Duels & Deception

by Cindy Anstey

  And as she deliberated, Lydia found that she couldn’t look away. She was locked in Mr. Newton’s gaze. It was a most unusual prison; she was quite happy to be there. Her heart started to beat faster, and her breathing became shallow. A sense of exhilaration flooded her mind and … well, something that could only be described as excitement raced from her toes to her head and back again. She felt as if she could fly, and yet all she wanted to do was stay right where she was, forever.

  “I should say not.” Barley was still chuckling, unaware of Lydia’s stupor—for which she was heartily glad.

  Giving herself a shake, Lydia hoped that Mr. Newton was as obtuse as her to-be husband. She shrugged with a pretext of nonchalance and saw no change to Mr. Newton’s expression. Luckily, her solicitor-in-waiting seemed unaware.… Not that he was her solicitor-in-waiting; it was just a figure of speech. Just as anyone would say their butler, or her sister.… Not as if it were a possessive sort of relationship. Not that there was any relationship—

  “Lydia?”

  Lydia started; fortunately her eyes had wandered over to the window while her thoughts had been tripping over themselves, and so she had not been caught staring. “Yes? Oh, my apologies. I was woolgathering.”

  “Now, that should settle it.”

  “Pardon? Settle what?”

  There was a pause, a frown, and then a very confused expression stole over Barley’s face. Lydia tipped her head, trying to fathom out the misunderstanding. Silence reigned for some moments until there was a loud clearing of a throat from the other side of the desk. They both turned toward Mr. Newton.

  “The added clauses have been duly noted. I will discuss them with Mr. Lynch, but I would not expect there to be any changes. So, as Mr. Lynch does not like to venture out of Bath anymore, I’m afraid you will need to come into the city to sign the papers. Might I suggest you allow two weeks for preparations? Would Thursday, March twenty-seventh, suit everyone? Say at one? Precisely?”

  The modulation of his last word seemed to hint at some sort of humor. Was it a joke? It must have been a private one, for Barley’s perplexed expression had not changed one iota. Best to ignore such things. “Yes, that will work for me. I have to make some final arrangements regarding my birthday ball—” She opened her mouth to explain about the musicians that had to be hired and the flowers that had to be chosen; but when she saw that neither of the men looked in the least curious, she left the explanation on the tip of her tongue.

  “Me as well. That should be fine.” Barley shifted in his chair as if he were about to rise. “Unless. That isn’t Holy Week, is it?”

  Lydia blinked, amazed at Barley’s question—not that he didn’t know Easter’s date, but that he should care. “No, that is the following week.”

  “Oh, good.” He nodded. “I have promised the rector to take part in the Maundy Thursday service.”

  “Have you? That is a surprise.” Lydia thought Barley might be having her on but chose to react as if he was in earnest.

  “Really? How so?”

  “I didn’t know you to be a religious man.”

  “I will admit that it is a recent inclination, but I find the Reverend Caudle inspiring and his thoughts uplifting.”

  Reverend Caudle and his family were a fairly new addition to Spelding, having only taken up the living four or so months ago. Lydia found his sermons overly long, particularly as he had a tendency to mumble, and his conversation dull. “Really. I must have missed something. I will have to listen more intently next Sunday.”

  “Yes. That you must.” There was no disapproval in his words, as they were spoken with an air of distraction and followed with a smile. “Will you invite him to your ball?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. He and Mrs. Caudle. I’ll also include his son and daughter—I believe she is out.” Lydia had not had much opportunity to speak to Mavis Caudle as she was usually tucked in behind her mother.

  “I believe so. Yes, I think the Reverend said Miss Caudle came out last summer.”

  “Excellent. Then the entire family will be added to the invitation.”

  “Are they going out soon?”

  “The invitations? Yes, I was hoping for them to go out next week, but Mama has decided to help. So I believe it will be closer to a fortnight now.”

  “Do I have your permission to mention it? Mrs. Caudle has heard the talk, of course, and despaired over the possibility of not being included.”

  “Oh dear, we can’t have that. I will say something next Sunday. That should put her mind at ease.”

  “No, no, I’ll do it. I’m on my way to the rectory now.”

  “Are you?” Lydia sat back in her chair to look at Barley from a different angle. It didn’t make any actual difference, but, still, she concluded he was not jesting; he really was quite in earnest.

  “Yes, the Reverend expressed an interest in my almanac of Somerset fishing rivers. I’m dropping it by. He is particularly fond of trout.”

  “Is he?” Lydia glanced at Mr. Newton’s bland expression and then back to the animated one of her betrothed … soon-to-be betrothed. “Then, by all means, mention away.”

  “Excellent. I will do just that.”

  Lydia smiled wanly and wondered if a visit to one of those rivers was in her future. She certainly hoped not.

  * * *

  “You should have devised something, Lydia. Was it too much to ask?” There was hostility and resentment in her aunt’s tone; she sounded so much like Mama.

  “No, Aunt Freya, not too much to ask. However, you did not mention your desire for Mr. Newton’s continued presence until this very moment. He has already been gone an hour. I can hardly race down the road after him.”

  Aunt Freya grimaced. “Elaine will be so disappointed. Can you call him back? Invent some sort of need for legal advice—a boundary dispute or a troublesome tenant. Something of that nature.”

  “I can’t without its being an obvious ruse. Perhaps when I go into town to see Mr. Lynch, I—”

  “You are going to Bath? Oh, yes, that will do quite nicely. Yes, yes, Elaine and I will accompany you. You can talk to Mr. Lynch while Elaine … oh, yes, this will do quite nicely.”

  Lydia’s aunt continued to congratulate herself on her quick thinking for some minutes before turning away from the railing where they had been standing in the great hall; she was still muttering. Forgotten, or ignored, was that neither Aunt Freya nor her cousin had been invited, and, more important, that her aunt did not know when the outing was planned. Still, Lydia could hardly travel to Bath on her own—at least Aunt Freya would not complain of the discomfort all the way, as her mother was most likely to do.

  With a sigh, Lydia made her way to the morning room to work on the invitations to the birthday ball. She could hear squeals of delight issuing from the drawing room. Aunt Freya was no doubt enlightening everyone about her brilliant strategy to catch Mr. Newton for Elaine.

  For some reason, the thought made her peevish, and Lydia had a hard time focusing on the task at hand. She stared at the invitation list for some moments before she realized that she had written Mr. Newton’s name down … three times. Scratching off the superfluous inclusions, Lydia set about the task of writing out a few notes, but her mind wandered yet again. She wasn’t certain of where it wandered to, just that she had not finished a single invitation by the time the bell echoed through the hallways to remind everyone that dinner was imminent.

  Jumping up, Lydia shook her head. “Papa would not be impressed.” She scolded the empty air. “This will not do.”

  Hurrying to her room, she quickly changed into an evening gown of pale mauve that flattered her figure quite nicely. She tried not to think of the effect as being wasted or wonder if Mr. Newton would have noticed the pretty pearls that her maid was using to dress her hair. These were all distracting thoughts that had no place in her head; with an even firmer resolve, Lydia cast them aside.

  Not surprisingly, the drawing room was empty when Lydia peeked in;
she was a full five minutes late. She hastened down the stairs to the dining room and slipped in unnoticed. At first, it seemed odd that such a travesty could occur without great consternation, but Lydia soon learned that another topic of conversation, of much more import, was being tabled.

  “A new dress, of course.” Aunt Freya was facing Cousin Elaine as she spoke.

  “Can I have one, too?” Tessa gave the impression of bouncing up and down in her seat.

  The two youngest often joined the family for dinner when there were no guests. Mama thought it made the evening livelier and offered the little ones a chance to observe proper etiquette. Unfortunately, manners were a little lacking this evening.

  “Tessa, don’t bounce. Ladies don’t bounce.”

  “Oh, but Cousin, I can hardly sit still. I am thrilled to pieces.”

  Lydia smiled at this exuberance. “Are you, indeed? And to what are you referring?”

  “We are all to Bath. It shall be such a lark; I have never been there before.”

  “My goodness. That is exciting.” Lydia reached for her glass. “And when is this wondrous excursion to take place?”

  The silence that met her words pulled Lydia’s eyes away from her glass. She frowned, looking from face to face, finally meeting her mother’s gaze. “Mama? Is something amiss?”

  “Well, no. It’s just that we cannot tell you the when of our trip when you are to tell us.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “You are headed into Bath to see Mr. Newton … I mean, Mr. Lynch. Did you not invite us to accompany you?”

  Lydia felt a surge of frustration and swallowed her ire with a shudder before replying. “No, actually, I didn’t. I have business to conduct and hadn’t planned on any frivolity. Aunt Freya thought of joining me … with Cousin Elaine.”

  The silence was now filled with tension.

  “You mean, we can’t go?” Tessa’s chin began to wobble.

  It was one thing to foil the schemes of a matchmaking mama, it was another to disappoint an adorable nine-year-old. “A week from next Thursday,” Lydia relented. “And we’ll have to take both the coach and the landau if we are to be comfortable with all seven of us. Don’t want anyone forced to sit on the roof or, worse yet, with the coachman.”

  She laughed weakly and then sighed. She wondered if she might not be better served by asking Shelley Dunbar-Ross to help with the final arrangements of the ball. Her friend did live close to the ancient Roman town and might have some insights to make the process easier.

  “Can’t have the landau.”

  Again, Lydia was required to swallow her irritation. She turned her gaze toward her uncle, sitting at the head of the table—in her father’s place. “I beg your pardon?” She showed her teeth in a way that only a drunken sot would call a smile.

  “I’m going to visit the Major the next two Thursdays.” Uncle Arthur’s hands shook as he lifted, and spilled, his wine. Drops of red stained the crisp white cloth.

  “Could you not go some other day?” Lydia was hard pressed not to mention that the landau was, in fact, hers and that he was only using it by her good graces.

  “Certainly not. Told him I’d be there, and that’s what I’ll do.”

  “Perhaps you could ride, leaving the carriage to us ladies.”

  There was a gasp from Aunt Freya before she spoke. “No, Lydia. That will not do. Riding can be dangerous at night.”

  Lydia was aware, even if Uncle Arthur was not, that Aunt Freya knew he would be in his cups upon his return.

  “Fine. So be it. I shall hire an additional coach for the day.”

  “Excellent solution, Lydia dear. I knew you would put family first.”

  Lydia tucked into her whitefish with much more vigor than needed and wondered how she was going to rid herself of this effusive horde of females before arriving at the lawyer’s office.

  * * *

  Before journeying into Bath, Lydia made time to visit Mr. Pibsbury. She wanted not only to see how the old gentleman was faring but also to glean any tidbit of farming knowledge that might sway Mr. Lynch to her way of thinking. She was quite sure common sense would rule the day, but there was no reason not to “hedge her bets”—as her papa used to say.

  Mr. Pibsbury had been given one of the larger tenant houses on the east side of the estate, an easy walk from the manor. As Monday was a day of spectacular sunshine—rare in this part of Somerset in the spring—Lydia left just after luncheon on her own two feet. She was pleased to note that all shadows were appropriate in size and shape to their source and that her sense of being observed had dissipated.

  She found Mr. Pibsbury working in his garden, which was still more mud than soil. They spent a good half hour chatting, reminiscing, and generally having a convivial time. The subject of tea and pineapples was quickly laughed away—so quickly, in fact, that Lydia came away with no new information but a stronger resolve to see Mr. Drury tossed out on his ear.

  She was on her way back to Roseberry Hall when she heard a carriage approaching. Squinting into the sun, Lydia realized it was more of a cart than a carriage and then soon after recognized the shape of Reverend Caudle—he wore a distinctive hat, with a shallow crown—and a passenger. The cart slowed and pulled aside.

  “Miss Whitfield, well met, well met. I hope you are well on this fine day. Out and about, are you, out and about? Oh, you remember my daughter, Mavis.”

  Lydia smiled and inclined her head. She was about to begin the usual banal conversation with inquiries into the health of the family and discussion of the weather and then move on, but she was not given the chance.

  “Hope you don’t mind us using your road, Miss Whitfield. Wilder Hill has the most atrocious drive—covered in mud. All those dips and hills. Thought we might approach from your side of things.”

  Again, Lydia was about to speak—generously giving the pair leave to do just what they were doing—but the good Reverend continued.

  “Off to see Lord Aldershot. We have so much to discuss, fish and fowl, yes, fish and fowl.”

  “Thank you for including us in your birthday celebration, Miss Whitfield.” Mavis Caudle interrupted her father with a hand placed lightly on his arm. Her voice was soothing and calmed her father’s twittering.

  It also brought Lydia’s attention to her, which previously had amounted to a glance. Lydia was surprised to note that Miss Caudle was a pretty girl, not in that insipid vacuous way that seemed to attract the gentlemen, but with character in her countenance and intelligence in her eyes. It was a pleasant discovery, for Lydia had been hobbling through Spelding without any sort of clever conversation for years until Cora arrived. And now, it would seem, another active mind was about to enter their midst.

  “You are most welcome. The proper invitations should be in the post within the next fortnight … or so. But I am glad that Lord Aldershot heralded its arrival.”

  “Yes, I believe he understood dearest Mama’s excitement. We have not been to a ball since Christmas.”

  “Christmas. Well, that is not so long, then.”

  “No, our dancing shoes have barely gone cold.” Miss Caudle smiled. They both knew that “dearest Mama” was trying to establish her social position and importance within the community. Being friendly with Lord Aldershot, and now the Whitfields, would take her up several rungs of the ladder.

  “Well, I hope it to be a pleasant affair. Not too much of a crush.”

  Miss Caudle nodded, opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

  “Yes?” Lydia encouraged.

  Wisely choosing not to play ignorant, Miss Caudle smiled—broadly, as if caught in a mischievous act. “I know this is most inappropriate … but…”

  “Yes.”

  “I was hoping to … well, the library at the rectory is quite small.… And I have gone through the complete collection already.”

  “More than once,” Reverend Caudle interjected.

  “Indeed.” Miss Caudle turned her smile briefly towar
d her father. “And I have heard that the library at Roseberry Hall, your study, is exemplary and vast.”

  “That might be overstating it a little, but yes, it is a very good library. And yes, you are more than welcome to visit us with the intent to borrow a book or two.”

  “Oh, thank you, Miss Whitfield. You are most generous.”

  “Not at all. Might I recommend week’s end. Perhaps Saturday the twenty-second?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Reverend Caudle foreshadowed his next words by lifting the reins. “Excellent, excellent. Now that that’s settled, we must away. Well met, Miss Whitfield. I’ll bring Mavis, here, over on Saturday.”

  “Or I can walk up on my own.” It was Miss Caudle’s turn to interject.

  Lydia smiled and quickly agreed to the latter. Without saying so, she planned to include tea and a chat with Miss Caudle’s visit to the Roseberry library. The idea of getting to know her better and perhaps even forming a friendship was very pleasant. Perhaps Cora could join them—a distraction from her melancholy.

  Indeed, a productive afternoon.

  * * *

  “Tessa, where is your sister?” Lydia stood in the great hall with her bonnet fastened and her gloves on. It was now approaching eleven, and Lydia’s temper was building into a grand passion.

  It had been agreed the previous evening that the party would set off for Bath at ten in the morning. It was the earliest that the ladies could be persuaded to leave. Even at that, luncheon would have to be a hasty affair if the appointed hour at the law firm was to be met. With each passing minute, the likelihood of a late arrival became more and more evident even without a stop for sustenance.

  It was irresponsible, intolerable, inconsiderate, and just plain rude.

  “I don’t know where she is.” Tessa had joined Lydia in the hall without the requisite family at her side a full quarter hour ago. “I’ll go see.”

  “No … no, Tessa, just…” Lydia’s protest went unheeded as her cousin lifted her skirts and skipped back up the stairs.