by Balogh, Mary
“Esther,” Lydia had said one day when they were alone, “do you not want to scream sometimes when Papa or James fuss over you and want to do everything for you but breathe? Even think?” She had laughed to soften the harshness of her words.
But Esther had looked at her as though she had sprouted an extra head. “Oh, but Lydia,” she had said, “they are wonderful. That I love James to distraction goes without saying, of course. But that when I married him I should also have gained such a father and such brothers makes me wonder sometimes what I ever did to deserve such rich blessings. They care for me and protect me. I … Well, I really ought not to say anything about my own papa and my brother. But I will say this much. They were never anything like yours, Lydia. How fortunate you have been. And to have married the Reverend Tavernor, who was wonderful, though I only met him that once, when he brought you here for my wedding.”
Lydia had grown very fond of Esther during those two weeks. She was unfailingly sweet and affectionate. But Lydia doubted they could ever be close friends. They were too different in temperament and perspective.
So she had known by the end of the first week that she could not stay indefinitely. During the second week she had still enjoyed being there. And she had consciously loved her family and appreciated who they were as persons. But she had begun to long for her little cottage and her kitchen and her flower beds. She had begun to miss her neighbors and friends. And she had begun to long to see Harry again, to try to apologize to him if she could, to see if she had hurt him in any way, though it was far more likely he had shrugged off that incident as relatively unimportant. Men were like that, were they not? Their emotions did not get all tangled up with their pleasures.
Ah, but she was surely being unfair. She did not believe he had just been grabbing an opportunity for casual gratification that night.
Papa had not liked her decision to return home, and he had been very vocal about telling her so. James did not like it either. Nor did William. Anthony, who had come home from university for Easter, had already returned to Oxford for his final term and so had no chance to voice an opinion. Esther wept.
But home Lydia had come, with far more pomp and bluster than when she arrived. For Papa, of course, had insisted upon sending her in his own carriage with a coachman and a footman up on the box and a maid inside with her, as well as two outriders to deter any would-be highwaymen. He would have accompanied her himself, as would either James or William, but she had put her foot down and insisted that she would not so inconvenience any of them. Esther had looked frightened over her insubordination, but she had won the day after making a nasty threat.
“If you try to insist,” she had warned the three men, “then I shall simply walk away in the middle of the night, taking only Snowball with me for protection.”
“Ah, Lydie,” her father had said reproachfully, and for a moment she had thought she detected tears in his eyes.
There had certainly been tears in hers when she left, hugged boneless and breathless again before she climbed into the carriage, and then waved after until the carriage turned a corner and they were lost to view. Then she had wept some more. For of course she knew—she had always known—why her father was so protective of her, his only daughter. He had adored her mother, set her up on a pedestal, felt unworthy of her, since he had been a wild man about town when he fell in love with her. He blamed himself for her death so soon after giving birth to his fourth child and the fact that Lydia had been deprived of her mother at such a young age. Oh, he had never spoken these things aloud, but Lydia knew. She had been eight years old. She had understood far more than her father and brothers probably realized. She could no longer allow him to dominate and protect her, but she loved him enough to hurt at times. Oh, love was not just a soft, feel-good emotion. Sometimes it tore painfully at the heart.
But now she was home. And happy. So was Snowball. Mrs. Bartlett had seen the bustle of her arrival yesterday and had brought over a bowl of soup and two freshly baked bread buns for her evening meal and welcomed her home but would not stay because she could see that Mrs. Tavernor was pale with fatigue and then stayed for a full hour anyway, telling her every tidbit of news and gossip from the past two weeks.
This morning Lydia was tackling the mess of her front garden. For of course grass and weeds—and even flowers, to a lesser degree—did not stop growing just because one was away from home. She was kneeling on the overlong grass beneath the front window, waging war upon weeds in the flower bed and planning to call at the smithy later to see if Reggie would come and scythe her grass soon, when Snowball started to yip and bark and bounce enough that Lydia knew someone must be coming along the street—or down the drive. She turned her head to see.
Ah, the moment had come. And she was not sure her knees would support her if she tried to stand.
Perhaps, she thought, he would merely nod and go on his way. But he crossed the road and came right up to her garden fence.
“Lydia,” he said.
And she wanted to weep. For no reason whatsoever that she would have been able to explain to herself. She set down her gardening tools, pulled off her gloves, and rubbed her hands to rid them of the grains of soil that had got underneath the gloves—all with slow deliberation so she could collect herself before standing and turning toward him and looking fully at him.
“I got home yesterday,” she said. “And the garden is a mess.”
And so was she. A mess, that was. She had forgotten just how overwhelmingly gorgeous he was.
“Got home?” he said, frowning. “Have you been away?”
He did not know? Oh.
Oh.
“I went to spend Easter with my father and brothers,” she told him. “And my sister-in-law. She is in a … delicate way.”
“I did not know you were gone.” He rested one hand on top of the fence and looked down. “Be quiet, Snowball. I see you.”
Snowball settled on the grass, gazing upward.
“That was why I got no answer when I called here twice on the same day,” Harry said, looking back at her. “I thought you were avoiding me. But I suppose you were.”
“It was Easter,” she said lamely.
“Lydia.” He looked at her for long moments before continuing. “Are you with child?”
Oh goodness. She felt color flood her cheeks. “No,” she said. “Oh, no, I am not.”
His hand was gripping the fence, she noticed. But he only nodded briefly and said nothing more. He had come that day, then—twice? But not since then? He had not known she was away. Yet it felt as if she had been gone forever.
“Harry,” she said. “I am sorry—”
“Please do not be,” he said, cutting her off before she could finish. “I am sorry too. But it would be better, perhaps, if we did not belabor the point. You found your family well? Your sister-in-law too?”
“Yes,” she said. “My father had a nasty chill a month or so ago, but he is quite better now.”
“I am glad,” he said.
They were talking like polite strangers, making stilted conversation. It was almost impossible, as she looked at him now, simply but elegantly dressed like a country gentleman, to believe that they had actually made love in the house behind her. That they had been naked together …
“The weeds did not stop growing while I was gone,” she said.
“Why should they?” he asked. “They are as eager to survive as any other living thing.”
“I suppose,” she said.
He dropped his hand from the fence and took one step back. “Are you planning to attend the assembly at the inn on Thursday evening?” he asked her.
Ah, the spring assembly that always happened soon after Easter. She had always attended while Isaiah was alive. He had disapproved of the frivolity of dancing and would never dance himself—nor, consequently, had she—but he had not considered it actually sinful. And he had judged his presence to be necessary, as it was at all village events, so that he could open
it with a prayer of blessing and thanks. She had always found that prayer a little embarrassing.
“I will be going,” Harry said.
So would almost everyone else. It was a much-anticipated event. Each family took food, so the tables positively groaned with it. The music was always lively, the dancing vigorous, the conversation loud and merry. She had always behaved with quiet decorum while her heart danced to the music and her toes tapped, even if only imperceptibly inside her slippers. She had not attended last year, as she had been in mourning.
“So will I,” she said. “Probably.”
He nodded. “I will see you there, then,” he said. And he turned and walked away. But not along the street into the village, as she had expected, but back up the drive in the direction of home. He had come specifically to call upon her, then, had he? After two weeks of not even knowing that she was gone?
Snowball scrambled to her feet and protested his leaving, but he did not look back.
“I will probably go,” Lydia said softly.
Eleven
Probably turned into a definite commitment as the week went by, for the assembly was at the forefront of everyone’s mind and it was hard to resist a communal lifting of the spirits. Each of Lydia’s particular friends—Hannah Corning, Denise Franks, and Mrs. Bailey—asked her about her visit to her father in the days following her return and then wanted to know if she intended to go to the assembly.
Lady Hill, who together with Sir Maynard, her husband— they owned an estate that bordered Hinsford land—had met and liked Lydia’s father when he came for Isaiah’s funeral and had exchanged a few friendly letters with him since then, had been attentive to Lydia ever since she moved into her cottage and sometimes invited her to afternoon tea. Now, though, she invited Lydia to dinner on the evening before the assembly. When Lydia arrived, Lady Hill introduced her to her sister and her niece, Mrs. Ardreigh and Miss Vivian Ardreigh, who had come to stay for a couple of weeks. The only other guest was Theresa Raymore, the magistrate’s daughter and a friend of the two Misses Hill.
Sir Maynard, Lady Hill explained, had gone with Lawrence and Mr. Ardreigh and his son, Vivian’s brother, to dine with Harry Westcott, who had taken pity on them after Lawrence had complained to him that they were to be turned out of the house.
“Which was gross slander, Lydia, if not an open untruth,” Lady Hill protested, “when all I had said in a passing remark was how lovely it would be just occasionally to have a ladies-only dinner and evening, like the ones men so often enjoy at their clubs in London.”
“But you did particularly mention this evening and sighed mournfully, Aunt,” Vivian Ardreigh pointed out with a smile.
“I did.” Lady Hill laughed. “And it worked like a charm. I hope you do not mind there being no gentlemen present, Lydia and Theresa, but sometimes it is very relaxing to enjoy exclusively female company. We can gossip to our hearts’ content and talk about bonnets and fans and beaux all evening without stopping to draw breath if we choose. Who is to accuse us of being frivolous and empty-headed?”
They all laughed. It was something they continued to do through much of the evening. And how lovely it was, Lydia thought as she was taken home in the Hill carriage at well past ten o’clock, to have been included in the gathering. She had enjoyed herself enormously even though the conversation had indeed been trivial—quite deliberately so on all their parts. Lady Hill had made only the briefest of inquiries after the health of Lydia’s family. She had been more interested in knowing whether Lydia intended on going to the assembly.
“For it is always good to know once Easter is behind us that we can look forward to kicking up our heels at a village dance and blow away all the cobwebs of winter,” she said.
“I will be going,” Lydia said, laughing. “But I do not dance, you know.”
“Oh, we will see about that.” Lady Hill tapped her hand sharply. “It was one point on which, if you will forgive me for saying so, I disagreed with the Reverend Tavernor.”
The following morning, Lydia went to call upon Mrs. Hack and Timmy. She had had a few hours to spare in Eastleigh the day she went to visit her father. She had made two purchases to add to the bags she was already taking with her. One of them had been wool for a scarf. She had dithered over four different colors but had finally settled on what she could describe only as a brownish sort of burnt orange—an autumnal hue that was neither dazzlingly bright nor dowdy. Mrs. Bailey had approved when she knew the scarf was to be for a man. She had assumed it was for Lydia’s father, and Lydia had not corrected her. The other purchase had been the book for Timmy she had seen on a previous occasion. The stories in it were not labeled moral tales, she had been happy to note, and the pictures were a delight in themselves. It had been expensive and a bit of a strain upon Lydia’s purse when she had the additional expense of hiring a chaise. But she had compensated for the purchase by not buying the silk stockings she needed but could do without until next month.
Lydia took the book now with the finished yellow blanket. It was a bright, sunny morning and really quite warm. She was surprised to see as she approached the house, one of a row of identical thatched cottages with freshly whitewashed walls just beyond the village at the edge of Hinsford land, that the bundle of linen outside and to one side of the door, in full sunshine, was in fact a chair with Timmy sitting on it. He was so wrapped up in blankets and shawls that only his face was showing. But that face was beaming with pleasure even before he caught sight of Lydia. His mother was hovering beside him, adjusting his coverings, looking anxious.
“Timmy,” Lydia cried. “Your wish has come true, and here you are in the sunshine.”
Mrs. Hack was not at all sure it was a good thing and told Lydia so. She was terribly afraid Timmy was going to take his death of cold. But the major had called on the physician from Eastleigh again, and the physician had come and declared that fresh air and sunshine would do Timmy a world of good. He had prescribed half an hour a day whenever it was not raining, and one hour after the first week, two hours after the second. And the major was going to come and take Timmy for drives in the gig and for rides on his horse after a month or so and—
“And I am to go to school, Mrs. Tavernor,” Timmy cried from within his cocoon of blankets, “as soon as I am able to be up and about. I am to learn all about the world from Mr. Corning’s big globe that spins and how to do long multiplication. And I am to play with the other boys at playtime. And—”
“And if you get yourself overexcited, my boy,” his mother warned, “it will be back into your bed with you, and your pa will not be pleased with any of us.”
Timmy loved his yellow blanket and laughed with glee when he saw that his name had been embroidered across the top of it. It had to be added to the pile that covered him. His eyes lit up and his jaw dropped when he saw the book and learned that it was all his, to keep and read as often as he chose.
“I have three books now,” he said in awe. “Three, Ma. And this one has pictures.”
“You are the luckiest boy alive,” his mother said. “But what is the first question your pa will ask when you tell him?”
“Did I thank Mrs. Tavernor,” Timmy said sheepishly before proceeding to do just that.
Lydia walked back home a short while later with a light heart. It was so lovely to see the child animated and happy and bathed in sunshine, shawls and blankets notwithstanding. It was even lovelier to know that after listening to her story, Harry had intervened on Timmy’s behalf, not by ordering the parents to take the child outside but by summoning the physician again—no doubt at considerable expense to himself—to give his professional opinion.
She had not seen Harry since the morning after her return home. She would see him tonight. He had said he was going to the assembly. He had always attended them—after he had recovered his health, anyway. For the first two years she had spent here she had scarcely seen him except at church on Sundays. It was only after seeing him at one of the dances that she had b
egun to dream about him. He had been even leaner in those days—thin might have been a better word then. But he had been vital and smiling and obviously enjoying himself. He had talked with everyone— even her and Isaiah on occasion, though of course he had never really seen her except to nod politely and smile. He had danced with all the women, regardless of age or social class or appearance. He had been …
Oh, he had been golden.
Lydia sighed as she opened her door and Snowball came bounding outside and greeted her with woofs and tail waves and hand licks before dashing off on more important business.
She would see him again tonight.
Lydia was wearing her pink dress.
It was of very simple design—high-waisted, short-sleeved, low-necked, though not very low. Well, really not low at all. It was just not tight to the neck. And though the skirt fell in soft, narrow folds from beneath her bosom, it was quite unadorned. There was no sash and no embroidery or scalloping at the hem. But it fit her, she felt, perfectly and made her look slimmer than she usually did, unless that was merely wishful thinking on her part. The color seemed more vivid now that she was wearing the dress. It was, she thought, quite the most gorgeous garment she had ever possessed. It was so gorgeous, in fact, that she almost took fright and peeled it off to replace it with something gray or lavender, something inconspicuous and more suitable for the wife of a vicar. She had to remind herself quite firmly that she was not the vicar’s wife. Not any longer. That was Mrs. Bailey. She, Lydia Tavernor, was the widow of the former vicar. She was answerable to no one but herself.
She was going to wear the pink.
And she was going to wear it without a cap. She had pondered the matter, having resumed wearing one after that lone evening with Harry, but really it was high time she stepped away from the old life and into the new, no matter how frightening the prospect was. And she would do it boldly and all at once tonight. She had made the decision this afternoon while icing cakes to take with her.