by Cindy Anstey
Smiling as she watched the social niceties being enacted on the other side of the glass, Lydia hoped that the pleasant ambience would work its magic on Cora. Three days prior, they had settled into their town house, a place of generous living spaces inside, though no garden to speak of. It was indistinguishable from the other tawny-colored buildings in the row, and yet there was comfort in that conformity. Fitting in without having to make any effort.
Planning to partake in the many upcoming events, Mama had already signed in with the Master of Ceremonies of both the Upper and Lower Rooms. Lydia was quite ready to venture out. In fact, she was greatly looking forward to the first planned excursion.
With a glance to the clock on the mantel, Lydia snorted a laugh. There was no one to hear such an unladylike sound, as Lydia was … well, early. Bonnet firmly affixed, coat buttoned, and gloves smoothed back from the tips of her fingers, she sat on the edge of her seat waiting. She could be waiting a good quarter hour, for the note had stated three o’clock and Robert could be relied on for his punctuality. He could be relied on for many, many things. Punctuality was merely one of them.
Turning her eyes back to the window, Lydia frowned, wondering if there was some sort of underlying purpose to his invitation. Robert had stated that he would enjoy escorting her and Cora around Harrison’s Walk—a popular promenade on the other side of the River Avon. It was the underscoring of Cora’s name that led Lydia to believe that Robert had an ulterior motive. It might be something as simple as following through on his advice to keep Cora busy … but she thought not.
“Sorry, I’m late.”
Lydia jumped at the sound of Cora’s voice and then greeted her friend with a smile.
“Mr. Newton will not be here for a few minutes. Sit, sit.” She waved toward a settee placed catercorner from the window while assessing Cora’s expression—grim—and her choice of ensemble—grimmer. Gray with an accent of black: neither did Cora’s complexion any favors. But it was not the outward expression of Cora’s grief that bothered Lydia the most; it was the lifeless look to Cora’s eyes and the passive line of her mouth. It hurt to see her friend in so much pain.
Lydia was about to blame the wonders of romance and eschew all such emotions … when she realized that she could no longer walk that path. What were her feelings toward Robert if not romantic? It was becoming more and more difficult to reconcile herself to the possibility of a life without that strange thing called love.
She turned back to the window.
Before Lydia could delve much further into the confusing workings of the human psyche, a figure appeared, strolling from the direction of the Pulteney Bridge. Lydia smiled and stared … and then frowned.
It would seem that Robert was not alone. Another gentleman walked at his side. While coloring and hairstyle were similar, the newcomer was taller and thinner, without the broad shoulders that Lydia so admired.
“Ah, there is Mr. Newton,” Cora said with a long-suffering sigh.
“Yes.” Lydia rose, even though Hugh had yet to open the front door. She was feeling rather twitchy—excited to see Robert, but afraid … very afraid … that he had overstepped. She sincerely hoped, prayed, begged the Fates that he had not brought this gentleman to meet Cora. It was too soon. Much too soon.
The murmur of voices in the grand entrance brought Lydia to a standstill. She took a deep breath, plastered a benign smile on her face, and prepared to be introduced.
It was quickly and smoothly done. Little fanfare and, fortunately, the stranger did not single Cora out for special attention. If he did bow a little lower than necessary and stare with deep consideration, it was in regard to Lydia, not Cora.
Lydia did her best not to show any undue interest in Mr. Cassidy, but it was difficult when she knew his circumstances. The way his gaze kept alternating between Robert and her made Lydia think that Cassidy might be aware of hers as well. The idea did not make her uncomfortable, quite the opposite. It was as if a sentinel had been added to their company.
* * *
“Harrison’s Walk has become the place to be seen in Bath,” Mr. Cassidy explained. “Newton wouldn’t know that, of course. He has had his head buried in his job for years.” He looked over his shoulder toward Lydia as they strolled across the shop-lined bridge. Mr. Cassidy had taken Cora’s arm and the lead.
Lydia and Robert followed a few paces behind, allowing an easy discourse between the two couples … not that either of the two groups were a couple.
“It is called devotion, Mr. Cassidy. The law requires such devotion.” Lydia squeezed Robert’s arm as a sign of solidarity.
“Yes.” Mr. Cassidy glanced at Robert yet again, grinned, and then faced forward.
Once past the last storefront of Pulteney Bridge, they turned to the left and headed down the hill toward the Bath Abbey church. The golden-colored Gothic tower rose above the green foliage of the park that ran alongside the river.
As they approached, it was soon apparent that Harrison’s Walk was, indeed, well peopled. A place to be seen or not, the cloudless sky and warm spring breeze were likely what had brought out the numbers more than those wanting to impress and be impressed. Still, there was no lacking in finery, and Lydia was glad to have worn her new cerulean spencer and matching gloves.
With top hats bobbing and parasols waving, Mr. Cassidy led their small party down to the water’s edge. Casual greetings from across the path, a shared guffaw or two, and Lydia found that she was quite in charity with Bath. She had always thought it to be a charming city, but she now had reason to feel comfortable with its populace. She might not have been accepted as readily, if at all, had the rumors of her curious adventure been bandied about. But that danger had passed, and she had no need to be concerned about her reception.
As she glanced about, Lydia became aware that she was under some scrutiny. Lifting her eyes to Robert’s, she raised her brows questioningly. “Is something amiss, Mr. Newton?” They were too close to others for her to be comfortable using his given name.
“Not at all, Miss Whitfield. I was just observing how flattering that color is on—”
“What-ho,” Mr. Cassidy interrupted, waving to a trio gathered next to a weeping willow. “Look, Newton. I told you as much. Come meet my new friends.” And then before Robert could even nod, the young man rushed across the grass.
Cora gasped.
Lydia dropped Robert’s arm and rushed to her friend’s side. “Cora. Cora dear, are you all right?”
“No, I’m feeling quite faint. I believe I want to go back to … back to Great Pulteney Street.” She was staring at the willow tree.
Puzzled by Cora’s heightened color, Lydia turned toward the group that Mr. Cassidy had joined. She knew them not. “I don’t understand?”
“Please, Miss Shipley.” Robert had joined her by Cora’s side. “Trust me on this. Don’t go.”
Blinking back tears, Cora turned to stare at Robert. “You knew?”
“Yes. Forgive my subterfuge. My purpose will come to light soon enough.”
“I can’t do this.”
“You don’t have to do anything, Miss Shipley, nothing at all. There. Look, they are coming to us; you do not even have to move.”
Lydia glanced over her shoulder to see that the group of two ladies and one gentleman were, indeed, approaching. And as they drew near, Lydia realized that she did know them after all. Suddenly she was filled with as much rage as Cora was filled with despair. “How could you?” she spat the question at Robert, shocked to the core by his betrayal.
There was no time for an explanation, and, frankly, Lydia did not know what Robert could have said to ease the situation. She had never been as hurt or as angry in her entire life.
* * *
Robert shifted so he was standing behind Miss Shipley, offering support by his presence, though not with his touch. He was afraid the poor girl might faint before the job was done. He could see by the expression on Lydia’s face that he might have played his cards
a little too close to the chest. He should probably have shared his plan with her.
Miss Shipley would never have agreed to this meeting had she been aware of it, but … well, yes, he could plainly see that he should have discussed it with Lydia. Too close to the chest and, perhaps, a little high-handed.
Cassidy walked across the grass, his new friends trailing slightly until, having gained their circle, Cassidy stepped out of the way to allow both parties a full and proper look at one another. Instantly, tension filled the air, swirling around them in great clouds.
“Newton, I would like to introduce you to Lorne Granger,” Cassidy began, pretending to be ignorant of the shared distress. “And his sister, Miss Gloria Granger. The lovely lady next to him is his fiancée, Miss Tatum Brownlow. Granger, I’d like you to meet my friend Robert Newton, Miss Lydia Whitfield, and Miss Cora Shipley.”
The silence was heavy and uncomfortable as some complexions became ashen while others were inflamed. It might have lasted only a moment or two, but it felt interminable.
“We are acquainted,” Lydia finally spoke, her voice surprisingly calm. “Old schoolmates.” She lifted her cheeks.
Miss Granger lifted her cheeks as well, opening her mouth to show her teeth. Not appealing in the least. “Yes—”
“Miss Shipley? Excuse me, is that correct?”
All eyes turned toward Mr. Granger. Not a tall man, he was still a half head above that of Miss Shipley. He was only a few years older than Robert, clean-shaven but for the sharply chiseled side-whiskers, and he carried himself with authority. Granger’s mode of dress labeled him a conservative, but his mouth looked ready to smile. Had Robert been pressed, he would have guessed that the man was usually a lighthearted fellow.
“Of course, Mr. Granger.” Cora’s voice shook ever so slightly. “We know each other well enough to not be mistaken in our identity.”
“Yes, too true. But forgive me … I”—he glanced at his sister—“I understood you to have married. I was told—perhaps I misunderstood. You are to be congratulated on your engagement?”
“No.” Cora lifted her chin, her eyes flickering to Miss Granger briefly. “I’m afraid that you were misinformed. I am neither married nor engaged to be married.” She breathed deeply through her nose. “But you are … engaged.”
“Yes.”
Robert had never heard a single word laden with more distress.
* * *
Lydia clenched her fists behind the folds of her dress. Her jaw was equally taut, and yet she had to pretend that nothing was amiss, pretend that she was not trapped in a spiderweb of black widows, bold and deadly. At school, Gloria and Tatum had been the ringleaders of all things nasty and cruel—shaming and coercion their specialty. Yes, web spinning at its finest.
This was not where Lydia wanted to be, not where Cora should be.
Robert had a lot of explaining to do.
“I am not surprised that you were confused, Mr. Granger,” Lydia said, tiptoeing around the explosive undercurrents. “You likely heard that Miss Shipley no longer resides in the family home at Fardover.”
Mr. Granger pulled his eyes from Cora and blinked at Lydia in a dazed, confused manner that spoke of a mind befuddled with thoughts—none pleasant, if his morose expression could be used as a guide.
“Miss Shipley has joined us at Roseberry Hall—become a member of our household.”
“As a governess.” Tatum snickered, then glanced at her fiancé and dropped her grin in a flash. She squinted her lovely blue, cruel eyes at her old schoolmate—casting the blame of her own faux pas on Lydia.
“You knew?” Mr. Granger asked, quietly, half turning in Tatum’s direction.
“Well, yes. I believe I heard the rumor somewhere. It was such a surprise; we all thought Cora would marry well and yet … fate was not kind.” The smarmy smile was back, but Mr. Granger did not witness it. He had returned his gaze to Cora.
“I am quite proud to be a governess,” Cora stated with a lot more strength in her voice than moments ago. “Ivy and Tessa are lovely, kind girls, who think of others. Not a vile bone in their bodies. I have not had to suffer bugs in my bed or soaked shoes. No mockery and, certainly, no pretenses of friendship where there are none.”
They were no longer talking about Ivy and Tessa.
Well aware of the sudden turn, Gloria sniffed in distaste. “I believe we should be on our way, Lorne. Tatum wishes to stop at the coffeehouse you so enjoyed the last time we took a promenade. Our own little Bath tradition.”
“Oh, that is such a shame,” Mr. Cassidy said, somehow oblivious to the tension. “I hope we are still going to meet at the Pump Room later to take in the waters.” He spoke to everyone, but his eyes were locked on Tatum Brownlow.
The flattered young lady blushed, glanced at the ground, and then looked up at him through her lashes. Lydia’s belly rolled in protest.
“Oh, indeed, Mr. Cassidy. That would be most enjoyable,” Gloria answered for the three of them. “And perhaps Mr. Newton would care to join us?”
It was extremely rude to make such a request while excluding Lydia and Cora. But the only appearances Gloria and Tatum ever worried about were those that looked back at them in the mirror.
“Thank you for your kind invitation. However, I must get back to work,” Robert replied.
Lydia smiled genuinely. She greatly appreciated the smooth, mellow sound of his refusal—even if she was furious with him.
“Work?” Both Gloria and Tatum reacted with horror.
“Indeed.” Mr. Cassidy nodded. “Newton here is a law apprentice.”
“You are in law? I thought…” Gloria glanced at Mr. Cassidy and then back to Robert. “I thought that you were the Earl of Wissett’s son.”
“Third son,” Robert explained.
“Oh.” Gloria sniffed again. She took a step back and flicked her fingers at Cassidy. “Are you a first son?”
Mr. Cassidy laughed as if the question were part of a jest, not an inquiry meant to assess his worthiness of their company. “Of course. I will be Lord Tremont one day. But not too soon, I hope. I quite enjoy flitting about, meeting interesting people.” Again, he smiled exclusively at Tatum.
Lydia’s appreciation of Mr. Cassidy was sinking by the minute. Gentlemen can be so easily swayed by a pair of fine eyes.
“I do not mind if you wish to accompany the Grangers now,” Robert encouraged. “I can see Miss Whitfield and Miss Shipley home.”
“Oh, excellent … I mean, are you certain?” Mr. Cassidy was stepping forward even as he asked.
“Yes, indeed.”
Lydia watched Mr. Cassidy; he hesitated before Tatum, as if he wished to offer her his arm. Then he looked at Gloria and lifted his elbow. And yet, as they strolled away, Mr. Cassidy continued to look over his shoulder and engage Tatum in conversation.
Lydia was unimpressed with Mr. Cassidy’s boorish behavior, which included deserting their company with barely a wave. While Robert’s earlier comment made it plain that he had instigated the encounter—likely to jolt a reaction from Mr. Granger—the whole mess was ill-considered. Distressing both Cora and Mr. Granger had been pointless and downright cruel. Mr. Granger could not, now that he knew Cora to be unfettered, back away from his engagement. Not only would his honor be ruined beyond repair, but he could also be sued for Breach of Promise.
No, Robert had put them all through this awkward ordeal with no gain possible. It was imprudent, foolhardy, and irresponsible. Try as she might, Lydia could not tamp down her burning anger. If he had spoken to her first, this whole scene might have been avoided.
It was almost a relief to focus her attention on Cora and getting her friend back to their town house. Had Lydia not been so distracted, she might have made any manner of waspish comments, might have given Robert a full dressing-down, and asked him to restrict any upcoming visits to number nineteen Great Pulteney Street for the time being. That, actually, would have been of benefit to their friendship. Time would allow her pique t
o blow itself out and give her some emotional distance.
While she knew that her sense of betrayal had been an overreaction, she was not above describing his actions as high-handed. They needed to have a talk, establish a few rules, such as: Thou shalt not bring about the distress of my best friend … without express permission.
“It is worse and worse again,” Cora lamented as soon as the door closed, leaving Robert out on the street to make his way back to work. Lydia led Cora to the small parlor, holding her arm as she did. The poor girl was shaking like a leaf.
“It was one thing to think that he did not care. That he had found someone else—that he was happy, even if I was miserable. But to learn … to know that he was tricked.” Cora stopped in the center of the room and placed her hand on Lydia’s arm. “Did you see his face?”
Lydia nodded. She didn’t want to comment; her friend’s control was on the edge, and anything might push her over.
Such as a silent nod.
Cora burst into loud, ragged sobs. Allowing her knees to collapse, she slumped onto the settee. Lydia dropped down beside her.
“I’m so sorry, Cora.” Lydia tut-tutted and rubbed her friend’s back. Had she believed in fairy tales, she would have told Cora that all would be well. True love would win out. But it seemed unlikely. Only Tatum Brownlow could break the engagement without any consequences. The nasty creature must have known that Mr. Granger had feelings for Cora, or the marriage lie would never have been invented. Tatum would not set the man free because of something as trivial as being in love with someone else. No, Tatum Brownlow was the type of young woman who would see to her own needs first and foremost. She always had.
* * *
Two days later, while sitting across from her mama in the white-and-beige drawing room overlooking the tiny back garden, Lydia had cause to regret the hasty note she had penned to Robert the evening of the fiasco. She was greatly disappointed. She had asked him to give Cora and her a little time to regain their equilibrium, and he was doing just that. What was wrong with him?
