“Yes, Shelley is newly married,” Mama continued. “Shelley Dunbar-Ross, as she is known now.”
There was a hint of satisfaction in her mother’s voice that Lydia didn’t quite understand … after all, Mama had nothing to do with it.
“It was a love match.” Mama stressed the word love as she turned her eyes to her elder daughter. “Is she back from her bridal tour?”
“Yes, indeed. I received a letter from her not two days ago. I had written to her while she was away to verify the timing of her return; I did so hope she would be back by the beginning of May.”
In a little less than two months, Lydia was going to celebrate her eighteenth birthday at a private ball in Bath, with two hundred of her closest friends: well, her mama’s closest friends. Over two dozen would be Lydia’s nearest and dearest, including Shelley and her new husband, Edward Dunbar-Ross.
Shelley, who had—as her mother had just mentioned—fallen instantly in love with her eligible bachelor, had surprised the whole of their society by marching up the aisle after knowing Mr. Dunbar-Ross for a mere four months. It was surprising that her parents did not object as Shelley was not yet nineteen and might not know her own mind. But Shelley was adamant and would not let anyone dissuade her.
The circumstances of Shelley’s marital bliss circled once again through Lydia’s mind. Yes, Shelley was eighteen, and she was married two months ago.… And other than a few uncharitable remarks about counting the months, the marriage was generally celebrated as a great coup. Everyone enjoyed a love match.…
Yes, Shelley was only six months older than Lydia. She had been—
“Is she going to be able to come?”
“Hmm?” Lydia looked up from the midway point of the floor and her thoughts, confused momentarily by the question.
“Shelley. Is she going to be able to join us at your ball? You know, travel into Bath … in two months’ time.”
“Of course. There is nothing to prevent her from attending.” Lydia ignored the implication of her mama’s words—one, the girls were present, and two, she would not dignify such a suggestion. As far as Lydia knew, Shelley was not in the family way; and if she were, then there should be congratulations, not snickering behind raised fans.
Just as she was about to fix her mother with a decided glare, the door to the drawing room opened, and Shodster announced the arrival of Lord Aldershot. All seven females jumped to their feet to bob their greetings. Only Lydia was not surprised by his visit.
Manfred Barley was not a tall man—standing only two or three inches above Lydia. Neither was he handsome, although he was considered presentable. He dressed well but not too stylishly, and, other than a pointed nose, his face was unremarkable for a man of three and twenty. His character was somewhat bland, and his manner was pliable.
Lydia was not particularly fond of the baron, but then neither did she find him offensive, and in this she was content. Marrying Barley would allow her to remain close to Roseberry Hall—something that factored high in her mind. The title was a nice additive but not as important to her as it had been to her father.
Not of a romantic nature, Lydia was well satisfied with her matrimonial future. She saw no need for sleepless nights and anxieties over a hopeful attraction. She had only to look at Elaine, who at the advanced age of twenty threw herself at any and every bachelor in the neighborhood. Her cousin could talk of little else; it was not something Lydia ever wished to emulate.
Barley was twitching with visible impatience as he spoke pleasantries to her mother and aunt—about their health and the weather. While they reciprocated in kind, Lydia wondered if she had been too forceful in the language of her note. She remembered using the words problem, lawyer, and help. Was he worried? Was that why he had arrived so promptly? If that were the case, Lydia was prepared to be impressed and to take her assessment of him up a notch.
After everyone had decided that it was not likely to rain, Lydia took advantage of that pronouncement and suggested a stroll through the garden. There was no possibility for privacy in a room full of women, no matter how large it was or how much they pretended disinterest. Barley readily agreed, and soon they were arm in arm, wending their way through the boxwoods.
Conversation was frivolous until they were sure their discussion would not be overheard. They had not seen each other for a few months and had to catch up on the latest litter of pups, Barley’s new stallion, and an author of whom Lydia was quite enthused. Eventually, the reason for his visit was approached—with far less gallantry than Lydia had hoped for.
“It was not a great inconvenience, Lydia. I was heading into Spelding anyway when your note arrived.” Then he sighed as if he were encumbered by a significant burden. “So tell me what great woe has befallen you, and why I should be involved? I am a busy man. Places to go, people to see.”
“Really, Barley. I did not expect you to drop everything and rush over.… Though I will say this whole situation is, or at least should be, of as much concern to you as it is to me.” And with that, she proceeded to tell him all about the impending tea fiasco.
“And what do you expect of me? I’d just as soon have the pineapples.”
“You missed the point entirely; pineapples will not grow here any more than tea will. If Drury and Uncle are not stopped, Roseberry Hall will not make any money this year—at all.” Frowning at the vehemence of her statement, Lydia shifted her gaze lest Barley see the depth of her anxiety … and irritation. She rested her eyes on the wall of the conservatory and was startled from her pique by a strange shadow. It reminded her of the one on the front lawn a few hours ago.
“Well, be that as it may, anything I say will be considered interference, and since everyone knows that my agricultural knowledge is limited at best, they will know that I am merely spouting your words. I will not be your marionette, Lydia; I am my own man, you know.”
Lydia shook the odd silhouette from her mind and lifted a brow. “Yes, of course you are. And I would not ask your involvement were it not of great importance to our financial future.” She felt the sudden tension in his arm and knew that her words had finally sunk in.
“Be that as it may, I have no official capacity here. We are not betrothed as yet.”
“I thought we could rectify that.”
“What?”
“I am going to be eighteen in two months. I thought we could announce our engagement at the ball and marry this summer.”
Looking askance, Barley stepped away from her side—an awkward move as they were still walking arm in arm. “Really, Lydia, I am the one who is supposed to make the offer—it’s traditional—and I hadn’t planned on doing so for several more years. Eighteen is still rather young to be taking on such heavy responsibilities—the estate, the duties of a wife, et cetera. Don’t you want a Season?”