“Oh, that is marvelous. Let me check. I will just skip to the other side of the road.” And so saying, Lydia did just that. “Robert, come look.”
Puzzled, Robert vaulted over the wall and met her on the far side. As he approached, he could see that she was pointing—gesturing—at some object. Upon closer inspection, he found it to be a mileage marker. Bath was still about six miles distant. It was rather disheartening to his tired, aching muscles.
“Isn’t that marvelous.” Lydia almost sounded giddy.
“No, actually. I was thinking the opposite. I thought we were a lot closer to Bath than that.”
“Not Bath, Robert. Look at the name on the bottom, pointing at the road running alongside the graveyard. I know where we are. Pepney is only two miles in that direction.”
Shaking his head, Robert allowed for Lydia’s confusion, likely caused by her distress. “But we are not for Pepney; we are for Bath.”
“Shelley lives in Pepney at Villers Manor. My good friend Shelley Dunbar-Ross and her new husband, Edward. She will take us in.… And Robert, she will help us devise a story. I know she will.”
“A story?”
“Yes, something to explain where I have been all day.”
“And all night.”
“Exactly. Oh come, Robert…” Taking his hand, Lydia started across the road, and then she stopped to stare, as if surprised, at the sight of their clasped hands. Lifting her eyes to his, she frowned. A mixture of emotions crossed her face, though none that Robert could identify. He hoped his own sentiments were as enigmatic, for he would not want Lydia to know of his sudden desire to bring their lips together. He swallowed with great difficulty and tried not to lean forward.
After an eon of seconds, she smiled. Better still, she did not relinquish her hold but tugged him off the Bath main road toward some place called Pepney. He grabbed Fanny’s reins as they passed or the mare might have been left behind.
*
Lydia’s enthusiasm took her a full minute down the road before recalling the purpose of Fanny. With a laugh, bordering on a giggle, Lydia allowed Robert to help her back up onto the horse’s back, where he joined her again. Their proximity was becoming quite natural and—dare she say it—inciting, likely something to do with the firm establishment of their … friendship. Yes, the familiarity of friendship.
For some reason, thinking about the change in their relationship made Lydia aware of her appearance. Covered in scratches and dirt, with more hair drifting about her shoulders than in her chignon, no bonnet, and no gloves, she must have looked a veritable hoyden. And yet knowing this did not embarrass Lydia; she knew it didn’t matter in the least to Robert.
Male friendship was a splendid and comforting institution—strange that she had had to discover it on her own. One would think that such a boon would be mentioned somewhere along the way.… But no, avoidance was more the order of the day. Such a waste. Protecting one’s reputation came at a heavy cost.
The ride to Villers Manor was more of a plod than a walk or trot—poor Fanny was feeling the rigors of the day, too. That, coupled with the fact that the moon had decided to play peekaboo behind a collection of clouds, and there were reasons aplenty for the longer-than-expected slog. It made for a slow pace, and Lydia was in danger of nodding off; she did not relish the idea of falling again.
“I have come to a conclusion.” Lydia tried to stifle a yawn.
“Have you, indeed?”
“Yes. I have decided that I do not like adventures or surprises. Highly overrated.”
Robert’s soft chuckle drifted through the dark.
“More of a misadventure, my dear Lydia, and certainly not a surprise, which are generally thought of as pleasant things. No, best label today a shocking misadventure and not rule out surprises altogether.”
“My father thought them overrated, too.”
“What? Surprises? No, no. Surprises are unexpected guests, a beautiful flower among the rocks, or a woodland trail that opens up to an astonishing vista.”
“Lovely when you put it that way, but there are some surprises that are not pleasant in the least.” Lydia’s thoughts remained fixed on her father. “Hence my lack of appreciation.”
“Such as?”
“Losing a loved one too soon.”
Her words were met with silence, and Lydia regretted leading their conversation into such deep waters. They were too weary, too overwrought. The nerves too close to the surface for any subject this weighty. “That was thoughtless of me,” she whispered, as much to herself as to Robert.
When he spoke, it was clear where her words had taken him—what memories they had dredged up. “I miss him, terribly, you know … my brother. And yet, I’m angry, too. I don’t understand it really. He is gone. Why am I angry with him? It is unreasonable.”
“And normal. My father was not the instrument of his own demise, and yet I blamed him for leaving me for years. It must be harder when you know that, had your brother made other choices, he might still be alive.”
“True enough. Lloyd did not have to accept the challenge. Even I know dueling is an exercise in stupidity—my oldest brother should have known it was dangerous and reckless.”
“Pride can lead many of us astray. Such as wearing an orange waistcoat.”
As expected, Robert chuckled, but it was halfhearted and did not distract him from the topic of death and duels. “And now, Cassidy has been challenged. I can hardly believe it.”
Lydia did not know a Cassidy, and she was uncertain about asking to whom Robert was referring. But a query was not required, for as she considered, Robert continued.
“My good friend, Vincent Cassidy, with his devil-may-care attitude, has now put himself in harm’s way.” His voice oscillated in such a manner that Lydia was fairly certain that Robert was shaking his head. “He cuts up a lark with the best of them and is often too far in his cups. I suppose it was inevitable that he would cause insult at some point … but not inevitable that the insult would lead to a challenge.”
“Oh dear. He has been offered a duel?”
“Yes, indeed. And here’s the kicker: He knows not by whom or why.”
“Really?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“But, Robert, is that not a good happenstance? There is no commitment to an unknown person; the insult must be forgiven.”
“Apparently not. I thought the same, but Cassidy feels he must act honorably—show up at the appointed hour. And he will, unless I can discover the offense and smooth over the whole.”
“Perhaps he is confident to win?”
“I would think not. His swordplay is no better than mine—which is dismal at best. And as to pistols—let me just say we used to practice together, and we were adept at hitting the broad side of a barn, but nothing else. No, it is his ridiculous sense of duty.”
“Oh, Robert, that does not sound good.”