Lydia smiled, wondering if while Miss Caudle was interested in her library, she was not interested in forging a friendship. That would be a shame. “Are you chilled from the damp? I can have tea sent in.”
“That is kind of you, but I really can’t stay. I only stepped out for a moment. Papa is in full Easter passion—intense and focused—and in a bit of a dither. He seems to think today’s sermon was lacking and the one planned for Easter not quite adequate, although I think it rather fine. I noticed Hazlitt’s Sermons when I was here last, and I wondered if he might find inspiration within its pages, if you do not mind my borrowing yet another book?”
“Borrow away.” Lydia was somewhat startled when, upon receiving this permission, Miss Caudle immediately stood and headed to a bookcase on the far side of the room. Lydia opened her mouth to continue the conversation, but it would have required raising her voice. Something a lady would never consider. Well, she might consider but never actually do.
Instead, Lydia waited for her visitor to return to her seat and occupied herself by perusing the titles that Miss Caudle had taken away a couple of weeks earlier. While one looked to be an entertaining read, being the anecdotal tale of the author’s journey through Tuscany, the other, Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage, looked to be as dry as week-old toast.
“A fascinating read,” Miss Caudle said, unknowingly contradicting Lydia’s thoughts.
She sat once again, though on the edge of her seat, as if already in mind to leave. “I find it so comforting to know one’s roots, don’t you?”
Lydia frowned at the book in her hands. It was a list—a catalog, as it were—of the British peerage. The Whitfields would not be honored with a page. She laughed, noticed Miss Caudle’s dour expression, and turned it into a cough. “Yes, indeed,” she said eventually. “Our family would not be in the annals of Debrett’s, though we can trace our family history to the sixteenth—”
“We are,” Miss Caudle interrupted with a bright smile, seemingly unaware of her faux pas. She reached over and plucked the book from Lydia’s hands. Flipping it open and with a quick and practiced move, she found what she was looking for. She passed it back to Lydia, stabbing her finger against the page. “See!” There was no disguising her pride.
Lydia nodded as she read. “CAUDLE OF BENSLEY CASTLE. Earl of Bensley: Darren Caudle, born June 9, 1750; Issue Henry, born January 24, 1785; Malcolm, born October 15, 1788.” Lydia did her best to stifle a sigh. “Oh, most excellent. So you are of the Bensley Caudles … the Earl is your grandfather?”
Miss Caudle smiled indulgently. “No, indeed not. My father is the Earl of Bensley’s grandson; second son of a second son. The earl is my great-grandfather.”
“Well, isn’t that lovely for you,” Lydia said, knowing that she was meant to be impressed.
“Yes, it is very gratifying to see it written in black and white. It helps others understand your position in society, too … you know, to be recognized as a member of the upper peerage.”
Lydia bit her tongue, so as not to point out that Miss Caudle’s side of the family had not carried a title for three generations.… But that would have been unkind. It seemed to matter to poor Mavis.
“I was so desirous to show Lord Aldershot. He had been impressed enough to offer the Reverend a living. I wanted him to know that his trust had not been abused.”
“Ah,” said Lydia thoughtfully, remembering a discussion of the living some time ago. It was shared between the two estates and required a consensus. Lydia had left the decision of that appointment to her mother and Barley. “You wanted to borrow this book so that you could impress Lord Aldershot?”
“Yes, indeed.” And then Mavis blinked, swallowed, and smiled in a most unnatural manner. “You do not mind?”
Lydia returned her smile of a kind. “Of course not.” She waited for a knot to form in her belly … an angry tension to tighten her fists … hmm, perhaps a grumpy rejoinder to form in her mind. A vulgar expression to hover on her lips?
Nothing formed or hovered. She was not riled; she was not jealous. This pretty, young lady, likely her own age, was setting her cap at the man who was meant to be her husband, and yet Lydia felt nothing. Except, maybe, a flutter of something that almost felt like hope.
Glancing at the large, darkening portrait over the fireplace, Lydia scowled. What would her father think?
“Fortunate, indeed.”
Lydia looked back at Miss Caudle, aware that she had made a comment but not sure of its direction. “Fortunate?”
“Oh, yes. For he … Lord Aldershot … is a most astute and personable gentleman. It must be gratifying to know that your futures are tied together. That security alone…” Her words petered off as she stared at Lydia’s frown, misinterpreting. “It is general knowledge, is it not? Lord Aldershot spoke of your upcoming announcement quite freely.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, he had planned an outing with our family a week or so ago. I believe we were going to visit a local mill, but he was forced to cancel and rush off to Bath. At your behest, I thought, to sign the contracts.”
Miss Caudle was certainly well informed. “Nothing is yet settled.”
“Oh, oh dear. I believe I have said more than I ought.”
“No, indeed. You simply wish to understand the dynamics of the great houses on which the Reverend relies for his living. I would wish the same in your position.” And then Lydia had an idea, a perfectly splendid idea. “There is no obligation on either side as yet—an expectation, it is true, but no more than that. Time will tell.”
Miss Caudle flushed, looked down at the carpet for a moment, and then lifted her eyes to meet Lydia’s once again. There was a cast of determination in her stare.
Lydia smiled—perhaps more broadly than was polite, but she was pleased—almost to the point of elation. Her father could hardly rise from the grave if Barley chose a different bride. And if dear Papa did object, he would have to go where the fault lay; he would have to haunt Wilder Hill.
Yes, a splendid idea.
Though she might need to offer the couple a generous bride gift to nudge Barley in the right direction.
*
The note, when it came, was deceptively demure: a white folded piece of paper, sealed with red wax without a crest or identification marker. It lay benignly on Shodster’s silver tray—presented to her with the rest of the post while Lydia sat at her desk in the morning room.
In fact, when Lydia first saw it, she put it aside. She pulled out the bills to be directed to Mrs. Buttle, the letter from Great-Aunt Charlotte for her mother, and the Lady’s Magazine for Elaine. It wasn’t that Lydia was not paying attention, nor was she being cavalier—for she had been expecting some sort of consequence for her curious adventure. Though, as each day had passed, she had thought it less likely.