“I might be.” Lydia was uncomfortable with such a personal question issued from the lips of a stranger, no matter how handsome and gallant. It just wasn’t done.
“Excellent, most excellent.” The gentleman nodded, seemingly unaware of her sudden uneasiness. “I had hoped for a proper introduction. This is a little awkward, but one must make the best of a bad … or rather an inelegant … situation, don’t you think?” As he spoke, the stranger reached inside his caped coat.
“I have here a letter of introduction. I was expecting to give it to your uncle, Mr. Kemble.” Glancing at the gate again, where Uncle Arthur had disappeared, the young gentleman hesitated a moment and then continued. “But I think in these circumstances, I had best give it to you directly.”
“Indeed?” Lydia was flummoxed. This was highly irregular; all delicacy dictated that she … that she … bother! The situation was such that she had no precedent on which to lean. She was quite at a loss.
“From Mr. Alfred Lynch.”
Lydia’s hand went out instantly, but she slowed it just enough to take the letter with great dignity and solemn interest. “Mr. Lynch of Bath? My solicitor?”
“One and the same.”
The letter was not long and took mere seconds to peruse. “You are Mr. Newton? Mr. Robert Newton? Mr. Lynch’s clerk?”
Mr. Newton leaned forward, looking down at the paper as if he were going to read it upside down. “Clerk? Is that what he calls me?”
Edging back, Lydia instinctively pulled the letter to her bodice. “Are you not his clerk?”
“Well, I am. But he offered me an apprenticeship just last week. Though I will admit he did not state exactly when it was to begin. Still, he might have referred to me as an apprentice-in-waiting.”
“A somewhat unwieldy title.”
“True enough. Though it’s more likely that he forgot.”
“Seems unlikely. The man’s mind is as sharp as a tack.”
“Been a while since you’ve seen him?”
“At my father’s funeral, three years ago. Not that long.”
“Yes, well … a lot can happen in three years.”
Lydia thought about how much her life had changed and reluctantly agreed—though silently. “Mr. Lynch’s letter does not explain why you are here to visit us.”
“No, it does not.”
Lydia waited for him to continue, but he didn’t seem disposed to enlighten her. “So why have you come all the way from Bath to Roseberry Hall, Mr. Newton?”
“Bath isn’t all that far. It only took me a couple of hours.” He glanced over at his gig and shrugged. “Would have been faster on horseback, but Mr. Lynch did insist. Thought it looked better. More official.”
Lydia’s heart skipped a beat, and she swallowed with a little difficulty. “Do you need to look official?”
“In some eyes, yes, I would say so.”
“You aren’t being very clear, Mr. Newton. Rather cryptic.”
“Mr. Lynch said you were clever.”
And so it was that Lydia stood on the side of Spelding Road just outside her own gates, observing that the day had grown chilly and that the splash of the rill was rather boisterous, in a less than charming manner. Had she been of the right disposition, she might have snapped at Mr. Newton for his uninformative conversation. She was now overburdened with thoughts of tardiness and broken wheels while her solicitor’s emissary thought nothing of being mysterious.
Perhaps Mr. Newton didn’t realize that an official visit from a solicitor had preceded the retrenchment of several households in the area. Or he might not know that Mr. Pibsbury, the estate land agent, had just retired and that a ninny had been hired in his stead. Still further, he might not know that arriving without an invitation or warning was highly irregular and boded ill.
And as those thoughts passed through her mind, Lydia hit upon another possibility—a reasonable and nonapocalyptic reason for his visit. It was just a seed at first, but it grew until it blossomed in the form of a smile and brought out the sun again. “My letter about Mr. Drury—the new land agent. Mr. Lynch sent you in response to my letter.”
“In part, yes.”
The sense of relief was such that Mr. Newton’s hesitation barely registered.
“Oh, excellent. Most excellent. Come, Mr. Newton, let us wend our way to Roseberry.”
With a quick step back to the gig, Mr. Newton grabbed his satchel, pulling it free. Joining her by the estate entrance, he half-raised his arm toward her and then, likely realizing they were too newly acquainted to offer such an intimacy, he dropped it back to his side.
However, Lydia found that she was not disinclined to take his arm; in fact, the prospect was rather exciting, in a daring sort of way. Feeling somewhat roguish, she stepped to his side and placed her hand in the crook of his arm. He smiled down at her in a manner that caused a strange flutter in her belly, and then he led them through the gates.
Chapter 2
In which Miss Whitfield must fob off a dandy before dealing with the merits of pineapples
Robert Newton, third son of the Earl of Wissett, was visiting Roseberry Hall at the request of Mr. Lynch, as he had stated. It had been hinted that well-executed duties such as these would lead directly to the start of his apprenticeship. Still, Robert had not been keen on rushing into the country—an absence from Bath didn’t seem necessary. Nor, when Mr. Lynch had described the child at the center of the … complications had he been drawn to the character that was supposed to be Miss Whitfield.
Clever, yes, that had been part of the description—but not used in a flattering sense. “Too clever for her own good” was how it had been put. Mr. Lynch had then gone on, at some length, to complain of Miss Whitfield’s interference—a tendency whose fault was laid at the feet of her deceased father, who had overeducated his elder daughter.
And yet here Robert was walking down a pleasant, elm-lined drive with an elegant young woman whom Mr. Lynch would not have recognized. It was clear that Lynch had thought Miss Lydia Whitfield to still be the fourteen-year-old child he knew three years earlier. But he couldn’t have been more mistaken. Gone were the braids, the pinafores, the awkward scuffling gait, the red face, and the watery eyes—tears most likely—that were part of Lynch’s description.