He kept thinking of Lydia walking into the village shop alone, with straight back and raised chin, after flatly refusing to allow them to accompany her inside. They had stood on the pavement outside for a few moments until it became apparent that she was not going to be tossed out.
Do you love her?his mother had asked a short while ago.
And God help him, he was beginning to ask himself the same question.
Lydia went to church the following day, as she always did on Sunday mornings. It was not easy this week, however. She had been served at the village shop yesterday, but with lowered eyes on the part of the shopkeeper and none of the usual bright chatter. On her way home someone had hastily crossed the street from her side to the other as though it had become suddenly imperative to bethererather thanhere. When she had passed her next-door neighbor’s house, Mrs. Bartlett had been in the garden tending her flowers. But just as Lydia had been drawing breath to comment upon how lovely they were looking, Mrs. Bartlett had half turned her head, jerked it back again, and hurried into her house as though she had suddenly remembered something urgent she needed to do inside.
She sat in her usual pew toward the back of the church. There was a pool of emptiness all about her, but that was not unusual. Most people preferred to sit farther forward.
And then there was a buzz of sound and activity coming from the direction of the doorway behind her, and her neighbors came scurrying inside all at once, it seemed, and took their seats so they could enjoy the show of what could only be the Westcott family arriving for church. And still the pew beside her and the ones directly in front and behind remained empty.
Lydia did not know any of the Westcotts, except Harry and his mother, but she distracted herself by trying to guess who some of them were. One of the three elderly ladies who came in together must be the Dowager Countess of Riverdale. Lydia guessed it was the one with the most plumes in her bonnet. One of the men must be the Earl of Riverdale, the one who had taken on the title when Harry was stripped of it. She guessed it was either the tall, dark-haired, very handsome man or the slight blond man of medium height who, despite his size disadvantage, fairly oozed aristocratic hauteur. One of them, the one who was not the earl, was perhaps the Duke of Netherby. One very distinguished-looking man of middle years was easy to identify. He had the Marchioness of Dorchester, Harry’s mother, on his arm—she turned her head and nodded graciously to Lydia as she passed on her way to the front pews. He must be her husband, the marquess.
The front pews filled fast. One family group alone took up more than one pew, and Lydia guessed that the woman must be Camille Cunningham, Harry’s elder sister. She and her husband were carrying seemingly identical babies, and they were trailed by a number of other children, varying in age, Lydia guessed, from three or four to sixteen or seventeen. It was pretty much impossible to identify any of the others.
Harry came with the last group, and Lydia clutched her prayer book and did not know whether to keep her eyes on it as he passed or to look across at him and nod pleasantly ifhelooked ather.She wished with all her heart that she could revert to the time when she had been virtually invisible. Oh no, she did not. She was not going to cower here. She turned her head to look very deliberately at him—and something inside her somersaulted, or felt very much as though it did. He had been inside her home, her very private space. He had been insideher. They had talked—reallytalked. He had admitted to her that he had had to struggle with a wave of hatred for his cousin and half sister though he had known he was being unjust. She had told him things about herself that she had not told anyone else, even Denise or Hannah.
He looked back at her. But instead of going on by, he came along her pew toward her. The man and woman who were with him came too, with a baby and a young child. A third child, a little girl, looked ahead before following them, just as the marchioness glanced over her shoulder and then smiled and beckoned. The child ran ahead to squeeze in between her and the man Lydia assumed was the marquess.
But really she scarcely noticed. She looked inquiringly at Harry and was aware that half the congregation must be looking too even though she sat close to the back.
“Good morning,” he murmured. “I have my sister and brother-in-law with me. Abigail and Gil Bennington. Mrs. Tavernor,” he told them. “May we sit here?”
Abigail was fair-haired and pretty. Her husband had very dark hair and a harsh, dark-complexioned, noticeably scarred face. He was carrying the baby.
“I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Tavernor,” Mrs. Bennington said softly, and squeezed past her brother to sit beside Lydia. Her husband sat on his wife’s other side and Harry beyond him. Harry lifted the little boy onto his lap.
Had they all drawn straws to decide who would sit with her? And had Harry’s sister and brother-in-law drawn the short one? Lydia clutched her prayer book more tightly, murmured that she was delighted too, and was very thankful to see that the Reverend Bailey was coming from the vestry and the service was about to begin.
She knew what they were up to—the marchioness inventing a friendship with Lydia’s mother yesterday; her insistence that she and Harry walk along the village street with Lydia; Harry and some other designated member of the family sitting beside her at church this morning; the invitation, soon to be made official, to Harry’s birthday party next Friday. They were trying to make it seem that Harry had a casual friendship with her and that they found nothing scandalous in it and were quite happy to pursue an acquaintance with her. They were doing it, of course, for Harry’s sake, to protect him from any implication that there had been something improper in his behavior.
Lydia appreciated what they were doing anyway—and resented it. For they must, she realized, very deeply resenther.
She would not afterward have been able to recall anything of the service. She recited the prayers and sang the hymns without conscious thought, kneeled and stood and sat in all the appropriate places, responding entirely by rote. When Mrs. Bennington turned her head at one point to smile at her, she pretended not to notice. She was very aware of Harry three places away from her, bouncing the little boy on his knee once in a while, taking the child’s hands in his at one point to clap them silently together and leaning his head forward to whisper something in his ear. The child tipped back his head and smiled up at his uncle and Harry kissed his cheek.
How could she possibly see all that without either turning her head or leaning forward? She did not know, but she did see.
He had asked her to marry him.In an abrupt, unprepared speech that had affected her far more deeply than a more polished proposal would have done. She bit hard on her upper lip at the memory and blinked her eyes fast.
At last the service came to an end and Lydia rose in the hope of slipping out before anyone else and hurrying home so she could shut the door behind her and be herself again. But Mrs. Bennington had turned toward her, and it was impossible to pretend again not to notice.
“I am indeed pleased to meet you, Mrs. Tavernor,” she said. “Gil and I were married in this church four years ago. The Reverend Jenkins was the vicar then, and Mrs. Jenkins was still alive. She and my brother were the only witnesses. But I do believe it was the loveliest wedding ever. Not that I am biased or anything.” She laughed. “You and your husband came here very soon after that—after Mrs. Jenkins died suddenly and the poor vicar decided to retire. I regret that I never met the Reverend Tavernor. And I do sympathize very deeply with your loss. It must have devastated you.”
“Thank you,” Lydia said, and she shook the hand that was being extended for hers. “It was a distressing time.”
“My sister and I would like to call upon you within the next day or two,” Mrs. Bennington continued. “If we may, that is. Will it inconvenience you?”
What could she say? And did she want to say it would? Why should she, after all? If nothing had ever happened between her and Harry—nothing outside her dreams, that was—she would surely be delighted to make the acquaintance of a few members of the Westcott family. She was, after all, the widow of the former vicar here. She was the social equal of any of them. There would be no condescension involved in their visiting her.
“Not at all,” she said. “I will be delighted to see you.”
The little boy was pulling Harry by the hand toward the other end of the pew to greet what must be some of his young cousins. The congregation were beginning to move from their pews. Some of them would hurry outside as quickly as possible to watch the exodus of the Westcotts. And her exit too. She was very far from being invisible this morning.
She smiled at Mrs. Bennington and made her escape while she still could without having to run the gauntlet of her neighbors outside.
Harry had realized two days ago that his family had arrived at quite the worst possible time. For of course they had come not just to celebrate his birthday but also to do some determined matchmaking. They had even brought three possible bridal candidates with them, though he was not sure if those three young ladies knew why they had been invited here. And now, of course, the family would see Lydia in one of two ways—as another possible candidate or as a threat, as someone who must be ousted from any pretension to Harry’s hand with all the power of their influence. Not that the Westcotts always behaved as a cohesive unit, it was true. Opinion might well be divided.
A few of his male relatives had squeezed him reassuringly on the shoulder after he returned from the village with his mother on Saturday morning and reported on the failure of his marriage proposal. As far as they were concerned, that was the end of the matter, though it was possible more than a few of them knew their women well enough to suspect that the end was in fact nowhere in sight. The women seemed generally of the opinion that Mrs. Tavernor had behaved like a woman of principle. One could only admire her for saying no—and do all in one’s power to offer her some support.
