life, she would never forget dancing with the earl at Lady Goodram's ball.
Chapter 11
Lydia and her mother returned home late after the ball, but her father was waiting up for them by the fire in the south parlour.
They sat in chairs which were French, ornately carved with curving legs, bone white and gold upholstering, and delicate gold detailing at the rounded top of the backs. They were elegant, after her mother's taste. Lydia preferred the more cosy chairs of her own small parlour, but as it was her mother's favourite location, the grander south parlour had become the family room.
“Well, my dear, what of your first ball of the season?” Mr. Norwood blinked fondly at his daughter.
“It was a great success, Mr. Norwood, a very great success.” Lydia's mother answered for her. “Lord Aldley danced with Lydia twice. Only think of it!”
Mr. Norwood nodded his approval. “And what of Mr. Mortimer? Did you jilt him for the earl?”
“Oh, I danced with Mr. Mortimer, Papa.” Lydia smiled sleepily and sipped her camomile tisane. “But you must not talk of my jilting him. He is a kindly man and he feels affection for me as your daughter, but I wish you would not imply more.”
He patted her hand. “Very well, my dear.”
They all sat quietly for a while, then her mother declared her intention of retiring. Her father stood, and said, rather gloomily, “If you are not too tired, Lydia, I should like to have a word with you in the library.”
It was not that it was an unusual request. They were very fond of each other and often had long tête a têtes, discussing books, articles in the paper, hunting, or even occasionally stories of his travels abroad—though she was certain these were heavily edited to be less unsuitable for a young maiden's ears.
But this time her father seemed strained, as though he were not looking forward to a visit with his daughter.
Lydia shuddered a little at what might be causing his strange demeanour. Surely he was not ill. He had been eating well enough. And he seemed to have accepted what she had said about Mr. Mortimer, so it could not be that.
The servant lit the candelabra, fixed up the fire and then departed as Lydia sat down sideways in her favourite leather chair with her legs dangling over one arm. It didn't matter anymore if her dress got wrinkled, as her mother told her she could only wear each gown once.
She stared dreamily up at the spines of the many books. She loved how the candle light cast a patina over the stacks, and brought up the sheen of the hand-worn leather bindings. Her father sighed deeply and poured himself a brandy.
“You seem distressed, Papa. What is it that wears upon you so?”
“Ah, I see I am transparent.” He grimaced. “I hate to trouble you with it, my dear child, but I must. You are in many ways much more sensible than your mother—indeed, you have almost been like a son to me...” She knew this was meant as a compliment. “So I am telling you first, before your mother, even. You will forgive me if I say this without delicacy...”
“There is no need for that between us, Papa. Pray, tell me what is the matter. Surely you are not ill?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. I am perversely full of good health, so that I may be entirely sensible of the mess that I have made.”
“What is it, Papa?” Lydia could not keep the alarm from her voice.
He sat heavily in the leather chair across from her, and took a deep drink from his balloon glass. “I have great cause to be glad for your increasing interest in taking part in society, Lydia. And I find myself extremely grateful for your mother's connection with Lady Goodram, for we shall need it more than ever now... Now that we are destitute.”
“Destitute? Surely not! But how?” She regretted that she said it immediately when she saw the pained look on her father's face.
“In the past I have restrained my gambling to the club.”
“You could not have gambled away our fortune at cards.”
“No, not at cards. I am not so big a fool as that. Unfortunately, as events have shown, I am a big enough fool to speculate heavily on risky investments.”
“But surely it is not all gone.”
“I exaggerated only slightly. Let us say that I lost multiple warehouses in Martinique to fire, and then I tried to cover the loss through buying the cargo already en route on several ships from Brazil. In fact, I liquidated many other assets, mortgaged this house, and bought the lot of them.”
He paused and shook his head. “I have been merrily awaiting the arrival of these ships, all the time believing that I should be richer than a prince when they came in. I thought coffee should go sky high because of the shortage created by the fires, which had damaged everyone's warehouses, not just mine. But I was a fool. I did not realize that a defect in the insurance meant that it did not transfer with the cargo. And I have just received word that the ships have sunk—all but two.”
He passed a hand over his face. “There is every expectation that the other two are also gone, though no official report has come yet. Even if they made it to England, their cargo would not cover the losses. And so, I have lost a fortune. Why could I never be satisfied with nice, safe five percent returns?”
This miserable confession ended with a refill of brandy, and he began to think aloud. “We still have Nesterling Lodge. But with the encumbrance upon this property, I shall have to choose between them. And I suppose there is a small income from Nesterling. Thank heavens Farleig
h is such an excellent manager. We have very little prospect of liquid capital besides, except...” He took a thoughtful drink, then shook his head. “No.”
“Except?”
“I have set aside fifty thousand pounds to form part of the settlement, should you marry. It will have to be all of your dowry, now.”
“So we are very far from destitute. You must use it to pay off the mortgage, or to reinvest.”
“No, my dear, I have had enough of gambling with your future.”
Lydia replied more bluntly than she intended, “But I have no immediate prospects for marriage, and little inclination to marry. If we rebuild the fortune, I shall not have to.”
“That, my dear, is more precisely what I wanted to discuss with you. I am very well aware that I have raised you, much to your mother's consternation, almost like a son. I have permitted you liberties of action and information that are normally out of the question for young women. And although I was probably indulging my own inclinations—”
“And mine.”
He patted her hand. “Be that as it may, in retrospect it may have been the wrong path to place you on. But I always thought that a less typical upbringing would do you no harm. You must believe that. I did not mean to be a bad father.”
“But you are not a bad father. You have been the best—”
“No, my dear, I have not. But I assumed our wealth would protect you. You would be an original. You would only marry if you chose it, and unlike men of the quality, most of your suitors would probably prefer a useful, vivacious sort of wife. Or if you had suitors from the upper ranks, they would be of such a bent that a little education, adeptness of mind, and physical robustness would not be viewed as a disadvantage. Only now everything has changed.”
“We are really not so very poor, Papa. And I have always preferred the country. We can go and live there quite comfortably.” She could not bear to see him so gloomy for her sake. Except for the recent allurement of Lord Aldley, she could happily quit London forever and retire to the countryside. She loved Nesterling.