It was a marvelous day—or, at least, it was about to become one.
As Robert approached the tawny-colored row of town houses on Great Pulteney Street, he saw that a travel coach was stopped out front of number seventeen. It did not worry him overly until, as he stepped around the coach, he found that various trunks, bandboxes, and satchels were being unloaded into the lower floor of number nineteen.
The Kembles had arrived.
Robert’s grin faded, and he pursed his lips in great disappointment. This was not a good time to pay a social call. He looked up at the entrance, hoping Shodster would somehow be aware of his presence and throw the door open, welcoming him in at this most inconvenient time. He willed it for some moments to no avail. The door remained closed, and Robert stood on the step staring at it stupidly.
Well, the good butler could hardly be blamed. The man would have only just arrived as well and was not likely yet up to snuff. His uncanny awareness and ability to see through doors might take a few more days to perfect.
Before pivoting and trudging back up the street he had just strolled down, Robert glanced at the window off to the right, where he knew the small parlor to be. There, too, was no reward. A face came and went. No identification could be made; it passed in a blur.
With a grunt of dissatisfaction, Robert pivoted, heading toward the bridge and hill beyond. It would not take long to walk back to the office, where he would be able to continue—
“Mr. Newton!”
Robert turned and saw that it was still a marvelous day.
Lydia stood on the step in a lovely dress of some light pastel color. She had thrown an ornate shawl across her shoulders and was leaning forward waving.
“Ah, Miss Whitfield, what a surprise,” he said in a teasing tone as he returned to the sidewalk in front of number nineteen. He doffed his hat.
“Really? I thought you to be on your way to visit us?” Lydia frowned prettily, not truly puzzled.
“If that were true, I would be headed in the wrong direction, would I not?”
“That is a certainty.” She made a show of looking up and down the road. “Where then, if I might ask, were you headed?”
“Bristol.” Robert nodded to emphasize his assurance.
“Oh, indeed.” Lydia laughed. “Then I believe you to be lost, for you have traveled east instead of west.”
“Really? Oh dear, that is a problem.” Robert looked at the ground, mournfully shaking his head. Then he jerked his head up as if being suddenly put in possession of a new idea. “Perhaps I should call upon my good friend Lydia Whitfield, instead. She lives nearby.”
“That is a splendid idea. I believe she is looking forward to your visit.”
“Is she?”
“Absolutely.” There was a great deal of warmth in that one word.
Robert smiled and leaned on his cane, adopting a studied casual air. “Most excellent. However, I believe that her relatives have just arrived and she might be overly taxed with counting windows and burning menus, scaring unruly children … you know, domestic sort of chores.”
“Well, it is most fortunate that Miss Whitfield is in possession of an organized character. All windows have been counted and menus duly burnt hours ago. Scaring children is slotted for this evening … though only if Miss Shipley is in need of assistance. So you see, Miss Whitfield is in desperate need of an occupation. A stroll and breath of fresh air would do handily.”
“Something I can accommodate. What a happy chance.”
“Most happy, indeed. Come inside. I will see that she is suitably bonneted and gloved in a trice, if you would be so good as to wait in the parlor.”
Robert gestured Lydia ahead of him across the threshold of number nineteen. Once inside, the atmosphere was entirely different from his previous visits. Silent calm had been replaced by chatter, laughter, and scolding that bounced into the three-story entrance from various regions of the house. There was a smell of newly lit fires, and the accompanying puffs of smoke, as well as the enticing aroma of cooking wafting up from the kitchens. It was a bustling, busy household.
Shodster stepped into the hall and rushed toward Robert, hands outstretched ready to take Robert’s hat and cane.
“Thank you, no. Miss Whitfield and I are going for a walk.” Robert took a half step back. “We will be leaving shortly.”
Looking to Lydia for confirmation, Shodster nodded. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Whitfield. I was not here for the door. It will not happen again.”
“Worry not, Shodster.” Lydia shrugged. “I learned how to open a door some time ago. The trick is to turn the handle.”
The butler blinked at Lydia’s lightheartedness. “Yes. That would, indeed, be the trick.”
*
Lydia climbed the stairs to the second floor with great dignity. However, once there, she glanced around, decided that the hallways were empty, and sprinted to her room. She grabbed her brown spencer, her high-crowned bonnet with the matching ribbon, and a pair of gloves that set her gown to its best advantage. She was back down the stairs in the trice she had promised—just in time to see Shodster closing the door.
“Shodster?” Lydia said … gasplike. Then she saw the letter in her butler’s hand. A quick glance confirmed that Robert was still in the parlor, tapping the brim of his hat against his cane. With a smile—she took the proffered paper and joined Robert.
“Ready to go?” she asked as if he had been the one preparing for the jaunt.
“Almost,” he replied, though his tone was serious. His smile faded, and his expression carried a hint of trepidation. “Before we go anywhere, I would like to apologize for my high-handedness the other day. I should have informed you of what I was about and solicited your opinion.”
Lydia laughed, clearly surprising him. “I accept, and counter your apology with one of my own.” She lifted her hand as he opened his mouth to speak. “I overreacted. And I will be honest about this, my friend, I have thought long and hard as to why that would be. I am not known for being excessive in my emotions.… But I believe I now know the cause.”
Robert stared at her, his eyes switching between her eyes and mouth, with such … um … concentration that Lydia could no longer remember what it was that she was going to say.
“And that would be?” he prompted.
“What would be?”
“The cause of your pique.”
“Oh, yes. I beg your pardon.” Lydia shook her head. “I am used to being, well … dare I say it … I am used to being in control—the one planning and deciding. It is required of me at Roseberry, and it has become a habit.”
“I still should have—”
“Yes, yes. We could talk circles around this issue all day. Let us put it behind us.” Then, taking a deep breath, Lydia touched on the subject that had been the biggest source of her disquiet since meeting Robert Newton, third son of the Earl of Wissett. “Robert?”
“Yes.”
“I should like to tell you something.”