“Barley, you do realize that I’m not ever going to be a mouse sitting in the background, nodding in agreement whenever you bother to glance in my direction?” Lydia stared intently and directly at Lord Aldershot. If Barley did not understand who she was, then she foresaw a heavy slog while they found their footing in the quagmire of married life. She would do it, and eventually she would bring Barley around to her point of view, but the prospect of starting their life together with such misguided expectations … well, it made her tired. She suddenly felt old, as if she were nearing five and twenty instead of eighteen.
Lord Aldershot sighed deeply as if he, too, felt older than his years, and then he grinned. “Of course, you silly goose. I know you.” His eyes left Lydia’s and settled on Mr. Newton, who had leaned forward. “When she was ten, I found her trying to climb a tree—in skirts, no less. Did she ask for help down? No, she insisted that I help her get higher to replace the nest that had fallen to the ground.”
“Four little chicks were desperate for their mother,” Lydia explained. “There was no need for them to die simply because the Whitfields couldn’t produce a son to climb the tree in propriety.”
Barley laughed, as she knew he would, but Mr. Newton’s brow furrowed for a fleeting second.
“Do you regret being born a girl, Miss Whitfield?”
Lydia almost snorted in agreement, but she saw that it was a serious question. No one had ever asked her that before, not even her father when he made her the son he never had.
And as she deliberated, Lydia found that she couldn’t look away. She was locked in Mr. Newton’s gaze. It was a most unusual prison; she was quite happy to be there. Her heart started to beat faster, and her breathing became shallow. A sense of exhilaration flooded her mind and … well, something that could only be described as excitement raced from her toes to her head and back again. She felt as if she could fly, and yet all she wanted to do was stay right where she was, forever.
“I should say not.” Barley was still chuckling, unaware of Lydia’s stupor—for which she was heartily glad.
Giving herself a shake, Lydia hoped that Mr. Newton was as obtuse as her to-be husband. She shrugged with a pretext of nonchalance and saw no change to Mr. Newton’s expression. Luckily, her solicitor-in-waiting seemed unaware.… Not that he was her solicitor-in-waiting; it was just a figure of speech. Just as anyone would say their butler, or her sister.… Not as if it were a possessive sort of relationship. Not that there was any relationship—
“Lydia?”
Lydia started; fortunately her eyes had wandered over to the window while her thoughts had been tripping over themselves, and so she had not been caught staring. “Yes? Oh, my apologies. I was woolgathering.”
“Now, that should settle it.”
“Pardon? Settle what?”
There was a pause, a frown, and then a very confused expression stole over Barley’s face. Lydia tipped her head, trying to fathom out the misunderstanding. Silence reigned for some moments until there was a loud clearing of a throat from the other side of the desk. They both turned toward Mr. Newton.
“The added clauses have been duly noted. I will discuss them with Mr. Lynch, but I would not expect there to be any changes. So, as Mr. Lynch does not like to venture out of Bath anymore, I’m afraid you will need to come into the city to sign the papers. Might I suggest you allow two weeks for preparations? Would Thursday, March twenty-seventh, suit everyone? Say at one? Precisely?”
The modulation of his last word seemed to hint at some sort of humor. Was it a joke? It must have been a private one, for Barley’s perplexed expression had not changed one iota. Best to ignore such things. “Yes, that will work for me. I have to make some final arrangements regarding my birthday ball—” She opened her mouth to explain about the musicians that had to be hired and the flowers that had to be chosen; but when she saw that neither of the men looked in the least curious, she left the explanation on the tip of her tongue.
“Me as well. That should be fine.” Barley shifted in his chair as if he were about to rise. “Unless. That isn’t Holy Week, is it?”
Lydia blinked, amazed at Barley’s question—not that he didn’t know Easter’s date, but that he should care. “No, that is the following week.”
“Oh, good.” He nodded. “I have promised the rector to take part in the Maundy Thursday service.”
“Have you? That is a surprise.” Lydia thought Barley might be having her on but chose to react as if he was in earnest.
“Really? How so?”
“I didn’t know you to be a religious man.”
“I will admit that it is a recent inclination, but I find the Reverend Caudle inspiring and his thoughts uplifting.”
Reverend Caudle and his family were a fairly new addition to Spelding, having only taken up the living four or so months ago. Lydia found his sermons overly long, particularly as he had a tendency to mumble, and his conversation dull. “Really. I must have missed something. I will have to listen more intently next Sunday.”
“Yes. That you must.” There was no disapproval in his words, as they were spoken with an air of distraction and followed with a smile. “Will you invite him to your ball?”
“Oh, yes, of course. He and Mrs. Caudle. I’ll also include his son and daughter—I believe she is out.” Lydia had not had much opportunity to speak to Mavis Caudle as she was usually tucked in behind her mother.
“I believe so. Yes, I think the Reverend said Miss Caudle came out last summer.”
“Excellent. Then the entire family will be added to the invitation.”
“Are they going out soon?”
“The invitations? Yes, I was hoping for them to go out next week, but Mama has decided to help. So I believe it will be closer to a fortnight now.”
“Do I have your permission to mention it? Mrs. Caudle has heard the talk, of course, and despaired over the possibility of not being included.”
“Oh dear, we can’t have that. I will say something next Sunday. That should put her mind at ease.”
“No, no, I’ll do it. I’m on my way to the rectory now.”
“Are you?” Lydia sat back in her chair to look at Barley from a different angle. It didn’t make any actual difference, but, still, she concluded he was not jesting; he really was quite in earnest.
“Yes, the Reverend expressed an interest in my almanac of Somerset fishing rivers. I’m dropping it by. He is particularly fond of trout.”
“Is he?” Lydia glanced at Mr. Newton’s bland expression and then back to the animated one of her betrothed … soon-to-be betrothed. “Then, by all means, mention away.”
“Excellent. I will do just that.”
Lydia smiled wanly and wondered if a visit to one of those rivers was in her future. She certainly hoped not.
*
“You should have devised something, Lydia. Was it too much to ask?” There was hostility and resentment in her aunt’s tone; she sounded so much like Mama.
“No, Aunt Freya, not too much to ask. However, you did not mention your desire for Mr. Newton’s continued presence until this very moment. He has already been gone an hour. I can hardly race down the road after him.”
Aunt Freya grimaced. “Elaine will be so disappointed. Can you call him back? Invent some sort of need for legal advice—a boundary dispute or a troublesome tenant. Something of that nature.”