Someone to Cherish

by Balogh, Mary

  The spring assembly was the perfect occasion upon which to unveil the new Lydia. And the pink gown was the perfect garment. It was a shame she had no maid to style her hair a little more elaborately than she could herself, but she was quite pleased nevertheless with the result of her efforts. And she was very glad the vicar and his wife had insisted upon fetching her in their carriage, though the inn was not far away—nothing was in this village. It had turned suddenly windy and cloudy during the afternoon and was actually raining in squalls now. Her poor apology for an elegant hairstyle would be ruined if she had to walk.

  At least, she thought, Harry would not feel obliged to offer to walk her home tonight.

  The carriage came early. Mrs. Bailey moved over on the seat facing the horses to make room for Lydia as the coachman handed her in. The vicar smiled from the seat opposite and wished her a good evening.

  “And an ugly evening it is to have to go out in,” Mrs. Bailey said. “But I do love the village assemblies, Lydia. They are so much jollier than the more formal dances to which we have been invited occasionally at Sir Maynard Hill’s, with only the gentry folk in attendance. I love to dance. Much to the dear vicar’s dismay, I might add.”

  “Isaiah disapproved of dancing too,” Lydia said.

  “Oh, I do not disapprove, Mrs. Tavernor,” the Reverend Bailey assured her. “I like to see my parishioners trip the light fantastic, so to speak, and enjoy themselves. It is just that when the good Lord was handing out body parts around the time I was lining up to be born, he discovered that somehow he had more left feet than right and gave me two of them. Or perhaps he had an even number but was not paying careful enough attention at the time and someone about my age has been shuffling about for the past fifty years or so on two right feet.”

  He laughed heartily at his own joke while Mrs. Bailey clucked her tongue, told him that Lydia would think he was a heathen, and laughed too.

  “Though I daresay your dear husband enjoyed a good joke every bit as much as mine does, Lydia,” she said.

  Lydia smiled but did not offer an answer.

  They were among the first to set foot in the assembly rooms.

  “You may be sure, Lydia,” Mrs. Bailey explained to her, as she had done on numerous occasions before, “that if we are supposed to be somewhere at a certain time, we will actually arrive at least a quarter of an hour before that time. It would be half an hour if I had not learned to ignore the vicar standing at the door, hand on the knob to open it, shifting his weight restlessly from foot to foot, and gazing reproachfully at me while I deliberately go about my business and wait until I can stand his silent impatience no longer.”

  Lydia laughed, thankful for the distraction of Mrs. Bailey’s chatter. She felt very self-conscious indeed as she removed her cloak and hung it in the cloakroom and then entered the assembly rooms to take her plate of iced cakes over to the refreshment table. She glanced longingly at one grouping of chairs in the corner farthest from the door but would not go and sit quietly there, as she would normally have done. She had become an expert at going virtually unnoticed in company. But her decision tonight to wear her new pink dress and to leave off her cap was only a part of the larger plan she had decided upon this afternoon.

  She was going to hide no longer.

  She had been a dutiful wife. She had observed a quiet and decorous period of mourning. She had eased herself quietly out of that period. She was free now, with the means to remain free and independent. She had a home here and neighbors who respected her for Isaiah’s sake and probably her own too. She had a few newly made friends. She was invited everywhere. There was no need to hide any longer. No one was about to come along to snatch everything away from her.

  She was strong. It was a novel idea, but she had thought it through this afternoon and decided that it was true. She had always been controlled by men and conditioned to think of herself as a fragile, timid creature who could not possibly exist without their support and protection and direction. Well, she could exist alone. She was doing it. She had been doing it for more than a year.

  She did not need to hide and hope no one noticed that she had escaped. Let them notice if they wished. There was nothing anyone could do about it.

  She was free. And she was strong.

  It was one thing to think it. It was quite another, of course, to live it.

  She felt horribly nervous and exposed to view. For as she walked about the room, forcing herself to stop and talk with each group of new arrivals before moving on to the next, she would not allow herself even the limited protection of lowering her eyes and her chin. And the reaction of her neighbors to the sight of her was not reassuring. Most of them seemed to look at her twice in quick succession, first with only a passing glance and then with a more pointed awareness—taking in her pink dress, she supposed, and her bare head and smiling face. They looked surprised. And scandalized? She saw no evidence of the latter. Appreciative? Yes, in several cases. And it was not her imagination. A number of people of both genders commented upon how lovely she looked. That was surely an exaggeration, but at least it assured her that she was not looking as inappropriately clad as she had feared she might be.

  Yet when no fewer than three men, including Mr. Roger Ardreigh, Lady Hill’s nephew, who had just been introduced to her, asked her for the opening set of dances, she refused them all on the grounds that she did not dance. Old habits died hard. But though she was determined to fight those habits, there were limits upon what she was willing to do. She would not make an utter spectacle of herself by trying to dance in full sight of her neighbors and friends. It had been a long time …

  But from the moment she arrived, while she mingled and talked and listened and looked about at her fellow villagers, at the food tables, at the orchestra tuning their instruments, she was really waiting for his arrival and trying to convince herself that she hoped he would not come. And telling herself that it would really make no difference to her if he did or did not. For no matter what, they were in all probability going to be neighbors for the rest of their lives and must grow accustomed to seeing each other and even to being in company together. And she had seen him once since her return and even spoken with him and somehow survived the ordeal.

  Then suddenly he was here.

  He was standing inside the door, talking with Hannah and Tom Corning, laughing over something that had been said, looking handsome and elegant despite—or perhaps because of—the simplicity of his evening clothes. They were, of course, expertly tailored. His clothes always were. He wore silver knee breeches with a black evening coat and silver waistcoat. Knee breeches for evening wear were old-fashioned in town, Lydia had been told, except at Almack’s and at court, but they were what the other men here in the country always wore for evening. His stockings and linen were very white. His neckcloth, though neatly tied, was not an elaborate creation.

  Lydia’s heart turned over. Or her stomach. Or perhaps nothing turned at all but she was just reacting as any other woman would to the sight of a handsome man. Who also happened to have been naked in her bed with her not so long ago. Yes, it was definitely her stomach.

  He looked about the room as he talked and laughed. Lydia could have stepped sideways and been hidden beyond Denise Franks and her husband and Lawrence Hill and Vivian Ardreigh, with whom she was conversing at the moment. She did not do so. She did not even pretend not to have seen him.

  He reacted as a number of others had done. His eyes alit upon her, moved onward, and then came back to rest on her. He paused in his conversation and smiled and said something. Both Hannah and her husband turned to glance her way, Hannah smiling too as she answered him. And he moved away from them and came in her direction.

  She needed a fan, Lydia thought. And it struck her that she no longer possessed one. Why until this moment had she been unaware of her hands and what she ought to do with them? Let them hang at her sides? Clasp them at her waist? Saw the air with them as she talked? But she was not talking at presen
t.

  “Mrs. Tavernor?” He made his bow and smiled at her, but with no suggestion that they had ever been more to each other than neighbors. “Mrs. Franks? Franks? Lawrence? And—?” He smiled at Vivian and looked at his friend with raised eyebrows.

  “My cousin Vivian Ardreigh,” Mr. Hill said. “Major Westcott, Viv.”

  “I feared I was going to be late and would miss the opening set,” Harry said after making his bow. “It seems I have arrived just in time, however.”

  The orchestra had fallen silent. All their instruments had been tuned and they were ready for the dancing to begin.

  “Some lady is going to be glad you did arrive in time,” Mr. Franks said, grinning. “And some ladies are going to be sorry they have already promised the dance to someone else.” He half glanced at Vivian.

  “Lydia has not promised it to anyone,” Denise said. “She still insists that she will not dance at all. I have never heard such nonsense in my life.” Her smile, directed at Lydia, could be described only as mischievous.

  “But true,” Lydia assured her.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Tavernor,” Harry said, “is it that you will not dance or that you cannot? Like the Reverend Bailey with the two left feet he likes to boast of?”

  “Will not, certainly,” she said. “And cannot, probably. I have not danced since I was a girl.”

  “And how many decades ago was that?” he asked.

  Mr. Franks chuckled.

  “It was enough years ago,” Lydia told him, “that I have forgotten everything I ever learned and practiced.”

  “One does not forget how to dance,” Denise said. “And it is not as though you have not watched any dancing in the intervening years, Lydia. You used to watch avidly before the Reverend Tavernor died. You may think I did not notice, but I did. You used to look positively wistful.”

  “Oh, I did not. You have a vivid imagination, Denise,” Lydia told her.

  Mr. Raymore, who was doing duty as the master of ceremonies tonight, was calling upon the gentlemen to lead their partners onto the floor to form lines for the opening set of country dances. Lawrence Hill extended a hand for his cousin’s.

  “Mrs. Tavernor,” Harry said, “let me persuade you to put the matter to the test. Come and dance with me.”

  “I have already refused three partners,” she told him. “It would be very bad-mannered to accept a fourth.”

  But just at that moment, one of those rejected partners, on his way out with Dr. Powis’s eldest daughter to join the lines, decided to intervene.

  “Talk her into it, Major,” he called out cheerfully. “It’s about time Mrs. Tavernor danced. A person cannot mourn forever.”

  “Yes, do it, Major,” someone else agreed.

  An anonymous someone whistled.

  “Come on, Lydia dear,” Mrs. Bailey coaxed from nearby. “If I can dance, anyone can.”

  It was time to be firm, Lydia thought. Time to assert herself.

  Harry was smiling at her, one hand extended for hers.

  Time to be decisive.

  Time to be the new Lydia.

  “You will be sorry,” she warned him, setting her hand in his. “I will surely make a spectacle of you.”

  Someone actually cheered, and there was a smattering of applause.

  Lydia could not have felt more on public display if she had tried.

  Twelve

  And there went one resolution, broken before the dancing had even begun, Harry thought.

  He had come here with the full intention of nodding amiably to Lydia, exchanging a few friendly words in passing if he came face-to-face with her, and keeping his distance the rest of the evening without being too obvious about it. He would treat her as he did everyone else and as he had done for most of the past four years, for he had never deliberately ignored or avoided her then. He simply had not noticed her. He could not go back to those days, of course, but he could set the tone for the future.

  Yet here he was about to dance with her, even over her own protests and her very reasonable argument that since she had refused three other partners it would be poor manners to accept him. He had persisted, with the encouragement of a few of his neighbors, who seemed to agree that it was high time she danced.

  He escorted her to the line of ladies, bowed over her hand, and took his place in the line of men. He hoped she was not about to make a spectacle of herself and go prancing off to her left while everyone else glided gracefully to their right, for example. She would be horribly embarrassed and would almost certainly never dance again. And he would be left knowing that it was all his fault.

  There was something different about her tonight. Well, yes, of course there was. One would have to be blind not to notice. She was looking slender and dainty and pretty in her rose pink gown. Her chestnut hair glowed in the candlelight. How clever of her to wear it in a simple style so that the smooth sheen of it would not be lost in curls and ringlets. Or was it only that she did not have a maid? She wore no jewelry. Because she did not have any to wear? Or because she had aimed for simplicity and got it perfect? Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her face bright with animation though not openly smiling.

  But there was something else over and above the obvious differences—which were startling enough in themselves.

  It was partly her eyes, he decided at last. They were wide and unguarded and looked about the room with frank interest. Including at him. She was looking at him now and did not glance away when she saw him gazing back. Or lower her eyes. And yes, that was what it was. She was not in hiding tonight. She had worn that particular dress to be noticed. She had left off her cap to be noticed. And there was her chin as well as her eyes. It was raised. Not defiantly or belligerently but … proudly? Was that the right word?

  It struck Harry that she was neither the Reverend Isaiah Tavernor’s wife tonight nor his widow. She was herself. Lydia Tavernor. Perhaps the Lydia Winterbourne she had once been.

  The orchestra struck a chord, the ladies curtsied, the men bowed, and the dancing began.

  She did not make a spectacle of herself.

  She danced with deliberate care, he noticed, each step and gesture one fraction of a second behind those of her nearest neighbors as though she wanted to be quite sure before she committed herself that she was getting it right. Her movements were deliberate and slightly wooden for the first little while, until they had performed all the figures once and she was confident that she could do them again without committing some ghastly faux pas. She smiled at him as they met between the lines with another couple and all four clasped hands above their heads and danced a full circle before returning to their places.

  And good God, she was beautiful.

  When they reached the head of the lines and their turn came to twirl alone down the middle while the other dancers clapped and tapped their feet to the rhythm, she looked at him with sparkling eyes and actually laughed. The woodenness was long gone from her movements, as well as the concentration upon getting the steps right, and what was left was pure, light-footed grace. There was music and rhythm and color and light, and there was Lydia to embody them all.

  Harry laughed too.

  He was in a bit of danger here, he thought. He might even be in a lot of danger.

  “Thank you,” she said when the set came to an end far too soon, and perhaps just as far too late. “I am relieved that I did not disgrace you after all. Denise was right. One does not forget how to dance. I must go and speak with Mrs. Bartlett. She was still not sure when I talked to her yesterday that she would come tonight. I am glad she did.”

  He escorted her to her next-door neighbor’s side, stayed to chat for a minute or two, and then strolled away to have a few words with Mr. and Mrs. Raymore and solicit Theresa’s hand for the next set. He danced after that with Mirabel Hill, Miss Ardreigh, Hannah Corning, and Mrs. Bailey. He drank a glass of wine with Lawrence and his uncle and ate a plate of food while the orchestra was taking a break. He was enjoying himself as he always did
at the village assemblies. There was something so relaxed and merry about them.

  And he was constantly aware of Lydia. He supposed it was inevitable. It would surely fade with time. He would simply have to be patient with himself. She danced every set and mingled between sets, smiling and conversing and generally being everything she had never been before to his knowledge. She positively glowed. She looked vividly lovely. She did not attempt even once to hide in any corner or disappear inside herself.

  He found himself wondering if this transformation had anything to do with him. She would not marry again. She had been quite adamant about that from the start. But she had also learned from her experience with him that having a lover was an impossible thing when one lived in a village the size of Fairfield. Had she decided as a result of that realization to reach out to friends and friendly acquaintances for happiness? To do it in an active way, not as an observer from a shadowy corner but as a full participant?

  Perhaps after all he had done her some good.

  Harry was standing close to the doors of the assembly rooms late in the evening with the Reverend Bailey and his wife, when they were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a young man Harry believed was one of Sir Maynard Hill’s farm laborers. He was not dressed for the occasion and in fact seemed to have come in from outside. He was very wet—and frowning and breathless as he caught the vicar by the arm.

  “It’s my gran, Reverend,” he said. “She has taken a turn for the worse and Ma thinks she is going fast. I came for the doctor and for you too if you will.”

  “Ah, it is time, then, is it, John?” the vicar said in his calm, kindly manner, patting the young man’s hand before raising his arm and beckoning Dr. Powis, who left his wife’s side and came striding toward them. “Mrs. Wickend is coming to the end, Powis, and we are needed, you and I. You came on horseback, John?”

  “I did,” the young man said.