by Leah Conolly
“Eleanor! I’m home!” she called as she walked through the front door.
“In here!” her sister called from the library. Lydia kept on her shawl and hat since they would soon be leaving for their customary evening walk in the park. Eleanor was sitting in her wheelchair, ready to go, instructing a footman about which book she would like to be taken down for her. It was their custom to read as they walked in the park. Reading had become a sanctuary for them both after their mother had died.
“I could have gotten that down for you. Thank you, Andrew,” Lydia said as she walked into the library, dismissing the footman.
“It’s alright. I wanted to be ready and at the door when you got home,” Eleanor explained. “Besides, Andrew doesn’t mind helping me.”
“True. Well, let us make haste. The sun is out, and it’s a perfect day for a walk,” Lydia said. She went around to the back of Eleanor’s wheelchair and began to push her out of the room.
“My lady, allow me,” Lydia’s maid said as they came out of the library and started down the hall towards the front door.
“I can manage, Delaney, thank you,” Lydia said. She enjoyed pushing Eleanor around and had never seen it as an imposition. She supposed that guilt played a small part in her need to be the one to push her sister about, but she didn’t care. Eleanor was her little sister, and Lydia had vowed to always be by her side, even if their father wouldn’t.
They made their way to the nearby park, Eleanor chatting away about what had filled her day. She spent most of her time reading, playing the piano, or drawing. She had become a very accomplished artist over the last year, as most outdoor pursuits were now barred to her.
When they arrived at the park, Eleanor cracked open the book they had started a few days ago. She had a wonderful voice for reading, strong, clear, and not too high pitched, something that drove Lydia to distraction when other ladies read.
For the next hour, the girls strolled around the park, their maid trailing a few feet behind. Eleanor’s voice echoed off the trees and well-manicured lawns, and Lydia felt all the frustration that Lord Beaumont had caused her earlier slip away.
“ . . . Anne was tenderness itself, and she had the full worth of it in Captain Wentworth’s affection. His profession was all that could ever make her friends wish that tenderness less; that dread of a future war all that could dim her sunshine. She gloried in being a sailor’s wife, but she must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its national importance. The End.”
Eleanor sighed as she read the last paragraph of Jane Austen’s Persuasion. She held the book close to her chest, as Lydia stopped underneath a tree and came around so that she could see Eleanor’s face.
“I will never marry,” Eleanor said suddenly, sullenly.
Lydia knelt, distressed for her sister, “Whatever makes you say that?”
“I just know it. Deep down. I shall never marry. Who would want a cripple for a wife? I will never be able to have children, care for a home, none of it. . .”
Eleanor stopped, looking around the park and refusing to meet her sister’s eyes. “But you will marry. I will not allow you to be a spinster just so that you can stay home and look after me. Do you understand?”
Lydia had never seen her sister so serious about anything. “My dear sister. If and when I marry, you will come to live with me, wherever that may be.”
“You won’t want me getting underfoot, especially not as a newly married woman.”
“I will hear no argument about it. I made up my mind about it a long time ago. You will come and live with me until you marry. I have every faith that you will be walking by the end of the year, if not before, and will be doubtless be bewitching some kind, young gentleman.”
They shared a laugh. “Promise me, you will marry the man you want to, Lydia. Not the man Father picks for you. I don’t care if I sleep in an attic atop a tailor’s shop, so long as you are happy.”
Lydia kissed the back of Eleanor’s hand and then lay her cheek against it. “You are the sweetest person I know.”
Eleanor lay her other hand on the side of Lydia’s head. “And you are the strongest person I know.”
Chapter 5
Christopher’s quill scratched away furiously before a sudden moment of inspiration could be forgotten. Suddenly, a crash sounded beside him, and a burst of shouting ensued.
He growled and huffed as he saw a vast streak staining his page. Florence, his mother’s maid and companion—the woman who had practically brought him up—was bickering again with his mother.
Florence had been with them since the year after his birth. A friend of the family, she had come to live with them after she had fallen on hard times. He felt closer to her than to his own mother.
His mother had a love-hate relationship with Florence. Both women were stubborn and always voiced their opinions. Florence, unlike his mother, knew when and where to express those opinions.
In many ways, Florence was the voice of reason, which also drove his mother to distraction. Florence acted with logic, while his mother acted purely on emotion.
Another crash sounded, and Christopher stood, his own chair banging on the hardwood floor.
“I don’t want to wear that gown to the ball. I asked you to have my red one pressed for a specific reason. Why can’t you get anything right?” his mother was shouting.
“You did not ask me to have the red one pressed. You said crimson. Red and crimson are very different colors, my lady,” Florence replied emphatically.
“For heaven’s sake, stop bickering!” he bellowed, banging his fist against the wall adjoining the two rooms. “Choose another gown for the ball, Mother!”
The bickering abruptly ceased on the other side of the wall, and the sound of a slamming door soon followed. Florence had been dismissed back downstairs, no doubt.
“It’s a wonder that I can get anything done,” Christopher grumbled. He righted the chair at his writing desk and sat down again.
It had been a wonder to him that he could concentrate at all for last few days after seeing Lady Lydia again at the shop.
She had given him the cold shoulder at their most recent meeting, barely glancing in his direction. Neither had she seemed at all intimidated by his gruff manner at their previous meeting.
Not many women were brave enough to challenge him. He hated to admit it, but he liked her spirit, her fire. And he had been rude, loath as he was to admit it.
He had not always been so, but events from his past had left him feeling callous, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. Thoughts of her were a welcome distraction from his home life.
His mother’s behavior was growing increasingly challenging by the day. He was tired of continually having to say things like, “No, Mother. Stop trying to marry me off, Mother. Mother, that’s nonsense. . .”
He felt as though he was fighting the same battle every day.
His thoughts returned to Lady Lydia. Perhaps he should try to see her again? The only problem was, he did not know where she lived.
He would need to go back to the book shop and hope he ran into her there by chance. When they did meet again, they would probably get into an argument. He smiled to himself. No matter. I thoroughly enjoy battling with her.
He stood up quickly, his writing forgotten for the moment. He donned a light jacket and hat and slammed the bedroom door in his haste to leave. His mother poked her head out of her bedroom, calling after him.
“Where are you going? Christopher, darling!” she yelled.
He did not respond but kept on down the stairs and straight out of the front door.
•••
Lord Beaumont pushed the door of the book shop open as quietly as possible, hoping to sneak in unnoticed. If Lady Lydia was there, he did not want to have to apologize or talk to her, he simply wanted to see and observe her again.
However, he was unable to enter the boo
k shop undetected. Mr. Newton’s daughter was behind the counter and greeted him as he walked in.
“Good day, my lord. May I help you with something?” she asked.
He shook his head and disappeared behind one of the shelves, pretending to look for a book. He picked up a volume and acted as though absorbed in it, while surreptitiously peeking around its edges, trying to spot Lady Lydia.
But she was nowhere to be seen. What a waste of time, he thought to himself. He replaced the book he had been hiding behind and started to leave.
Just as he was walking around the corner of the shelf, the door opened, and another patron walked in.
“Hello, Patricia,” came a voice he recognized. He hid behind the shelf again and peeked around the corner to watch as she and her maid approached the counter.
Lady Lydia must have sensed someone looking at her and glanced his way. He ducked back behind the shelf and picked up the first book his fingers landed on. He took it off the shelf and came out, holding the volume up triumphantly.
“Found it!” he said, approaching the counter.
Lady Lydia stepped aside and waited for him to make his purchase. Her eyes flitted to the title, and a small smile crossed her lips.
He looked down and realized his grave mistake.
“Jane Austen, my lord? That is a wonderful choice, indeed,” Patricia said, obviously shocked.
“Yes, you have unforeseen depths, my lord,” Lydia chimed in. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks.
“Oh, no, I meant to take …,” he cast around the counter for something more to his taste and landed on an encyclopedia. “This. I meant to take this,” he announced. He took the Jane Austen book back to the shelf, then returned to the counter.
Lydia laughed, a charming sound, even if it was at his expense. He ignored her and waited for the girl behind the counter to take and count his money and hand him the encyclopedia.
“There you are,” she said, handing over the enormous volume. “Good day.”
He could only nod in response, his throat suddenly too dry to talk. He cleared his throat, placed the book on the counter, and donned his hat before he remembered himself.
He removed his hat and bowed to her. “Good day, Lady Lydia.” He then replaced his hat and started to leave the shop.
“Sir, your book?” Lady Lydia said, pointing to the forgotten encyclopedia. He stepped back to the counter and snatched up the volume as quickly as he could.
“Ahh, yes. Of course,” he murmured and walked towards the door.
“Good day, Lord Beaumont,” Lydia said, a twinkle of mirth in her eye.
“Yes, indeed, well . . .,” he began, but then thought better of embarrassing himself further and promptly left.
Chapter 6
Lydia and Patricia glanced at each other after Lord Beaumont had exited the book shop, dumbfounded. They were speechless for a moment, not knowing what to make of his change of character.
“What on earth was the matter with him?” Lydia asked. She came to Patricia’s side, and they both stood staring at the door as if to catch a glimpse of the fleeing Lord Beaumont. Had it really been him?
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen Lord Beaumont act so strangely before,” Patricia replied.
“You mean you have never seen him be civil?” Lydia asked. They shared a laugh.
“That is exactly what I mean. Men are so very confusing,” Patricia said.
She went about replacing books on the shelves and tidying up the shop. Lydia decided to stay and help out for a while.
“He is handsome, I must admit,” Patricia said after a while. She glanced over at Lydia, waiting for her reaction. Lydia only smiled shyly.
“Yes, I suppose he is," Lydia agreed, trying not to give too much away. She thought about the strange encounter with Lord Beaumont as she helped put the books away.
In private, she had hoped to never see him again. She had found him to be proud and arrogant, wholly fixated upon himself.
He had been different this afternoon. Unsure of himself. She thought about him bumbling around, looking like a complete fool. It had not been off-putting, as one might have imagined.
In fact, she had found it almost endearing, in an odd sort of way.
“I’m afraid that is all I have time for today. I promised Eleanor I would take her out tonight for our stroll,” Lydia said, excusing herself.
“Of course. Have a lovely time,” Patricia said, waving goodbye from one of the ladders in the back of the shop. “Give Eleanor my love!”
“I will!” Lydia called and went home to fetch her sister.
They had a lovely walk around their favorite park. When they returned home that evening, their father was waiting for them in the library.
“Lydia!” he called, “Would you come in here please?”
She and Eleanor exchanged glances. “What can he want?” Eleanor asked. Lydia helped her take off her shawl and motioned her to go into the parlor.
“I don't know, but you go on ahead. I’ll have tea brought in for us,” she said. Their maid wheeled Eleanor into the parlor, while Lydia took off her own shawl.
She went back to the front door and hung both of their cloaks up before heading into the library.
“Coming, Father!” she called. She went to the doorway of the kitchen and ordered tea to be brought to her sister in the parlor.
“Do you know what is ailing my father?” she asked the cook. “Has he had his supper yet?”
“No, my lady. He has been in the library ever since you and Lady Eleanor left for your walk,” she said, clicking her tongue.
“Thank you,” Lydia said and headed back down the hallway.
She walked into the library, at once curious and nervous about what her father had to say to her. What she saw gave her pause. When she entered the room, she saw her father staring into the empty hearth, a look of profound worry on his face.
“Whatever is the matter, Father?” she asked, hurrying to his side. “Are you ill?”
He looked up as if seeing her for the first time. His eyes searched hers as though trying to recall which of his two daughters she was. She was always surprised by how much he had aged in the last few years. His once black hair was now a shock of white, and his back was starting to bow with age.
“Oh, no, not ill. I am well, thank you. Nothing for you to worry about,” he said. He looked back to the hearth. “I simply wanted to make sure that you and Eleanor had returned home safely.”
Lydia could see that he had been mulling something over for quite a while. All was not well, despite what he said.
“Something is troubling you, Father. I can tell. Won’t you tell me what it is?” Lydia asked. She sat down in one of the chairs next to the fireplace.
He sighed and came to sit in the chair next to her. He glanced at her and then went back to staring into the hearth. “I didn’t want to burden you with this, but I find that I am in grave financial difficulty,” he began.
Lydia's heart nearly stopped. She had suspected for some time that their finances were not what they had once been, but to hear it said aloud made her fearful, especially for Eleanor.
“Eleanor’s physician is quite expensive, and I have been struggling to make ends meet for some time now. I don’t know what to do. We need her to continue seeing him, but he says that if we do not settle our debts soon, he will refuse to treat her,” her father lamented.
Tears began streaming down his face, and he did not bother to wipe them away. She watched them pool at the corners of his eyes and then drip down his face and onto his age-spotted hands.
“What can I do to help, Father? Is there anything I can do to lighten your burden?” Lydia asked. She knelt in front of him and took his hand, wishing there were some comfort she could offer. She looked up into his eyes, red from weariness and crying. Her heart went out to him.
He wrapped her dainty hand in his large one and bit his lower lip, sniffing back the tears. He looked away. “It is time that you seriously
considered marriage, my darling. If you were to make a good match, it would save our family from ruin. You are pretty and bright, and you have a title. There are very few gentlemen who could refuse a lady with such qualities,” he said hopefully.
Lydia nodded and leaned up to kiss his cheek. She stood and went to the window, peering out at the darkening world.
“I understand.”
She said the words with such finality, such profound sadness that it shocked even her.
“I must do whatever I can to ease our burdens. I wonder, if I should marry, would you consent to let Eleanor come and live with me?” she asked.
