by Emily Claire
“None of us minds a little stain,” Mr. Buxton said with a smile that rivaled only his golden curls for beauty. “Indeed, you make me feel more at home, as I must confess a great secret.” He leaned slightly toward Diana. “I dropped a mushroom onto my waistcoat during the first course and I fear the sauce left a mark. We shall wear our stains proudly together, my good man.”
Diana honored him with a radiant smile. Down the table, Lady Wycliffe gave their guest an approving little nod.
“You’re the soul of gentlemanly behavior,” Diana murmured, just loudly enough for Lydia to catch the words.
Lydia had never met Mr. Buxton before this evening, though she had seen him in passing over the years. He had come now and again to Derbyshire to visit his uncle, Mr. Gregory Buxton, and now that the wealthy bachelor had died, Mr. George Buxton had inherited all of the old gentleman’s money.
She liked what she’d seen of him. He was polite without being stuffy and warm without being overfamiliar—exactly the kind of man who deserved someone as dear as Diana.
“I, for one, will be delighted if there are no interruptions to the generous flow of that magnificent wine,” said Sir Charles’s guest, Mr. Pemberton. He raised his glass to his host at the end of the table, and the well-worn crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened.
“It’s a true vinho da roda,” Sir Charles said. “Magnificently costly and worth every farthing.”
“Have you compared it against the island-aged wine, sir? Some claim the taste is the same.”
“I say those fellows have no taste!” Sir Charles let out a booming laugh.
At the other end of the table, Lady Wycliffe pursed her lips and gave her husband a little shake of the head. Lydia suppressed a smile. Lady Wycliffe considered loud demonstrations of emotion to be unseemly, an attitude belied by her own occasional nervous fits.
Mr. Pemberton nodded toward Isabella, laughter still in the corners of his eyes. “What do you think, Miss Wycliffe? Your father tells me you have a most discerning palate.”
Isabella sipped her wine slowly and set her glass back on the table. Its ruby color contrasted prettily with her green silk gown. “I think the difference between ship wine and island wine is entirely in the taster’s mind. I daresay if blindfolded I shouldn’t be able to distinguish them.”
“Your daughter contradicts you, sir! Perhaps we ought to arrange a test to determine a true victor.”
“I’m not sure that would be the most seemly use of our time.” Lady Wycliffe glanced at Lady Huntington, then at Lydia. “Perhaps it’s a good thing our vicar was unable to make it tonight. I can’t imagine he would approve.”
“Papa has the utmost respect for Sir Charles and his remarkable wine cellar,” Lydia said. She caught Isabella’s eye from across the table and did her best not to smile. “However, I’m sure he would also remind Miss Wycliffe of her duty to respect her parents and their opinions in all matters.”
“I believe our beloved vicar would also understand the importance of ensuring only the best bottles are kept in a baronet’s cellar,” Isabella retorted. “After all, was it not our own Lord who turned the water into wine? I’m sure our understanding of theology would be incomplete if we did not know exactly which wines were worthy of being created by Christ Himself.”
Lydia choked silently on her laughter. Her parents would not have approved of such humor, and Lydia suspected God would agree with them. As for Lydia herself, it was impossible to resist laughing when Isabella’s eyes sparkled with mischief like that.
“You stretch religion to the ends of credulity,” Mr. Pemberton declared, raising his glass to Isabella. “I stand impressed at your philosophical gymnastics.”
He had rather a habit of raising his glass to people, Lydia observed. More than that, he had rather a habit of smiling at Isabella as though they had secrets in common. No wonder Isabella liked him; she had dreadful taste in gentlemen, and Lydia thought it was likely an advantage to her that she had long ago decided marriage was an unnecessary diminishment for a woman of her wealth.
“I am terribly sorry the vicar was unable to dine with us this evening.” Lady Wycliffe nodded graciously at Lydia. “How is your father holding up, dear?”
“As well as can be expected, Lady Wycliffe,” Lydia said. “The doctor says he shouldn’t put weight on his leg for another month or so yet. Papa is naturally restless, but Mr. Stewart’s presence has been a great help.”
She glanced up and noted that both Mr. Pemberton and Mr. Buxton were looking at her with some curiosity; it seemed neither was aware of the vicar’s situation. “My father broke his leg after falling down some steps,” she explained. Her face grew hot; too many eyes were pointed in her direction.
“It snapped in two places, poor fellow,” Sir Charles said.
“My father isn’t as young as he was,” Lydia added, twisting her hands in her lap. “The break will take time to heal. The curate, Mr. Stewart, has been performing Papa’s offices in his stead. He’s been a great comfort to the whole family.”
“He’s such a kind young man,” Lady Huntington said.
“If only he’d been able to join us.” Lady Wycliffe fidgeted with the trim on the neckline of her sapphire-blue dress. “I do wish he was here. I had hoped to have a larger party tonight.”
“I prefer a small family party," Mr. Pemberton said. “It allows one to get better acquainted.”
He attempted to catch Lydia’s eye across the table. She ignored him, so he smiled broadly at Isabella instead.
Lydia speared a piece of battered asparagus. Mr. Pemberton had bad manners, however charming Isabella might find him. No wonder Lady Wycliffe had complained.
“Where is Mr. Stewart tonight?” Diana asked. Her voice faltered slightly. “I thought he was expected.”
“He never arrived,” Lady Wycliffe said. “His duties must have taken precedence, though I do wish he had sent a note.”
“He likely didn’t have the opportunity.” Lady Huntington paused with her glass raised halfway to her mouth. “I suspect he was waylaid during his visit to the girls’ asylum this afternoon. He intended to view the facilities, and I have it on experience that the man who runs the place, Mr. Peabody, considers himself quite the interlocutor.”
“Mr. Stewart seems utterly fixated on that little project,” Isabella remarked. “It seems a tedious business.”
“The work can be,” Lady Huntingon said, a hint of censure in her tone. “It’s also desperately needed. There are far too many orphaned and unwanted children in Derbyshire.”
“It’s a noble thing for some of those girls to be cared for and brought up to enter service,” Lady Wycliffe agreed.
“Mr. Stewart has great compassion for those young unfortunates,” Lady Huntington continued. “We should all strive to be as generous.”
Isabella’s lips tightened to a thin line, but she didn’t argue with her aunt. There would be little point, Lydia knew, not unless Isabella wished to invite a severe lecture from her mother. Mr. Cooper stepped silently forward to refill Isabella’s wine glass.
“One can only hope he’ll soon devote some of that enthusiasm to finding a wife,” Lady Huntington continued. “Any young lady would be happy to have him as her partner. Don’t you think so, Diana?”
Startled, Diana looked up from her plate, her skin flushed. She had a tendency to blush at the slightest provocation, though Lydia didn’t know if this was a quality particular to herself or just a circumstance that ordinarily attended youth and inexperience.
“I’m sure Mr. Stewart will make a fine husband,” she stammered. “Though of course that doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
“I suppose I ought not to mention, then, that he seems to consider you with special regard,” Lady Huntington said lightly.
Diana’s blush deepened. Lydia winced in sympathy. It was one thing for Diana’s sisters and friends to tease her, but quite another for the same well-intentioned nettling to come from her aunt, who was so sup
erior in both age and established character.
“You have opportunity to observe the curate often, Miss Shrewsbury,” Lady Huntington said. “What do you think? Does he intend to pursue my niece as a wife?”
3
Lydia’s heart thumped as all eyes again turned toward her. She hesitated, waiting for Lady Wycliffe or Isabella to come to Diana’s rescue, but they remained silent, waiting for her response.
“Mr. Stewart speaks very highly of Miss Diana,” Lydia agreed at last.
She couldn’t help but feel a little wistful at the admission; the curate was a handsome man of good character, exactly the kind of gentleman Lydia herself would have liked to marry, had she found such a man in her youth and somehow managed to obtain his notice.
Mr. Buxton frowned and glanced at Diana, no doubt anxious to confirm whether he had a rival. Diana’s eyes remained downcast, and she spent far too much time pushing a spoonful of enscalloped oysters around her plate.
“I believe he plans to attend dinner here tomorrow night,” Lydia added, desperate to push everyone’s attention away from poor Diana. “I think it will be a fine thing for him to spend time in company instead of putting all his spare time and energy into the asylum. He’s already so busy with the work of the church, and even a curate needs some time for idle recreation and conversation, I believe.”
“I, for one, am looking forward to getting to know him,” Mr. Buxton said, clearly as eager as Lydia to move the conversation forward. “It’s been some time since I’ve had opportunities to mingle with my neighbors in Derbyshire, and now that I’m out of mourning for my dear, departed uncle, I’m eager to renew old acquaintances and make new ones.”
“Besides, February can be such a gloomy month,” Mr. Pemberton agreed. “Excellent gatherings such as this are just the thing to bring vitality back to all our lives.”
“You may thank me for the notion of tomorrow night’s dinner,” Isabella said. “A Valentine’s Day meal in particular was my idea, and the servants have been working most devotedly to ensure an atmosphere conducive to gaiety and romance.”
“I hope, then, that you will be the originator of many such good ideas in the future,” Mr. Pemberton said, offering Isabella a dazzling smile.
He had very even teeth, Lydia thought, and for some reason, their gleaming perfection irritated her. Mr. Pemberton smiled like a man who couldn’t be trusted with so much as an old teaspoon.
“I have always enjoyed Valentine’s Day,” Lady Wycliffe said. “Though of course I am too old for such follies, there is something delightful about the celebration of young love, conducted appropriately and overseen by parents who can ensure the morals and behavior of young people remain unspotted.”
Isabella raised her eyebrows slightly. Her thoughts on the day were not quite aligned with her mother’s. Lydia knew this because Isabella had shared her opinion while they were dressing for dinner.
Her mama had leapt upon the notion of a Valentine’s dinner, Isabella had said while her maid had arranged her hair. “The whole thing is a scheme to get Diana engaged to Mr. Buxton. Mama is secretly quite the romantic and thinks an evening of dinner and cards and music will be just the thing to push the two of them into a formal understanding.”
“Poor Diana must feel shoved about by the whole thing,” Lydia had responded.
Isabella had waved a hand and laughed. “She might be even more eager than Mama. I think it’s all good fun.”
Isabella had the freedom to treat the whole affair as a frivolity. As the eldest daughter of a wealthy baronet whose wife had entered into the marriage with a large inheritance, she could expect three thousand pounds a year after her parents’ deaths. Consequently, she viewed other ladies’ decisions on the matter of marriage from a high vantage point built on a foundation of absolute security.
Now, watching Lady Wycliffe’s face grow animated as she extolled the virtues of paper hearts and butter molded in the shape of cherubs, Lydia wondered if perhaps she might have had better luck on the marriage market if her mother had been as scheming as Lady Wycliffe.
On reflection, she decided it probably would have made no difference. Everyone was kind to her, but it was no mystery to anyone why she remained unmarried. She was plain and plump, with dull brown hair, dull gray eyes, and none of the outward charms that seemed to matter so much to men. Nor did she have the wit and sparkling personality necessary to overcome her physical shortcomings. She wasn’t wealthy or particularly accomplished, and she had never mastered the banter necessary to getting along in polite society. Every attempt at flirting had ended in disaster.
Privately, she thought she was intelligent and knew that she was kind. She would have made someone a good wife.
That would have required a gentleman to pursue an intimate acquaintance with her, however, and she had always lacked the ability to interest a man to that point.
At least she had resigned herself to it. Anyway, she had the comfort of the Spinsters’ Sewing Circle, which Isabella had formed a few years ago, and she had Isabella herself, who would never let her become destitute. Indeed, Isabella had hinted recently at bringing Lydia on as a paid companion. “And wouldn’t that be fun,” she had said, “to spend all your time listening to me prattle on in that way my mother detests and get paid for something you already do out of the kindness of your heart!”
Yes, Lydia was fortunate, even in her spinster state, and if showing her gratitude to Isabella meant attending an uncomfortable Valentine’s Day dinner or two, it was a price she could pay.
“What about you, Miss Shrewsbury?” Mr. Pemberton asked, seeking to catch Lydia’s eye again. “Do you enjoy dancing?”
She had missed some change in the conversation, though it wasn’t difficult to figure out what. The end of Lent was only a month away now, and Isabella had been chattering on for ages about throwing a ball in the spring.
For a man she had met only hours ago, Mr. Pemberton’s tone was far too boisterous, as if he thought they were already friends, the sort who could take liberties with one another.
All eyes were on her again, waiting for her reply. She wished the lot of them would find somewhere else to look. The apricot torte on the table was beautiful, simple but festooned with slivered almonds; couldn’t they have stared at it?
“I suppose I have a moderate appreciation for dancing,” Lydia said.
Mr. Pemberton’s eyebrows went up. “That’s no answer at all.”
Ordinarily, Lydia might have flushed or wished to flee the room. Faced with this man, however, who seemed to have astonishingly little character beyond his large, hazel eyes and charming smile, Lydia grew calm.
“I will gladly dance if a gentleman is in need of a partner, but I find it no great hardship to sit on the side so that other ladies may enjoy the pleasure,” she said.
It was an answer calculated to annoy him. His eyebrows drew together. “Have you no opinion at all?”
She fixed him with a steady gaze. “None whatsoever.”
This was, of course, a lie.
Lydia adored dancing, provided she was already acquainted with everyone in the room and knew none of them were likely to be eyeing her and speculating as to her increasingly grim marriage prospects. She had always found it great fun to gallop around the vicarage with her brother when she’d been learning to dance, and she loved the small parties where women outnumbered gentlemen and she was allowed to partner with one of her friends.
What she did not like was being forced to make conversation with some insipid young fellow an older married woman had deemed “a prospect.” Nor did she like feeling on display for strangers, open to their pity and their ridicule. Her one and only London Season, sponsored by her mother’s sister, had filled her with constant dread, and she had been relieved when no one had pressured her to try a second year.
The nuance of all of this would be beyond Mr. Pemberton. A gentleman of such arresting good looks would have no notion of what it was like to be plain, and his apparent ease
with the world was a bad match for her constant discomfort.
“I should be glad if you would honor me with a dance at the eventual ball,” Mr. Buxton said gallantly from his seat next to Lydia.
She offered him a grateful smile. She hadn’t needed to be rescued, not from the likes of Mr. Pemberton, but Mr. Buxton’s impulse was a kind one, and she was glad Diana would be marrying such an amiable man.
“I’d be honored,” Lydia said.
The corner of Mr. Pemberton’s lip twitched. Lydia pretended not to notice.
Isabella declared she liked nothing better than dancing, and the conversation moved on, leaving Lydia to her thoughts and her dinner. Sir Charles waxed poetic on his explanation of the hock served with the light dessert course, and then, finally, the meal ended.
It was a relief to retire to the sitting room. Lady Wycliffe and Lady Huntington led the way, and Lydia fell in behind them with Isabella and Diana.
Isabella didn’t bother to wait until they were safely ensconced in the room to begin ruffling her sister’s feathers.
“Mr. Buxton seemed overjoyed to be seated next to you,” she murmured, quietly enough that the older women wouldn’t be able to hear over their conversation about the newest equestrian painting in the corridor. “Are we to expect an announcement tomorrow?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Diana said. “Mr. Buxton and I haven’t entered into any kind of agreement.”
“You mean he hasn’t proposed yet?” Isabella demanded, her tone thick with exaggerated shock. “How could he dawdle so? The indignity of it!”
“Izzy, hush! I daresay Mr. Buxton never will propose if you keep teasing me like this. I doubt he wants a harpy for a sister.”
“Teasing?” Isabella said, putting a hand to her cheek. “You wound me. How can you blame me, a poor unmarried old woman, for pinning all my romantic hopes upon your good fortune, Diana, dearest?”
Lydia choked back a laugh, if only to avoid making Diana feel as though she was being cornered.
“I suppose it wouldn’t be the end of all things if Mr. Buxton decided he didn’t want you after all,” Isabella mused. “There is always the curate. You seemed quite anxious as to his whereabouts earlier.”
