They left within the minute, with very little fuss. It was doubtful many people had even noticed the little drama being enacted over by the doors, since the volume of general conversation was nearly deafening and the musicians were tuning their instruments again before the next set formed.
“It is very kind of you to be willing to take me home in your carriage, Major Westcott,” Mrs. Bailey said. “I would happily walk on any other night, but I must confess I would not fancy it tonight, what with the rain and the wind.”
“I would not hear of your walking anyway, ma’am,” Harry said, “even if it were a balmy summer evening. My carriage is at your disposal whenever you are ready to leave.”
“And whenever Lydia is ready,” Mrs. Bailey said. “She came with us. You will not mind taking her too, I am sure. You will not even have to go out of your way. She lives at the end of your drive.”
Ah.
“Absolutely not, ma’am,” he assured her.
But he did mind.
And so, surely, would Lydia.
The final set of the evening finished well before midnight. People who lived and worked in the country did not, generally speaking, dance until dawn. Many of those who attended the assembly would not be able to sleep until noon tomorrow.
Even so, people were reluctant to leave. The women had to sort out the leftover food and claim their own plates and dishes, talking animatedly with one another as they did so, just as though there had been no other opportunity all evening for conversation. But the men were not hurrying them along or showing any particular signs of impatience to be gone. Most of them were downing one more pint of ale or glass of wine as they finished off their own conversations.
There would be no point in rushing outside anyway. Coachmen had to be rounded up from the taproom below and then had to collect their horses and hitch them to their carriages before they could drive up to the doors of the inn. Cloaks and hats and gloves and umbrellas had to be identified and claimed. Last-minute greetings and hugs and handshakes had to be exchanged.
It all took a good half hour.
Lydia was feeling both sad and relieved that it was all over and that soon she would be saying good night to the Baileys and closing her cottage door behind her, back in her own quiet, safe haven. She had enjoyed herself enormously and was immensely proud of herself. She had felt for most of the evening almost as though she were at a masquerade ball, safely hidden behind a disguise and able to behave out of character, secure in the knowledge that no one would ever know that she had been herself.Almostas though … What she had been doing in reality, of course, was just the opposite. She had thrown off her mask in order to be herself. As she had never had a chance to do when she was a girl. As she had never been allowed to do while she was married. As she had never dared to do since.
Tonight she had dared.
And it had felt wonderful. And horribly frightening, for several times, quite without warning, she had felt herself close to panic, as though were she to look down she would discover that she had forgotten to put her dress on before leaving the house.
Yet even as she had been enjoying herself she had longed for the evening to be over so she would not see Harry wherever she looked—dancing, smiling, talking, laughing, as she was doing herself. Unaware of her very existence, as he had been for most of the four years of his acquaintance with her.
Now, soon, she would be going home. Like Cinderella at midnight. But with no glass slipper to leave behind her. With no prince to retrieve it and search for her even if she did.
She was also exhausted, not just with physical tiredness from all the dancing and conversing, but with the emotional exertion of having behaved so differently from usual—and of pretending indifference to Harry.
She had no plate to take with her. She had offered her leftover iced cakes to Mrs. Piper to take home for her children, and since Mrs. Piper’s own plate had little room left on it, Lydia had told her to take the plate too. She would not miss it for a few days. She looked around, waved to Mrs. Bailey, and made her way toward her.
“Major Westcott has gone for the carriage,” Mrs. Bailey said. “I daresay he may be waiting for us by now. I believe the heavens have opened out there, Lydia. Wearehaving a wet spring.”
“Major Westcott?” Lydia looked at her in incomprehension.
“It was kind of him to offer us a ride home, was it not?” Mrs. Bailey said. “Oh. Have you not heard, Lydia? The vicar and Dr. Powis were called away. Poor John Wickend came here, very agitated. He was convinced his grandmama is on her last—again. She does seem to have at least nine lives, just like a cat, though I mean no disrespect by the comparison. The men went anyway, of course. The vicar took the carriage. Major Westcott assured him that he would take us home. We would bedrownedif we had to walk.”
Had he known when he offered, Lydia wondered, that he would be taking her home as well as Mrs. Bailey? What a ghastly way for the evening to end. And this would make three times in a row after they had been at the same evening event. Twice he had walked her home. Now he was to take her in his carriage. She just hoped Denise would not find out and start teasing and speculating again. Lydia hoped no one else would find out either. But there was nothing to be done about it now, was there? It really was raining heavily out there, and it would be foolish to try to insist upon walking home. Besides, he was to take Mrs. Bailey home too. Thank heaven for that at least.
There was an unruly jumble of carriages outside, all of them pulled as close as possible to the inn doors instead of ranging themselves in an orderly line as they normally would. People were making a dash for them, laughing, shrieking, calling out to one another, generally getting soaked and mud spattered.
Harry’s carriage must have been one of the first to arrive. It was standing almost directly across from the doors, and he was hurrying down the steps to hand them in as they came out. They were all seated inside within moments, and his coachman was about to put up the steps and shut the door when Mrs. Bailey threw up her hands.
“Oh, wait!” she cried. “The vicar’s muffler. I would be willing to wager upon it that he left it behind when he went off with Dr. Powis. He is always doing it. I shall go back and fetch it now and save him from having to come back here tomorrow. No, no, Major. I will get it. I know what it looks like. You wait here in the dry.”
And she was gone, down the carriage steps with the assistance of the coachman’s hand, and across the pavement and back inside the inn before Harry could do anything to stop her or even insist upon accompanying her.
Lydia felt suddenly very alone in the carriage with him.
“I am so sorry about this, Harry,” she said. They were sitting on opposite seats, their knees almost touching. “I could have walked.”
“In the rain,” he said. It was not a question, but his tone told her what he thought of that idea.
