by Tessa Candle
“Many years, I am afraid. And that is my fault. You can imagine how pleased I was that your father did not apprehend my absorption with improving Knottington Place as a slight, and took up with me as though no time had elapsed. He is one of my favourite people, is your father.”
“And also one of mine. In fact, I should say my favourite, but you would be certain to repeat it in his hearing, and he thinks entirely too well of himself as it is.” She smiled, but turned away quickly when she saw the way that he returned her smile. He was searching her face for something, and she did not like it.
“If you have seen quite enough of the rosebushes, would you mind if we returned indoors?” Lydia wrapped her arms around her waist. “This shawl is insufficient against the wet cold. I believe I require a cup of tea.”
“Certainly. Although I cannot stay, I am afraid. I only meant to make a brief visit today. But I hope I may call again.”
“I am sure that would make my father very happy.”
He smiled and bowed his head slightly. “Thank you for the tour of the garden. I shall go take leave of your parents now.” And he was gone.
Lydia wasted no time, but ran through the empty parlour and upstairs to her rooms, ripping off the shawl and dove grey day dress, and casting away her kid boots—which had mostly been ruined by her detour home.
The grey, light wool dress she pulled from under her bed was a bit stained, but it was warm and just the thing for climbing. Her mother had tried to throw it away on several occasions, but she could always count on Ole Maeb to rescue objects from her mother's fastidiousness.
She tucked her book into the right front pocket of her apron, threw her heavy boots out the window, and shimmied down a sizeable vine growing under the ledge, until she could reach the nearest branch of the oak with her foot. Her arms and legs knew the route by heart, and in a few moments she moved down the tree to the base and had her boots laced up.
As she stood, she heard the sound of hands clapping, and snapped around to see a man's head peering over the west wall of the property. She could not help starting at this sudden appearance.
“Truly impressive,” the head said. The voice was vaguely familiar, but she could not place it.
The head was handsome: tanned skin, gleaming blue eyes, and teeth as white as pearls, if rather too sharp-looking to be entirely genteel in appearance. The whole portrait was framed with dark glistening curls.
He even had an aquiline nose, which was her favourite sort of nose, greatly to be preferred to her own small, straight one, which, to her horror, often got called refined, when it wasn't too red to politely be mentioned.
However handsome the head, which was still apparently amused, it certainly ought not be suspended above the enclosure of their back yard. No decent man would do such a thing. Lydia resolved not to satisfy the audacious head with any response. She might not be a person of much importance, but one ought not be mocked in the privacy of one's own property.
She left the sound of laughter far behind her, as she trotted over to the trees on the east side and disappeared into their branches. From this point she could move via the ropes and catwalks she had installed between the tree tops, and escape over the north wall into the park behind.
The tree-house was a fairly simple affair. When she was twelve, and hated London even more, though subjected to it less often, she had needed an escape. She had scratched the little hut together with some wood and nails she filched from the workmen her father tasked with making improvements to their London home.
It had taken her some time to sneak the supplies into the park very, very early in the mornings. In truth, the workmen had felt sorry for her, or perhaps were encouraged by her father, who had discovered her plan, and they corrected the most decrepit aspects of her construction.
But in her mind, it was all hers, and she was proud that it was still standing and strong enough to support her. Technically it was squatting, for the park did not belong to her father, but the structure was quite invisible, unless one knew how to look for it.
And her mother would never look for her there. Lydia knew she was well beyond the years when she should be doing such foolish things, but she was loathe to give it up. Trees were her element. London was not. She pulled down the rope ladder, and climbed up to the higher branches, breathing deeply of the evergreen scent.
The little box had seemed quite sizeable, if a bit lopsided, when she was a young girl. But she now had to crawl awkwardly through the tiny door, and carefully uncurl her long body into the space. There were several candles and a mat on the floor. A heavy woollen shawl hung on the wall.
She reminded herself to buy some wool blankets to make for a more comfortable reading nest. There was always lots of money available for lady things—her mother wishfully believed that Lydia would develop an interest in clothing if given a generous allowance. Her father gave her even more money for books. So Lydia bought the occasional bonnet or frock as a cover, and hid away most of the money.
She sighed at her childish need for a tree house, but lay down on her dirty little mat anyway, lit the candles, pulled the shawl around her shoulders, and extracted Accursed Abbey from her pocket. She was lulled out of this mortal world by the warmth and heady smoke of candles, and soon embroiled in the strange and fascinating life of Elizabeth Whitely.
Then she heard the sounds of someone walking around the trees below. The hairs stood up on her arms. This tree was well off the path, and no one could have a reason for coming into this area. She hardly breathed as she heard the footsteps grow closer.
Her tree house was invisible from the path, but if he made it to the base of her tree and looked up, he could not fail to see the structure. She thought it must be the strange man who had startled her in the back garden. How could he know where to look for her? He must be looking around in the trees generally to see if she were hiding.
Surely he would not think to look for a tree house. But what kind of man would try to hunt her down in this way, sniffing about like a wolf?
The shuffling sounds moved away and Lydia resisted the temptation to peek out after the intruder. Her tree house no longer felt like a refuge.
Chapter 5
Lydia sat in front of a dressing table lined with sparkling crystal decanters and mysterious silver boxes, as she viewed the final effect of her toilette in the mirror.
Her hair was knotted high on the crown of her head, and long ringlets hung beside each ear. Her nose was still a little pink, but her décolletée was creamy, almost unblemished by freckles, and framed by cerulean blue silk with gold braid trim.
The puffs at the shoulder were gathered into dainty pleats, and embroidered with a sprinkling of little golden butterflies, and more gold braid separated the bodice from the empire waist. She thought she might just come up to the mark.
Her mother directed the maid to apply a little powder to her nose. “Just this once we shall put a little gilding on the lily. But you must not tell anyone I let you wear powder.”
“No, Mama.”
“I want you in your best looks. Lady Delacroix does you a great honour in inviting you to this party.”
“I am sure she does, but was it really necessary to start this ordeal at one o'clock? Now what shall I do but sit around for hours, trying not to wrinkle this dress and developing a headache balancing this impossible jumble upon my head.”
“You should be thankful!” Mrs. Norwood scoffed. “In my day the hair itself could take three hours, and it weighed a lot more than your little pile of curls.”
The hair was impressive, Lydia had to admit. Her frizzy curls were tamed into smooth clusters of well-behaved, loose ringlets, and the volume on top had been compacted into a very gentle and civilized little gathering—no one would ever suspect the riotous mass that, left to its own devices, ran rough shod over her head and shoulders.
It was a piece of artwork. And so it should be for the price her father was paying the young woman who accomplished it. Miss Grey was
clever and used pomades and potions of her own devising. She was not a household servant, but travelled from home to home only dressing hair.
She was in very high demand, but Mrs. Norwood had won the bidding war. No one needed impeccably sleek or inscrutably complex hair as much as a débutante—or as Lydia now called herself, an encoretante—of indifferent birth.
“I want everything to be perfect. Lady Delacroix's son will be there. He is the younger son, but still the son of a viscount is a connection worth pursuing. I am also certain Lady Aldley will be there, and it is very important that you make a good impression upon her in particular. A lot will depend upon it, you mark my words. You may read in the sitting room until it is time to leave, but not in any high-backed chairs—and mind you do not slouch or touch your hair or eat anything.”
Lydia suppressed a sigh. “Yes, Mama.” At least she could indulge in her book, but she should not seem too enthusiastic lest Mrs. Norwood enquired into what her daughter was reading.
The hours flew by in the flow of words and paper. The diabolical Orefados was just about to abduct Elizabeth, again, and seriously compromise her, when Lydia's mother interrupted the evil scheme with a summons to the carriage, and a final command.
“Do not drink claret, you cannot afford to get too relaxed and it makes your cheeks go red, which you know will look horrid and tawdry with your hair colour.”
A long row of torches lit the walkway to the Delacroix's, and the flames glistened a little wickedly upon the wet paving stones. It put Lydia in mind of the fiery castle of Orefados, and her cheeks grew warm in the memory of Elizabeth's bewilderingly tempting, and at the same time repugnant, predicament.
Remembering her mothers' counter-indication of red cheeks, she drew a breath, forcing herself to focus on the task of greeting people pleasantly.
Then she was drawn away for various introductions, which were never a comfortable ritual, but she met the unbelievably beautiful Miss Dervish with only a little drop of the jaw. When lucky enough to be introduced to the formidable Lady Aldley, she remembered to curtsey deeply and managed to recite the usual substance-less pleasantries without stammering or betraying a single whiff of personality.
But when she came to be introduced to the recently arrived Mr. Pascal Delacroix, and recognized him as the owner of the mysterious head floating above her garden wall, all the stern maternal remonstrance in the world could not keep her face from turning crimson.
“I hope you are not unwell, Miss Norwood? Only you seem flushed.” His lips did not betray a smile.
She entertained a hope that he did not recognize her, until he delivered the stealthiest of winks. She chose to pretend she hadn't seen it.
“No, I am very well, thank you, Mr. Delacroix. Coming in from the cold air always makes my cheeks a bit rosy. Florid my mother would say.” Lydia was proud of herself for mustering a bland and oblivious demi-smile. “But there is no cause for alarm, I assure you.” She turned away as quickly as was polite.
Her next introduction was to the unnervingly tall Mr. John Ferrel, and his lovely daughter Miss Louisa Ferrel, who was, to Lydia's relief, just a little taller than Lydia. With the introductions done, the worst was over, and she had only to avoid Mr. Delacroix for the rest of the evening.
She was seated beside Miss Ravelsham at table. This was also a relief, as she had feared being seated beside Miss Delacroix, or worse, her brother. But apparently the gods of decorum and social ambition prevailed over the gods of perverse luck, and she was seated with the commoners. An added benefit of her position was that it gave her an unobstructed view of Miss Dervish.
The long, perfectly curved neck and pristinely creamy skin made Miss Dervish look like the work of some ancient artist, carved out of ivory and adorned with sapphire eyes, ruby lips, and a thick swath of polished ebony hair. She seemed far too divine a sculpture to have come to life and been seated at this mortal dining room table across from an ignoble little rag doll like herself.
Lydia became suddenly conscious of her own overly freckled nose. She swore an oath that the next time her mother insisted upon treatments of buttermilk or strawberries, she would meekly comply.
“They are an otherworldly pair, do you not think?” Miss Ravelsham murmured in Lydia's ear.
“Who?”
“Oh, as if I could be speaking of anyone else. I mean Miss Dervish, at whom you have been staring since you sat down, and that devilishly handsome son of a viscount. I see Lady Delacroix knows what she is about, and has seated her son next to the most beautiful woman in town—though I imagine she is more concerned with the young lady's fortune. I understand she has sixty thousand.”
Lydia could not help admiring, and being thankful for, Miss Ravelsham's mastery of the barely audible whisper. And for the second time in as many weeks, she found herself liking the humorous heiress.
Lydia smiled conspiratorially. “So how much do they say I am worth?”
“Oh well,” Miss Ravelsham replied without blinking. “The ton are very stupid, you know. No one can count that high.”
Lydia chuckled, then turned back to the handsome pair. “Yes, I see your point. I believe we may displease the gods with so much beauty seated at one table.”
“The gods. I had no idea you had such heathen notions. And Nemesis shall beset them? Yes, let us console ourselves with the thought. Serves them right for being too pretty. I wonder how they can even stand themselves.” The glisten of candle light added an extra sparkle of merriment to Miss Ravelsham's blue eyes. Lydia was charmed.
“Miss Ravelsham, I wonder if you would like to come for tea tomorrow? I mean, assuming I survive dinner and cards.”
“If you've another box of those sweets you sent last week, most certainly.” Miss Ravelsham contrived to smack her lips in silent theatrics.
Lydia suppressed a broad grin. “I believe it might be arranged.”
Mr. Delacroix remained engaged in conversation with Miss Dervish when politeness did not require his attending to Lady Aldley who sat on his other side. To Lydia's amazement, he could smoothly manage the imposing dowager countess, while still dropping the occasional, overly intimate whisper in Miss Dervish's ear.
Could this be the same man who had no scruple but to climb a wall and spy upon her in her own back garden? Lady Aldley could not be aware of his character. There was something very wrong when such a man could move so plausibly in polite society.
Lydia could not help but feel that someone should warn Miss Dervish. But one did not lightly cast aspersions at the brothers of viscounts, especially if one were a person of no consequence.
Dinner was finally over, and there were few enough men that they decided not to linger over their cups, but followed the ladies to the next room.
It was decorated in wall paper of jade green and gold—gold being the apparent thread of continuity within Lady Delacroix's recent improvements. Jade vases stood on side boards, and jade objets d'art made appearances on every available surface in the room.
Miss Delacroix also sat in a jade green dress that matched her eyes, singing and accompanying herself on the pianoforte . Lydia only found this grating because Miss Delacroix was actually quite pleasant to listen to—yet another of the young lady's accomplishments.
But Lydia might forgive this one area of superiority, if only the girl would play all the time instead of gossiping and prattling on about her various social advancements and desirable acquaintance, and the latest this, and the most sought after that.
“You are clenching your jaw.” Miss Ravelsham suddenly appeared by Lydia's side.
“I am sorry.” Lydia relaxed her mandible.
“You needn't apologize. I quite understand. But the competition is rather heated in the marriage market, so I thought you might want to put on your best ingénue face.”
“You know, I really do not want to be married.”
Miss Ravelsham nodded. “I thought as much. It makes you more tolerable company, really, but it would be selfish of me to encour
age you in that direction. My own future marital bliss being secured, counselling my friend to appear as little as possible like a blood-thirsty dragon is the least I can do.”
Lydia tried to keep her face from splitting. “You are so good at saying the very thing to make me laugh.”
“A valuable asset in a friend. Ladies look five times prettier when they are smiling. And a laugh is in almost all instances much more alluring than a long, murderous stare at the hostess' daughter. But enough about that. I just returned from a chat with Miss Dervish, our sister in the title-less money-pot sorority. She is not half bad, you know, once you get over her unspeakable hideousness. And she has invited us to come play whist with her.”
“I do not know how to play.” Lydia's mother did not wholly disapprove of cards, but was opposed to high stakes gambling, and forbid her father to teach their daughter any games of chance.
“And you are rich. So a perfect fourth, really. You will learn it in a trice. And Lady Aldley will sit down with us. I believe she wants to assure herself that we are suitable grist for The Five's mill. Or, in my case, that my brother's nearest connections do not make him unsuitable.”
“The Five?”
“Surely you have heard of the five Gorgons who guard the entrance to the marriage game in high society? Well, four actually, since Lady Percy succumbed to a heart complaint this August past. No? Perhaps your mother was afraid of scaring you off by telling you how things really work. They are like the seven Gorgons of Almack's, only less obvious and more important.”
“I do not know much about those Gorgons, either. I am not really of the correct caste.”
“Never mind that, there are plenty of unmarried young gentlemen with more title than money, looking to find a rich wife. Do not think yourself safe. Being a commoner will not deliver you from the gaze of the Gorgons. But the material point is that the countess dowager has designs upon filling the late Lady Percy's position, as soon as she has safely married her last child, Lord Aldley, off to someone appropriate. A member of the royal family might do, perhaps. The Five are not permitted to have marriageable children, you see. A conflict of interest, I suppose. And then Lady Aldley will hold the fate of all your seasons as an unwed maiden in her blue-veined, bejewelled talons.” Miss Ravelsham pulled a menacing face, and rubbed her hands together in a sinister gesture.
