by Cheryl Holt
Benjamin Grey fancied her! She had no idea what to make of such a preposterous, remarkable development, but she grinned and reflected on the encounter, committing it all to memory so she’d never forget a single detail.
ENJAMIN GREY IS AT Grey Manor preparing for his wedding.”
“Why would you suppose I care?”
Lydia Fenwick Boswell glared at her companion, Peggy Jones. They’d been together so long that they were like an old married couple. They hardly had to speak words aloud. Each knew what was on the other’s mind.
Lydia was thirty-two and Peggy fifty. She’d been personal maid to Lydia’s mother, and when that poor woman had passed away—driven to an early grave by Lydia’s father—Peggy had simply shifted her services to Lydia.
She’d remained with Lydia through thick and thin, through Lydia’s frantic efforts to escape her life with Cecil. She’d remained through Lydia’s marriage to Milton Boswell, through the horrid period when Lydia had seemed to be barren and unable to produce a son.
After years of trying, Lydia had birthed Harry, and Peggy had remained through Lydia’s unsuccessful parenting of Harry, through the raised brows and condemning glances when it became clear that Harry would never fit in with the Boswells.
And of course, Peggy had been right by Lydia’s side through...well...she wouldn’t think about that dark episode. She never thought about it.
“His brother, Wesley, is hosting a bachelor party,” Peggy said.
“I’m sure it will be incredibly debauched. The Grey men always were an immoral group.”
“Captain Grey will finally be installed as earl.” Peggy’s jaw was tight with disapproval. “He’ll finally be named Lord Lyndon.”
“Bully for him.”
“They’re having an autumn of festivities with guests coming from all over the kingdom. They’re even expecting Soloman Grey to return from Egypt in order to attend.”
“He wouldn’t dare show his face in England.”
“He might,” Peggy insisted. “Then people will start talking about all of it again. They’ll start conjecturing to figure it out.”
“So what? The wedding will be in London,” Lydia pointed out, “then the happy couple will retire to Lyndon Hall. Both locations are quite a distance away. We won’t have to hear about any of it.”
“Are we to pretend it’s not occurring?” Peggy asked.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I intend. The entire affair has naught to do with us.”
“Seriously, Lydia? You can actually say that?”
Peggy whipped away and went to the window to stare out toward the road. She looked so miserable, as if she wished she could float off into the sky, and Lydia wished she would.
They were fighting frequently now, and Lydia couldn’t abide their bickering. She’d like to fire the obstinate woman or least pension her off to be rid of her, but Lydia didn’t dare fire her and she had no money to offer for a retirement. She and Peggy were joined at the hip forever.
Lydia was completely at the mercy of her father-in-law, Edward Boswell. With her husband, Milton, being dead for so many years and the problems with Harry and his willful disobedience, Lydia was never certain of her position.
Mr. Boswell provided her with a cottage—Boswell House—two servants and a small widow’s stipend, but it wasn’t enough to lead any kind of life. Yet Lydia was satisfied with her lot.
After staggering through her awful childhood with Cecil as her father, she viewed Boswell House as her own little slice of Heaven. As a girl, she’d often been poor and unkempt and occasionally hungry because there’d been no food in the cupboard and Cecil had forgotten he had children who needed to be fed.
If she never bothered Mr. Boswell, she was safe and secure. She kept her head down, kept her opinions to herself, and kept Harry at school and out of his grandfather’s sight so in most instances he didn’t notice he had a daughter-in-law.
“I want to tell,” Peggy said. “It’s eating me alive.”
Lydia scoffed. “You want to...tell? Who do you imagine would listen?”
“It doesn’t matter if anyone listens. I’m simply desperate to get it off my chest. What we did was wrong, and we should fix it before events with Benjamin Grey go any farther.”
“You’re mad, Peggy. We’re two ordinary, unimportant women. We’d be laughed out of town or more likely we’d be sent to Bedlam as lunatics.”
“I don’t care if I’m believed either. If I suddenly drop dead, I couldn’t bear to have this on my conscience. I’d never be able to explain myself at the Pearly Gates. They wouldn’t let me in.”
“You’re perfectly healthy, and I don’t appreciate all this grim talk about dropping dead. Please stop.”
“Don’t you ever feel guilty?”
“No. We had no choice, and we did what was necessary. Now quit obsessing. It’s annoying.”
Although Lydia had claimed Peggy seemed to be in good health, she hadn’t meant it. Peggy was thin as a rail, as if she was wasting away, as if the past was slowly killing her. With her gray hair and lined face, she might have been a hundred rather than fifty.
Lydia, on the other hand, was convinced she was holding on to her looks—even though the mirror indicated otherwise. Her hair was already mostly grey, and her blue eyes—the Fenwick blue eyes—had dimmed, but she was still curvaceous and plump.
She’d never been a cheerful person, but she’d pretended to be in order to snag Milton. It had helped her to garner what she’d craved, that being a husband, respectability, and a home of her own. With Milton being deceased for a decade though, she’d lost the husband and the respect she should have obtained from his family.
They always thought she’d tricked Milton into marriage, and after Harry had arrived they’d whispered that Milton couldn’t possibly have been Harry’s father. Harry was too different from dull, boring Milton, and she’d told them that he took after her charismatic father. Harry possessed all of Cecil’s worst tendencies, all of her brother Michael’s worst tendencies.
So despite all Lydia had done to acquire a home, she barely had that either. She was a tenant at Boswell House, and with Cecil shaming himself in that accursed duel, Lydia ceaselessly worried Mr. Boswell might decide he’d had enough of her and kick her out.
She couldn’t let that happen. Nor could she let Peggy behave stupidly which would make her situation even more precarious.
Peggy was the first to note someone was coming up the drive, and the prospect was odd and unnerving.
They rarely had callers. When Lydia had initially moved in, she’d received the usual invitations to supper and neighborhood events. She’d attended when asked, but she wasn’t very chatty, and the overtures toward friendship had swiftly dwindled. She seldom visited. No one popped in for tea.
“Who is it?” Lydia inquired.
“It’s a woman, riding quite a fine horse.” They both scowled, and Peggy continued to stare. “Gad, it’s your sister.”
“Annabel is here?”
“Have you another sister of whom I’m unaware?” Peggy said.
“Why would Annabel show up at Boswell House?”
“I have no idea.”
“She’s probably homeless and destitute. I hope she doesn’t expect to stay.”
“This drafty, decrepit place could use a burst of her fresh air.”
“Mr. Boswell would never agree. If I allowed her to remain, I’d be in great difficulty with him.”
“If I had a sister as pretty and vivacious as Miss Annabel, I wouldn’t let that old codger keep me away from her.”
“She courts trouble we don’t need.”
“She’s fun. She’s merry and gay. If she brings trouble, it’s a kind I like.”
“I don’t,” Lydia complained. “Neither does Mr. Boswell.”
They dawdled, waiting, and shortly Annabel sauntered into the parlor.
She was beautiful as ever, dressed in a smashing emerald-green riding habit with gold braid and epaulettes o
n the shoulders. Her fabulous auburn hair was curled in a striking style, and she wore a cute green hat with a long black feather trailing behind.
She looked glamorous and fetching in a way Lydia could never be. But then, Annabel’s mother had been a renowned beauty herself, an earl’s daughter who’d had a classic aristocratic face that Annabel had inherited. Michael’s mother—a notorious actress—had been a beauty too so he was incredibly handsome. Only Lydia’s mother had been plain, and Lydia possessed all of her very ordinary features.
“Hello, dear sister.” Annabel was grinning, laughing as if she’d played a humorous jest by arriving unannounced. “Are you surprised to see me?”
“You never surprise me, Annabel.”
“And how about you, Miss Peggy?” Annabel asked. “Are you surprised?”
“Yes, Miss Annabel.”
There was an awkward pause, and finally Annabel broke it. “Will you invite me to sit, Lydia? Or have you completely forgotten your manners?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten my manners, Annabel. Sit down, won’t you?”
“I believe I will. Thank you.”
ON BEING WITH HER sister again, Annabel wondered—as always during their brief visits—how she and Michael could possibly be related to Lydia. How could different mothers have rendered such conspicuous disparities?
She plopped down on the sofa, removing her hat and gloves and tossing them to Peggy who hustled them out to the foyer.
“Have you any liquor, Lydia?” Annabel asked merely to needle her sister. “I’ve had a lengthy trip and I’m thirsty. Let’s have a drink.”
“You know Father Boswell doesn’t permit me to keep liquor.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Annabel sarcastically said. “That whole pious bunch is sober. Maybe if they imbibed once in a while, they wouldn’t be so stuffy and grim.”
The Boswell family was extremely religious. They were shrouded in black clothes and gathered in the evening to read the Bible. They tiptoed through the world, denying themselves any pleasure, denigrating others for their failings, and Annabel couldn’t abide any of them.
Lydia pursed her lips. “I can’t have you disparaging Mr. Boswell. Not in his own house.”
“He’s not here, is he?”
“No.”
“Then who cares if I make derogatory comments about him?”
“The servants might tattle. They work for him.”
“How awful for you, Lydia. If you can’t trust your servants not to gossip, how can you bear it?”
“My life is fine, Annabel.”
“Sure it is, Lydia.” Annabel rolled her eyes. “How are you and the Boswells getting on these days?”
“It’s been better, but it’s been worse too.”
“How can you stand to live on the edge of Mr. Boswell’s disapproval? Don’t you constantly worry you’ll upset him and he’ll evict you?”
“Yes, I do worry about that. Milton didn’t leave me anything in his Will so I’m lucky Mr. Boswell has been kind at all. He didn’t have to be.”
Annabel would rather slit her wrists than grovel and fawn like Lydia. Lydia was such a trembling, nervous creature, always fretting over the least little detail and insisting the sky was about to fall. Of course when they’d been children, staggering along in their father’s wild wake, the sky often did fall. But they’d survived.
Annabel couldn’t imagine bowing and scraping to Edward Boswell. He was the biggest horse’s ass she’d ever met, and she’d told him so on more than one occasion. Needless to say, they weren’t cordial.
“Why are you in the neighborhood?” Lydia asked.
“Michael and I are attending Captain Grey’s bachelor party.”
Peggy had come back into the room, and she and Lydia exchanged a caustic glance Annabel couldn’t decipher then Lydia said, “Why would you have been invited?”
“Michael and the Captain’s brother, Wesley Grey, have become great chums. Wesley is hosting the festivities, and he wanted Michael to run the card games.”
“I suppose there will be gambling for high stakes,” Lydia primly stated.
“Yes, there will be. And there will be dancing and drinking and entertainment by loose women.”
“You’ll stay through it all?”
“Yes, and I intend to enjoy myself too,” Annabel lied.
She was to have gone riding with the Captain at ten, but she’d sneaked off to see Lydia instead. The Captain was a pompous individual so he’d be furious with her. But he’d have all day to get over it, and hopefully when she returned he’d have set his sights on the opera dancers again.
“I wish you wouldn’t socialize with the Grey family,” Lydia said.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“I just wish...you wouldn’t.”
Another odd visual exchange passed between Lydia and Peggy.
“I’m having a grand time,” Annabel told her. “So is Michael.”
“You’re very far beneath them, Annabel,” Lydia said.
With her mother being an earl’s daughter, Annabel didn’t feel that was necessarily true. “Yes, well, they don’t seem concerned about it. Captain Grey, in particular, is quite fond of me.”
She shouldn’t have mentioned her liaison with Captain Grey, but it was the tenor of her relationship with Lydia that Lydia constantly found fault with Annabel. Annabel was too pretty or too spirited or too forward or too chatty. Lydia thought it was her job to bring Annabel down a peg, but she never could.
“You’re flirting with Captain Grey?” Lydia was aghast.
“Yes, and Wesley Grey now counts Michael as his best friend.”
“You and Michael must be pursuing a scheme that will quickly part the two men from their money.”
“I’m not, but Michael will certainly try to win a few pounds off of them.”
“Captain Grey is engaged to be married, Annabel,” Lydia reminded her.
“I know that.”
“Have you no shame?”
“No, I don’t—as you’re aware.” Annabel laughed and gestured toward the stairs. “Where is Harry? I don’t imagine I’m lucky enough to find him at home.”
“He’s at school,” Lydia said. “Where else would he be?”
“When was the last time you saw him, Lydia?” Annabel asked.
There was a lengthy pause, and Peggy and Lydia shot visual daggers at each other again. Lydia hemmed and hawed, fiddled with her skirt then admitted, “Father Boswell has decided he won’t be allowed to visit me.”
“Why not?” Annabel demanded.
“I can’t control him.”
“He doesn’t need to be controlled.”
“Mr. Boswell thinks he should be, and I won’t argue with him.”
“Why are you such a coward about this?” Annabel asked.
“It’s complicated,” Lydia whined, and Annabel yearned to shake her.
“How is it complicated?” Neither Peggy nor Lydia replied, and Annabel focused in on Peggy whom she’d always liked and who’d always liked Harry. “Harry is a terrific boy. Why does that fussy old prick hate him so much?”
“Watch your language,” Lydia scolded.
“I won’t. What’s going on?”
Peggy glared at Lydia, a thousand words unvoiced between them then she said, “Harry is so...different from the Boswells.”
“Thank God,” Annabel muttered.
“Mr. Boswell might have made an indiscreet remark to your sister about him.”
“What kind of remark?” Annabel inquired.
“He openly accused Lydia of immoral behavior.”
“Harry had just been kicked out of school again!” Lydia snapped. “Mr. Boswell was angry, and he didn’t mean it. Be silent.”
“I won’t be. He was horrid to you, and we shouldn’t have to pretend he wasn’t.”
“He pays our bills,” Lydia fumed. “We live in his house and we avail ourselves of his charity. We’re not free to protest any complaint he chooses to level.”
Annabel ignored Lydia and asked Peggy, “What immoral behavior has he alleged?”
“He said Lydia must have had an affair during her marriage, that Harry couldn’t actually be a Boswell. It was a disgusting comment, and I don’t care how enraged he was. I won’t forgive him for it.”
Annabel chortled with delight, the notion of Lydia having an affair being absolutely preposterous. She didn’t have a frivolous bone in her body and wouldn’t have had the first idea how to go about committing adultery. Nor would she have been brave enough.
Still though, Annabel couldn’t resist asking, “Is it true, Lydia? Did you cheat on your dearest Milton?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Annabel,” Lydia huffed. “That isn’t amusing.”
Annabel grinned and shrugged. “I’d love to think Harry didn’t have a drop of Boswell blood in his veins. He’d probably love to know it too.”
The Boswell women were incredibly fertile, with each seeming to have birthed dozens of children. Poor Lydia was deemed a failure by all of them. She had taken years to conceive then had supplied Milton with Harry—and that was it. But he was wonderful in every way.
Wasn’t it just like Mr. Boswell to grumble and nitpick that he was given someone too marvelous for them to claim?
The bastard!
She’d had about all she could stand of Lydia for one day. The afternoon was waning, and she had to ride back to Grey Manor. No doubt once she arrived, she’d have to spar with Captain Grey, so she needed to conserve her energy so she wasn’t weary and fatigued.
She pushed herself to her feet. “I’d better be off. It’s not as if I can get a cup of tea in this dreary house. And Heaven forbid we enjoy a stronger libation. You haven’t exactly made me feel welcome, Lydia.”
“Father Boswell doesn’t like you stopping by.”
“If Father Boswell told you to jump off a cliff, would you?”
“I’m sorry that you refuse to understand the difficulties under which I labor, Annabel.”
“I understand them, Lydia. I’ve just always thought you were a fool. It’s beyond me why you let Mr. Boswell torment you so relentlessly. Why don’t you grow a spine?”
