by Darcy Burke
But Lydia barely saw. She turned, found the door, shoved it open and the next one, and then there were her parents, her sister and her husband. Her mother’s expression was all hope. She threw her arms around her.
Her family. After ten years, her family were here. She was crying. Her mother was crying. Her mother’s hands were stroking her back and she was saying with wonder, ‘you’re alive’, over and over.
She didn’t know who was apologizing. Her. Her mother. And a deeper voice, her father.
The last time she’d seen her father he’d said she brought shame to him and to their family. He was older now, his face less angular and more lined. His hair, that used to be dark blond, was shot through with grey.
He looked her in the eye, tears running silently down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry.” His lip wobbled. “I’m so glad...” He broke off with a shuddery breath. But he didn’t look away, like he couldn’t let himself stop seeing everything now. And there was self-condemnation in his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” She squeezed her mother, then released her and went to her father. She held out her arms for an embrace. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He pulled her into a hug, his smell the same tobacco and ginger scent of her youth as they embraced. His tears smudged onto her cheek.
Her father patted her back clumsily, then withdrew.
“You didn’t have any choice.”
Lydia turned to the speaker. Her sister Matilda. Her stunningly gorgeous sister, standing next to a man with brown eyes. Lydia threw her arms around her and squeezed tight. It had been ten years since she’d seen her too. The companion of their rival youth.
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” Her mother wiped her eyes.
All the emotion was too much. All her family here with Alfred, and Annie just nearby in her lessons.
When they released each other, Matilda made introductions. She had another child now. A little boy, Charles, still in skirts. Matilda’s daughter had followed Lydia into the room and curtseyed prettily to Lydia. Alfred was at the edge of the room, his face wary and hopeful, watching. She shot him a reassuring smile and saw relief cascade through him.
“Lydia.”
She turned to her mother. And there was tears and fear in her mother’s eyes again.
“Please, I’d…” Her mother’s voice tapered off.
Her father caught her mother’s hand and gripped it. “Please. She’d like–we’d like, to meet our granddaughter.”
Protective instinct tore through her. She’d always been vague when Annie had asked about family. How would Annie react? What would Lydia tell her? She slanted her gaze to Alfred for guidance, but she found only trust there. He was confident in her ability to make the correct decision.
“It’s almost lunchtime. She can join us.” How she’d explain the situation was another thing. She turned back to Alfred. “Would you come with me to fetch Annie? I’ll arrange for some tea.”
In the corridor she turned to him. “What should I do?” she whispered. “A whole family in one day, where she’d had none before. This is too much for a little girl.”
He pulled her close and stroked her hair, soothing her. “She’s resilient, like you. Tell her. You can have your mother back. She must have her grandparents.”
“She’s too young. She’s still recovering.”
“She needs to know these are her people,” he murmured. “Delay will be harder. She’ll accept the truth now, while she’s young. Lies will be impossible for her to understand later. Tell her everything.”
He was probably right.
“We’re having lunch as a family with some visitors,” Lydia explained when Annie had been released from her lesson and they were returning to the parlor.
“Who is it?” Annie enquired.
Lydia didn’t answer. She took a deep breath as she opened the door to the parlor and watched her daughter walk in, looking at the assembled faces, so like her own and Annie’s. Tea had been served and they were all sat comfortably. Her mother was the first to rise.
“Dear Annie,” her mother said, a smile lighting her eyes as she approached.
“Hello.”
“This is my mother, your grandmother.”
Annie behaved perfectly, offering a cautious hug. As the other introductions were completed, Annie’s eyes widened more and more.
Lunch was a long affair. Annie, Charles, and Catherine sat with them at the table, and the two girls were immediately firm friends. Annie was older, but Catherine bolder. Much the reverse of their mothers in the past. Then after lunch they retired to the drawing room, a relic of Lydia’s past that had been resurrected with the school and now had her family in it, as it should.
When Catherine went to Matilda to show her Annie’s blond doll, the same one as Alfred had given her, Lydia took the opportunity to go to Annie.
“Are you having a pleasant day?” Lydia asked, kneeling next to Annie where she was sitting on the floor. Sometimes it was tricky to know the right question. She really wanted to know whether Annie was feeling traumatized.
“Mama.” Annie didn’t answer her question, instead fiddling with the mane on her wooden toy pony. “Why have we not seen Aunty Matilda or Grandmother or Grandfather before? Other children see their grandparents every week, or just at Christmas if they live far away.”
Oof. So much for avoiding trauma. Ten years of it, in fact. How to explain the social and emotional web that had caught and divided them? “Because they didn’t approve of your father. They didn’t like him because he didn’t marry me.”
Her forehead creased. “But he’s dead. And Mr. Lowe is my Papa now.”
The logic of a ten-year-old child was impeccable. Lydia raised her gaze to her husband, who was watching her sideways while he was laughing at something her father said. It fortified her. She turned back to Annie.
“I called your father Captain Taylor because I was hurt when he left me before you were born. That isn’t his real name. His name is Oscar Clawson, Lord Markshall. He visited while you were ill. When you’re older, you can visit your father and his wife.”
“The man who brought biscuits?” Inquisitiveness sparked in Annie’s eyes. “He’s my father?”
Wonderful. Her daughter was already idealizing men she ought not to. “Yes.”
Annie thought about this for several seconds. “Can Mr. Lowe still be my Papa?”
“Yes.” Or maybe Annie wasn’t as naïve as she’d feared.
“I can have a Papa and a father. Like I have Grandmother and Grandfather.”
“And you have Aunt Matilda and Uncle Theodore.” The relief that rushed through her was moderated by the harshness of reality. “But Annie, you mustn’t talk about what I’ve told you about your father. People won’t understand. They’ll think of you badly.” They’d call her a bastard and Lydia a whore.
Annie nodded blithely. “I know, Mama.” She pursed her lips. “Does this mean Catherine is my cousin?” She reverted to thinking of the family she’d just found.
“She is.” They had family now.
“Can we spend Christmas with cousin Catherine?”
“If Aunt Matilda agrees, yes.” Annie was right, they should embrace their family. Too much time had been lost already.
“Can I go and ask her?”
“You can.” A decade after her supposed husband had died, they were a reconciled family. In the future, Annie could decide for herself whether to embrace the other side of her heritage.
Annie scampered off to interrupt Matilda and Catherine and Lydia returned to sit with Alfred and her father. As she sat, Alfred gave her a quick smile. She relaxed and listened to their discussion on Latin. Her father was keen that the children ought to learn the ancient language, but Alfred wasn’t so convinced it was worthwhile.
Ten years on her own, and she had a gluttony of family. Her child, her husband, and her childhood kin. Later, once the children went to bed, they told stories about what had happened while they’d been estranged. While
Lydia had been dead. Stories of her father’s health scares, her mother’s cats, and Matilda and Lydia’s marriages. And gradually, the tears turned to laughter.
Later, in bed after they’d made love, Lydia rolled over and looked at Alfred. Her husband. “I told you this would end in tears.”
For a moment, he obviously didn’t remember. Then understanding dawned. When she’d agreed he could court her, he’d said it would end in marriage, and she’d said it would end in tears.
He leaned in for a kiss. “I don’t mind being wrong with you.”
If you enjoyed normal Victorian people facing heart-wrenching problems while finding love in Once a Fallen Lady, you’ll love Catch a Falling Duke, the 3rd book in the Fallen series.
Author’s Note
When I wrote Once a Fallen Lady I didn’t know what an R number was and gave only passing thought to the epidemiology of Polio. 2020 changed all that. The R0 of Polio is between 5 and 7. Eek. It is phenomenally infectious. The implication is clear: if Annie had Polio, so would many other children in Elmswell.
Changing the story to reflect Polio’s real infectivity would make the story much darker, with children suffering life changing disabilities and death. I hope you can excuse me for not amending the story thus, and instead you can imagine that in this one, very rare case, the outbreak was contained. If we can imagine all those Regency Dukes, I reckon we can believe there was a lot of unwritten hand washing and careful sanitation.
In the context of modern disease outbreaks I neither condone nor advocate Alfred’s actions that could potentially have spread the disease. We can learn about many useful things from historical romances, but not health care.
Here are some miscellaneous clarifications on a few things, some particularly useful for non-Brits:
Yes, we really are that obsessed with tea. People did dry tea leaves and use them again. Lime tea (no relation of the small green fruit, totally different) is a traditional English tea, though not common now.
Yes, you did see nods to Thomas Hardy.
Johnson is a common surname. I don’t know what you mean.
No part of what is written here should be taken as any sort of guide about how to treat Polio. Polio is horrible and preventable. So are lots of other diseases. Please read the science and then vaccinate your children.
No part of what is written here should be taken as a slight to abortion or contraception. Quite the opposite. Safe and legal birth control was not available in 1875, and it is now. Women’s bodies are the responsibility and right of the woman in question, and it is not acceptable for anyone to restrict the rights of any woman to choose what happens to her body. Lydia’s story would be completely different with access to free and safe contraception and abortion.
Vazey is Victorian slang for stupid.
More in the Fallen Series
Falling for a Rake
He's the most notorious rake in England. She's a Perfect Lady. Neither are what they seem.
When Lady Emily is trapped in an old mine shaft overnight with irresistibly sexy Lord Markshall, she indulges in the sin of his delicious, melting kiss. After all, it's just one night... Until the newspaper gossip forces him to propose. Lady Emily can't marry him, but a fake engagement can save her ruined reputation and prevent her scandalous secret from being revealed.
The censure of proper Lady Emily's is the ideal way for Lord Markshall to reinforce his image as a scoundrel and a rake. He didn't mean to compromise her, or to be overcome with desire for a clever woman hiding her real self. But to protect her, he'll have to choose: his covert mission or his heart.
Catch a Falling Duke
A duke reeling from the revelation of the true origin of his family's wealth . . .
A woman on a quest to solve her own family mystery . . .
After Hugo Ravensthrope comes to Beatrice Fenton’s aid in a crowded inn, the usually no-nonsense farmer finds herself sharing a room with the well-born, handsome stranger. Beatrice takes a chance and makes a scandalous proposition: one night, no commitments. But she can't refuse when Hugo offers to assist in tracking down the last connection to her mother, and one more night becomes more... complicated.
The Duke of Cumbria is on the run. He never expected to end up masquerading as Mr. Ravensthorpe or to find himself in bed with witty and spirited Beatrice. One night with her, and not as a duke, makes him hungry for more. But can there be a future for a farmer and a duke? Or is love only possible if Hugo prevents his worlds colliding and Beatrice discovering his family secrets?
About Eve Pendle
Whoop!
Fab to meet you. :)
I hope you loved Lydia and Alfred as much as I did. But there’s always three sides to every story, and you can read about Lord Markshall and Lady Emily in Falling for a Rake.
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The Lover’s Knot
Erin Satie
Memory is his weapon. Forgetting is her armor.
Sophie Roe was once a wealthy young lady, with an adoring fiancé. But that was ten years ago.
Now Sophie barely scrapes a living in trade. Her benefactor, the Duke of Clive, is dead. And the man she jilted is the new duke: rich, powerful, and determined to think the worst of Sophie.
Julian has never been able to forget Sophie. He intends to find out just why she rejected him—and why she’s lying about the old duke’s death.
Sophie is hopelessly entangled in the past. But as long-buried secrets and betrayals come to light, Julian may be the man to set her free…
Heat level: medium/high
Tropes: enemies to lovers, second chance at love, murder mystery, high angst, intimidating duke, independent heroine
Chapter 1
Spring, 1839
Derbyshire
Julian Swann had been born seventh in line to inherit the dukedom of Clive. That gap ought to have expanded over the years, as the six who came before him sired sons who would grow up, take wives, and beget more sons.
Instead of adding new branches to the family tree, Fate hacked away at the old. Age, war, disease. Everything that could have gone wrong had. The gap narrowed coffin by coffin, then finally closed.
And so, newly ennobled, Julian exchanged one name for another. One residence for another. One set of problems for… another. That much he could guess from the moment he arrived at High Bend, the duchy’s grandest holding.
Now his grandest holding.
His predecessor’s widow greeted him in the high front hall, young and fresh against a background of weathered stone and moth-eaten tapestries. She wore a gown that flaunted her curves rather than her grief, mourning black fitted tight around her full bosom and trim waist, crepe pleats flaring with her hips. She looked, he thought, like a nun in an erotic drawing.
“Are you ready? I’m about to perform my last act as mistress of the castle.” Gloria, Dowager Duchess of Clive, eyed Julian the same way he might admire a friend’s horseflesh, her regard frank and almost clinical. “My husband’s rooms have been cleaned and aired in preparation for your arrival. They’re yours now.”
She paused, and Julian felt a certain bitter satisfaction when she added, “Welcome home, Your Grace.”
Despite everything, he knew he had come home. As a child and young man, he’d kept his little room in High Bend while the title tumbled down the family tree. He might as well have been part of the entail: each new duke inherited the pastures, the mines, the factories, and the child.
Julian squeezed the young Dowager’s hands and leaned in to kiss her cool cheek. “I hope you know that you’ll alwa
ys have a place here. You’re welcome to stay on at High Bend for as long as you wish.”
“I do not wish.” She grimaced. “I am sick unto death of this old pile. I’ve always hated living so far from Town, and now…”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t attend the funeral.” Julian settled a hand at the small of her back and urged her out of the front hall, with its drafts and echoes, and into the first of High Bend’s two central courtyards. Overhead, a latticework of iron and glass kept out the worst of the weather. “By the time I heard the news, there was no chance of arriving in time.”
“The news.” The Dowager laughed, low and throaty. “But, Julian, you haven’t heard the news. I’ve tried to keep it quiet—I didn’t dare write it down in a letter, though God knows the coroner’s told every shopkeeper and washerwoman in the county.” She took a deep breath and stared straight ahead. “Clive didn’t die of an apoplexy. He took his own life.”
Julian froze. “That’s not possible.”
She turned around to face him. One corner of her mouth, thin-lipped and deep red, turned up. “I would have said the same. And yet it was so.”
“For no reason? With no warning?” Julian shook his head. Men like Clive did not commit suicide. He’d been wealthy, esteemed. A duke, with a beautiful daughter only a few years younger than his even more beautiful second wife. “I don’t believe it.”
“He left no room for doubt,” said the Dowager Duchess. “Come along. I’ll show you.”