by Cindy Anstey
Lydia had said nothing of her own displeasure, though her choice of words might not have hidden her pique. Two larger-than-necessary bouquets of flowers had arrived the next day. They now graced the entrance hall, allowing the seductive floral scent to waft up through the stairwell into every room in the town house … and served as a reminder—that it had been two days since she had seen Robert.
Lydia sighed.
She was still mad at him.
She sighed again and picked up a letter to read. It had been sitting atop the overfull silver tray that Hugh had brought in moments earlier. Replies to their invitations were arriving almost daily; most were acceptances.
“How many is that now?” Mama asked, without looking up from her magazine.
“Oh.” Lydia glanced at the paper in her hand as if only just seeing it. She looked to her side and found a growing pile of notes and letters. Lifting them, she counted. “Twelve or so, that means … now, let me calculate. About thirty attendees to add to the list … and I have not finished reading the others yet.”
“Oh, most excellent. It will be a veritable crush.”
As this was said with the intonation of glee, Lydia refrained from complaining about the inconveniences of a crush. She sighed again.
“Are you quite all right, Lydia? You have a most serious countenance.” Lifting her eyes, Mama stared intently. “How is Mr. Newton? We have not had the pleasure of his company for several days.”
“Two, Mama.”
“Is it only two?” she said in an exaggerated casual tone. “I was not counting.”
“Please, Mama, don’t. We are just friends.”
“Yes, I have seen how you look at each other, very friendly.”
Lydia laughed; it surprised them both. “I know what you are thinking, Mama. Any bachelor within twenty miles makes your eyes light up, and you start scheming. Except for Lord Aldershot, of course.”
“If I thought you would be happy with Manfred Barley, my dear, I would support your father’s arrangement completely.”
“Would you?”
Dropping her magazine onto her lap, Mama straightened and smiled. “Yes, Lydia, I would. But, and I know you don’t want to hear this, I believe your father to have been wrongheaded. He always said, ‘What’s good for Roseberry Hall is good for the Whitfields.’ I believe, what’s good for the Whitfields is good for Roseberry Hall. He put the estate first—I would put the family first.”
Lydia stared at her mother and blinked stupidly. “Mama? I…”
“Shocking, isn’t it? I can be right once every so often.”
“Of course—”
“With that in mind, I have some advice.”
“In regard to?”
“Unexpected suitors.”
“Oh.” Lydia wasn’t sure she liked where this conversation was going.
“If you were to find yourself attracted to a young gentleman working to attain a career, such as in the law, and said gentleman was a true gentleman, he would feel the weight of your disproportionate fortunes. He would not want to be perceived as a fortune hunter to you or to society.”
“What are you saying?”
“This gentleman, no matter how strongly he felt about the matter, would never make an offer.”
Lydia’s heart sunk. “Never?”
“Most unlikely.”
Suddenly the mildly gray day was looking stormy, and Lydia considered joining Cora for a good hearty cry.
“There is a solution, of course.”
Lydia swallowed and met her mother’s sympathetic gaze.
“You could propose to him.”
“Mama!” Lydia was shocked. “That just isn’t done.” Granted, she had come dangerously close to doing so with Barley, but that was different; her father’s approval had already been secured—years earlier—and she knew Barley would be making an offer eventually. But with a young man of such short acquaintance, it bordered on vulgar.
Mama shrugged and picked up her magazine again. “Marry Lord Aldershot, then. Life will not be nearly as complicated. Love is both heady and messy.”
“I have not said that I am in love with … anyone—anyone, Mama. I don’t know what that would feel like.”
“That is true.”
“And, more important, I do not know that … anyone loves me. He has not said so.”
Flipping to the next page of the magazine, Mama smiled; it was a slow-growing expression that blossomed into a grin. Perhaps it was the article in the Lady’s Magazine that she found amusing.
Lydia huffed in frustration. She could hardly make an offer to a gentleman when the object of that quandary refused to pay a call simply because she had asked him not to.
Really, the male gender made no sense.
Chapter 18
In which a sudden realization changes Miss Whitfield’s entire world
For the better part of a day, Lydia chuntered over her mother’s suggestion. First, it was outrageous. Second, ladies did not make offers to men. Third, how could Lydia be so bold without knowing if Robert held her in high regard or in great affection? Fourth, it just wasn’t done. And fifth … well, it was outrageous.
She would think on it no longer!
It wasn’t hard to divert her attention, as there was no shortage of enterprises to keep her busy. Shelley paid a visit to discuss the two orchestras that were available to play at her birthday ball, and a great deal had to be said about decorations and dresses. Cora joined them for that discussion while Mama took herself off elsewhere so they could gossip and commiserate in private.
Shelley was devastated to learn that poor Mr. Granger had been taken in. Though, upon hearing about Robert’s role in Gloria and Tatum’s exposure, Shelley suggested that his greatest sin was in having tried too hard. Neither of the girls felt, as Lydia did, that he had overstepped. Even Cora, who had recovered from the shock, though not the melancholy, had decided that the truth was best, after all. And that it was comforting to know that she had not been mistaken in Mr. Granger’s attachment.
Lydia found the turnaround and Cora’s easy forgiveness of the person who had revealed the travesty rather baffling. She ignored the significant looks that passed between her friends every time Lydia mentioned Robert. It was only after they fell silent for a few moments that Lydia heard the echo of her conversation and realized that Robert’s name had come up a fair number of times. She changed the subject.
Fortunately, just as Lydia was about to send another note to Robert—this time asking why he had not called—Sunday happened upon them. The Bath Abbey church was within easy walking distance and required no carriage, which was just as well as the coach and landau had been sent back to Roseberry to accommodate the Kembles’ journey.
It was the first time that Lydia had been in the church, which had begun its days as a monastery, and she found that she was much impressed. She spent a fair amount of time staring at the fan vaulting in the nave and then switching her gaze to the vivid display of stained glass above the altar. Her mother elbowed Lydia whenever her inattention to the service was overlong, but the drone of the parson’s voice was not engaging. Lydia’s eyes continued to wander around the church unabated.
Eventually, her gaze lowered to the congregation. She paused to observe the straight and stiff father at one end of a pew, the round-shouldered mother at the other, and five children between them. There was a group of ladies with a marvelous display of bonnets, each more splendid than her neighbor’s. And then there was … a young gentleman seated across the aisle, two rows ahead. Only a slight portion of his profile was visible, but Lydia was almost certain … yes. Her heart’s steady rhythm began to quicken, and her breath caught in her chest.
It was Robert.
Swallowing, Lydia tried to control her breathing. She felt Cora shift in her seat and then heard her chuckle softly. Prying her eyes away, Lydia fixed her gaze on the parson, who was standing in the ornately carved pulpit. She had no idea of the subject of his sermon or how long said s
ermon continued. Lydia could think only about Robert sitting so near. Was he aware of her? Did he miss her as much as she missed him? It had been four days! Would he stop to speak to them after the service? What would she say?
All too soon, and not soon enough, the congregation rose for the final hymn. As they did, Lydia glanced over—casually—to find that Robert had turned slightly for a quick look in her direction. Their eyes locked, and Lydia could see that he was very aware of her presence; his glorious smile and nod said so.
With blinding realization, Lydia knew—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that she was in love with Mr. Robert Newton, Apprentice in Law. Not a light fancy, not an inclination—but a deep, forever type of love. There was no going back from this; her world had just changed.
Forced by convention to face forward once again, Robert turned away … but Lydia continued to stare at the back of Robert’s head—falling deeper and deeper into this thrilling pool of emotions, elation and contentment rising to the fore.
All her hesitance, all her indecision about Barley disappeared. She could not marry him. Ever. To live a calm, staid life with none of this excitement would be a prison sentence. Being Lady Aldershot was not worth the price, and if that would disappoint her father—he would have to deal with it as best he could on the other side of the veil. This was her life.
Lydia would send Barley a letter this very afternoon. She would ask him to visit her sometime before the ball; it would be most unkind to deliver such news any other way. It had to be done in person. She would want to impress upon him that they could remain good friends and agreeable neighbors. They could still rely on each other’s goodwill, and there would be no need for awkwardness whomever he chose to marry … especially when a generous bridal gift could be applied against his debts.
She would not mention Robert. Barley need not know that Lydia had fallen completely and surprisingly in love with someone else. No need to admit that she had been wrong, that she was, indeed, capable of a deep, abiding romantic love.
Lifting her chin, Lydia joined the congregation in full voice as she sang “Ode to Joy.”
* * *
Robert crossed Pulteney Bridge with a light step. He grinned at the boy raking odiferous horse manure to the curb and tipped him well for his service. He nodded—with a grin—to the puzzled driver of a hack heading into the city. And he bowed—with a grin—as he stepped aside to allow the weary-looking woman with two toddlers to pass.
None to see him would realize that Robert had fallen under the hooves of a racing carriage and risen from the other side unscathed—metaphorically speaking, of course. He looked whole and hearty now, but until Lydia signaled a desire to reestablish their friendship, he had been in great danger of being deep in the doldrums.
He had made a mistake—a terrible mistake. Something on the order of a calamitous mistake! Robert would readily admit it. The problem was that the mistake had been so significant that Robert feared he might never get the opportunity to apologize properly. Bouquets of flowers were hardly a substitute.
All that had changed the day before.
While his conversation with Lydia outside the church had been brief, it had filled him with hope. Her smiles, her gestures, her stance, all were signs of a return to their previous footing. Yes, he could apologize, and she would forgive him.
Had he not accompanied Cassidy to the service with the Grangers and Miss Brownlow in tow, Robert would have been able to express his regrets right there and then. However, he had been so encumbered and found that he was pulled toward the Pump Room after the briefest of brief conversations with Lydia. They discussed something about the weather and the well-being of the family. Robert could hardly remember; so focused on the brightness of her smile and the jubilance shining in her eyes, Robert could barely articulate a word … or listen to himself … oh bother; he could barely do so now, his thoughts were bouncing around his brain with little rhyme and no reason.
Still, of one thing he was certain. Lydia had every right to be thoroughly put out with his high-handed behavior in the Brownlow affair. He used the word affair with all its implications. How else could the matter be described? Cassidy was doing his best to gain Miss Brownlow’s interest, implying that he was disappointed to find that the young lady was no longer on the market. As a firstborn son, with title and lands in the wait, Cassidy would be a superior catch for someone who prized position over affection.
It was a charade, of course, bent on encouraging Miss Brownlow to become disengaged. It was also a tightrope from which Cassidy could fall should his attentions become too overt. A challenge or, worse yet, a marriage trap waited for Cassidy should he step in the wrong direction.… Though Cassidy saw it as a lark.
The surprise meeting in the park had been part of the charade—meant to awaken Mr. Granger to the manipulation of his sister and fiancée. It had done the job but hurt Miss Shipley and infuriated Lydia in the process. Not one of his finer moments. Right after he apologized profusely, Robert would explain the whole to her. They both had Miss Shipley’s best interests at heart. He would be forgiven, and then his world would be righted again.
It was a marvelous day—or, at least, it was about to become one.
As Robert approached the tawny-colored row of town houses on Great Pulteney Street, he saw that a travel coach was stopped out front of number seventeen. It did not worry him overly until, as he stepped around the coach, he found that various trunks, bandboxes, and satchels were being unloaded into the lower floor of number nineteen.
The Kembles had arrived.
Robert’s grin faded, and he pursed his lips in great disappointment. This was not a good time to pay a social call. He looked up at the entrance, hoping Shodster would somehow be aware of his presence and throw the door open, welcoming him in at this most inconvenient time. He willed it for some moments to no avail. The door remained closed, and Robert stood on the step staring at it stupidly.
Well, the good butler could hardly be blamed. The man would have only just arrived as well and was not likely yet up to snuff. His uncanny awareness and ability to see through doors might take a few more days to perfect.
Before pivoting and trudging back up the street he had just strolled down, Robert glanced at the window off to the right, where he knew the small parlor to be. There, too, was no reward. A face came and went. No identification could be made; it passed in a blur.
With a grunt of dissatisfaction, Robert pivoted, heading toward the bridge and hill beyond. It would not take long to walk back to the office, where he would be able to continue—
“Mr. Newton!”
Robert turned and saw that it was still a marvelous day.
Lydia stood on the step in a lovely dress of some light pastel color. She had thrown an ornate shawl across her shoulders and was leaning forward waving.
“Ah, Miss Whitfield, what a surprise,” he said in a teasing tone as he returned to the sidewalk in front of number nineteen. He doffed his hat.
“Really? I thought you to be on your way to visit us?” Lydia frowned prettily, not truly puzzled.
“If that were true, I would be headed in the wrong direction, would I not?”
“That is a certainty.” She made a show of looking up and down the road. “Where then, if I might ask, were you headed?”
“Bristol.” Robert nodded to emphasize his assurance.
“Oh, indeed.” Lydia laughed. “Then I believe you to be lost, for you have traveled east instead of west.”
“Really? Oh dear, that is a problem.” Robert looked at the ground, mournfully shaking his head. Then he jerked his head up as if being suddenly put in possession of a new idea. “Perhaps I should call upon my good friend Lydia Whitfield, instead. She lives nearby.”
“That is a splendid idea. I believe she is looking forward to your visit.”
“Is she?”
“Absolutely.” There was a great deal of warmth in that one word.
Robert smiled and leaned on his cane, adopting a s
tudied casual air. “Most excellent. However, I believe that her relatives have just arrived and she might be overly taxed with counting windows and burning menus, scaring unruly children … you know, domestic sort of chores.”
“Well, it is most fortunate that Miss Whitfield is in possession of an organized character. All windows have been counted and menus duly burnt hours ago. Scaring children is slotted for this evening … though only if Miss Shipley is in need of assistance. So you see, Miss Whitfield is in desperate need of an occupation. A stroll and breath of fresh air would do handily.”
“Something I can accommodate. What a happy chance.”
“Most happy, indeed. Come inside. I will see that she is suitably bonneted and gloved in a trice, if you would be so good as to wait in the parlor.”
Robert gestured Lydia ahead of him across the threshold of number nineteen. Once inside, the atmosphere was entirely different from his previous visits. Silent calm had been replaced by chatter, laughter, and scolding that bounced into the three-story entrance from various regions of the house. There was a smell of newly lit fires, and the accompanying puffs of smoke, as well as the enticing aroma of cooking wafting up from the kitchens. It was a bustling, busy household.
Shodster stepped into the hall and rushed toward Robert, hands outstretched ready to take Robert’s hat and cane.
“Thank you, no. Miss Whitfield and I are going for a walk.” Robert took a half step back. “We will be leaving shortly.”
Looking to Lydia for confirmation, Shodster nodded. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Whitfield. I was not here for the door. It will not happen again.”
“Worry not, Shodster.” Lydia shrugged. “I learned how to open a door some time ago. The trick is to turn the handle.”
The butler blinked at Lydia’s lightheartedness. “Yes. That would, indeed, be the trick.”
* * *
Lydia climbed the stairs to the second floor with great dignity. However, once there, she glanced around, decided that the hallways were empty, and sprinted to her room. She grabbed her brown spencer, her high-crowned bonnet with the matching ribbon, and a pair of gloves that set her gown to its best advantage. She was back down the stairs in the trice she had promised—just in time to see Shodster closing the door.