by Cindy Anstey
It was not what Lydia would wish for him. Robert Newton deserved love.
“I’m afraid I must take Mr. Newton away, Mama. Mr. Selleck is waiting for us in the study.”
“Mr. Selleck?” Lydia’s mother frowned and glanced in the general direction of that room as if she could see through the west wall.
“Yes. Mr. Newton has brought us a candidate to replace Mr. Drury—”
“Oh dear, your uncle will not like that idea,” Aunt Freya interrupted. She swallowed convulsively. “He will be most upset … when he awakes.”
The heavy silence that followed her pronouncement likely held a different meaning for each. Embarrassment, possibly, for Aunt Freya and Cousin Elaine, who liked to pretend that Uncle was not overindulgent with the Roseberry liquor cabinet. Perhaps discomfort for Mama, who never enjoyed her brother’s sullen moods. Likely disinterest for Robert, who knew Uncle only in this upset state. And frustration for Lydia, who wanted to resolve the land-agent problem as quickly as possible.
“Might you join us, then, Mama? If Uncle is incapacitated and cannot participate in the interview, might you not give us your opinion?”
The logic was clear. Lydia could not make the decision on her own: she was quite capable, but she did not have the authority. Robert could represent Mr. Lynch. And in a pinch … without examining the whole too closely, Mama could represent the second part of the trusteeship—her uncle. Yes, that would work.
“Me?” A slow smile spread across Mama’s face. “You would like my opinion?”
Lydia blinked at the tone and stared at her mother in surprise. Mama was pleased. So pleased, in fact, that she had forgotten that she had been giving her daughter the cold shoulder for the better part of a week. She stepped forward, touching Lydia’s arm as if to gain her attention.
“Yes, Lydia dear, let’s meet this Mr. Selleck.”
“Joan.” Aunt Freya’s voice held a warning of some sort.
“No, Freya. I will not be stopped. Lydia would like my opinion.” Lifting her chin, then straightening her shoulders, Mama took Lydia’s arm, pulling her toward the study. “There was a time when your father, too, thought to gain my estimation. And I must say I served him well. Yes, indeed. He said so, many a time. I remember in our younger days…”
Glancing over her shoulder, Lydia met Robert’s gaze and smiled. She was gladdened by her mother’s transformation, and he seemed to understand that. He winked and followed them into the study.
Chapter 15
In which a catalog, dry as week-old toast, is given high praise
“Lawks! I will not have it!” Kemble’s voice blasted across the dinner table as he slammed his hand down.
The company shrugged—well, near enough. No one reacted. There was no shocked exclamation, no reproof for the vulgar language, and no cajoling. This was clearly not the first time the man had sought to assert his will. Though one had to observe that the effort was less than successful. Perhaps if Mrs. Kemble was not afflicted with a sick headache and unable to join them, she might have infected the family with her faintheartedness.… But she was so afflicted and, therefore, unable to spread her contagion.
“It is done, Arthur. Mr. Drury left hours ago, and Mr. Selleck is getting himself settled in as we speak. I’m sure once you have met him, you will find him a great improvement. He has been a land agent for fifteen years—five in Heper and ten in Menthe.” Mrs. Whitfield lifted her glass to her lips and took a deep drink of ratafia. She glanced at Lydia, offering her a smile. “I found him quite knowledgeable.”
“Then why is he not still working, this wonder, this great savior who promises to transform Roseberry into a moneymaker?”
“He promised no such thing, Uncle. Perhaps you are confusing Mr. Selleck with Mr. Drury.” Lydia, sitting directly across from Robert, did not appear to be upset by her uncle’s mood, either. “As to his availability: We are to be thankful that the heir of his late employer arrived with his own steward, making Mr. Selleck redundant. And that Mr. Newton’s brother heard about the travesty.”
“Might have known. We have you to thank, do we?” Kemble turned the full force of his pique on Robert, scowling and pointing. He was rather like an overexcited basset hound—all bark, no bite … and droopy ears.
Robert bowed in acknowledgment as if the accusation had been an expression of gratitude. “In part, sir. My brother sent Mr. Selleck to me for consideration for the post—”
“A post that was not empty.”
“It was empty, sir, even if there was a person standing there.”
“Don’t be insulting.”
“I have never considered truth to be an insult. Mr. Drury was a placeholder, little else. He did not know the job and would have been the ruination of Roseberry Hall.” Robert glanced across to Lydia and was rewarded with a broad grin, though he was not entirely sure why she saw levity in his words.
“That is a gross exaggeration!” Kemble demanded the return of Robert’s attention.
“No. Indeed, it is not.” He stared the man down, until Kemble dropped his eyes to his plate, grumbling under his breath.
Robert didn’t bother to listen.
“Are you going to stay for a few days and celebrate Easter with us, Mr. Newton?” Elaine asked breathlessly, leaning against his arm. “We could go for a walk after church … down by the river—just the two of us.” She laughed—rather shrilly—for no apparent reason. “And I can have Cook make your favorite dessert for Easter dinner.… What is your favorite dessert?”
Robert was forced to turn, yet again, toward Miss Kemble, who was seated directly to his right. “No, I’m afraid not. I must return to my duties at the firm. I have neglected—”
“Aha! A lackluster, are you?” Kemble slammed his hand down on the table again—to the same mild effect.
“A lackluster?” Robert wondered how generously the man had poured his … third glass of wine.
“Lazy, ne’er-do-well. You won’t amount to much, young man!”
Opening his mouth to rebut such an unwarranted attack, Robert found that he was not the first in line.
“Uncle. That is totally uncalled for. Not only is Mr. Newton a credit to his profession, he is a worthy gentleman about to make his mark in the world. I will not have you speak like that to my solicitor’s clerk and will thank you to keep your derision to yourself.” Lydia glared with undisguised animosity; spots of an angry blush colored her pretty cheeks.
Before the man could continue his ridiculous tirade, Mrs. Whitfield interrupted. “Come now, let us have a civil discourse. Cora, how are the girls’ studies coming along?… Oh, and I must tell you how much I admire your shawl, my dear. Yes, yes, such a pretty shade of … what would I call that … let me see. Pink. Yes. Lovely. Did I ever tell you about the pink gown I wore to the Upper Rooms when I was a bride?”
And so it was that Mrs. Whitfield proceeded to manage the entire dinner conversation. A question here, a tale—a long tale—there, all sprinkled with cheerful comments and jovial observations. In no time at all, the caustic beginning of the meal disappeared, and it resolved into an amiable, relaxed repast involving lots of smiles and laughter. Even Elaine’s overt attempts to secure Robert’s attention faded with the distractions.
Robert found that he could ease back in his chair and simply observe. He had to be careful, of course, doling out his nods to all the ladies in the company as he agreed with whatever the topic was in discussion. He was certain that no one could discern his favoritism.
Although he did catch Mrs. Whitfield watching him on occasion, with an enigmatic smile twitching the corners of her mouth.
* * *
In the study, Lydia sat curled up in a chair by the fire. Normally, she would have chosen the other end of the room to relax with a book in her lap, but this position had the advantage of overlooking the front drive. It was a lovely aspect in most respects. Even in the rain—which had kept her from her constitutional—the view included three tulip beds and a lovely collectio
n of shrubs.… But it was lacking. The drive was empty; Robert’s phaeton was gone. And it had been gone for a whole day. Yes, almost twenty-four hours.
It might not have been such a tragedy had Lydia known when she might see him again, but there were no plans to … meet … to visit … no, to consult. Yes, that was it. There were no plans to consult within the foreseeable future—nothing scheduled. It might be next week, next month, or next year.
Lydia considered—very briefly—the idea of another round of marriage-contract discussions. At least that would provide a means to see him … Robert. Robert Newton, her very good friend and solicitor apprentice in-waiting. But somehow the thought of rehashing the various clauses that would tie her to Barley was unappealing. In fact, she was rather glad she had decided to postpone the engagement.
She had no doubt that it would take place eventually, just as she had no doubt that this odd feeling of loss would disappear … sometime … one day. She was not a romantic type; she was the responsible, do-the-right-thing-for-the-estate type. Barley had been her father’s choice, and Papa had been a man of great knowledge and understanding. Hard at times, yes. But for a purpose. The purpose of securing Roseberry Hall a worthy lineage—a noble lineage.
Lydia sighed and then frowned as she listened to the echo of the words in her head. Securing a worthy lineage. Would Papa have chosen Barley as her husband had he known that Mr. Robert Newton, third son of the Earl of Wissett, would enter their lives?
Robert did not come with a title or vast lands, but his ancient lineage could put Barley’s to shame. Would that have been enough to satisfy her father?
And then, out of nowhere, arrived a terrible query. Could she be happy with her father’s choice now—now that she knew Robert?
Before Lydia had a chance to form an answer, a movement outside the window caught her eye. For a moment, the briefest of moments, Lydia brightened with the thought that Robert had returned. There was no logic in that thought, and yet it blossomed and grew until the movement resolved into a figure—not a phaeton, a figure with skirts and a Paris-style umbrella.
Blinking back her disappointment, Lydia swallowed and lowered her feet to the floor. It wouldn’t do to greet a guest while sitting on her legs. For while the other ladies of the house were ensconced in the drawing room as usual, Lydia knew that this person would be seeking her out.
Mavis Caudle was coming for a visit.
* * *
“Make yourself comfortable.” Lydia gestured toward the chair placed opposite. She had decided not to move into the morning room, as Miss Caudle was a self-proclaimed book addict. It hardly made sense to rush to another room only to lead the girl back to the library.
Miss Caudle placed the books that she had in hand on the table between them, then sat as directed. “Thank you for the loan. I do hope your butler informed you that I had visited.… I think it was, yes, a couple of weeks ago. Amazing how quickly time can pass.”
“Of course.” The girl’s comment was a nod to convention rather than logic—had Lydia not asked Shodster to avail the library to a Miss Caudle whenever she might appear, Mavis would not have made it past the front door. And having allowed her access, Shodster would have been very remiss in his duties to not report Miss Caudle’s call. “I apologize for not being here. I believe I was taking my daily constitutional.”
“Yes, indeed. I was quite afraid that I had made the same mistake today. My timing is not the best.”
Lydia smiled, wondering if while Miss Caudle was interested in her library, she was not interested in forging a friendship. That would be a shame. “Are you chilled from the damp? I can have tea sent in.”
“That is kind of you, but I really can’t stay. I only stepped out for a moment. Papa is in full Easter passion—intense and focused—and in a bit of a dither. He seems to think today’s sermon was lacking and the one planned for Easter not quite adequate, although I think it rather fine. I noticed Hazlitt’s Sermons when I was here last, and I wondered if he might find inspiration within its pages, if you do not mind my borrowing yet another book?”
“Borrow away.” Lydia was somewhat startled when, upon receiving this permission, Miss Caudle immediately stood and headed to a bookcase on the far side of the room. Lydia opened her mouth to continue the conversation, but it would have required raising her voice. Something a lady would never consider. Well, she might consider but never actually do.
Instead, Lydia waited for her visitor to return to her seat and occupied herself by perusing the titles that Miss Caudle had taken away a couple of weeks earlier. While one looked to be an entertaining read, being the anecdotal tale of the author’s journey through Tuscany, the other, Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage, looked to be as dry as week-old toast.
“A fascinating read,” Miss Caudle said, unknowingly contradicting Lydia’s thoughts.
She sat once again, though on the edge of her seat, as if already in mind to leave. “I find it so comforting to know one’s roots, don’t you?”
Lydia frowned at the book in her hands. It was a list—a catalog, as it were—of the British peerage. The Whitfields would not be honored with a page. She laughed, noticed Miss Caudle’s dour expression, and turned it into a cough. “Yes, indeed,” she said eventually. “Our family would not be in the annals of Debrett’s, though we can trace our family history to the sixteenth—”
“We are,” Miss Caudle interrupted with a bright smile, seemingly unaware of her faux pas. She reached over and plucked the book from Lydia’s hands. Flipping it open and with a quick and practiced move, she found what she was looking for. She passed it back to Lydia, stabbing her finger against the page. “See!” There was no disguising her pride.
Lydia nodded as she read. “CAUDLE OF BENSLEY CASTLE. Earl of Bensley: Darren Caudle, born June 9, 1750; Issue Henry, born January 24, 1785; Malcolm, born October 15, 1788.” Lydia did her best to stifle a sigh. “Oh, most excellent. So you are of the Bensley Caudles … the Earl is your grandfather?”
Miss Caudle smiled indulgently. “No, indeed not. My father is the Earl of Bensley’s grandson; second son of a second son. The earl is my great-grandfather.”
“Well, isn’t that lovely for you,” Lydia said, knowing that she was meant to be impressed.
“Yes, it is very gratifying to see it written in black and white. It helps others understand your position in society, too … you know, to be recognized as a member of the upper peerage.”
Lydia bit her tongue, so as not to point out that Miss Caudle’s side of the family had not carried a title for three generations.… But that would have been unkind. It seemed to matter to poor Mavis.
“I was so desirous to show Lord Aldershot. He had been impressed enough to offer the Reverend a living. I wanted him to know that his trust had not been abused.”
“Ah,” said Lydia thoughtfully, remembering a discussion of the living some time ago. It was shared between the two estates and required a consensus. Lydia had left the decision of that appointment to her mother and Barley. “You wanted to borrow this book so that you could impress Lord Aldershot?”
“Yes, indeed.” And then Mavis blinked, swallowed, and smiled in a most unnatural manner. “You do not mind?”
Lydia returned her smile of a kind. “Of course not.” She waited for a knot to form in her belly … an angry tension to tighten her fists … hmm, perhaps a grumpy rejoinder to form in her mind. A vulgar expression to hover on her lips?
Nothing formed or hovered. She was not riled; she was not jealous. This pretty, young lady, likely her own age, was setting her cap at the man who was meant to be her husband, and yet Lydia felt nothing. Except, maybe, a flutter of something that almost felt like hope.
Glancing at the large, darkening portrait over the fireplace, Lydia scowled. What would her father think?
“Fortunate, indeed.”
Lydia looked back at Miss Caudle, aware that she had made a comment but not sure of its direction. “Fortunate?”
“Oh, y
es. For he … Lord Aldershot … is a most astute and personable gentleman. It must be gratifying to know that your futures are tied together. That security alone…” Her words petered off as she stared at Lydia’s frown, misinterpreting. “It is general knowledge, is it not? Lord Aldershot spoke of your upcoming announcement quite freely.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, he had planned an outing with our family a week or so ago. I believe we were going to visit a local mill, but he was forced to cancel and rush off to Bath. At your behest, I thought, to sign the contracts.”
Miss Caudle was certainly well informed. “Nothing is yet settled.”
“Oh, oh dear. I believe I have said more than I ought.”
“No, indeed. You simply wish to understand the dynamics of the great houses on which the Reverend relies for his living. I would wish the same in your position.” And then Lydia had an idea, a perfectly splendid idea. “There is no obligation on either side as yet—an expectation, it is true, but no more than that. Time will tell.”
Miss Caudle flushed, looked down at the carpet for a moment, and then lifted her eyes to meet Lydia’s once again. There was a cast of determination in her stare.
Lydia smiled—perhaps more broadly than was polite, but she was pleased—almost to the point of elation. Her father could hardly rise from the grave if Barley chose a different bride. And if dear Papa did object, he would have to go where the fault lay; he would have to haunt Wilder Hill.
Yes, a splendid idea.
Though she might need to offer the couple a generous bride gift to nudge Barley in the right direction.
* * *
The note, when it came, was deceptively demure: a white folded piece of paper, sealed with red wax without a crest or identification marker. It lay benignly on Shodster’s silver tray—presented to her with the rest of the post while Lydia sat at her desk in the morning room.
In fact, when Lydia first saw it, she put it aside. She pulled out the bills to be directed to Mrs. Buttle, the letter from Great-Aunt Charlotte for her mother, and the Lady’s Magazine for Elaine. It wasn’t that Lydia was not paying attention, nor was she being cavalier—for she had been expecting some sort of consequence for her curious adventure. Though, as each day had passed, she had thought it less likely.
