With This Ring (18 page)

“
I know because I was there, my
lord. On a wager, your son and another were sent by a weak mind
named Allsuch to see if they had the stomach to watch men die, and
then to return with … with souvenirs!”

She spit out the last word like a
bad taste. The hall was deadly quiet now, except for Kitty’s sobs,
and Mama’s hisses for her to sit down. Papa seemed to have
vanished. Some force within her kept her going. “Unlike you, sir, I
can only sorrow at the great hypocrisy among us. We send men to war
to fight and die for us. If they are not of our class, we ignore
them, give them only the poorest places to lick their wounds, then
send them back into the ranks only half well, if that.”

The tall man next to Lord Walsingham
rose to his feet and began to applaud her. She thought he was
mocking at first, and she stopped in confusion; then she noticed
the deadly serious expression on his face. She clutched the table
to stay on her feet, for Mama was pulling at her dress
now.

“
Where are the hospitals for these
men? Must they suffer in ruined churches with bad drains and more
mice than sound masonry? My lord, I know that you care, but I am
sickened by the hypocrisy in the rest of us assembled, who make
sport of good men.”

Others were on their feet now,
applauding her. She could see General Picton rise, and other men
whose faces were familiar to her from depictions in store windows
and on victory arches over London’s major streets.

“
It is time to ask questions in
Parliament, my lord, about this neglect of those less gentled by
birth than we are, but who fight our battles,” she declared in
ringing tones. “And then we should question those among us, who
look upon the wounded as playful objects to while away the
breathless tedium of boring, useless lives!”

She paused, struck finally by the
effrontery of her action. Her anger had cooled itself into a little
banked fire, and with the sickest of feelings, she knew she had
just completed her family’s ruin in London Society, even as
England’s greatest heroes applauded her. She sat down with a
thump.

“
Have you lost your mind
completely?” Mama hissed at her. Mama’s face was a sickly green
color, and Kitty had withdrawn into that curious blank state
preceding monumental hysteria.

“
Mama, it is only the truth,” Lydia
said, when her lips would move again.

“
I wash my hands of you!” Mama
exclaimed, then turned to Kitty.

The applause continued, relentless,
unimportant now in the reality of what she had done to her family.
Without a word to her parents, she leaped up and fled the banquet
hall, pursued by the approbation of the Peninsular veterans, but
deeply aware of her own downfall. Mama would rather that we were
hypocrites, she thought as she walked swiftly from the banquet
hall, unmindful of the rain and its ruin of her dear dress. She
shook her reticule for coins, then hailed a hackney, which took her
swiftly home.

Stanton was astonished to see her:
wet, fearful, and wide-eyed with disbelief at herself. “I do not
know anyone more meek than myself,” she told him later, when
wrapped in a blanket and warming herself with mulled wine and
sympathy in the servants hall. “I said all those things, Stanton!
Mama is furious. I doubt she will let me stay here.”

The servants exchanged looks; there
was nothing they could say, which only increased her terror. It was
true.

She was in her room, huddled into a
ball in her chair by the fire, when the rest of them returned.
Kitty was shrieking. In sick horror at what she had done, Lydia
heard the front door slam again, and a few moments later, heavy
steps on the stair. The doctor was here now. In a few more minutes,
the shrieks ended. She closed her eyes, praying that her door was
locked, as she heard her mother’s footsteps.

“
I will see you in the morning,” was
all she said outside her door.

“
Yes, Mama.” Lydia was on her feet
now. I wonder how many things I can stuff into a bandbox, she
thought as she went calmly to her chest of drawers. And more to the
point, I wonder where on earth I will go in the morning?

L
ydia did
not sleep all night, but packed and repacked a bandbox until she
had a petticoat, second dress, chemise, stockings, and shoes folded
within. She would have liked to add a nightgown, but she thought a
shawl more useful. Thank God it is high summer, she told herself. I
will not be cold until fall, and who knows where I will be
then?

She devoted that darkest part of the
night between midnight and three o’clock to an appraisal of her
abilities, and where they would get her. The result of her personal
inventory of marketable skills only made her queasy. Perhaps things
will appear more sanguine when the sun rises, she thought,
remembering a moment at St. Barnabas when one of the surgeons took
a moment to sit down and drink tea. He had told her that dying
people seemed to fade fastest after midnight and before dawn.
“Experience tells me it is a most hopeless time, Miss Perkins,” he
had remarked.

“
You are right, sir,” she said out
loud around three o’clock. “I can knot a fringe, barber and cut
hair, sketch a little, dance a little, play the pianoforte a
little, sing a little.” She sighed. “I know nothing about
cooking—although I would be a willing student—and less about
running a house. I do not flinch at open wounds, or removing
maggots from high flesh.” She rose and forced herself on another
weary turn about the room. “Altogether it is an eccentric list of
talents that will get me nowhere.”

She almost dozed off at
three-thirty, but a maggot of her own advised her to check her
finances. In a moment she was on her knees by her trunk in the
dressing room. Papa had given her five pounds before they left
Devon, and three pounds were still there. “Thank goodness for
that,” she said, turning her face for comfort into the fabric of
her favorite dress folded over the trunk. She shook her reticule
again, and it was lighter, thanks to her hackney ride from the
banquet hall to Holly Street. I will resolve to walk more, she
thought, then shuddered, even though the room was warm. It is not a
matter of resolution but necessity. Worn out with worry, she went
to sleep as the sun was rising, only to dream of Private Charlie
Banks dying over and over again, with those fops simpering and
jumping up and down behind her, trying to see him. They would not
leave, no matter how she pushed against them, and then Kitty was
screaming and would not stop.

She woke up in a panic, her breath
coming in short gasps that made her dizzy. She lay in her own
sweat, her nightgown twisted around her like a wound-up top. With
more dread in her heart than she could remember from other
encounters with Mama, she listened for Kitty.

The house was completely silent,
almost as though all of its inmates were holding their breath. She
listened for the usual homely sounds of servants pattering to and
from rooms with hot water, or tea. There was nothing. They have all
gone to Devon and left me here, she thought, but knew that could
never be. Mama would never miss an opportunity for a good scold. If
only she will confine herself to a scold, Lydia thought with a
shiver.

She got out of bed and went to the
window, half expecting to see that she had imagined daylight and it
was still night. She blinked at the bright sunlight. Well, so much
for my theory that I have dreamed this whole wretched business, she
thought.

As she watched the street below, the
postman stopped his cart in front of their house, rummaged around,
and produced a collection of letters so large that it required an
extra turn of the twine to contain them. Lydia sighed with relief.
“There you are, Kitty,” she murmured against the window glass.
“More invitations.”

It was a large collection, and then
she remembered the invitations to their own rout that she and Mama
and Kitty had labored over last week. There is nothing like a
little notoriety to increase the RSVPs beyond one’s wildest
expectations, she thought. I wonder if we should increase our
champagne order, as well. After Mama scolds me, I shall suggest
that to her.

She dressed quickly, then tiptoed
next door to Kitty’s room, and let herself in quietly. The room was
dark, but she could make out Kitty sleeping soundly. Lydia frowned,
recognizing the slowness of her breathing as the pattern that
always followed doctor visits. Kitty, I wish you did not require
sedation after trying moments, she told herself. Perhaps in this
pile of mail, there will be new inanities to attract your
notice.

Satisfied that Kitty was sleeping
peacefully, Lydia returned to her room to find Stanton waiting for
her. Oh, dear, she thought, here comes Mama’s scolding. If I am
summoned to the blue salon instead of the sitting room, I know I am
in for heavy sailing.

“
Madam wants to see you immediately
in the book room,” he said.

“
That is a new place for a scold,”
she said. “Wish me well, Stanton.”

He did not smile. She had never seen
him so serious, even allowing for his usual butler’s demeanor.
“Miss Perkins, it may be beyond that,” he said finally as he held
the door for her and followed her out.

She sighed with resignation. So it
has finally come to that, she told herself. For my sins of
Christian charity and righteous indignation, Mama is sending me
back to Devon. After a moment’s reflection, she could not say that
the feeling stung her. This might be my opportunity to visit with
the vicar’s wife and carve out some role for myself in the parish.
I will probably even be meek and biddable again by the time the
rest of them return.

She knocked on the door. There was
no answer. She knocked again, then pressed her ear against the
panel to listen for a response. “Oh, dear,” she whispered, and
listened again at something unheard of: Mama was crying, but not
the gentle tears one would expect from a grown woman. Not that Mama
ever cried, Lydia reasoned. She had nothing to cry about. These
were the noisy tears of a thwarted child. Lydia knocked again, less
confident this time. Again there was no answer, but she squared her
shoulders and entered the room anyway.

Mama sat at the desk, sorting
through the invitations, tears streaming down her face. She ignored
Lydia for the longest time, then blew her nose and wiped her eyes.
Still she said nothing. Mama’s tears had been replaced by an
expression so cold that Lydia felt her blood run in chunks. As she
watched, Mama gathered up the letters. She held them close to her
breast for a moment, then stood up and threw them at
Lydia.

“
There is the result of your night’s
work, Lydia Perkins,” Mama said. She turned her back to Lydia and
went to the window.

Startled, Lydia picked up a handful
of letters. “Oh, Mama, I certainly can’t take credit for all these
invitations,” she said. “I just knew that people of sense and
reason would rally to us.”

Mama turned around to stare at her.
Before Lydia even had time to take a deep breath, Mama strode
across the room and slapped her. “These are all regrets, daughter!
Every single one of them!”

Lydia gasped. She took her hand away
from her burning cheek and opened one of the letters that she held.
She read it quickly as her insides began to chum. The handwriting
was beautiful, well-bred, and the note was written on the best
paper. Her eyes were watering from the force of Mama’s blow, but
still the phrases, “… want nothing to do with your family,”
and “We withdraw our invitation to you for Tuesday next,” leaped
out at her like imps. Her hands shaking now, she opened another
letter. “… sever all acquaintance …” she whispered as she
grabbed up another letter. “… worse than barbaric
conduct …” And another. “… what can one
expect ….”

She knew her face had drained of all
color because she felt suddenly light-headed. Lydia sank into a
chair by the door, still clutching the letters. “Mama, these people
have no feelings, no sense of honor! Surely you cannot want Kitty
to ….”

Mama was directly in front of her
now, her hands like iron bars on Lydia’s legs. “It is precisely
these people of money and titles that I sought for Kitty!” She
looked away, almost overcome with her anger.
“Poor
Kitty, I
should call her now. You have ruined her chances! I wonder that we
will not even be laughed out of Devon, and what could be less
inconsequential than
Devon!”
She was shouting now, so loud
that Lydia’s ears began to hurt. “How could you stand there and
wound those young men! Kitty all but had Lord Allsuch in her
pocket! Sixty thousand a year and a marquis! Lydia, have you no
sense at all?”

To Lydia’s indescribable relief,
Mama flung herself away, retreating to the far corner of the room
as though she could not abide her presence.

“
Mama, I am ….”

“
Sorry?” Mama sneered.

“
Well, no, actually,” Lydia said,
stopping herself too late. “That is, I mean ….”

She flinched and raised her hands to
protect her face when Mama came toward her again, but her mother
barely glanced at her. She went to the door instead, clutching the
knob until it looked as if the bones of her hands would break
through.