by Martha Keyes
Mary followed suit and gave a resigned sigh. “I should never have removed my bonnet, but the wind was pulling it so much, I thought the ribbons might strangle me. I may need your help brushing through it, Di.” She glanced at Diana and narrowed her eyes. “No, never mind. I’d rather have Lydia. She has a softer touch.”
Diana’s mouth dropped open in offense. “What utter nonsense! I am very gentle.”
Lydia stifled a smile and shared a significant look with Mary.
“Tell her it is untrue, Lydia,” Diana said, looking at her expectantly.
Lydia took her lips between her teeth and gave a little shake of the head. “I am sorry, Di. Of the three of us, you certainly have the least regard for tender heads.”
“Well!” Diana tossed her napkin onto the table. “See if I ever help any of you again!” She glanced at Miles, and a twinkle entered her eye. “I don’t mean you, Miles. Naturally, I would be more than happy to brush out your hair if you ever required my help.”
Miles put two hands on his head in a defensive gesture. “Please, no. My head is even more tender than Lydia’s.”
“It is true,” Lydia said. “And I think it is why he has such gentle hands himself. If I was forced to choose someone in this room to untangle my hair, it would certainly be Miles.”
Diana and Mary both raised their brows, and Lydia nodded. “He has a fair bit of skill with hair.”
“You unman me, my dear,” he replied with a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“I changed my mind,” Diana said, pushing back her chair and rising. “You shall not linger over your port, Miles. You shall be occupied for the time being, demonstrating this supposed hidden talent.”
“Is that right?” Miles asked.
“It is.”
Miles looked to Lydia, who only shrugged with a smile. Once Diana was set on something, it was difficult to turn her from it. Besides, Miles was certainly capable of finding an excuse to avoid the suggested activity if he truly had a mind to.
“Don’t dawdle, now,” Diana said. “We have quite a bit of hair between the three of us.”
Miles let out a snort, but he rose from his seat. “You expect me to spend the rest of the evening acting as lady’s maid to all of you, I take it?”
“It is good for you, Miles,” Diana said. “If you do have such skill with hair, it must be practiced and refined, or you shall lose it altogether, and I couldn’t bear that.”
Lydia met Miles’s dry gaze with a bit of shyness. He hadn’t had the opportunity to practice recently.
They made their way upstairs, and Diana insisted they go in Miles’s room. “For I have no doubt at all that Lydia’s brushes are superior to mine. I have your old ones, you know.”
Lydia glanced nervously at Miles, but his face was impassive. Her brushes weren’t in the room Diana expected them to be in.
“Did you not ask Sarah to clean your brushes this morning?” Miles asked.
Lydia stared at him for a moment. She hadn’t asked anything of the sort, and even if she had, he wouldn’t have known. But suddenly, she understood. He was trying to help her. “Yes, I did.”
“Hopefully she is done,” Miles said as they reached the door to his bedchamber. “I could never abide using the inferior sort of brushes Diana claims hers are.” He winked at Lydia.
“I shall just go see, then,” Lydia said, and she held back while Diana and Mary followed Miles into the room.
She hurried to her own bedchamber and into her room, grabbing the brushes and combs sitting upon the table in front of the mirror then hurrying back to Miles’s room.
“Ah, wonderful,” Diana said, coming over and taking the large brush from her. “You can start with Lydia’s hair, Miles. Something you’re familiar with. And proof of your skill before I allow you to touch my hair.” She frowned at the brush in her hand. “I thought you said Sarah was going to clean these.” She rubbed at a spot on the back.
“Oh,” Lydia said with a flutter of nerves, “she must not have had time to get to them.”
“No matter,” Diana said. “Come, have a seat. Here, Miles.” She handed him the brush. “Get to work, then, maestro.” She and Mary sat on the bed to observe.
Lydia took a seat on the chair in front of the mirror, feeling a sudden rush of nerves. For months, she and Miles had shared no intimate interactions at all, and now that Diana and Mary and Thomas were here, they were being thrust into situation after situation where more was required of them. She didn’t know what to feel about any of it.
Miles came behind her, and they met eyes in the mirror briefly, his gaze searching her face with a nervousness to match her own. He set the brush down and put a hand to her head in search of the pins holding up her hair. He pulled gently at one, and a lock of hair fell down, the end slipping into the back of her dress. He placed a finger behind the hair to pull it out, and Lydia’s skin trembled, a shiver running down her spine.
“At this rate,” Diana said, crossing her arms, “we shall be here until tomorrow evening.”
Miles let out a chuckle and set to taking out the rest of the pins. “I think I shall decline the honor of tending to your hair, Diana, grievous as the thought is to me.”
“Why do you think Diana does her own hair?” Mary said teasingly. “She could never find a maid who did it to her satisfaction, so Mother finally threw up her hands and told her to do it herself.”
Miles looked at Lydia, who confirmed it with a subtle nod, trying not to pay attention to the way his stabilizing hand felt on her head as he began to pull the brush through. He truly did have a gentle hand, and it had been so long since she had felt it. She missed their evenings together, talking and laughing. Not until now had she realized how lonely she had been for the last year.
More than a year, really. The distance between them had been creeping up for some time before things had come to a head with the loss of last Christmas—and the fight which had led to them sleeping separately not long after. She had felt such relief at not having to worry about failing expectation or crushing Miles’s hopes of becoming pregnant that sleeping apart had been a relief to her. But, at some point, that relief that begun to feel more like loneliness.
Had he been feeling lonely too? Or was he merely regretful that he had ever decided to marry her at all?
“You are gentle,” Diana said, coming to a stand, “but it is certainly at the cost of efficiency.” She put out a hand for the brush and set it on the bed while she pulled the pins from her own coiffure. “Watch.” With a ruthlessness that made Lydia wince, she ran the brush through her hair.
Miles, too, was drawing back, and the scandalized look on his face made Lydia’s shoulders shake with laughter.
Mary sent them both a significant look. “Lydia,” she said, “you will help me brush through mine if I need it, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Lydia said.
Miles turned back to Lydia and set to the task of plaiting her hair. “I am surprised you have any hair left, Diana.”
There was a knock on the door, and Mary went to open it.
“Lydia,” she called over. “Jane has brought Thomas.”
“Come in, Jane,” Lydia called.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady.” Jane bounced Thomas in her arms as she walked. “But the babe has been fussy, and he is beginning to feel a bit warm.”
Lydia turned, forcing Miles to drop her hair. Thomas’s cheeks were pink, and he fussed, brushing his fist against his nose.
“His nose has been running,” Jane said. “At first I thought it was just from being outside, but it hasn’t stopped, and I wonder if he is perhaps getting a cold.”
Lydia clenched her teeth and looked at Miles. “It was thoughtless of me to take him out with us today.” She put her arms out for Thomas. “Come here, my child. Let me see you. Thank you, Jane. Will you go get him another bottle? Just in case?”
The maid curtsied and left.
“Poor little man,” Mary said with a sympath
etic glance at Thomas. “We should leave them, Di.”
Diana agreed, and they said goodnight and left the room shortly.
Lydia tipped Thomas so that he was lying in her arms then bounced him gently, noting his rosy cheeks, the little drip coming from his nose, and his overbright eyes.
Miles put a hand on her shoulder. “You mustn’t blame yourself. He is a strong little boy. He will be well soon enough.”
She swallowed, hoping he was right. “I am going to see if I can get him to sleep.”
Miles nodded once, a bit of regret in his eyes.
She hesitated a moment. “Goodnight, Miles.”
Chapter 13
May 1814
Miles rolled over to his other side for what felt like the thousandth time that night. He opened his eyes, heavy with fatigue but further from sleep than ever, and they settled on the empty spot beside him.
It had been weeks since Lydia had moved her things to the adjoining room. In the beginning, while her things had still remained in his bedchamber, he had thought the new sleeping situation was only temporary. They both needed a bit of time apart—to cool down and reflect upon the things they’d said to one another in their anger. But, night after night, Lydia had slept in the next room, and soon enough, her maid, Sarah, was moving her things there.
Miles shut his eyes against the remembered feelings of humiliation. What had Sarah thought of it all? He hated that the servants knew things were not well between him and Lydia.
It was ridiculous, though—them sleeping apart. They had always slept together, from the very beginning of their marriage. And Miles still wanted to. Even if Lydia didn’t wish for the type of intimacy they had used to share, he still wanted her beside him. Did she doubt that? Was that why she had stayed in the other room after all this time?
The thought made him sit up and toss the bedcovers away from him. He rubbed his eyes, and his bleary gaze settled on the door to Lydia’s room. He chewed his lip then rose to his feet, walking quietly over to it, where he paused.
What was he doing? It was the middle of the night. Lydia would be sleeping. It was no time for the discussion he wanted to have with her. And yet, he couldn’t relax. He hadn’t been sleeping well since their fight, and the thought of spending the rest of the night tossing and turning?
Perhaps he could just see if she was truly asleep. If she was, he would return to his bed and wait to talk to her until the day dawned. But maybe—just maybe—she was as restless as he was.
He put a hand on the doorknob and pushed. It didn’t budge, and his stomach clenched.
She had locked it.
The Present
Thomas was indeed sick, as was evidenced by the muffled crying Miles could hear coming from the neighboring bedroom when he woke in the morning. Had the baby cried all night? Or had he simply woken unhappy?
Miles threw off the bedcovers and glanced in the mirror, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He wrapped his dressing gown around himself and walked over to the door leading to Lydia’s room, hesitating a moment then tapping softly.
Fool. She couldn’t hear such a knock over the sound of Thomas’s crying. He put a hand toward the door knob, and it hovered there for a moment before settling upon it. He pulled it gently, and it opened. Not locked, then. Somehow, that was comforting to him. Whether she had forgotten to relock it or had left it unlocked on purpose was the question. He had checked it enough times over the past few months to know that it was kept locked as a rule.
He opened the door wider and looked inside.
“Shh, shh,” Lydia was saying as she bounced up and down, wearing only her chemise, which had slipped over one of her shoulders. “It will all be all right, my love.” She kissed the side of Thomas’s head, and Miles swallowed at the sight, at the nurturing that came so naturally to his wife.
The door creaked, and she looked over. He pushed it open. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I heard him crying and thought I would see if I could do anything to help.”
She smiled weakly. “It is very kind of you. I admit my arms are beginning to tire.”
He walked over and took the baby. “Has he been this way all night? I must have slept very soundly if so.” He had certainly not slept soundly, but nor had he heard Thomas crying.
“You always do,” she said. “But no, he actually slept quite well. He woke for a little while during the night, but he just wanted to be held, so I brought him in the bed with me.”
Lucky devil.
“He woke very unhappy, though,” she continued, “and the rocking is the only thing that seems to keep him somewhat calm. Jane should be bringing a bottle for him soon.”
“You like being rocked, do you?” Miles asked a whining Thomas. “Just how much do you like it?” He swayed back and forth energetically, and Thomas went quiet, his widening eyes giving way to a little smile.
“Ah,” Miles said, “so you prefer dramatics to subtlety. Well, then.” He spun around, dipping and rising, and Thomas cooed then giggled while Lydia looked on, smiling.
Miles let his movements take him over to Lydia, where he stopped and tipped up Thomas so he could smile at her. “Now you know what he wishes for you to do all day. A small request, I think.”
She chuckled and tapped Thomas on the nose. “I haven’t the stamina for such a thing, I’m afraid.”
Soon, both Thomas’s smiles and cries disappeared as he set to the task of consuming his bottle, at the completion of which activity, he was fast asleep. Miles held him while he slept, but when Thomas woke an hour later, he was as unhappy as ever and continued to be so for the duration of the day. Diana and Mary seemed unconcerned with the prospect of a day at home, given the temperature of the air outside, which had dipped again. Only those who couldn’t avoid doing so seemed to be out and about in Town.
Lydia, Jane, and Cook spent a great deal of the day trying different things to soothe the increasingly miserable Thomas, and by the time everyone was turning in for bed, the baby was refusing to sleep or take a bottle at all.
“Let me take him,” Miles said. “You must be exhausted.”
Lydia shook her head. “A little tired is all. Perhaps you could give him his bottle while I prepare for bed, though. Then I can take him again.”
Miles obliged, and he took Thomas into his bedchamber, choosing a spot on the bed rather than the chair beside it. “For I am determined that Lydia shall let me keep you for a bit,” he said to Thomas. “You have been wearing her out all day, you know.”
To Miles’s surprise, Thomas accepted the bottle hungrily, and his complaining transformed into murmurs as his fingers toyed with the hand Miles used to hold the bottle and his eyes stared fixedly at Miles’s face.
Miles returned the stare, admiring the large blue eyes that looked up at him above fevered cheeks. He hadn’t had many opportunities to be alone with Thomas, and the contentment he felt surprised him. It was more than contentment, though.
Thomas’s fingers wrapped tightly around Miles’s thumb, and he stopped sucking on the bottle for a moment, smiling as the mixture of water, bread, and milk dripped into his mouth.
Miles smiled back at him, feeling the moment in his heart. “Come on, chap. You’re dripping.” He moved the bottle slightly, and Thomas set back to eating, while Miles tried to swallow down the unexpected emotion.
It wasn’t long before Thomas had drained the glass bottle of its contents, and he made no secret of the fact that he was displeased about it. Miles tried to bounce him from his position on the bed, but the baby would have none of it, and he was working himself up to a frenzy when Lydia entered through the connecting door. She wore a wrapper over her shift, and her hair had been brushed but not plaited.
“He must still be hungry,” Miles said, indicating the empty bottle.
Lydia came and sat down on the edge of the bed with a frown. “He goes from refusing it to draining it. Here, let me take him. You need to prepare for bed.”
Miles felt double reluctance. H
e liked holding Thomas, and giving him up meant saying goodnight to Lydia, as well. They hadn’t had any time at all during the course of the day to touch on any of the things that had happened in the past few days, and anytime Miles thought about it, he felt he might go mad wondering what it all meant.
But he surrendered Thomas to her, all the same. He was afraid of bringing up the subject. If he said something to her—asked her the questions he had—he might well face rejection. At least now, he had some hope. Perhaps it was better to hold onto that than risk it.
“I could take him for a part of the night,” he suggested.
“I hope it shan’t be necessary. If I can only get him to sleep, he may do well enough.” She smiled at Miles as Thomas’s cries heightened. “Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight,” he said, watching as the two of them left his room. In many ways, his relationship with Lydia had improved since Thomas’s arrival. But, in other ways, he felt Lydia was farther from him than ever. It was as if she was in her own little world when she was alone with Thomas.
Miles could hear the baby’s crying through the walls as his valet helped him out of his clothes, and he determined to go to Lydia and insist on helping after his valet left. But the cries had grown fainter by then.
He listened for a moment then slipped into bed. But he tossed and turned, unable to keep his mind from everything that was happening, unable to stop his ears from straining to hear what might be happening in Lydia’s room.
At some point, he fell asleep, but it was a restless sleep, and when he woke more fully, by the light of the fire in his room, he could see on his pocketwatch that it was just shy of midnight.
He stilled. Thomas was crying again. Perhaps that was what had roused him. He slid out of bed, pulling on his dressing gown as he went to the door to Lydia’s room and opened it.
Lydia looked up at his entrance, bouncing up and down in her chemise with a hint of desperation in her eyes. “He is miserable,” she said. “He hasn’t slept at all yet, but he won’t take a bottle, and he is so terribly tired.”
