by Cindy Anstey
A few moments later, Tessa’s disembodied voice echoed through the hall. “Ellie, why are you changing your gown?”
Lydia sucked in a noisy gasp and looked daggers at the offending staircase that had not produced the ladies. She turned to Cora, who was seated on the narrow chair beneath the hall balcony, waiting with patience—far more patience than Lydia could muster.
“Hugh,” she said in a calm voice that deceived no one. “Might you ask Betty to check on the preparedness of my mother and sister?”
Hugh, who had been standing silently by the door waiting to see them away, nodded and headed toward the back of the house. While it seemed like an hour to Lydia, Hugh returned fairly quickly with his unwelcome news.
“Another half hour!” Lydia didn’t even try to tamp down the volume of her protest. “That is not acceptable. It will not do. Let’s go ahead, Cora. Frustration is making me fret—a condition, as you know, that I—”
“Abhor. Yes, I do know.” She stood and joined Lydia in the center of the hall. “There is no need for you to wait. It is your appointment and your schedule that should be met. Not to worry, I will explain.”
Slowly turning, Lydia stared out the window at the two waiting coaches and considered her options. The hired coach was the smaller of the two; a party of four could be accommodated but certainly not more. The Roseberry Hall coach, however, could seat six in a pinch, though it would not be a comfortable journey. Even five would be uncomfortable.… But, well, there had to be consequences for such inconsiderate behavior.
“You shall not be forced to wait, Cora. There is no need.”
“I will be expected to care for the little ones, Lydia. I can hardly shirk my duty.”
“Stuff and nonsense. We are ready; they are not. I won’t have you squished into a carriage because of their tardiness. They won’t thank you for the sacrifice, either. No, we will go together. Besides, I need a chaperone.”
Cora laughed, only slightly, but it was the first time in days that Lydia had seen her smile. “I can hardly be your chaperone; we are of an age.”
“True.” Lydia returned her smile. “That might lift an eyebrow or two. Still, we are companions, and that will have to serve. Come now, the longer we argue, the more the delay.… And I will triumph in the end, you know. I always do.”
“You usually do. It is not the same thing.”
Lydia’s smile broadened into a grin. She could feel good humor trickling back into her psyche when she realized that a timely arrival was still possible.
Turning toward her footman, Lydia straightened her perfectly placed bonnet. “Hugh, could you tell the ladies, when they arrive, that we have gone on ahead. Time and decorum now dictate that we go straight to Mr. Lynch’s, but we will wait for them there before going any farther.” That should keep complaints of impropriety at bay.
Chapter 6
In which there is a rude awakening and an informative carriage ride
Many hours earlier, before dawn had even thought about peeking over the horizon, a distant pounding had awakened Robert from a deep, and deeply needed, sleep. It sounded like a fist hammering on the front door of his town house, but Robert ignored it. Longdon would send the interloper away. He rolled over and returned to the ethereal world of dreams.
Within moments, or so it seemed, the pounding became more insistent. This time, it sounded like a fist beating against Robert’s bedroom door. He knew that to be unlikely, bordering on impossible, and he once again closed his eyes. However, the squeak of the door hinge startled Robert into a fully awake state.
“Sir?” a voice drifted toward Robert from the far side of the room.
“Yes, Longdon. Is there a problem?”
“I’m afraid it’s Mr. Cassidy, sir.”
“Cassidy? Lawks! Has he done himself an injury?”
“In a manner of speaking, sir. He’s so far in his cups he couldn’t remember how to get home.… An’ he sent the chair away what brought him. I put him in the study for the time being. Do you want me to make up the spare room?”
Robert resigned himself to the inevitable. “Yes, indeed. Thank you, Longdon.”
Dropping his feet to the floor, Robert grabbed his robe and shoved his feet into his slippers. He hastened down the stairs with a little apprehension. Usually his friend sought his company at a more reasonable time of day—certainly not in the wee hours of morning. And while Cassidy was always cutting up a lark and making a mull of something, he was not prone to such overindulgence that he couldn’t recall his own address.
Perhaps he had had another set-to with his father. Yes, that could precipitate excessive drinking and not a bad memory, but no desire to find his way home.
Opening the door to the study, Robert was pleased to see that Cassidy was still upright, sitting in one of the wingback chairs by the unlit fireplace. Unfortunately, he held his head in his hands and swayed in a manner that had Robert glance around the room for a receptacle of some sort, just in case. The ice bucket was the closest possibility.
“You don’t look your best, my friend,” Robert said quietly.
Of that there was no doubt. Robert had known Vincent Cassidy all his life, growing up on neighboring estates, and Robert had never seen his friend quite as … well, he looked green—bile green. His brown hair was clumped rather than carefully arranged around his long face; his deep-set eyes were more like canyons; and his nose looked sore, as if it had suffered a collision with something solid—such as a wall or floor.
Lifting his head, Cassidy smiled weakly. “Foxed, I’m afraid.”
“So foxed you don’t remember the way home? A pretty story—one that worked on Longdon. But I am less gullible. What is it really? Did you have a set-to with Lord Tremont again?”
“What? Oh, no. Father isn’t even in Bath right now. No, this is worse … so much worse.”
“Really. Best you spit it out, but wait, let me sit. I only just woke up, you know, and my faculties are not yet fully engaged.” And so saying, Robert chose the chair opposite to watch for signs that might necessitate the use of the ice bucket. Perhaps his faculties were working better than he had stated.
Robert waited, and waited, but Cassidy seemed more inclined to stare at the carpet than discuss what it was that had brought him to Robert’s door. “I’m all ears.” The prod didn’t produce much more than a start, and Robert suspected that Cassidy was drifting off to sleep. “Well, I can only assume that you have reconsidered the dire nature of your problem. Let us find our beds, and you can tell me tomorrow … um … later today.”
“No.” Cassidy’s head shot up, and he flushed as the volume of his objection produced an echo. He continued in a more subdued manner. “I can’t believe what I have done.”
“So, tell.” Robert shrugged; it was feigned nonchalance. Apprehension was climbing back into his lap.
“I have accepted a challenge.”
The bald statement brought with it a swirl of dismay, horror, and memories. Robert had not been present when his brother stood in front of a bullet, but he had been there for the duel’s aftermath—the blood and glassy eyes, his mother’s sobs, and his father’s laments. Robert’s recollections were still so raw they brought pain with them—true physical pain. The relentless cramp in his gut was superseded only by the ache in the general region of his heart.
Robert’s silence must have penetrated Cassidy’s fogged brain, for he sat up straighter and cringed at some unexpressed thought. “Didn’t mean to, Robert. I don’t even know what I did to cause the insult. Really, truly. I was just sitting at the Black Duck with some of my fellows.… Hmm, can’t remember who was with me. Well, I was just sitting there minding my own business. We were laughing and joking, and then everyone looks up … over my shoulder. Someone says, ‘I will not allow such liberties. You must answer for your words.’” Cassidy shook his head and sighed … and lapsed into silence.
Robert, too, shook his head, though not likely for the same reason. He waited, but Cassidy was once
again lost in his thoughts. “And you calmly said, ‘I apologize, no insult was intended.’”
“Hardly. Wouldn’t be here, then, would I?”
“No.”
“Don’t rightly know what I said. Only know that Peterson … oh, yes, Peterson was there. Anyway, after the blighter leaves, Peterson looks at me an’ says, ‘That was ill-advised. The man’s known to be a crack shot.’”
Robert groaned—inwardly. “So you have two choices: Apologize publicly or ignore the challenge.”
“Three.”
“Three?”
“Three choices. I can show up at Daisy Hill at dawn next Wednesday.”
The famous, or infamous, Daisy Hill on the outskirts of Bath had obtained its cheery moniker by way of a cheerless reference. Those who dueled there were known to push up daisies not long after.
“Next week? That is strange; a duel should be fought within forty-eight hours.”
“Perhaps he has a busy schedule. He might have other duels on the go.”
Robert snorted at Cassidy’s gallows humor and then frowned at the thought. “You cannot possibly wish to put your family through the consequences of such foolishness.”
“Honor requires it, Robert. Imagine the shame if word got around. I’d be labeled a coward or worse. A stain across the family name.”
“Better than being dead.”
“I’m not sure my father would agree—”
“Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. Your father would be devastated. You are his heir.”
“He has a spare.”
Anger, too acute to share, forced Robert to clamp his jaws together. He breathed through his nose for some minutes, looking for calm. He found it at last, but not until he had come to two conclusions: He had to find out the cause of Cassidy’s insult, and he had to find a way for Cassidy to make amends … that did not involve pistols at dawn.
“I know you are not that cavalier with your life, Cassidy. If you were, you would not have come here at this ungodly hour. You would have shrugged at the challenge, gone home to your own bed, and thought nothing more of it until next week. No, I am the one person you knew who would not allow it; this duel will not take place.”
“I … I don’t understand, Robert. How did it happen? I meant no disrespect to anyone. How can I insult someone without intent to the degree that requires a challenge? I … I … I’m not a good shot, Robert. I’m almost as bad as you.”
Robert laughed despite himself. “I’m sure you could hit the broad side of a barn if it was required.”
Cassidy snorted, no longer looking quite as green around the gills. “You’ll help me?”
“Of course. We’ll talk about it later, when the port has worn off.”
“It was brandy.”
“Matters not to your brain. It will hurt like the devil when you wake up.”
Robert stood, ushering Cassidy ahead of him. Even as they climbed the stairs, Robert amended his schedule to include a visit to the Black Duck, though it would have to wait until late afternoon or even the evening. Lydia Whitfield was due at the firm of Lynch and Associates at one o’clock, precisely. He did not want to leave her in Mr. Lynch’s befuddled hands. Yes, that was the only reason he needed to be present for the meeting. It had nothing to do with missing someone he had only just met.
* * *
Now that the journey was under way, Lydia could relax. There was nothing more she could do. Their tardiness, or lack thereof, was in the hands of the coachman. And she had impressed upon the fellow her need to arrive at the law office at one o’clock, precisely.
As expected, the verdant scenes of tranquil fields, charming village churches, and vine-covered cottages brought Lydia a sense of calm. Though it did take a full quarter hour for those wonders to penetrate her high state of tension. Another quarter hour and she was feeling quite mild.
It was somewhere in this vicinity that Lydia noticed a great deal of silence emanating from across the great expanse of two feet, and her heightened mood returned. “Cora, is all well?”
Cora, who had been staring out the window in a posture similar to that of Lydia’s, started. She turned toward her friend and frowned, then smiled in a somewhat lackluster display. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Well, you have been so quiet of late. I noticed it some weeks back and was loath to point it out lest doing so would exacerbate the … but perhaps … well, a moving carriage couldn’t be more private to discuss any number of problems. If there is a problem requiring privacy … that is.”
Cora’s weak smile disappeared entirely, and she eyed Lydia in such a way that Lydia began to regret her approach. But the die was cast—the deed was done, in for a penny, in for a pound. Might as well take the bull by the horns. Lydia was fully aware that in her anxiety she had overused her metaphors.
“Finding your way in a new household can be difficult; I know that. Family norms are different—odd to those unused to the various personalities. Still, I was certain that you would feel at home, thought your well-being secured, when you were newly arrived at Roseberry. But … well, you have not been your usual self for some weeks. Very subdued, even your manner of dress has changed, rather restrained. I would have said it to be against your nature to be so prudent. But, well, there you are dressed head to toe in gray without the least embellishment. No hint of color.
“I could not be more sorry that our experiment has not succeeded. That you do not feel comfortable and happy. I thought it a grand plan—but in trying to help, I see that I have made a mull of the situation. You should not feel obligated to remain at Roseberry if it is not to your liking. I’m sure we could prevail upon one of our school chums to—perhaps Shelley might…”
Lydia was babbling, but she was not quite certain how to stop the flow of words; they seemed to keep falling from her mouth of their own accord. “Or find you a position more suited to your needs in Bath or even London. Perhaps it is the monotony of country living that is giving you this fit of the dismals.”
Thankfully, Cora lifted her hand, stemming the flow and rescuing Lydia from her runaway tongue.
“Dearest Lydia, I am not unhappy at Roseberry. It is my sanctuary. Ivy and Tessa are delights, as is the restfulness of country living. No, all is well in that regard. Please do not trouble yourself.”
“And yet you have changed.”
“Have I? Yes, I suppose it is true.” Cora turned back toward the window, but with no apparent interest in the passing scenes.
“Cora?”
“Hmm?”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Can you make my heart see sense?”
Perplexed, Lydia frowned. She opened her mouth to ask her friend’s meaning, but before she had the chance, Cora continued.
“I am not the first to be disappointed in love and likely not the last.”
It was such an unexpected statement that Lydia agreed without thought. But in the lapse of Cora’s conversation, Lydia cast her mind into the past. She remembered a gentleman much taken with Cora’s exuberance during their school days—the brother of one of the other girls, if she was recalling correctly. It had not seemed to be significant at the time, and yet, now on examination, Lydia remembered a comment or two in Cora’s letters. A surprise visit upon her return home.
“Mr. Granger? From Fullerton?”
Cora’s pursed lips said more than her silence.
“Did you have an understanding?”
Cora sighed and turned back to meet Lydia’s eyes. “Very nearly. In fact, that is why I delayed leaving Fardover until the autumn. I did so hope … I quite expected a visit and a…”
“An offer?”
“Yes. Mr. Granger was quite attentive for several months; we got to know each other well, and I became very fond of him.”
“And if he had made an offer, would he have found favor in your answer?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Cora’s eyes were suddenly bright, and she laughed. “How could I not agree? Not
only was Mr. Granger blessed with good looks and the means to support us, a jollier gentleman I have never encountered. Our conversations were as much levity as anything else.” She sighed in a wistful manner. “His estate was some distance, and his excuses for coming all the way to Fardover were … well, excuses. At our last meeting, he expressed a desire to speak to my brother.” Cora shook her head and glanced down at her tightly clasped hands. “It would be hard to mistake that meaning. And yet it seems I did, for that was the last I saw of him.”
“Perhaps he was delayed and does not know you are no longer at your brother’s house.”
“I thought the same at first, and as much as Suzanne and I did not get along, I was fairly certain that she would give Mr. Granger my direction when he finally did call. I was disappointed to leave Fardover without hearing from him, but I did not become overly concerned until a month ago. By then, I thought I should not count on my sister-in-law’s benevolence and undertook my own means of contacting him. As I could not write Mr. Granger directly, I wrote to his sister, Gloria, instead.”
“I’m trying to put a face to the name. A quiet girl with her nose always in a book—reddish curly hair.”
“No, indeed. Chocolate-brown hair—like her brother—and her nose was always in the air.”
“Oh. Surely not. You cannot mean Gilded Gloria, the one who put a spider in Miss Jury’s pillow.”
“Yes, one and the same. More dissimilar siblings you will never find.”
“I should hope so.”
Lifting her eyes, Cora sighed again. “I sent her a chatty letter and asked after her family … mentioned her brother, casually, of course. I received my reply a few weeks ago.”
“And?”
“Mr. Granger is engaged to Tatum Brownlow, Gloria’s closest and dearest friend in the whole world.” Cora’s tone dripped with caustic honey. “It was settled at Christmas,” she added.
“Oh, Cora, I am so sorry.”
“If it had hurt less, I would have been able to share this with you sooner. But I was quite taken with the idea of being Mrs. Granger. And now, I must toss away my foolish dreams and expectations. Yes, foolish, foolish dreams.”
