by Cindy Anstey
Lydia shook the odd silhouette from her mind and lifted a brow. “Yes, of course you are. And I would not ask your involvement were it not of great importance to our financial future.” She felt the sudden tension in his arm and knew that her words had finally sunk in.
“Be that as it may, I have no official capacity here. We are not betrothed as yet.”
“I thought we could rectify that.”
“What?”
“I am going to be eighteen in two months. I thought we could announce our engagement at the ball and marry this summer.”
Looking askance, Barley stepped away from her side—an awkward move as they were still walking arm in arm. “Really, Lydia, I am the one who is supposed to make the offer—it’s traditional—and I hadn’t planned on doing so for several more years. Eighteen is still rather young to be taking on such heavy responsibilities—the estate, the duties of a wife, et cetera. Don’t you want a Season?”
“I don’t see the need. I am going to enjoy my birthday ball—”
“The need? Need has nothing to do with it. Well, yes, there are some who need to find a husband during their Season but not always.”
“I believe it is more the rule than the exception.”
“Please, Lydia, I am trying to educate you about the ways of the world.” He stepped back to her side, and they continued down the path. “A Season is all about balls and concerts. Seeing and meeting new acquaintances. It’s full of frivolity and flirting.”
“You want me to flirt with you?”
“No, of course not. It wouldn’t be seemly. Everyone knows that we mean to be married.”
“Then you want me to flirt with other men.”
“No, of course not.”
“Barley, I am confused.”
“Well, that is because you are not listening. As I was saying, you need to kick up your heels. Live a little before you take on your domestic role.” And then, under his breath, as if Lydia was not meant to hear, he added, “Sow some wild oats.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly now. You want to kick up your heels and live a little.”
“That is not what I said.”
“Yes, but it is what you meant.”
The heavy silence lasted several steps. It was broken when Barley cleared his throat—in discomfort. “I think we should hold off a little longer. Until you are twenty, at least.”
“I don’t believe we have that luxury, Barley. Though we might not need to be married right away, our engagement should give you enough authority to question Mr. Drury’s management. A right to an opinion—”
“Your opinion.”
“Yes, of course, unless you have gained some sort of knowledge in crop rotation of which I am unaware.”
“I don’t even know what that means.” Again, he sighed heavily. “I will have to think about it.”
Lydia stopped in her tracks. “Do you not wish to marry me?”
“Really, Lydia, not wishing to be pushed around is not the same as not wishing to be married. I have control of my own life, thank you very much—even if my purse strings are tied around your waist.… Oh, I do beg your pardon; I did not mean to mention any part of your body … err, umm, person. I should have said bodice … or wrist … or something else of that nature.”
Lydia ignored the reddening of his complexion, amused by his sense of delicacy. “Why don’t I have the papers drawn up, just in case?”
“In case of what?”
“You decide that an announcement will serve us best, after all.”
“Perhaps. Yes, we could start the process. Iron out the wrinkles, as Mrs. Candor would say.”
Lydia had not heard Barley’s housekeeper use any such expression before, but then she hadn’t spent a lot of time with Mrs. Candor. That, too, would change when Lydia moved into Wilder Hill Manor. A cold, drafty, massive place without a single marble statue … and dusty books—such a disheartening thought.
“Yes. We can iron them out.” Lydia planned to arrange a life interest for her mother and sister at Roseberry. They needed to be secure in knowing that they could stay at Roseberry for as long as they wished—something her father had failed to consider.
“Indeed. You will be twenty soon enough. It will come quickly.” He lifted his head, staring at the empty sky, and nodded in agreement to some internal thought. “Two years should be sufficient.”
“Sufficient?”
Dropping his gaze back to Lydia, he smiled. It was full of charm and humor; the very reasons Lydia knew that their lifelong union would be comfortable. “Yes, places to go, people to see.”
Returning his smile with one of her own, Lydia shrugged. “Fine,” she acquiesced. “A two-year engagement is not overly long.”
“Engagement?”
“Isn’t that the purpose of the contract?”
“Yes, yes, of course it is.”
“And then, once the paperwork is out of the way, you can offer your hand. At the ball, perhaps?” She lifted her cheeks even farther and tried to look wistful.
Barley’s frown returned. “Please, Lydia, you are trying to control everything again. You will have to wait until I deem the time appropriate.”
“No announcement at the ball?”
“We shall see.”
“But I really do need you to help me in this disagreement with Uncle Arthur, Barley.”
“I think you should be concentrating your efforts on this lawyer chap, your Mr. Lynch. He’s the one with the true power—control over the money is key. And this here fellow he’s sent around … Newbury?”
“Newton.”
“Yes, quite. He’s the one—sounds sensible enough. Work on him, Lydia. There’s your answer.”
Lydia dropped her smile. “So it would seem.” Then she brightened. “I say, Barley, why don’t we take advantage of Mr. Newton’s presence? Yes. We can start working on the marriage contract right away.… Hmm, let’s see. Why don’t you come over tomorrow afternoon around two o’clock? I’ll forgo my usual constitutional; this is far more important, and I do like to be impulsive.” She ignored Barley’s snort of derision. “Yes, that would work.… Oh, are you free tomorrow at two?”
“Might as well take the bull by the horns. Tomorrow it is.”
Lydia watched Lord Aldershot wend his way out of the garden, taking the west gate to the stables. She wasn’t too sure that she liked the analogy. A bull? Was she the bull or its horns? Neither sounded flattering.
Glancing at the conservatory wall, she was glad to note that the strange shadow had disappeared—and again dismissed it as a consequence of a distracted mind.
* * *
The tableau that greeted Lydia when she returned to the drawing room had changed little since her departure a quarter of an hour earlier. However, there was an addition. Robert Newton was now on the settee that she had vacated, and Cousin Elaine sat beside him—holding up Ivy’s needlework.
“Just a little cut, right here, if you don’t mind, Mr. Newton. It is vastly important to get the length exact.”
The accommodating gentleman proceeded to open a penny knife from his pocket—despite the presence of a pair of scissors on the table beside Elaine.
Giggling, her cousin leaned closer in an overt display of flirtation. Lydia found it most irritating. Elaine had been setting her cap at every handsome bachelor she encountered since she was fifteen, but this bachelor was Lydia’s. Yes, hers … her … Mr. Newton was here on business. This vulgar display was inappropriate.
Lydia’s mother was the first to speak.
“Ah, there you are, Lydia. Mr. Newton was looking to speak with you—you are very popular today, I must say. I told him you would be but a moment, and, look, here you are.”
Mama did have a tendency to ramble or blather, but even this speech was a little too vacuous for her. Was she nervous? Or was that a sparkle of excitement? And her eyes, why was she moving them about so oddly—from Cousin Elaine to Mr. Newton and back again? Surely she wasn’t intimating an attractio
n between them?
“I’m sure you don’t need to pull Mr. Newton away from our company so soon.”
Lydia was at a loss for words. Though she had known Mr. Newton for only a few hours, she was almost certain that his taste did not, would not … should not … run toward a girl who thought the length of thread a grievous matter. Lydia’s first inclination was to protest this travesty. Fortunately, Mr. Newton knew his way around a drawing room.
“As much as I would like to stay, Mrs. Whitfield, I am here on business, and until it is concluded, I must soldier on.” The words were spoken with just the right amount of world-weariness to elicit an accepting sigh from the ladies. “I look forward to seeing you at dinner,” he concluded.
“Oh, yes, of course. Soldier on, Mr. Newton, soldier on.” Cousin Elaine spoke in a breathy voice laden with intensity. “We will see you this evening.”
Mr. Newton nodded, glanced at Lydia with humor in his eyes, and then rose, slipping his penny knife back into his coat pocket. They said nothing to each other until they had descended to the ground floor, and even then, Lydia made no reference to the obvious matchmaking that had been going on in the drawing room.
“Are your meetings with Uncle and Mr. Drury already over, Mr. Newton? So soon?”
“Would that it were so, Miss Whitfield. I’m afraid that both gentlemen have made themselves unavailable.”
Lydia gritted her teeth for a moment and then smiled—somewhat wanly—at the man walking beside her. “Perhaps we should use the morning room to continue our discussion,” she said, gesturing away from the study. “It’s brighter, and I feel a sudden need of a lighter atmosphere. Might even open a window for fresh air. Roseberry is getting quite stuffy and overbearing.” They both knew she was not talking about the manor.
Chapter 4
In which Mr. Newton is afflicted with an odd state of the dismals
The morning room was a much brighter chamber than the study, Robert observed. It seemed equally beloved, with its large bay windows, yellow walls, and charming watercolors of gardens and farm children. There was an informal atmosphere in the room that was unexpected. Not that such a place existed in Roseberry, but that Miss Whitfield had chosen this room to continue their conversation.
It was a business conversation, or so he thought.
“Mr. Newton, there is a matter other than the governing of the estate that I would like to discuss with you.”
Her words did not sound ominous, but there was a sudden stiffness to the way she was walking that garnered Robert’s attention. He waited for her to explain, but she, instead, waved him to one of the chairs by the unlit chimneypiece and seated herself on the settee opposite. And still he waited.
“Is there something wrong, Miss Whitfield?”
She was now staring out the window, skyward, as if there were something of particular interest in the empty air.
“Miss Whitfield?”
“Oh. I do apologize. I was thinking about sowing oats.”
Robert didn’t remember the mention of a grain crop. “Instead of apples?”
“Pardon?” Miss Whitfield brought her gaze back down to earth and into the morning room of Roseberry Hall. “No, no.” She laughed a very pretty trill. “Poor Barley. He said something about sowing wild oats—Is something wrong?”
Shocking revelations would be part and parcel of a solicitor’s daily routine, and Robert thought himself prepared, but to hear that Lord Aldershot had used such an expression in Miss Whitfield’s hearing was appalling. Though it was apparent that she did not know that men sowed wild oats in the company of light-skirts.
Without comment, Robert nodded for her to continue—reestablishing his attitude of nonchalance with only a smidgen of difficulty.
“As I was saying, Barley has not had the funds to sow any oats—wild or otherwise—nor to kick up his heels and live a little. It’s no wonder he feels … Well, that is easily rectified. We shall add an allowance to compensate—throughout our betrothal. Yes, that will give him the chance to go to London and be frivolous before he has to settle down and play the devoted family man. Yes, that will do quite nicely.”
Robert remained silent. He thought it might be a worthwhile policy when a client was being enigmatic. He would understand soon enough … or he wouldn’t. There were only those two possibilities.
“Yes, that is just what I’ll do.”
Her smile was full of life and mischief, and for a moment, Robert could think of nothing other than how appealing Miss Whitfield looked when her eyes sparkled. Overcome by a sudden desire to join her on the settee, he shook the distracting thoughts from his head and tried to focus on the topic at hand. What were they talking about? “An allowance?” he said, finally remembering.
With a sigh of what seemed to be satisfaction, Miss Whitfield nodded. “Yes. Can we add that to the contract?”
“Contract?”
“Yes. Oh, I do beg your pardon. I am starting at the end rather than the beginning. I would like a contract to be drawn up—a marriage contract—between Lord Aldershot and me. I have asked Barley to return tomorrow at two to discuss it—I hope that time is convenient for you.”
Robert barely had time to say “of course” before Miss Whitfield continued.
“I thought we could go over the particulars of a usual contract, then add in what I hope will be agreeable to Barley. I am concerned about the welfare of my mother and sister when the estates are joined, and I would like to retain control of as much of Roseberry as possible.”
This time when Robert offered the standard “of course,” Miss Whitfield hesitated and tossed him a thoughtful look. He should have hidden his amusement a little better. He had noticed her wish to regulate everything—and everyone—around her, and while he found it both unusual and impressive, it was an opinion best kept to himself.
“I imagine Barley will have a few stipulations of his own. We can discuss them tomorrow.… Oh, yes, and an allowance should be included.”
“Are you sure you wish to offer Lord Aldershot money before the marriage?”
“It smacks of paying him to marry me, doesn’t it? I’m not, I assure you. Well, I suppose some will see it that way—probably best to keep that tidbit confidential. I’m sure Mr. Lynch and Barley will agree—to the confidentiality, that is. Now, where were we?”
And so the afternoon continued as Robert noted Miss Whitfield’s addendums. While there was much he had to learn about contracts of this sort, he could explain that her father’s estate would essentially become Lord Aldershot’s property, to be passed down to their children. She was unaware that the law did little to support her claim once they were conjoined.
“Barley has never shown any interest in the farm.”
“I hope that it is ever thus, Miss Whitfield.”
“Yes, so do I.”
* * *
By the time Robert went down to dinner, he was sure he had served Miss Whitfield well in regard to the marriage contract. He knew that Lord Aldershot would wish to add unforeseen clauses—negotiation was fairly standard in these kinds of dealings—but Robert also knew that Mr. Lynch would find his notes thorough.
However, rather than sporting any sense of satisfaction, Robert was afflicted with an odd state of the dismals. The condition had begun in the morning room while they were discussing the union of the two estates. Somehow it didn’t seem right; he felt the need to protest, but on what grounds he couldn’t say. Perhaps this undefined melancholy had nothing to do with Miss Whitfield’s nuptials but stemmed from the incompletion of his original task—that of clarifying the problems with the estate management.
Yes, that had to be it. He would corner both Drury and Mr. Kemble in the morning and then return to Bath with the situation, if not solved, at least better understood. Yes, he would lose this sense of sadness as soon as he returned to Bath.
And yet, even that thought brought no sense of release. Distancing himself from Roseberry Hall was no longer a priority. He quite liked the lively
conversation to be found within its walls. Robert had a sneaking suspicion it had more to do with the way he felt when his eyes met those of Miss Whitfield than with bricks and mortar.
The footman, Hugh, opened the drawing room door with a flourish, ushering him in. The ladies were waiting, dressed in their finery and ready to be taken down to dinner. Lydia—as he was beginning to call Miss Whitfield in his mind—had warned him that dinner was usually a formal affair but that he was not to feel uncomfortable about not having a dress coat. There was nothing he could do about it; he had not planned to join the family for dinner and could not pull an evening coat out of his satchel when one had not been put in.
Still, while the party of women—for there was no sign of Mr. Kemble—was in full evening gowns, Lydia wore an elegant but simple dress of pale green-gray that was cut to form. It was clear that Lydia had done him a kindness in her restrained mode of dress, to make him feel comfortable. But in doing so, she stood out as an antithesis to her relatives’ ostentation and Miss Shipley’s lacy gown.
“I’m afraid we have a problem this evening,” Mrs. Whitfield greeted him with a nod of acknowledgment. “Gentlemen are in short supply. It will be even worse when Ivy and Tessa are out of the schoolroom.”
“It’s a problem that we have every evening, Aunt Joan,” Miss Elaine tittered. There was no other apt descriptor; it was definitely a titter.
Robert said nothing.
“Indeed, it is true.” Mrs. Whitfield glanced at Mrs. Kemble for confirmation. Once given, the conversation continued. “We had hoped to have the arms of two gentlemen to lead us into dinner, but … Well, I suppose Arthur can be forgiven for picking today, of all days, to visit the Major. Major Ryder has been his dearest friend for … I’d say two decades now; although, they seldom get together. His wife passed away some years ago, and the Major lives a bachelor lifestyle that some consider—”
“Mama.”
“Yes, Lydia dear. Oh, am I doing it again? Yes, well. I am told by some, Mr. Newton, that I have a tendency to veer off topic. I don’t see it at all, as my late husband had no problem following my conversation. In fact, he often said—”
