“I have never considered truth to be an insult. Mr. Drury was a placeholder, little else. He did not know the job and would have been the ruination of Roseberry Hall.” Robert glanced across to Lydia and was rewarded with a broad grin, though he was not entirely sure why she saw levity in his words.
“That is a gross exaggeration!” Kemble demanded the return of Robert’s attention.
“No. Indeed, it is not.” He stared the man down, until Kemble dropped his eyes to his plate, grumbling under his breath.
Robert didn’t bother to listen.
“Are you going to stay for a few days and celebrate Easter with us, Mr. Newton?” Elaine asked breathlessly, leaning against his arm. “We could go for a walk after church … down by the river—just the two of us.” She laughed—rather shrilly—for no apparent reason. “And I can have Cook make your favorite dessert for Easter dinner.… What is your favorite dessert?”
Robert was forced to turn, yet again, toward Miss Kemble, who was seated directly to his right. “No, I’m afraid not. I must return to my duties at the firm. I have neglected—”
“Aha! A lackluster, are you?” Kemble slammed his hand down on the table again—to the same mild effect.
“A lackluster?” Robert wondered how generously the man had poured his … third glass of wine.
“Lazy, ne’er-do-well. You won’t amount to much, young man!”
Opening his mouth to rebut such an unwarranted attack, Robert found that he was not the first in line.
“Uncle. That is totally uncalled for. Not only is Mr. Newton a credit to his profession, he is a worthy gentleman about to make his mark in the world. I will not have you speak like that to my solicitor’s clerk and will thank you to keep your derision to yourself.” Lydia glared with undisguised animosity; spots of an angry blush colored her pretty cheeks.
Before the man could continue his ridiculous tirade, Mrs. Whitfield interrupted. “Come now, let us have a civil discourse. Cora, how are the girls’ studies coming along?… Oh, and I must tell you how much I admire your shawl, my dear. Yes, yes, such a pretty shade of … what would I call that … let me see. Pink. Yes. Lovely. Did I ever tell you about the pink gown I wore to the Upper Rooms when I was a bride?”
And so it was that Mrs. Whitfield proceeded to manage the entire dinner conversation. A question here, a tale—a long tale—there, all sprinkled with cheerful comments and jovial observations. In no time at all, the caustic beginning of the meal disappeared, and it resolved into an amiable, relaxed repast involving lots of smiles and laughter. Even Elaine’s overt attempts to secure Robert’s attention faded with the distractions.
Robert found that he could ease back in his chair and simply observe. He had to be careful, of course, doling out his nods to all the ladies in the company as he agreed with whatever the topic was in discussion. He was certain that no one could discern his favoritism.
Although he did catch Mrs. Whitfield watching him on occasion, with an enigmatic smile twitching the corners of her mouth.
*
In the study, Lydia sat curled up in a chair by the fire. Normally, she would have chosen the other end of the room to relax with a book in her lap, but this position had the advantage of overlooking the front drive. It was a lovely aspect in most respects. Even in the rain—which had kept her from her constitutional—the view included three tulip beds and a lovely collection of shrubs.… But it was lacking. The drive was empty; Robert’s phaeton was gone. And it had been gone for a whole day. Yes, almost twenty-four hours.
It might not have been such a tragedy had Lydia known when she might see him again, but there were no plans to … meet … to visit … no, to consult. Yes, that was it. There were no plans to consult within the foreseeable future—nothing scheduled. It might be next week, next month, or next year.
Lydia considered—very briefly—the idea of another round of marriage-contract discussions. At least that would provide a means to see him … Robert. Robert Newton, her very good friend and solicitor apprentice in-waiting. But somehow the thought of rehashing the various clauses that would tie her to Barley was unappealing. In fact, she was rather glad she had decided to postpone the engagement.
She had no doubt that it would take place eventually, just as she had no doubt that this odd feeling of loss would disappear … sometime … one day. She was not a romantic type; she was the responsible, do-the-right-thing-for-the-estate type. Barley had been her father’s choice, and Papa had been a man of great knowledge and understanding. Hard at times, yes. But for a purpose. The purpose of securing Roseberry Hall a worthy lineage—a noble lineage.
Lydia sighed and then frowned as she listened to the echo of the words in her head. Securing a worthy lineage. Would Papa have chosen Barley as her husband had he known that Mr. Robert Newton, third son of the Earl of Wissett, would enter their lives?
Robert did not come with a title or vast lands, but his ancient lineage could put Barley’s to shame. Would that have been enough to satisfy her father?
And then, out of nowhere, arrived a terrible query. Could she be happy with her father’s choice now—now that she knew Robert?
Before Lydia had a chance to form an answer, a movement outside the window caught her eye. For a moment, the briefest of moments, Lydia brightened with the thought that Robert had returned. There was no logic in that thought, and yet it blossomed and grew until the movement resolved into a figure—not a phaeton, a figure with skirts and a Paris-style umbrella.
Blinking back her disappointment, Lydia swallowed and lowered her feet to the floor. It wouldn’t do to greet a guest while sitting on her legs. For while the other ladies of the house were ensconced in the drawing room as usual, Lydia knew that this person would be seeking her out.
Mavis Caudle was coming for a visit.
*
“Make yourself comfortable.” Lydia gestured toward the chair placed opposite. She had decided not to move into the morning room, as Miss Caudle was a self-proclaimed book addict. It hardly made sense to rush to another room only to lead the girl back to the library.
Miss Caudle placed the books that she had in hand on the table between them, then sat as directed. “Thank you for the loan. I do hope your butler informed you that I had visited.… I think it was, yes, a couple of weeks ago. Amazing how quickly time can pass.”
“Of course.” The girl’s comment was a nod to convention rather than logic—had Lydia not asked Shodster to avail the library to a Miss Caudle whenever she might appear, Mavis would not have made it past the front door. And having allowed her access, Shodster would have been very remiss in his duties to not report Miss Caudle’s call. “I apologize for not being here. I believe I was taking my daily constitutional.”
“Yes, indeed. I was quite afraid that I had made the same mistake today. My timing is not the best.”