The Golden Season (33 page)

“It is not only what you drink but with whom you drink it, not only how you travel but where you travel to, not only that you can afford to purchase a rare Rubens, but that you are given access to acquire it. Few people understand the world you were born into, Lydia. Fewer still understand what that does to a person.”

“And what exactly is that, Eleanor?” Lydia replied.

“It permeates every aspect of your character. It informs all your actions and choices, with whom you associate, what you do, how you dress, speak, think. It makes you who you are. And without it, you cease to be.” She settled back, confident. “
That
is the point. And that is why you must accept Childe’s proposal when he offers.”

“He already has,” Lydia said in a low voice. “He left just before you arrived.”

Eleanor’s deep-set eyes widened with gratification. “Excellent! Than what are we talking about? Of course, it is regrettable the formalities must be done in so havey-cavey a fashion, but we shall contrive to put a good face on it. I will host a reception so grand no one will recall the brevity of your courtship—”

“I haven’t accepted him yet.”

“What?” Eleanor’s brows fell up in twin arcs of astonishment. “Lydia, I understand wanting one’s value to be appreciated by not being too eager, but I have word from reliable sources that the grandfather is a half step from death’s door. This is no time to play coy.”

If only she was. She could not lie to Eleanor. “I am not sure I will say yes.”

“Why not?” Eleanor demanded, astonished.

“Mr. Smyth does not love me.”

“All the better,” Eleanor said, openly exasperated. “He won’t interfere with you, then. As long as you behave with discretion.”

“Unlike Sarah,” Lydia could not refrain from saying.

“Yes. Unlike Sarah.”

Nothing Eleanor had said struck her as being spurious. Wealth and privilege
had
been her bread and butter, everything she’d known
had
been within the boundaries of the
haute monde
; it
had
defined her.

For a second, Eleanor’s eyes hardened with a coldness in their hooded depths Lydia had rarely seen. Then it vanished and Eleanor leaned forward, covering both her clasped hands under hers. “You must accept him. I understand your concerns. You have lived your adult life thus far without answering to any one person and it has spoiled you. Yes, Lydia. You are spoiled. But there is no reason to expect your life shall greatly change as Smyth’s wife. Perhaps you’ll be required to produce an heir, but even that is unwritten. I, as you well know, did not. You will marry and carry on exactly as you do now. Very little, certainly nothing of substance, will change. Nothing needs to change.”

No, Lydia thought.
No
. For the first time during this interview, Eleanor’s words struck Lydia as not only untrue but patently
wrong
. Things always changed. Parents died, babies never drew their first breath, husbands abandoned their wives in insane asylums, friends ruined themselves for love, and Ned would marry someone else.

“You will live exactly as you have always lived,” Eleanor was saying.

Why, when just a few months ago that had been the only thing that mattered, did that now seem a sentence rather than a reprieve?

“Childe Smyth will make you a fine husband. You suit each other.” Eleanor’s voice was growing more insistent, a thread of desperation in it.

She was afraid, Lydia realized, desperately afraid that Lydia would turn him down.

“Don’t be stupid, Lydia. Don’t turn your back on who and what you are, on everything and everyone you know. Don’t turn your back on
me
.”

“I never would,” Lydia protested.

“You will if you don’t marry Childe Smyth!” Eleanor burst out and then, with a visible effort, rose, pacing to the window to collect herself.

There came a knock on the door to which Lydia bade enter. The maid slipped in carrying a box wrapped with string. “Beggin’ your pardon, milady, but this come to the door and the chap what brings it says as he was told not to leave until he knows for a fact that it were delivered into your hands.”

Lydia nodded tiredly and held out her hands for the package. “Give him a shilling and thank him.”

Eleanor turned, looking over the package. “From Smyth?”

“I don’t know. There’s no card.” Lydia untied the box and lifted the lid to find a thick nest of tissue paper within. She peeled back the top layer and her heart leaped in her throat. Lying there was a gold lamé glove. Hers.

He knew who I was
.

She stared, her thoughts wheeling madly until she realized that it lay atop something more. She picked up the glove, barely aware of Eleanor watching with narrowed eyes.

Underneath was a stunning royal blue and white bowl, the surface crackled with antiquity. The Kangxi bowl she found at Roubalais’s shop. He must have recognized her then, too.

Dear heavens.

She swallowed hard, lifting the beautiful thing from its wrapping. A folded piece of paper fell from the tissue. She picked it up, opening it. The thin paper shivered in her hand. There was no salutation.

Eleanor was speaking, but Lydia did not hear what she said. Her eyes were following the bold script, reading.

“Lydia? Lydia, whatever does that letter say?” Eleanor asked, coming over to her. “It is from him, isn’t it? Lockton.” She spat his name, looking down at where Lydia sat, her head bowed in concentration.

“I can guess what this is. Some romantic drivel. Lockton has filled your head with starry-eyed notions, but the facts of the matter are simple ones: He deceived you, abused your trust, and inveigled himself in your . . . good graces and now you are pining for him.”

Did Eleanor really not see the hypocrisy of this condemnation? “And what of my behavior toward him, Eleanor?”

“Ach!” Eleanor looked away for a moment as though she could not bear looking at Lydia.

“He cares for me, Eleanor.”

“He’s a blackguard with the audacity to hound you even though neither of your circumstances are such that you can consider marriage to each other. I don’t understand . . . Wait! I do!” she announced, eyes flashing. “You do know what this is? He is setting the groundwork for a future dalliance. Perhaps he has more sense than I credit him with after all.”

Lydia’s brow creased. “Dalliance?”

“Yes. After you are wed and a decent interval has passed, he hopes to renew your romantic relationship.”

No. No. She shook her head. “Not Ned.” He was too decent, too honorable. Such Machiavellian intrigues would be as repulsive to him as they were to her. She was not Eleanor or Sarah or Emily. She had seen in her parents’ marriage what loyalty and devotion and integrity could make. How ironic when theirs had been a “scandalous marriage.”

“You are wrong, Eleanor.”

Once again her friend, her very best friend, made a sharp gesture of disgust. “Enough of Ned Lockton. He is a footnote in this affair. You must focus on Childe Smyth.”

“No.”

“Damn it, Lydia!” Eleanor exploded. “You are not thinking objectively. Stop acting like a child. It may be that Childe Smyth does not make you happy, but he will not make you
un
happy.
He will not break your heart
. Is that clear enough?” she asked, breathing hard. “He understands your world, its customs and conventions. He understands you.
He knows you
.”

The anger drained from Lydia, leaving only emptiness. She did not want to fight with Eleanor. She supposed she was acting like a child, refusing to accept the inevitable, unappreciative of anything less than her heart’s desire. And Childe did know her. At least, he knew who she appeared to be. And really, was there anything more than that?

Yes. There was. Ned had shown her glimpses of that person. Lydia recalled telling him last night that he did not know her and so could not judge what she wanted and did not want. But both the glove and the bowl put a lie to that accusation. He knew her. Because he loved her.

Ned loved her.

There was, after all, little more to be said.

“Lydia, what is it?” Eleanor demanded. “You look strange. Why are you standing up? Where are you going?”

“I . . .” She shook her head. She barely remembered why she stood, why Eleanor had come, why
she
was still here.

Ned loved her
.

She swung around, starting for the door.

“I must beg you to pardon me,” she said, and without turning around left Eleanor behind.

 

Lydia, eyes shining and breathless, swept unseeingly past Emily, who stood in the hall outside the drawing room.

She’d heard the last part of Lydia’s conversation with Eleanor. She moved slowly. Truth be told, sometimes more slowly then necessary to hear bits of this and that. Especially when she thought she might hear things that affected her. Lydia had never fully understood just how much of a survivalist she was.

“Patent insanity!” she heard Eleanor exclaim as she entered the drawing room.

“Ah, a term I’ve heard before,” Emily said, closing the door.

A little color scored Eleanor’s high cheeks. “I was not referring to you, Emily.”

“I know,” Emily said, taking a seat, something she would never have done had anyone else been there to see, or had Eleanor cared—which Emily knew she did not. As long as no one saw. Just as Lydia did not suspect how much of a survivalist Emily was, she also did not recognize how much of a snob Eleanor was. Not that either of them were bad people; they simply weren’t as good as Lydia.

She would like to think it was because they had been tested more severely, but she knew this would be an excuse. Lydia, too, had been tested by adversity. Certainly not physical adversity, but as Emily full well knew, there were other sorts of pain. A loving heart can wither in a barren Wilshire house.

She waited now for Eleanor to say something. A companion did not seat herself before a duchess and Emily knew her place very well and she liked it very,
very
well. That was in fact the challenge: pitting what she wanted against what Lydia deserved. “Please, sit down, Eleanor.”

Eleanor hesitated a moment, her gaze flickering to the doorway and back to Emily, sitting composedly awaiting her. With scant graciousness she sat back down, her back stiff.

“There are far worse places than Brislington Asylum,” Emily said in a conversational tone. “The inmates there are never exhibited for public amusement or horror. They are kept to a strict regimen of exercise, meals, rest, and occupation. They are clean and well fed. And yet I was miserable there.”

“Of course.” Eleanor sniffed. “You did not belong there.”

Emily brightened. “Exactly. I did not belong there. Although some might say differently. Lady Pickler, for example, is certain Lydia made a mistake in arranging my release. And she is not the only one.”

Eleanor opened her thin lips to make some disparaging remark, but Emily spoke first.

“I understand the concern. I can even empathize to some degree. I do have difficulties controlling my unacceptable impulses.” She leaned forward, wincing a little.

“There is a bar of soap with a ducal seal impressed on it in my room even as we speak.”

Eleanor, well used to missing little things after Emily’s visits, did not even blink. “Yes, I recall giving you that gift.”

Emily laughed. “You are really kind, Eleanor, and generous.” Her laughter faded, and her smile became gently sympathetic. “I would beg you to remember that now, in regards to Lydia, and be as generous to her as she has been to me.”

Eleanor’s eyes shuttered. “I want only what is best for Lydia.”

“You want what is best for you,” Emily corrected gently. “I understand that, too. So do I. It’s only natural. But we must overcome such selfishness, Eleanor. Lydia does not belong with us any more than I belonged at Brislington.”

Eleanor started to protest, but Emily stopped her. “Captain Lockton is offering her a chance for a sort of happiness you and I and Sarah were not fated to know.”

“He is offering to take her away from her friends and the Society she was born into!” Eleanor snapped back.

But Emily had already spent many hours fighting this same battle within herself, self- interest against generosity, excuses against uncertainty. She knew all of Eleanor’s arguments. And the answers.

“A life very similar, in fact, to the one that her parents chose. I did not have the pleasure of knowing them, but I do know their daughter, her character, and her loving nature, and I can only conclude that theirs was an exceptionally successful and happy union. One that neither regretted. I would hope the same for Lydia and her captain.”