He was surprised to see that she was giving the question some consideration.
“Yes,” she said. “I would like it. Thank you.”
He ought not to have been surprised. Lydia had backbone, by Jove.
Nineteen
Her dark secret was out at last, Lydia thought as they continued walking along the path, which was sloping slightly downward now. Her dark,bizarresecret, which had always seemed a bit shameful to her. As though she must have been lacking somehow as a woman. And Harry had not known. It had not been obvious to him on the night they made love. Perhaps he had suspected, but he had notknown.
He had not said a word in condemnation of Isaiah. Nor had he ridiculed her for so meekly accepting her lot during six years of marriage. He had held her instead. Yet rather than assuring her that he would shelter her in his strong, manly arms and protect and care for her for the rest of her life, he had reminded her that she was free now. Then, rather than assure her that she looked none the worse for her crying session, he had admitted she looked a mess and called her beautiful anyway. He had made her laugh.Deliberately.
He had mentioned trust.
There will be love, Lydia. And trust. And freedom.
He had talked more about the effect the discovery of his illegitimacy had had upon his twenty-year-old self.Sometimes what seem to be the worst things that happen in our lives turn out actually to be the best. He had shared something painful from his own life, she guessed, in order to distract her from her own. Or to remind her that everyone suffers in the course of a lifetime. No one is immune. And perhaps to remind her that there is an end to suffering.
There will be love, Lydia. And trust. And freedom. And surely children. But not yet. Not until you are ready.
She was terribly, terribly in love with him.
And trust.
It was the word that of all others had lodged in her mind. And she understood that it was what everything was all about for her.Trust.Or lack of trust. She had stopped trusting in love when it had prevented her from moving into adulthood as other girls of her social class did. It had wrapped her in a stifling cocoon of male protection instead. It had stopped her from developing any sort of discernment that might have saved her from the marriage she had made. For she could look back now and see that all of Isaiah’s ardor, all the burning passion in his eyes, had been focused upon his faith. Yes, he had told her he loved her, but it was easy now to understand that there had been nothing personal in his protestations. Hehadloved her as a helpmeet, as a meek, biddable woman who would share his faith and his life of service.
What had been destroyed in her more than anything else was her ability to trust. And her ability to knowwhatandwhomshe could trust. It had become safer to trust only herself.
She did trust herself. That was a start. She had not done so throughout her marriage. She had convinced herself that any disappointment she felt, any unhappiness, any stirring of rebellion, was wrong, evensinful, because Isaiah said so and he was both her husband and her pastor. She had put her trust in obedience, one of her marriage vows, and in her husband instead of in herself. She could trust in herself now, though. In herrealself, that was, the self that was deep down inside her where she knew what was right for her and from which well of knowledge and strength she could withstand any outer force that might try to destroy her or make her doubt herself.
She was the social equal of anyone. She was the daughter of a gentleman of birth and property and means, and she was the sister-in-law of an earl. She was the widow of the late vicar of Fairfield. But over and above those connections, she washerselfand did not need to hide or cower from anyone.
She did not want to go and meet any of Harry’s family, especially the elders, the grandmothers, who would very probably look at her as though she were a scarlet woman who had seduced one of their own. She would much rather go home, preferably alone, shut her door, make herself a cup of tea, and give in to the exhaustion the last few days had loaded upon her like a leaden weight. But she would do it. She could not—would not—hide away. She was probably going to feel obliged to attend Harry’s birthday party— a ball. She would be able to dance again if she wished. And shewouldwish it whether she wanted to or not—a mildly head-spinning thought. There was no point, then, innotgoing now to meet some members of the family. All the better that they were to be the two most intimidating ones: Harry’s grandmothers.
Besides, he wanted her to go, and she owed him something. He had been kind to her. He had listened while she poured out her painful, embarrassing story and had not passed judgment. He had held her while she wept.
He was, perhaps, a man she could trust.
There. She had articulated the thought.
Perhaps she could trust Harry Westcott.
They came off the path to the east of the house, still among trees, though they were more widely spaced down here. There was a glass summerhouse off to their left—Lydia had seen it from that seat against which she had braced herself while she told Harry her story. Mrs. Bennington was sitting inside with her husband and another couple. Mr. Bennington turned his head, and then they all did and smiled and waved, though they did not come out and Harry did not turn in their direction.
“The couple you have not met are the Earl and Countess of Lyndale,” he explained. “Gabriel and Jessica. She is our cousin, daughter of my aunt Louise, Dowager Duchess of Netherby, my father’s middle sister. Avery, Duke of Netherby, is her stepson, but he is quite a bit older than Jess. He is married to Anna, my half sister. He was my guardian too after my father died. This is too much information, is it not?” He turned his head and grinned at her, and Lydia laughed.
“Is there to be a written test?” she asked.
“And the passing mark is one hundred percent. Ninety-nine will not do,” he said.
“Ouch,” she said. “I hope spelling does not count. So the little girl who has just lost one of her baby teeth—Rebecca?—is your half sister and the Duke of Netherby’s child? Your niece?”
“Well done,” he said. “All three of them are my nieces. I have an army of them. Nephews too. All here. And all to be included on that written test. There are cousins and cousins’ children. And spouses, with family names and title names.”
“That really is too—” she began.
“Hush!”
He slowed their steps suddenly and clamped her hand more tightly to his side while Lydia stopped talking and looked at him in surprise. He had not stopped walking altogether, but he seemed to be listening intently. She listened too. She could hear the faint murmur of voices coming from the summerhouse, the distant crack of a cricket bat followed by a cheer, Snowball yipping at something in the trees that offended her.
